Kennedy, Party Of One...Sometimes

There's a common saying that's so old we don't know where it came from, and while we can't credit its wisdom to one person, its truth is sometimes heavier than we'd like it to be. "It takes a village."

We say it when it comes to family relationships, finding community, spiritual growth, and the power of support. We use it as a balm to make ourselves feel better about learning to accept help when we'd feel safer leaning on self-reliance. We use it as an explanation when we talk about why we need other people and the value of a solid support system. And we arch our eyebrows and shake our heads as we contemplate the challenges of raising children, especially when it comes to single parenting.

I've spent most of my life being grateful when I'm able to be part of someone else's village. When I'm able to protect a friend in a scary situation, when I'm able to lend a hand if someone's overwhelmed—or share a couple of dollars when I see someone struggling to survive with less than I have.

But I was very much the black sheep in my family and, by extension, my daughters were treated that way, too. When my nieces received packages from my dad for the holidays, my mailbox stayed empty. When parties were thrown or gatherings were organized, I often learned about them after they'd ended. And I think I just got used to living my life as "Kennedy, Party of One."

I raised my kids without much participation from their dad, even when we were together. I scheduled and managed doctor's appointments, surgeries, long-distance medical trips. I maintained equipment, tracked prescriptions, and advocated endlessly. I did it with strength I didn't know I had, courage and resilience I shouldn't have needed, and a constant appreciation for every breath my babies took, because I've never forgotten the baby who never breathed.

I did as much of it as possible without asking for help, raising kids on a budget strained by disability and single motherhood. Raising children with less, while desperately fighting to make sure they never noticed. And "it takes a village" always made me a little sad, because I've spent most of my life going, "Okay, where it at, though?"

But maybe I'm a little nearsighted, because my "village" may be barely more than a blip on the map...but its shelter is far more solid than it seems.

Picture it. A dirt road, so settled there's no dust in the air. It's small and untraveled, shaded by old trees that whisper stories in their leaves when the wind blows. And off to the side, where a small town might be, there is one lone building. A little time-battered, a little worn, and maybe you look at it long enough to wonder how it's still standing.

At first glance, it stands alone. Perhaps occasionally a truck or trailer might be parked there as loved ones pass through, but there are no outbuildings. No sheds. No neighboring homes from which to borrow an egg or a cup of sugar when the canister runs low. Visitors may be frequent, and some almost make themselves at home...but only almost, and then they're gone again. And the house remains, haphazardly tended as time, energy, and money allow.

Hi. That's me. I'm the house. The blip on the map. Sometimes interesting, sometimes hospitable, but easy enough to pass on the way to elsewhere. A welcoming place to drop in and rest...for a while.

And maybe I've been looking at the blip all wrong, because it isn't surrounded by the noise of community and the intrigue of a fascinating stop. No sightseeing here, no major attractions. Just a place where the nightlife ends by eleven and the best local band is a tree full of cicadas.

Not a village, but it's more like an old-fashioned rest stop. A road-side inn. A place to grab a snack from the vending machine, empty your bladder, clean the garbage from the center console. It's the place where people go to catch their breath on the way from one phase to another...and then they're off to bigger and better things.

But man, a rest stop is solid, isn't it? We put our faith in a strong foundation, we lean tired shoulders on sturdy walls, and we accept nourishment we didn't know we needed until we saw it. And I wonder how often we really think about the things that hold the ceilings up.

If I'm the rest stop, then I'm proud of my foundation: concrete faith, poured so long ago it feels as solid as the earth itself. Formed by life lessons and gratitude, fortified by unexpected blessings, and strengthened by determination to keep trusting God no matter how much the earth quakes. I'm proud of the walls too, though, with every brick baked in memories of kindness and connection, each surface signed with someone's name.

The rest stop is always "XX Miles From" something else. Connected to a state, a county, a town...a village...but never quite part of what it's connected to. Not entirely alone, and rarely ever truly empty. Rest stops don't actually spend much time resting.

