The Hallways That Held Us

27 minutes ago
7 min read

It was August 17, 2017. We were ending not just summer, but ending a time of daycare life, ending a time in life when everything felt known.

And by known, I mean there were few surprises. I would drop Kaleb off at a daycare we had been at for a few years, and I would go to a job where I had also worked for several years. After the workday, we would...just...go home. Evenings at home were also known. We knew what they would consist of - probably some kind of easy dinner, something a toddler would approve of every time, and something that would require little effort from me. I was, after all, 4 years into being a single mom. I had gotten good at finding ways to make things easy and known. Because known is what you need in grief.

But on August 17th, all of our "knowns" came to a screeching halt.

Here we were, the perfect little duo team, who had faced many hard times in the last four years—and surprisingly survived them all—here we were, starting a brand new school, with brand new teachers, brand new people, and brand new routines. Not to mention, I had also ended my current desk job, all so I could build my own business and prayerfully make my own schedule to be able to join Kaleb at all these brand new things, to make the transition easier for him. Okay, for both of us. Okay, mostly for me.

I walked him into his classroom that morning of August 17th, without knowing anyone except his teacher. A flash of uncomfortable unknown came over me like a wave of heat, the kind most women don't experience until their mid-50s. It made my cheeks hot, but my hands cold and sweaty at the same time. My stomach turned over no less than a dozen times. There were tiny kids everywhere, surrounded by adults who seemed far more collected than I. The kids just seemed so small suddenly, standing next to their adults. How could we be here? How could we be old enough to be in this real classroom with name tags and backpack hooks?

It was beginning to feel like it was too much, but I knew this was the next step for Kaleb. This was part of life. Getting an education was part of everyone's curriculum for life. I looked down at Kaleb, and his teacher had already put his name tag around his neck. It was a cute little fox, with his name in black Sharpie. It was attached to a piece of grey yarn, hanging low on his little body.

When my eyes gazed up at his face, I saw a familiar look, one I knew well. His lips were straight — not forcefully pressed together, just existing, giving no expression. But when my eyes locked with his, I knew exactly how he was feeling. His eyebrows held the weight of his entire being.

Webster’s Dictionary would probably use words like skeptical, suspicious, hesitant, or wary. Meanwhile, I just remember looking at his little eyebrows and realizing they somehow carried the full weight of the unknown.

When I saw that his eyebrows were mirroring the exact way I was feeling, I knew I was going to have to fake it and pretend that all this new unknown was okay for him. Okay for us.

I squatted down and got my phone ready for a selfie. Because millennial mom. And I smiled the biggest one I could muster up.

I told him it was going to be a great day and that he would have so much fun! I knew he didn't believe me; I think he wanted to, but he just wasn't there. We went over to find his desk together. There it was. It had a matching fox name tag, laminated and secured to the upper corner of the desk. There was also a coloring sheet with an area where he would trace his name, over and over. The teacher welcomed us. She too must have recognized the look on his face because she immediately said, "You are going to have a great day, Kaleb!"

His expressions of skepticism, wariness, disbelief, and fear on Kaleb's face must not have been the only expressions she recognized, because she looked up at me and politely and ever so kindly said, "Okay! I think we are all set here, Mom! He is going to do great and have such a fun day! Kaleb, tell Mommy bye and say, see you soon!"

I mean, those are the words of a seasoned teacher right there. She took one look at me and saw the uncertainty rolling over my face, and had to know it was time to get me out of there before the waterworks started. At the time, it was admittedly hard to hear, but today, I have a strong respect for her doing that.

Props to me, I got the hint and agreed with the teacher - I walked out as she was holding Kaleb's hand in the air, moving it back and forth to demonstrate a wave goodbye, that he clearly wanted no part of.

I remember it like it was yesterday. I turned right, out of his classroom, looking down at the gray carpet, thinking, "We can do this. I can do this. This will be okay after all"... when suddenly I heard Kaleb's voice scream the sentence that just stays with you as a mom for the rest of your life - "MOMMMMMMYYY DON'T LEAVE ME COME BACK!"

I didn't go back. I kept walking. In fact, my steps got faster, more intense, and then more purposeful. I had to get to my car before anyone else saw my tears, and certainly before I heard that cry from my baby again. I don't think I need to tell you I sat in my car and cried for an hour. We all know that's how this story goes.

Except, just because that's how the story goes for that day, it certainly isn't how the story ends.

What neither one of us understood at the time was that Zion, the very place that felt so unfamiliar and unknown would eventually become one of the safest and most loved parts of our lives.

Zion took in two people who were merely surviving and wrapped them in love and grace. And you see, somewhere between all the chapel services, memory verses, spelling tests, homework folders, and free dress Fridays, they created a new known for us that we so desperately needed.

It's true what they say, the days are long, but the years are short.

Some days moved slower than others, but what moved quickly was how fast we felt like we belonged. Really belonged. Kaleb made friends quickly, as did I. I got myself plugged in with PTL and volunteered when and where I could.

I attended the field trips, I planned the class parties, and I sang the songs in chapel. I always felt immensely blessed that I was able to be a part of so many memorable days, standing right next to my kiddo.

The little fox name tag eventually turned into a name tag on his locker and then a set of initials inside his athletic clothes. Athletic clothes meant our evenings were filled with flag football games in the fall, and basketball games in the spring.

Before I knew it, middle school was staring us in the face. That meant changing classes and awkward dances with friends.

But even with all the natural changes that occurred during our years at Zion, one thing remained the same: it was our known. It was a place full of teachers who opened their arms to us and made us feel like family, year after year. Whether it was Mrs. Harris in first grade, or Mrs. Weil in fourth grade, or Ms. Willey in middle school, or Mrs. Holden in Science, every single teacher had something about them that felt known to us. Each in their own unique way, they gave their heart to loving and teaching, not just Kaleb, but to me, as a mom, who in the back of her mind, still feared stumbling upon the unknown.

I think a part of me quietly believed those years would somehow last forever.

Or at the very least, that I would have more time.

As I sit here tonight, May 21, 2026, with tears in my eyes, I realize this is the end of the known. As Kaleb graduated tonight, finishing his time at Zion and talking with his friends about high school, I suddenly felt myself back inside that preschool classroom, looking for his name tag and wondering where his place would be.

However, behind my tears and knee-jerk fears, there is also peace.

What I haven’t mentioned yet about Zion — which is truly the foundation of why it is such a special place — is the way every teacher there, carries such a strong faith in our Lord and Savior, and the way they pour that faith into their students. Kaleb’s faith, by far, was not the only one that grew. When the staff welcomed us with open arms and a warm sense of community, they demonstrated stewardship at its finest. And for me, that was exactly what I needed in order to not just grow, but heal.

Looking back now, I can see God’s favorable hand in all of it.

Back then, I thought I was simply trying to find a school where Kaleb would get a good Christian education. I had no idea God was also preparing a place where both of us would be loved and find the healing I didn't know we needed.

Zion was never just a school for us.

It was the place where grief was met with grace. Where survival slowly turned into thriving. Where faith deepened. Where community wrapped itself around us before we could even blink.

In 2017, I walked out of that classroom repeating, “We can do this. I can do this.”

Tonight, as another season closes, I realize we did.