The Time I Lost My Everett

I've never lost any of my kids, not truly.  I've never felt the worry a lost child leaves behind grip me chillingly around the back of my neck; I've never been overcome with sleeting panic, bursting from a sudden realization that I not only don't know where my child is, I have no idea where else to look.

I've never felt any of these things, except once.

I brought Everett to an evening soccer practice held at our local YMCA one evening in late spring.  He was excited; I was anxious to get out the door.  The practice fields were lined up on an expansive field next to the building.  Volunteer coaches were buoys, bobbing along the grass, sending their little players this way and that.  Even the missionaries from our church were coaching their own cute little team.   I dropped Everett off with his coach and sat for a few minutes to watch, then left to go run around the track encircling the field and the Y's building.  I was going to improve my 5k time if I could possibly help it, and here was the perfect opportunity.  I could peek in on Everett each time I rounded the bend on his side of the field.

After a few laps, my legs burned and my lungs were shrinking, so I reigned in my concentration to focus on pounding my feet to the rhythm I had already set.

Triumphantly, I finished my 5k in a pretty good beginner's time.  I walked over to watch Everett's last ten minutes of practice, my endorphins in full swing.  His team was enjoying a drill.  His coach was watching closely.  But there was no Everett.

My heart jolted and throbbed for a minute, but since I am not one to panic, I looked around at the other teams in the hope that Everett got mixed up or purposely joined a friend of his.

He was nowhere to be seen.

I pulled the coach aside to ask where my son was and felt surprised to hear that not only did he not know where Everett was (casual shrug), he hadn't seen him at any time in the last twenty minutes. I questioned the parents near the field to no success, then walked toward the front entrance of the building.  I met a good friend of mine on the way and explained the situation.  She immediately jumped to my aid and we made a quick plan.

At this point, I wasn't truly worried.  Somehow I knew that Everett was fine.  But as I talked with the front desk manager, who immediately began sending employees out in search of a little six-year-old boy in a blue superman shirt, I began to feel an unfamiliar sort of hurt creep into my heart.

Poking my head into bathrooms, attempting to keep my voice level while describing Everett to random gym-goers, pushing away any worst-case scenarios that my mind delivered--nothing I did kept the fingers of that icy hurt from beginning to choke me.

When my friend and I crossed into the same hallway and she asked hopefully, "Did you find him?"  I meant to answer calmly, but my "No" turned wobbly and crumbled into a waterfall of tears.

In a way it felt relieving to release some tears, but I was also surprised.  I never cry, not even when pregnant.  But a lost child trumps any sort of pregnancy hormone.

The fact was, I had no idea where my son was, and an army of employees hadn't found him either.

Five seconds later (which to me felt more like years), I heard a faint voice shout, "We've found him!"

I was immersed in a pool of relief and it tasted sweet, but it did not mask the constricting bruises leftover by worry. I hurried to the front doors where a young employee was guiding in my little Everett.  His relief at seeing me became confusion when he saw the tears coursing down my face.  I made every effort to compose myself, but I couldn't speak with a level voice until I had sat down with him on a private bench outside the building.

I explained how worried I was and asked where he had been and if he was ok.  Everett's eyes widened as they followed the teary trails along my cheeks.  He explained that we had forgotten his water bottle and went to find a drink during the team's water break.  An employee later told me they had found Everett crouched between two cars in the parking lot--he heard people calling for him, but since they were all strangers, he wasn't willing to reveal himself.  His hope had been to find a water bottle in our car, which happened to be locked, and so he found himself at an impasse.

After a discussion on what he should have done instead and some reassurance from my end that I was not upset with him, I took Everett to apologize to his coach, who was packing up the soccer equipment.  Practice had already ended.

Though I knew Everett should apologize for not asking for permission to leave or at least informing the coach of his plans, it galled me to go through with the apology when the coach was wholly unconcerned from the start.  His casual demeanor, even when Everett returned, belied his apathy.

The coach didn't have any idea where my six-year-old son was for over twenty minutes and didn't give me the courtesy of pretending to care.  As any wounded parent would, I grasped for someone to blame for my emotions, and the coach was the nearest candidate.  To him, a careless boy had wandered off and would certainly be found.  To me, a piece of my heart I had let loose for another adult to look after was missing.  And it had to be someone's fault.

Truthfully, it was a comedy of errors--little missteps on the part of all of us.  I had forgotten to give Everett his water bottle and then didn't have my eye on him.  Everett left without informing his coach.  His coach was overwhelmed with instructing twelve little children in a sport he was obviously unfamiliar with.

The night ended just fine, as was my instinct when I first began my search.  But a stronger instinct surged past my initial private reassurance--concern for the safety of my child.

I'm glad all my worry was for nothing.  I don't know what we would do without my sweet guy.