My sister and her husband asked friends and family to pen a chapter for a book they would present their daughter on her thirteenth birthday last year, and I quite literally jumped at the chance. I share here what I wrote for her because I believe so many of our hearts need the reminder – mine included, perhaps chiefly. Although I address my niece throughout, I pray you will hear your name echoed here again and again. Shalom.
For my niece, darling of Heaven.
From your Aunnie, who loves you so dearly.
I was in West Virginia recently for work, and I had the opportunity to visit a salt mine that’s been there since the 1800’s. As part of our tour, we were allowed to roam the grounds of the mine and the old farmstead which included a barn, some very fascinating striped cows and the mine’s original office building. From the outside the office building looked like a one-room schoolhouse, the likes of which you’d see in a movie about America in the 1800’s.
As we entered the building, our guide told us the office had been left undisturbed for nearly eight decades now and we were free to peruse at our leisure as long as we left everything as we found it. A coat hung on the back of a door, as though someone had worn it in on a chilly spring morning and forgotten it when the weather turned warmer later in the day. Invoices were neatly stacked near a dusty ledger filled with handwritten names and amounts. Blueprints and large maps of the property hung on the wall or lay draped over desks and crusty jars of salt collected from various sources lined a high, narrow shelf along the wall. It was as if the original owners had simply walked out of the office one day and locked the door behind them, never to return.
Naturally I found myself studying one of the bookshelves. What had these West Virginia salt miners been reading all those years ago? The shelf held a black leather Presbyterian hymnal, the 1933 annual of The American Rose Society, William Couper’s One Hundred Years at V.M.I. and a very ominous-looking study of Leviticus. One book at the end of the row caught my eye. It was a small volume, its thin green spine elegantly lettered and gilded with gold vines curling around dark green flowers. They used to make books so beautiful, didn’t they?
I stooped to take a picture of the shelf and get a closer look at the title of this enchanting little tome. Pearls for Young Ladies, it read. Hm, I thought. That certainly sounds interesting. I wonder what wisdom one might have imparted to young ladies when this book still smelled of fresh ink and new paper. Quite lost in that thought, I was startled when one of my colleagues tapped my shoulder, pointed at the book and smiled as she said, “That’s for you.”
I think it’s only fair to point out a few things here. First, I had only just met this woman earlier in the day and couldn’t pick her out of a police lineup today if either of our lives depended on it. Second, I am often the youngest attendee at my work conferences, and the West Virginia meeting was no exception. Third, I have no reason to believe this woman has ever actually read the book in question. Rather, I think a very sweet woman saw me looking at an enchanting little book for young ladies, and she was merely trying to be kind or clever, or both. Nothing more.
Nevertheless, I was curious. This particular work is old enough to be in the public domain so I knew I could find its text with some ease. When I returned to my hotel later that day, I located the book online and began to read, unsure of what I would find. Might there be some treasure hidden here for today’s young lady, echoing words of grace to us all the way from the 19th century? Sadly, it was not to be. My heart sank as I read the author’s opening address. In so many words, he assured young girls they are not God’s special little flowers – “darlings of Heaven” he called them – sent to Earth at this particular time in history to gain any sort of special knowledge about God or His ways. To that end, he reasoned, they ought to remain appropriately silent. I was so shocked that I could not help but keep reading.
Next, the author cautioned young girls against considering themselves any more loved or dear to the Lord than all the other girls in the world – whether “rich or poor, civilized or savage.” And while I do not disagree that you, my darling niece, are “not one whit more thought of or loved by the great Maker and Master” than any other young lady in this world, I much prefer to reason what I believe to be the greater truth behind that statement, which is simply that it would be quite and entirely impossible for the great Maker and Master to love you or any other young lady one whit more than He presently does.
