"What if They All Laugh at Me?"

That was the question I had for my mom as I stood outside the chapel door of the building that held hundreds of kids from my school. The school was a private school in Richmond, Virginia, and we were outside of a local church because it was to be the site of our annual Christmas program. I wasn't performing; I wasn't in the living nativity; I wasn't even reading from any of the Gospels. I was just going to be sitting in the audience...in a new suit...that my mom had sewn for me.

Yep, Mom made a lot of our clothes. I didn't appreciate that at the time. I just knew that I was wearing a blue plaid suit (a plaid reminiscent of a lumberjack's shirt) and was walking into a world of name brands and whispered judgments.

"They won't laugh," she said, barely hiding the pride of seeing me in the suit she had so expertly tailored. She kissed my forehead and bustled off to the parking lot, "I'll be in the car when it's over," she called over her shoulder, "I love you!"

I sighed, opened the over sized door to the chapel and headed inside. As the door creaked shut, I remembered Mom's words, "They won't laugh," she had said. Mom was wrong.

Now, my mom had been wrong before, but this was the kind of wrong where you feel it inside. The kids did, in fact, laugh at me (not all of them, but the hyperbolic perception of an eighth grader certainly made it seem like all of them). I lowered myself onto the pew full of blue blazers and khaki pants (my vote had been for just such an outfit, but Mom had the power of veto) and attempted to lower my head as far as it would go - inside my neck would have been ideal. Of course, like most church services, there was a lot of standing and (worse than the blue plaid suit) singing. After an hour of attempting to blend in, the service was over and we headed to our rides to get from the church back to our school (yes, the rest of the day would be spent in the suit).

"How was it?" asked Mom.

"Fine," I lied.

"See, I knew they wouldn't laugh at you."

I'm glad my eyes didn't make noise when they rolled.

Back at school (where the boys and girls were separated by hallways), the sea of blue blazers and khakis that had flooded the church now washed across the front steps of the Boys Middle School building. I tugged at the suit as I made my way to English class where, as at the church, the kids laughed at me. With each giggle or snort, the suit grew a little tighter.

Eventually the day ended and I made it home (where my younger brother laughed at me) and shed the suit. I piled it in the back of my closet where I was sure my mom wouldn't find it. As most of you know, moms always find everything, and the suit was no exception.

Thing is, my mom never mentioned it again or suggested I wear it to another event. Somehow, she knew how I really felt about the suit and let the whole thing sort of fade away. I didn't realize it then, but she did it because she loved me.

Now, she had made the suit because she loved me, had encouraged me outside the church because she loved me, and was now willing to let her hours of work go for naught - because she loved me.

I learned a lot from my mom over the years, before cancer interrupted, but the lesson of that suit is one I didn't learn until just a few years ago. What it helped me see is that sometimes, to protect your most valuable relationships, you sacrifice what you think is important for the sake of the other party.

That happens in school every day. Sometimes, you just have to overlook the cell phone, or the hood being up, or walking on the left rather than the right. Every so often, that brief moment of knowing what matters makes for a happier story across the board. No, you don't sacrifice values, but you sometimes sacrifice control - which makes for a better person, actually. You can control your narrative, but not your community. Instead of trying to control them, give them some positives to talk about - and talk they will.

Decide what kinds of stories you want told about your school. I'm going to share mine in this blog, and would love to hear from you and learn your stories, too.