For Lucy

At the beginning of the month, "in Number One" (as you refer to Sis. Armond's Sunbeam class that meets in classroom 1 of our church building), you made a crown covered in sparkly stars. It was your first week in Primary and you came home shining.


You insisted on wearing your crown the following week.

It stayed on your head for the duration of Sacrament meeting where you sat quietly and patiently beside me.
It stayed on your head as you took Daddy's hand and walked carefully to Sharing Time.
I saw it still sitting on your head when I slipped into the back of the Primary room to peak at you. Your teacher hadn't arrived. None of your little friends were there yet. Just you. Looking tiny on the front row. I forced myself to leave. After church a handful of ward members related how reverently you sat, how attentively you listened, how excited you were when someone mentioned Joseph Smith. They said you raised your hand and told about how "we have a little book about him! And sometimes we read it!"

I wished I had stayed.

This week, you approached Primary like an old pro. When we reached the doors, you looked up at me and said, "I'll be all right in there." That was apparently my cue to leave, so I let you walk in alone. And grown up.

Now, let's make sure to note, my shining little sunbeam, that you occasionally make less than shining choices.

Last night, I heard your daddy growling in the bathroom. It was restrained growling, even kind, considering the way you had tossed gobs and gobs of toilet paper into the toilet, plugging it, and turning it into a cascading fountain.
"Maybe we should stir it," I heard you suggest from your father's side.
"Go to the kitchen, please, Lucy," the grizzly bear managed.
In the kitchen, I tried to explain that the "broken toilet" was a big problem and that Mom and Dad did not want you to put so much toilet paper in.
"I locked the door," you confessed.
But you felt pretty repentant after listening to the plunging and flushing and frustration that sounded from the bathroom all last evening. Today as you headed in to go potty, you poked your head around the corner to reassure me, "I won't put in lots of paper. And I won't lock the door."

And you don't need to lock the door most of the time. Usually, your actions warrant my eager stamp of approval.

A few nights ago we were getting our babies ready for bed. I was feeding Spencer in your room, you were getting your dolly situated in the swing. After a few minutes you asked, "Know what my baby is?"
"What?" I asked.
You inclined you head toward the picture hanging above your bed. "Child of God," you whispered soberly.
The words I was about to utter caught in my throat so I just nodded soberly back.
And then you climbed into bed, still looking at the picture. "Look at that one! And that one!" you were saying, pointing to the various children in the painting. When you pointed to the child in the center, I asked, "Do you know who that one kind of reminds me of?"
"Who?"
"You."
Lucy stared at the picture as I continued. "If Jesus were here right now, do you think He'd look at you in a loving way and put His hands softly on your cheeks?"
Silence.
And then your hushed response, "I wish He could."

Tall as you get, my little sunbeam, there are some things I hope you never grow out of.