Fighting Going Forward

I was walking down the hallway last week and had the-imaginary-wall-is-blocking-my-walkway feeling. I've only felt it once before: the moment before I walked down the aisle to be married and after I glimpsed my dad holding back tears, twenty years and a few odd days ago. This time, a few days ago, was right after elementary-school graduation more rightly named "recognition" day.

I am pushing forward, happy in the successes of my oldest (recognized for his volunteerism and theoretical leadership skills as a math day volunteer, safety patrol officer, media assistant, newsperson) but mostly mourning the loss of his past, my parenting past, and a nurturing environment. Nearly all of his teachers in this school, the one he attended since kindergarten, were nurturing, compassionate, fun, enthusiastic, and motivating.

His elementary-school career is in contrast with mine. Like him, I lived in the same home from the time I started school until the time I finished school. Unlike him, I attended three elementary schools with an ever-changing group of kids and an assortment of disinterested, politically correct, and modern teachers. My strengths were never celebrated though my weaknesses were noted. Even when I wrote a letter to the editor published in The Charlotte Observer as an 11-year-old, I was considered a liar at worst (the prevailing thought was that I falsely claimed authorship that belonged to my mother) and a troublemaker at worst (the letter had political content). My son would have been lauded not only for his writing abilities but also for his initiative and outspokenness.

I was in my 20s when I discovered, not on my own but from another's experience, that teachers could be kind. I remembering listening to a friend, a college graduate from a small mountain community, rant about an instructor at a state university, where she was taking a few courses in preparation for entering medical school. According to her, the instructor was curt, uncaring, and unhelpful when asked for assistance. My thought in response to her comments that teachers should be nurturing was "there are teachers who are nurturing?" I never knew.

Seeing those nuturing teachers in action makes it difficult for me to prepare my oldest move to a new place (middle school this August) where he won't be quite so safe, so cuddled, so celebrated, so recognized. I can hardly believe that this elementary-school chapter, for him, is closed.

Living Your Life's Work - wherever you might be

I was watching my youngest's little league yesterday when a man, seemingly unaccustomed to baseball-field-goings-ons, walked in front of me, looked around, and then returned to wherever he was heading. (I was stationed a bit away from the field, where I can see as much of the game as I'd like).

I often have difficulty placing people out of context and while I was thinking about whether this man was who I thought he was, my husband grabbed him and shook his hand. I happily bump into him throughout the years, sometimes at special celebrations and, the most recent, a funeral.

It was indeed Ellis R., a United Methodist pastor, who had served our church several years ago. We had kept up some, large due to my connection with his wife, but also because of general feelings of endearment and, as in this case, happenstance. Since our first meeting, he had moved twice due to the transfers dictated by the church, most recently to a town about a half-hour away.

He was visiting the ballfield in search of an orange-shirted man who promised him a dove. Pentecost was coming and he wanted to release a dove in its honor, symbolizing the release of the holy spirit and the birth of the church. His previous source of doves was empty. He had found another source, who was to meet him at the field. Ellis had driven a half-hour, searched, waited, and faced another half-hour drive-just to get a dove. He didn't make a ruckus about the time and effort that such a search was costing him, just for a moment of symbolism. It was just something he happened to be doing.

When Ellis was the pastor of our church, his wife said that Sunday afternoons were spent driving around the community, finding the homes of church members. When the time for a visit came, homes were easily and quickly found. For me, he was the first to visit our home when my youngest (the one now playing baseball) was born -- ahead of grandparents and even a friend who came as quickly as she heard we were home. I still remember.

Seeing him at the ballfield, though, I understood more clearly why people called on him, and not another pastor (even our current ones), to baptize a baby, unite a couple, or bury the dead. He was, he is a pastor who lives every day just to do his job.