Class of 2021

It's hard to fathom, as you look at your squirming, bewildered newborn, that they will not always be tiny and helpless. Making a connection between this little stocking-capped person who can curl up in the crook of your arm and the lanky teenager smelling up your house isn't one easily made. And while my children are still quite young, the ways in which they have grown both delight and depress me. Simply put, they are growing up, and there's nothing I can do about it.

Case and point: Kindergarten graduation. Seriously, who came up with this? Someone who exacts emotional revenge on parents of five- and six-year olds, that's who. Is the growth chart on the bathroom wall not enough of a reminder that this precious, chubby person would rather watch High School Musical than Backyardigans, which WAS her favorite show until she left the soft, sweet cocoon of preschool? Do you just enjoy watching me in pain?!?

All drama aside, Li'l G did, in fact, graduate from Kindergarten today. Given the recent events in my family, as you can read from the previous post, my emotions have been maintaining the red-line area for a couple of weeks, so I was determined to keep it together for Li'l G's sake if for no other reason. This was actually quite simple to do, as I was shooting her daggers with my eyes since she and the little girl sitting next to her were giggling and pushing for the majority of the occasion. But, as per usual, I was struck by several precious moments during graduation that pressed through the floodgates and tore me up good.

After each student had walked the stage and received his or her awards and diploma, all of the Kindergarteners gathered on the stage to sing their sweet, innocent version of that song that says, "The world is a rainbow, made of many colors..." This song puts into simple language, that even they can understand, the concept of living in harmony with people who are different from us. What a profound Kindergarten concept with which we adults continue to struggle! What I saw on their faces: joy, opportunity, promise. I wanted to cherish that space in time for each of them, a time when children genuinely care about the well-being of every student in their class, a time when they know that, if only for that eight hour span of time at school, the adults in their lives love them and want to help them succeed. I watched each child walk across that stage, and I wondered what they would look like at high school graduation, if they made it that far. I watched the kids I knew well from Li'l G's class and cried because I was so stinkin' proud of each of them. These precious little people.

At the end of the gala event, yet another sadistic person had put together a slide show, a poignant compilation of pictures and song that captured each class and showcased the kids doing what they do in Kindergarten. Of course, the only dry eyes in the room belonged to Bud, who was begging to go home by this point in the show. All the while, I was literally willing myself not to cry. As the lights lifted and children were dismissed to accompany their parents back to their respective classrooms is when the bomb dropped on my house.

Li'l G was upset. She was crying, had apparently been crying for several minutes during the slide show. At first, I assumed that the events of the day had caught up with her and she realized she would miss her friends and teachers during the summer. (Keep in mind this is the child who weeps over sad books, cartoons and movies like, "Velveteen Rabbit," and, "Little One.") I asked her why she was so sad and was mentally preparing the salve for her little breaking heart when she said, "I'm sad because I miss Daddy."

Of course, this same thought had been playing in my head during all of graduation. We have reached the beginning of many milestones in life that will come and go without the presence of T. by her side to cheer her on and be her Number One fan. It's a day I have dreaded since November 30, 2005. The mother in me grieves for my children that they will experience their loss over and over again every time something like this comes up. As wonderful as today was, there was no denying its bittersweet aftertaste. The Christian in me reasons back at Grief, reminding me that death has been conquered by the Risen Christ and that the connection between T. and his children is still there and remains forever, albeit behind a gossamer-thin veil that is just opaque enough to always leave room for them to doubt his eternal love of them and how proud he will always be of who they are. In the end, we just sat there, Li'l G and I, and had a good, ugly cry, the world of happy mommies, daddies, and grandparents swirling around us, completely oblivious about the little girl with the broken heart huddled with her mother who could do nothing but quietly cry with her.

What Li'l G and I experienced together was only part of what occupied my thoughts. After I thought of what a loss it was for T. not to see his children grow up, blossom, and move through life, I thought what an opportunity this would've been for R. to have been here today. If we are ever going to transition to being a blended family, R. will have to be there for these milestones. What I have learned thus far, and will no doubt be doing graduate-level research on this summer, is that the transition time of learning how to blend a family makes the milestones less bittersweet. R.'s presence, be it simply in our lives or physically being there, is tangible evidence of the cycle of life, continuing to grow and change into a new person or a new situation. R. brings continuity to a life that has felt like the pause button was pushed almost four years ago. His presence does not erase the pain; rather, it demonstrates that it can be survived and that life, most assuredly, goes on.

