A 6-Year-Old Mind

Six-year old minds are fragile little minds.  So much information and emotion is yet to enter those eager minds and souls and brains and bodies. 

I am walking a six year old through math problems.  Fact families.  Addends.  Sums.  Number lines.  Counting manipulatives.  Counting strategies.  I am watching her as she struggles to identify the plus sign as an addition symbol.  I watch as she counts two fingers on one hand and three fingers on the other, and struggles to add them all together to make five.  I watch and listen as her mother drops her off and expresses concern for her struggling daughter.  “She will be repeating the first grade,” her mother says.  “Her teacher last year fussed at her for counting on her fingers, but I don’t know how else she will get the answer if she’s not getting it.  Especially since she’s repeating.”  Madison hugs her mother’s waist tightly, knowing her mother cares about her; also knowing that she doesn’t catch on as fast as the other children. 

Madison and I look at the problem 4+2=____.  I ask her what number we need to start with to start counting.  She has no idea.  I asked her if this will be an addition or subtraction problem.  She has no idea.  I start her off at 4 on the number line and ask her to hop forward 2 times to get our answer.  She hops the other way.  She is struggling. 

Madison and I work on her addition.  And we work and we work and we work.  We are separated from all of the other kids at Math Camp.  We are in the corner, on the ground, celebrating with claps and yays and good jobs and high fives for every answer she gets correctly.  Every right answer is progress.  Every right answer deserves a celebration.  I watch Madison as she uses every ounce of energy she has and every brain cell she can muster up to add 4 and 2 together.  She is exhausted.  I am exhausted.  There is nothing inside of her that wants to give up.  There is nothing inside of her that wants to stop.  Everything in that six-year-old body wants to finish this page.  She wants to be smart. 

I look down at my own paper to check what problem Madison and I will conquer next.  What addition problem will we stare in the face and work until its death—so that we can confidently pencil in the answer on yet another blank?  I look back up at Madison so that I can start her off as I normally would—only this time; I find that she already has counted out two fingers on one hand, and three fingers on the other.  My heart skips a beat.  She has never started on her own before.  I watch as her little head nods to each finger at a time as she counts to total them up.  She mouths ‘one.. two.. three.. four.. five..”…. and then, still focused, picks up her pencil and marks a neat “5” in the empty blank. 

It all happened so fast.  I blink away tears.  My little girl, who 40 minutes ago could not tell me what a + sign meant—just added a problem by herself.  Yes, it was an easy problem.  Yes, she used her fingers.  Easy to us.  Easy to probably most six-year-olds.  But for Madison, this was a celebration.  This was everything we wanted.  It was everything she wanted—to feel smart. 

I notice that her flower barrette was hanging loosely off of her small six-year-old head.  I stopped her working and told her I would fix her hair.  I pulled the barrette out and she leaned her head down so I could reach her hair.  I twisted a small piece of her silky brown hair away from her face, and then securely fastened the flower back where it belonged, on the right side of her small six-year-old head.  She slowly picked her head back up and broke into a small grin.  “Do I look pretty?” she asked me.  I smiled and looked her square in the eyes as I firmly said, “Yes.”

Madison, this sweet six-year-old, with her six-year-old mind, her six-year-old emotions, her six-year-old brain, her six-year-old body, her six-year-old heart—this sweet, sweet, six-year-old longed to hear that she was pretty.  She longed to hear that she was smart.  These are not statements that should be lost on any six-year-old.  These statements need to be heard by six-year-old more than any other something-year-old. 

When I could respond to Madison’s longing question of whether she was smart or pretty, it was an amazing joy.  I understood the power of the words I had.  I understood the power of encouragement and celebration and looking someone square in the eye and telling them that they are worth something. 

I imagine that the joy that I had when I responded to Madison is the same joy God has when He can answer our questions about ourselves.  “Do I look pretty?” “Am I smart?” “Am I good at that?” “Am I worth anything?” “Do you love me?” “Am I loved?”  He smiles and looks us square in the eyes and firmly says, “Yes.”  And we can believe Him.