Makes me think of thin rubber wipers sliding back and forth across the windshield. Even though it’s almost 8 in the morning the sky is dark. Headlights glare back at me as I stare out the school bus window.
It’s the early sixties. I’m on my way to no man’s land. A place where I don’t belong to anyone and no one belongs to me.
That’s where I live from 8:30 to 3:00- five days a week. I
- sit for hours at my desk,
- slip through the hallways on break
- and eat my tuna sandwich for lunch.
If someone does say “hi” to me, my face blazes with shame. I’m socially awkward, you see. Shy. Made mute by the fact that no coherent thoughts can survive in my head if someone even looks at me.
How do I make it through each day?
The thought of home.
It’s a rental. My home. Rusty old. Full of garage sell furniture and hand-me-down clothes. But, it’s where I’m really, truly known.
There are no remarks like
- “hey, there’s the shy kid.”
- or “Renee who? Never heard of her.”
At home, I’m funny and crazy and loud all at the same time.
And, I am loved.
Even though I’m now in my fifties, I dream of going back home. Not to the exact house. It doesn’t exist.
It’s a warmth and a completeness that I yearn for. The welcoming arms of acceptance that encompass the real me.
But, I’m still on the bus. And, it still rains. Sometimes I make connections. Other times it feels like life is just a noisy classroom full of strangers. Endless homework. Bullies and disappointments.
The bus keeps moving. There’s still a lot of living left to do. Difficult times. Good times, too.
But, the best is yet to come.
- A celebration like we’ve never seen.
- A wholeness of spirit and fullness of love like we’ve never known.
Until then, dream of home.