Individualized Parenting and Education

More to the Story

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Dear Hallie,

I can’t believe we’ve managed to keep you alive for 16 years. I believed I was a great mom until you were born, realizing I just had two somewhat predictable children before you – your older sister eager to impress and your older brother eager for peace. You were born the unpredictable third child, eager to explore. Searching for something, you rolled over days after you were born and then took your first steps at nine months, way before I was ready to baby proof the house. Of course, it was you and your endless curiosities demanding the house be babyproofed more thoroughly than any of your siblings. It’s uncanny how you always find something to unravel, the one missing puzzle piece finishing the puzzle, or the tiny spot of chaos capturing your undivided attention. Or maybe it is chaos always finds you. There has to be some explanation for why you’ve had more ER visits than the rest of us put together – including a broken heel bone, the time you got your tongue tangled in your braces, and the rock that alluded your surgeon and has now been embedded in your knee for more than a decade.

Either way, bathing my young children always felt like a chore until you were born. With you bath time was the one time you were content to be contained. It not only pleased your senses to be immersed in warm sudsy water, but there were endless curiosities available in a tub full of bottles and bubbles. And while your brother and sister required kid gloves when I would scrub them clean and cried every time I rinsed the soap out of their hair, you would giggle with delight as you shoved your own head under the faucet, eyes wide open, showing your older siblings how it’s done.

And since you love water, we had to be attentive near swimming pools as there was nothing other than our arms to contain you. Once you jumped straight in without a thought before we had the chance to set down our pool bags let alone inflate your arm floaties. Thankfully I heard the splash and turned around in time to notice your wispy blonde hair go under. Daddy jumped in to save you, phone in his pocket and shoes and shirt still in place. Despite your near drowning mishap, you were back in the water as soon as we secured your water wings and released you from our vigilant grip.

It’s not that you were ever purposefully naughty or rebellious, and you’ve never taken any pleasure in creating chaos or causing problems for others. You actually love to help others solve their own problems and puzzles, and you thrive on structure and predictability. For years your bedtime routine included you insisting on a play by play plan for the next day. Once you started real school, the classroom routines and clear boundaries our home lacked helped you thrive and succeed in new ways. That was until time to start writing. Unlike your siblings and many peers, your handwriting was always legible, your spelling was excellent, size and spacing of letters and even basic punctuation rules made sense to your young mind. The problem was no matter how many times we told you to start on the left side of the paper, you would start on the right and your words and sentences were a mirror image of what they should be. I guess it should not have surprised us when you finally decided you were mostly a lefty, unless of course you were playing sports. But even then you were still running to third base every time you hit the ball at the beginning of your second t-ball season. It continues to amaze us the way you see and do with ease all kinds of things no one else can see or do at all, while at the same time you get turned around in familiar places or jump in full speed ahead without floaties into unfamiliar places.

Somehow, despite your unusual visual perceptions, your insatiable determination and curiosity ensure you usually figure things out on your own- even if your solutions sometimes take a little longer or look a little different than everyone else. Still, your teenage years have been terrifying as we’ve watched you figure all kinds of things out in your own way and even occasionally had to jump in and save you. This year, I did not look forward to your birthday knowing we would no longer be able to put off the inevitable driver’s license you have been anticipating for years. I put it off as long as I could, wanting you to have as much time to mature and practice as possible before setting you free to operate a large motor vehicle. Especially considering your continued mild left-right confusion and the fact chaos still tends to find you even when you are doing your best to stay in the lines and follow the rules.

For example, you are the only new driver who would notice a wallet flying out the passenger window of the car in front of you as the light was turning green at the busy service road intersection of Hwy 59 and Hwy 90. And only you would be brave (or rather reckless and impulsive) enough to put your car in park and insist your friend jump out into traffic and bring you the mysterious wallet. And only you would, for the next 24 hours, set your mind solely to solving the mystery of the flying wallet.

By the time you shared the story of the mysterious wallet with us at dinner, you had already spent hours scouring social media in search of Davion from Wisconsin. You were determined to find him, explaining how if nothing else, he would need his license to fly home. After your parent’s harsh rebuke and warning against ever again stopping the car in the middle of a busy intersection, we joined in on brainstorming all the possible reasons Davion was in Texas to begin with. We could not imagine why anyone would choose scorching humid Houston for vacationing in the summer, so we decided this was a stop on his way to some interesting final destination. Perhaps on the way Davion’s car was stolen forcing thieves to dispose of the true owner’s identification. Or maybe the wallet was stolen, and you caught the criminals in the act of covering their tracks. Seems likely Davion had enemies, and almost certainly some criminal activity was involved.

 

More determined than ever to reunite Davion and his wallet, you used his student ID to locate contact information for his school in Wisconsin, promptly calling the following morning. Without any involvement on my part, you gave the school your phone number to share with Davion. Texts were eventually exchanged and a few hours later Davion and his mom were at the house to pick up the wallet. It is hard to know who was more thankful, Davion for having his wallet back, or you for having satiated your curiosity, reuniting the flying wallet with its owner.

Turns out Davion was here in Texas, visiting family, including his autistic cousin who unbeknownst to him had, without any ill intent, thrown his wallet out the car window. No further crimes to solve or mysteries to unfold, just a happy ending to one of those crazy stories you always find yourself right in the middle of.

A story I will forever treasure as a timely reminder as I brace myself for the rest of your teen years.

A reminder your relentless curiosity, thoughtfulness, determination, and compassion are truly gifts to a world full of mystery, pain, and brokenness. I love the way you notice people, take risks, make sacrifices, and put other’s needs before your own. This world truly needs a lot more Hallies!

But while I love that Davion got his wallet back, I also hate how you put your own life and the life of your friend at risk. This is a good reminder to steward our gifts with wisdom and grace, recognizing our greatest strengths can become weaknesses or get us into messes if we are not careful. When not redeemed by discipline and love, relentless determination or curiosity can become reckless obsession, compassion and sacrifice can make you vulnerable to being used or taken advantage of, and risk taking sometimes results in getting in over your head only to realize a little too late you are drowning. The reality is we are complex beings, and even our best intentions, our greatest work, and most treasured relationships are a mixed bag full of sacrifice, strength, and love mingled with selfishness, weakness, and need.

And if we can’t always be trusted to know our own hearts and intentions, we must be careful assuming the intentions of anyone else. It is true sometimes wolves dress in sheep’s clothing and generous givers like you must be especially careful not to be taken advantage of. But Davion and his cousin also remind me how easy it is to mistake human limitations for ill will. We are prone to misinterpret our perceptions of a story, assign rejection or failure to ourselves and others, and we automatically assume the worst of people – even the people who love us most. None of us could have fathomed the person who threw the wallet out the window was someone who loved Davion and the very reason he was in Houston to begin with; just like you never meant to cause panic or destroy Dad’s phone when you jumped in the pool without your floaties, and you never meant to put you or your friend’s lives at risk when retrieving the flying wallet.

There is always more to a story than what we know, and more often than not criminal or malicious intent, our failure, or other’s rejection of us are not the most likely culprits of whatever puzzle we are trying to solve or situation we are trying to make sense of. To be human is to have limited perceptions, knowledge, experiences, and resources. And we also all have different physical, mental, and emotional capacities and competencies limiting us in different ways. We sometimes unintentionally hurt people we care about or put them in danger because of those human limitations. And sometimes people who love us unintentionally hurt us as well. While it is human to assume the worst in others, love demands we strive to assume the best – bearing, believing, hoping, and enduring all things.

Here’s to a couple more years of navigating the tumultuous teen age years together as mother and daughter. I promise to try a little harder not to automatically assume some criminal activity every time you ask to borrow the car, but maybe you could promise to avoid any chaos beckoning to you in the middle of busy intersections. Or maybe it would help things if you would smile the next time I try to take your picture or give you a hug! But no matter what chaotic situation you find yourself in next, or what my mood may be at the current moment, please always assume I am on your side, knowing that I love you fiercely and forever!

Love,

Mom

 

Seasons Always Change

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Dear Lacey,

After entertaining the idea of moving last year, Dad and I decided to settle in and get you and your sister graduated before leaving our beloved home of 15 years. Then the first week of March, just after my sycamore tree finally sprang back to life, a house came on the market tempting us to change our minds. We made an offer and went under contract that weekend. Three weeks later our own house was packed and purged, and a for sale sign was placed out front.

Two months after that we handed off our keys to the new owners. I said goodbye to my sycamore tree while you said goodbye to the house where you’ve lived your entire life. As we drove away one last time, you asked me if I was ok. Of course, this is not the first time you’ve asked me if I was ok lately, and chances are it won’t be the last. And this is because change is hard and transitions are messy, and these sudden changes are always the hardest and messiest of all. Even when they are for the better. Somehow (like your Momma) you always know when someone is not ok, and your tender heart has been burdened for me these last several months, even as you are processing your own changes and losses associated with leaving the only home you’ve ever known.

The hardest part of the last three months for me has been the weight of every sudden change and transition we’ve lived through over the last 15 years feeling as if it is all crashing down on me at once. As I’ve gone through long forgotten cabinets and closets overflowing with boxes of our family’s collected memories, my heart and mind have overflowed with more joy and grief than I am able to hold in. I realize my emotions continue to spill all over the place, splashing everyone I love, and while my grief makes me feel a little crazy and a lot guilty, I’m thankful for the way you notice and are determined to make sure I am ok.

Fifteen years ago when we first moved in, life looked very different. I was in my late 20’s with three adorable children four and under. I was married to a man I loved, worked at a school I loved, served at a church I loved, and was raising a family I loved with the help of two doting grandmas. Two grandmas who adored us and regularly fought over whose turn it was to get the grandchildren.

Then suddenly, just as we were moving into our new home, my mom (your nana) was diagnosed with cancer at the age of 49. This began a long journey filled with trips to the medical center, surgeries, chemotherapy, remission, scans, and eventually hospice. Somewhere in the remission stage of Nana’s journey, you were born. But when Nana’s cancer came back with a vengeance just before your first birthday, instead of my mom helping me keep my children alive, I was daily passing my four children off to others- desperately hoping and praying the doctors we were visiting could help me keep my mom alive.

It was almost twelve years ago now when your Aunt Kellie had a spontaneous wedding in the backyard of our beautiful home days before your Nana took her last breath in our dining room. That was the same year your other grandma suddenly got sick and took her last breath, making us primary caregivers for your deaf grandpa suffering from severe dementia. I remember that first Easter standing in our kitchen boiling eggs for coloring (something Nana had always done) and realizing at the ripe old age of 33 I was the lost and lonely matriarch of our family. I now understand why you would cling so tightly to me as a young child. It was your way of making sure even then, I was ok.

One of our backyard trees also died the same year as your grandmothers, and that too broke your Daddy’s heart. Little did I know the new tree we planted would not only mark the number of years we have lived without your grandmas, but it would also mark the seasons of my survival, growth, and healing.

Without Grandmas around to take care of us, and with a Grandpa needing constant supervision, I had to significantly cut back my hours and eventually leave that job I loved. We settled into our new normal which included lots of homework help, dance parties, game nights, and family dinners during the week. And theatre performances, soccer games, and birthday parties on the weekends. You were an expert at just being along for the ride as we incessantly chauffeured your older siblings around town. As you kids grew, the house seemed to shrink, so we eventually decided to add on a playroom hoping to contain the many friends over the years that have made our house their second home.

Then suddenly, almost 6 years ago now, right in the middle of our major home addition, Hurricane Harvey dropped by and left behind six feet of stagnant water inside our house for a full 14 days. We were rescued by boat and then our family of seven (including your grandpa) couch surfed for weeks until we found a house to rent. When the water finally subsided, friends and neighbors came to help us throw most everything we owned onto our front lawn.

Recovery from the storm was impossibly slow, painful, and messy, and looking back I realize I struggled to get back on my feet mentally and emotionally for much longer than the 11 months it took to get back in our home. It was during this season you faced your own mid-elementary school crisis.

I distinctly remember the parent teacher conference halfway through second grade that led to pulling you out for the remainder of the school year. Ms. Cooper gave us a glimpse into the intensity of your school days as she described a child longing to do well but consumed by absorbing every emotion in the room. She would let you stay in from PE or lunch with her on your hardest days, so you did not have to endure the chaos of the cafeteria or gymnasium. You would amaze her with the depth and intensity of your intuitions, questions, and observations. Ms. Cooper described you daily seeking out students who needed an advocate or extra help, and then on days when she was struggling (as all adults sometimes do) you seemed to magnetically be drawn to her side eager to somehow help her as well.

I know all too well how easy it is for us intuitive and empathetic types to lose ourselves helping others, and how hard it is for us helpers to notice or acknowledge when we need help ourselves. During that season, I knew you needed help, but I had no idea I needed help too.

All of a sudden, I was crisis homeschooling you. And then shortly after that COVID-19 hit, and I was unexpectedly crisis homeschooling all four of my children. Now three years later, your two oldest siblings are technically adults, Hallie is halfway through high school, you are in middle school, and the sycamore tree we planted the year your grandmas died is now over 40 feet tall- providing shade to more than half the back yard.

