The day before the first day of school, Josh and I work through three near-disasters and spend several hidden minutes in the laundry room, the bedroom, the walk home from morning worship, trying our best to sort things out. We succeed, mostly, listening to pent up frustrations and misunderstood signals, and ultimately the fact that we are stewarding a large family and wanting so very badly to do it well.
It is an overcast day, and cool. The hint of a new season hangs in the air, and I am here for it. I am a better person in cooler temperatures. I am happier, nicer, and generally have a brighter outlook on the world. This is needed.
On our way to a friend’s apartment, where we gather on Sunday mornings, we hear the siren calls for a city-wide COVID test. We head back home, grab our passports, and get in line with our neighbors. The line shuffles through a cobbled path under trees filled with cobwebs. There is news of possibly twenty new COVID cases in the city, and everyone is nervous this will mean school is delayed. We swat at the mosquitoes, feeling helpless. But the morning air is cool and we are not sweating, which is a win. I have a Psalm on my mind and this sits with me, a calming hum below the din of other emotions.
Back home after lunch, we have an afternoon of rest. No phones allowed. Several nap, one reads, another does a workout. The dog we have been caring for all summer is picked up by its owners. The kids are droopy, sad, missing their furry companion who is the closest we’ve come to having a pet for a sustained period of time. He really was a beautiful dog. I am sad for the kids but also, happy. Happy they got to love him and feel him return that love, even if it was short. Dogs can be great. For a time.
There is discussion about the coming school year. Everyone is wondering what the year will hold. Will there be shut downs due to COVID? Will the classes be as hard as they fear? Will they make new friends after those that have left? Will they like their teacher; will their teacher like them?
I look at them and think, senior, junior, 8th grader, 5th grader, Kindergartener, and toddler at home. How did this happen? And also, will they be okay? I think of a snippet I heard from a podcast wafting up the stairs this morning, a line about parents learning to let their children go, instead of remaining in the unhealthy state of ego-attachment we are naturally prone to, where everything they do somehow reflects on us. I tell myself for the billionth time to take a load off.
After a nap and a run-in with kids in the kitchen, we plan school lunches. We brainstorm ideas. We question the quantity that some children consume. Josh and I remember our own parents, telling us to drink less milk, not to eat all the bread, to cut down on the cereal consumption. This is the generational ax we now grind.
I make a fruit crisp for dessert. There is ice cream to go with it, which one kid will not like and another will be thrilled over. For dinner we will have a favorite spinach salad with pesto, and a charcuterie board the kids love. Somehow, food (and dessert especially) have become a way our home is made well. If everyone is excited about what we are eating, and we sit down to enjoy it together, a blessing of sorts lays over us like one of those weighted blankets designed to make anxious children calm.
It is (only) the day before the first day of school.
We have learned some things this summer, maybe even just today.
We have grown.
We still have so very far to go.
That is what the dessert is for.