Mabel Molanphy

Dear­est Mabel-

You always man­age to know what I’m think­ing about, and share YOUR thoughts. How else could this be? Clear­ly, your spir­it is very aware of things, and per­haps you are just more in-tune than Dad­dy or I. We don’t know what we’ll do next, or where, but we are decid­ing. While chat­ting with dad­dy (via texts) all day about yards, hous­es, long com­mutes, etc, you walk up ran­dom­ly and announce, “Our house doesn’t have a yard, huh? It only has a deck. I think we should have a house with a yard and gar­den. And bees and flow­ers, and ladybugs.”

What do I say to that? You’re too young to under­stand? Sigh, my lit­tle dar­ling. You know what YOU need. So much for par­ents think­ing they know best…

Dear Mabel–

I’m sad it’s been so long since I’ve post­ed. You see? I’m busy. And I don’t want to be so busy, but I am. I hope it makes sense to all of us, some­day, why I am. I’m try­ing to fin­ish my col­lege degree…it will have tak­en me 18 years. Wow. I also do a lit­tle part-time job, to earn mon­ey to buy things so I can home­school you. When we men­tion school, you say that you don’t like the part about say­ing good-bye to Mama, it makes you sad. So, you’re here with me. Right now, you’re play­ing with your mag­net­ic dol­lies, that Grand­ma bought you. You’re so hap­py. You just fin­ished glu­ing togeth­er some papers, then cleaned it all up by your­self. Some­times you wan­der to me, while I’m on the com­put­er, and ask me to read you a book. Some­times you just want to sit on my lap. I look at pho­tos of when you were a baby, and I miss those days. Like I’ll miss these days. Dad­dy and Mama want to give you a sib­ling, but it’s not our choice, real­ly. We wish it were. We’re so glad you’re hap­py. We’re so glad you’re here with us. Dear Mabel, I love you.

eter­nal­ly your mama

Mabel got to give her very first prayer in Sun­beams today. Mama and Dad­dy went, in case she need­ed help. She did­n’t. As soon as the song was over, she marched right up, climbed up the podi­um, bowed her head and said, “Dear Heav­en­ly Father. This is a Sun­beams class and thank thee for all these Sun­beams. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” Then she marched back to her seat and sat down. Mama was so proud! Oh, and right before she gave the prayer (on behalf of the entire pri­ma­ry), she tells her teacher, “I did a prayer in Span­ish” (which she did last night, before bed.) We had an audio clip, but David is still work­ing on upload­ing it.

Before nap, she said her prayer for Aunt Mindy, “Dear Heav­en­ly Father. Aunt Mindy has an owie on her neck. She is *real­ly* sad. Could you please help her with that? In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.” fol­lowed by, “Now Aunt Mindy will be hap­py!” Aunt Mindy has a bulging disc in her neck; we had a fam­i­ly fast and prayer for her.

I love her prayers. I love her con­fi­dence. I love her sweet faith and tes­ti­mo­ny of her Father in Heav­en and Jesus.

Lit­tle Mabel had a hor­ri­ble, sad moment today, though we aren’t sure what sparked it. But, she was com­plete­ly incon­solable and sad as she cried and pro­nounced through sobs and tears that she just want­ed to go live with Heav­en­ly Father, with her whole body. In mama’s igno­rance, she was ner­vous to have her spir­it leave her body, as I’ve tried to explain in the past, as “death.” Nope, that was­n’t it. She just cried hard­er declar­ing she want­ed to go vis­it Heav­en­ly Father. At that time, I exit­ed, as Dad­dy con­tin­ued to pre­pare her for nap. Dad­dy returned to me soon and told me that those were real, incon­solable tears.

Mabel final­ly slept. An hour lat­er, she came to find us. When dad­dy asked if she felt bet­ter, she said, “Yep. Heav­en­ly Father just took me to Heav­en. He gave me a lit­tle dream.” I prod­ded a bit more, and she said, “I did­n’t real­ly go there, of course, it was just a dream. But, Heav­en­ly Father lead­ed me there.” Mama: “Who did you see?” “Many peo­ple. Many, many peo­ple. They were happy.”

And that was it. So sim­ple, so declar­a­tive. How pure for a child. I’m sure she knows what she saw, and will remem­ber this. For her, I’m sure it holds great impor­tance in her life. The Faith of a Child

I real­ly can’t believe she’s 4. Like, hyper­ven­ti­lat­ing that she’s four years old. I’ve decid­ed that when peo­ple say it goes fast, it’s real­ly after age 2. Because those first two years were real­ly hard for me…

Dear Mabel:

• You’re hap­py. Real­ly, tru­ly the pure def­i­n­i­tion of happy.
• You love peo­ple. Any­one, any col­or, any size, any age. You want to talk to them.
• You are pre­co­cious. I’d nev­er heard that word in my life before your exis­tence, but I’ve com­plete­ly lost track as to how many strangers or oth­er first-time-meet­ings bring out that word.
• You just want to be with mama. If we go some­where, you just ask to be at home, with mama. To play at home.
• You have amaz­ing man­ners. You are very in-con­trol of your emo­tions and using words to express exact­ly what you need and how.
• You have amaz­ing self-dis­ci­pline. I am amazed.
• I want noth­ing more than to enroll you in Montes­sori school, but I can’t give it to you [right now] and it destroys me inside. I can’t wait until I get to look back and tru­ly under­stand the Lord’s rea­sons for these things.
• You are loved. By mama and dad­dy, but by so many strangers as well. You tru­ly have a gift.
• You are spe­cial. You have a pur­pose in this life that is greater than I can know, but I feel it. And I hope I can hon­or you by prepar­ing you for it.