Sewing camp has begun. This is the escapade when a flock of young girls arrive with some trepidation to spend six hours in a room stuffed with fabric and scissors. Some have sewn before. For others, there may have been a dollop of cajoling by their mothers, who signed them up weeks ago in an attempt to whittle down the gaping schedule that arrives in June. 

I often marvel at the beauty of toddlers. But spending long days with girls in that transition between being a child and a teenager, takes my breath away. They are brimming with potential, even as they worry about forgetting their locker combination. I love to ask about the sports they play, and what grade they are entering. Then the nervousness melts, and their guard slips down. 

Do they have the slightest awareness of how precious they are? I think not. Mostly, they feel four concentric circles away from the cool kids. But when I watch them, I cannot imagine anything more endearing than their smiles when they hold up a finished pillowcase. I am not supposed to, but I have some favorites. One child made ten scrunchies, in anticipation of her new friends at sleep away camp. How can I not fall under the spell of her generosity? Another girl was weary of seam ripping and I offered to rescue her if she would tell me a joke. She did, and I did. A bargain for me. 

Two girls are synchronized sewers. Being besties, they choose the same fabric and projects. If one gets ahead, the other waits for her to catch up. 

I love to learn their names. I will not reveal them here, but they are proof to me that their mothers cherish them. 

We went outside to eat our lunches in the sunshine. Then they chatted freely. I asked them what places they were going later in the summer. 

"The shore!"

"Florida!"

"Hershey Park!"

"The Caribbean!" 

To share their joy, I inquired about the names of the beaches and islands. They did not know. This did not seem to concern them. Apparently they still hold their parents with unshakable confidence. It does not occur to them to doubt the specifics. 

I sighed, as I gazed into their young faces, eating sandwiches packed by mothers who adore them. 

Where along the way did I forget to trust? At least on the good days, I believe that I too, am loved beyond measure. 

Love,