She hangs her heart on the wall while a steady stream of people walk by.

“Did you draw this?” They ask the small girl perched in the corner, the one who can’t stop drawing for a second, not even tonight when her art’s on public display.

“Yes,” she says shyly, smiling under the rim of that black hat.

“Wow,” they say again and again, bedazzled like the peace sign covering her head.

And again with a timid smile she responds humbly,”Thank you.”

I stand at a safe distance, close enough to hear these conversations but far enough to allow her some space, some breathing room in a room crowded with artists, buyers, and friends.

Others ask, “are these for sale?” and she looks over at me, eyes dancing in my direction, and I mouth the words we talked about, the ones her dad and I agreed on at the last minute, and she replies, “No, they’re just for show.”

I sense the disappointment in her voice, even though I can barely hear it above the clamor of the studio. She wants to sell some of her art, so people can enjoy it, she tells me, so she can donate the proceeds to school children in Haiti. And I understand her ambition. I appreciate her motives.

But after an hour at this place, I’m unwavered. I’m happily standing my ground.

Because art buyers have stopped by and they’ve handed me their cards. They’ve told me to call them, to set up meetings at their galleries. Prominent artists talk business with her dad and me, offering advice on what to sell and for how much, calling her a “commodity” who’s painting us “gold bricks.” And it leaves us stunned, overwhelmed, our heads spinning.

Even after the show, after we’ve packed up the car, stopped at Dairy Queen, and driven the fifty miles home, after we’ve congratulated her a hundred times and tucked her in bed, we’re still dizzy. Our eyes close, but we can’t sleep.

The next day we get online, we search for art schools in the city, the ones we’re told she needs to attend, the ones with a seven percent acceptance rate, and I reconsider selling her art to pay the tuition. I’m caught up in the hype, in the hussle to groom her and get ahead of the competition.

Less than a week ago we were frantically scanning the walls, surveying sketchbooks, and searching drawers, desks, and refrigerator doors to find her very best pieces, the kitchen table disappearing under a pile of canvases and cut-outs. Miles and money racked up as we traveled to various craft stores buying frames and matting, foam board and glue spots, easels and cardstock.

I called my mom the day before the exhibition, anxious, jittery, a hairy ball of stress.

“I don’t know why I’m such a basket case,” I tried explaining to her. “It’s Rainey’s show, and she’s fine. I’m the one who’s a mess.”

“Do you think it’s because she’s growing up?” my mom asked calmly. “Because her dreams are coming true?”

And I knew she was on to something, I knew she had a point. Becoming an artist is all my daughter’s ever talked about, all she’s ever wanted since she first drew that picture of a one-eared pig when she was two. And her dreams are fragile, like her, and worth protecting. But there was more to it than that.

I close the laptop now, and think about this a dozen more times – at the grocery store, during dinner, while decorating the house for Christmas the night after the show. And when I tuck myself in bed, when I prop up my pillows and open my Advent devotions, I’m relieved to see a mother who can relate.

Her name is Mary, and the baby she’s expecting is Pretty Important, too. He’s got big plans, big dreams, dreams that will one day save the world. But what does Mary do about it? Does she freak out like me? Does she call the papers and line up the interviews, maybe billboard His big debut?

But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. – Luke 2:19

And when He’s a little bit older, only a couple years past my daughter’s age, when He, too, wows the crowd and amazes everyone at the Temple, her response is the same:

But his mother treasured all these things in her heart.  – Luke 2:51

And slowly, like a work of art hanging in a gallery, the big picture comes into view, bringing with it the peace and perspective stolen from me the past few days.

I remember that my children belong to Him. And they’re not here to impress people, to prove they’re important, or to promote themselves. They’re not here even to be relevant or successful by the world’s standards. They’re here to please Him.

And somehow knowing this brings me tremendous freedom. Freedom to treasure the amazing experience we shared Friday night with our daughter, to ponder who she is and all she hopes to be. And to pray that His dreams for all of our children will someday come true.

“Joy comes from seeing the complete fulfillent of the specific purpose for which I was created and born again, not from successfully doing something of my own choosing.” – Oswald Chambers