'BE HAPPY EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIFE!"
I found these words written in big, blue print in the middle of a small notebook I carry in my purse. My granddaughter Megan wrote them. Or maybe it was Charlotte. They are both 7, both in love with colored pencils and writing messages on Post-its or whatever they can find, then placing these notes next to the coffee maker or on the kitchen table or beside the computer.
They are both in love with drawing pictures, too, signing them, "Love, Megan" and "Love, Charlotte," folding them, and presenting them with a flourish as random gifts. They both love running and singing and giggling and devouring anything chocolate and staying up as late as they can get away with, both in love with life — the fairy dust that was sprinkled on them when they came into this world hardly worn off yet.
I watched them in separate concerts this month, Megan at her school in New York, Charlotte, a week later, with her choral group in Boston, the two of them in different clothes on different stages singing different holiday songs, but at their core, in their hearts, so much alike. Earnest. Intent. Trustful. Bright eyes seeking, then beaming at the people they knew were in the audience solely for them. Waving. Smiling.
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Seven. I wish the world were lopsided with 7-year-olds. I wish I could stop time and keep them 7 and safe forever, Charlotte and Megan and all of their friends and classmates, keep their voices sweet and their dreams untroubled, keep them waving and smiling and surrounded by people who love them.
"BE HAPPY EVERY DAY OF YOUR LIFE!"
Who wrote it? Megan or Charlotte? Both could have because happy is their default. It's what they spring back to after a pout or a burst of anger or tears, happy their natural state. Most kids are like this, boomeranging back to a smile, even after the worst things. This is why adults get so misty-eyed watching them on a stage in their red shirts, with their sweet faces earnestly singing holiday songs; or on an altar, dressed in white, hands folded, pretending to be angels; or waiting in line to sit on Santa's lap. Their innocence is a dagger.
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Because there is no innocence outside the gates of childhood, just a world that is hard and sad and incomprehensible and unfair, with too much loss and pain. We keep this world a secret from our children. We shelter them with myths and fairy tales and cheery songs and protect them as best we can with inoculations and safety belts and rules.
The lockdown drills at school? They're just drills. Just pretend, we tell them. The news, the constant barrage of it, all of it bad. Whom to trust? Where is safe? What is going to happen next? We don't let them see.
But we see, and it colors our everything.
I think about all the children who were murdered last week in Pakistan. I think about Sandy Hook and Dunblane and all the centuries of war and hate and how peace on earth, despite our prayers, fails to come.
Maybe the peace we seek is in the before. Maybe this is the thing to hang on to. Before. That morning last week, all those children getting ready for school, putting on their uniforms, packing up their books, walking out their doors. Breakfast with their families. Hugs goodbye. School on their minds. Friends. Tests. And even the moments before the massacre. Not knowing. Thinking the gunshots were part of a drill.
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I hope all these children know they were loved. I hope in their childhoods they played and sang and wrote notes rimmed with hearts and giggled and waved from some stage to their parents with shining, trusting eyes.
I hope that where they are now there is fairy dust and innocence and, at long last, peace.
Beverly Beckham's column appears every two weeks. She can be reached at bevbeckham@gmail.com.