childhood

Grocery Stores and Dirty Floors

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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

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

Junior Year

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Dear Kori Jane,

You are 16.  A high school junior.  In fact, you have just started the second semester of your junior year.  We were warned that junior year would be brutal, and that right about now you would be ready to throw in the towel.   You are no doubt just as sleep deprived, over committed, under nourished and overwhelmed as all of your other high school junior friends.  A typical day for you begins at 6:00 AM when you rush off to Chi-Fil-A for an early morning study session before the first bell even rings.  Between classes you continue cramming for an upcoming quiz, or you are busy responding to the never ending stream of texts, emails and social media messages from family, friends and teachers alike.  During lunch you head to the school theater where you either have student directing responsibilities or you are busy rehearsing for an upcoming performance. I hope that you usually find time to swallow a few bites of the lunch I pack for you.  For years I made you pack your own lunch or you’d have to eat from the school cafeteria, but that was before the demands of high school consumed your every waking hour. Nowadays I have no concerns about you not having enough responsibilities, and instead I now worry that you have too many.  I also worry that you are not eating or sleeping enough, nor are you able to really take enough time to think about who you are or what life is all about. The least I can do is throw some food in a bag in hopes that you get enough calories to make it through another day. After school you almost always have additional school commitments- making up a test, a club meeting or most often another theatre commitment.  Once you finally get home you will only take a break from homework long enough to join your family for dinner, however the days of you leading our dinner games or our long heated dinner debates have been replaced by your desperate pleas to be excused within minutes of taking your first bite. While I’ve no doubt that you love your family dearly, you simply have little time to invest in meaningful relationships just as there is just no time for you to invest in your favorite interests and hobbies- no more craft projects for me to clean up, no jewelry making, poetry or short story writing,no reading for pleasure, no more political and ethical debates or family game nights, and no more kitchens covered in flour and eggs from Kori’s gourmet cooking and baking night after night.   And the only singing I regularly hear coming from your room is your stressed out attempts to hit the notes that might guarantee you a role in the next school musical. Afterall, everything depends on being cast and the competition is brutal. I’m not sure when high school extra curricular activities became more intense than most full time adult careers, but here we are. Sometimes I wonder if I am seeing your lifelong theatre passion dissolve into nothing more than overwhelming theatre pressure. Most of your theatre friends have been in private voice lessons, dance classes and have acting coaches on top of their daily tutoring, sessions with their college consultants, and test prep classes. I wonder how other families manage the price tags and time commitments involved, but perhaps the outside help they receive somehow lessens the stress and pressure they are under.  Being that I was a first generation college graduate that started at the local community college, I still struggle to understand everything that goes into college planning and admissions. We’ve dabbled some in SAT Prep and voice lessons for you this year, but I have yet to understand the value they have added to your already stressed out schedule.  

On a good night you will hand me your phone by 11:00, and turn out lights within the hour.  I know you hate turning in your phone each night, but I am so thankful that you are forced to disconnect- even if only for 6 or 7 hours while you attempt to get some good sleep.   Sometimes I wish someone would make me turn in my phone at the end of the day so that I too would disconnect from the onslaught of social media posts displaying your friend’s college visits or college acceptances, the school district texts and emails about the endless upcoming events and reminders, the news stories and blogs that tell me stress and busyness is the key to success, and the online shopping and brainless entertainment that allows my mind to disengage from the stress and pressure of the day. 

Of course while just laying there in your bed trying to doze off you are likely worrying about GPAs, SAT scores, what to wear to an audition or school dance, college applications, future careers and of course cast lists.    A day in the life of a high school junior in 2020 is NUTS!

I realize that I am painting a rather depressing picture of your life, when in reality you are anything but depressed.  You are truly thankful for your quirky family and your large but close knit group of friends. You recognize and regularly express gratitude for the abundant comforts and opportunities you have been given both in and out of school, and you find a deep abiding joy in your faith- even in the day to day chaos.

