Red Light, Green Light
By Kristin Sponaugle
@kristinsponauglewrites
When I dreamed of becoming a mother, I have to admit that I never envisioned sitting in a camp chair at five o’clock on a Wednesday evening alongside a makeshift soccer field, watching my three-year-old daughter, Hannah, “play” soccer. While my husband grew up playing on a soccer field, I did not, so I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect from this endeavor. I quickly learned how to put her shin guards on correctly, how to appropriately tuck in her game-day jersey, and to have extremely low expectations that she would actually kick the ball instead of pausing to pick a flower in the middle of the field. But I couldn’t help but smile when she would run over to me, abandoning her soccer game, in an effort to give me the dandelion she just freshly picked.
***
Hannah’s soccer coach has the patience of a saint. Her soccer practices consist of skill-building (kick the ball straight!), reviewing basic soccer rules (no hands!), and Hannah’s favorite part, playing a game that has nothing to do with soccer. The games they play allow the kids to run and have fun. Prior to the game section, soccer practice gives me a strong impression of what it would be like to try to herd a bunch of cats.
I shift in my camp chair during practice, feeling the full force of Florida’s humidity as Hannah excitedly runs over to me for her water break. After gulping some water, she exclaims, “Mommy! Coach John says we can play ‘red light, green light’ now!” Before I can respond, she dashes back to the center of the field to her coach to line up to play her favorite game. I watch with amusement as eight toddlers excitedly run forward every time they hear “Green light!” and then jolt to an abrupt stop every time Coach John yells “Red light!”—it never fails that one or two of them try to sneak forward after “red light” is called, sometimes including my daughter.
***
I quickly learn from soccer practice that overall, Hannah responds well to “red light, green light” as a form of direction. We begin to implement this into getting her attention when needed. Like any three-year-old, she occasionally tests the limits of this method, pushing to see if we mean business when we say “red light.”
***
My family is out for a stroll in our new neighborhood; we recently moved across the country, courtesy of the U.S. Air Force. We chose to live on base at this location for a variety of reasons, but mainly to eliminate my husband's work commute and to take advantage of the very safe neighborhoods, where sidewalks, playgrounds, and splash pads are abundant.
My husband pushes our infant son in the stroller, while I walk our elderly Maltese dog, with Hannah bouncing alongside us. She suddenly spots an upcoming playground and begins to sprint towards it. Just beyond the playground is a street. I yell out, “Red light!” and she pauses. I can tell she’s debating about staying still. I call her to come closer. She obliges, and when she’s close enough, I get down to her eye level. “Hannah, do you remember our rule? Whenever Mommy or Daddy says “Red light!” you must stop and look back at us and listen to what we say. We do this to keep you safe. We’ll say “Green light!” when you can run ahead or continue with what you were doing.” She nods solemnly; I can tell she’s absorbing what I’m saying. “Okay, Hannah, green light!” I say, and her face brightens as she sprints towards the playground.
After she finishes at the playground, we continue on our walk, weaving along the winding path. Hannah runs ahead, but when she nears the street corner, we yell out, “Red light!”, and she immediately freezes and looks back at us. Once we catch up to her, I grasp her hand as we look both ways, and then safely cross the street as a family.
Sometimes I wish there was someone looking up ahead, giving me a warning of “red light.”
***
I was eleven years old, with my stick-straight brown hair cut terribly short against my chin, wearing big gold-rimmed glasses. I tentatively entered the cafeteria at my new school; a school with 700 other seventh graders, and I quite literally only knew one other student. By some miracle—or later, it would turn out, by some curse—I found my only “friend” in the chaos that was lunchtime. She invited me to join her lunch table, and as I sat down, I quickly assessed the situation. Everyone at this table had long, gorgeous hair, expertly applied makeup, and wore the coolest clothes. Alarm bells went off in my head as I realized I was at the popular table. A table where I had no business being, considering I looked like a giant dork next to everyone else.
I ignored the “red light” that was flashing brightly at me in the form of the unease that settled into my stomach and sat down at the table. I glanced around the cafeteria and recognized a few nice girls from some of my earlier classes who I could have chosen to sit with, but the desire to be included at the popular table was too enticing. I secretly hoped that these girls would magically include me in the most coveted clique; afterall, I did have a friend already in this group. I flashed everyone a smile before I quietly bowed my head, folded my hands, and silently prayed a prayer of thanks over my lunch tray of cafeteria food. Before I could utter “amen” in my head, one of the girls yelled out, “Why are you praying? Do you think you’re better than us by praying over your food? Should we pray, too?” Before I could process what was happening, my entire lunch table was mockingly reciting “The Lord’s Prayer” at me. I felt my face burn as the surrounding tables began to stare.
I didn’t know what to do. I glanced at my “friend”, looking for an ally, but instead found an enemy, who was fully participating in my humiliation with enthusiasm.
The bullying continued on for the rest of the school year. I tried to sit at a different lunch table a few times, but their taunts were just louder, drawing even more attention to me. It was actually less painful to just sit at their table and take their cruelty about my faith, my family, and my appearance.
Finally, towards the end of the school year, I had enough. I tentatively knocked on my guidance counselor’s door and broke down. Tears slid down my cheeks as I told her what I had endured over the past year. “Kristin, why didn’t you come to me sooner? I could have helped you! I could have rearranged class schedules to get them away from you! I could have saved you from so much pain!” My guidance counselor cried, before enveloping me in a hug and springing to action. The bullies were called into her office and dealt with severely, and my schedule for the following year didn’t share any classes with my tormentors, including my lunch period.
