Something New....

First's can be hard.  No matter what the circumstance, no matter what the age, "first's" are typically accompanied by much thought and a few nerves. 

It's the anticipation of something new that lends itself to the bucket full of emotions.  Once embarking on a new adventure, emotions tend to become a little more steady.  For most, that is.  

We've entered into a new school year in the Polski household.  It's been very interesting watching my two oldest as they anticipate the first day of school.  Like most kids, there is particular interest in all the new friends they'll meet.  And so, it's been fascinating to see their different personalities emerge as they eagerly await the meeting of these potential new friends. 

I will never forget my first day of kindergarten.  I had it all planned out the night before and knew exactly how I was going to make friends.  I had mentally tucked away three stories that I was ready to pull out at a moments notice.  I didn't know whether or not they would be necessary, but just in case, I had a plan.

My first story had to do with a candy necklace.  Remember those?  I had a candy necklace that had one little circle of candy left hanging lonely in the middle of the elastic.  I figured I'd "hook" an innocent bystander by simply wearing the necklace.  Asking me about the candy would be the logical next step, and the story behind the candy  necklace would no doubt draw them right in.  I would have the opportunity to explain that I ate the whole necklace by myself.  And, if they would be my friend, I would let them have the last piece of candy.   And just like that...I'd have a friend. 

Just in case this wouldn't work, I had another plan.  I stuck my favorite T-shirt in my backpack (a dress was necessary for this first day, of course).  The T-shirt had a hot pink palm tree on the front, covered with florescent lights and bedazzles. Underneath the Palm tree was the word "Florida" strewn across in an ostentatious way.  It was awesome.  If I needed to pull it out, someone would surely ask me where I got it (not everyone entering kindergarten was ready to be there).  This was an easy hook.  I would then draw them in by explaining that I got to go to Florida that summer and my grandparents live right by Disney World.  I would then tell them that if they wanted to be my friend, I would take them with me sometime.  And just like that.... I'd have a friend.  

Believe it or not, I used the previous two stories on the first day of school.  I gave myself no chance to make a friend with the all too common "Hello, my name is Katie.  Do you want to play?"  and instead went right to the stories.  I don't remember if the kids were impressed or not.  I do, however, remember a young girl chomping down on the last piece of candy as it hung around my neck.
  
I kept the last story hidden away for almost the entire year.  In fact, my kindergarten graduation was one week after I decided to pull it out.  There was no doubt in my five year old mind that my use of the story was necessary at the time.  You see, no one was playing with me at recess.  All my friends went off in their little circles and I was left by myself on the playground.  This would not do. 

I had to answer questions about this story.  When I told them I could fly, I thought it would be a cut and dry issue, but it was apparent that everyone standing in the circle doubted me.  I remember questions like, "How did you learn?"  and "How high can you go?"   I then responded with one of the stupidest three word phrases that I had used in my entire five years:  "I'll show you."

I walked with confidence over to the bouncy bridge on the playground.  Five girls stood below me while the sixth climbed the stairs that at the time seemed miles high.

I told my friend to stand behind me and when I told her to push, she should push as hard as she could.  I also told her that she would have the best view of the flight.  I asked everyone if they were ready, and then I didn't disappoint and yelled, "push!"  I, apparently, was amongst those who entered Kindergarten but wasn't ready to be there.  

It really was terribly wrong that my friend's mother made her bring me a present and some ice cream after finding out my foot was broken in three places.  Her mother didn't believer her when she explained the situation.  Looking back, I'm not entirely sure I would have believed her either.  Poor girl.  I sat there with a heavy cast on my scrawny leg eating Baskin Robbins and looking through brand new Clifford books.  What a friend.

I suppose I had them in kindergarten.  Friends, that is.

I can't help but reminisce when I watch my kids go through the same anticipation.  They ask the same kinds of questions that I used to ask:  What will the other people be like?  Will they like me?  Who will be my friends?  

Yesterday, I watched quietly as my daughter acquainted herself with her new third grade classroom.   And I noticed something very interesting and really quite refreshing about her.  She was quiet.  She said very little, unless spoken to.  And, remarkably, she had met two new kids in our short fifteen minute visit to her new classroom. Two kids that upon leaving she referred to as "her new friends."   How does she do that? 

And then there is my son.  When putting him to bed the other night, he told us he had a "plan" (oddly and somewhat scarily familiar) for how he was going to make his friends.  When my husband asked him about his plan, he explained the fine details very confidently:  "I'll bring money to school and pay them all to be my friend.  A quarter each." 

Really?  His plan is to buy some friends?

But then, really, is that any stranger than making friends with candy necklaces, Las Vegas style T-shirts, and stories about flying?  I think not. Admittedly, these kinds of "plans" may not be all his own fault. 

I went home from my first day of kindergarten with a saliva ridden elastic band around my neck.  Here's to hoping my son's future friends don't go home with a pocket full of change. 