The date today is June 2, 2009. I've got 12 more years of living and loving to prepare for Li'l G's next big step into the world. Congratulations, Little Lady. I'm so proud of you.

"I thank my God every time I remember you... he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." -- Philippians 1:4, 6

For Cryin' Out Loud

What is it about the power of the tear? Crying is the outward expression of such a huge range of emotions. Newborns cry as a means of survival. Many people cry when in either physical or emotional pain or distress. A toddler who has wandered away from his mother cries tears of panic, frightened at being alone. Bud cries big crocodile tears in protest of going to time out. Li'l G cries from embarassment and shamefulness when she is called on doing something that she knew was wrong. I cried tears of joy when these two crazies popped out of my ginormous belly. T. cried tears of disbelief that he had become a father. I cried tears of frustration yesterday because my lack of time spent at the gym is starting to show when I go to Pilates. And the kids and I cry tears of anguish, weeping bitterly for the daddy that they can't see but are told loves them even now as he stays in heaven with Jesus.

Tears are so powerful.

It's been an odd week for me emotionally. I personally have not spent much time crying, unless you want to count the huge lump in my throat at Pilates yesterday, but that was just me being frustrated with my lack of gym time and knowing that I should and could be handling my stress better. At any rate, I understand very well the blessed release of allowing yourself to cry. When I observe others crying, it doesn't necessarily make me uncomfortable. I generally think that, rather than attempt to console someone and end up saying something completely insensitive to their situation, they should be allowed to cry it out. Better to cry than to bottle it up.

I was touched today watching a little girl cry at Li'l G's school. I met Li'l G up at school with a special lunch and sat with her and her classmates at the big tables. A table full of Kindergarteners talking and eating simultaneously is NOT for the weak-stomached! S4J would've had a stroke envisioning all levels of unsanitariness (???) of this lunchtime experience, but I was rolling with it, enjoying watching these kids in their element. I felt like I was watching an episode of, "Kids Say The Darndest Things," with Bill Cosby. It was great.

I visited with Li'l G and the kids sitting around us, as they all dug into their ice cream first and talked with their mouths full. As I looked up and down the table, trying to remember all their names, I noticed one little girl sitting at the far end, reserved for kids who need "help focusing on eating their lunch." I know this little girl has issues with behavior but seems to be a good kid. She cried, at times hysterically, throughout the entire 30-minute lunch period. What was she crying about? What set her off? She sat curled up in her chair for a good amount of time, looking back over her shoulder towards the window with a thousand-meter stare on her face, eyes shiny, nose swollen and red. Then, at one point, she turned around and put her hands up to her ears, almost as if she was trying to drown out the noise in the room. I just had to wonder: what is it in a five year-old's life that would prompt an emotional reaction of this intensity that lasts for this long? Having been a teacher, I immediately had a long list of possible factors, and my heart just broke for her.

It was odd. As I watched her sit there crying, it was as if I could envision her at 12, 15, 23. The look on her face spoke of years of intense emotion of some sort. At the tender age of five, she chooses to express herself in a fit of tears and acting out during centers. How will she choose to "get it out" at 12? 15? 23? I'd love to think that she will be raised in a God-fearing, Christ-proclaiming home, or at least have family members who will pray for her throughout her lifetime. I just wish I had had the words, and the legal ability, to tell this troubled little girl that, no matter how bad it gets and how mad or frustrated or lonely she feels, there is a real God who loves her no matter what choices she makes in life and no matter what terrible things people may have to say to her. Her life is no accident, and she is not alone in this world. Or to quit crying about not getting to sit by her best friend and eat her dang PBJ already! (just kidding...)

Our schools, offices, hospitals, Wal-Marts, churches, and grocery stores are full of people who are still that small, hurting child inside. Who will dry their tears? Who will care when they've reached their breaking point? Who will encourage them to ask God to help them forgive? Who will live out the Gospel for them in a way that doesn't turn it right back into law, setting them up for expectations that no one but Jesus can meet? My friends, we are all called to do this. This is a huge responsibility, right?!? Absolutely. Are we capable of doing this? Absolutely not. This is just where we've got to let the Comforter do his thing through us. For me, if I can just remember to pray for this little girl every time I drive past the school, I feel like I've at least done something. I try to speak to each of the kids in the class, remember their names, smile, joke around with them, and encourage them whenever I help out up at the school. I may not be kicking in the door of her home and rescuing her from some dramatic situation, but I can be the one happy face she sees in a day. Even that counts.