Notes

I was finally putting up Christmas decorations and organizing some things around my apartment this weekend, and I stumbled upon this little gem:




I had driven from Atlanta to Austin––just under 1,000 miles––in two days, and I was exhausted. It was past midnight, and my first day of grad school was the next morning. I was sad to leave old friends behind and nervous about the adventure I had gotten myself into.

I walked into my new apartment, where my roommate was asleep, and looked around. My parents had moved and unpacked the heavy stuff I owned a few days before, since they lived fairly close by in San Antonio. There was my kitchen table, and here was my couch. There was Summer's old coffee table, and over there was my bookshelf. It was all familiar, and yet . . . I didn't recognize this place. I was lonely. I wished my mom had stayed a little longer because I needed to see a friendly and loving face and have her tell me that I had made a good decision and that everything was going to be alright. I teared up and walked down the long hall to my room, ready to be in bed.

To my surprise, my mom had already made my bed for me. Most of my clothes and shoes and things I needed immediately were unpacked, and to top it all off, there was a note. A note that welcomed me to this strange place and a note that said I was loved. I think I cried even more after I read it, but they were tears of gratitude and happiness that time.

What a wonderful mother I have. And father, too. All my life, they have left notes to my siblings and me. On my pillow, on the stairs, in my lunch bags, and inside book covers. I cherish those notes.

I'm sure that's why I'm a note-giver myself. Apart from explicitly voicing it, nothing says "I love you" more than a note left in a place where you're sure to see it but least expect it.

Thanks, MommyDaddy, for loving me with notes.


Thing I'm thankful for: Besides notes . . . Sunday naps!