So that they won't be lost to me

Elisabeth Elliot, referring to her daughter, Valerie, as a child:

She thought much about God and heaven (which was to her not only the Father's house but her daddy's as well). I sometimes wrote down her prayers after I had kissed her goodnight. I did this not because I feared they would otherwise be lost (the great angel with the golden censer will see that they are not lost) but because I knew that they would be lost to me. I would forget. [Italics mine]

I love this quote. I have often felt this way as a mama: I don't want to forget any of this. I want to hold on to this moment, tuck that one away in my memory, remember my childrens' words, the way they say those words, their expressions, their drawings, their interests at each age.

I want to remember someday that when Isaac was four he play-acted Knights and Cowboys or "Football Player". I want to remember that he says "bemagined" instead of imagined. (And still adds that "be" at the beginning of several words.) And the way Isaias, at three, speaks so sweetly to Addie, or the way he sprawls out across his bed as he sleeps. Or how Ella, six, pulls up her socks like they're knee-highs, even when they're not, and wants to wear tennis shoes with her dresses and tights. Or how she tucks herself alongside of me in my bed when she wakes up in the morning. And the way Addie, at 2 months, smiles brightly and coos, especially when she first wakes up. And how she hangs on tightly to my necklace when she's cuddled up in my arms.

It's why we do a yearly Birthday Letter for each child, and it's why every so often in my journal there are little notations. So that I will remember.

And every once in awhile I remember to transcribe the prayers of my children. Here's one from today:

[Prayer by Isaac, age 4]

Dear God,

Make Talia to have her baby and make us love you, Jesus and make us to go to heaven and thank you that your Son died on the cross and make daddy to work hard today. I love you, God.

In Jesus' Name,
Amen