Life is Rich

The sights, the sounds, the smells of fall and football usher in a nostalgia that runs its course in the deepest of my veins.  Childhood memories of packing up our family van with blankets and mittens to head to the Friday night game in frigid Wyoming air flood my senses.  I once again trot across the high school parking lot by my dad, his strong, protective hand on my back.  My young fist thrusts out to receive the red stamp after he gives the cash, and my excitement mounts as we round the track to climb into the grand stands.  Friendly, chill-kissed faces of long-time friends and acquaintances greet us as we scout out the perfect bleacher spot.

The loud speaker crackles, the larger-than-life football players shift and strut on the line, and the cheerleaders sparkle under the beaming lights.  The students crowded in their own section beckon admiration and awe, and the band bedazzles me with peppy sounds and sure steps.  I soak it in and dream of being older.  The details of the sport escape me for I am taken by the environment of this Campbell County Camels football game.

The trip to the concession stand for popcorn or hot chocolate or Laffy Taffys finally arrives.  After munching and sipping and reading jokes on the wrappers, I fidget.  When the allure of the game fades, I scamper to the grassy fields around the real field and play football with my brother and friends.  As the fourth quarter expires, I begin to feel a sleepy head and inescapable cold.  I am ready to pack up our van again and head home, full on a night full of community spirit and fellowship.

Those are the good ol' days.  Those are memories to cherish.  Last night, I went to Rampart High School's homecoming.  This is the school my middle school feeds.  As I strolled to the stadium, blanket in hand, I was reliving those Wyoming childhood days all over again.  And this time, in a different era and location, I was looking at the football players, cheerleaders, and band members as a loving mentor would.  I could hardly believe the pictures of the strong and manly seniors, staring at me from the glossy program.  Many of those students I taught as little 6th grade boys in my very first year of teaching.  Time had passed and they had grown up even though I have little changed in appearance myself. 

Nostalgia of a different sort hit me then.  The sentiment of feeling that I had the privilege of teaching these students in their formative years washed over me.  I felt almost sad that they would be graduating this year.  I felt sad that I can't be close to all of my students forever, watching them grow and having dibs on each step of their lives.  It is hard to explain and it is bittersweet in such a strong way.

Nostalgia and sentimentality are glorious and yet I don't know what to do with these emotions at times.   It is almost cathartic and therapeutic for me to linger in these moments, yet I sometimes feel helpless to know how to resolve the bittersweet in mind.  Anyone human relates to this.  So, in the end, I am left with the realization of how incredible and precious life is.  I have been given a rich lot in life and I have a gracious God to thank.