On Our Small Town

If we are Facebook friends, you probably know I’ve posted prayer requests and updates on an infant sick with RSV. Yesterday, a friend asked me how I knew the family.

Well . . .

When I was in high school, I babysat the momma’s older brother and sister. When Momma came along, she was between my boys in age; Cooper was due on her first birthday. Years later, she was my student. Her aunt is one of my dearest friends. How do I explain that I love this baby I’ve never met (and her sisters and cousins) because I love those who came before her? She is the fifth generation of a family I’ve known most of my life.

It’s like that.

Small towns, small communities, small schools — they can be maddening. Suffocating. They can also be treasures.

When I was in kindergarten, I kicked my PE teacher in the shin because he mispronounced my name. In my defense, I’d probably had to straighten out several mis-pronouncers by that point, but still — I kicked my teacher in the shin while growling, “MY NAME IS TONYA!” Long “O.” Forty-six years later, and I hear that story at least once each year. Small towns are like that. They hold your secrets and mistakes, your bike wrecks and speeding tickets, your hours spent walking and cruising and hanging out with friends. They know your life.

Fast forward to Cooper’s celebration of life. That same PE teacher — the dear man who taught me social studies and how to drive, who drove my bus and eventually sat with me at the teachers’ table in the cafeteria — took my hand, patted my shoulder, and choked out some of the most comforting words of that night. Words I’ll treasure all my days. He and his wife understand my grief; they live my grief. Over the past year, that kindness has continued. Decades after I whacked him in the shin with my little Keds, he remains a stalwart figure in my life.

Small towns are like that.

So when news of Baby K’s illness began to spread, so did the prayers and the tears. Dozens of people from “home” prayed for her health, her parents’ strength, and her medical team’s wisdom. Immediately and thoroughly, our insignificant daily distractions fell away and we obsessively checked Facebook for Momma’s faithful updates. Separated by miles and years and lives, our community came together in prayer. These past days have been an object lesson in the difference between gossipy nosiness and love-fueled concern. Baby K faces a recovery; she’s better, but still sick. News of her progress — good news — made its way around the community via texts and Facebook today, and the collective relief was palpable. Even so, the prayers will not cease.

Yes, small towns have their quirks, and those quirks can drive us crazy. Most of us leave our small towns behind in search of bigger and better lives and jobs. Some of us stay. In times of crisis and tragedy and heartbreak, though, we find ourselves — virtually or in person — reunited in the sanctuary of our small town.