๐๐๐ญ๐ข๐จ ๐๐จ๐ง๐๐๐ซ๐ข๐ง๐ : ๐๐ข๐ฏ๐ข๐ง๐ ๐๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐ญ๐ก๐ ๐๐ซ๐๐๐ข๐ญ ๐๐ก๐๐ฒ ๐๐๐ฌ๐๐ซ๐ฏ๐
This morning, the Terra Level Executive Suite is unusually quiet. No movement upstairs. No clatter from the kitchen. Just me, my coffee, and a long list that stretches from the daily and mundane to preparing for the Indiana State Fair and finalizing my next podcast episode.
Youโd think the silence would help me focus, but my thoughts are scattered.
Last night, I sat in on a planning meeting for Donovanโs funeral, the 15-year-old Scout I wrote about last week. I had nothing to add; others had already picked up the reins and were pulling the preparation wagon. So, I observed. Observed how people show up in grief. No profound conclusions, just quiet appreciation that there will be a celebration worthy of Donovan later this week.
Then, this morning, I saw a comment from Donovanโs mother beneath a news story about how local marching bands honored him during band camp.
Her words stopped me cold:
โ๐๐ ๐๐จ๐งโ๐ญ ๐ ๐ข๐ฏ๐ ๐ค๐ข๐๐ฌ ๐๐ง๐จ๐ฎ๐ ๐ก ๐๐ซ๐๐๐ข๐ญ.โ
Sheโs right.
In our effort to create perfect paths for our children: chasing โthe best,โ protecting them from harm, trying to shape ideal outcomes, we sometimes fail to notice that they have been learning the lessons weโve tried to teach them.
Yes, there are overprotective parents who smother growth; but when we let kids experience lifeโthe good and the badโthey grow. They ๐ญ๐ฆ๐ข๐ณ๐ฏ.
The expressions of sympathy, compassion, and grief Iโve seen from Fort Wayneโs youth this past week have been powerful, honest, and beautiful.
As we mourn Donovan, Iโm choosing to also celebrate the strength and depth of our young people: how theyโve come together to honor their friend, support one another, and face the hard truth that life is fragile.
They ๐ฅ๐ฆ๐ด๐ฆ๐ณ๐ท๐ฆ credit.
And maybe, just maybe, we adults can learn something from them.