It pulls up like clockwork. 3:45 on any given afternoon. Two honks carry across the quiet cul-de-sac and I roll my eyes every time because do they really think I don’t know they’re there? I stand on the porch and wait. Sometimes she naps on the way home and they have to prod her awake: Cassidy, you’re home.
She lugs her things along–backpack empty but hands full. She stops at the driveway and bends sideways at the waist, a move I did one time long ago to catch a glimpse of her around the porch beam. It’s a thing now. She stays frozen in that sideways bend until I reciprocate. And then she gurgles a laugh and runs to me.
Here, they call it high school transition–when we tour the schools and meet the teacher people and see the classrooms. Like Papa Bear and mama bear and baby bear there are three schools and we’re supposed to pick which one suits her. So we tour and meet and see but the picking doesn’t come so easy. This chair is too hard and this one too soft. We deliberated and prayed and decided and then decided differently but finally we picked. We filled out the form and turned it in and sighed with relief. Oh but then they sent email and said sorry but baby bear school is full.
So there’s that. And this porridge is too hot.
I woke up at three and–fittingly–all three of the bear schools flooded and I knew there was no sleeping and so I had to remind myself that my God is sovereign and nothing–no stinkin’ school thing–keeps him from working for our good. It’s one of those things I know and so I can’t help but wonder why there is no rest for the weary. This bed it too big.
But it’s all good because today there will come two honks and the sideways bendy thing and time enough to sort it all out. And if not…
I’ll try again tomorrow.