Her heart wasn't hurt or sad or even lonely. It wasn't lost or feeling blue. It wasn't even a little bit damaged that day. There are certainly days where it is, but that day she brought home a wrinkled heart for all of us to see.
What she brought to us that day was a paper heart. A wrinkled paper heart that now hangs on a door in our home where my kids will see it zillions of times a day. A heart that reminds us how tender our real hearts are. A heart that reminds us that our words have the power to wrinkle and crumple.
Not only was her heart wrinkled, but her heart was also torn. A sign of what was to come this weekend. I can't begin to tell you how thankful I am for that heart that came home in a backpack. It gave us a place to begin a discussion that was overdue, because a heart in our home was wrinkled and beginning to rip right down the middle...
Cassius: "Ella will be so happy when I go spend the night with Auntie S and Uncle K."
Mom: "Why do you think that? I bet she'll miss you!"
Cassius: "Because she hates me. She always says she hates having a little brother. She hates me... "
If you can't imagine that conversation with a broken-hearted 4 year old, read it again. Read it with pure sadness. With a wrinkled heart. With a heart beginning to rip right down the middle.
"Because she hates me. She always says she hates having a little brother. She hates me. She's not going to miss me, she'll be happy I'm gone."
Oh the wrinkling and tearing that went on in this momma's heart that moment. The wrinkling and tearing that I felt for him. His tiny little heart that loves his sissy. The heart that is excited to see her after school each day. The heart that wants to be sure he gets her a sucker from the grocery store or a sticker from the bank. The heart that makes her pictures and bracelets and thoughtfully picks out her birthday gift months in advance. That little heart was wrinkled, crumpled, stomped on and torn. Right. Down. The. Middle.
When the vice grip on my heart loosened we had a chat and some hugs and loves and reassurances that she does love him and so do daddy and I. That he isn't hated, but loved and cherished and treasured and adored. I smoothed as many of those wrinkles as I could. I got out the tape and patched the tear... but that's not so easy to do.
When his heart was starting to smooth I sent him to the lunch table with daddy and called sissy to her room. I sat on her bed and waited. And I cried. He was hurt and I was hurt. My disappointment and tears of sadness flowed easily but tenderly.
She needed to understand.
She needed to know the damage done.
Her overwhelming feelings of regret were immediately obvious as she listened to me tell her how her brother was feeling. The hurt he shared in three simple words: "she hates me". The sadness he was feeling and the tears that he had cried. The wrinkles she had put in his heart. The tiny tear that was spreading into a big rip right down the middle.
I reminded her of the wrinkled heart she had brought home from school. The heart that was no longer just a whisper in her ear. A sentiment that wasn't intended just for the classroom but all the hearts she'll ever encounter...
That little girl's heart began to wrinkle right at that moment. The moment she realized. The moment she knew the hurt she'd caused.
The fixing is coming along slowly but surely. This morning in church as Cassius sat on my lap and Ella snuggled up next to me he put his arm around her shoulder and she reached up and held his hand.
There are daily reminders to give love. Because to give love often means you shall get love.
The bathroom door between their rooms bears a wrinkled, crumpled, ripped and tattered reminder of what our words mean to others.
Ella came home from school this week with a wrinkled heart... and it is beautiful.
