Stacy is a wife and mama who loves the Word of God and connecting with women. She and her husband, Mike, have served with Campus Crusade for Christ for the past 17 years. They have four girls, ages 8 months to 10 years. In her own words: “Most days, I try to teach them a thing or two about having a Biblical worldview, math, and language.  Everyday, they teach me how to grow in grace, patience, and dependence on the Lord!” You can learn more about Stacy by visiting her at 29 Lincoln Avenue.

It has happened again. We are late. I yell up the stairs to her as if my barking will make her move faster.  Waiting on her I assemble all the necessary items.  She takes her place in front of me and I begin once again to pull her hair up into its required ballet form. Brushing and pulling, I work quickly.  I reach over with my foot and pull the stool to myself.  I step onto it so that I can rise above her to finish the job.

And I stop in the middle of the most beautiful bun I have ever made and I wonder: When did this happen?  How is it that she is tall enough that I’m the one needing the step? All at once I see her in the mirror. The room seems to be spinning but I am only seeing her. She is 3, 7, and 10 all at the same time. What happens when the step is not enough for me?  What happens on that day when she is more than me?

“Mom!” She calls me back to the moment and hands me a hairpin.  I smooth her hair, kiss her head, and step down.  I look into her face and we see nearly eye to eye.  She has her daddy’s baby blues and eyelashes worthy of a mascara commercial.  She is beautiful.

“Grab your bag and let’s go.” I watch her exit, half dancing, half running, and I smile.

So many minutes I have spent with her that seemed to drag on (nursing, potty training, listening, making peanut butter sandwiches).  But the years have flown by faster than I could have imagined.  I am well aware that my time with her is half dancing, half running away.

She will be more than me. Isn’t that the point of parenthood?  I want to send her into the great big world to live bigger than I have.  I know that if I am going to continue to mold her that I will myself need to be daily shaped by the Lord.  I can’t pour into her what I don’t have.  This drives me hard to His side.

My prayer for her is that she will listen for God’s voice every day, love Him with her whole heart, and hold fast to Him all the days of her life (Deuteronomy 30:20). He has big plans for her.  I just know it.   I’m honored I get to see it unfold. The view from the step stool is pretty amazing if I do say so myself.

As a mom who doesn’t need a step stool yet, I am thankful for this reminder to remember to enjoy. Take a moment to say hello to Stacy either in the comments here or at her place, 29 Lincoln Avenue. I love her blog name and header photo! Makes me want to stay a while. . .

Dayle Allen Shockley is an award-winning writer in Houston, and the author of three books. She has contributed to many other works, including multiple Chicken Soup titles. To learn more about Dayle, visit her website or her blog, A Little of This and That. This story is adapted from her book, Silver Linings.

My daughter turned nine in what I call the summer of my bleeding heart. It all started when her cousin, Leslie, mentioned the two of them going to summer camp. Anna Marie was ecstatic. I, on the other hand, terrified.

I asked my husband what he thought.

“Absolutely not!” he fairly thundered. “She’s too young.”

But parents aren’t always as firm as their voices. After much pondering, amid pleas from the girls, we capitulated.

As the day of departure approached, I couldn’t stop thinking about my child spending a week without me. Would she remember to bathe? Who would come her hair? What if she cried for me at night?

Despite such tormenting questions, several weeks later found me and my sister  driving our daughters to the place of surrender. Upon arrival, maternal terror washed over me like a tidal wave as I observed a sea of youngsters swarming in every direction, looking as I feared my child would, as soon as I was out of sight. Hair disheveled; clothes rumpled; hard candy hanging out of their mouths. Lost and without hope. It was all I could do to keep driving, but the campers in the backseat had ants in their pants.

By mid-afternoon, we stood inside a dormitory, staring at rows of metal bunk beds and stark concrete floors. I couldn’t imagine leaving my child—my baby—here for one minute, let alone for a week. I considered grabbing her and running, but it was too late. She and Leslie now stood beaming beside the bunk they had chosen as “theirs.” Could we please unload the luggage?

Exchanging horrified glances, Gayle and I stumbled outside and returned with  suitcases. As I spread sheets across a puny mattress, I decided to offer my umpteenth lecture concerning housekeeping and oral hygiene.

While I rattled off a list of ingenious tips, Anna Marie’s eyes remained on my face, but she appeared to be in a trance. “Are you listening, sweetie?”

She sighed and rolled her eyes. “Mama, I know you’re worried about me and everything, but—are you finished?”

I wasn’t, but just then a dorm monitor announced that teams were being formed for a volleyball game—commencing in thirty minutes. Anyone interested, please form a line.

Like calves out of stalls, the girls bolted forward and were assigned to a team. It appeared to be our cue to leave.

“OK, girls,” my sister said, as faint as I felt. “I guess this is goodbye for us.”

That’s when my child’s face wilted. “But I’m fixing to play volleyball, Mommy,” she said. “Can’t you stay and watch me?”

Upon hearing her call me “Mommy,” I was renewed. Maybe this was a sign she still needed me. Of course, we’d stay.

The volleyball game ended quickly. My little camper was among the losers, but didn’t seem to notice. She dashed over to where I stood, her face flushed.

“Mommy’s got to go, sweetheart. We’ve got a long drive home.” I hoped for a bear hug, but she only nodded and smiled. Kissing the top of her head, I said, “Bye, angel. I love you.”

Watching the girls sprint toward the line forming in front of the cafeteria, Gayle and I let out a collective sigh. My heart hurt.

As we drove away, I circled the grounds, unable to resist a final look. When I spotted them, they were side-by-side, discussing whatever nine-year-olds discuss on such occasions, their faces anxious and eager. It was almost unbearable to look at them standing there, because I knew they would never be that small again, because of the way they were growing up, right in front of my eyes.

I gave a long blast on the horn. When they finally saw me, I waved frantically out the window. Timidly, Anna Marie waved back. And, ironically, I was filled with an intense pride that she was able to stand there—without me.

The thought of leaving my babies at camp is terrifying. But I also know when those letting go times come, knowing they are ready makes it easier. Dayle, thanks for this beautiful perspective. It is certainly encouraging to those of us coming on the road behind you. This post nicely rounds out some of my thoughts this week on mothering and living in the moments this day has to offer. If you have a moment, please visit Dayle’s place and say hello at A Little of This and That.