Back to School
Autumn just called. She’s on her way.
The maples in our neighbors’ yard are tipped with the slightest tinge of red. The angle of the sun’s rays as they pour into our home has changed. Highs have hovered in the upper 70’s for over a week, and I can see the mountains clearly without the humid haze.
Summer hasn’t left town; no doubt she’ll fire up her ovens a few more times before her official departure. But she knows her turn on the stage is ending for this year.
When I was a child, autumn was all about gathering a stockpile of items needed for school: lunch box (the one that looked like a barn was my favorite), binder, spiral notebooks, pencils; and, of course, clothes. It was all quite exciting.
I loved school, even when it didn’t love me back. I did well academically, but recess could be tough. If a playground can be compared to the Serengeti, I was one of the gazelles trying to steer clear of lions at the watering hole.
Still, I had one sweet friend, E.; and I remember some fascinating conversations with classmates about episodes of “Batman.”
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to revisit those grade school days as an invisible observer, unable to disrupt the timeline. Would I learn that my recall is imperfect? Would I dissect little Rita’s behavior, looking for ways she drew the lions in?
Probably, on both counts.
Another argument against time travel.
My parents sent me to a private school in sixth grade, and I remained there until I graduated. Mama and Daddy were not wealthy, and I think I thanked them for their sacrifice once I was old enough to have some sense. I hope I did. They’ve been gone so long now I’m not sure.
Autumn has become my favorite season since our family moved to the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia 23 years ago. Trees burn with color along country roads and city streets, leaves dancing with every passing car, and the mountains are draped in reds and yellows. When the mornings turn slightly chilly, I know apple-picking time is close at hand, and I check my supply of canning jars and lids.
I also find myself taking a look backward, just a quick glance at my childhood. I had some difficult moments, but who doesn’t? I am thankful that my sweet memories outnumber the bitter.
I am also grateful that in God’s economy, nothing is wasted. I tap into the old hurts when I write; I gained insights into human behavior on the playground that I couldn’t have learned from a textbook.
I also seek out other gazelles, the wary souls who have staked out hiding places in plain sight, whether at a party or a church fellowship hall. I try to draw them out with a smile and a gentle interview—I ask about family and work and offer a sincere compliment or two.
Perhaps one day I’ll work up the courage to share what I’ve learned, something they may already know, but that hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Truthfully, it’s still sinking in for me.
It’s this: God, our all-powerful Creator, longs for our fellowship. Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are inviting us—you and me—into their eternal dance.
We are invited.
Not excluded.
All we have to do is answer, “Yes.”
“For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him.”
John 3:16-17 (ESV)“…fear not, for I am with you;
be not dismayed, for I am your God;
I will strengthen you, I will help you,
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”
Isaiah 41:10 (ESV)…for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.
2 Timothy 1:7 (ESV)
Canaan Valley State Park, West Virginia