Post-Harvey home during Snowstorm Uri with my Sycamore in the background.

This tree has also provided shade for my soul as I’ve intently watched it survive and grow through some of the harshest storms and seasons we have ever had in Houston. Hurricane Harvey of course, but also Snowstorm Uri. I never even knew snowstorms were named until this one shut down our city for weeks. Despite harsh droughts and hard freezes, the sycamore continues to burst into life each spring, reminding me, even when winter lingers and I look like I am dead, the spring will always return.

Every fall, once the large asymmetric leaves of the sycamore fall off, a loblolly pine tree just over the neighbor’s back yard fence comes into full view. The evergreen needles remind me all through the winter that things are not always as they appear. Some trees look dead half their lives, and others seem to flourish all year long, but really, they are all just doing their best to survive the current season and grow wherever they have been planted with whatever resources they have been given. Last spring, I discovered my sycamore had not only survived another brutal winter, but a sycamore sapling had spontaneously sprouted in my butterfly garden right near a brand-new pine sapling.

A friend once told me the real miracle is not when full grown trees survive harsh conditions and changing seasons. The real miracle is that a seed becomes a sapling at all. I looked it up for myself and it turns out less than 1% of all germinating seeds survive to become seedlings in natural conditions. And this says nothing for how many seedlings survive to become full grown trees. This miracle of two saplings surviving in my butterfly garden was discovered not too long after I’d stumbled across Isaiah 41:19 which tells us the Lord places the plane and pine trees together in the desert. The plane tree (which happens to be the technical name for my backyard American sycamore) and the pine tree are of course not the kinds of trees you usually find in a desert. The very next verse says it is created this way on purpose so “that they may see and know, may consider and understand together, that the hand of the Lord has done this.” I love how the spiritual, the natural, the human, the statistical, the relational, and the scientific parts of life all mirror each other. And if that was not enough, the Lord still gives us His living Word connecting all these reflections in more complete ways.

At the beginning of May, when we first got the keys to our new house, we invited some of our closest friends to celebrate with us by taking a dip in our new pool and ordering pizza to our new address. Sitting there surrounded by our new forest and our closest friends, I was only half engaged, dazing off into the night, trying to make sense of all the “suddenlys” we have faced in the last 15 years now packed in boxes waiting to be loaded onto moving trucks arriving the following morning. Nana’s wigs I could not bring myself to throw away, Grandma’s wedding dress our dear friends rescued from the refuse pile after the flood and then paid to have cleaned and restored. All the board games and puzzles begging to be reengaged, and way too many legos, costumes, and American Girl doll accessories begging to be donated to children much younger than you. And then there’s the fifteen years of artwork, poetry, writing, notes, and math equations (your brother’s of course) found filling notepads, journals, and sketchbooks throughout the entire house. You were swimming in our new pool when you noticed me lost in these memories. You quickly dried off and came over to ask me if I was ok. You and I both knew I was lying as I reassured you.

The moving trucks came and went, and then Daddy headed to the old back yard with a shovel and wheelbarrow to pack up one last treasured possession- my sycamore sapling which has quickly grown to over three feet. I knew this was the wrong season to transplant a tree, but I also knew this tree’s chance of survival was much better coming with us than staying put right where the new owners are planning to add a swimming pool.

The transition did not go so well. By the time we loaded her up into the back of Dad’s trusty old truck and drove the half mile to our new home just on the other side of the bayou, several leaves had withered. As we lifted the tree into its freshly dug hole, all the dirt fell away leaving her roots vulnerable and exposed. For the next several days, no matter how much I watered or prayed, every leaf started to brown and my pile of leaves around her base began to steadily grow. Death by transplant shock seemed inevitable.

I recruited your brother to help me do some research and look for signs of life as I continued to water, watch, and wait. He assured me it takes a tree as much energy to shed a leaf as it does to sprout a leaf, so the falling leaves should encourage me more than they discourage me. He pointed to the wilting, discolored, wrinkled leaves still clinging to the branches and assured me they too were not evidence she was dying, but further evidence she was working hard to stay alive. It has been a month now and she still looks pretty awful. I have resolved myself to the fact she is going to look like she is dying until next spring, but I no longer need your brother to see the evidence of life and growth in my young sycamore. This week she sprouted a tiny new green leaf to accompany the three large lonely multicolored leaves she has held tightly to through her transplant.

The pine sapling, which has grown ever so slowly and still measures less than a foot in height, was planted just on the other side of the fence in the front yard behind the bench swing. I have diligently watered him as well, however he has never shown any signs of shock or stress giving me no way to really know if he is also just surviving this transition, or if he is already thriving. I tend to think it’s the former.

A friend noticed the tiny pine in the yard and asked if I was planning to pull it out or let it grow. I did not mention to her I had planted it there myself on purpose, because like the rest of the world, she would never understand why these baby trees are so important to me. Especially when our new home is literally surrounded by a forest and our front yard is already home to two holly trees, a full-grown loblolly pine, two sago palms, a fig tree, several crepe myrtles, two large oak trees, and two full grown bald cypress trees. Oh, and miracle of miracles, one tiny bald cypress that has beat the odds and made it from seed to sapling in natural conditions far away from a water source.

All that to say Lacey, I know it does not always look like it, and frankly it does not always feel like it either, but I really am ok. Yes, I promise! And thanks to a few saplings growing out on the side and front of our new house, I can tell you why I am so confident.

  • I am ok because things are not always what they seem. Sometimes we look alive while we are dead on the inside, and sometimes we look dead just before we burst into full bloom. While things are not always as they seem, if we look hard enough we will find signs of life and evidence of growth and grace in every season or storm. Even when the grace looks like just barely surviving another day.
  • I am ok because even on days or in seasons when we do not have the strength to search for grace, we can rest assured the seasons will again change even as we continue to grow. That’s what it means to be alive- facing constantly changing seasons along with unexpected storms interrupting the predictability of those seasons. Droughts, freezes, and floods are difficult, but no matter how long the harsh winters last, spring always comes. And then summer. And then fall. No matter how long we stay dormant or how dead we look or feel, we know we are ok because we, like the trees, are slowly growing just as surely as the seasons are slowly changing.  
  • I am ok because it is normal, that like trees, people also wilt, wither, and shed when they are in shock, stressed, or sick. They suffer when they are faced with unexpected storms and harsh seasons that linger. Your momma still struggling as she processes all the sudden losses and changes she has faced in this last year as well as in the last 15 years, is not evidence she is dying, but evidence she is working hard to stay alive. Evidence she is ok, even if she sometimes looks and feels like she is not.
  • I am ok because I know shedding and letting go takes as much energy as growing and grabbing hold. I know my falling leaves can be messy, but the falling leaves are simply more evidence of grace as I continue to let go of the past and embrace new seasons of change and growth.
  • And I am ok because I am assured the Lord holds my life in His hands in the same way He places trees together in the desert. Last week when your brother was helping me search my transplanted plane tree for evidence of life, I felt the need to defend my sanity by explaining to him why these baby trees were so important to me. I pulled out my Bible to read him Isaiah 41:19, but was unable to speak as I noticed for the first time a third tree had been planted in the desert alongside the plane and the pine. A tree abundant in swamps, creeks, and rivers. So not native or abundant in Houston, and certainly not ever found in a desert. The exact words read “I will set in the desert the cypress, the plane, and the pine together that they may see and know, may consider and understand together, that the hand of the Lord has done this, the Holy One of Israel has created it.” The tiny cypress tree that has made it from seed to sapling in natural conditions spontaneously sprouted almost equal distances from the plane and pine we transplanted from our old house, forming a triangle of baby trees. The cypress, the plane, and the pine together.

Life is hard Lacey, and no doubt one day you will find your self in a season or storm that has you convinced you are not ok. But hang on, because the seasons will inevitably change, things are not always as they seem, and remember that the Creator holds you in His hands and has planted you right where you are meant to be. I sure am thankful you have been planted as the Spaulding baby sister, and I’m thankful for all the storms and seasons we get to continue to go through together in our new home.

Love,

Mom

 

A Weary World Rejoices

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Dear Cade,

Nothing about December 2022 has felt Christmassy. Maybe it was starting the month missing you and your sister as you finished your first semesters of college. Or maybe it’s because Dad’s job currently demands more of him than any of us like to spare. And then there was my bright idea to trade in rogue pine needles and runny noses for a pre-lit plastic tree from Walmart this year. Perhaps when I’m not finding needles in the back of the suburban or stuck in the living room rug come April I’ll be thankful, but no amount of Trader Joes Cedar Balsam candles have been able to replace the ambiance of a live Christmas tree. Not to mention, twenty years worth of homemade ornaments don’t tell the same stories hanging from perfectly symmetrical plastic branches- they simply add to the Walmart flare.

This was also the first year my Christmas shopping was done almost exclusively from the couch, checking things off your three sister’s wish-lists shared on our family group texts. Lists complete with links to oversized sweatshirts I hate, the latest gadgets no one needs, and new shoes that drain the entire Christmas budget with one click. I never walked down a toy isle, moved an elf, and we didn’t even pretend to leave Santa cookies on Christmas Eve.

This year I especially appreciated your staunch refusal to make your own list, not wanting to use other people’s money to get yourself a present. And I appreciate your determination to not look at your sisters’ lists, wanting each gift you give to be your own idea. Intent even to use your own money to shop for us despite my willingness to subsidize.  

Of course, son, as much as you love your family, your favorite part of being home for the holidays is endless hours with Sully, your beautiful blue Parrotlet who’s been your constant companion and best friend since you adopted him last spring. Years of begging and months of research finally convinced us to let you get this pet bird. The bird facts you’ve accumulated are only topped by the mathematical formulas and programming algorithms constantly coursing through your brilliant mind. You told us how smart and friendly these tiny creatures were, but we never imagined the bond that could exist between a boy and his bird. Nor did I expect a bird to be so like having a toddler. He is needy, loud, and messy, but he is also delightfully affectionate, playful, and curious. As much as I enjoy Sully, the best part of having him around is how often you call or come home to check on him. I’ve been so excited about the bird monitor wrapped and waiting under the tree so next semester you’ll have constant access to him while at school. I’ve only requested when you mention coming home to see your parrot, you pronounce it in a way that sounds a bit more like parents!

The week before Christmas when our family of six was under one roof, excitement finally began to build as the boardgames came out of hiatus, no seat was left empty at the dinner table, and beds, couches, and extra mattresses were filled nightly with your sisters’ friends. Of course, Dad continued running reports at midnight and had endless work meetings, but even he finally managed to complete his Christmas shopping just before stores closed heading into Christmas Eve.

The excitement stalled however when the Grinch made an unwelcome visit that same evening to your dad’s truck, busting the window and stealing (along with other things) the beautifully wrapped package for Mom. On top of the typical holiday to-dos, we now had credit cards to cancel, windows to replace, more errands to squeeze in on Christmas Eve, and a few less gifts to unwrap Christmas morning.  

Twas the day before Christmas and we were all running around getting ready for the annual Candlelight service and Christmas Eve celebration with the cousins. You and Sully were playing video games and watching YouTube videos, gladly pausing each time Dad or I asked for help. I was in the living room wrapping the last few boxes Amazon just delivered when Dad asked you to take out the trash. A minute later I heard your panicked scream. I rushed outside and after convincing you to breath, understood you’d taken out the trash oblivious to the fact Sully was still on your shoulder. Startled by the crash of the trash landing in the bin, he flew. Dad and I sprung into action, walking the street listening intently to the chorus of bird songs filling the cold December air. You heard it first- the unmistakable squawking of an anxious desperate Sully coming from the neighbor’s backyard tree. I ran inside to the Christmas tree and unwrapped Dad’s new binoculars, immediately realizing the irony that both your parents would now be without presents to open Christmas morning. Our neighbors granted permission to enter their backyard and climb their trees in hopes of reuniting a devastated teenage boy and his terrified bird. But there was no chance anyone would be able to climb anywhere near the wispy branch 50 feet in the air where Sully was stuck paralyzed in fear. For hours we watched other birds curiously circling and pecking at his tiny body, forcing him to new heights. I’ll never forget watching Dad and your sisters climb into the car and head to the Christmas Eve service while you sat faithfully perched on the roof of our garage begging Sully to fly to you. After hours of tree climbing and bird watching, I’d no choice but to begin preparing dinner. The house was a mess, presents left half wrapped, but even you knew a Christmas Eve meal must be prepared for our soon to arrive guests. And we both knew as the sun continued its descent, you would soon be saying one last goodbye to your best friend. We left the open cage in the driveway right by the trashcans that originally startled him, hoping if forced from the tree he’d head there for safety.

