I promised we’d paint her room.
We went to the hardware store: so many choices. So many color names. I thought “soft and subtle” would be lovely. She wanted bold and beautiful.
Is this what it is–to honor my teenager? It’s just paint, after all.
So we painted the walls and it brought back all the memories of what this room had been. There used to be a wallpaper border around the middle, until the toddlers in cribs picked and peeled at it. I cringe when I remember that I got mad.
Then it was repainted and I put a border around the top, out of the reach of dimpled fingers. But soon enough, more children came and rooms shifted and girls moved in. We painted it the palest of purple.
So we’ve had a little break in our routine this week. Enough time to carve a day to paint. The two of us work together. We talk about dreams. We talk about how the rooms will shift again when she goes to college. We talk about friendship and family and school. We share the brush back and forth and move the ladder around the room.
And then, suddenly and fully, I know that this is really not about the paint.
Psalm 127:3-5 Behold, children are a heritage from the LORD, the fruit of the womb a reward. Like arrows in the hand of a warrior are the children of one’s youth. Blessed is the man who fills his quiver with them! He shall not be put to shame when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.