Dear Son

The world is not made of Legos.  Today, you learned this important lesson when you tossed your sister's porcelain doll to the floor. Her delicate feet made an awful pinging noise as they shattered on the oak floor of our kitchen. Your sister immediately cried the saddest tears I've ever seen her shed.  "My doll, my poor doll," she sobbed over and over.  "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I didn't mean to. I didn't know she was made of glass," you replied, your own eyes tearing up as you looked at me. I've never seen such sorrow on your face. Gracey stood there, looking down at her doll, crying. I swear I saw tears in the painted-on eyes looking back at her.

​My own were misty as well. 

It could have been worse. Her right foot broke, but into big pieces. And the heel of her left shoe snapped off. But all the pieces were there. 

"She can be fixed," I said to your sister as we collected the pieces and put them on the counter. I turned to you and with my voice raised, asked "Why would you throw a doll to the floor? You should know better. Why would you do that?"

Again, you repeated "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." And I know that you meant it. I could feel it. It came from your heart. 

As I glued those feet back together, I said to you, "You know how you feel when she throws down one of your Lego models, Adam." You nodded solemnly.

Lego models are resilient. They can be tossed to the floor, picked up and reassembled. Sure, it will take time. But once they are put back together, you can never tell they were once a heap of anger on the floor. 

But son, the world is not made of Legos. 

There are things in this world that you can break and never repair. And I don't mean dolls or teacups or other dainty things your sister and I fawn over.  I mean hearts. Specifically, girls' hearts.  Once you break a girl's heart, it can't be repaired. Not to what it once was. Like the repaired feet on your sister's doll, that crack will always be there in her heart. You'll always be able to see it. She'll always be able to feel it. And so will you. The doll's feet are stuck back together, and I wrapped them in lace, fashioning little boots, to hold them in tact. But they will never be the same.  You're nearly a man, now, son. And though you wrinkle your nose, stick out your tongue and doggedly shake your head now, one day not too far into the future, you will actually want to be around girls. You'll like them. A lot. And they will like you. A lot. (And I will need prayer. A lot of prayer.)  But those girls? They are delicate. They are precious. Their hearts are more fragile than your sister's porcelain doll or my china tea cup. And they deserve to be treated as a treasure. They deserve to be handled with care. To not be called names, or insulted, or hit. In fact, never, ever touch a girl with anything more than the weight of the softest, lightest feather. And if she says no, if she tells you to stop, you stop. And please, never throw her or her heart to the floor.

​Dear son, I know you are a good, loving boy. I know your heart aches to know God more and this brings happy tears of pride to my eyes. Yes, I'm blubbering like a baby as I type right now. You are a good, smart young man and I have every bit of faith that you will grow up to be a kind, gentle, wise, strong man. A man who values a woman for who she is, not what she is. A man who handles her heart with kit gloves but leads her with a strong hand. A man like your father. And as the years ahead of us unfold, I know that the world is going to tell you different. I know that it will tell you that girls are to be used and thrown away. They're not. I know that the world will tell you that dating is for fun and marriage is about sex. They're not. I know the world is going to tell you that you're a sissy for being kind to women, and that women are liberated and don't need your good manners or your kindness. You're not and we do. 

I've always told you to look at every girl as someone's sister and someone's mom. And I've always asked you to ask yourself, "would I want my sister or my mom treated this way?" If the answer is no, then, you know what needs to be done. But now I'm going to ask you to also look at every girl as your sister's porcelain doll. As a treasured gift to be held gently and loved wholly.

And I'm asking you to remember we girls aren't made of Legos. Once broken, our cracks remain, and while our Heavenly Father can heal us and make something beautiful come from our broken bits, you my dear son, can't. 

I love you, Adam. And I am so proud of you. You will one day make one girl a very lucky princess. 

Love,

​Mom