This morning, my husband and I stood on the front porch and watched our sixteen year old drive himself to school. You would think as many years as we've been sending kids off on their first day of school, we wouldn't have "first day jitters" anymore. But, they're still there.
New year. New grade levels. New friends. New habits. New teachers.
We are sending our most valuable treasures out into the world to be taught and shaped and mentored by teachers who didn't bring them into the world, wash their clothes this weekend, or put the breakfast on the table this morning. Teachers who care about them, but aren't their parents. Teachers who want to see them succeed, but don't have a lifetime of equity built with them. Teachers who can't focus on four children like we do at our house, but have an entire classroom to take care of.
And that's why I take a few minutes today to bless my children on the first day of school, but also the teachers who are entering my children's lives today:
I bless you to see the value in each of your students, the God-given gifts in each one.
I bless you with patience in your heart today, and that it will be expressed in your face and in your voice.
I bless you with joy today, the kind of joy that can laugh at the moments that didn't go your way and exalt in the moments of success.
I bless you with peace in your classroom today, the kind that can be felt when students walk in the door.
I bless you with the ability to make learning a contagious source of wonder.
I bless you with the skills to communicate well with your students, their parents, and your peers.
I bless you with renewed vigor and energy, enough to go home and still have an enjoyable evening with your family.
I bless you with wisdom and creativity to solve the problems that come your way.
I bless you with conversations around school that encourage you and lift up your spirit.
And I bless you with a new-found passion for your job, the job that is shaping the next generation.
Amen.
Our oldest turned sixteen last Sunday. It's taken me a week to wrap my head around that.
Sixteen.
I remember turning sixteen. I remember writing in my diary that night that a woman had told me she wished she was sixteen again. I felt sorry for her and told my future self not to live looking backwards.
And now my son is sixteen.
He was born two weeks early, we brought him home wrapped up in a blanket on a hot August afternoon, we blinked, and now I'm calling to schedule his driver's test.
And I'm so proud.
And I'm so thrilled.
And I'm so sad.
And I'm so very desperate.
Desperate to remember the here and the now because I never thought I'd forget how soft his baby skin was or what his toddler voice sounded like, but now they are memories that are hard to conjure up. And I don't want today to become the hard to remember moments of tomorrow.
And yet that's how life works. Time really does march on. Memories really do fade. And we are left with the new here and now.
So my sixteen year old self might have had the right idea. I can't live looking backwards, trying to hold on to the moment that was meant to be enjoyed in the moment.
But, I can love this moment. And I can love the next moment.
And I can treasure the young man who will be pulling out of our driveway all alone this week. And I can tell my arms that are aching to hold the baby version of him one more time that it's not over.
It's never over.
There will always be the here and now.
And when the here and now moves into eternity, I know beyond a shadow of doubting these arms will find their way around this boy of mine and his brothers and his sister.
And I'm really going to love that moment.
Our vacation is over.
We're back at work. Our son is in two-a-day football practices. Our daughter started back up with piano lessons. The eight-inch high lawn has been mowed. Life is back in rhythm.
And still my heart is treasuring our memories.
The 3,000 miles of car time, listening to music together and playing the license plate game.
The Smoky Mountain beauty and the quiet cabin we called home for a week.
The family board game nights after long hikes and a soak in the hot tub.
The morning our kids officiated our family church service.
The many new food experiences we introduced our children to (hello Irish food!) and the many, many candy shops we visited in little mountain towns.
The fun of seeing a son tackle a rock wall.
The delight of seeing my daughter get eye to eye with the largest butterfly she had ever seen.
The trees, the mountain paths, the waterfalls, and the whispered "wows."
The early morning silence as I drank my coffee on the cabin porch with the people I love more than life still asleep in the stillness.
And yes, we are back in the rhythm of real life. But, it's a richer life than it was before.
It has a new layer of memory. A new depth of togetherness. A deeper longing for hollowed out quiet in the midst of the everyday noise.
So, I find myself praying an old prayer, but with more fervor than before.
Lord, don't let the drums of "real life" play so loud in our ears that we can not hear your voice. Tune our hearts to you so that we never miss a moment of "wow." And keep calling us aside, to the stillness and to the sacred.