It takes a Community

I’d like to rephrase the common saying:  “It takes a village…,” to, “It takes a (church) community.” 

Not as smooth, I know, but true, non-the-less. 

Growing up in a pastor’s home, I know this to be the case.  My parents were often busy on Sunday mornings with various responsibilities, so sometimes we were left to fend for ourselves.  That was the idea, but the reality was that the church came along side my parents and took to heart the vow that each member takes when a child is baptized promising to “assist the parents in the nurture and admonition of this child.”

There was a couple in our church who faithfully sat with us each Sunday while Dad preached and Mom sang in the choir.   They helped practically.  And then there were Sunday school teachers, children’s church leaders, and others who helped in nurturing us spiritually.  

It was my younger sister, though, who experienced the sweet necessity of this community in a truly unique way. 

Shortly after returning home from a long morning at church, there was a knock at the door.  A church member stood on our front step, looking curiously at my dad.  “Rodney, did you forget anything at church today?” 

I will never forget his response:  “Did I forget my Bible?”

“No,” she was totally trying not to laugh.  “You forgot your daughter.”  And in walked the poor soul of my younger sister – forever scarred by being forgotten and all Erin and I could do was laugh…. 

I’m telling you, it takes a community. 

I will never forget the chills of emotion that ran through my body upon each of my own children’s baptism’s as the congregation faced us raising their hands promising to help us in the nurture of our own children. 

If only each group knew what they were really getting into coming alongside the Polski clan. 

My oldest two kids were young when we moved to St. Simons Island, Ga., where Chris took his first job as a Sr. Pastor.  I embraced the fact that there were many young mothers in the church when we began there, but I was also drawn to the particularly refined nature of those who lived on the Island; even the children seemed consistently polished. 

I tried to learn the fine art of refinement, but somehow I never seemed to quite get it.  What I remember about my daughter’s first day of preschool, for example, is a picture of six girls with big bows, smock dresses and curls and then my daughter, right in the middle, sticking out like a sore thumb, with her shorts and t-shirt.

On one Sunday, still fairly new to our church community, I pulled a fellow mother aside and asked her if I could get some advice.  She seemed very willing.    

I got right to the point:  I needed to know how to potty train a boy.  Coming from a family with three girls and potty training one little girl, I didn’t have a clue what to do with a boy.  Do they sit, stand?   I had even heard about floating toys that could be purchased at Walmart that help boys “aim” in the right direction. 

Clearly taken back by my question, she pulled me in and said simply and quietly, “You just do the same thing you did with your daughter.” 

Yes, of course.   I felt like combating my previous bit with, “Yea, I knew that.  I just wanted to make sure.” But, especially after seeking out her knowledge on the potty floating toys from Walmart, nothing seemed more appropriate than, “Thanks for the advice.” 

The next Sunday, immediately following the service, my husband and I stood in the foyer greeting and meeting various people from the congregation.  While talking to one of the new -comers about our move to the Island, I saw something out of the corner of my eye that will remain embedded in my memory forever. 

My son was running naked through the hallway toward the foyer of people.  He was fully unclothed except for his dress shoes and socks.  Before I could will my body to move, my son stood there, naked, clinging to my leg, acting, of course, as if this was a normal occurrence for our family.  The brief moment wasn’t doing much for me in the refining department.    

The scene was like one from the movies.  The chatting stopped and the attention was given to me….and my naked child.  I actually welcomed the few chuckles and tried to joke my way out of the situation by saying, “well, at least he has on his Loafers!” 

I’m not sure what I was thinking by pointing to his Penny Loafers as the silver lining in a deeply embarrassing situation. 

I took him back down the hallway and tried to figure out, with all the calmness I could muster, why in the world he had no clothes on.  His explanation was as simple and direct as I should have expected it to be:  he had to go to potty. 

I wasn’t sure if taking off his clothes happened before or after going potty, but what I was sure about was the sweet look of pity from my potty-training advice friend as she followed me down the hallway, not with the purpose of chastising me, but instead admitting with me that perhaps we will need to go about the potty training thing differently than I did with Ella.   Her use of “we” was quite purposeful.

It takes a community, no matter how different we are from one another. 

The beautiful thing is that a church community can really become an extended family.  Extended fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters – just as God intended it to be. 

This morning at church, when I sat down in my familiar spot getting ready for the sermon, there were two pointed movements that happened simultaneously.  The woman sitting to my right routinely held her Bible in such a way that I could read along.  It seems as though I can remember everything for church from music to cheerios to water cups to nursery tools, but I tend to forget my Bible, and my friend knew this.    

At the same moment, the woman sitting in front of me held behind her a pen and piece of paper, knowing that I would have neither with me, but understanding that I love to take notes while the sermon is preached. 

And then I considered something.  It takes a community.  It takes a community both practically and spiritually…..for all of us.