"Parents are people..."

"...Parents are people
People with children
When parents were little, they used to be kids
Like all of you, but then they grew
And now parents are grown-ups
Grown-ups with children
Busy with children, and things that they do
There are a lot of things a lot of mommies
And a lot of daddies,
and a lot of parents can do..."
-     Carol Hall

I was barely out of high school when my dad suddenly passed on (following a road collision) that left my 39 year old mom widowed with 8 children under the age of 19.  I am still ashamed to admit that although I was heartbroken for our family, and devastated by the way his passing turned our lives upside down socially, financially and emotionally, I was not as deeply concerned about my mom losing her husband and companion, as I should have been.  I thought, "they were old anyway".  Horrible, huh!?!?  But honest.  I was so immature.  The world of "adults over 30" was filled with senior citizens in my eyes.    I couldn't imagine that my mom still had the capacity to feel romance...or be in love.   She was old, she had eight children to raise, she'd had her day in the sun…right! 

Wrong....so sadly wrong...

My mom was, and still is, a vital, loving, hope-filled and gloriously alive woman….and always has been.  But it took me decades, following my dad's passing, to realize this fact. 

It finally dawned on my when one of my dearest friends, and her husband, had been in a tragically fatal automobile accident.  I had been with her in the hospital, day in and day out, for over a week while she was being treated in their critical care/trauma unit.  The day that she passed on I felt sad, and empty, and helpless in making sense of how a mother (and her husband who had passed on the day before) could be taken from their children at such a young age.  It was wrong and wasteful.  She was so vital and alive with promise.  "She was in the prime of her life, " I thought as I drove to another friend's house from the  hospital that day.  She was about my age for goodness sake, and I was only….37….

I literally stopped in my tracks.  I was driving through a suburban neighborhood…thank goodness…because my entire body stopped operating that 3,000 pound vehicle.   My foot came up off the gas pedal and I drifted to the side of the road where my car came to a stop.  In anguished horror I immediately thought of my mom. She was only been 39 when my dad  passed on and I had thought of her as "over the hill", beyond falling in love and having dreams.  My heart broke open wide for my mom…and my friend…in that surreal moment of suburban normalcy.  I KNEW how much I loved life, I KNEW how many dreams I had yet to even begin realizing, I KNEW how deeply I longed to be loved and in love…every day of my life. I KNEW how young I felt inside and how terrifying the thought of being widowed with eight children would be to me at that moment…heck, the thought of being widowed with one child was more than I could comprehend.  How would I go on?  How would I be able to even function in the context of the grief and despair of losing my husband, much less be able to work and provide for my child. 

As I sat there with my face in my hands…parked haphazardly in front of a someone's perfectly manicured suburban lawn…I wept for my friend, her husband, and their young daughters.  I wept for my own parents and our family.  I wept for my mom and all the years I thought she was too old to still need love and romance and companionship in her life.  I wept for my own insensitivity as a teenager.  

There were no cell phones in those days so I couldn't call my mom from the privacy of my car.  I had to wait for a few hours after arriving at my friend's house, when things had settled down and I could excuse myself.  However, when I did I told her all that was in my heart.  I told her that I was sorry I had never understood how young and dynamic she was and how alive her desires were.  I told her that I now understood that she was still a young woman inside and that I wanted to help her resurrect any dreams that she might have let the world…and us kids…convince her she was too old to still cherish and nurture.  I have tried to do just that.  I've tried to help her remember that she can still go to college,  start a new life by the ocean, climb a 14,000 foot mountain, or fall in love.

Whenever I begin to forget that we are all ageless children of God, I remember that moment in my friend's neighborhood.  I try to remember how, at 37, I felt just as alive to love and hope, and cherished dreams…as I had at 17.  The me who loved snuggling under the covers with a book for a great read on a rainy day at 11 is just as hungry for the perfect quilt-and-tea book today.  The me who sang at the top of her lungs on road trips alone behind the wheel flying across Kansas does the same thing on her way to camp every summer….much to the chagrin of her daughters.  The me who wakes up each morning with a heart eager to try something new…is the same me who just knew that she could do anything she set her mind to at 18.   And the me whose heart broke with every not-so-wise choice at 16, still lies awake at night praying for forgiveness and redemption at 53.

A few years ago I had a Sunday School student who came to class concerned that his mom was "going off the deep end" because she was wanting to make some drastic changes in her career.  Then in the next sentence he complained that she didn't give him enough freedom, as a new college student, to explore a number of different options that were of interest to him.  "Doesn't she know that this is what I am supposed to be allowed to do at my age?" he asked.  "Don't you know that's what she needs to be allowed, by you, to do as well?'  I countered.   "Are you giving her as much freedom to grow and evolve and change as you expect to give you?" I then asked gently.

I continue to learn, each day, that "Parents are People"…people who, in God's eye, are just children.  Children who are learning each day more of what they are capable of as His heir, children who grow in grace, learn from their choices, and never stop hoping, dreaming, evolving within the circle of His arms.

His child,
Kate

"Free to be...you and me..."

