Over the last month or so, my 6 year old has come up with a new little rhythm in his prayers. All of them- before meals, before bed, when we see an accident on the highway.  He says, “Dear God, I hope…”  Last night it was, “Dear God, I hope that no more people die in Japan, and I hope nobody in Africa gets bit by those mosquitoes that make them sick, and I hope I have really good dreams tonight.”

Something about the simple, declarative essence of his “I hope” statements has really struck me. I love that, in true 6 year old optimist fashion, he can throw out some gargantuan requests like they’re completely possible. Like it just takes us bringing our hope to God for malaria to be a thing of the past. Last night when I heard him pray that, I wondered if he was, in some way, right.  If we actually did bring our declarative hopes out like that and hang them like flags of promise, I wonder if malaria wouldn’t seem that far-fetched a problem to fix.  Maybe our hopes stay so small and inward that we need to get them to a place the wind can sway them in a way that actually moves us all in the same direction. Maybe we need to declare them, like blaring trumpets, both to God and to ourselves:  Dear God, I  hope!

Rationally, I know I talk to her all the time about life matters.  Also, I’m a pastor, so let’s be honest: my child has it doubly bad with both pastoral and maternal ramblings. bless her.  But that night, lying in bed, still panicked, I came up with a plan.  I am calling it Project Nine.  And it launches tonight.  Project Nine is my attempt to be more diligent and intentional about the maternal wisdom relay race; you know, passing the baton from one generation to the next.  I am insanely lucky to have had two incredible women pass batons to me in my childhood years- my mother, and my grandmother, both of whom have wisdom beyond measure.  Each month, I am going to focus on one thing I really want her to know.  I will talk to her about it at bedtime, share stories from my life that relate, and I will write her a letter about it.  Over the months and years, these letters will be compiled into a journal.  I hope it will give her a tangible artifact of the wisdom the women in our family have gained over the years- and hopefully some of it will seep into her being, so that it  becomes part of her, like it has become part of me over my lifetime.

I might share snippets on here every now and again as I traverse this new project.  I’d love to hear words of wisdom from fellow moms, whether you are traveling ahead of me and my nine year old by a few years or just starting out.  I think we can all agree that this world, and our culture in particular, can be a veritable mine field for our daughters.  The more guidance and confidence we can impart by word and example, the better.

I did not try to talk her out of this, justify this, or tell her she doesn’t know the complexities involved. Because she’s right.

Those first few weeks were brutal, to be sure; the “transition” period of remembering how to be around your sibling all day every day can be a painfully exasperating task.  Those weeks also included a seemingly unending chorus of “Mo-om!  We don’t know what to do!”   They were always annoyed with my overly-chipper answer.  “How wonderful!  You are facing an empty canvas of possibilities!  What COULD you do?!!  How very fun!  I wonder what you will decide!”  (Eyes rolling my direction.)  But then, just as I was about to doubt the benefits of boredom and sign them up for seventy-eight camps, we made it over the hump of early-summer-exasperation… and the magic kicked in.  You know what magic I’m talking about- it’s the same kind of magic that made your own summers so memorable, when  you and your best friend would pretend to be Nancy Drew and ride around the neighborhood on your bikes with your trusty notebooks solving mysteries, or that time you and your brother converted the new refrigerator box into the Millenium Falcon.  

The last two months my kids made hand puppets and bookmarks and even laptops out of cardstock, they built forts and ships and space rockets out of pillows, they held a rather extensively planned doggie day care for our dog Baxter, much to his chagrin.  They went on approximately 47, 382 treasure hunts, each with stunning results.  (“I LOVE this blue floppy piece of felt!  Awesome!”)  They saved the world from the bad guys at least once a day throughout the month of July, often wearing velcro Superman and Batman capes for added flair.  One day, they dressed up as Mario and Luigi and spent the entire day pretending that our house was the Super Mario Galaxy.  (I think at some point they attempted to spin poor Baxter like a turtle, which may have been the low point of his summer.) 

I’m not sure they will share those things in a few weeks when someone asks what they did this summer.  They’ll probably say they went to the beach and got to go to the museums in New York City.  But when they get older, I hope they’ll remember the magic of a summer filled with empty days and the gift of boredom, and remember that time they sailed across the ocean on a big pillow toward an enchanted island.  That’s the part I’ll remember most fondly.