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Today as I was in a discussion about learning and growth, I was suddenly transported back in time, to late summer, 1969.
I remember so vividly the front of the school house. Not at all like the schools of today, this elementary school was small and archaic in comparison. It only had four classrooms. To me, it was the largest most intimidating thing in the world. The steps leading up to the front door were not designed for the legs of a six year old, they seemed huge and forbidding.
We made it into the school, but not much farther. I remember bursting into tears and sitting on my mothers lap in the cafeteria.
“I don’t want to stay here, I want to go home with you,” I sobbed into my mother’s shoulder.
“It’s just for a little while,” she comforted me, “and your brother is in the same room with you.”
I don’t know what magic phrase worked, and I don’t remember mom leaving, but I finally stayed at school.
I didn’t fully comprehend why I was so afraid of going to school until today.
My mother is always loving and compassionate. I knew mom would always love me, never make fun of me, never judge me, and never, ever hurt me. I didn’t know that about other people. I was safe at home with mom, but I didn’t know what would happen at school. At the same time, if I never left home and Mom I would never know anything else. I would never grow up.
I have since experienced this feeling a number of times. The steps of the High school I attended were almost un-climbable. The steps to marriage were steep and challenging. The steps to motherhood were full of promise, but there were so many I had to stop and rest several times before reaching the top. Each time I had an overwhelming urge to burst into tears and cry out “I don’t want to be here, I want to go home with you!” Instead of crying into my mother’s shoulder, I cried out to God. Each time, words of comfort were spoken “It’s just for a little while, and I’ll be there with you.” Somehow, I always made it through. I didn’t always get an A, but I passed. Each time I learned, grew, and matured.
I, being a mature adult, would like to think those scary huge steps are behind me now, but I know that is not true. Each time I write and article, story, or poem and put it out there for others to read, I am at the bottom of those steps again with six year old legs. I am so thankful I have the comforting voice of my Father, and huge strong hands to help me up the steps.
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