Back to School

 This is the time of year when all kinds of “back to school” photos and posts converge on social media.  Kids are decked out in new outfits and backpacks, and have hair combed, teeth brushed, and are on their best behavior…at least for however long it takes to take the obligatory photo in front of the house or school.

Moms, and even some Dads if you really want to know, post about shedding some tears at how quickly the kids grow.  They also are thankful that someone else will be looking out for them for awhile during the day.  They welcome them home if they rode the bus or walked, or they make certain they are there in the pickup line when they are dismissed for the day, asking them about their day and all that happened.  It’s really a big deal for both parent and child.

I also see moms, dads, grandparents and others at the Little League games, both baseball and softball, in the later summer months on TV.  They are waving flags, holding signs, cheering on their kid and their team, and doing all they can to sway the game results from their place in the stands.  They are supportive of their kids to the max, and it’s heartening to see.

I don’t recall it being that way with me, however.  When I came along…number 3 of 6, going to school was routine.  The first day of school wasn’t much different from all of the other days.  No photos.  No send-offs.  I don’t know if there were tears or not, but I suspect there was more the gratefulness that someone else was watching over me for awhile during the day than there was sadness at how quickly I was growing.

Mom and Dad did attend many of my school activities, including concerts, plays, and other events.  I never was very sports-minded, so didn’t do that.  But I did like to sing and later play in the band, both junior high and high school.  We didn’t talk much about the concerts, plays and the like though, either before or after, and they were just sort of like everything else…just sort of the routine.  I think there wasn’t even any comment my Junior year when our choral teacher, who loved musicals, had her show choir (which I was a member of) dance, sing, and act their way through several numbers taken from musical productions.

They attended my Eighth grade graduation, but never brought a camera.  They asked a friend from church if they would snap a photo of me getting my diploma…which the friend did, but since it was an old-style film camera, it was a double exposure and not worth anything.  Nor did they bring a camera to my high school graduation even though I graduated with honors and was a member of the National Honor Society.  There were no graduation parties, dinners, or the like.  Just the acknowledgement that I was going into another phase of life and living.

So, was I a deprived child?  Well, in some ways, one might reasonably hold that opinion.  After all, my folks never made a big deal out of pretty much anything I did.  It was just sort of expected that I do my best, and grind out everything else as best I could.  There were never any big parties, photographic sessions, or grand to-do’s.  It was just life and living.

On the other hand, I had all I needed…I had food, clothing, shelter, family, friends, an education, religious training, and all the rest.  I had both a mother and a dad.  And even though it was difficult for them to express emotion toward me and the other kids having to do with parental love, acceptance and encouragement, once in awhile the barriers broke down and that came through.

At the time I wondered if they really loved me or just tolerated me because I was their kid.  Looking back, I see their attempts at demonstrating love through their provision and work toward keeping the family unit humming along.  Times were difficult then, and we often were just a few days away from not having basics rather than having.  I’m sure that more than once they retired for the night wondering what the next day would bring…praying that we all would be taken care of somehow.  But they persevered, worked tirelessly for us…that is the family…and showed their love through what they did for us rather than what they said to us.

And as I look back, having known many of their siblings, parents (my grand parents), and other ancestors in each family, I can see where their matter-of-fact ideas of parenting and family came from.  The frontier of the later 1800’s, the flu epidemic of the 1910’s, premature death in the families, WWI, the dust bowl, the Great Depression, WWII, Korea, the mini dust bowl of the 1950’s…these tragic events and others served to mold them into people who were matter-of-fact, working class, persevering people who much of the time, it seems, slogged through their days working and providing as best they knew how, trusting in God for strength and wisdom.

So in total, I see no deprivation.  Even though I don’t have a single good photo of any of my first days of school, or either my eighth grade or high school graduation, I see love, manifested in food, clothing, shelter, training, educational opportunity, health, family, and God.  And I am blessed beyond measure.