This I Believe

This I Believe

            No one is given a magical how-to-guide on how to approach life, and as a result, growing up is challenging on more levels than one.

             I feel as though I spent too much of my childhood days waiting in anticipation of being older. Being two years younger than my brother, I couldn’t wait to be able to do everything he did. I remember sitting in his passenger seat watching him delightfully rev the engine of the white Honda as he sped us to school day after day with Tupac blaring from a new ridiculous subwoofer. The excitement sunk in when he leaned over, nudged me with his elbow and poked, “I’ll teach you how to drive this five-speed one day… when you’re old enough.” From that moment on, I was eagerly waiting on the future. Now in retrospect, this cherished memory makes me laugh because learning how to drive that white Honda was a dreadful experience. It was painful for both my brother and me; he worried about the condition of the car as I cried wanting the lesson to be over.  I always longed to be doing what my brother was and I always was impatient for my turn. I now wish I was a child again, preferably back in my Preschool class, doodling a family portrait but only using my two favorite colors, pink and yellow. I also miss running around at recess by the swings, holding Kyle Francis’ hand, not caring if he talks to me again tomorrow. 

            When I went off to college three years ago, I had a difficult time with the adjustment because my parents did a wonderful job spoiling me. Doing my own laundry was a wake-up call for me. Don’t get me wrong, I am completely functional on my own now and I enjoy my independence, I am just thankful that my parents let me be naïve for as long as I was. I find myself missing it frequently and envious of my roommate who must still think her dishes magically put themselves in our dishwasher. But something as simple as driving to a friend’s house can remind me of family car trips to my grandparents’; I instantly miss my dad singing along with Frank Sinatra as I rock out in the back seat to NSYNC. My mother was usually sound sleep beside me with her head uncomfortably rolling from one side to another, her red hair still in perfect curls, unaware to John Denver singing from her ear buds. Memories like this I cherish and leave me wishing my dad were still driving me to the places I need to go.

            The worst part of growing up is comprehending death. I acknowledge that death is a natural part of life, beyond any control and I understand its affects are unpreventable. However, I’m still struggling to accept when death takes a friend at such a young age and all are left questioning whether it was really his time to go. When I lost a childhood friend this last March, I couldn’t settle my frantic thoughts and challenging questions as to why. No one saw this tragedy coming and he was going places. He was the left handed pitcher on his baseball team at his college where he was earning his degree; was his purpose in life fulfilled at age 20? His memorial service changed me; a sour high school reunion as we all get together but only to reveal feel how strong his absence is amongst us.

            If there is anything growing up has taught me, it is that time does help.  Whenever, I find myself moping around about hand-washing my roommate’s dishes, dreading the long drive behind the wheel, or how still struggle with the stick shift, I think of my friend and his memory. Growing up without him may not be easy but it should never be taken for granted. I choose to live each day to honor those who were never given the chance to continue growing up because no matter how tough the days or memories may become, life is always worth celebrating.