Before the world can tell them
what they ought to be,
let our children find a welcome
in the way we choose to see.
Let them wear their laughter loudly,
let them cry without disguise,
never searching for permission
to be lovely in our eyes.
For a careless word at breakfast
can outlive the morning rain,
and the names we give their bodies
may become their private pain.
Let us notice when they falter,
when they tug upon a sleeve,
when they ask, “Do I look funny?”
and need love they can believe.
Let us listen past the question,
put the busy day aside,
make a place beside the washing
where no part of them must hide.
And when our own days break us,
when our patience comes apart,
let us find the words, “I’m sorry,”
without asking for their heart
to carry all our burdens,
or explain our hurt away.
They deserve to see us learning
how to love them every day.
They will know we are not perfect.
They will hear it when we shout.
Let them also hear us knocking,
coming back to work things out.
May they see the care in action:
how we listen, how we stay,
how we change the things that hurt them,
even when change takes all day.
Then perhaps, when they are older,
with uncertain hearts of their own,
they will face a bathroom mirror
and feel less afraid, less alone.
They will see a face worth knowing,
touch the skin that holds them in,
and remember being cherished
before they knew where to begin.
JH
