Build believers, teacher.
Friday's frustrations furl my brow. The week's work has met its end. Dogged are the hours put in and the hours yet to finish. Friction settles in my bones. This teacher of home: what say you regarding your week? Oh yes, many dishes were nibbled, scraped only to be cleaned. Agitated, the washer made his cantankerous push for wash. Whirl-swish-shake-release. Our clothes of family in progress. Tears have been the real and un-welcomed guests along with stomps of "I don't want to do it." and "I can't." There, these words lie like the crumpled clothes awaiting attention. And, the folding. It takes intention. Action. Purpose. Oh teacher, how long did they sit in their baskets amid the laundry floor?
Through the storied hours of our days, school is home. It's inside walls known & rested. Child rearing happens here. As sun places progress on our lighted time, we learn. Together. In one another's care. Honesty greets me with my morning cup of joe. Honesty in what exists and even more powerfully, in what can be. Human, I am teacher. Cluttered stuffed with my own enemies of day, I am charged to illuminate light and possibility and energy to the ones I call mine.
How can I help triumph their uncertainties? How am I to make them see? Growing, we are. God-loved, we live. Oh, teacher girl, don't belittle the big picture for society's timelines that determine not the character of the little men who were molded within your womb.
Bring forth their best. Shine for them. Yes, for them. Present possibility in its heaviest light. Re-direct it at all costs. Casting back their goodness and their strengths. Then, back up and let them breath. All of it. In. For confidence begins as light refracts the beauty of what others see. Shine for on them, teacher.
Men growing need text. Typed & bold faced words are theirs to rough house. Wrestled on bedroom floors and fast chased around kitchen tables. Horse play is absolutely necessary. For this physicalness is the porthole these words, these affirmations, these thought processes use to find favor in their hearts. That's how boys begin to believe.
Because "doubght" exists in the growing hearts of men. They feel the sizing up and "can't do thats" too. Unsettled, their energy is compacted for play, yet their minds hold tightly to the hidden corners where uncertainty sleeps.
Boys need time to process. Sweet teacher. don't forget that. Words connected with emotions are where touchdowns are scored. Magnify their vocabulary for honesty. Help them be courageous enough to look into life's mirror with valor & "go get after it" strength. Write with them the stories of their heart; help them with the words they need to hear.
In your house. Under your care. Build believers, teacher. Boys who will boast not of themselves, but of the One who brings out the light in us all. Build men who face challenge with character and know where confidence lives better yet, how to build it. Raise up leaders, teacher girl. Friday's frustrations are for real. Their existence is proof of life and the tenacious hope that little boys deserve. Intentionally and with action, they need you to fold into them with all that you are. Whirl-swish-shake-release.
