In our church we have a lay clergy, so each week a few members of the congregation are asked to speak on an assigned topic. Typically speakers have a week to prepare their comments, and talk for about 10-15 minutes. No one is exempt from being given the opportunity to speak-not even kids (done on a much smaller scale and with parental help, of course). Last Sunday was Isabella's turn. She was asked to speak for 1-3 minutes in her Primary class. Mark and I worked with her on her topic during the week and wrote down a few ideas for her to speak about. A four year old's "talk" looks something like this: Four year old and their mom go up to a miniature podium fitted with a microphone. Mom kneels down beside 4 year old and whispers the talk in their child's ear. Child repeats the words into the microphone. Done.
Now, as the parent, I didn't really want to go into this with any expectations, but to be honest, I was aiming kind of low. Isabella isn't always comfortable in the spotlight. Case in point: for her birthday this year she requested that we would
not sing "Happy Birthday" to her and then proceeded to open her presents behind the couch. Too much attention, too much fuss. So I wasn't too confident about her comfort level of standing in front of 10 (or so) of her peers and a handful of teachers and parents. To speak. Into a microphone. My hope for her was that she could accomplish two things: 1) that she would, at the very least, stand with me at the podium and 2) if she did speak at all, that she would do so with a modicum of solemnity-i.e. no rhyming every last word that left her mouth. ("Hi, I'm Isabella-wella-pella-mella"). This last point being the only thing I really drilled into her head. My final strategy was bribery. I had in my arsenal, a cake pop (her favorite), and told her that she could have it after giving her talk. That was it. The preparation was done.
Sunday arrived and Mark and I sat in the back of the Primary room waiting for Isabella's turn to speak. When the teacher announced it was time, Isabella stood up from her chair, looked back at me, and said, "Come on, Mama." We made our way to the podium, I knelt beside her and began whispering the words in her ear. She pulled her shoulder to her cheek and with a shy smile began to talk, which came out more like a whisper. I reminded to her to use her "big voice". She repeated herself, more loudly this time, and suddenly, her little voice was made big as it was projected through the microphone and out into the room. All eyes were on her, and that's when something big became unleashed- in both of us.
For Isabella, the microphone was an instrument that provided a new form of attention. For me, it sparked a wave, a horrible, irreversible wave, of uncontrollable giggles. I tried hard to suppress the fits of laughter welling up inside of me, but I only ended up making myself cry. Her little booming voice, her shout-outs to her friends in the front row in between the lines of her talk, her unabashed confidence in doing something really hard...all sent me to a place from which I could not return. Isabella looked up at me a couple of times, bewildered at my complete lack of control. She was awesome. Me? Not so much. Mark just sat in the back row watching his family take flight to very different destinations.
Isabella finished her talk, stepped down from the podium, and immediately asked for her cake pop- a request which was deferred until after church was over. Whatever her motivation, be it the cake pop, the attention of the crowd, or just doing something because she was asked to do it, didn't matter to me. She shined, and I learned a lot from this mighty little girl.
I later returned to Primary to apologize to Isabella's teachers and leaders for my complete lack of reverence. Each told me how energized Isabella was after her talk. She answered every question, sang every song, and fully participated in every aspect of class. I think she must have sensed her accomplishment.
"And though she be but little, she is fierce." -Shakespeare
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| Exhausted after church. |
