The way home

 Markus was so excited to take the bus and walk home from school. On his first attempt, he went in the wrong direction on our street and got turned around. I received a call from the crossing guard who said he had my lost son with him. The guard described where he was, and I rushed out of my house-- in bedroom slippers in the snow to fetch him. I got W on the phone to let him know what was happening. After a minute,  I saw Markus with the crossing guard at a distance. He had his bag on his back and his ball in his hand. I pulled up, waved thanks to the guard, and Markus entered the car. His face crumbled into tears. Hot tears streamed from those frightened blue eyes. A sensitive child, Markus is prone to crying easily when angry or frustrated, but this was fear and maybe some embarrassment. Because of my therapy work, I knew I had to approach this moment with a mind for the future. I said, "I am so sorry you turned the wrong way." It's crazy how the streets work, but I am so proud of you for doing the right thing. You found an adult you knew could help you. Not only that, but you were calm enough to remember my number and call me. That is incredible! A lot of kids would have panicked."

 I shifted the conversation to a sense of triumph. I assured Markus that this was a significant milestone, a moment of growth. I said, "Your brain expanded today. You will always remember how it guided you to seek help; the next time you are lost, you will know what to do." He visibly relaxed. On the phone, Wiebe shared his own experiences of getting lost, emphasizing how impressive Markus's actions were. I drove the route again, pointing out the landmarks he needed to look for to ensure he was heading in the right direction. I felt his heart rate slow down. As we turned onto our street, I reminded him, "The carpark needs to be right behind you." I made him repeat it for emphasis. "The carpark needs to be behind me." "What needs to be behind you?" "The carpark." 

The atmosphere in the car shifted. "Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?" I offered. "No thanks," he replied. "Would you like me to follow you home in the car to ensure you head in the right direction? I will make sure no one sees me." "No thanks," he answered. "As long as the carpark is behind me, I will know I am heading in the right direction." His voice was filled with confidence, and I felt that together we had overcome his feeling of helplessness. I was proud of my mothering at that moment. We arrived home, and he bounded inside, his tears dry and his face bright. 

It was not lost on me that the lesson could also serve me. To find my way home, to know I was heading in the right direction, I had to be very certain that a point, a place, a thing, maybe even a moment in time was behind me. That is how you know you are heading in the right direction. I smiled as I walked in my warm house, snow under my bedroom slippers. My brain also grew that day. 

The next day, I waited by the window, anticipating him coming down the sidewalk. I felt confident he would be okay, but I was prepared. I had my snow boots on and my phone in hand—calm but vigilant. I saw the most beautiful sight: Markus walking side-by-side with his older brother. On pure chance, their shuttle buses synced, and they were able to meet up and walk home together. I picked up my phone and took a photo to capture the moment. 

Sometimes, the way home is a solo journey, but life gives you a partner to walk the journey with every now and then. You don't have to hunt for them; you don't have to beg them to be there. At the turn, they are there, ready to keep you company, unbeknownst to them, allaying fears and giving you strength and confidence; invisible arms around you silently saying, "This is the way we will go."