But this week, I got a little unexpected renovation.

A few miles down the road, there's a woman who knows the value of a rest stop, because in many ways, she is one herself. She's the quiet one who comes every morning to clean the windows and let the sun in. The strong one who fixes things when they get broken. The one who keeps the pamphlets organized and the fan running. The one who notices when it's time for a little extra TLC.

And she never asks for credit but it's hard to count how many of my bricks have her name on them, because I don't know the world without her in it.

This week, she locked the rest stop doors and put a little sign out in the parking lot that said, "Temporarily out of order." She opened the windows, turned the fan on blast, and let fresh air blow through a tired old building. Outside this metaphor, she let me do her a small favor...and proceeded to mold that favor into a blessing beyond measure.

My youngest daughter and I delivered my cousin's grandchildren and daughter-in-law to the airport in Nashville. My cousin couldn't get the day off work, and since my car sucks we did what we've done so many times before. We lived one life in two bodies. She made the vehicle appear, and I planted my butt in the driver's seat.

This short road trip turned into a mostly-spontaneous three-day whirlwind vacation, where my daughter and I had the most amazing time. I rested between outings. I got to give my daughter moments and memories we normally don't have access to. And instead of calculating how to make everything work, I got to watch proudly as my daughter openly celebrated every single moment. Not one grumble about what we didn't/couldn't do. Not one "wish we could."

It was three days of "Thank you, Mom." Thank you for showing me how to do this. Thank you for getting up early to find the restaurant I was hoping for. Thank you for a souvenir. Thank you for memories.

And the more blessed I was by those moments, the more I thought about the reason they were possible. The cousin who reads almost every word I write. The one who survived childhood beside me. The one I can always call, who knows she can always call me. The other, better half of everything I am.

Sometimes it's easy to overlook the steadiness of the ones who stay beside us. The ones who hold us up when we've been exhausted for too long. The quiet support of a wall that keeps standing. And, whether it's because we get comfortable enough to stop saying it or because our saying it makes them uncomfortable, maybe we don't always thank them the way we should.

So, to those who've signed the bricks that hold this rest stop together...thank you.

*****

The thing is, I've spent most of my life existing just outside of the village. Not entirely alone, and there have always been people around me. People who love me, who need me, who feel safer or stronger because of me. For some of those people, I help pour the foundation, and for others, I help build the walls. For many, I am the roof that protects them when storms roll in.

And maybe that's what I'm learning about gratitude. It's easy to be grateful for big things—the answered prayers and unexpected opportunities, the three-day adventures we otherwise wouldn't have had. It's easy to look at blessings that roll in like parades and recognize them for what they are.

But some of the greatest blessings are the quiet people whose names have been written on our bricks for so long, we stop noticing. They're the ones who don't announce that they're holding up a wall. They just keep standing there, and maybe that's what a village really is. Not a constant crowd or a steady stream of help and companionship, but just one person—or a handful of people.

Maybe it's the ones who have been part of the architecture for so long, we can't remember what the building looked like before they were there. The people who've known you since before you knew who you were.

We tend to talk about how "it takes a village" as though that village is just for the children, but I think it takes a village to be a person, too. And raising children with very little doesn't always mean raising them without abundance, because watching my daughter on this trip reminded me of something else I'm grateful for: she knows how to receive a gift in ways that I never had the chance to learn.

She notices without shame. She receives freely, and says thank you with no hesitation. She doesn't assume she's entitled, but she accepts blessings with unadulterated joy, and maybe that's one of the unexpected gifts of growing up without financial freedom. You learn that a little can be a lot when you understand what it costs.

I think that's what true gratitude is—not pretending we have everything we need, but recognizing the quiet things that hold us up when we stop long enough to notice. My foundation will always be my faith, but I'm learning new gratitude for the walls, too. Because a rest stop needs a strong foundation...but a place where people step in to sign the walls? Well, that's a home, no matter how small it seems.

And in this home, those walls made of memories signed by loved ones are the strength that helps us...

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