I just walked out of my classroom on the last day of
school. I just jammed my laptop
and a few personal items into my bag and l just got into the van that replaced
the van that hit the cow. I just
collapsed on the sofa and thought with exhaustion, “I am READY for a
break.” I just did all of that
yesterday or last week or a few weeks ago. There is no possible way it was three months ago. It is not possible. It CANNOT be possible. While I wasn't looking, summer ended.
I never got that break I needed/wanted/waited for. And now my beautiful, endless summer is
over. I am feverishly putting my
classroom back together and working on lesson plans. I just stepped away from that. Now it is time to do it all again.
June was nice.
I reveled in sleeping past six, puttering in my flowerbeds, and drinking
my morning coffee on the porch. I
got to spend precious time in Colorado with my parents and siblings. The change of pace was welcome and
restorative. A friend laughingly told me that her daughter reported seeing me walk to my mailbox in my pajamas as she drove by on Highway 14. Guilty.
My first summer graduate level course was of the online
variety. Not my favorite venue,
but it is required for my degree (Early Elementary Ed.) and was not offered any
other way. I foolishly thought it
would not be a time-intensive course.
Boy, was I wrong! As I
printed off the syllabus and other reams of handouts, I began to sweat both
literally and figuratively. Are
you KIDDING me? I immediately sent
a distress call to my instructor, who graciously agreed to meet with me in her
office and try to talk me off the ledge.
It helped marginally.
As I waded through that course, I began course numbers two
and three, for a whopping six credit hours. These were the old-school variety that actually required
getting together in a classroom and being taught stuff in-person. These classes were taught in tandem and
occupied three weeks of my precious summer. I could feel the sand running into the bottom of the
hourglass at a speedy clip. I also
had out-of-town guests coming for a couple of days, and knew my sons would
point their cars for home at the end of July. The days were running together like melted crayons on a hot
stove.
Why, oh why are 24-hour days only 24-hours long? I could have used about six more hours
per day. On a night before a big
presentation was due, I was clipping along with studying long after the family
retired for the night. Man, I was
getting stuff done! I made a pot
of coffee deep into the night and kept going. I knew it was late.
My eyes were heavy and so was the stillness of the night. I hadn’t once looked at the clock. Next thing I knew I heard birds singing
through the open window. “Well,
that can’t be good,” I thought idly.
Shortly thereafter, a shaft of light pierced the darkness. What?? I looked at the clock on my laptop. Five-thirty??? Holy cow, it was time to get up! Wait… I AM up. It’s time to get dressed. I had to leave the house at six-thirty
in order to make it to class on time.
I slurped coffee on my way out the door and made it in time, but I must
have looked the tired mess that I was. I am too
old for this.
That is how my summer went. Busy, exhausting days followed by short nights of
sleep. Sort of like the school
year, only hotter.
Then July 20th hit, and my world took a
shuddering breath of reflection and reality. It was a Friday.
Inexplicably, I was home that day when I should have been in class. We had transportation issues at the
Dahl ranch on that day. More
drivers than vehicles create a bit of short supply and competition for four
wheels and a motor. Mr. Dahl
needed the van on that Friday. I
needed it too, but his need outweighed mine, plus I lost at both rock, paper,
scissors, AND arm wrestling, so the chariot was his for the day.
I called my instructor. She is an angelic being who fully understood my plight and
urged me to stay put for the day.
I hung up the phone with a sigh of relief and began to look forward to
an unexpected day at home to sleep in a bit, clean house for my weekend guests,
and get ahead in my coursework.
Yes, this was definitely working in my favor.
I never even heard the garage door open the next morning as
hubby left, so deep was my sleep and complete my exhaustion. I stumbled out of bed about 7:30 that
morning. I badly needed a cup of
strong coffee. I fumbled with the
beans and grinder and somewhere in that process, I turned on my favorite
morning news show. While I waited
for my liquid salvation to brew, I took a seat at the island and listened with
half-awake ears.
I became aware that a terrible tragedy had occurred in the
night. Apparently a madman had
attended the premier of the latest Batman movie at midnight. With cold precision he had lobbed tear
gas into the crowded theater and then had picked of running moviegoers with
multiple firearms. By the time the
rampage had been halted, he had killed twelve innocent people and injured
another fifty-eight. It was the
worst mass shooting in United States history. He then surrendered to police quietly and the grim task of
identifying victims and shuttling off the injured to area hospitals began.
The news broke onto the national scene about four in the
morning. As I listened and watched
the incomprehensible images flash across my kitchen TV, my heart sank like a
stone. How? Why? Who could possibly do such a thing? Those poor people….
The coffee maker beeped its announcement of being finished with
its chore and I headed towards its promised renewal. As I reached for a mug from the cupboard, my brain suddenly
fired its first synapse.
Aurora? Why did that seem
familiar? My indigo Fiesta Ware
mug was half-filled now.
Aurora… Who did I know in
Aurora? Aurora… AURORA!!! My eyes flew open and my brain burst to
life, giving my heart a jolt. My
face drained of blood. How could I
have been so stupid? Aurora, of
course, is home to my son's dental school. He had just finished up his first year and was supposed to
head home for a couple of weeks until his second year of studies began.
