The other day, I bought my daughter some winter outfits and everything sparkled. Glitter is in, apparently. You can’t get away from it.
Of course, my daughter loves it. The trouble is, the sparkles come off on anything her clothes touch. Not a whole lot. Just enough to leave me sparkling after I had her in my lap for a few minutes. But is that really trouble?
She leaves glitter on me, my five-year-old daughter. And oh, how I treasure it.
Ann Voskamp wrote that she gave birth to six children but each of them gave birth to her in return. Every time a woman becomes a mother, she becomes a new person. The world changes when your child comes into the world. You change. The child changes the mother.
And daughters especially have a way of leaving glitter on our clothes, on our hearts, on our hands.
Tonight a friend of mine is mourning the loss of her eight-year-old daughter, killed in a freak backyard accident a week ago. No more glitter. Deborah – that was her name – is now a memory. The mother is afraid to go back to her home and walk through her daughter’s room. She is staying with her own parents, unable to make herself look at her daughter’s glitter.
God help her in her grief. There’s the hope of resurrection morning, sure. The daughter loved the Lord Jesus and she was receiving Bible studies from her grandfather, a retired minister. She was to be baptized in December. Her mother homeschooled her through second grade. Now in third grade, she was attending our church school. She loved singing in church and obeying her parents. If anybody was ready to embrace eternity, this princess was.
I looked for the last picture of my children with this sweet child, whom we used to see every week. I knew a couple of weeks ago they stood together in the church lobby and raised funds for Adventurers. I was afraid to meet her gaze on the screen, her beautiful smile that seemed to never fade. My fears were unfounded.
As if she knew she would say goodbye to us soon, she was not facing the camera at all. My husband took pictures of our children standing at the church doors with this sweet angel and her brother, raising funds for Operation Christmas Child. Her back was always toward the camera. My husband thought I asked him to mainly take pictures of our children, so he was satisfied with these poses.
Now they take on a deeper significance. One of those things that comes to you only after a tragedy. May she rest in peace until the second coming of Jesus, the resurrection morning, when the graves will open and the dead shall be raised incorruptible. Then we shall all sing, “O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory?”