In a couple weeks he will be eleven.  Today, we attended his 5^th grade promotion.  I tried not to let the tears blur my vision; I knew if one escaped I would dissolve into a sobbing pile of mush in the front row.  I’m embarrassing now, you know, just ask my kids.

I usually think these types of ceremonies (kindergarten graduation with caps and gowns, 5^th grade promotions with pomp and circumstance) exist to create additional opportunities for kids to wear their Easter clothes, the ones we spent too much money on and want to see them in one more time before they disappear somewhere in the far away galaxy called “the back of the closet.” Or, if they belong to my children, before they become costume fodder for the original production of “Zombies On Easter Parade.”

But today, I grudgingly admit that it was a needed ceremony of closure for him—for us.  He has completed an extremely difficult year.  He has had to look an adult teacher in the eye and tell her calmly that he can’t hear her when she yells, that fidgeting is ok for boys, and that she needn’t worry about his ‘transition skills’ as he has been in more schools in the last six years than she has seen in her entire career.  As many times as I bit my tongue and wrote letters recommending her resignation (which I didn’t send), I am thankful for the way it has grown my son this year.  At times, it was too much, and we let him stay home for mental health days.  Other times, we felt adult intervention was necessary, and we wrote emails, attended conferences, and asked for help.  The hardest part is seeing him hurt, and breathing long enough to think through whether it is something he can handle or if we need to step in.

Should we have pulled him out at Christmas, like I wanted to do?  Probably.  But I would have missed the opportunity to learn how to hear him—to know when he just needs to unload and when he is asking for help.  I saw him handle stress—sometimes well, and other times poorly, and at times, we were able to guide and help him articulate appropriate responses.

I have heard him pray for her, which chokes me up just thinking about it.  He has made a leap that I still struggle with—praying for those who hurt us.  He is slipping slowly into the man-skin that God has created for him, and that is worth a little pomp and circumstance.  And enjoy one last look at this white shirt– it’s sure to have red paint and holes by the weekend.