***giveaway now closed***
I am about to recount a most embarrassing story about me and middle school. So. Let’s pray for my heart.
But, oh, how I liked that boy. In my mind, he would ask me to dances and to his soccer games and we would be married after which I would become the most successful working girl you ever did see. Always, always there was-only for me to hear-a soundtrack of stolen whispers and bathroom chatter that I dreamed up. I imagined a kind of social redemption that was coup like.
The problem was that I was so pinky tender with a lack of any kind of confidence that there was no way to reconcile my mind world and my world world. I couldn’t even talk to him.
But I was desperate to be noticed. By him. Or anyone, really. But mostly him.
And, so on a day when I had gone to the counselor’s office for some everyday thing, I got a lightning bright idea in the seventh grade hall. Right there in a dull green tunnel of lockers.
If I had some sort of story, some sort of sad and romantic part of me, then he might notice. Right there in that tunnel I decided that a family emergency had called me to the office and not some everyday, middle school kind of thing like a forgotten lunch box or musical instrument.
That lie story spread it’s arms quicker than quick.
Until everything came crashing down at my evening soccer practice when my family and school life collided. Right there in front of all of them I was exposed. I felt sicker than sick. I hated myself.
And that one boy didn’t even notice me.
I don’t hate my seventh grade self now.
I don’t know why I’ve been thinking of her but that scraggly toothed, big haired girl has been wandering my heart lately. Sometimes she tries to quick throw some of her insecurity into my heart still.
Maybe it’s opening my life and home to some 20 something women. Maybe it’s having a six year old daughter who even today came home a bit rubbed raw.
The thing is that we are all desperate to be noticed. And as my tender little smidget of a girl recounted the grainy sand in her day, I was thinking even then of this verse.
Psalm 45:11 by Naptime Diaries.
And how does a six-almost seven-year old know this? How does a 20 something year old darling thing know this? How does a 35 year old wild-haired, cowlicked, raw bit of a thing really know this?
I don’t know but that we etch it in. Over and over again we rub this soothing salve over our sore hearts until it leaves lines behind.
You need to dwell on this?
I’d like to give this Naptime Diaries print to one reader. Let’s keep it simple. Leave ONE! comment. Tell me something. Something true. And then I’ll close this thing up on Sunday night and pick a winner.