Hank was a fifth-grader at William Walter Middleberry Elementary School.  He had cowlicky, but enviably thick hair, and a really pleasant smile (when he chose to display it).  He was kind.  He was smart.  He was thoughtful and quiet.  He was also misunderstood, but then, what fifth-grader isn’t misunderstood (even, and sometimes especially, by himself).

It seems a bit strange, but some adults have trouble remembering what it was to be a kid.  After all, each of us had been one; a kid that is.  Some people think that increased wisdom comes with age.  Others believe that the older we are, the more wisdom we’ve forgotten, and that the most essential wisdom is hidden in the innocence of children.  They think that worldly experiences can distract from and diminish that wisdom.   Still others argue that there are three or four decades starting at about thirty years old during which we push wisdom out of the way so that we can focus on being “responsible members of society,” which apparently, in their minds, requires a whole lot of focus and only a tiny little bit of wisdom (if any at all).  Who knows?  Kids don’t really care about that kind of stuff.  Wise.

Anyway, Hank had some things on his mind that typical adult wisdom tended to overlook.  Normally, because adults know not to sweat the “small stuff” (even thought we do sweat the “small stuff”), we tell kids things like, “that’s not a big deal,” or, “don’t get so upset about such a little thing.”  And of course there are the classics, “It’ll be O.K.,” and “I think you’ll survive.”  As kids endure this focused, highly responsible, and possibly not so wise commentary on the importance of the unfolding events of their young lives, they do tend to survive, so that’s good.  But, it can be frustrating.  In fact, Hank was frustrated.  In his frustration, he wrote the following note:

Dear Mom,

            Considering you can’t appreciate me (no one can), I decided to run away.  I will call you and dad once a day every other day.  I have everything planned out.  I will stay healthy.  I will bring money so I can buy water.  I will miss you.

Love,

Hank

P.S.  When you get a dog, send a picture of it to me.  I will also go to school.

He felt horrible writing such an accusatory and decisive note to his own mom, but in his mind, he had no other choice.  This was it.  Hank was alone and he knew it.  Why be alone and with people at the same time?  Who would notice anyway?  Actually, he knew the answer to that question.  She would.  His mom would.  As he thought about leaving the note, Hank remembered what she used to tell him when he was little.  She would say, “Stay close to Momma Hankie, if you got lost, I would cry forever.”

With the note in hand, Hank walked across the field that connected his back porch to the woods.  He kicked at rocks and swatted dandelion fuzz with a stick that he found.  He thought.  He was almost entirely distracted by thinking.  It was a sunny day; the kind with white fluffy clouds against an almost impossibly blue sky that looked like it might have been digitally enhanced.  A bit of breeze tickled Hank’s neck.  It cooled him down.  Gigantic weeping willow limbs swayed at the top of the hill near his house.  He unintentionally focused on them and thought, “How can things so big seem to be so gentle?”

Without realizing it, Hank was sidetracked by the moments that surrounded him.  It was like magic.  His mind turned away from the events of his daily life, minimized by a lack of appreciation though they were, he himself lost sight of their extreme and dire importance.  Hank’s frustration turned out to be no match for a morning stroll across a picturesque field, set against an almost impossibly blue sky, with gigantic and gentle weeping willows waving him home.

Suddenly, and without warning, two yellow butterflies leapt from the grass and playfully skirted around the field; hopping along wildflowers, rolling through the air, attaching and detaching from one another, seeming to be incredibly joyful.  Hank could almost imagine expressions of joy on their butterfly faces.  For a moment, he was elated.  Their apparent joy became his actually joy.  He felt it.  Even if only in his perception, it was contagious.  As the butterflies fluttered off into the distance he wished that they hadn’t.  He wanted to be near them more.  He thought of his mother.  He thought of her crying forever.  Accompanied by a single tear that forced its way out, the joy fell away.

Hank had walked across this very same field thousands of times.  He had never appreciated it in the way that he appreciated it on that particular morning.  He had seen so many clouds, so many blue skies, so many weeping willows, and so many yellow butterflies.  He had never appreciated any of them in the way that he appreciated each one on that particular morning.  He decided that maybe there are lots of ways in which to appreciate something, and that maybe there are lots of ways in which to appreciate someone.  He decided not to deliver the note.  He decided not to run away.

As suddenly and unexpectedly as two yellow butterflies can spring up out of tall grass and flit around a field of wildflowers, two thoughts rushed into Hank’s mind, “It’ll be O.K.,” and “I think that I’ll survive.”  Maybe Hank was growing up.  Maybe he was forgetting his wisdom.  Who knows?

 

Author’s Note:

Of his search for truth along the journey that led him to a philosophy of nonviolence, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote, “I was occasionally shocked as my intellectual journey carried me through new and sometimes complex doctrinal lands.  But despite the shock the pilgrimage was always stimulating, and it gave me a new appreciation for objective appraisal and critical analysis.”  In my experience, the ever-changing developmental state that I seem to exist in demands consideration that at any given moment, I might be wrong.  Always search.  Always question.  Always consider.  You and those you serve are better off for it.    

Dream Big.  Work Hard.  Be Well.