littleangel Her eyes, squinted and unfixed, glanced my way, not as to lock in but to demand explanation and confess fear.  It’s toughest when I can do little to intervene and help her.

She’s oldest of the three, all blazing toward maturity.  Before us lies frantic years cresting high in emotionalism and confusing nose dives for no discernible reason.  Teenagers are a mystery of hormonal weirdness.  It’s a stretch of life confounding the most prepared of us parents.  I gaze at my oldest daughter in moments flashing unfamiliar and pray it all sticks and holds together.  The worst part that really cripples me is the understanding that she will disappoint me, break my heart when she pushes me away and says hurtful things.  I pray for her then and teach as often as I can now.  I don’t own control, and to a large degree neither does she.  Out of control, her choices will be tied to insecurity and friends she’ll swear are so close to her.  I’ll wonder in those moments how we got to that point so fragile and ready to break.

I pray He holds His words in our hearts and goes to valiant pursuit when we stray; we, the one, apart from the ninety nine.

“What’s wrong?!  Why are you crying now?” “I don’t know.”

“You must know.”

“I just look so ugly.”

I took a path of less understanding and shot holes through her feelings, reasons why she shouldn’t feel the way she did.  Honestly, the reasons were given to stop her from going too far from me.  I’m a man raising three little girls quickly morphing into young ladies.  My emotional capacity is regularly dwarfed by those little estrogen soaked hearts dreaming in fairy tales and sparkly endings.  When I cry, a recognizable cause stands clearly identifiable, but they cry and move through varying emotions with the suddenness of a jack in the box.