Sunday Best.

The neighborhood third grader reminded me of something on Sunday. She did a cart-wheel in her front yard and clapped afterwards and stated plainly and matter-of-fact, "I am a cheerleader." I admired her from my knees with a hand on a weed and smiled. Her little four-year-old cousin began picking dandelion heads from our yard. I told the two girls to come on over with the dandelions. I showed them how you can color the sidewalk with smeared dandelion, acting like the dandelion head is a crayon, spelling your name or creating shapes and coloring them in, or play tick-tack-toe. Third grader said, after she colored yellow all over her grandmother's white painted, cement bench, "I am an artist." I echoed her confidence when I told her she was. She then asked me to watch her and her cousin race along the side of our houses. After two races, she looked at me and said, "I am a track star." And so the story goes, throughout our sweet exchanges there were a few more wonderful claims to personhood. It was reviving to be around. She never once doubted her abilities. She never once flinched with any name she called herself.
I don't need to write about discouragement and it's ugly un-naming power. We know that by rote. I was reminded by a third grader on Sunday just how absolutely true every moment is when you really believe the good things that you are. Adult or child. I smile as I write that now.