Forty Going On Fifth Grade

“Mom, you know how to tune a guitar?”

“Nope. Not a clue,” I say, turning the little knobby things at the top.

“Twaang, twing, twiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing,” go the strings.

My son watches me, uncertain. Might I actually be cooler than he thinks? He deliberates.

I tighten the knobs further, then hand the instrument over. He strums a few times, raises an eyebrow. I am not cool.

Waves of regret douse the living room. I cannot play an instrument. When I was little, I tried to teach myself piano on weekends at my grandma’s. I played violin for a year in 5th grade, switched to trombone in the fall, and quit all together once I hit Junior High. Now, with a 10-year-old staring at me, waiting, I wish I had something to show him.

I worry about that a lot lately, the things I can and cannot offer my children. Guitar instruction, self-confidence, hugs, time, a green thumb, patience, empathy, table manners, unbridled joy, a second language. Two weeks ago, we sat down as a family in front of DuoLingo, an app I hoped could teach us Spanish. We completed the first lesson and haven’t touched it since. My unhealthy habits continue.

This summer, in the thick heat of August, I will turn 40. This milestone has felt far off these last few years, but now, as the months tick by much faster than before, I’ve come to know the earthquake of a mid-life crisis. To make matters worse, my people are not people of longevity. Cancer, Parkinson’s, Alzheimer’s, stroke; take your pick. With half of my days behind me, I am sucker-punched by the empty legacy these first forty years have left.

The times I dare to think of all those wasted hours, weeks, years… I stop myself before it goes too far. I know I cannot hold the loss of that time without being crushed where I sit. So now, I find myself grasping at all the straws, shoving them in pockets and dresser drawers, anywhere they’ll fit. I started seeing a spiritual guide. On my table sits a stack of books aimed at all my deficits. I keep showing up at church, praying to hear a word or a whisper. I’d take a laugh at this point – that might make the most sense. I question my work, my values, my parenting, my spouse, our home. Nothing feels settled, yet everything does – and I’m not sure which worries me more.

Somewhere along the way I lost the drive to swim and just started treading water, paddling in circles. Nothing can compel me to start swimming again, it seems. I throw a toe out there, feel around for a moment or an afternoon, then tuck back into the security of my circles. If you never choose a direction, you can’t pick the wrong one. Having picked a lot of wrong ones, maybe I should just stay where I am.

Then, a few nights ago, sitting in a middle school auditorium, I remembered what it felt like…before.

Our oldest had asked to attend the 5th & 6th Grade Talent Show, and finding the rare open evening on our calendar, we obliged. Excited to watch his friends, our 10-year-old marched straight to the front row and claimed his place.

I, on the other hand, was uneasy. The front row is not my favorite spot for anything, and talent shows make me very nervous. For someone who constantly scans the horizon for potential embarrassments, a talent show, especially one for children, is my worst case scenario. I still have flashbacks of a poorly choreographed dance routine to the “Moanin’ Lisa (Simpson) Blues” somewhere in the early 90’s. Might that have been the day I started fearing the vast open waters of the rest of my life?

My kid’s giant grin, however, convinced me to take a seat up close. The children on that stage weren’t mine, so surely, I could make it through whatever played out before me.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t even make it through the first act. The lights dimmed and a young girl walked out to sit beside a harp. As she began plucking the strings, sewing the notes into some gorgeous, familiar melody, I wiped my tears as discretely as possible. When she had finished, the crowd erupted into applause. My boys turned, wide-eyed, awaiting my reaction.

“Soooo good!” I mouthed, each one nodding emphatically. Slowly, I worked the knot in my throat back toward my stomach.

But every performance brought that knot right back, as fast as it called smiles to my children’s faces. A puppeteer, gymnasts, dancers, singers, comedians. We laughed and clapped, throwing out a handful of delighted “Woohoos!” The confident mini MC’s kept us entertained as each child took turns sharing the stage and their gifts. A piano player. A yo-yo master. My son’s teacher and a couple students formed a musical trio of sweet, soulful magic.

Somewhere in the middle of the show, one little boy armed with a guitar and a Beatles song, left me completely and utterly undone. The purity of those few minutes, the faintest sigh escaping at the very end, reignited a spark I’d smothered long ago. He had done it. He had put himself out into the world so bravely, brought his gifts and declared, “Look what I have to offer!”

What a blessing. To be open. To be seen. To be received. To sing for the sake of singing. To strum a guitar because you loved something enough to learn. The relief, the joy – I swear I could have held it in my hands.

I hadn’t realized how much courage I’d lost along this twisted path, how much of my spirit had evaporated while I was busy doing other things. Turns out, I needed to go backwards to start moving forwards again, a school talent show pushing me into the open waters I’ve feared for so long. I am determined to approach this next phase of life like a fifth-grader in a talent show, bold and scared and gloriously open to the gifts I’ve been given with the few minutes I have to share them. And in that brazen middle school spirit, I dare you to do the same.

Ashley, Woman of a Certain Grace