But today, in the midst of the chaos I noticed something (or someone rather) that woke me from this junior year trance that we are stuck in.  I saw something that took me back to memories of my own high school worries and chaos. Worries about getting a job at 16 to help my parents pay the mortgage, and worries about whether or not Dad would show up sober while often hoping he would not show up at all.  Today I was also flooded with memories of the stories my own mother told me about the worries and chaos of her high school years. Worries not about what she would eat, but rather if she would eat. Worries about whether her family would be relocating forcing her to be the new kid once again, and worries about how she could avoid any one noticing that she was wearing the same outfit for the third time that week.  Then I remembered her brutal junior year when she found herself pregnant and forced to actually throw in the towel, no matter how much she longed for a brighter future.      

Kori, this morning we slept through our alarms, or perhaps in the rush of getting to bed the alarm was never set.  Either way, we woke you up with only minutes to spare, so instead of packing your lunches I rushed around helping to get you and your brother out the door.   As you ran to the car with me chasing after with water bottles, I promised to bring you both lunches to school later in the day.  

In an attempt to supplement the fast food in your diet, I  boiled some eggs, sliced a perfectly ripe avocado and a juicy green pear, and toasted a grilled cheese.   Avocado still green and sandwich still warm, I walked into your high school expecting you to be waiting at the table just next to the front doors like you often are on the days I deliver lunch.  But it was not you sitting at that table. Instead it was a timid (dare I say petrified) looking girl sitting alone picking at her school lunch tray. Due to overcrowding in the cafeteria, students often seek refuge in other corners of the school including the front lobby.  In fact on this muggy January Houston day, the other tables and benches in the lobby were overflowing with groups of students laughing, talking and eating together. I could not help but notice her, and wonder why she was alone and what her story was. As I waited for you, I tried to catch her eyes so I could smile or even say hello but she was determined not to draw any attention in her direction.  There was something tragic about the look in her eyes as she stared at the half eaten chili dog and orange slices on her white styrofoam tray. Something about that look in her eyes caused me pain and made me wonder what her story was. Was it much like my story? Or maybe it was like my mom’s story? Was she new to the school, or had she just not found a place to belong? Would this be her only meal today?  Was she scared to go home or maybe was without a way to get home or even without a home to go to? I tend to think that she was not worried about cast lists or test scores. I wanted to ask her, to tell her that life would not always be the way it is today. I wanted to tell her that junior year will eventually end- that high school is really not the end of our story- that in fact it is barely the beginning.  

And when you had still not shown up to collect your lunch after several minutes, I decided to move a little closer to her table in hopes that our eyes just might meet.  I realized that some old lady’s attempt to cheer her up might be even more humiliating than allowing her to sit alone in silence trying to be invisible. So then I just started hoping that you might notice her when you finally showed up to gather your lunch.  I hoped you might notice her and share a smile or even a brief conversation.

But alas you rushed into the lobby, out of breath from running all the way from the theatre.  You smiled at me with your genuine grateful smile, and profusely thanked me for bringing you lunch.  You were there just long enough to inform me that you were in between practicing scenes and needed to get back to work, but not without first telling me that you loved me.  I love you too Kori- more than you will ever be able to comprehend.  

I hope someone loves that girl the way I love you.  I hope that she finds a place to belong. I hope that she will look up from her tray long enough to notice that there is more to life than whatever she is walking through right now.  This is still only the beginning of her story.

And I hope you know how much I love you.  I hope that you will forever remain thankful for the comforts and opportunities you have that are not common to all of us.  I hope that you will be the one to help others find their place of belonging. And I hope you will look up from your busyness once in a while and notice that there is so much more to life than whatever you are walking through right now.   

It is tempting to believe that life begins and ends in high school- that cast lists and score reports, college acceptances and event invitations determine not only our happiness today but our future success. Rest assured that junior year will end.  Life will not always be the way it is today. High school is not the end of your story, nor does it really determine what tomorrow holds. And as CS Lewis once said “there are far far greater things ahead than any we leave behind.” Believe that, live it and share it with the stressed, the hopeless, the hurting, the broken and the lonely all around you.    Lord knows that I am forever changed because someone looked up long enough to notice a floundering, lost high school girl, and because of that I found hope and a place to belong for all of eternity.

Love,

Mom