I listened to you tell him you love him, and that you were sorry. I listened to his last chirps as the sun finally disappeared and he settled in for the night. I helped you off the garage and together we went inside scraped up, sun and wind burned, fingers frozen stiff, and toes frostbitten. We cried together as you went over everything you knew about the dangers the night held for Sully. The good news was it was likely too cold for all the neighborhood owls to be out hunting tonight. So even though his tiny delicate frame and bright blue feathers would make him an easy target, he might not meet any birds of prey. But the bad news was his tiny tropical Parrotlet body can only survive for short times in temperatures as low as 50°. We checked the weather acknowledging it was already 38° and soon it would hit a low of 27°. I added a blanket and his favorite treats to the cage calling out to him through the darkness, but as you had expected he was no longer responding. Being a lover of science, you never once questioned the natural course of events and saw no point in the cage or my waking up and checking in throughout the night. You explained to me several times that once the sun sets and a bird settles in to roost, he will not wake again until the sun rises. If he wakes at all.

The cousins came and went, and I was so proud of you for loving them well despite your broken heart. It was a beautiful picture of what it means when the weary rejoice! When they left, I busied myself with all the normal night before Christmas tasks, adding to the list removing a fourth of your presents under the tree because they were meant to be shared with Sully.

Just before heading to bed, I stopped by your room to remind you God tends to the birds of the air. I shared my plan to be outside by his cage when the sun came up. I told you to prepare for the worst, but hope for the best. You have never cared much for trite cliches or empty platitudes, so you told me through your tears that false hope is never helpful, and God never promised life wouldn’t hurt or that it would always make sense. You told me real hope is not the same thing as wishing for something that might possibly come true. You also told me it was pointless to hope in ever seeing Sully again, even if it was your hearts most desperate desire. And you reminded me of the statistics which promised you’d almost certainly never see Sully again. I conceded that it was wrong to put any hope in my deep desire Sully would magically show up by morning. But I also reminded you not to put your hope in statistics and the laws of nature as they too bow to the Creator.

I ignored the impossible odds that my striving would make no difference, checking the cage one last time before getting into bed. And I checked it again several times during the night wondering through tears why God was taking so long to restore all that is broken in this world and in my own heart. Wondering how to wake up Christmas morning and rejoice despite the restlessness and the weariness within and without. Wondering how to make my own soul hope beyond what this human heart desires or my limited mind knows. Restless sleep finally came until the first bird sound startled me awake just as the sun began to rise.

I threw on fuzzy socks and a snuggie a top my pajamas, raced out the back door, and then began to pace our driveway circling the bird cage. For over an hour I watched the daylight break and listened to the birds come alive one by one adding their unique music to the chorus in the sky. I occasionally added my own chirps and whistles to the mix hoping to hear Sully’s familiar chatter and chirps in response.

But alas, I said my own final goodbye to Sully, then on my way inside noticed the truck’s shattered window yet to be replaced. The eternal optimist in me thought how nice it would be if Sully found his way inside the truck during the night giving both the robbery and the escaped bird some purposeful closure and a happy ending. I even peeked inside just in case, but no such luck. I walked in the back door leaving the December chill outside, and set our annual Christmas traditions in motion. I turned on the oven and placed the same orange flavored Pillsbury cinnamon rolls your dad ate as a little boy on Christmas morning on the baking sheet. Then as the oven preheated I collected all the Christmas Eve trash, and took it out back. As I dropped it in the outside can, I suddenly heard those unmistakable squawks and squeals from our neighbor’s backyard oak, undoubtedly meant to catch my attention. I tripped as I bolted up the stairs to wake you. And then woke everyone else in the process of insisting you put on pants and shoes before leaving the house.

I chased you out the door with a coat, but by the time I got there you were already climbing onto the garage roof convinced you’d seen Sully in our own backyard. Our recent research told us birds raised in captivity often struggle to navigate the art of flying downward, so you wanted to give him a target he could possibly reach. And oh, how he tried to reach you! He flew back and forth from treetop to treetop as you called to one another. But it was obvious we needed a new plan. You are far too risk-adverse and clumsy to safely navigate the great heights of our house’s two-story hipped roof, and unfortunately your bird and your father do not get along. I am only slightly less clumsy and much less agile than you, so I didn’t initially seem like the best option. We recruited fearless Hallie to join our rescue mission, but the bird missed his target flying just over her head, landing in the pear tree across the street.

It seemed obvious I was going to have to ascend the roof myself. So as the Spaulding siblings were tweeting and whistling out in the front yard, Dad hoisted me from the patio roof up to the second story where I spent the next half hour of our Christmas morning flapping and bird calling along our highest roof ridge in my fuzzy socks, Birkenstocks, tie dye pajama pants, and a large grey hooded snuggie. I saw the Parrotlet in the pear tree and giggled as I sang about this wonderful gift given to me on this first day of Christmas! I long since stopped worrying what the neighbors think about our odd family as you walk around the cul-de-sac for hours daily thinking your brilliant thoughts out loud. I imagine whatever they thought before now has been confirmed by your rather eccentric mother’s rooftop Christmas adventure.

At the time however, all I was considering was how to get that bird home. After a few attempts to fly as other birds pecked and pushed him out of their air space, Sully managed to land on the far side of the roof where I was pacing. We inched towards each other until he finally flew to my shoulder. Dad managed to get me down slowly and calmly, but just as I was about to climb through the second story window onto Hallie’s bed, Sully flew again. There was a collective gasp from all of us, followed by a collective sigh as he quickly landed on his favorite shoulder. I moved out of the way so that my boy and his bird could climb through the window first, and our very Merry Christmas could finally begin!

Cade, you are right that it is dumb to prepare for the worst and hope for the best, because real Hope does not ever disappoint. Hope that is real is sure, steady, and certain. Wishing all suffering and sadness would stop does not make it stop any more than wishing your bird home was ever going to bring him home. Wishing in something flimsy and uncertain will always disappoint us even though some of our wishes sometimes do come true. Our own feelings, desires, and wishes are as flimsy as the tree branch that kept your bird alive, and no matter how much we want something, nothing in this world is certain or guaranteed. But this nothing also includes statistics and nature. Trusting in facts, formulas, logic, and reason to have the final say in this world will also disappoint us. Facts may be true, and feelings may be real, but neither are unchanging, sure, steady, or certain for all eternity.

You and Sully taught me a lot about hope this week. You taught me the difference between a wish and a hope. You taught me not to prepare for the worst, but rather to fight against the worst. Preparing for the worst often means that we do nothing and resign ourselves to defeat. Just like we fought and worked hard to bring Sully home even though the odds were against us, and the onlookers thought we were completely insane, so we should be constantly fighting for what is good, true, and beautiful, and we should work hard to extend justice and grace to a broken and hurting world even if victory feels impossible. And we do that because we have placed our hope in a victory that is not impossible but is absolutely certain. This Hope is the hope of Christmas and the only reason a weary world has to rejoice. Because the birth of Jesus means that the world will not be weary forever. So, we fight against the worst, rejoicing in a sure and steady Hope guaranteeing the best is yet to come. Merry Christmas Cade!

Love,

Mom

The Things that Matter Most

wordstomychildren2 Comments

 

Dear Cade,

You challenge me! You challenge me in ways all 16-year-old sons challenge their mothers, but it’s so much more than that! You also challenge me in the ways only an absent-minded professor challenges and confounds everyone they meet. While you miss obvious and practical realities staring you in the face, you’re more awake to the most real and deeply meaningful realities the rest of us miss. I can’t possibly recall every time you’ve said or done something that completely changes the way I think about the world and the people who inhabit it.

In elementary school you insisted I stop asking who you sat with at lunch. You said, “If I’m not sad sitting alone, why should it make you sad I’m sitting alone.” Who knew it was by choice, and not because you had no one to sit with. You enjoyed a few moments alone with your thoughts. I realized it might not be the kids who I took pity on in high school that needed sympathy. It was me I should have felt sorry for! It was all of us who cared so much about what others thought we’d choose to do something we did not prefer, simply to be accepted. What freedom to be completely comfortable with who you are and what you enjoy apart from the acceptance of another.

Then there was the middle school retreat where you had a bottle of Gatorade poured on you after falling asleep. Of course, you never said a word about it to me, and chances are you’d forgotten by the time you got home. I’m so thankful for the boys who found you a dry sleeping bag, told that kid to shove it, and then reported it to their moms so I would eventually know what happened. I’d spent many sleepless nights worrying about you being teased or bullied so this felt like my biggest fears coming to pass. It’s no secret you’ve never quite fit in with your peers and no one (especially a middle school boy) knows what to do with an absent-minded professor trapped in a child’s body. After drying my momma bear tears and calming my temper, I sat you down to talk about the “Gatorade Incident”. You assured me you were fine, even as I tried to convince you that you were not! I brought up the concern you frequently shared for one of your nerdy friends at school who was often sad after being picked on. I pointed out you have some things in common with this kid, and I asked you to consider if unbeknownst to you maybe people were picking on you too. I could not stand the thought of you being the brunt of other people’s jokes. Without batting an eye or skipping a beat, you said “sure that’s possible…but mom, does it really matter? If I am happy, if I am safe, and if I am kind, why should you care if other people’s kids are being mean.” Oh! Right! Thanks to your words of wisdom, I managed to quit caring just a little bit that day. Afterall, it was true my son was the happiest, kindest, and most eccentric young boy I’ve ever known! What’s so sad about that?

Then your first year of high school came around, and there has never been a squarer peg being forced into a round hole. Still, I was determined to guarantee you a successful future hence my incessant pleading you care something about your grades. I was trying to convince you it was imperative to set aside your insatiable desire to think, know, understand, solve, and create to make the grades that promised a successful future. Your brilliant response again left me without any chance of rebuttal. “Mom, why exactly do my grades matter? Just so I can go to a good college…so I can get a good job…so I can make a lot of money…so I can buy a lot of things? But I don’t care about things.” This is the truest thing you have ever said. You care about numbers, ideas, meaning, truth, beauty, and your family, but you absolutely do not care about things.

Of all the things I’ve learned from you, the lessons I’ve learned watching you live with and love well the sisters God has given you might be the most profound lessons you’ve taught me yet. When we found out your youngest sibling was a third sister instead of the brother you desperately longed for, you were one devastated five-year-old. Once Lacey was born however, any desire for a brother melted away. Turns out sisters eat junk food, play dragons, race matchbox cars, chase ice cream trucks, beat you in video and board games, binge watch Stranger Things and The Queen’s Gambit, and get destroyed in chess as well as any brother ever could.

None of us were surprised when your big sister opted to follow an unconventional path after high school graduation, and we were thrilled about her decision to take a gap year to see the world and serve others. In the days leading to her departure, she scheduled in final goodbyes starting with dinner with Dad on Tuesday. Since she would miss Lacey’s birthday at the end of the month, she woke her on Wednesday to a surprise birthday breakfast, and then brought lunch to Hallie at school. I know you’ll never forget the Thursday she came to meet you at Rice University where you are currently spending your own gap year doing research with the Department of Theoretical Biological Physics. I loved hearing how proud she was seeing her little brother’s office and meeting your team.

Friday came and it was my turn for lunch with the big sister, but the swirl of conflicting emotions stole both our appetites. I realized as your sister and I drove away from the house that ever since she’d gotten her driver’s license, we’d never driven around together without an agenda. It reminded me of you kids in carseats, and always needing to fill extra moments with playground stops, shopping sprees at the thrift store, or a drive threw the shaved ice shack. Before I knew it, we were in our old neighborhood, driving past the house you were born in. We stopped at the park and slid down the slide, sharing memories along the way. With shaved ices in hand, we drove home discussing how unusually different she is from each of her three siblings. You must admit it’s hard to believe the four of you have the same parents, and you all grew up in the same home. Kori Jane with her insatiable need to be around people, throw parties, make music, write, lead, and create. You and your fleeting obsessions, reclusive tendencies, and mathematical genius. Hallie with her servant heart, relentless determination, and entrepreneurial spirit, and Lacey with her persuasive wit, captivating charm, and passionate intensity. Kori Jane then said something I will never forget. She said “I think we’re all so different because you and Dad have always parented each of us so differently. You’ve given us permission to be different and encouraged our different interests, passions, and paths.”

I’d like to think parenting has something to do with the amazing people you are becoming, but she gives us far too much credit. For many years I tried to fit all my children nicely into boxes, but someone (usually you) always messed everything up. I wanted to be a soccer mom but despite my best efforts none of you were the soccer type. I wanted to be the family who spent their summers at the pool but despite innumerable lessons you never could pass the swim test, nor did you ever get comfortable with the feeling of your head submerged in water. I wanted all my kids catching the bus to our neighborhood school and bringing home honor roll certificates each semester, but after one too many parent teacher conferences and 504 meetings, we ended up with four children in four different schools. It was during that chaotic season you were obsessed with human personality, and made your sisters the objects of your research. After personality typing each of them and much careful consideration, you decided the Spaulding children would be a powerful force if they ever went into business together. You explained that Kori Jane, our dreamer, would come up with all the brilliant ideas, and you my son (our thinker) would figure out how to make the ideas work. Hallie (our doer) would see the hard work gets done, and cute, little Lacey (our charmer) would be in charge of marketing. Time will tell if there is a business venture forthcoming, but to be certain the four of you and the love and appreciation you have for one other is a force to be reckoned with.

