Hold Me Jesus—It's August
Reflections on our girls going to school and more
It is August. Our girls are in school. The heat index has been over 100º for like a week.1
I have feelings.
Empty Nesters, in a Manner of Speaking
As of today, both of our girls are in “school” for the first time. I say “school,” because little Daisy’s just in a twice-a-week parents’ day out program, but nonetheless, both of our girls are at their respective schools at the same time for the first time…ever. It’s our first real taste of empty-nesting, I guess you could say.
Last Monday we dropped Maggie off at school for her first day of first grade, and we were a bit nervous, honestly. Maggie had a really hard time being dropped off at kindergarten last year not only at the beginning, but at various points throughout the school year after a prolonged break. So we weren’t sure how this year’s first day drop-off was going to go.
We were grateful that the principal saw her walking up and called her out by name, saying he was excited to see her back at school. Then she saw the school counselor and some other staff she loves, and took off after them to give them hugs. We had to beckon her back to give us hugs before we walked back to our car and made the drive home.
She did just fine. We missed her, though. Daisy, too.
Daisy starts her program the day you all receive this. As I write this the day before, I’m not entirely sure how she’s going to do! She’s quite old for her class, being a September birthday, so it’s going to be interesting to see how she does in a structured “classroom” environment filled with kids mostly younger than she is.
For example, last week Daisy walked up to Susie in the kitchen and dropped a contextually-appropriate, “Well, well, well,” and was also singing expressively alongside Aretha Franklin’s “Respect”—“Just a yittle bit! Just a yittle bit!” Meanwhile, at her preschool orientation last week, one of her barely-two-year-old classmates in attendance isn’t talking much yet. So, we’re wondering how this goes for her, particularly for her teachers. We’re just hoping some other kids in her class are closer to her age and developmental level.
Daisy has a bit more of a…feisty(?) personality than Maggie, so I suspect we could get a phone call or two from her teachers this year about possible behavioral issues. But we’ll see! She’s ready to make a bunch of new friends and have some more structure than she has at home. So we’re eager for her to get that.
Susie and I are going to go to lunch today to celebrate and grieve simultaneously. If you’re a parent, I suppose you understand.
When we sent our firstborn to kindergarten last year, I wrestled through more feelings of grief than this year. I suppose another, similar feeling of sadness will come in a few years when Daisy goes off to kindergarten.
I don’t really count myself among the people who don’t want their children to grow up, even if one day I do count myself among the dads who wishes his little girls were still small.
I know that, one day, I will miss their innocent eyes and small voices, but when I think of our girls growing up I find myself filled with more feelings of excitement than dread. I can’t wait to share parts of life with them that they couldn’t understand or enjoy yet—like the Harry Potter books or the Rocky Mountains or foods that don’t require a microwave. I can’t wait to tell them that boys are actually quite stupid and they shouldn’t cry over someone who is himself embarrassed to cry. And all the other dad stuff that awaits in the years to come.
I am grateful for who our girls have been, who they are becoming, and who they will be.
It’s August, and It Makes Me Want to Vomit
I wrote recently that this time of year is always a little difficult for me because I sort of endure something akin to seasonal depression—I’m kinda kidding about that, but also not really.
It has been sweltering hot and humid and so disgusting outside it’s even hard to sit out on the back porch at six o’clock in the morning without swatting mosquitos and feeling like you need gills to breathe. That’s nothing to say of the afternoon and evening hours, which are basically unbearable if your plans do not include some kind of body of water.
I think my lingering midwestern climatological sensibilities are at the core of my deep-seated disgust with August in the South. I still have not gotten used to it, after 13 years.
While it is still hot in my home country of the Midwest, part of what contributes to my gloom around this time is that I grew up seeing August as the last throes of summer that, throughout its tenure, gave way to cool mornings and jackets by the beginning of September. While here in Middle Tennessee August is the appetizer for what will almost certainly be a similarly-sweltering September—but at least then we’ll have football.
I say I struggle with “something akin” to seasonal depression because while the disgusting weather plays its central role in my malaise, I think August is always a bit depressing also because there’s just nothing really going on, other than the kids going back to school. The fall season holds so many enjoyable trappings beyond its more tolerable weather—football season arrives, new books and video games are on tap, delicious fall foods are in play, my birthday is in October, and then of course Halloween festivities, kicking off three months of holidays.
But August has none of these things, which I think just makes the intolerable weather even more miserable.
This discouragement I’m describing to you may be a bit overstated—I am not crippled by all of these superfluous annoyances and sources of grumbling to a point of not being able to function throughout the day—but I would be lying if I said I feel completely like myself these weeks.
A former co-worker of mine who lives in a particularly gloomy region of the country always used to say something like, “I am careful not to make any big life decisions in the depths of winter when gloom prevails and nothing feels happy.”
This is how I feel about August. Best to not upend my life when going outside at midday feels like a form of self-harm.
Hold Me Jesus
I think I’ve written about this here before, but I need to confess: I don’t really listen to much Christian music. I know…I know. Shame, shame.
That said, few Christian creatives in any form—author, speaker, musician, or otherwise—have ministered to me as much as Rich Mullins has ministered to me over the years. Being a 90s kid who grew up going to church and listening to some CCM, I was vaguely aware of Rich Mullins growing up, but I certainly never sought out his music. In fact, the songs of his I did know I mostly thought were cheesy—like “My God Is An Awesome God.”
Now, as a nearly-middle-aged, often weary, follower of Jesus, Rich Mullins and his music shepherd my soul.
This is especially true in the hellish doldrums of late summer Augusts and Septembers.
The last week or so, my daily lunchtime trips to the gym have been largely replaced by lunchtime walks around the neighborhood instead—yes I recognize the irony here—because I’ve needed to enjoy nature in spite of its heat instead of lumbering on a treadmill in the air conditioning for the better part of an hour.
I don’t go for a walk in August to find fresh air because I’m not a fool.
I endure the August heat in the middle of my day because I need to see the birds and the sky and imagine what’s beyond them.
Rich Mullins has been my companion on these lunchtime walks, and through songs like “Peace,” and “We Are Not As Strong As We Think We Are,” and “Hold Me Jesus,” God has kneaded my heart into a state of tenderness that repels the nagging discouragement and inexplicable dread I feel.
Dealing with the emotions of sending my girls off to school all while wrestling with my own discouragement in forms that look like self-loathing, imposter syndrome, and calling confusion leave me breathing, “Hold me Jesus, I’m shaking like a leaf,” in between deep inhales of barely-breathable air as I walk at the park next to my house.
I think one of the reasons Rich Mullins reaches me is because in his work I sense the tension between wanting to keep myself together and being willing to be broken so that I can be put back together.
In my flesh, I want to just keep myself together. It feels cleaner and easier than letting myself fall apart. August reminds me how fragile I am—that, indeed, I am not as strong as I think I am—and Rich Mullins gives me permission, if you will, to admit that to myself. And so I cry out to Jesus to hold me, because I feel like my life doesn’t make any sense at all, so I’m shaking like a leaf on account of being my own king of glory and attempting to be my own prince of peace.
The other night I looked at my phone at 8:15pm. The heat index was 103º. I may have cursed—sorry to disappoint you.