"…Every boy in this land grows to be his own man
In this land, every girl grows to be her own woman
Take my hand, come with me where the children are free
Come with me, take my hand, and we'll run

To a land where the river runs free
To a land through the green country
To a land to a shining sea
To a land where the horses run free
To a land where the children are free
And you and me are free to be
And you and me are free to be
And you and me are free to be you and me"
-     The New Seekers

I was a new teacher with my very own class of 6 to 8 year old little boys who had been institutionalized for developmental disabilities.  I was hopeful and eager.  I couldn't wait to make a difference.  It didn't matter one bit to me that only one of my guys could speak in full sentences and only three were out of diapers.  I was a TEACHER!!  It was the only profession, outside of motherhood (and someday being a civil rights attorney), that I had ever aspired to. 

From the time I was 10 years old with five younger siblings I was, in my spare time, "Mrs. French" (okay, sidenote:  there was a little boy in my fifth grade class whose last name was French and I thought it meant he was French, which seemed soooo cool, so I stole his last name for my teacher-self).  Mrs. French would make all her siblings (who were young enough to think she was really a teacher just because she said she was) sit on the floor in her bedroom and learn to count and add.   Mrs. French would read "Green Eggs and Ham" out loud with Oscar-deserving expressed animation.  Mrs. French would prepare little sandwiches for her students to eat in the "lunch room".  Mrs. French was firm, but nice.  In my mind, Mrs. French was "practically perfect in every way"…or so she thought her students thought her to be.

By the time I finally became a teacher I had an arsenal of Mary Poppins-like tricks stored up my sleeves.  I had years of hopes and expectations for my "someday" students.   I had more than a life-time of dreaming about blackboards and chalk, Dr. Seuss and Curious George, practiced Palmer-method penmanship and hand-made grade books filled with A- and C+s perfectly written in little graph-paper boxes.

But my new classroom of boys weren't able to sit down long enough for even one page of the antics of a monkey named George, and they would never take home a report card filled with hard-earned letter grades and glowing narratives. These little boys (and their little girl counterparts in a neighboring building) would never leave the institution their parents had committed them to.  These children might learn to make eye-contact and eat properly with a spork, but they were not expected to ever be trusted with pencils and chalk…much less handle a book with gentle respect.

My first few days were harrowing.  I carefully edged myself along the cinderblock walls that lined our classroom, keeping everyone, and everything, in sight.  A randomly hurled chair had landed my predecessor in the hospital for months and I didn't have any desire to start collecting disability at 21 years old.   

One day into the second or third week, I suddenly realized that when I sang hymns to myself (in order to calm my own fears) they calmed down too.  And then I noticed that they really liked the soft scent of the baby powder I wore and would gather around me each morning...not to bump into me mindlessly, but because they wanted to be near me...I started to look forward to my days with them.  Yes, they were as scattered and un-focused as baby chicks in a barnyard.  But they were sweet and eager to please and there were so many things they needed to learn just in order to live in-community with one another and the staff that cared for them.  It wasn't long before I knew that I had to let go of every starry-eyed image of what I thought my life as a teacher would be like, or I would never be able to fully embrace the class that I had been given.

My professional goals for myself as a teacher, however, stayed the same.  I would be consistent, calm, persistent, joyful, and enthusiastic about the curriculum.  I would be respectful, kind, fair and honest with my colleagues.  I would be innovative, inspired, thoughtful and creative in my use of learning tools and materials.  I would be expectant, patient, understanding, honest, loving and clear with my students.  I would teach according to their learning…not expect them to learn according to my teaching.  I would participate in a student-centric learning environment…rather than a teacher driven one.   All that really changed was what I thought the outcomes had to look like. 

When I let go of academic milestones like "counting to 10, sounding out all consonants phoenetically, and completing a 10 piece puzzle in less than three minutes", and accepted new milestones like "was able to let go of anger, did not become frustrated with himself, allowed himself to be helped"…I became the kind of teacher I didn't even know I could hope to become.

I spent my early teaching career in one classroom after another within this institution working with a full range of developmentally challenged children.  In each setting my goals and expectations for myself as a teacher never changed…they evolved…but never changed.

When a cross-country move necessitated a change in schools, I left with a heavy heart.  I had learned to love teaching in a way I never imagined.  My next teaching assignment was with high functioning gifted and talents students.  But my goals and expectations for myself, as a teacher, never changed. 

"Free to Be - You and Me" (I hope this link is a fun trip down memory lane for some of you) was an album I would play every morning in those early days of teaching my little group of 6 through 8 year old boys.  I would sing and dance around the classroom like a butterfly, a bouncy "Tigger", a wood sprite, a crazy bumble bee, or a silly bear before we started our long days of repeating simple tasks hundreds of times over and over again.  It's lyrics would remind me that there isn't just one way to be…there are hundreds of thousands, millions and zillions of way to be.  My job was to help them discover the best "me" they could be that day.  It was as much the same for my little guys who were learning to hold a spoon, as it was for my gifted students who were taking college prep calculus courses in the 5th grade.  

This is still my favorite thing to do…
Kate