Scenes from the start of the school year:
I walked into work this morning and saw two girls sitting a few seats apart from one another in the otherwise empty chapel. They weren’t speaking to one another. They were just sitting companionably in the dark, in the silence.
Intense conversations, everywhere. All the time.
It will be sad when it snows because 98% of the students will have to stow their flip flops until spring. The other 2% will wear them even in a blizzard.
More than a few students have reported that the first week of classes has made them feel like crying. Those darn syllabi – with all the course assignments and expectations, meant to guide them through their learning journey – can feel like travel directions for a semester-long Bataan Death March.
I had a delightful conversation with an upcoming chapel guest. Way, way back in the early 1980’s, I worked at what was then National College of Education, now known as National Louis University. I discovered that the gentleman scheduled to speak in our chapel in a couple of weeks was the president of National College of Education when I worked there. I didn’t interact much with him back in the day since I was a lowly financial aide office person there, and there wasn’t much call for me to chat with the president in my paper-pusher role. This week’s conversation was a fun “small world” moment.
I have mangled names and details in ways I never have before. There’s a lot of information competing for air time in my head, and I am feeling as clumsy mentally as I usually do physically. I’m tripping over data, and stumbling over words. I hate this feeling. Hate it. There’s not a syllabus involved for me (except the “get the hang of this job as soon as possible” one), but I’ve had a few teary moments this week, too.
Prayer with others is a regular part of my days.
And one scene from last week’s start of school for my grandson:
First day of kindergarden – and he somehow ended up on the wrong bus for the trip home. An hour after his scheduled arrival, after a series of phone and dispatchers’ calls, a frustrated, flustered bus driver finally dropped him off. This one still puts an ostrich-egg-sized lump in my throat a week after it happened.