It’s good, and we rejoice
“Yes, tell us,” we say, looking at this one, our friend who’s plowing a tough road just now, life hammering hard. “What did you do?”
“I got my GED.” She says it quiet; says it small. My mouth falls open. This is big. No, this is huge. For she’s been told she can’t; that she’s dumb; that it’s just not in her. But she does it anyway.
We rejoice, circling around with words of praise, faces beaming bright and smiles cracking big. She talks on, using words like “college” and “courses;” tells how her son, a great, hulking farmer boy sat patient, helping her through the math.
Oh, it’s so good, and we rejoice.
Here at home, Boy Two returns from auditions. Discouragement rides along, angst scribbled across his features. “The only thing they had us do,” he groans, “is sing one song. And it was just too high for me…”
I do what mothers do. I encourage, use my words, pour my heart right into him. “But they know you all. Know what you can do. Know what you’re great at.” It doesn’t feel like much.
Two days later, he returns from school, stepping light, bounding eager. “I had a good day, Mom. I made call backs.” Oh, glory! A second chance. Another try. There’s hope.
It’s good, and I rejoice.
An email comes: “I’ve forwarded it for publication.” I share my news, and friends rejoice. I wait, squirming, anxious, and then it appears. In Friday’s paper, there it is in a far-away town on the prairie where my roots still lie in hard-baked soil.
And you rejoice. Fellow Kansans in various states: “You made me cry.” “A happy bouquet of words.” “I really like it….words painting pictures.” “I teared up, reading about her…” “Thanks for the trip down memory lane.” And this from a friend and classmate, “You made me ridiculously proud.”
My old grade-school principal, he with the crippled leg and ready laugh, calls my mother. “I’m sure you’ve seen the paper. It was encouraging,” and, “It’s amazing. They’re all walking with God.” My father-in-law calls from his winter haven, “I really liked that one.” I’m stunned.
Other friends and readers chime in, sending private messages, leaving comments that I unwrap like gifts with grateful fingers. Printing them off, I find Mr. Schrock. “You won’t believe this,” I say. “Listen.” Sitting down, list in my hands, I begin to read aloud, words – encouraging words, apples of gold in pictures of silver. Nearly done, I look up. He’s choked up, eyes swimming, undone at this embarrassment of riches. And just that quick, I join in.
How grateful I am, you celebrating with me. How you rejoiced, and it was good, us all giving thanks together.