I finally realized there’s not a box big enough or strong enough to contain the Spaulding children, and decided to give you permission to be different. I cannot possibly take credit for your unique passions, gifts, and interests, but I am thankful that Dad and I made the conscious choice to let you each pursue paths that matched your passions, gifts, and interests. Even when that path seemed too dangerous, too unconventional, too bizarre, or too narrow.

There were lots of hugs and tears the Saturday your big sister walked away from us ready to pursue a path all her own, knowing it would be many months before we were reunited. Right before she stepped past the security threshold, you chased after her sobbing and begging her to not go. I’ll never forget that tender (albeit slightly embarrassing) moment when you drew much attention to us all, or the look on your sister’s face as she took in your rare display of affection with both sorrow and joy. Once she was out of sight and we finally turned to walk away, you wrapped your arm around me and said “I am really going to miss her. She is my best friend.”

Having such an intimate view into your unlikely friendship with your sister has given me a brand new vision for what the bible means when it calls us “the family of God”. You and your sisters are about as different as people can possibly be, yet there is a closeness and unity there that no other relationship will ever be able to replace.

It is tempting to think of unity in terms of uniformity. However, I am learning it is in the full acceptance and appreciation of our diversity, and in the brotherly affection for someone so unlike yourself that true unity exists in all its fullness and beauty.

You don’t need me to remind you that in our home siblings fight! You disagree and argue, and you hurt and annoy one another. You all have such different passions, gifts, strengths, and weaknesses. Your differing values, preferences, beliefs, desires, and motivations are constantly bumping into each other and causing conflict and chaos. If given a choice way back when, you’d never have chosen the sisters over having a brother, and some days when you’re craving a quiet house or an empty bathroom you would likely choose not to have any siblings at all. Lucky for you we don’t get to choose our families! By God’s good design, it is no different in the family of God. Though we are one in Christ and though we all have the same Father, we could not be more different! Not only has our Father given us freedom to be different, but He is the one who created us uniquely and He delights in all the differences among His children. Different gifts, abilities, passions, theologies, politics, and personalities. Different races, backgrounds, strengths, languages, preferences, and nationalities. A diverse people who have been called, not to uniformity, but to unity!

Your best friend finally came home this month, a couple months earlier than you expected, and the surprise airport reunion was as much a sight to behold as that sad goodbye so many months ago. The airport tears and the hugs were a convincing picture of a beautiful love shared between the Spaulding siblings. A picture of the kind of love that I long to experience with my brothers and sisters in the family of God. A love and a unity that shows the world we have a good Father.

https://www.facebook.com/505221001/videos/pcb.10160543846346002/1709598552577418

Thank you, son, for caring about ideas, meaning, truth, beauty, and your family more than you care about stuff! Thank you for all the ways you challenge me to care more about those things that really matter most in this life. And thank you for being such a wonderful brother to my girls.

Love,

Mom  

Grocery Stores and Dirty Floors

wordstomychildren1 Comment

 

Dear Kori Jane,

In the two years between Daddy and I’s wedding day and you crashing our party, I used to love going to the grocery store. Perhaps because I’d lived with my own mom right up until that very moment, so the thrill of being in charge of filling a refrigerator and pantry with whatever my heart desired (and our meager budget allowed) had not yet worn off. That and the fact that our two small but steady incomes provided enough to afford not only the basics needed for nightly dinners for two, but also a week’s supply of the Mountain Dew, Nutty Bars, and Blue Bell Vanilla Ice Cream that rounded out your Daddy’s daily calorie intake. While filling a grocery cart made this young newlywed feel accomplished and domestic, I hated coming home from the store because that pantry and refrigerator I enjoyed stocking happened to be inside our third-floor apartment. The trek up and down the stairs with as many grocery bags as I could possibly carry would always leave me covered in sweat, tears, and deep divots up and down both forearms once the dozens of plastic bags I managed to get up two flights of stairs were hastily dropped as I collapsed onto the kitchen floor. I eventually learned to only go shopping when your father was around to help unload. I also eventually learned that while he was a huge help when it came to carrying groceries up and down stairs, he was of no help whatsoever when it came to doing shopping of any kind. I am fairly certain that he deliberately brought home the wrong brand of cheese, rotten fruit, or completely forgot the most important thing from every shopping trip I ever sent him on, just so I would quit sending him. I eventually gave up dragging him along simply for his company once I realized that there is nothing pleasant about your father’s company at a grocery store. Just in case his incessant complaining about my need to walk up and down every aisle was not bothersome enough, he would be sure to add the most ridiculous items to the basket every time I turned my back, and then proceed to loudly question me about why we needed the pigs feet, adult diapers, or a Barbie doll. I spent way too much time shushing him or having to return random items to their shelves, and still we would always end up with something ridiculous hiding in the bags when we got home. Once he started cartwheeling down the aisles, tossing packages of toilet paper from the next aisle over, or hiding behind the marketing displays in his never-ending attempts to startle or embarrass me, I quit guilting him into tagging along and learned to enjoy my solitary trips to the friendly neighborhood Kroger in peace.

That is until you arrived on the scene. Thankfully by then we were no longer living in a third floor apartment as I cannot imagine having to lug your baby carrier up and down several flights of stairs every single day, but I did have to learn to lug it along on many of my grocery trips. Later when your siblings joined the party, I had to really get creative in order to keep the four of you from filling my basket with random things, cartwheeling down the aisles, or otherwise loudly proclaiming our presence. I must say that one of my most brilliant mothering tactics was the invention of the grocery store game “Compliment Collection”. The goal of course was for you children to collect as many compliments as possible from the strangers we passed, as we walked up and down each aisle. If by the end of our shopping trip we had met our goal, then each of you could choose one thing to add to the basket- usually a sugary cereal I typically avoided, the pink and white circus cookies covered in sprinkles, or one of those silly bottles of juice that had a favorite character head with a drinking spout poking out the top. The only rule was that compliments had to be about your behavior. Anything related to how adorable our family was, or the daily exclamation that your mom’s hands sure were full, did not count. You were not getting credit for being cute or for my full hands. So, when those statements were made you all began to smile widely, echoing a chorus of “thank yous”, in hopes that the stranger might add- “cute AND polite…wow!”

Not surprising Kori Jane, you were the very best at this game. Any game really. There is nothing like competition to motivate the likes of you.  Even as a toddler you seemed to always understand what it would take to be the best or win the prize in any given situation.

You inherited both your competitive spirit and your dislike of shopping from your Daddy, so it would always make me laugh to watch you lay your cheesiest smile on every stranger we passed, seeming to indicate that this shopping trip was the most fun you’d had in years. And if that didn’t work, you would spontaneously say just loud enough for them to hear, “I love you mom; do you need any help?” During this hour or so a week we would be shopping, siblings would hold hands more often and speak more kind words to one another, and I would get more “yes mams”, “you’re the bests”, and “thank yous” than in all other hours of the week combined.

Of course, these compliments were nothing more than part of a game, and they in no way reflected who we were as a family or who you were as individual people. It was fun and funny, but more than anything it kept us all (mostly me) from melting down in the middle of the store.

I remember one especially long day of errands when you were about 3 or 4 years old.  You and your two younger siblings were not likely old enough to be expert compliment collectors yet, but still I had promised you a small toy for being such a big girl and helping me juggle your little brother and baby sister as we drove and shopped all around town. Like your Daddy, you have never taken longer than necessary to get in and out of any store, and this was no exception. As soon as we arrived at the toy isle of “Big Lots” you spotted a tiny red and black toy broom just your size, and determined that was to be your prize.  I remember trying to convince you to look around a bit, but even as a toddler once your mind was made up not much was going to sway you.   

That was likely the one and only broom you have ever clutched with such joy and eager anticipation, and honestly you could probably still use a refresher on the lessons I tried to teach you that day in proper sweeping techniques.

When we finally got home, I set to work unloading the babies and all their gear from the car, while you set to work sweeping as soon as you stepped through our front door into the entryway foyer. While you tired of this game quickly leaving your broom to be tripped on by the next person to walk through the door, you eagerly retrieved it as soon as you saw me in the kitchen with our full-size broom in hand.

I was making a meager attempt at tidying up while Baby Einstein played on the TV and our gourmet dinner of frozen fish sticks, canned peas, and box macaroni and cheese sizzled and simmered. I immediately regretted not trying harder to get you to reconsider your choice of toy as you planted yourself right in the middle of the toddler crumbs and dirt that I had just swept into a nice pile. You proceeded to wave the broom to and fro in wide strokes redepositing the mess all over the kitchen. I took a deep breath and bit my tongue forcing a smile as you beamed with pride at how helpful you were. I assigned you to a different part of the kitchen, as I reswept and got as much into the dustpan as quickly as possible. It did not take long before you reinserted yourself in my space determined to help me finish the job. Hand over hand, I helped you maneuver the miniature broom in small steady strokes so that at least some of the mess did indeed land in the safety of the dustpan. Thankfully your dad arrived home right at that moment so off you darted in delightful squeals because your evening playmate had arrived. I was left alone to clean up all the mess you had missed as well as all the mess you had made in your attempts to use your new gift!

Once Daddy hugged you and threw you in the air enough times to satisfy your required daily dose of doting, you proudly dragged him by the hand into the kitchen to show off the floors that you had just swept to perfection!

I remember laughing out loud as you beamed with excitement while Daddy praised the clean beautiful kitchen floor tile! While not currently covered in loose dirt, this tile undoubtedly had not been mopped in a few weeks and was anything but clean and beautiful. But there I sat more than happy to let you take full credit for a daily chore that you had managed to complicate to the point that it took me twice as long as usual.

These are just some of the many memories that have been flooding my mind in the last several weeks leading up to your high school graduation. I have spent these weeks marveling over the passage of time still convinced that it was just yesterday that you were starting kindergarten, loosing your first tooth, collecting compliments from the side of my grocery cart and eager to help me sweep the kitchen or greet your Daddy when he got home from work. But then last week came and you actually walked across the stage at Tully Stadium in your green cap and gown, and you received your high school diploma. There I sat beaming with pride at the beautiful, strong, determined, passionate, trail blazing girl I have raised. And then it suddenly occurs to me that raising kids is a whole lot like sweeping floors. Here I stand ready to claim the work God has done in and through you over the last 18 years as my own, when in reality you are but a reflection of all the ways that God has redeemed my grand attempts at raising you right. In fact, I am certain that He is still cleaning up my parenting messes even as I stand here beaming with pride and delight watching you prepare to spread your wings and fly.

I know He does not need me, and I often leave messes behind for him to clean, but He does delight in me, and He allows me to participate with Him in loving and caring for others. What an unbelievable gift that He chose me to be your mom, and that I’ve gotten to love and care for you up close for the last 18 years.

As you head out into this great big world I’d like to impress on you just a few things that being your mom has taught me.

First, use your gifts! Use them big even if that means you might make some messes. Kori Jane, write from your soul, sing and make music, lead with conviction, serve with compassion, inspire, create, and gather. But never forget that every one of these good and perfect gifts is from above. While He does not need you, still He delights in giving you good gifts, in being near you, in using you, and even in cleaning up after you.

Secondly, people really are born that way. You helped me understand that Daddy not wanting to go grocery shopping with me was never personal- like you, he really was just born hating to shop.  And the fact that your brother has not a single competitive bone in his body was by no choice of his own. Even still he held his own in compliment collecting, not because he is in anyway naturally polite (quite the opposite actually), but because few things can motivate him like the promise of a sugary snack. Just like you never chose to be confident, aloof, and comfortable in your own skin, neither did your sister choose to be a conscientious, thoughtful, people pleaser. Be slow to take offense, assume good will, always seek to understand, and leave the judging to God.

And finally, never forget that compliment collecting is nothing more than a game. Some people are just born good at it and others have grown up schooled in all the most effective compliment collecting strategies. Still others have never been taught the rules or just never quite seem to catch on no matter how hard they try. A person’s ability to collect compliments says very little about who they really are, and much more about the way they were born and the unique opportunities, sufferings, relationships and experiences they have had in life. When scripture reminds us that “the Lord sees not as man sees: for man looks at outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart”, let us keep in mind that the outward appearance is much more than a pretty face, a skin color, a hairstyle, or the trendiness of our clothes. The outward appearance also includes all the things we do or don’t do that might increase our collection of compliments or even our collection of criticisms. The longer I am alive the more convinced I am that not only does God not judge us the way other people judge us, but He also does not judge us the way we judge ourselves. Certainly, He does not judge us by the compliments or criticisms we have collected, the gifts He has chosen to give us, or the messes we tend to always make.

By the way, I think I finally figured out what I am going to get you for a graduation gift…a roomba.