My dear one, He has moved the heavens and the earth to see your soul restored and redeemed. He did the same for me and for your mother and for your father and for your brother and your sisters and for every person who ever lived because that is love and love is more than what He does—love is who He is. He is not stingy or miserly with His love; rather, the beloved disciple himself tells us to behold what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God. (1 John 3:1)
And do you think such a loving Father has brought us all into the fold of His family – His kingdom family – without any design or purpose for our futures? Nonsense! He is the Maker of all things. Walk outside, spend five minutes observing how the world around you works and see if you can even begin to imagine what your purpose might be. Should you require further evidence, note the book of Ephesians where the apostle Paul tells us that “we are God’s handiwork, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do.” (Eph 2:10)
As I sat and reeled from the author’s purported pearls for the young ladies of the late 19th century, I thought of a story written thousands of years earlier. What of Esther? I thought. Had she not been placed in a position of influence that she might quite literally use her voice to save the lives of God’s people? And was this placing and purpose not expressed to her in those exact terms by her uncle as she struggled to find the courage to believe she could play such a role in God’s story? What if she had, as the author suggested, remained appropriately silent? For my part, I am deeply grateful Queen Esther had an Uncle Mordecai speaking to her of destiny and bravery and faith instead of the dreamless chiding I found in this beautifully gilded book.
Why do I tell you this random and mundane tale of a pretty but ultimately disappointing book I saw in an old abandoned office building in the hills of West Virginia?
I haven’t been able to get that book out of my mind, and I finally realize why. See, even though the book was written almost 140 years ago, I and so many other women I know grew up believing its words. Its message is nothing new. From early days we heard it: you are not special. You are not here for any particular reason. You are definitely not the darling of Heaven and any thoughts to the contrary are the misinformed ponderings of an exceedingly foolish girl.
The funny thing about the “you are not” statements we find ourselves believing is that eventually they become “you are” and they come at us from seemingly endless voices:
You are worthless.
You are odd and out of place.
You are unloved.
Oh, my sweet girl, if I could keep even one of those messages from reaching your heart, I would. But we have an enemy who is singularly threatened by our beauty and our purpose as women, and he loves hurtling flaming arrows ablaze with lies about our identity straight at our hearts. He will treat you no differently than he has treated me or my sisters or any other woman who has come before us. And so I find myself giving you one piece of advice on this, the occasion of your thirteenth birthday. If you hear nothing else from me, dear one, do hear these words, first spoken to me by my sister and your Aunt Holly:
Beloved, you must know the Truth to a greater intimacy than you know the lie.
The Truth you must intimately know is not the truth about who you are. At least, that’s not where you’ll begin. You must begin by knowing the Truth about your Father. Know who He is, and you will know who you are. It was not until I began to know Him more deeply that I began to see who He has made me to be. How can a daughter believe she is beloved unless she first knows her father as a loving and devoted parent? How can she believe she is created uniquely and with a specific purpose in view unless she beholds just how creative and intentional her Maker is? How can she dare to dream of her life’s adventure as a Kingdom-builder unless she has spent time with her King, listening to the rhythm of his heartbeat for the nations until her own heart beats in time with His? How will she ever believe she has value unless she learns to gaze into the eyes of the Savior who willingly laid down His life that she might live?
My precious niece, you are special and unique and I believe down to the depths of my soul that you were placed on this earth for such a time as this. You are a darling of Heaven, and you will point many to the Father where they, too, will learn the Truth of who He is and see that they, too, are His darlings. He will use your sweet, tender spirit to lead them. He will use your compassion, your love of words and your deep and thoughtful mind to lead them. Only remember this: He will lead them. You will not have to lead them. You fix your gaze on Yahweh. Sit at His feet and know Him. Seek Him above all else. In Him is your deepest belonging, your greatest purpose and your most incredible journey.
You are so very loved, mi sobrina. I cannot wait to watch the pages of your story fill with bold, brave words dripping with the Father’s love. And someday, 140 years from now, when a young woman desperately needs to know she is loved and cherished and destined for something glorious beyond imagining, may your life be the story she finds bound in green and gold.