Jay has never returned to the same school, with the same
kids. Never. He has four years under his belt and has never experienced
returning. He doesn’t know whether his friends will be there next year. He
doesn’t know if he will be there next year.
It’s not a stretch for the imagination to realize that the
end of a school year might kick up some hard emotions if all previous life
experience tells you that you start over again in August. Not just a new
teacher, but a new school and new rules and new friends.. He doesn’t believe us
that his friends will still be his friends in August.
It would be a grave oversight to assume that these thoughts
don’t trigger concern about whether our family will withstand the summer.
Forever, he may think, could be coming to an end.
He volleys between fear and love, love and fear, fear and
love. Eventually the emotions leak out. It’s not pretty.
Name calling.
Doors slamming.
Feet stomping.
Fist punching.
Mouth mumbling.
We left the get-together early tonight. He clamped his fingers on the front porch railing, refusing to leave. Andy carried him to the car, saying “Buddy, let's not make this into something bigger than it is,” and
hugging him tight.
On the way home, I asked, “Do you want to shower or just get
ready for bed?”
He was silent.
When we pulled into the lane, I asked again, “Do you want to
shower or just get ready for bed?”
“I don’t know,” he said and I was happy he broke his
silence.
“I was thinking when you’re ready for bed, you can have a
Norwegian kit-kat that Karianne brought for us.”
“I can?” I hear the doubt in his voice.
“We left before dessert, so I thought you might want some
chocolate instead.”
“Really? I mean, you’re not mad at me?”
We are walking up the front sidewalk and I smell the irises.
They remind me to slow down. “No, I’m not mad. It’s super late, way past bedtime,
and you’ve been fighting a cold. I could tell you were ready to come home
because I know you don’t like to get angry in front of people.”
I’m unlocking the front door and he leans into me, wraps his
arms around my middle, and says, “I can use a hug.”
I hug him tight and know this is a breakthrough.
“Thanks, Mom,” he says, “I needed to come home.”
Inside, he gets ready for bed and I set the kit-kat pieces
on a napkin, then fill his water glass. He sits at the kitchen counter, takes a
bite, and smiles.
“You know, Jay, I’m not sure what else I could have done to
get you out of there without you losing your temper. Do you have any ideas?”
He shrugs and takes another bite. “Maybe I could tell you
when I think I should go home.”
I smile this time. It is turning into a night of breakthroughs “That’s a good idea. Can you tell when
you need to leave?”
He nods. “I can tell you care about me. Thanks for coming
home. I like your friends.”
“Me too, Buddy, me too.”
“Will they be mad that you left?”
“Nope, not at all.”
He lifts his eyebrow and finishes his chocolate. “They’s
must be good friends,” he says jumping off of the bar stool and hugging me
again.
“Sure are,” I whisper as he bounds up the stairs to brush
his teeth.
Sure are. They are
friends that I didn’t even know I needed. They are friends I didn’t think I had
time for. Turns out I was wrong. It’s one more example of when God knew much
better than me when He asked me to find a bible study group.
I have such a limited human perspective. All I wanted were a
couple women to study scripture and pray together. None of this hanging out and
having dinner together. None of this talking on the phone stuff. It turns out
that when God asks us to do something, He always has something bigger and
better in mind. Maybe someday I’ll quit putting God in a box and simply accept
His sovereignty.
Until then, I’m just going to be thankful each time He grows
bigger before my eyes. I guess it was a night of breakthroughs for both Jay and his momma.
