There’s a gentle breeze blowing, rustling the honeysuckle, nudging the wind chimes, joining the chorus of birds and bugs that makes you forget the dull hum of the freeway in the background—its volume controlled by whichever way that gentle breeze blows. I am in my sanctuary, my refuge, my “safe place”—surrounded by nothing but green, every bit of it waving at me where I sit, hoping to once again find peace in this sacred backyard space.

But like the testosterone-induced revving of motorcycles on the interstate, worry cuts through the reverie in jarring clarity, reminding me there is a disturbance just past the serene trees in my spirit—its volume, as well, dependent on which way the wind blows.

The gentle breeze in my yard belies the hurricane happening here on the porch—the savage swirling of my thoughts at speeds that snap telephone poles like toothpicks and uproot my trees as if they were affixed to the ground like mere Legos, nothing but six little pegs holding them down.

And the one thought that rises above them all, the ONE thought that I can hear with motorcycle-like clairty is this—

I didn’t want to ever have to do this again.

When my daughter became sick to the point of not being able to attend even a full week of school, I was faced with a decision:

did I keep her in the private, Christian school she’d attended since pre-school where she had made the kind of friends you keep for a lifetime and had been prayed for daily by the staff and was on the honor roll and on the cheer squad and the worship team for chapel and in the drama club and the student council and was known and respected and loved and FORCE them to make accommodations for her, no matter how hard they might be for her to maintain—

or did I pull her out, away from her friends, away from the musicals, away from the choir, away from the tumbling, away from her proms, away from the Lifer Banquet, away from an actual graduation,

and keep her at home?

EVERYONE had an opinion. The school counselor didn’t think there was any way Keira could continue given their scholastic rigor and how far she was behind. The pediatric osteopath thought that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES WHATSOEVER should we pull her out of school and homeschool. The principal didn’t think the school could make the necessary accommodations. The pediatrician thought we were overblowing things and thought the school should just make the arrangements. My friends and family HAD opinions, but they mercifully kept them to themselves. My husband would go with whatever I decided.

In the end, the decision fell to me.

And that decision meant the loss of all I had dreamed of for her and her high school and college experience.

If I had a dollar for every time I’ve second-guessed that decision in the seven years since, well, just trust me. I’d have LOTS of dollars.

ALL. THE. DOLLARS.

The one thing I took solace in was that at least my son would be able to have a “normal” high school experience.

And the Universe, ever so quietly, chuckled under its breath.

Enter COVID-19.

Just in time for my son’s senior year.

And please—make no mistake, I know the coronavirus is messing up EVERYONE’S senior year.

But we don’t have the benefit of the school district making decisions for us or the option of staying within the same school but just taking his classes online.

No, WE put our son in the very same school where we knew he’d make the kind of friends you keep for a lifetime and be prayed for daily by the staff and have smaller class sizes and be on the honor roll and in the choir and the band and the show choir and the drama club and be a leader in their student house system and go to prom and attend graduation and be known and respected and loved by his teachers and peers,

BUT WHERE THEY DON’T HAVE TO FOLLOW THE SAME TYPES OF MANDATES AS PUBLIC SCHOOLS.

Because it’s what we thought was best.

And it was.

Until it maybe wasn’t.

My son’s school, like the vast majority of private schools across the country, is reopening in-person, five days a week in a few weeks.

And we’re not comfortable with their reopening plan.

And I’m immunocompromised.

So, we’re faced with the big “now what?”

Does he stay at the school where he’s grown up, graduating with friends who are like family, wearing a mask at the risk of ridiculed by other students, forced to go through an elaborate decontamination ritual every time he comes home, while we all wear masks when he’s at home and we don’t see his grandparents until next spring when we can sit outside, several feet apart?

Or do we pull him out—losing those senior year memories and moments, losing prom and the Lifer Banquet and graduation, losing choir concerts and the spring musical, losing his leadership roles in band and choir and the house system, losing a diploma from the school that shaped him—and enroll him in college dual credit online?

Did I mention I didn’t want to do this again?

Ultimately, it seems like it should be an easy decision, right?

But there is no easy decision when it comes to kids and their physical and emotional well-being.

Not when Momma is a therapist, anyway.

When every decision is weighed on the scale of “how badly with this scar them for life?” or “what is their best opportunity for the kind of growth that matters?”

When every decision comes with loss of one kind or another.

When every decision churns around me at gale force, churns WITHIN me at gale force, churns with no eye to this storm.

We have ten days to make a final decision.

We are keeping up on the latest statistics and recommendations.

We are registering for the college courses just in case.

We are “taking the temperature” of other families.

And we are praying.

A LOT.

The breeze, as is apropos, gave way to a gentle rain turning into a downpour now ceding to the sun once more, all as I sat here, writing, wrestling, wrangling thoughts and words.

A reminder, for one who might consider the divinity within the weather, that wind and rain, clouds and sun—they all have a place and they all take their turn.

Everything in its season,

everything for a reason.

My thoughts drip from the branches, sparkling in the sunlight—

finally finding a place to land.