***
I call out “red light” at somewhat regular intervals in our home. Sometimes it’s a minor issue, like when I want Hannah to stop turning the light switches off and on repetitively. Other times it’s more urgent, like when she attempted to scale the couch and fell off of it (she was okay, nothing a hug and a kiss couldn’t fix). She usually heeds my warning, but not always. Like any toddler, she tests boundaries and wants to do things all by herself. While I want her to grow and become self-sufficient, I also want to keep her safe. I have a perspective that she doesn’t—not only from experience, but from the ability to see the bigger picture. I can see the street full of busy cars up ahead, while she’s distracted looking at flowers growing in the sidewalk crack. I know from experience that carrying too many books usually results in dropping them on your foot.
My mind flashes to the future, picturing us navigating hurt feelings and broken hearts. It won’t be as simple as calling out “red light!” when I see danger up ahead. While there will still be discussions of “red light!”, there will also be conversations about discerning yellow lights of caution. I know I will have to take a deep breath of faith and say “green light” at times when I wish I could keep her wrapped up safely in my arms, like when she first learns to drive a car.
It’s a constant internal tension of discerning when to yell “red light!” instead of seeing if she can handle it. It’s an internal battle of wanting to keep her tucked in a cocoon, but also wanting her to spread her wings and fly. It’s a constant process of holding on while simultaneously letting go.
I can only hope that as she grows older, she sees that every “red light” was in hope of protecting her from something painful, each “yellow light” moment was one to help her grow, and each “green light” took a heart of faith to watch my baby take a few steps on her own.
***
“I’m not going to be home for dinner, and I’ll be cutting it close to bedtime, too,” my husband said to me on the phone, although I could barely register what he was saying over the fussing baby in my arms, the whining toddler pulling at my leg, the dog barking, and the TV blaring a Daniel Tiger episode in the background. The words clicked in my head as I surveyed my surroundings: boxes and suitcases were scattered all over our friend’s house, where we had been staying while they were on vacation, ready to be moved to the temporary base apartment, where we would be living for the next few weeks while we waited for our base house to be ready.
“You know we’re supposed to move to the apartment this afternoon, right? Am I going to have to do all of this myself?” Tears began to fill my eyes as I lifted my eyes toward heaven and said a quick prayer. Lord, I can’t take much more. I need help.
I felt my phone buzz against my cheek and shoulder, where I had it plastered as I continued to bounce the baby on my hip. I quickly glanced at the inbound text, which just so happened to be from a new friend I had just recently met: I know you’re moving into the apartment today—do you need any help? I’m free all day!
The tears that had previously welled up quickly spilled over as relief washed over me. I spoke into the phone. “We’re good, babe. Rachel just texted and said she’s free to help me.” We quickly reviewed our schedules, what urgent items needed moved before bedtime, and what could wait until after the kids went to bed. I texted Rachel back, profusely thanking her, and coordinating the game plan for the rest of the day.
Rachel swooped in; she became the perfect playmate for my daughter while holding my infant son, and somehow also wrangled the dog. I moved our items to the temporary apartment at warp speed and attempted to get as much settled as possible.
It hit me mid-afternoon that I had no thought, or plans, for dinner. Just as I began to internally groan at this realization, my phone buzzed with an incoming text. I glanced at the screen and another wave of relief washed over me. Another military spouse, who I hadn’t even formally met yet, offered to drop off dinner at the apartment since she knew we were busy moving in. I quickly responded: Yes, please, thank you so much! We have no preferences, anything would be great. No allergies, and my daughter loves simple kid foods.
Two hours later, salads, teriyaki bowls, and chicken nuggets with fries appeared at my door. The warm meal that wasn’t prepared by me felt like the hug I needed to get through the rest of the day.
After I finally collapsed on the couch that night, I took a deep breath as a sense of calm washed over me. The day started with red sirens blaring, but by the grace of God, the lights had changed to green.
I said a quick prayer. Thank you, Lord, for providing just what I needed today. Thank you for the reassurance that we are exactly where we’re meant to be.
***
“Red light!”, I shout to Hannah, as I watch her from across the playground, catching her attention just before she attempts to climb a tricky ladder that’s too big for her. Hannah freezes, and looks expectantly back at me. Once I reach her, I say, “Hannah, this is too big for you to climb, let’s go the other way.” She juts out her lower lip. “But Mommy, they’re all climbing it!” She says with a little pout. I glance up at the other kids, who are easily twice her size and scaling the playground equipment with ease. I pull her a little closer to me. “Hannah, those kids are a lot bigger than you. One day you’ll be that big and can climb this by yourself, but right now you need my help to climb it so you don’t get hurt. Let me help you climb up a different way, a way that’s safer.” Hannah glances up the ladder, then looks warily at me. “Oookay,” she sighs, and accepts my helping hand.
***
Truthfully, she may have been able to figure out how to climb the tricky ladder all on her own. Or she may have fallen and really hurt herself. Considering the two possible outcomes, I’m glad I yelled, “red light.”
I’m even more glad that she listened.
Guest essay written by Kristin Sponaugle. Kristin is an ordinary wife and mama who is passionate about pursuing the Lord within the little moments of life and motherhood. She practiced as a physician assistant for about nine years before she felt the Lord calling her to lay down her stethoscope and pick up a pen. She writes in the margins of military life and motherhood; she is often writing on scraps of paper while chasing her toddler and caring for her newborn. You can read her scribbled thoughts on her website and on Instagram. She enjoys hiking with her family, reading, and cross-stitching. She resides wherever the Air Force sends her family, which is currently in the High Plains of New Mexico.