They Will Find Their Truth in Your Eyes

We just returned from a family ski trip where each year we commemorate a particular bend in a tree lined trail that we call “Annie’s Corner”. It is located at the crux of a tight turn alongside a deep ravine. The ravine that our youngest daughter Annie pitched headlong into at the age of five.

On that fateful day my husband led the way down the trail we refer to as Le Mans, for its ability to make us feel like Formula One race car drivers. I was pulling up the rear with the three kids between us, but with the twisting and turning of the trail I did not notice that anything, or anyone, was amiss until I saw the look of bewilderment and panic in my husband’s eyes as I arrived at the end with no Annie in sight.

Luckily, a member of the ski patrol stood mere feet away.  He was a tall, confidence inspiring, Native American gentleman with a long glossy braid that whipped in the wind as he and my husband raced back uphill on his snowmobile. In my heart I knew the turn that Annie did not make. I knew the steep drop and the rocky bottom of that ravine. I imagined my sweet girl skiing headlong into it. And I pictured the worst.

My job was to stay put at the base of the trail with the other two kids, but I could not stand the uncertainty.  So I sprinted uphill in my clunky ski boots at a pace so surreal I arrived just moments behind the snowmobile. Not bad for an undistinguished runner.

And there, at the top of the ravine, shaken but standing, was Annie. She had climbed up the steep bank as far as she could and planted her skis to draw attention, then walked upstream until she found a place flat enough to scramble out. She was making her way back to her skis.

As I rushed toward her, filled with panic and tears of relief, our ski patrol friend stopped me in my tracks. “Be strong, Mother”, he told me. “Be strong, because your child is strong, and she will find her truth in your eyes. Show her who she is today.”

And so, instead of dissolving into a puddle of tears I ran up to Annie, uncertain but grinning, and gave her a big hug. “You are such a resourceful girl!” I told her. “You knew just what to do. I am so glad to see you!” And I watched her think this through, eyeing me as if deciding how to process this greeting. And then she returned my grin and said, “I didn’t know just what to do, but I knew that I could figure it out.”

I felt the truth in our exchange. Because if it my words had not rung true they would only have heightened Annie’s discomfort. I imagine that we have all experienced this, a time when someone dismissed a hurt or negated a genuine emotion. There is nothing empowering about that.

But without the admonishment I was given before greeting Annie, I am sure that I would not have had the presence of mind to take a deep breathe, get beyond my own emotions, and truly see my child in this situation.

It was a precious gift and a priceless lesson that I have carried with me ever since. I cannot count the number of times in the intervening years that I have recalled this wisdom, taken a deep breathe, and recognized the power that I have to play a fundamental role in shaping my children’s experience. What a privilege, and a responsibility, to be able to help them connect with the truth that they can find in my eyes.