Rewarding

Last night we met my husband's parents at an open air mall for dinner. The restaurant was overcrowded and not the ideal choice for a party as large, but it was great to see everyone. After dinner we walked around. Every adult emptied their wallets and pockets in search of pennies for the kids to throw in the centerpiece fountain of the mall. Afterward most adults wanted coffee and all children wanted a sweet treat. The two groups branched off from one another; I went with the latter. While the java junkies were getting their fix, we found our way to the Nestle Toll House Shop. I walked up to the counter with Julia and my nephew, Isaac. The Nestle girl approached and put her hands to her mouth and said, "I think I am going to cry, it's my first and third grade teacher."

I always say that the two words that strike fear in my heart when I am out in public are Mrs. Kado. I am always afraid that I won't remember a name. But there was Rebecca. Could not forget her.

In my first official year with the district, I taught first grade. Rebecca was in that very first class. Needless to say, that class is acutely exceptional in my mind. The next year, I was moved to third grade. The year after I remained in third grade and was fortunate enough to get roughly half of my old first graders. Rebecca was one of those. I married Bobby the summer after that school year. Rebecca and another student had their mothers drive them out to Troy for the ceremony.

She and I spent a few minutes catching up. She just graduated from high school. I asked where she was headed from there. She told me she was starting out at community college. Her desire, she told me, is to teach first grade.

My and Mine

Julia and I were sitting on the sofa, looking out the front window and rehashing the day's events. Summer is in full swing; we are in our routine; and I couldn't be happier. At this particular moment, she is recounting (i.e. giving her side of the story) an episode from earlier in the day where I witnessed Julia blow up at Isabel for riding her bike. She so rarely acts bratty or possessive that I am taken aback by her comments. "But it is my bike, mom," she emphatically states. I remind her that she was riding her scooter at the time, so what difference should it make that Isabel wanted to ride the bike. She firmly held her ground, "But [But starts many a sentence these days] Isabel has her own bike here. What does she need to ride mine for?" All I could hear was my and mine. I reminded her that all things ultimately belong to God. Whatever we have, I explained, is a gift from God. It is only ours temporarily. Knowing that she could not argue her way out of that and eager to lighten the mood and change the subject, she tips her chin to her chest and tries to fight a smile. She raises only her eyes and says in a quiet giggle, "So God has a girls' bike?"