Seven years ago yesterday, we had moved into this disaster of a house in a little town on the edge of the world also known as the Border of Idaho. I couldn't imagine why anyone would want to live here. Flights were so expensive. You had to fly to Seattle to get anywhere. It was cold. In June. And I was pregnant with our first baby, though I didn't know it yet. And I would lose him, though I didn't know it yet. It would hurt like nothing had ever hurt before. Though I didn't know it. Yet.
Six years ago yesterday, I spun in an unbelieving circle in the middle of our rented house on the very edge of the island of Saipan. The Pacific crashed into the cliffs four hundred feet below me and I wondered how on earth we ended up back here? The boy growing inside of me was five months along and the girl growing inside of her mother on the exact opposite side of the world was seven months along.
Yesterday evening, I sat in a pew right back in that much maligned (and now much adored) Border of Idaho town and watched the same little boy and girl graduate from Kindergarten. I would have told you - right up until 7:20 p.m. June 14, 2011, when I burst into tears and had to hide my face over a slide show featuring Billy Dean's Let Them Be Little and their forty-five or so bright, little faces - that Kindergarten graduation was a ridiculous concept and events for children after 7:00 p.m. were obnoxious and why in the HOLY HELL does there have to be CAKE at every.single.freaking.event.for. children.in.the.history.of.children.
But oh my God it was cute. It would have been cuter at noon, but I concede that it was cute and maybe even worth it.
Keep on keeping me humble, universe. If I can give up Bali and learn to love the Border of Idaho, I should know never to say never to anything. Congratulations, Saige and Garrett, on your graduation from your first of two years in Kindergarten. There was no prouder momma in that church embarrassing herself by weeping over cheesy country songs than me.
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