At some point in every child’s life, there is bound to be that moment when they are just sure the only answer to all their problems is to run away from home.
I reached that tragic realization at the ripe old age of four. My mother was teaching a piano lesson in the living room when I went to my bedroom, got out my little blue cardboard suitcase, put my Henrietta doggy in it (and maybe some clothes, I can’t really remember – that wasn’t as important as my Henrietta doggy), and marched out to inform her that I was Leaving. Poor mother. My timing couldn’t have been worse. But she, always a quick thinker, calmly replied, “Well, alright dear. But maybe you should go down to the church and say goodbye to your father before you leave.” I thought a moment, and decided he at least deserved a goodbye.
So I marched out the door and trudged down the block between the parsonage where we lived, and the First Missionary Church. I remember every crack in the uneven sidewalk, as I strode with all the determination of great four-year-old umbrage, my little brain racing with all the grievances of my woe-filled existence.
I reached the church corner, walked around the side of the church and opened the door that led to daddy’s study. Daddy was so calm and reasonable. I sat down across the desk from him and explained that I was here to say goodbye, and I was running away. He said he understood, but he wondered if I’d thought about where I was going to sleep. Well, no, I hadn’t given it a thought. Then he chatted on for a while about I can’t remember what, and eventually asked me if I would like to stop back at the house before I went on my way, and have a little lunch with him. Well, by that time, I was thinking that a little lunch sounded pretty good. So we walked back up the block together, holding hands, and me with my little blue cardboard suitcase. And we had tomato soup. And it was the best tomato soup ever. And I decided maybe I’d just save the running away for another day.
So with that as background, I have naturally always expected that I would have a runaway at some point. However, only just today did I finally hear for the first time that one of my children actually DID run away! The girls were laughing about “the old days” and trading stories, and suddenly Megan exclaimed, “Oh MOM!! I don’t think I ever told you this!!” And then she proceeded, in rapid-fire, dramatic delivery, to tell me this story, almost in a single breath:
“Ok, so when I was eleven, I had a REALLLLLY really bad day. The “worst day ever”. First, I stepped on the dolly in the back yard and it came up and hit me in the face. And it hurt A LOT! And then I thought you would be mad at me, so I climbed the tree. But then I fell out of the tree, and I thought I would get in trouble for THAT. And then when I came inside, you were making vegetables for supper. Vegetable Stew!! That was the last straw. So I planned it all out. After everybody went to bed, I waited until 11 o’clock, and then I made a butter, raisin and prune sandwich, and I went outside and down to the stop sign, and then I turned the corner, and I saw a stray rottweiler, so I turned around and came straight home. And that was the first and last time I tried to run away.”
I could only sit here in my chair laughing in sheer amazement, “The hound of heaven chased you back home!!” What a thing to find out almost 5 years later… Oh my word, the middle of the night!! In THIS neighborhood! Megan sure knows how to keep her guardian angel busy.
So, in honor of all the little runaways, I’ll leave you with this oldie-but-goodie:
