“I’m sorry, Mama,” my seven-year-old daughter, Chloe said as she handed me a card she had made from yellow construction paper. “I made this for you.”
All over its front, she had drawn red flowers and hearts. I could see inside the fold, her thoughts penciled out in crooked sentences. Chloe looked forlorn and sad, as though she knew she had made a big mistake.
Moments earlier, Chloe had been bouncing up and down, tearing into her birthday presents, taking in her bounty of gifts that were wrapped in her favorite toy store’s signature rainbow-colored paper. As the ribbons flew across the room and the paper piled up beside her, Chloe’s smile faded with disappointment. It was pretty clear that the giantkite, the model car and the word game she had begged for a week ago, were now failing to please her on her big day.
“Chloe? I thought you’d love these presents. You chose them,” I said. “Remember? Out of the entire store, these were the things you loved best!”
Chloe pursed her little lips and glanced sideways, before answering. “Well, I like the presents. I just don’t love them.”
I could tell that as soon as she heard herself say those selfish words, she wished she could take them back. I knew these were just words of a seven-year-old who hears “no” more often than “yes.” Though I was surprised to hear her discontent, I was not shocked.
We happen to live in an affluent community where most first graders pierce their ears and play on iPods and “more” sure feels like well…more. I can hardly blame Chloe for wanting more since her short life seems so dominated by loss.
She lost her dad to cancer shortly after she was born. She lost her first home, second home and third home because I kept moving until I finally realized I was moving because I preferred the noise of a moving truck to the silence of mourning and sadness spent alone.
When it came to material things, I was determined Chloe would learn patience, and the value of things and, something my priest refers to as “The Art of Subtraction.”
In Sunday’s sermon, Mother Sarah talked about distilling our lives down to only what was required to build an essential relationship with God. The art, she said was in knowing what habits, emotions, and desires had a hold on us—a hold so tight it seemed impossible to ever be free. In biblical terms, the hold of those things separated us from experiencing The Divine.
For too many years, I have tried to fill the void of my personal loss with unrelenting activity. All those years when I moved to a new house or apartment, I thought I was arriving at a fresh start and like Chloe on her birthday, I thought I would wake up in my new home, to a treasure that would keep me satisfied. But soon enough, I would tire of the paint color and the inability of those four walls to keep the past from haunting me.
So I would move.
And when I wasn’t moving, I was tossing things out. When Will died, I gave away all my clothes, hoping to be free of all the memories of vacations, dinners, and special events. There were months when I had nothing but a couple suits in my closet. No furniturebecause I would purchase a chair or table and then give it away.
I subtracted when I got bored. And when that didn’t do the trick, I reached for extremes like volunteering for CNN warzone duty in Israel at the height of its ongoing war with Lebanon and the Palestinians.
Each time I sought more—more closet space, more time at work, instead of being home, more shopping for things that would not remind me of the past—I ended up with less.
Chloe hands me her home made card and inside it says: “ I now (know) my words are pawerfel (powerful) in a way and I ned (need) to ues (use) them beter (better)! Dear Mommy I am sorey (sorry). Plese do not crie (cry).” Next to her sweet words was a picture of interlocking hearts, each with a name inside: “Daddy” for Mike, my new husband, “Mama” and “Chloe.”
I pulled my remorseful little girl into my lap and explained, “Chloe, gifts are from the heart and a broken heart has nothing to give.”
Chloe nodded her little head. “Mama, my birthday gift is you. And our family.” She threw her arms around my neck and squeezed.
In a few short moments, my little girl distilled her greatest desires into a few short words: She wanted a happy mother, one who did not cry. She wanted her family to be together, our hearts entwined.
With her little arms still squeezing me, I happily squeezed back.
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