Love always,

Mom

 

Sports, Space, Racecars, and Excavators

wordstomychildren2 Comments

 

Dear Cade,

Daddy and I both for different reasons hoped that our first child would be a boy. I’d always dreamed of an older brother, so I thought it would be ideal for my oldest to be male, but for your sports loving Daddy he dreamed of shooting hoops and playing catch with his son in a way that he never got to do with his own father.

Of course, once our first child was born a baby girl, we decided that we’d like another girl so the two of them could grow up sharing secrets and clothes. How thankful we are that we don’t always get what we want!

Well son, we set out to prepare for your arrival by creating the perfect sports themed nursery covered in soccer balls, baseball bats, and football goals. There was a coordinated quilt, floor rug, crib bumper, lamp shade, and these ball shaped pillows that we were convinced would be your favorite toys!

When you were born, we dressed you in Astros and Texan’s jerseys, and as soon as you were old enough, we signed you up for little league. After the first game Daddy offered to be extra hands on the field so he could stand nearby and whisper play by play instructions to you. Left to your own devices, you were lost with your head in the clouds completely unaware that you were part of a team fiercely competing for a win. Big sister Kori has always enjoyed being a part of anything that includes friends, snacks, and competition so she was eager to join whatever sport was in season. You never really seemed eager about much outside your own mind, but we signed you up for soccer anyway. We’d had a deal with Kori that for every time she scored a goal, she would get a scoop of ice cream! After you blankly wandered around the field your first game, we changed the rules for you so that every time your foot touched the soccer ball you would get your scoop. While I think you might have had two scoops the entire season, at least it kept you running back and forth with the other players giving the appearance that you were playing the same game as everyone else.

Basketball was the next and last organized sport you ever played, and that is when we decided to give Cub Scouts a try. Your Daddy found himself in the first Boy Scout uniform of his life leading your little Troop in flag ceremonies and earning badges. I remember him coming home after a large area wide Boy Scout event and sharing his curious observations. For starters you did not interact with any of your peers the entire night. Despite your aloof wandering during the Pack Leader’s lesson, it turns out that you had been listening because when dismissed for free time, you headed straight to the only station that piqued your interest. You sat alone the rest of the evening immersing yourself in a new world of pawns, rooks, and queens while everyone else spent their time floating between archery, football, and the various other stations. Your favorite Boy Scout event was the visit to Brazos Bend State Park where your troop stayed late into the night to stargaze from the enormous observatory. You amazed everyone there including the presenters with your questions and in-depth knowledge of all things space. You shared rather obscure details about each of the planets as well as a convincing and articulate argument explaining why Pluto should still be considered a planet. You were 6 at the time.

If it ever bothered your Father that you were not into sports or stood out from your peers, I could never tell. While often confused by your curious interests and behaviors, he remains eager to connect and engage with you, and he has always been proud to be your dad. He however never managed to bring himself to wear that Boy Scout uniform with pride, and thankfully for him, scouts was no more your thing than sports.

Your sporty bedroom lasted only a few years, and at your request was replaced by a ceiling covered in glow in the dark star stickers, and bedding and posters covered in spaceships and planetary bodies.

It was not just your lack of athletic ability, and your love of chess and outer space that set you apart from your peers at a young age. You started reading at 3, learning the periodic table at 5, solving rubix cubes at 8, doing algebra at 10, and auditing a class in Chemistry at Rice University at 12. By 14 (a freshman in high school) you had taken all the most advanced math, science, and computer science courses your high school offered, and had perfect scores on not only your math SATs, but on AP and SAT subject tests as well. This current school year, at the age of 15, you were invited by the Department Chair of Chemistry at Rice University to help do some research for the Center of Theoretical and Biological Physics. When the two computer programming languages that you had previously mastered proved too slow to run the molecule simulations you had built, you learned a third programming language and rebuilt the simulation in a matter of days. And next month, at the age of 16, you will graduate from high school.

I realize how impressive that all sounds, but what few realize is that for every one of the incredible gifts you have been given, you have also been given some weaknesses. This year has been especially difficult as the only high school classes you’ve had left to finish are in subject areas where you do not excel. PE for one! And then a bunch of humanities courses that have demanded you to engage in tasks that you find tedious and dull. When you are interested in something, there is no limit to what you will discover, learn, and remember, or how long you will be engrossed in the learning. You seem however to lack any ability to focus or work hard for any amount of time if you are not interested in something, or if a task is in any way repetitive. Unfortunately, you consider things like eating, chores, selfcare, homework, and organization as some of the most uninteresting, tedious and repetitive tasks demanded of you. And things like social skills and practical tasks are just about as unintuitive to you as computer languages, advanced mathematics, and theoretical physics are to the rest of us.

School was not created with a kid like you in mind, and it makes perfect sense that you almost failed first grade math, struggled to find a school where you fit, and you remain even now on a non-traditional path. Traditional or not, the path you have been on has not been easy and this year has proven particularly difficult for us both, and for our relationship! While you carry the burden of an insatiably curious mind that takes you places you never intend to go, I carry the burden of trying to get you where you are actually supposed to be.

When you were younger you never much minded my incessant reminders and questions, as long as you were allowed ample time to wander around the yard deep in contemplation and ample paper to write down your mathematical theories in the form of charts, graphs, and equations.  You have always been happy, affectionate, and kind even when my reminders and questions bordered on nagging or yelling. You were content to be carted around to your siblings extra curriculars-usually the ball fields or the theatre- as long as you were permitted to wander off alone to wherever your curiosity and creativity took you. I assume you enjoyed your weekly 45-minute piano lessons since you never complained about going, and I know you enjoyed your occasional chess and pokemon tournaments. But by far your favorite past times have always been freedom to wander around thinking deeply and solving complicated puzzles and problems of all sorts. 

Being your mom has always brought me tremendous joy but also tremendous frustrations. I wonder how someone with such a powerful mind can struggle with such basic tasks.  I sometimes wonder if you will ever live independently, and then in the same minute I wonder if you might one day make a major discovery that changes the whole world. I wonder why you have been given such unbelievable gifts only to be matched by your unbelievable struggles. But I also rejoice in the beauty and complexity of your heart, mind, and soul knowing that you are fearfully and wonderfully made, and that your Creator has a plan and a purpose for your life- a plan and purpose that likely looks nothing like my wonderings might imagine.

I do know that part of His purpose and plan for my life is for me to be your mom. I also believe that He has been preparing me for that unique responsibility and privilege my whole life. For one, he gave me just a pinch of a couple of your strengths and a couple pinches of some of your weaknesses. I had (and have) this tendency to obsess over problems or puzzles that need solved, and while I never seemed to be able to focus on the right thing in a classroom, I have this strange ability to focus on certain things with such intensity that the rest of reality fades away. I know this drives you kids crazy when I am lost in my writing, problem solving (not math of course), or a good book, and I do not even hear you screaming my name or notice your hand tapping my shoulder. I can be impulsive and even absentminded, and practical skills are less intuitive to me than the creative, conceptual, and abstract. While there is much that I don’t understand about your mind, I believe I understand you more than most. When I am tempted to feel like a parenting failure, I remember the many differently abled children I’ve worked with who have grown up misunderstood or blamed (even in their own homes) for things that they have no control over. Even in my most frustrated moments, I do know that your struggles are not your fault.

Another way the Lord has prepared me to be your mom is to provide me with a 15-year career in Special Education and Consulting, where I have had the privilege of advocating for differently abled children and consulting with families hoping to help their struggling children find a place to belong and succeed. This year in moments of desperation, I have had to remind myself of the very same words I have spoken to other parents over the years in their moments of desperation. I’d ask if perhaps what needed to change was not their child’s behavior or performance, but rather their own expectations of their child’s behavior and performance. Or maybe what needed changed was their child’s environment, or their teacher, or the tools being used. I’ve encouraged parents to not measure a child’s success or worth by grades, test scores, a single teacher’s opinion, or even a single hard year.  I’ve told parents to look for growth and not perfection, and I’ve warned parents not to set a bar so high that they don’t accidentally join the rest of the world in setting their child up to fail.  

Even though I believe all of that to my core, I know I make many of the same parenting mistakes I’ve coached other parents through, and to say we have struggled lately is an understatement at best. You struggling under the burden of bars set too high in some ways and too low in others, low grades that do not reflect your intellect or define your worth, and endless lists of dull and tedious tasks for you to complete all in the name of getting into a good college. And me, I have struggled under the burden of setting you up to succeed and reach your full potential in a world and education system that seems hell bent on setting you up to fail.

While I know that college is not for everyone, I can’t help but ask myself where other than a university would your uniquely gifted mind be appreciated or enabled to soar? And with colleges now requiring a well-rounded resume, and hyper focusing on class rank and grades for their admissions decisions, what choice do we have than to play the college admissions game. I know the game is killing you, but there is just so much at stake- what choice is there but for us to squash all your curiosity, creativity, and happiness, and lay it all down at the alter of education and college admissions.

At some point this year you missed another important e-mail from a teacher, and forgot about yet another due date just after I had spent one more of my afternoons advocating for you behind the scenes. My frustration poured forth in a tidal wave of exceedingly harsh words spoken at exceedingly loud volumes. As always you were as disappointed with yourself as I was with you, but I know it has been my disappointment and harsh words that have hurt you the most lately.

I knew we needed a new plan and new tools, maybe even a whole new set of expectations. But more than all that, I needed my happy son back. That is when I reached out to a trusted counselor who could see things from the outside and asked for some help.

This is the same counselor who had helped me following Hurricane Harvey devastating our home. Even after everything lost had been put back together or replaced, I continued to struggle to find normal. I struggled to reengage with friends even though I had always thrived by being around people, and I struggled to reengage in daily rhythms and routines which had previously brought me such joy- I’d all but stopped reading, writing, and even making family dinners during that long dark season. Somedays I really struggled just to get out of bed, and I longed for the me that found joy in a full schedule and a full house.

I will never forget the day that counselor encouraged me to consider the racecar. After describing in some detail, the unique design of cars specially created to travel around asphalt tracks at extreme speeds, it did not take me long to realize he was describing me. He told me that cars that are designed to go fast are not designed to carry heavy loads. In fact, heavy loads prevent racecars from preforming at full capacity or with any precision or control. They struggle to stop in the pits to rest or refuel, and they swerve and skid getting back to the track until they reach their optimal speed. The faster they drive the more in control they are.

I got it. I was struggling to feel any sense of control because Hurricane Harvey had forced me into the pits. I was scared to get back on the track and start driving again because I felt so out of control. I suddenly understood that until I started driving (and driving at the optimal speed) I was going to continue to feel out of control. Once I gave myself permission to put my foot on the gas, the heavy loads left behind by the trauma and losses of the previous years started to fall off. I certainly still need to rest and refuel and occasionally there will be heavy loads needing carried, but it is helpful to think about and own the unique ways I was created. I was created to go fast, and it turns out that it is true that the faster I go the more in control I seem to be.

So what did my counselor have to offer me after I shared the joys and frustrations of raising a absentminded mathematical whiz? Well, he started by asking me questions. In response to my fourth proclamation that there is so much at stake, he says, “I keep hearing you talk about all that is at stake, what exactly is at stake?” I tried to explain that you can learn more in one day than the rest of us will learn in our lifetimes, and how there certainly must be some moral obligation tied to that. Even as I stumbled over my words, I realized that the only eternal thing at stake is your soul and the souls of those God means to bless with your gifts. All your gifts- your powerful mind yes, but also your kindness, faith, humor, creativity, integrity, and compassion. Then when I described our daily run-ins with boxes left unchecked and zeros in the gradebook, he asked me where exactly it was safe for you to fall apart. He helped me see that if I was the one who was setting the standard for your success, then you would have nowhere safe to go when you failed to meet unreasonable standards. And since life tends to be full of seasons of failure, he encouraged me to let the world set the standards for success and let home be a safe place for you to learn, grow, fail, and succeed. Then when I told him that I am looking forward to a day when I can just be your mom again, he asked me what exactly it might look like for me to just be your mom in this season. I thought back to the hours we used to spend playing nerdy board games, discussing your latest theories or computer programs, snuggling up to a good movie or book, or laughing at some silly meme or video. I thought back to the hours you used to spend just being quiet, unable to share your theories with me or even write them down because there were not yet words or equations to express them adequately. I’d beg you to give me just a glimpse of your thoughts, but until they were more fully realized I’d have to just let you be. There has simply been no time to learn, create, or to just be while getting through school.

Then it hit me- you are no racecar, Cade.  You are not even a streetcar!  I think son that you might be an excavator.  Of course, I only know what an excavator is because (when you went through your transportation obsession as a toddler) you corrected me once as I pointed to one and exclaimed “look- tractor”.  You are one slow moving, deep digging, powerful machine- created not to travel large distances at high speeds, but rather created to settle into one place and dig around a while.  No wonder we both have felt so out of control this year.  Here I am trying to reach my optimal speed while dragging this big heavy excavator around my racetrack. We are both exhausted and dizzy from doing things that we were not designed to do.

