To that other boy’s mother, “Thank you”

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I didn’t know it at the time, but a letter had come. There was a golden seal at the top, and it read like this, “The United States of America honors the memory of (and here, it said his name). This certificate is awarded by a grateful nation in recognition of devoted and selfless consecration to the service of our country in the Armed Forces of the United States.” It was signed by President Donald J. Trump.

It was three years ago right now. Our third son was a junior in high school, and he had gone to Kenya with a team of youth group members to serve at the Baby Centre. It was after their return as they shared in our Sunday School class one morning that I first heard the words fall from his lips, and I got a glimpse of his future…

“Political science.”

I remember standing by the deli case not long after that at the bulk foods store just across the fields, and there she came. It was Mrs. Corwin, his beloved first-grade teacher. How he had loved his first-grade year; so much, in fact, that he’d told me he wasn’t leaving. He was, he declared to Mother, staying put, and I’d informed him that his friends would be moving up, moving on, and that he’d have to find a few new ones.

All of it came back to me as we spoke by the meats and the cheeses that day. Which is when she dropped two more words, “Hillsdale College,” and I felt it somewhere in my spirit.

He graduated from high school, then put his head down, leaning in, and began classes locally, working three part-time jobs (yes, he did). Meanwhile, his Hillsdale dream flickered bright. Thus, on a wintry day, we drove up to Hillsdale, Michigan, for a tour of the campus and an interview. We all felt it. All of us knew it; knew that this was the perfect place for him, and so he tried.

He tried once. Rejection.

He kept working, kept studying, kept dreaming.

He tried twice. Rejection.

He kept working, kept studying, kept dreaming, only by now, a new door had opened, a chance to get experience in the political world by interning. Where the director was a Hillsdale grad, and where the staff quickly embraced our young man.

“Whatever you need,” they told him, “we will help you.” And they put their words into action.

One woman in particular took a keen and personal interest in him and his dream. “I’m on pins and needles!” she told him more than once. “I can’t wait to hear if you get in.” Eager to do what she could, she wrote a letter of recommendation and sent it in to the college.

I recall putting my face in my hands, weeping happy tears over the kindness and favor shown to my son. Overwhelmed with joy, by gratitude undone, I filed it down in my heart. And then yesterday, he told me.

The woman at the office who’d cheered him and encouraged him and thrown her weight behind his dream? A mother who’d lost her own boy. Thus, the reason for the letter with the gold emblem, and that name. The loss of her son still so fresh and so real, and yet–and yet, she’d helped mine.

Now, it’s the third try. Not one, not two, but three kind people from the office have mailed their letters on his behalf. All of that, and yet one other mother besides; her, too, with a Hillsdale grad, who’s gotten behind and leaned in. Grace, amazing. And then, that welcoming packet, “You’re in!”

Last evening by lamp’s light, I sat down, reaching for a pen, and began to write. “Dear Ms. __, I want to thank you for your kindness to my son. God bless you. Warmly, Rhonda Schrock.”

To mothers who mother other people’s kids, I thank you. To mothers who’ve helped mother mine, I thank you! To folks who encourage and don’t dis-courage dreams, I bless you. To those who keep giving in spite of great lack, God bless you. We can all, every one, brighten the corner we’re in. Yes, we can, and the world will be brighter.

Keep shining.

Warmly,

Rhonda Schrock