A Valentine to My Eight-Year-Old Self

I was in love by Grade Two. Having decided which of my classmates I would marry, I prepared a marriage license for us which my big brother discovered in my room and found useful for endless harassment and blackmail. I dreaded the day my intended groom learned of its existence, but I don’t recall having to endure that humiliation. Maybe my brother was more merciful than I thought.

Valentines Day would not expose my secret since Mom insisted I give a valentine to every person in my class, regardless of my feelings. The only thing under my control was deciding who received which one. I’d agonize over who got my invitation to “Be Mine” and who received the skunk picture declaring, “I’m scent-imental over you!”

I loved those press-out valentines. I loved a little less the envelopes that had to be folded and then glued together with flour and water paste—a method you’ll remember if your parents survived the Great Depression.

In the lead-up to the big day, we decorated our classroom with pink and red streamers and paper hearts. Our teacher brought in a large box and cut a slot in the top. We covered The Box with crepe paper and more hearts and cupids. On the morning of February 14, we diligently hid our valentines until our turn came to insert them into The Box. Little was learned during our morning lessons as we stared at The Box, envisioning all the valentines inside.

When we returned after lunch, cookies and cupcakes in hand, it was party time. Games were played, treats were shared. Finally, the big culmination: the opening of The Box and the distribution of the valentines within.

At home, I’d review them over and over, hunting for clues to a secret love the sender may have hidden between the lines, hope and heartache racing side by side through my little core.

Fifty-six Valentines Days later, I decided to write a valentine to the little girl I was then. Since I don’t have a time machine so I can drop it through a slot in The Box, I’ll share it here.

Sweetheart,

I know you’re dying to know whom you’ll one day marry. I’m not going to tell you, except to say it’s neither of the boys you take turns having a crush on these days, so maybe hold off on writing marriage licenses. You will marry a good man, but he won’t be perfect. Neither will you. Together you’ll have some wonderful, imperfect children. They’ll bring you joy, laughter, and love. This may come as a shock, but they’ll also hurt your feelings sometimes. You’ll disappoint them, and yourself. There will be days you’ll feel unloved and forgotten, betrayed and alone.

Here’s another shocker: your parents don’t have everything figured out. They’re doing their best to love and care for you, given the tools they’ve been given. They’ll fall short sometimes, too. Even when you’re grown, they’ll second-guess the choices they made for you. If you can understand that, it’ll be easier both to forgive their mistakes and to forgive yourself when your own kids are adults.

What I need you to know more than anything is that you are loved, perfectly and just the way you are, by the One who created you. The more you practice running to Him with your hurts and allowing His love to comfort you, the greater will be your ability to love the people He brings into your life—even when they don’t return your affection. You have a long life ahead, with countless people who will move in and out of it. Only One will be constant. You won’t regret pouring every effort into getting to know Him—Jesus, the Lover of your soul.

Yours truly,

Your 64-year-old self.