In 1992, when our son started school, I started putting my hand on his head and praying for him before he walked out of the house. It was a simple act. Touching my son, entrusting him to someone else.
It is an act of blessing. It lets our kids know, before they leave home, that I am aware of them, of the transition that is happening. It is an acknowledgment that that there is an in here and and out there, and that I am aware that I can’t go out there with them, but that I believe they are not alone.
I wish I could say that I was fully aware of the moment every one of the days that I was home on a school morning. I wasn’t. Many mornings it has been a habit, just something that we do. And yet, in the habit, in the ritual, I am reminded that somehow I need to overcome the frustration of the waking up process enough to touch our children.
For most of Hope’s high school years, I’ve been the one that has dropped her off. We’ve tried to remember to look each other in the eyes before she gets out of the vehicle. It’s one more piece of the blessing, seeing that, whatever else happens, we are not just passenger and driver, we are people who acknowledge each other.
A dozen years of school mornings. That’s a lot of touches.
One morning at a time.
by Jon Swanson
Photo graciously provided by MorBCN (de vacances), through a Creative Commons license, some rights reserved