Then
I don’t remember how old I was when I first started asking.
But I do remember, with fondness the many times that I was able to “stay in the
car by myself” when my parents went into the store.
I may have been tired or grumpy. But probably, most frequently,
I wanted to
read a book. My parents would go into the store and I had my own
private time to immerse myself in whatever story I was reading at the time.
The sun in Ventura County, CA would warm the
car to a comfortable, nap-inducing climate (nowhere near enough to be
dangerous, of course).
I honestly don’t remember how many times this happened. It
happened more than twice, for sure, but memories blur. I just remember it as a
period of time in my life, not as individual occurrences. My parents probably
remember the details better than I do; I remember things better from my adult
years than I do from my youth. Parents also tend to remember milestones in the
lives of their children fairly well.
I assume these instances, or this period of time in my life,
held the same meaning for my parents as it did for me, albeit from a different
perspective:
It meant that I was growing up.
I had volition of my own.
I could make important choices.
I could separate myself from my parents in small but
meaningful ways.
It meant that I had freedom of my own.
In each gift bag was a small piece of wood with nails and yarn affixed to it. The idea was, by winding the yarn around the nails in the appropriate way, the yarn would form the shape of a cross. It was a clever Easter themed craft.
I’ve been thinking about how people interact with each other
and how we can understand where others are coming from and what their
circumstances are specifically in the area of race. I have read White Like Me by Tim Wise and I
have had several conversations with people of different races than me. I recently stated reading Why Are All theBlack Kids Sitting Together In the Cafeteria? by Beverly Tatum. Lately I have
read about this issue in articles and opinion pieces in adoption
magazines. 
Today was the second day that our son rode the bus to
school. He walked Candice and me outside
to wait really early. He yelled and
laughed at a squirrel in a tree. He
pointed happily to where the bus would be arriving. Then he screamed in terror when it was time
to get on and leave. Mama and Papa
discussed whether or not he’s ready for this as we walked back in the
apartment. 
While in my MA program I learned about Bernard of Clairvaux
and his work On Loving God. It
seems that we start our journey in the faith loving God for our own sake, then
we grow a little and maybe we learn to love God for God’s sake. According to Bernard of Clairvaux, the final
stage is loving self for the sake of God.
I have a long way to go on that journey.
