On the last day of school in 1967 I had no agendas in my six year old mind. Soon to be second graders aren't known for thinking much ahead, but I anticipated an endless period of free time; something my teacher called summer vacation. I was confident that there would be endless time to make friends with the chipmunk who lived under our porch, become the fastest bicyclist in town, and-if not stop to smell the roses- definitely stop to examine the amazing creatures known as daddy long legs that climbed our house's foundation. I knew I had time to explore anywhere, befriend anyone, accomplish anything. Summer vacation would last forever, I was certain.
Isn't it just like God to place Eternity into a little boy's heart.
On the last day of school in 1971, I celebrated by ringing my handlebar bell all the way home through my neighborhood. To this former fifth grader, these chiming bells of freedom foreshadowed the next two months of doing what I wanted when I wanted (within strict parental limits, of course). I could bike to any friend's house I chose, or bike nowhere and everywhere simultaneously. I would play kickball all morning and wiffleball all afternoon. I would take our dog for walks just because I could, and when my parents said to get in the car, we were going camping, I'd be in the back seat before they finished their sentence. I was a prisoner set free, a genie released from a lamp, a bird without a cage. It was going to be a summer of complete and utter freedom.
On the last day of school in 1975, I knew quite well that the safety found in three years of junior high had become a thing of my past. The uncertainty and fear of four years in a high school of 1600 kids-where there was drugs and drinking and bullying- would play as a subconscious but ever present soundtrack as I shot baskets at the park or went fishing with friends that summer. When I got home that day I went to my room and I let myself cry. I cried out of fear for the unknown years ahead, I cried out of mourning for a tremendous eighth grade experience with truly remarkable and caring teachers, but mostly I cried because I realized life would never be quite the same as it had been up to that point. Time, I finally understood, moves constantly forward, and life would always have these no-going-back moments.
On the last day of school in 1979 I was a high school graduate certain that the friends I had then would be friends for the rest of our lives. College would happen, marriage might happen, some of us might move, but 17 year olds know that high school friendships never change. Friends without end, amen.
On the last day of school, 1983, I was a college graduate. I was ready to take on the world, certain the world would surrender to my every demand. Perhaps not all in just that one summer, but my greatness was in the stars, or cards or whatever I chose to believe in on a given day. There were lives to impact, battles to fight, minds to enlighten, injustices to right. I would be the man to do it, I was sure of that. The last day of college was going to be the first day of my world changing destiny.
On the last day of school in 1986, I had finished my third year of teaching. I was newly married. When I drove into the driveway, my new bride came down the stairs of our fire trap apartment to welcome me home. It was as beautiful a scene as there's ever been, and I looked forward to a summer of holding hands and walking by the sea; sipping wine and imagining growing old together. I was in love for real and forever.
On the last days of school in 1992, 1994 and 2001 I had baby daughters to get home to. I planned summer days of holding and hugging; playing and protecting. They would learn to love and to laugh and to love laughing. I would spend my summers being the greatest father this side of God Himself.
On the last day of school in 2019, our last and youngest daughter graduated from the school where we teach. My eyes misted as she pinned a boutonniere to my suit coat, as she walked in the auditorium, as her sisters cheered her on, as she received her diploma.
52 last days of school bring home the point that life is a vapor, a passing breeze; trying to hold onto time is like catching soap bubbles. School years end, summers pass, little boys realize vacations aren't forever. Middle schoolers adjust to high school; high schoolers adjust to college; high school friendships disappear over space and time; dreams of being world changers give way to the contentment of being diaper changers; and a new generation begins their sequence of last days of school.
Isn't it just like God to remind an old man that life is a swiftly passing breeze. But it is a breeze that carries the sweet scent of eternity with it.