Rear View

We live in a school district that runs a lot of school buses, and over the years, I’ve logged many hours at bus stops, dropping off or picking up. Eventually the older boys would walk to the stop, but for the three younger kids, in recent years the stops have been far enough from our home that I’ve had to drive. I never just drop them off. I always wait for the bus to arrive, and I won’t begin to pull away from the stop until I see the kids get in and see the door shut.

These days, Bill usually brings the kids to the stop on his way to work. Our current bus stop is not far, just at the top of our cul de sac, and in the winter it is still dark when our kids get there. Although they are in elementary school, they ride the high school bus with the neighborhood “big kids,” who are universally kind and patient, and who always let our kids board first. Bill parks on the street ahead of where the bus will stop so that once the kids are on he can pull out ahead of the bus and avoid following it as it makes several more stops.

Last Monday morning Bill and I carpooled, so I drove to the stop and park; the kids, always eager to hang out with the big kids, are out of the car in a flash, yelling “I love you!” but never looking back. We are barely a memory to them as they slam the door. I catch glimpses of the reflective tape on their backpacks as they greet their friends. The bus arrives, and I strain to watch them in the rearview mirror, making sure they get on.

Before the door shuts, Bill’s voice jars me: “They are on. We can probably go.”

He, eager to get ahead of the bus, never waits for the door. I see his point. I am sure they are fine. But I worry. Against instinct, I put the car in drive, and we head for work.

That evening, my dad came for dinner, and to stay the night. He has an early morning flight, heading for Mexico, and it will be much easier for me to get him to the airport if we both start from my house, which is only 15 minutes away. My dad loves to travel; it feeds his soul. Last year, perhaps for the first time ever, he didn’t leave the country at all. This year he has been to Thailand and now Mexico and in a few months the Netherlands. He says he’s working on his “bucket list,” but don’t let that name fool you. The man is destined to outlive us all. Each day on the road probably increases his life by a month—and has the exact opposite effect on me. I am sure he is fine. But I worry.  

The next morning we’re both up at 5, and it doesn’t take us long to get ready. Dad has told me three times that he has packed his own morning meal (he’s diabetic, so food management is important)and that I don’t need to feed him, but he is grateful for a cup of tea. We load up the car and head to the airport, arriving in plenty of time in spite of icy roads.  Dad kisses me goodbye and grabs his stuff from the back seat, calling “I love you” as he shuts the car door. As he turns toward Mexico, I am barely a memory. I watch in the rearview mirror as he makes his way into the terminal. And when the doors shut behind him, I pull away.

I cannot protect those I love with my gaze.  In fact, that is not my job. My job is to give them a soft place to land, and wings so they can soar alone. 

Lent

We didn’t really observe Lent while I was growing up, but it’s become more common among those in the Reformed tradition to spend the days between Ash Wednesday and Easter reflecting on Jesus’ suffering. Part of the tradition is to “give something up” as a spiritual discipline, a means of sharing in Christ’s suffering in some small way and of preparing for the resurrection.

Some give up chocolate or red meat or Facebook. In years past I’ve given up shopping and swearing and Diet Coke, and some other things that I don’t remember. One of my favorite Lenten projects was the year that I talked the kids into giving up name calling. I got each of them a bag of their favorite candy, and each time they called someone a name they lost a piece. It was pretty powerful; name calling in our home decreased dramatically. And then on Easter, I gave them all of their candy, even the stuff they had lost, because I wanted to teach them about grace. It was a good lesson, but you can only really do it once.

Today, on the cusp of Ash Wednesday, I’ve been debating what to give up. The last month has had more than its share of difficult moments; there’s been death and disappointment and sadness—the stuff of life, and maybe not any more than usual, but it has felt like a lot. So lately when I think of giving up, it’s not about a spiritual discipline, but about quitting, about hunkering down under a blanket and making the world go away. I’ve had moments when I’ve wanted to give up being a mom, give up on people, give up my goals and dreams, and give up on my usually firm conviction that there is more good in the world than bad.

I have, from time to time, given up hope.

So this year for Lent, I will strive to give up on giving up. I will replace moments of despair with moments of prayer. Instead of hunkering down, I will gear up. Lent is a time to remember suffering as an act of worship, but it’s not a time to worship suffering itself. The only way to get through Lent is to keep moving. Things might get worse before they get better, but they will get better. There is always a reason to hope. 

The Left Lane

The snow had come down relentlessly during the night, and as the sun came up, I was making the one-hour trip to Holland for a lecture and a funeral. The highways had been plowed at some point, and for the most part at least one of the lanes was clear enough to kinda sorta make out the lines; otherwise we followed the tire grooves, moving into the passing lane only when necessary.

Traffic moved sanely, and at a satisfactory pace, even those cars and semis that chose to pass. As I got used to the feel of the road, even I occasionally took to the passing lane, successfully negotiating my way around one car at a time. But about two miles before my exit, I got behind a line of traffic that was going slower than it needed to, held up by a slow-moving semi.  The cars in front of me did not pull out to pass, and because I didn’t want to attempt passing five vehicles in the dicey left lane, I slowed down and joined the caravan.  I had plenty of time and just a short distance to go, so it was an easy choice to relax and go with the flow.

As more traffic caught up to our line, those cars also slowed down. While not wanting to risk the left lane but clearly wishing we were all moving a little quicker, they demonstrated their frustration by traveling uncomfortably close to my bumper, given the slick conditions. I was relieved to pull off at my exit, and even more relieved to park at my destination.

The lecture focused on the first Japanese, Native American, and African-American graduates of Hope College. The college had opened its doors to these young men in the days when it was less-than-fashionable to do so, and in return, the grads left the college with not only their degrees, but with a deep appreciation for liberal arts education and the role of faith in life. Each of them had long and successful careers in ministry or education. They spent their lives giving back by influencing and educating others.

After the lecture, I walked three snowy blocks to attend the funeral of my Uncle Bill. Okay, he’s technically not my uncle; Bill’s brother Jim was my stepmother Mickie’s first husband. When my dad and Mickie married, Bill and his wife Elsie welcomed my dad, and all of his children, with open arms. We were all one family—no question. Their hospitality and their enormous love taught me that family cannot—should not—be limited by blood lines. After Mickie’s death in 2006, and even more so after Elsie’s recent death, my dad and Bill were close, like brothers.

Bill’s funeral reminded us of the scope of his life. In many ways, Bill was a blessed man. Money, talent, opportunities, the love and support of a strong family; all of these were Bill’s, and he shared these gifts generously. But his life was not without sadness, even tragedy.  The funeral was a beautiful testimony to a life well lived, a life underscored with grace and unwavering faith in the face of both suffering and blessings.

Our life journey is influenced by those with whom we share the road: teachers, mentors, family. They shape and mold us. Some of these people are given to us, and some we can choose. But when we cannot choose those with whom we travel, we must make the choice of how to travel with them. We can let them frustrate us or slow us down. And sometimes our best option is to fall in line until we can appropriately exit.  

Or we can embrace them and find a way to love them. It can be a risky road, but it’s the road of the most positive influence.