I am eager for you to walk across that stage next month and receive that piece of paper that declares you finished with high school. Not because it will say anything about your value as a person, but because it will mean that you can stop checking boxes and get back to thinking, puzzling, learning, and creating. You can get back to what you were created to do- digging! We have all agreed that there is no hurry and for now college can wait. Or maybe God’s plan for you does not include college at all. You have been offered a paid position as a researcher at Rice University starting this summer, and maybe you will have time for a class or two in subjects you enjoy. My only concrete plan this next year is to be your mom- to talk, learn, read, play, and laugh together, and to watch with pride as you wonder and wander, grow and create, fail and succeed in the safety of our home.

Over a decade ago your Daddy easily let go of his hopes of playing sports with his son once he realized that you were not created for that, and he began instead to engage, encourage, and even celebrate your love of outer space and all things math and science. Today I am letting go of my hopes of you being a speedy racecar like me, and embracing instead the fearful and wonderful design of my deep digging excavator.

Thank you for being so full of grace for your momma as she too is still learning, growing, failing, and succeeding.

Much love,

Mom

Sycamore Trees

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Dear Hallie,

I feel sorry for everyone who has never discovered the intense magic and utter delight of a soak in a hot bath. There is nothing for me this side of heaven that quite compares to the sensation that spreads as I sink down and let the water engulf me.  And then even after the initial sensation subsides, I feel refreshed as my adrenaline levels are reset and the surface worries of the day are washed away.  My mind begins to process all the burdens, conflicts, happinesses, and joys that have been keeping me rushing around. It is also a chance to focus on all the things in life that really matter…that is until one of the things in life that really matters come crashing into my bathroom with a new crisis that needs solved, a new creation that must be shared, plans that need approved, or just to ask me if I know where they might have left their shoes.  The same conversations will often follow.

“Mom, how many baths are you going to take today? Are you almost done?”

“5 more minutes, and I’ll be out.”

“Please hurry, this is important.”

And depending on how many baths I have already had that day or how many thoughts and worries need processed and washed away, I might respond with a bellowing declaration that “THIS IS IMPORTANT TOO” or I might grab a towel and tell you I am on my way even as you continue to knock.

Just yesterday you found me lost in my haven, and after I asked you to leave me alone, you once again reminded me that “baths are disgusting.” 

Oh Hallie, you of all my children could benefit from finding a haven of your own.  I say this because you of all my children are the most like your mother.  It is perhaps one of the reasons that we have such a deep understanding of one another, while at the same time such little patience for one another.

I admit that I am often harder on you than I am on your siblings. I do see so much of myself in you, for better and for worse.  Many of your personality traits, your gifts, and your passions I am beyond proud to claim as being passed down from my side of the family tree, but many of your struggles and weaknesses were no doubt also from my genetic line. There is something insufferable about seeing your own weaknesses and quirks reflected back to you in the form of one of your children, and there is something deep in me that longs for you not to struggle in all the same ways I continue to struggle even to this day. 

Yesterday when you interrupted my bath, I was in the depths of self-reflection.  And when you urgently demanded my attention only to once again ask a question that you had previously asked (hoping that this time you would get a different answer), I was moved to realize that I too was once again asking God questions that He has already answered for me.  We really are cut from the same cloth my child.

Of all the things that I should like to keep you from struggling with, I should like to keep you from struggling to believe that what God says about you is true. I want you to have a deep abiding knowledge that you are fearfully and wonderfully made in the image of God, meant to be a gift to other people, and meant to reflect the glory of your Maker. I long for you to fully embrace your uniqueness from the tips of your toes to the tops of your nose.

If you ever do decide to try a bath, I don’t mind sharing the tub in my bathroom that Daddy had built just for me, as long as you clean it when you are done! As you lay there be sure to look out that small window that was perfectly placed to provide total privacy while also giving me a peek into our back yard. In that tiny frame is a world of treetops that I have come to know intimately.

Right there in the front is the Sycamore tree that your Daddy and I planted not long after we moved in. We were told by many that we would regret ever planting it as it is generally regarded by most as too large and too messy. In fact, the reason that we chose the tree is because of its extremely fast growth, promising that we would be able to enjoy its shade while our family was still young. And my how we have enjoyed the shade and the beauty of our Sycamore Tree over the last decade.

Those treetops I’ve explored during my baths have taught me many things, but most importantly I’ve learned that people are a lot like trees. I am still learning to accept and love my kind of tree, our kind of tree perhaps. 

I believe we are the Sycamore trees Hallie. For starters we are big (in personality and passion) and, we make a lot of mess (both literally and figuratively). Known to be one of the most identifiable and distinguishable trees means of course that we do not get lost in a forest, but rather tend to stand out in the crowd even at times when we desperately desire to fit in. And no doubt, middle school (that insufferable season you find your self in at the moment) is a place where there is no space allowed for those of us who do not fit in.

Sycamores are an unusual and quirky species. They change with the seasons and they change quickly. I think that’s what some would regard as unpredictable and impulsive, but I’d rather like to think of it as spontaneous and creative. Sycamores produce huge, beautiful, and interesting leaves and unusual pendulous fruit that hangs on barren branches through the winter waiting to drop in the spring. Once the leaves have all fallen to the ground, Sycamores may look dead for much of the rest of the year, especially due to the fact that they also shed layers of bark as they grow, magnifying their unique unkempt appearance much of the year. And to be certain, Sycamores are the only trees that shed. The flakes of brown, grey, and green bark fall off revealing what lays beneath the scaly peeling surface, which is a tender, smooth layer, white like ivory. Sycamores are actually known as The Ghost Tree because of the appearance of death in the winter against the backdrop of the rest of the forest.

But just as suddenly as our leaves and bark fall off, we will once again burst forth in rapid growth showing outward evidence of the life that has always been inside. We briefly produce inconspicuous flowers in the Spring, but no one remembers those in comparison to the unusual quality of our massive leaves, crooked branches, peeling bark, and hanging fruit. I do sometimes wish people would notice the flowers hidden beneath the mess, but I’ve learned to be content knowing that the Creator sees them; that He glories in them but no more than He glories in my leaves, branches, bark, and fruit.

There are not many climates that the Sycamore can thrive in or even survive in, and we deeply feel the impact of the wind and the rain in ways that other trees do not. We are soft on the inside becoming more and more hollow with age. We allow birds, bats, insects, owls, and even bears to burrow into our hearts and find shelter within.  Our sap can be a source of clean water for the passerby that needs refreshed, and many find nourishment in our leaves and fruit. The impact we have in the lives of others is significant, but as we give much of ourselves away, it can often leave us looking bedraggled by the end of the season (or even by the end of each day). But we are a resilient tree, often growing back after being cut or damaged, and surviving circumstances and situations that would kill others. Then we just go on creating magnificent leaves and fruit, shedding our rough edges and providing food and shelter to refresh and sustain others that God sends our way. 

You won’t likely find any fine furniture or wooden masterpieces created using Sycamore wood, but our wood has been used to make many useful things- a bucket, a cutting board, or even a canoe.  We are simply too busy tending to the needs of others or flitting between the next idea or passion to bother with the fancy things of life. I’d love to be able to wear mascara without it smudging or white pants without getting them stained.  I’d love to make it a whole day without throwing my hair into a messy bun, to have shoes that aren’t scuffed, painted fingernails without chips, or lunch without spills.  While Sycamore trees are both soft and strong, their most beautiful qualities lie far within their hollow trucks.    

If you look to the left of the barren Sycamore in my bathtub window you will see branches of the mighty Oak tree.  While its growth is certain, it looks much the same as it did the day we moved in- steady, stable, and faithful. I believe that your father is the mighty Oak. His foliage is much less messy than our own albeit much less interesting as well. His changes with the seasons are more subtle and he almost always shows signs of life.  He grows more slowly, but his roots are deep and his shade is refreshing both in and out of season. He is strong and the storms he endures seem to barely bend his branches if at all. It’s the best kind of tree to climb, and the tree in our yard where we have chosen to hang our backyard swing. While his leaves are smaller and more uniform than ours, they are predictable yet beautiful.  All year long the faithful Oak tree provides acorns for the squirrels, invites the children to play among the branches, and offers his shade to both friends and strangers alike.

Still further out the window towering over both the Sycamore and the Oak, you will see the Pine Tree from the neighbor’s yard looking down in wonder at the trees below. She looks mostly the same in every season and even as her needles fall new ones are taking their place. She thrives in much colder climates where the Sycamore trees cannot grow, but she survives in any climate because she is strong and determined. The Pine is also faithful, dependable, and mighty but in much a different way than the old Oak. She wonders at the shorter trees below- especially the Sycamore who is so easily tossed about by the wind and the rain, and who seems to look dead much of the year. She wonders why we don’t stay green in every season, and why we leave such messes in our wake. You won’t often find a tree swing or a fort in a Pine because they are so tall, and their leaves (usually called needles) might poke you if you get too close. 

I’ve managed to get close to a few Pine trees in my time, and for the most part it is worth getting poked to be close enough to smell their sweet refreshing aromas, touch their sticky sap, and marvel at their unusual cone shaped fruit.  I’ve also known some Maples, Weeping Willows, Elms, Birches, Pecans and Apple Trees in my time.  Each one beautiful in its own way producing a unique fruit in season, but each one also perplexed by my peeling bark ever revealing a bit too much below the surface for anyone’s comfort. Perplexed by my asymmetrical gigantic leaves leaving messes in my wake, and my dark winters followed by sudden changes with each passing season, strong wind, or torrential rain.

I admit that I too am sometimes perplexed by my too muchness and too messiness. I understand how the other trees might mistake my crooked branches and hollow trunk for flaws, as I have struggled at times to see the beauty in their purposeful design.  Like you, my teachers were always especially confused by the inconsistencies in my behavior and performance, and particularly annoyed by the distractions that I seemed to accidentally create. Daily I’d spill a drink, loose a pencil, or trip over my own foot.  Sometimes I’d get lost in an idea and completely miss the entire lesson, and even more often I would drag a classmate into my idea and again be scolded for talking too much.  While I knew in my heart how badly I longed to make my teachers happy and fit in with my peers, I was never able to quite figure out how to make my leaves smaller, my branches straighter, my bark tougher or my trunk more solid. I spent much of the first few decades of my life trying to be a little more like the Oak or the Maple.  I even consulted with some friendly Pines who’ve encouraged me to stand straight and tall, fight against the wind, and not be so easily moved. I’ve tried and tried to be a different kind of tree, believing the lie that my kind of tree was wrong.  But I finally learned that being someone else’s kind of tree is not only a miserable business, but it is also a fruitless one.  I was created to be too much and too messy for some people’s liking.  God meant to make my trunk hollow and my branches crooked, and every time I am tempted to ask Him to help me be more like the Oak, He reminds me once again that I have been fearfully and wonderfully made by Him just as He meant me to be. Sure He wants me to be the best Sycamore Tree I can possibly be, but He has no interest in me trying to become a Pine Tree or even a faithful old Oak.

Sometimes I am hard on you Hallie, because I forget that Sycamores are beautiful, but sometimes it is because I don’t want you to still be learning to love yourself when you get to be my age.  I want you to see the purpose and beauty in God’s design for you now, and I want you to be the best darn Sycamore around.

My bathtub American Sycamore tree is not technically a Sycamore tree at all, it is technically a plane tree. To be precise it is a Platanus Occidentalis, also known as the American Plane, the Western Plane or the Occidental Plane. Here is what God says about His purpose for all the trees- even the plane.

“I will put in the wilderness the cedar, the acacia, the myrtle, and the olive. I will set in the dessert the cypress, the plane, and the pine together, that they may see and know, that they may consider and understand together, that the hand of the Lord has done this, the Holy One of Israel has created it.” Isiah 41:19-20

When you interrupted my bath yesterday, I had just noticed the very first bud open on my bathtub Sycamore- the first tangible evidence of Spring. The first sign of life that this tree has shown in months.   It gave me hope that this long middle school winter that you have been stuck in, a winter full of isolation, fear, a pandemic, political unrest, injustices, racial tensions, conspiracies, divisions, and rejections- that this long winter has not killed you.  Perhaps us Sycamores really do feel the burden of the storm more heavily than most.  Perhaps this winter has seemed especially dark, cold, and long, but my child, you are not dead.  Indeed, you are very much alive evidenced by the fact that even is distress and trial you continue to refresh others with your flow of clean water.  In and out of season you give shelter and nourishment to anyone in need, and more often than not you notice someone else’s needs long before they ever need ask for help.

Perhaps you will one day find that you are not too old or too cool for soaking in a bath of your own, but if not I hope that you will find some means of processing and washing away each days thoughts and worries.  After all us Sycamores feel many things deeply even as we willingly carry the burdens of others.  No matter how long, dark, and cold this winter might feel, you are not dead, you are loved, and you are fearfully and wonderfully made.  Go stand tall right next to the Pine, considering and understanding together that the hand of the Lord has created you just exactly as He meant you to be.

