Nothin' Illegal

This past weekend was Homecoming for our school. It was a fun-filled week of festivities from the elementary to the high school. We little ones at the elementary enjoyed hat day, silly sock day, and red-white-and-blue day. We are Patriots, after all, and we go all out! There was red-white-and-blue hair, beads, clothes, faces, and in my James's case a big fluffy red and blue wig! Oh, yes...he wore the wig with confidence, strutting into the second grade room with a grin on his face and his furry head held high.

At the football game that evening, we started out sitting on the bleachers to watch our boys stomp the unfortunate visiting team. But, James was watching the more interesting game on the sidelines...the game that's been a tradition since the beginning of time (or at least the beginning of our school). With all the sweaty macho tackling and the glory of head-to-head testosterone-filled combat in the air, who could blame the younger boys for starting their own game in the open grassy field to the side of the football field? And that is what they do. They sweat and tackle, run and trash talk, look to see if the girls are watching, and then...tackle, grunt, and trash talk some more. That is until some rule enforcing adult comes to break up their game and remind them that the ambulance on the sidelines is not for little boys without padding who choose to throw caution to the wind and wage gridiron war. Rather, it is for the boys we came here to see...our well padded and helmeted high school boys.

So, I was on the sidelines, reminiscing with some moms about when we had our Homecoming (you know, back in the day), when I had a feeling it might be time to check on James. He had been out of my sight for a few minutes, and...well, you know the feeling. We walked up to the pseudo- football-field-of-dreams just in time to witness the police officer breaking up the game, and reminding the boys to be safe. That's when I caught the look of shock and terror on James's face. His eyes were like saucers, as he looked around nervously...suddenly not feeling so tough. I quietly said, "James, come here," and in a millisecond, his hand found mine. Relief. You see, there are two people whose words are respected and revered above all else (in the mind of James) - his Sunday School Teacher and "the police". If it's against God's law or the law of the land, he doesn't want any part of it. I wondered how all this excitement was processing behind those wide eyes.

So, I asked, " What happened? What were you doing, James?"

To which, with arms and eyebrows raised , he replied, "Nothin' illegal!"

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As I have both lamented and rejoiced, my oldest son is in high school. So, for him, Homecoming meant his first high school dance. We went shopping for an outfit that afternoon. Oh, the nostalgia. The memories flooded my mind as I thought of my own first Homecoming, my first boyfriend, arguing with my mom as she put my hair in hot rollers. I thought of when I was on the Homecoming Court and had the honor of being Homecoming Queen. Now, I don't normally wish I could go back to that tumultuous time in my life. There are more regrets from the foolishness of youth than cherished memories. And I'm much more satisfied to stay here...in this place where I am a new creation in Christ, secure as the woman I am, loved and safe...no longer searching, no longer filled with the unbridled passions of youth. Sigh.

When I dropped him off, I could see a glimpse of the festively decorated cafeteria and the young, excited faces through the window. The new outfits and the sparkle. The anticipation. And there I was...on the outside, looking in the window. For a moment, I wished I had something to get that excited about...a dance to get ready for. The excitement of the unknown. What would happen? The mom in me was excited for him...that this was his time. The girl in me missed my own mom...how she would understand. I remembered her waiting until I got home from the dance...waiting for me to tell her all about it, while still glowing from the warmth of dancing all evening in the arms of my first love. Had time really passed so quickly?

I smiled, as I paused for a moment in the parking lot, knowing that there would be no conversation about the details of the evening when he came home. I have a son...not a daughter. And son's don't give the details...at least not the ones a mom would want to know. Details of the game, yes. Details about who danced with who and what everyone wore. Not so much! I will remain outside, looking in the window of his life as he grows. And I will be here, should he feel the urge to share a crumb of information, letting me inside for just a moment. And I will be praying and trusting God to take care of the rest.