ConGRADulations!

I am not much of a Karate person, which is a shame because a formidable number of young(ish) men seem to have taken up this hobby with a misplaced assurance that it will drive the young(ish) ladies wild (Big Frown). That said, I do fondly recall the time when my 9 or 10 year old nephew, Taylor, first chopped a piece of wood in half with his bare hand. Now, I don’t mean to diminish his accomplishment in any sense, but this wood-splitting feat might as well have been an invitation to the president’s cabinet if you trusted my subsequent reaction; quickening heart beat, goofy smile and I believe by all standards an unreasonable amount of tears. It was a puzzling day—the beginning of an era.

That day was at least 8 years ago, because last week, Taylor, along with two of my nieces graduated from high school and I am sitting here trying to figure out what makes these events so unbearable. Not just graduations necessarily, although I think there is a general consensus that they have their place on the list of potentially hellish recurrences. I’m sure you need no reminding of snail-paced lines, exitless speeches and seat saving for 25 of your closest relatives. These things do not quickly escape the memory.

But the unbearableness that I am referring to is bigger than a commencement ceremony . It is all the reminders, little and big that this group is joining me in adulthood. The thing is, the lives of these children—their milestones, have been, in some way, the living scrapbook of my own childhood.

Kerri’s Scrapbook
Page 1: My oldest niece is born. I am a third grader at Southwest Elementary School. Within a few short months I have mastered two of life’s most useful skills: changing diapers and using adjectives. And with that in mind I feel obliged to tell you that changing diapers can be:
smelly,
squishy,
sticky,
and if you play your cards right,
speedy. (Maybe alliteration came along in third grade as well?)

Page 125: My sister’s youngest son is born 10 days after I officially become someone’s girlfriend for the first time.
Baby-talk the baby, sweet-talk the boy.
Swoon over baby’s first steps, Get dumped by the boy.
Daydream about baby’s future, daydream about getting back with the boy.
Continue this pattern for the next 50 pages.

Page 327: Taylor tries football, while I try Central Asia. I am not saying God ordained the two events to be mutually exclusive but I am pretty sure that if a lame karate trick choked me up, then seeing a successful interception would have most likely resulted in me experiencing some sort of pride-induced heart attack.

And so all of this has me thinking about the concept of nostalgia. Is it a good witch or a bad witch? I think Nostalgia of the Ebenezer Stone variety is a beautiful thing. It is the all-too rare acknowledgement that “The Lord has done great things for us, “ and here in this place we will remember how we have been provided for.

And yet, the whole scene can be so quickly turned on its head, becoming more like an episode of Hoarders than a holy moment of reverence. Remember when she was five, when he was this big, when they climbed that very tree? In these moments I hang onto memories not in awe of what I have been given but in fear that whatever the gift, it was the last of it.

Here is the thing though, It isn’t. There is more goodness coming my way. More than enough for me and for all these 18 year olds who I feel compelled to swaddle before sending on to the voting booth and all the rest of life’s next adventures. Enough Food, Enough Love, Enough Funny . Enough grace for the times when we aren’t so certain that there is enough. Enough 20- something men who never set foot in a Dojo.