I have been made profoundly aware of the number of people who are helping me raise my children.
As we have prepared to leave our community, the village that has raised my children have become more apparent. Did I take them for granted? Did I see that they were nurturing them, loving them? Did they see it themselves?
There are the adopted grandparents who have taken care of our little boy since he was 7 months old. When he visits on occasion,the now almost 7-year-old, runs into their house and grabs the chocolate pudding from the fridge and spoon from the drawer. He knew it would be there, waiting for him.
There is the beloved music teacher who makes every child feel they are remarkable.
There is the coach who gets my daughter and has patiently worked to build her self-esteem and help her find her inner athlete.
There is the couple from church who take our kids fishing and to craft shows and over for tea. Just to make a connection with them.
There is the violin teacher who plays games so it doesn’t feel like practice.
There is the doctor who sits to listen five-minute longer, the nurse who lets me pop in for a question.
There is the neighbor who blows our leaves, and drops by with May Day baskets and “Boos” us on Halloween.
There is the Mom down the street who leaves bags of clothes on the front porch for my girls. Special dresses that belonged to her older daughter that can’t just go to anyone.
There is the church who let my kids run around in it and play and sing and call it “home.”
This village is filled with colorful people who paint bright shades of joy, love, grace and welcome. Its rich with lessons of hospitality, care, comfort, and safety. This village teaches self-discipline, hard work and responsibility. These colors are the palate that have made my children who they are today.