“Will there be a garbage can in the lunchroom?” you ask me the day before kindergarten starts.
For weeks you’ve been thinking through the logistics of the new world you’re about to enter—a whole day away from home, eating lunch in the cafeteria, navigating a new school, a new teacher, new classmates.
That’s one question I can answer with a fair amount of certainty: “Yep, bud. Definitely garbage cans in the lunchroom.”
Your dad and I have tried to prepare you for various such scenarios all summer: quizzing you on our address, having you memorize our phone number in the form of a song, reminding you to wash your hands every time, rehearsing your teacher’s name, talking about what your day will look like.
On Kindergarten Eve, you ask to look at the “kindergarten readiness” checklist the school handed out last spring. You proudly check each item off the list and grin. “I’m ready, Mom!”
And you are. Or at least as ready as you can be, knowing there will inevitably be things around the corner we can’t anticipate.
This is the paradox of parenting: Our job is to prepare you, all the while knowing we can’t prepare you for everything.
Even as I wave goodbye to your backpack (while you confidently march through the door holding your big brother’s hand, with nary a look over your shoulder), questions swirl in my head: Wait, do you know all your letters? Do you know how to open that applesauce container? Will you know what to do if you skin your knee at recess?
I try to take my cues from you, waving bravely without calling out any last-minute instructions.
***
After school, when you share the highlight reel from your day over a snack, I’m reminded of what I already knew: There are just some things I can’t prepare you for.
I didn’t think about the countdown timer in the cafeteria and how you’d only get five bites before cleanup.
I didn’t think to tell you what to do if you fell in love with a pigtailed kindergartener at library time.
I didn’t think to tell you what to do if you went to your locker and somehow found yourself in the custodian’s closet. (You seemed unfazed.)
I can research and ask questions and forecast to the best of my abilities, but the truth is, I haven’t been to this particular part of Mars before. And even if I have, the planet has changed a lot since then. The best I can do is pack your bag with what I think you’ll need: a snack, a water bottle, the courage to try something new, and the humility to ask for help when you need it. And most of all, the identity label that courses through your DNA. You are not only my son; you are a child of God.
He will fill in the gaps for the things I haven’t prepared you for. He will walk beside you when I can’t. He will be with you when you meet your new best friend and when someone makes fun of you. He will be with you when you ace the test and when you don’t know the answer. He will be with you when you kick a goal and when you fall off the swing.
He will be with you when you find your way…and when you find yourself among the custodian’s mops.
And he will be with us too, as we return to a quiet house. Until 3:30, my boy.
We are made not only of matter that comes from the earth and stars, but we are made in the image of God . . . The face of Christ is within us, his thumbprint is upon us.
Frederick Beuchner
Leave a Reply