My hands were weak now and I tried to carefully set the mug
on the counter next to the coffee maker.
I somehow KNEW that he had stayed an extra day in order to attend the
premier the night before. Ryan had
gone to that movie. Without having
been told, I just knew it.
Fumbling through my always-messy purse, I frantically
searched for my cell phone. “I
have to get ahold of him!,” I shouted to my purse. Finding the missing phone, I quickly typed a short text and
sent it post-haste. I waited a few
minutes. Nothing. OK, I will call. I dialed the number and realized I was
holding my breath. I forced myself
to exhale. The female voice of his voicemail
spouted sterile instructions into my ear.
When she finally shut up, I said something short and to the point like,
“I need to know that you are OK.
Please call me!”
There was nothing to do but wait. There would be no one at his apartment at this hour. His cell phone was my only link to
him. I tried to choke down some
oatmeal, but I had lost my appetite.
Twenty minutes passed and my phone sat silent and mocking. “When I find out he’s alive, I am going
to kill him,” I thought remorselessly.
I have always believed that a parent somehow knows when
tragedy involves their child.
There is a heaviness of spirit, or a “knowing” or SOMETHING that
prepares you to receive bad news.
I did not sense that on this day.
I somehow felt that my boy was alright, wherever he was. But I needed to hear his voice,
regardless. I mean, what if?? “Call, Ryan!” I willed my phone to
ring.
After a very long hour, a sheepish text came through. He was on his way home. He filled me in on the information I
needed to hear. He had indeed
attended the midnight show, but had providentially been in a different theater.
His friend had purchased tickets
for them a few minutes from the bloodbath. He was fine and was on the road. My relief as I responded with my own short text left me a
bit weak. “Thank God” was about
all I had strength for.
Stupid kid.
Precious, priceless, adored child.
I should slap him when he walks through the door. I can’t wait to hug the stuffing out of
him. Every parent of grown
children is tracking perfectly with me here. The range and gamut of emotions is dizzying. Anger and gushy love share the same bed
in such a moment.
As he stood in my kitchen a few hours later, watching the
images on TV for the first time, he took in silently the horror surrounding his
familiar territory. The crime scene is a mere two miles from campus. He had been in
that very theater the week before.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that guy on campus,” he finally said
quietly. The medical students and
dental students share buildings and occasionally, some classes.
More mother angst washed over me. In the weeks since that fateful night, we have learned that
the suspect, James Holmes, is a very troubled young man. He was in the care of a campus
psychiatrist, who felt he was enough of a threat to others to warn the campus
threat assessment team of him.
What if he had taken out his depraved revenge on campus,
instead of in that theater? What
if he had chosen a day and time when he was in close proximity to my son? What if he had used his knowledge of
explosives to involve multiple buildings?
What if I were standing by a hospitable bed at this moment instead of
staring at the beautiful face of my unshaven son? What if?......
That’s the thing about having a part of you go walking
around outside your body. A parent
cannot anticipate tragedy. You say
goodbye and watch them walk out your door with the naïve cockiness of youth and
immortality that they possess, and you have to trust that they will be
fine. To believe otherwise is to
invite insanity to ride around on your shoulders like a toddler at the
fair. There are too many potential
dangers out there to dwell on.
Scriptures speak of guardian angels. I fully believe in them. I have to or I would never get a wink of sleep.
And so…
I sit here at
the end of a very long day of preparing my classroom for a new crop of
rambunctious first graders. I am
tired and a little stressed. A
perfect storm of busy weekend activities will prevent me from spending that
much-needed time putting the finishing touches on first day preparations. But this is where life experience
serves me well. I will be ready
enough for that first morning of school and life will march forward, whether I
have completed my to-do list or not.
The important stuff will bubble to the top of the priority list and the
rest can wait for a weekend down the road.
My own children are ready to fly away from my nest for
another season of schooling. Cody
was only home for a week and has been gone already for what seems an
eternity. Ryan leaves in thirty-six
hours and Trevor will chug back to Grand Forks next weekend. My pantry and refrigerator are
empty. My heart is full. I am so incredibly blessed. I hardly know how to acknowledge my
gratitude to my Creator. My “Things
To Be Thankful For” list is long; my family is my breath and life itself. I adore each one. I just got the results of a battery of
tests back and I am healthy as a hog.
At an advanced age I am enjoying the thrills and challenges
of a new career. Perhaps the best
perspective I can offer is, I am old enough to appreciate things as they stand,
wrinkles and all.
This prairie teacher stepped into her classroom last week after
a month’s absence and flipped on the lights in a stuffy, cluttered first grade
room. There were piles of unsorted
and unorganized plunder on every available surface. Holy cow, I had a lot to do! But as I stood staring at the disaster of my own making, I
felt a smile creep across my face.
Then I got the giggles. It
feels pretty darn amazing to love what you do. Not just to like it, or really like it, but to deep down
LOVE your chosen profession.
I can’t wait to welcome my new students. I look forward to greeting my
coworkers. I have some exciting
challenges facing me this school year.
I feel more experienced as a teacher and more confident in my role as
educator. I eagerly await the joys
of watching sweet children gain knowledge and understanding. I think teaching is the best job on the
face of the planet.
I think it’s gonna’ be a good year….
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