The funny thing about this is the fact the sign in literally in the middle of NOWHERE! There isn't a street corner, no intersection, no NOTHING!! Just a field of corn. How boring can that possibly be. I should know, I see fields of corn EVERY day!
But, with the picture she sent this message to me:
"sometimes we just need to stop and take in our surroundings and see where God has placed us at that time. ...Be thankful for what you have."
Now I know that she is my child. She is even starting to think like I do, kinda. But really, what she said made me stop and think. Have I taken the time to ponder why I am where I am? Have I thought about why God has placed a figurative stop sign right here in this time of my life? When I am having a bad day, do I ask "why me? why now?" or do I try to figure out why I was given the bad day in the first place? For most of these situations, the answer is NO. But on occasion I do literally stop in the middle of it all and THINK about the WHY.
A new school year has started for my family and with that comes new experiences and challenges. The biggest one is my daughter starting college. She is only 40 minutes from home, but already I am feeling the effects of her absence. She is even of the attitude that she can make it in life on her own without her mamma. Although I am thrilled to think that I raised her right and with a strong desire to progress on her own and see what happens, I do miss her. It would also be nice if she were to at least make me feel a little better by pretending to still need me, just a tiny bit.
My son started first grade and I thought we were going to have some issues. On Back-to-School night he held onto my waist in a death grip that nothing could break. He wouldn't talk to his new teacher and he defiantly wouldn't come out from behind me to even look at her. One week later school started and everything changed.
When I walked him to school and into his classroom, he gave the teacher a great big hug and didn't even glance back at his mamma. Not more than two hours later, I get a call from the school. Now, if you are a mamma of school-age children, you don't dread anything more than a call from their school. Especially if it is on the first day! They told me there had been a small accident in that my son had been playing outside on the playground and a stick from a low-hanging branch of a tree jabbed him in the head and that he was bleeding.
I tell you, WORST CALL EVER!!!
I scooped up my youngest daughter, grabbed my car keys and rushed to the school as quick as I could. I was totally prepared for the worst possible situation ever. Mainly cuz when my boy gets the tiniest of owies, he squeals like a stuck pig and just gets louder as the time goes on - especially if you tell him he is going to be ok.
Boy was I shocked to find him sitting calmly on the couch in the office without the slightest indication that he had been injured in any way - except that his hair was now tinted blood-red instead of his normal blonde and there was blood on his clothes.
I was impressed with how he had gone straight to the office and calmly stated "I hit my head" then let the office staff clean him up as best they could and didn't show any sign of distress. He was even able to rattle off his phone number for them so they wouldn't have to look it up. When I got there, he let me finish cleaning him up without so much as a whimper. I was able to get his hair back to blonde, put him in a clean shirt and walk him back to class. When he got back to class the teacher greeted him with great concern and told him that he was "a tough guy" and his friends were excited to see him again. He made it the rest of the day and even came home happy.
Now I am starting to wonder if I am needed in my son's life anymore ---- well, maybe just a little. I am trying to focus on what this particular "stop sign" is trying to teach me. I love my children more than life itself and it is soooo hard to see them growing up and moving on without me. I just hope that I can be there for them when they come to their own "stop sign".
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