I think I lack the sharing gene. I’m not talking about sharing toys, but rather sharing feelings. I wish I’d been taught how to share emotions in kindergarten, instead of being repeatedly told how to share my stuff — something I already knew how to do. (You learn how to share real quick if you have two sisters.)

Some people overshare. I undershare. I guess it comes from being an introvert. It makes me wonder why I even have a blog — but I suppose if anything, this blog might help me become more open to sharing what I think. After all, the Internet is filled with what people think.

I recently got a Facebook, if you count “nine days ago” as “recently.” My motivation was mostly to keep track of what universities my friends are going to go to at the end of next year, but it seems Facebook has forced a different definition of “friends” onto me.

I was figuring on having maybe a total of five friends, since two of my closest friends are Facebook-less. At the moment, I have 16. Where’d the other 11 people come from?

I recognize all 11 of them, but some of them I haven’t spoken to in years. Literally. We don’t even say hi when we pass each other at school. Needless to say, I don’t keep up with them over the summer.

So it baffles me why they’ve added me as a friend. I added them back because we are, at least, acquaintances, albeit acquaintances who don’t talk to each other much. But I’m wondering: is their definition of a “friend” different?

I never thought “Cinderella” was a particularly sad song. There were some sad bits about it, but for the most part, it was a song about a dad watching his daughter grow up and realizing that he should cherish every moment he has with her before those moments are gone.

Which is why I can’t listen to this song anymore without crying.

When I first heard this song, it was warm, fuzzy feelings for me. After all, there’s just something about a father dancing with his little daughter for fun. Before he knows it, he’s dancing with her to help her practice for prom, and then for her wedding. There wasn’t any sadness in it for me, just a taste of nostalgia. Even the words that end the chorus — “and she’ll be gone” — were more nostalgic than sad. I didn’t see those words literally.

But now, they are literal. I watched a YouTube video of Steven talking about how he came up with the song after giving a bath to two of his adopted daughters, Stevey Joy and Maria Sue. The youngest, Maria, died on May 21, giving “Cinderella” — and the phrase “she’ll be gone” — an entirely new meaning.

But is she gone? Not really.

I was incredibly touched after reading an article about Maria’s funeral. The article started off talking about a letter written by one of Maria’s older sisters, eight-year-old Shaohannah. In it, she tells Maria to enjoy heaven:

I will see you soon, but not too soon. I hear the roads are made of solid gold and God waits for everyone. When you see that I’m coming, wait for me at the gate.

At first, I was impressed that an eight-year-old had such a strong grasp of what death really means. The funeral was held three days after Maria’s death. If one of my sisters had died, I don’t think I would have recovered enough in three days to write such a letter. I would still have been grappling with God, wondering why he had let such a thing happen. I would never have thought to write “Enjoy heaven.”

But I shouldn’t have been surprised at this. Children know things that teenagers and adults can’t even begin to understand. Jesus tells us countless times that in order to enter the kingdom of heaven, we have to become like little children. I’ve had my opinions completely spun on their head because of things children have said or done. And every time I’m astonished to discover the wisdom that children have.

At that time, Jesus said, “I praise you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and learned, and revealed them to little children.
Matthew 11:25