Which also happens to be the name of my nine-year-old daughter.
A couple of nights ago she hopped onto mom and dad’s bed where said parents were, as usual, engrossed in watching the home decor excesses of HGTV and said: “Would it be all right if I gave away all my toys?”
We cautiously assented, hemming and hawing, advising and warning.
Last night, she brought up the subject again as I walked with her to a neighbor’s pool. She had started sorting the toys during the day and had filled five black 30-gallon lawn-and -leaf bags. She said she didn’t play with them any more. I said that if she saw them while she was sorting them and hadn’t seen them for a long time – and still didn’t want to play with them – she had probably outgrown them. She thought that made sense.
Today, while Angi was sick with a cold and at home with her, they filled up five more bags of toys and drove them happily to Goodwill and checked them in. Some special ones she saved out to give to our neighbor’s two small sweet children, one of whom has Down Syndrome. Tonight I came home and she proudly showed me a room that looked like it belonged among the home decor excesses of HGTV. But I don’t think that’s what motivated it.
There was no “giver’s remorse,” you see. No tears at the sacrifice. No regrets.
She gave because she has discovered the joy of giving.
To say I’m proud of Laura is not quite accurate. I’m humbled by her generosity.
I have a lot to learn from my daughter.
She has, in fact, taken me to the foot of a cross where – looking up – I can see the faintest hint of a smile expressing ultimate joy on the tortured face of the One who has given up everything for me.