Dear Future Children..
Dear Future Children
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I'm not like everyone else and I never will be. When I tell you about my college days, I won't be telling you about studying abroad or touring with the choir or the mission trips I went on.
I won't tell you about being the president of this club or the secretary of that one.
I won't be telling you about my job at the library or at admissions.
Because none of that happened. Not to me.
I will, however tell you about 6 concussions, countless migraines, sleepless nights, that one class I barely passed, and that one professor I loved and who retired too soon.
I'll tell you about my favorite introvert retreat spots, the balconies overlooking the woods and the Beaver River. I'll tell you about 3 school years (4, by the time you hear about it) that I spent in the dining hall as a nondescript dishroom worker. I'll tell you about the opportunities I continually passed up and how I wondered all the time if there was something wrong with me. When I tell you about my life, I want you to be proud of me.
And then I'll tell you about the scary stuff. The car accident and the time I thought I had a brain bleed because I was sure with a migraine that bad that something was very wrong. I'll tell you about the nights spent dry heaving and the pounds I lost because I was too sick to eat like I should be. I'll tell you about my reliance on protein bars and shakes because I wasn't getting enough food in me. I'll tell you about the challenges, the pain, and the many tears.
And then, (Lord, willing) I'll tell you that I finished. "On May 11, 2019," I'll say to you someday. "I walked across that stage and knew I had finally made it." My dad always tells me that a college education is important because when you're done, no one can ever take that away from you. You accomplished that, and the lessons you've learned, and the friends you've made, (some of them, at least) will be with you for the rest of your life.
And then, (But long before that, too.) I'll tell you about the faithful God who carried me through all of that and more. Who always revealed his will for me one step at a time, when I was sure I was screwing everything up, he proved time and time again that His plan for me was so so good, and different that for others, yes, but it glorified Him regardless.
Your aunt and uncle (My sibilings) Will likely have interesting, well providing jobs in the sciences. Their kids will be excited to tell their friends what their parents do.
Will you?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
If you're not proud of what I do, I hope you'll be proud of everything I fought through to get here. I hope you learn something from it too. I hope you learn that it's okay for something to be hard, but that doesn't mean you can't do it. It just means you have more stacked against you than the other kids do. It means that whatever you do, whatever you've accomplished, you worked your butt off to get it.
And NO ONE.
Can EVER
take that away from you.
Dear Future Children,
I'm sorry that my early twenties aren't easy for me, and I'll be the kind of mom who doesn't protect you from the difficult. Because the difficult is what builds character. I'm sorry that sometimes I may not have much sympathy for you because of everything I've done and everything I've seen people have to do.
I'm not like every one else. Sometimes it's all I can do to do the minimum. But I appreciate everything so much more than I would have. And I hope you grow up realizing everything you have.
Because some people have it differently. Things don't come easily to a lot of people. Whether you're one of them or not, I hope you recognize the difference.
Dear Future Children.
I'm sorry you'll hear more about the character I built and the characters I had in my life (Some of whom will be your real and 'adopted' aunts and uncles) than about the teams I ran or the events I organized. Because then you won't be like everyone else either.
Be your own person.
Even.
And Especially.
When it's Hard.
Love,
Mom.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that I'm not like everyone else and I never will be. When I tell you about my college days, I won't be telling you about studying abroad or touring with the choir or the mission trips I went on.
I won't tell you about being the president of this club or the secretary of that one.
I won't be telling you about my job at the library or at admissions.
Because none of that happened. Not to me.
I will, however tell you about 6 concussions, countless migraines, sleepless nights, that one class I barely passed, and that one professor I loved and who retired too soon.
I'll tell you about my favorite introvert retreat spots, the balconies overlooking the woods and the Beaver River. I'll tell you about 3 school years (4, by the time you hear about it) that I spent in the dining hall as a nondescript dishroom worker. I'll tell you about the opportunities I continually passed up and how I wondered all the time if there was something wrong with me. When I tell you about my life, I want you to be proud of me.
And then I'll tell you about the scary stuff. The car accident and the time I thought I had a brain bleed because I was sure with a migraine that bad that something was very wrong. I'll tell you about the nights spent dry heaving and the pounds I lost because I was too sick to eat like I should be. I'll tell you about my reliance on protein bars and shakes because I wasn't getting enough food in me. I'll tell you about the challenges, the pain, and the many tears.
And then, (Lord, willing) I'll tell you that I finished. "On May 11, 2019," I'll say to you someday. "I walked across that stage and knew I had finally made it." My dad always tells me that a college education is important because when you're done, no one can ever take that away from you. You accomplished that, and the lessons you've learned, and the friends you've made, (some of them, at least) will be with you for the rest of your life.
And then, (But long before that, too.) I'll tell you about the faithful God who carried me through all of that and more. Who always revealed his will for me one step at a time, when I was sure I was screwing everything up, he proved time and time again that His plan for me was so so good, and different that for others, yes, but it glorified Him regardless.
Your aunt and uncle (My sibilings) Will likely have interesting, well providing jobs in the sciences. Their kids will be excited to tell their friends what their parents do.
Will you?
Maybe.
Maybe not.
If you're not proud of what I do, I hope you'll be proud of everything I fought through to get here. I hope you learn something from it too. I hope you learn that it's okay for something to be hard, but that doesn't mean you can't do it. It just means you have more stacked against you than the other kids do. It means that whatever you do, whatever you've accomplished, you worked your butt off to get it.
And NO ONE.
Can EVER
take that away from you.
Dear Future Children,
I'm sorry that my early twenties aren't easy for me, and I'll be the kind of mom who doesn't protect you from the difficult. Because the difficult is what builds character. I'm sorry that sometimes I may not have much sympathy for you because of everything I've done and everything I've seen people have to do.
I'm not like every one else. Sometimes it's all I can do to do the minimum. But I appreciate everything so much more than I would have. And I hope you grow up realizing everything you have.
Because some people have it differently. Things don't come easily to a lot of people. Whether you're one of them or not, I hope you recognize the difference.
Dear Future Children.
I'm sorry you'll hear more about the character I built and the characters I had in my life (Some of whom will be your real and 'adopted' aunts and uncles) than about the teams I ran or the events I organized. Because then you won't be like everyone else either.
Be your own person.
Even.
And Especially.
When it's Hard.
Love,
Mom.
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