Love,

Mom

 

Covid-19 Home School

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Dear Lacey,

Every August for the last 12 years in anticipation of a new school year, the same conversations fill our home, the same shopping trips are taken, and the same prayers are prayed.   Conversations that beg the questions- what if there are no friends in our classes, who will we sit with at lunch, or what if the teachers don’t like me?  Shopping trips for the latest trend in lunch boxes, school supplies and backpacks, and of course that perfect first day of school outfit.  An outfit that neither draws too much attention nor allows anyone not to notice you.  The one that suggests to the world “my children wake up like this every day” despite the hours of planning and preparation that goes into that obligatory first day of school picture for Facebook! 

And the prayers- “Lord please let Hallie find her people and let them be good people.  Let Cade’s teachers notice and understand him despite the dozens of other students in his classes that also need to be noticed and understood.  Protect Kori Jane from all the confusing and conflicting voices that she will hear again this year telling her what to love, value, and build her life upon.  And Lord, please protect little Lacey from the voices in her own head that tell her that she is not good enough.”   Lacey- I pray at the start of each year that all my children would grow stronger, shine brighter, think deeper, create more beauty, and love more fully no matter what that new school year may bring. 

With much anticipation, each August we attend Meet the Teacher, Back to School Nights and High School Orientations just before the new school year begins.   This is followed of course by the comparing of class lists and schedules with all the friends. 

This August your three siblings began seventh, ninth and eleventh grade in the usual fashion while you started your third-grade year at home with me as your teacher.  The years of struggling to fit you in the public-school box while you battled debilitating anxiety and relentless tummy troubles ended right about a year ago (halfway through your second-grade year) when we found ourselves on an unexpected home-school journey.   We made the choice to pull you from school and create an environment at home where you could learn and grow despite your struggles.  I realize now just how fortunate we were to be able to make that choice.  Fortunate that we could financially afford for me to not work in order to stay home with you, and that up until then my entire professional career had been working to help children with learning differences and disabilities and their families find success.        Unlike many families in similar situations we had both the knowledge and the resources to make a sudden change when a change needed to be made.

I am also realizing that the whole country is suddenly being thrust into homeschooling tomorrow without being given any choice.   We have suddenly all been faced with the challenge of figuring out how to create an environment at home where all of our children can learn and grow without regard to the availability of financial resources, our social circumstances or the knowledge and education we may or may not have.

So ready or not Lacey, our little Home-school of one has tripled enrollment and we are adding a middle schooler and two high schoolers to the mix beginning tomorrow!  

So while it is not August, we are none the less embarking on the first day at a new school- The COVID-19 Spaulding Home School.   I admit that I am a little worried as I keep thinking about the steep learning curve you and I endured those first few weeks and months as I tried to be the perfect home educator for you.  And a full year later, I am still learning to have grace on myself when most home school days look nothing like I had ever imagined or hoped.  Below you will find a list of ten things that I wish I knew the first time I found myself unexpectedly homeschooling you.  And now as I find myself unexpectedly homeschooling all four of my wonderful children beginning tomorrow, I give you full permission to remind me of these points in hopes that I do not have to make all of the same mistakes this time around.  May these ten realities help to manage all of our expectations, answer as many first day of school questions as possible, and remind us of all the things that matter most.

  1. You’ve already met your teacher. No need to ask if she will like you- she knows all about you and already loves you like only a mother can! Don’t bother comparing schedules or class lists with your friends; your teacher and your classmates are the same people you have already spent the last nine days in quarantine with.
  2. New Subjects to begin immediately. Any school happening at my home includes the long-lost subject of Home Economics including exploring the arts of mopping, cleaning out the refrigerator, laundry, lawn and garden care, and food preparation. There will also be a hands-on class called Communication and Conflict Resolution complete with practical tips for empathy building, non-verbal communication skills and how to assume the best of other people. Other subjects will be added as needed!
  3. No custodian or lunch lady on duty. You will eat lunch with the same people you’ve eaten dinner with most every night of your life. However, unlike dinner there is also the option for you to eat by yourself. Free breakfast and lunch are available daily however there is no printed menu- only a full refrigerator and pantry for you to explore your options. Your grade in Home Economics will in part be based on your ability to navigate mealtime on your own including clean-up.
  4. No dress codes. There is no need for first day outfits as everyone at The Covid-19 Home School already knows what you really wake up looking like. Pajamas are totally fine however you are required to continue showering even if you have nowhere to go. We will add a Self-Care class if necessary.
  5. No tardies to be given. 8:00 AM does not seem to be the hour of the day that our family is at our best, so official school days will not start until everyone’s coffee, medicine, brain waves, etc. have kicked in. This is not going to be the same for each of you as Hallie is often the first one awake, and she tends to accomplish more in the first hour of her day than she will with all the rest of the day’s hours combined. And then Kori Jane and Cade (as you know) tend to be obnoxious zombies for at least their first waking hour, and will therefore be required to spend that first hour alone. Given that the four of you are not only different ages and grades with varying strengths and weaknesses, but that you are also motivated and interested by completely different things, I am assuming that you will each benefit from different start times, schedules, amounts of social interaction, technological interface, and teacher support. We will figure it out as we go!
  6. Sick days are inevitable. For me that is- your teacher will need a sick day occasionally. She will also need a mental health day every so often. Unfortunately there are no substitutes lined up for any of that. It is also safe to assume that you and your siblings will need your fair share of mental health days as we are all processing what it means that there is a worldwide pandemic sweeping through. This means that you will likely be having even more virtual field-trips coming up to places like Arendelle or Camp Kaikawaka than we did last month. And that’s ok!
  7. Hours of operation vary. A typical homeschool day is not 7 hours long followed by several more hours of homework! In fact, all the work we do is technically homework. I have already mentioned that we will not be starting at 8:00 AM every day, but that does not mean that we will finish school any later than usual. In fact, it is likely we will have many more early dismissals than extended days as long as everyone gets their required district/school assigned work completed. I remember when we first started to home-school last year, and I tried to wake you at the same time every day. Then we’d sit down to do back to back lessons from 8:00-3:00. We were both losing our minds, and the tension between us was spiraling. I finally did some basic math to add up all the transition times, busy work, bathroom breaks and special assemblies in a typical school day. That’s when I decided that sitting with you one-on-one for an hour or two doing actual lessons and schoolwork was more than you were likely getting any given day in a typical public-school classroom. I’ve learned that there is simply no set amount of time that learning takes. Sometimes I take two weeks to cover a concept I thought would take a day, and sometimes we spend a whole day getting lost in learning about a period in History that I thought would take us a whole semester to explore. When I finally quit caring more about checking boxes than I cared about watching you grow, and started caring more about following your curiosities than following a schedule- that’s when your anxiety finally started to relent and your mind and imagination were finally unlocked.
  8. Learn to recognize the Fire Drill Alarm and follow procedures. The first time my volume begins to change you might want to look at my facial expression and body language to determine if it is just a warning or an actual fire-drill is in order. In case of a drill quickly and quietly go outside or retreat to your separate bedrooms. I will lock all doors and reopen them once my heartrate, breathing, volume, and mind return to normal.
  9. Peer tutoring is encouraged! If you need help with anything (including staying sane), please feel free to ask a sibling or even face-time a friend just as readily as you seek out help from me. In fact- maybe start with a sibling or friend as a way to help me stay sane! While the rules about no screens in bedrooms and screens turned in at night still apply, I am no longer limiting screen time as long as responsibilities are getting done. And while we are on the subject, no one is allowed to ask me about my own screen time.
  10. Pop Quizzes come in all forms. In a classroom full of students there is really only one way to show you are learning or what you already know, and that is by putting something on paper. At home there are a million ways to show what you are learning or what you already know- debates around the dinner table, conversations after readalouds, writing a song or short-story to share, playing an instrument or preforming a play you’ve created. Drawing a picture or retelling a good book. Going on a nature walk and identifying the flower or the bird you noticed. Helping cook dinner, mow the yard, or fix the car. Flying a kite, doing a puzzle, playing a board game, helping a sibling, playing pretend, or doing a craft. After-all when all is said and done the goal of education really should not be to get a good grade or raise your test scores, but rather to be able to think, to solve problems and to create. And all that with the ultimate goal of knowing our Creator and His creation more fully, while seeing ourselves and our unique purposes on this earth more clearly.
  11. Grace is the key! I know I said only ten things, but we are going to have to be flexible with each other. We are going to have to have grace- lots and lots and lots of grace. Everything keeps changing on a dime and the only thing in the world that is certain today is uncertainty. We all have more questions than answers and we all have no idea what to expect in the days, weeks or even months to come. While in isolation together for this undetermined amount of time, I’m sure there will be days when dad will be irritable, I will lose my temper, Kori will make us all feel stupid with her dirty looks, and Cade will talk too much about something that we don’t understand. Hallie will say things she does not mean and then pretend she never said them, and Lacey your anxiety will get the best of you. We must have grace on ourselves, our neighbors and friends, and especially on each other- even as we have received grace from our Creator.

And Lacey when all else fails, let us remind one another once again that I may now be your teacher for this season, but I am your mother first and forever. 

In anticipation of tomorrow, my prayers are slightly different than previous first day of school prayers- “Lord, thank you that we get to be Hallie’s people and that I get to be her teacher for this season.  Thank you that she has a teacher that loves her more than she could ever know.   I pray that she feels like her home and her family are right where she belongs even as she navigates the internal and external muddy middle school waters.     Lord, thank you that Cade can’t fall through the cracks in this home school- Let him know that he is noticed, understood, and loved, and that he has been fearfully and wonderfully created with a purpose.  Thank you that Kori Jane has a break from the onslaught of all the confusing and conflicting voices telling her what to love, value, and build her life upon.  Thank you for the gift of time you have given me to pour into her even as she is almost grown and ready to fly.   And Lord, take away Lacey’s anxiety, and use this crisis and the extended time we have together as a family to quiet the voices in her head that tell her that she is not good enough.  Let Your voice be louder, clearer, and sweeter than all the other voices around her. 

Thank you Lord for not only the privilege to pray for my children, but that for this season I can watch from up close as they grow stronger, shine brighter, think deeper, create beauty, and love more fully despite all the uncertainty and change that this year has already brought.

Love,

Mom 

Teenagers!?

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Dear Lacey,

About six weeks ago you turned nine years old!  Almost double digits!  For months I had been planning to sit down on the 30th of September and write you a lovely birthday letter about how precious and unique God has made you.  I even started it at one point but never got past the second paragraph.   This should not come as a huge surprise to you since all nine years of your life you’ve gotten the leftovers and hand-me-downs, and you learned early on that it is up to you to keep up and make yourself heard!  So is the life of the baby of the family- especially an eccentric, creative, busy family such as ours.  Thankfully you have no problem keeping up or being heard.   

So here I am writing some words to you on Thanksgiving Day which also happens to be the week of your sister Hallie’s birthday- it is not at all the words I have been composing for you in my mind the last several months when lying in bed at night.  It is not the words that I have prayed for you over and over, nor is it the things I’ve treasured about you in my heart that my mind has not yet found words to express. 

Nope- sorry to have to tell you this, but it is a word about your siblings- Kori Jane age 16, Cade age 14, and Hallie who turned 13 this week!  And now that Hallie is a teenager, we are on our own kid.   There are now officially three teenagers sharing a roof with us.    That means we are surrounded!  Surrounded by a swirl of activities and events, football games, school dances, parties, friends, extra loads of laundry, theatre rehearsals, SAT prep, tutoring, and mountains of homework.  We are surrounded by competing sounds from various technological devices- tic tocks, youtube videos and Netflix shows- as well as the sounds of moods swinging, feet stomping, doors slamming and music blaring.   In many ways it is very similar to having a house full of toddlers except the smells and sounds have changed dramatically.  The music is much more tolerable for one, but the parenting hours are actually much expanded.  They do have a bedtime, but it’s more of a goal and not a rule which means that the last words I speak before I climb into my own bed are often- “go to bed.”  And the first words I speak are “get up- you are late!”  There are the sleepless nights too, however it is not due to teething, croup, a wet pullup or a monster under the bed, rather it is due to wishing you could mend a freshly broken heart, wondering if they are safe at that new friend’s house (while tracking them on their phone), knowing they will make mistakes but hoping it’s not a mistake of the lifechanging sort, and praying that they know how much you love them even though that very day you spoke a plethora of words you wish you could take back.

I know that being a kid surrounded by teenagers is not always easy although you must admit it has its perks!  Like the fact that Kori was not allowed to watch SpongeBob until she was 7 years old, but it was your favorite show at the age of 7 months!  And maybe you are exposed to more colorful language than I’d like with so many of your sibling’s friends coming and going, but how many kids get to have a bunch of teenagers dressed up like the Descendants show up to their birthday party.   So, you’ve never been to the weekly library story time (or been to a library at all for that matter) and you were not in dance, gymnastics, soccer and t-ball by the age of 3.  You have however always had someone to teach you how to do a cartwheel, read you a book, kick the soccer ball around the yard, play pretend with you, go on a bike ride or snuggle up with a movie.

