The day the UPS truck delivered our first box of homeschool curriculum, my sister was visiting from out of state, with my great-nephew.
The day after I intend on handing my daughter her high school diploma, the very same sister will be arriving with my great-niece.
And after the last Mom’s Meeting of our homeschool co-op, a sister in the Lord sat with me, listened to me, cried with me, and loved me. And my children.
God knows we need sisters along the homeschool journey. Sometimes from far away and sometimes from just around the way.
- Some sisters will challenge us.
- Some will bug us.
- Some will drive us to our Savior.
- Some will make us laugh.
- Some will help us laugh at ourselves.
- Some will reach deep in us and pull out wisdom we’ve gathered, but haven’t yet applied.
- Some sisters will just hug us when we’re crying, and we’ll remember the scent of her perfume.
- Some sisters will be there when we begin.
- Some sisters will be there when we end.
- And some sisters will be there all the way through.
When homeschooling ends, many of us will still have sisters. And brothers. And daughters. And sons. And husbands. And pastors. And Sunday School teachers. And Bible study leaders. And neighbors. And librarians.
Here’s one of our favorite librarians with my children (in 2010) standing in alphabetical order:
But some of us have lost loved ones along the timeline of kindergarten through high school. And we feel their loss because we wish they could be with us as we celebrate.
Like multiplication tables, memories of loved ones aren’t forgotten easily.
Neither are emotional connections to shoe holders, it seems.
REALITY CHECK: Don’t be surprised when your teens clean out their rooms and bring you memories from their childhood to coo and giggle over and you don’t cry. But when they bring you a silly plastic shoe holder, your throat constricts and you feel tears welling.
Over a shoe holder?! That probably never once contained a shoe?! You will wonder why it, of all things, made you get teary. Maybe it’s the everydayness of the item. The realization that the everydayness of life is about to change. Forever.
And on that note, maybe I’d better go pour concrete.