All Day Long

I grew up in a neighborhood filled with kids For whatever reason, on summer nights we often gathered at the King's house next door and played games. My favorite was Kick the Can. As fireflies flickered and the sun bid its nightly farewell, we would run, shadows dancing, across the back yard to the shed, or behind the doghouse, and listen intently for the designated "It" to yell, "Ready or not, here I come!" And then we would would crouch down in the intense silence that followed, waiting. Once we knew we'd been spied, off we ran, squealing in the darkness, in search of the "can" -- usually a plastic milk container -- in hopes of kicking it before "It." We played for hours -- long after the sun went down -- laughing and hiding and chasing and running. And when we tired of the game, we split into two teams and played basketball in Mike's driveway, his dad often joining. One time the ball went amiss and hit me on the side of the head -- BOOM. I careened to the side, whiplash to my head, and Bob (Mike's dad) caught me. "You ok?" He asked, his arm holding me up from crashing to the ground.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. But I wasn't. Once the game resumed, I slipped off into the dark night and headed for home. But of course...it was a minor blunder.

When my kids and their cousins were in those early elementary years, they loved Piggy Wants a Signal. They played for hours. In winter months, we took the kids to the gymnasium where they ran and squealed and hid. Sometimes, when school wasn't in session, they played in the boys' dorm. All of the hallways and bathrooms on different floors created a haven for hours of play.
Of course, by the time Jace was old enough to really play without giving himself away...(you know, typical 3 year old: I'm here!! Do you see me??), the kids were in high school and the game was wearing thin. They kindly appeased him on occasion and we'd trek down to the gym there in North Carolina for a few rounds of Piggy. But it wasn't nearly as engaging as when the older cousins were 10 and 12 years old.

I sadly resigned myself to the reality that Jace would never fully experience the joys of a rousing game of hide 'n seek.

Jace was devastated to move to Texas. He sulked the entire ride, bemoaning the loss of his childhood friend Zach. Those boys ran the Pisgah campus together, jumping on the trampoline or sliding down the water slide they created in the Bradley's backyard. They had many adventures and though they didn't go to school together, Jace loved his buddy. Asheville was home -- he loved the mountains, the snow of winter, trails outside our house.

I encouraged him daily. "It will be ok, Jace. It's okay to be sad but someday you will be happy again. I promise. You'll make friends."

But he didn't believe me. The landscape of Texas is a desert in comparison to Asheville. The heat can be unbearable in the late days of August. And so in those early days of moving, Jace struggled. He sighed a lot; hung his head; slept. I feared depression was beckoning as those early teen years can be difficult under normal circumstances, much less when a major move is thrown in the mix. Furthermore, he had no friends to run with, to game with, to call. He spent hours skyping Gavin, his school buddy from Pisgah, in the evenings, and he often asked me about living in Asheville when he grew up. "Do you think I could afford it?" Or he would tell me about the weather. "It's so hot here, Mom. It's only 80 degrees in Asheville."

I worried about my son.

And then we moved to our home and he met Raymond, the boy across the street. By Christmas, he made another friend that dropped by our house on occasion: Anson. And then they just kept coming.

William and Leo and Austin and Bing and Emmanuel and Quincy...

We have a crew now that visits regularly. And I feed them. My cupboards are stocked with easy to prepare meals that will feed hungry boys and not break the bank. And these boys? They. Are. Precious. They are kind and funny and respectful and wholesome.

They blow me away with their goodness.

And they play. They play basketball and soccer for hours. Outside. In the driveway. In the yard.

But a couple of evenings ago, I was pretty sure my heart was filled to the brim and flowing over when I was cleaning the kitchen and heard laughter and squeals coming from outside. After a bit, I opened the door to peek out and see what was going on. And there they were, running and squealing and hiding and chasing.

Quincy was tucked into the corner of our entranceway, his body a straight line in order to be as small as possible. "What are you boys playing?" I asked furtively.

"Your property is a perfect place for hide 'n seek, Ma'am," Quincy grinned.

Yes it is, Quincy. Yes it is.

You come back tomorrow and we'll have burritos for dinner and you can chase all you want.

All day long.