Sonder

Or, A thought for when life feels complicated

“He had another great day today!” the teacher tells me when I pick Cannon up from school. “Only a few very light head hits. He never lost control, and we could always redirect him.” 

I smile and look down at my boy. “You had a good day today?” I ask, so I can hear the answer from him, too.

“Yes. Good day.” He smiles back at me.

“I’m so proud of you buddy.” And I am. I’m so proud. 

My heart has been on the floor over this boy a thousand times in the last few weeks, waiting anxiously by the phone for the teacher to call and tell me about another dangerous loss of regulation. But this week, it’s been ok. He’s been ok. The phone calls never came. Life at home has been manageable with him, too. And I’m thankful.

After more than nine years of being Cannon’s mom, I know the toughest seasons come and they go. 

Then they come and they go again.

Then they come and they go again.

But today, on this day, I’m trying not to think too much about all that, as if I’m bracing for the next round. He had a good day today. That’s enough.

//

“Can we twy again, mommy?” my four-year-old asks me, as I lift her on to my hip to show her a better view of the picture on our bulletin board, the one she’s been pointing at. “To see Hannah*, mommy? We need twy again.”

“I know sweet girl, we will try again soon, ok?”

“Ok. But I wan see her, mommy.”

“We will,” I assure my daughter, and smile at the sincerity in her request.

Hannah is my daughter’s biological mother, and she didn’t make it to our last visit, around Christmastime. It would have been the first time we saw her since the summer of 2021. And it was also the first time Ava understood to expect the arrival of the young woman we had been talking about. 

Ava was ok when that visit didn’t happen. The two of us still had a fun date at our arranged meeting place. But for the first time, she wasn’t just a baby being brought along wherever I would bring her. She knew—without fully knowing, of course—that she was the reason we were going anywhere that day. She, and her other mama.

Ever since I explained to my four-year-old that she grew in Hannah’s tummy, for all this precious little girl does not understand, there is no doubt that she sees the picture of the two of them on our bulletin board differently now—the beginning of a lifetime of processing both the grief and the miracle of her story. And it is, undoubtedly, both.

And yet, Ava is fortunate to have access to more of her story than many adoptees do. I know she will want that as she gets older, or at least the choice to have as much of it as she wants. And because of that, with as much discernment as the Lord will give us, we will keep trying.

*Name changed to protect privacy

//

My oldest daughter is only ten, but she’s embraced the role of the oldest of six in ways I could never have dreamed. She’s teaching her little brother to rollerblade this summer, patiently holding up his arms until he learns how to control his feet with the slippery foundation of rolling wheels underneath him. Up and down the sidewalk they go, over and over.

Does she have too much weight to carry around here? I wonder this often about her. She gets babies out of bed and keeps an eye on things while I grab a shower. She’s so responsible, so mature. She observes and feels her life, and of course she overhears conversations and reads headlines and asks me questions, hard questions, nearly every day: why would someone take their own life/why do people own guns/what does it mean that the woman we met is “undocumented”/why does anyone drink alcohol/what does depression really mean? 

But she is, still, only ten. 

I can’t tell her I’ll tell you when you’re older anymore. That won’t satisfy the beautiful curiosity she was born with, the desire to really understand this world she’s being brought up in. And I guess the way I see it, I either make her question the validity of her curiosity, or I encourage it by the way I talk to her.

And my goodness, do I want her to stay curious. 

So even though I don’t have very many answers, we talk about every single one of her questions. Maybe together, like Rilke once said, we will live our way into the answers.

//

I learned a new word recently from a student in my class, and I can’t stop thinking about it. 

Sonder: n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.

Of course this concept isn’t new. We all know that everyone has their own life. But I don’t know how often we really think about it, because the stories around us are, indeed, invisible. Our minds begin the day on our own lives and end the day on our own lives. Of course that’s necessary in many ways—no one can parent or work or drive or function in our place. 

But sonder makes me think about the late Timothy Keller’s definition of humility, which he says is not thinking more of yourself or less of yourself, but simply thinking of yourself less. I’ve always loved that simple reframe, and I think it’s the same reason I’m so drawn to the idea of sonder.

My life feels challenging, at moments more than challenging—for so many reasons right now, and it always will. 

But so does yours. 

And your next door neighbor’s.

And the barista who handed you a latte this morning.

And the person driving the car in front of you.

We are all managing many, many, many levels of complexity.

And I don’t know, but the older I get, the more I think that the most dangerous thing in the world might be forgetting that.  

//

Cannon just finished his very first baseball season. When my mom first told me she heard about this league, I didn’t think he could, or would, do it. I imagined us chasing after him as he left the baseball field for the playground, or trying to entice him with snacks and rewards and promises of screen time to go up to bat, because we would never be able to force him to.

It took him two weeks, but he loved baseball. He started throwing the ball back and forth with his “buddy”—the typical ten and eleven year old boys who volunteer to help each child with a disability play the game. He almost learned to run to the base and not run after the ball once he hit it. Not quite, but almost. But he played baseball, friends. 

I love it when God proves me wrong.

Lord, may there be many more beautiful surprises in his life. 

And in all of ours. In every moment to breathe, every hard conversation, every simple delight, surprise us.  The stories living all around us are evidence that you are not leaving any of us the same.