Running away.

There were no fireworks, no dramatic outbursts, no wild threatenings. Just a quiet slipping out the back door, a bag slung over the shoulder filled to the brim with clothes, a blanket, the Book of Mormon, a chapter book, and leftover chicken soup. The other arm lugged a pillow through the drizzle, across drenched fields of sagebrush and morning glory to her chosen spot. "Mom won't even notice", she imagined, supposing that I'd fallen asleep, blissfully unaware of the goings on in my own house. She forgot how keen a mother's instinct can be - I had (for the first time in months) left my window open to allow a fresh backyard breeze to trickle through the house that sullen rainy day. My ears barely detected the soft clicking of the backdoor handle and thought little of it. Until Eve uncharacteristically awoke mid-nap and, before descending the stairs to feed her, I poked my head in Anna's room to find her missing.

I found my way to the backyard, peered around the sides of our house, calling her name at first quietly, then increasing in volume with the realization that she was nowhere to be found. Perhaps I missed her, I thought, and retreated back indoors, asking Lily if she knew where Anna was. Becoming more frantic by the moment, I contemplated calling the police, for although six-year-olds have been known to hide from their mothers, I felt, somehow, that she was not safe inside the confines of these walls and my imagination ran wild at the possibilities. One last check of the backyard, and several calls over the fence into the common area yielded some results. A faint sob, mingled with a pitter and a patter, and then another. And another. Then a small figure rising above the small hill just 50 yards behind our property line. Her load was heavy, her shoulders slumped beneath the weight of her bag and her melancholy spirit.

I ushered her inside, snapped a quick picture, then gave her a towel to wrap around her soaked pants and placed her on the lap she has almost outgrown. We talked. She'd been feeling overlooked and had planned to "run away" for a few days. Upon arriving beneath the tree that was to be her home for a period, she became overwhelmed by how much she missed me, turned right back around, and headed home. She blubbered through her retelling of the events as I resisted the urge to overreact, stroked her hair and reassured her of my love. Within minutes, all was well.

Then I unleashed the lecture about how frightful this world can be, how dangerous it is to go somewhere alone without telling anyone. I reminded her how no one would care for her as we do, in fact, quite the opposite, and forced a promise that she would never make herself as vulnerable to those who would harm her as she had that afternoon. We discussed other ways of responding to feeling unloved, and I prayed that all was not falling on deaf ears.

I ran away when I was her age. I tucked myself away inside a cardboard box beside the house with a box of Cheerios. I sat for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for someone to notice I was gone, though comfortable in the warmth of the dryer vent against which I had nestled my makeshift home. So Anna's experience seemed like a normal reaction to typical childhood emotions and the inability to find words or the guts to simply say, "I'm not feeling very loved today."

25 years later, I can't help but feel sad that my daughter's impetuousness poses much graver consequences than mine might have. Fortunately, this time, the end result was a sweet reunion enjoyed by both mother and daughter. Next time? Well, I'm praying there won't be a next time. Which is why I took a picture.