One thing that has not been easy for you recently is that there are a growing number of times that you feel alone in our house which is always full of activity and people.   A growing number of times when you realize that being the baby is no longer enough to guarantee the attention and affection of your older siblings.  I distinctly remember a couple years back on your brother’s 13th birthday when you burst into tears at the realization that he was now a teenager.  One teenager was more than enough for you after watching Kori and her entire world grow and change.  Your exact words were, “he’s never going to be home anymore, and he won’t ever want to play with me.”    We tried to explain to you that your oldest sister has always been ready for the next adventure, and even as a child was always on the go.  As she was growing up and becoming more independent, being on the go meant being busy with friends and activities more often because she had more freedom to do so.  We assured you that while Cade was most certainly growing and changing, we doubted very seriously if your introverted brother would suddenly cease to be a homebody.  But still there were and are changes happening in your brother- his body is clearly changing, his voice is changing, his interests and moods are changing and there are certainly an increasing number of times that his bedroom door is closed and he is not ready and willing to drop everything to play with his sisters. 

The reality is that there are physical changes, chemical changes and emotional changes going on inside of all three of these complicated beings called teenagers that live in your house.  And believe it or not these changes are even harder on them than they are on you!     So, I have a few words to share with you sweet Lacey as our home is now being overtaken by teenagers.  Afterall, I have a feeling that we are both going to need each other to survive!

Have grace on them!  There are a ton of changes happening that we can see, hear and smell- we can easily observe them growing taller, stinkier and hairier all the time!  But these are nothing compared to the changes we can’t see.   Think about the happy caterpillar who is content to explore the safety of his little butterfly weed, happily eating aphids and leaves day after day while never once thinking about the world beyond.  That’s what its like being a kid content to explore the tiny world that has been set before you, and never bothering to question what lies beyond the safety and security of the home where you were born.  Then suddenly everything changes- the caterpillar finds itself in the most awkward and uncomfortable of circumstances- suddenly trapped in a cocoon and completely out of control, going through miraculous changes both internally and externally, having no clue what lies ahead or what they will be, and finally realizing that the world is much bigger than they had ever fathomed.  As much as you want to spend all your days on milkweed journeys with your siblings, they are no longer caterpillars.  It is not that they do not love us or the homes where they were born.  It is just that they are in that awkward and uncomfortable stage of life- a stage where they are rapidly changing, constantly feeling out of control, starting to realize how big the world is and wondering what they will be when they finally spread their wings.  True they are no longer caterpillars, but they are not quite butterfly’s yet either.  And just as we see Kori Jane fighting to emerge from her cocoon and open her beautiful wings – we see Hallie at the beginning of her transition.     I know it is hard to not take it personally when they appear to be ignoring us all locked away in their cocoons, or when they suddenly seem more interested in the world and the people beyond our cozy little milkweed plant.  It’s hard not to get angry and annoyed when they respond to us in unexpected, unusual or unkind ways.  And it’s hard not to be confused when they suddenly begin to question and contradict all the things that you continue to cling to with childlike faith.   But they will not always make you so sad, angry, annoyed and confused, and I promise you that they still need us more than they realize and love us more than they show. So have grace on them Lacey-lots and lots of grace!    

They’ll be gone before we are ready! Your nine-year-old brain can’t yet fathom how quickly years fly by.  Your nine-year-old brain is not thinking about the world outside our milkweed home, or where butterfly’s go when their wings are fully formed and strong enough to fly.   My 40 something brain is actually still struggling to fathom that in less than two years’ time the first of my babies will be taking flight.    I still remember with clarity the day each of you were born.  Kori Jane’s appearance into this world is one of only a few times I’ve seen tears in your Daddy’s eyes.  When Cade was born, I immediately fell in love with that cone-head even as Daddy whispered in my ear “you just gave birth to an alien.”   Hallie made her arrival 13 Thanksgivings ago and took us all by surprise when she came out a girl.   And Lacey, the looks on your siblings faces the first time they laid eyes on you will be forever etched in my memory.  It seems like only yesterday that you stole their hearts in a moment but in reality, that was nine years ago.  Yet in nine more years you will be the one spreading your wings and taking flight.  So let’s make the most of the years to come as together we treasure each moment- even the stinky, confusing, and frustrating ones- knowing that all of the moments are fleeting.

You’ll be a teenager before I am ready!  And as much as I’d like to believe that my sweet little Lacey Bug will never need deodorant, wear a bra, take drivers ed or the SAT, be embarrassed by her mom or roll her eyes in disgust at Daddy’s rules, the reality is that you will be one of those alien teenagers long before I am ready.   Before we know it, you will begin growing wings of your own.  You will feel awkward and out of control and you will need grace- lots and lots of grace. Ideally, we will have made most of our parenting mistakes on your siblings, but realistically we will just be too tired to reinforce all the same rules.  I just hope when that time comes that you will remember that you need me more than you know, and that I love you more than you can possibly imagine.

Don’t forget to have grace on me!  If you think that having teenage siblings is hard, just wait until you have teenage children.  You feel things you have never felt before- you hurt in ways you have never hurt and experience a deep joy you never knew possible.  Some days you want to kill them and the very next day you are begging God to keep them alive.   You helplessly watch them learn things the hard way and fight the urge to help them struggle out of the cocoon.  You find yourself saying and doing all the things you swore you’d never say or do when you became a mom.   And then you wish you could take half those things you have said or done back.  It’s hard and the very hardest part is yet to come.  So have grace on me Lacey as I watch your siblings learn to fly.  Have grace on me when they start flying away and have grace on me when I’m not quite ready to let you spread your own wings and fly away one day. 

I love you Lacey!

Mommy

 

8th Grade Graduation

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Dear Cade,

This week you graduated from 8th grade. It was an emotional week for me, but not for the reasons others might expect.   

I remember being emotional when your older sister walked across the 8th grade stage to receive her “most likely to be a best-selling author who inspires the world with her words” and “student of the year” awards just two years ago. I remember holding back tears when she told me to stop taking pictures before sending her off to the 8th grade dance. Not only did she feel too old to have me hanging so close, but she looked much too old for my liking in her fancy dress and heels. I was having to accept she was much more her own person than she was my little girl any more. I remember being sad her group of friends, who seemed to her the most important people in the world, were all going to different high schools. And the mom friends I made through her middle school friendships would likely never be the same either. I soaked in every minute of that week- the medals and certificates, the final middle school beach trip, the parent planned end of year gatherings- I soaked them in and I posted all about them on social media so everyone I knew (and even those “friends” I don’t really know) could share in the joy of my amazing daughter’s 8th grade graduation.

Son, this week was emotional not because it is hard to watch you move on from 8th grade, but because it is far too easy. It’s not that you chose to skip out on the 8th Grade Dance or the final Beach Day that made this week hard- that’s not really your thing and I have no interest in making you fit a mold that you were never meant to fit. It’s not that there were no invites to end of year gatherings- I’d have been the first parent to host one if I thought that kind of thing was important to you.

I did not cry because of the multiple hours you spent creatively planning and solving your 6×6 rubik’s cube- making it spell 8GD in an attempt to get that girl to accompany you to the 8GD (8th grade dance). The skill, thoughtfulness, and creativity it took for you to pull off such a feat makes my brain smoke and my heart soar. But her less than gracious response and the rejection you felt when the taunting on social media followed are likely what started my emotions on a downward spiral.

Then came the big 8th grade graduation and awards ceremony. You are not one to set a trend like KJ, lead the way like Hallie, or steal the stage like little Lacey. In fact, unlike your three sisters you’ve little desire to be noticed or recognized- and while doing the right thing is supremely important to you, you are not especially interested in impressing anyone else. But even though I knew kids like you do not get straight a’s, perfect attendance, or Principal’s Awards, I still held out hope that your accomplishments this year would not go unnoticed. I know you are also not the most athletic, you probably will never star in the school play, nor would your quirky absent minded ways lend themselves to you being named “student of the year” or “most popular” -but I still hoped. I knew that you had not really connected with any of your peers, but still I hoped that someone would have seen the beautiful mind and kind heart hidden behind your quirky behaviors and unique interests.

But, alas, the only time your name was called was when it was your turn to walk across that stage to receive the same certificate as everyone else- acknowledging your completion of 8th grade. On that certificate was the obligatory statement that you were “most likely to be a famous mathematician.” While that sentiment was a fair assessment in my mind, I had to work even harder to hold back my tears when the first thing you did after the ceremony was share your disappointment with the idea of being thought of as a “famous mathematician.” You took note that all the other student’s obligatory “most likelys” seemed to you to be so much funnier, more personal, and more thoughtful than your own. After all, not only do you have zero interest in being famous, you also eloquently pointed out that there is no such thing as a “famous” mathematician- except of course among other mathematicians. You knew that you were the odd kid who likes math, but now you were walking away from middle school with a certificate to prove it. And while I adore that odd kid who likes math, I too wanted your peers (and their parents), who never quite understood you, to know that there is so much more to you than that.

Certainly someone in those three years took note of the immense integrity or wisdom that you possess.  Someone surely noticed the depth of your faith, the depth of your mind, or the depth of your kindness and empathy.   

As often happens to me when my emotions take over- my mind started to spin. Laying in bed that night I couldn’t help but think about the hundreds of other kids who were also forgotten that evening. Every May, all over the country, parents and kids dress up and gather to celebrate the achievements of a small number of exceptional peers. After fifteen years of working to advocate for kids who struggle in school, I was well aware that the low achieving kids did not get awards. And I was average enough in my time to know that the average kids don’t either. But I hoped that your perfect score on a PSAT at 13 or the fact that you completed two years of high school during your 8th grade year might just be exceptional enough to be “end-of year award ceremony” worthy. But turns out that what gets celebrated is not being exceptional. What gets celebrated is fitting perfectly in the school mold.

That night I thought of all the other moms who sat hopeful that someone noticed something “recognition worthy” in their kid, only to hear the same five or so names called to the stage over and over. Despite the fact that these same kids already received their due praise all school year long, simply for showing up to school each day and being who they were created to be. The rest of us are convinced we need to keep trying harder to be like those kids- you know the ones who are born good at school. Somehow someone convinced us the kids who get the medals and the trophies are more valuable than the rest. I remember being the kid at the awards ceremony desperately longing to hear my own name called, and I can attest to the fact that not being the trophy winner had no long term bearing on my success or happiness. I am certain the same will be true for you and so many of your struggling, average, and exceptional peers who also went home without an award. But it’s harder to remember that these days, because there was one huge difference when I was a kid- once Mom and I went home, we were free from the onslaught of visions of other children smiling with their awards, or their dates to 8gd, or other end of school year celebrations.

Your last day of middle school was Friday. I’d watched all week as picture after picture was posted on social media- pictures much like the ones I’d posted of your sister a couple years ago. Pretty girls in dresses and handsome boys in suits. Trophies and medals held out for all to see, and large groups of friends sharing in each other’s joys and accomplishments. Once the last day of school pool party pictures started to show up in my news feed, I felt another flash of sadness realizing that while your sisters were off celebrating the end of their school years with friends, at any moment you would be walking in the door with only your mom to greet you. So I did the only thing I could think to cheer myself up- I began to frantically look through my phone for any photos that I could post that would assure others that we were celebrating your graduation from 8th grade and proclaim to them just how proud I am of you. But nothing I could find would ever come close to capturing how proud I am of you, and nothing could show the world how grateful I am to God for fearfully and wonderfully creating you exactly as He meant you to be.

And then you walked in- BEAMING!  You greeted me with one of your full on hugs, excited to celebrate the end of 8th grade with me!  We talked and laughed, played some video games and ate some junk food.  You helped me once again to think about what is real, what is meaningful and what is eternal.

 Why should I be sad that the world is missing out on knowing you?  Should I not rather be grateful that I am one of the lucky few who gets to know you- that I am the lucky one who gets to be called your mom!  Why should I be upset that it is impossible to capture your gifts or your value in a ceremony or social media post?  Should I not rather delight in the immense depth of your brilliant mind and your kind heart.  Why should I be downhearted that you have not found a place to belong among your peers?  Should I not rather rejoice that you belong to God and that you belong in our family.  Should I not be filled with thanksgiving for the way that you help to make our home a place where anyone can belong.

It’s about time for me to stop trying to tell the world how proud I am, and just tell you instead.

And while I am at it, I better make sure your sisters know how proud I am of them.  I have a feeling I have been a little too busy editing pictures to make them look extraordinary, instead of celebrating who they have been created to be and teaching them to be content in the ordinary.

Congratulations on finishing 8th grade this year, Cade! Congratulations for being so far outside the box that there is no award or trophy that could ever adequately capture your giftedness or value.  Congratulations on being the most humble, kind and intelligent kid I know.  You will never know how much I love you, how much joy you bring me, or how much I learn from you.  I am truly grateful that I get to be your mom.

Love,

Mom