When my phone rang, I lit up like Christmas.
"Hey, school boy!" I said, "How was your first day of school?"
"You don't have to call me 'school boy' any more, Nana," Randy said. "I already went."
"So you're done forever?"
"No," he said, "just for today!"
Did I mention he is brilliant? He's barely 5 years old, and already he has learned to take life one day at a time. Some of us take years to learn that lesson. Lots of us never learn it.
I'd been waiting all morning to hear how it went, praying it would go well. He had loved preschool but was a bit worried that kindergarten might prove to be all work and no play.
"Did you get to play?" I said.
"Yes! It was fun! Bye, Nana, I have to go! Love you!"
And with that, he was gone, rocketing off on a grand new adventure. It happens that fast with children. One day they're babies. Then they're toddlers. Then you turn around to load a dishwasher, and the next thing you know they've gone off to school, spending most of their waking hours entrusted to someone who cannot possibly love them as much as you do.
You hope with all your heart that their teachers will be worthy of your child and your trust.
Randy loves his new teacher. He told me she's really nice. (I checked her out and I agree.) He knows a lot about teachers. He was born into a family of them.
His dad teaches third grade just a few doors from Randy's classroom. His Auntie Nan is a reading specialist in a school nearby. His late granddad, for whom he is named, taught high school for 30 years.
Teachers are a special breed. Theirs is not a job. It's a calling. They are called not just to teach, but to care for and discipline and motivate and inspire and set an example for how to live.
It's not written in their contracts or reflected in their salaries, but it's all part of the deal. To do their best, to follow their calling, to survive a classroom full of children who act like Chihuahuas at a Fourth of July fireworks display, they need all the help they can get.
That's where nanas come in. We pray. Prayer is our calling. Not just nanas, of course. Moms and dads and grandpas and aunts and uncles -- anyone who loves a child can pray for that child and the child's teacher.
We're all in the child-rearing boat together. Children are our future. It's in our collective best interest to see that they do well.
Some people do a lot more than pray. They volunteer to help in the classroom, on the playground or in the cafeteria. They take snacks, monitor crosswalks, make costumes or listen to children read.
They provide a haven after school (where children do homework and eat stuff they aren't supposed to eat) until the parents get home from work.
Some, God bless them, raise their grandchildren full time. They aren't grandparents, really. They're called saints.
We all want the best for our children and grandchildren. We want them to be safe and happy. To learn and thrive. We'd prefer they not embarrass or cause us grief, but that is up to them. Mostly we want them and their teachers and classmates to have the best school year possible.
So we pray. Last week, on the first day of school, I pictured Randy going up the same walk I watched his dad take some 30 years ago. I prayed for Randy, his teacher and his classmates; for his dad and his dad's students; for his mom fighting tears, just as I did years ago, at having to let her baby go.
And as I prayed, a lovely thing happened. A quiet murmuring rose up around me like birdsong in the rain. And suddenly I realized that I was not alone.
Generations of others, both living and long departed, were praying for our children and grandchildren, for all children, all teachers, everywhere.
I can't prove it, but I believe it.
I wish you could've heard us.
Award-winning columnist Sharon Randall writes about the ordinary and extraordinary:
Family on 08/26/2015