Girl On Fire

When my kids and I hear this song on the car radio, my daughter often wonders aloud whether Alicia Keys wrote the song for "The Hunger Games."  (Turns out that's not the case.)

 

But if my daughter were to turn and look at me during her speculations and if she could see through my sunglasses, she would notice tears welling.  The more I hear the song, the more closely I listen to the lyrics, the more I think of my daughter. 

 

 

 

Today she burns in another future-determining forensics competition, portraying a Holocaust rescuer and delivering extemporaneous speeches about international current events.  She's nervous and excited and anxious to know the outcomes.

She fears that anything short of victory will extinguish what little flame she thinks she has to offer.  But she doesn't see what her mom can see -- that she burns with such vibrant and majestic promise that a "loss" or even a victory will not dampen the slow-building blaze.  She's just a girl, but she's on fire.

______________

Meanwhile, when my son hears the song, he usually wonders aloud, "Why doesn't she just stop singing and help the poor girl?"

Surprise party

Buried deep in the back of my van, in a pile of plastic bags stuffed with clothes, shoes and other soon-to-be Salvation Army donations is a toy reindeer that poops candy.  It was the gift I received at the white-elephant Christmas exchange for the freshman girls small group I lead.  Accompanying the smiling plastic reindeer was a small packet of hard candy pellets.   The reindeer, when gently pushed on the back, would emit a jaunty jingling of winter bells while depositing his sweet pellet offering.

One person in my family can’t imagine why I would want to give this away.

I loaded these many donation bags in my van several days ago thinking I would drop them off that very day.  But a full schedule and biting wind chill have caused me to procrastinate. 

Now, whenever I make a sharp turn or hit a bump – and there are many of these on the uneven country roads I drive – the buried reindeer’s jingle bells play.  And for a moment each time, driving by the slow-melting effulgence of snow-covered fields, my everyday travels feel like a festive adventure.

Velveteen

Since her surprise six-weeks-early arrival and tenuous beginnings, I’ve watched my friend’s daughter grow in beautiful, overt yet subtle, often inspiring ways. I’ve watched from the distance of a few miles, through the stories, worries and discoveries of her mom, through a genuine and ongoing friendship between this girl and my daughter, through tears, with pride, with hope.  I’ve watched.  Enjoyed.  Treasured.

Her mom could brag about her all she wants (though she doesn’t do so often enough) and I would be happy to hear every minute detail.

Perhaps this explains the tears in my eyes as I watched her dance the lead in a local ballet production of The Velveteen Rabbit.  She danced with precision and with joyful abandon, with rich expression and with exuberance.  This beautiful young woman who spent much of her second year of life walking on her tiptoes, worrying her mom.  Now dancing en pointe elegantly.

She found a way to connect deeply with what is true in the character and what is true in herself and to portray these so vividly that we in the multi-aged audience could ignore all distractions and smile through tears at the beauty and truth of it all.

Did I mention her dancing with abandon?  Such wild beauty.  Vivid, alive, enchanting, especially when she danced as the “real” rabbit.

Now she is sixteen, on the cusp of independence, equipped to drive with license, practice and common sense.  She already seems far more real than most adults I know.

But like her fictional counterpart, she’ll face difficult times on her journey to truly becoming real.  She’ll likely doubt herself, as others who are less real put on airs and boast about their bells and whistles and modern ideas, as they dance circles around her, seeming to eclipse her beauty and talent.  They will “boast and swagger [but] by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away.”

This young rabbit, though, she will indeed become real.  I have no doubt about that.   Her “beautiful velveteen fur [will get] shabbier and shabbier, and [her] tail [will become] unsewn, and all the pink rubbed off her nose” by people who will love her and need her.

She might not even notice it happening, until one day she will run and jump and play as only a real rabbit can.   Less energetically than she does now, perhaps, but with deep and undeniable beauty and truth.  She will bring much warmth and goodness and love to this world and she will dance – oh how she will dance – with rich expression and abandon.

And I, her mother’s friend, will smile and cheer through tear-filled eyes.

Our own much-loved rabbit, Jenna