I am reveling in the aftermath of the derby. The Kentucky Derby? No. The Boxcar Derby.
I remember the first time somebody shoved the block of wood, four wheels and bright yellow stickers, all jingly-jangly in a baggie, into my hand. “What in the world do I do with this?” I wondered. But, my toothless 6 year old was watching me with bright, expectant eyes. I thought, "From that block of wood should come a race car? Who was anybody kidding?"
The day of the derby, we gently set the wobbly car on the table, one amongst 30 creative designs made by sugar-glazed elementary schoolers. Indeed, the race was on and I have no recollection of how the car placed. Yet, here I am, seven years later, reveling in the afterglow of another fine derby and smiling over this year’s contestants: Jenna’s ‘leaf you behind’ - a green car in the shape of a leaf; Lydia’s ‘No. 2 pencil’ - which won second prize for design; and, Sophia’s ‘Jawz’ - self-explanatory, I suppose. And sad for my mother’s heart (for my oldest daughter's teenage heart, too), for Lexi had no entry this year. It was the first time my little girl was too big to be in the derby.
More than just a memory, the derby serves as one of my life lessons for growing up missionary. But, it’s my growing up that the derby highlights, not that of my girls. Here is a moment of clarity in my missionary mom’s soul and I give you permission to take a peek.
It’s easy, even normal to expect that your children will be schooled as you were or even schooled in a better environment than you had. It has been hard for me to let go of that expectation. Hard to stop fighting for the quintessential American classroom. Hard to wrap my arms around high school years without homecomings, autumns without football games and halls without lockers. Their school years are devoid of drama club, choir, band and springtime track and field.
Ever
since the first day Lexi marched off to kindergarten, I have been striving to find that schoolhouse environment that forms my own memories of going to school. But, a moment of clarity this year helped me face our reality: My girls will be schooled differently because they are growing up missionary. And that’s okay. Not only is it okay, it’s good. They understood the concept of time zones before they could tell time. They know how to survive jet lag and they thrive in environments where people of different languages and ethnicities are the norm, not the exception. They could travel internationally solo and help you find your way, too. They know the Frankfurt airport like their backyard. They understand that the world is a fascinatingly small place.
And the boxcar derby ... well, I’m thankful for that derby. It’s a piece of Americana in their missionary memory. Mixed in with the languages, the pinched cheeks and the baklava is a night of race tracks, cheering, pot lucks and blocks of wood that miraculously became a pencil, a leaf and a shark wonderfully wizzing toward a finish line.
Our first high school graduation is only four years away. It seems that derby cars are not the only things careening through time and space too quickly. Reveling here in the aftermath of another good derby, I’m thankful for the lessons and God’s patience in teaching me what’s really important about being a mom and growing up missionary.
-- Teanna Sunberg and her husband, Jay, are missionaries in Bulgaria where they are raising their four daughters, Lexi, Jenna, Lydia and Sophia. This story is reprinted with permission from their ministry blog.