Before the Bell
Some days deserve to wait.
I usually write these reflections much earlier in the day, but today felt different. There were moments I knew I wanted to remember before I sat down to tell the story.
This morning, I watched my wife, David, and Jacob back out of the driveway and head toward the school the boys will be attending in just fifteen days.
Today wasn't the first day of school.
Not yet.
But it was the beginning of something.
There were contracts to sign.
A principal to meet.
Hallways to walk.
Jacob met his homeroom teacher.
Classrooms that, in just a couple of weeks, will stop feeling unfamiliar and start feeling like part of his everyday life.
They came home excited.
Talking over one another.
Laughing.
Bouncing off the walls.
Exactly as they should.
Jacob has been carrying a quiet nervousness these past few weeks.
That's understandable.
Our family has homeschooled for years.
Now he's stepping into something completely different.
New rules.
New friends.
New routines.
A new place where he'll slowly figure out who he is.
We've had more than a few conversations out on the front porch lately.
The kind that don't solve everything.
The kind that simply remind a boy that he doesn't have to face the unknown alone.
David carries it differently.
His questions usually come at the end of the day.
A thought here.
A question there.
Never all at once.
Just enough to let me know he's thinking about what's ahead.
Fatherhood has taught me that courage and fear often travel together.
My boys are trying very hard to be brave.
They are.
But they're also twelve and ten.
When we talk about what's ahead, I find my voice gets a little softer.
A little slower.
Not because I doubt them.
Because I know courage grows best in calm places.
Today was also Zoey's first day of school.
At least, it was supposed to be.
This year she's beginning high school through an accredited online program, giving her the freedom to learn at her own pace while still challenging herself.
About twenty minutes into the afternoon, I could hear the stress beginning to build.
The Chromebook had other plans.
Technology has a funny way of reminding us who's really in charge.
Something tells me I'll be reinstalling an operating system tonight, and her real first day may end up being tomorrow.
She's excited.
She's nervous.
She misses the friends she made at school.
She's excited to spend more time with the friend who lives just around the corner.
She's standing in the middle of her own season of change.
I'm still trying to come to terms with one simple fact.
My little girl is a freshman in high school.
I'm not quite ready to write more about that.
Maybe someday.
Just not today.
Asher gets a little longer to enjoy summer.
His school year won't begin until later this month.
One more season.
One more stretch of carefree afternoons before his turn arrives.
Work happened today.
Meetings filled the calendar.
Emails kept arriving.
But whenever I could, my attention wandered down the hallway or toward my phone, waiting to hear how things were going.
Some days your body is at work while your heart is somewhere else.
Today was one of those days.
Summer is quietly beginning to give way to something new.
Backpacks are making their way out of closets.
Calendars are filling in.
Routines are returning.
But I know my kids.
The school calendar may say summer is almost over.
The lake would disagree.
There are still swims waiting after dinner.
Still wet towels over the porch railing.
Still bare feet racing across the yard.
Still one more jump off the dock before homework becomes part of the evening again.
Maybe that's what I love most about this time of year.
For a little while, two seasons get to exist at the same time.
Childhood and responsibility.
Freedom and routine.
Summer and school.
Standing together...
Just before the bell.
Life rarely changes all at once. Most of the time, it changes quietly. A meeting at a new school. A nervous conversation on the front porch. A backpack waiting by the door. Before we know it, one season has become another. As parents, we can't stop those seasons from changing, but we can walk beside our children as they do. Sometimes the greatest gift we can give them isn't an answer to every fear. It's the quiet confidence that, whatever comes next, they won't have to face it alone.
Much love.
Stay safe.
Wash your damn hands.
And I will see you, next time.
