Running away seems a simple solution when we’re young

I wonder where I’d be right now if Velcro had been invented when I was 7. One rainy night the frustration of being the youngest of four finally caught up with me. My parents were out for the evening, leaving my teenage brother in charge. He refused to let me stay up past my bedtime to watch “Gunsmoke.” It was one injustice too many.

I packed my round, red-and-black plaid suitcase with all the books and comics it could hold. Donned my raincoat and tennis shoes and went to the kitchen to pack a snack. I couldn’t make the square box of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch fit into my round suitcase so, leaving it on the counter, I slipped out the backdoor.

At the end of our driveway I tripped on my untied shoelace. It would be a painful journey if I kept stumbling over my laces. I marched back inside where my despot of a brother reclined, watching television.

“Tie my shoes,” I demanded.

He looked at me, rain puddling on the floor at my feet. “You’re supposed to be in bed. Why are you all wet?”

“I’m running away,” I said, pointing to my damp suitcase.

“You can’t run away from home until you can tie your own shoes,” my brother explained.

Helpless and enraged, I trudged off to bed. I kept that suitcase packed for weeks, but by the time I learned how to tie my shoes I’d forgotten why running away seemed so urgent.

History repeats itself. Last week our 7-year-old son ran away. He told his 17-year-old brother he was going. Loaded up his Batman backpack, slapped on his Velcro sandals and hit the road. His brother neglected to tell anyone that Sam had left home, until we were all scrambling out the door to various destinations.

“Where’s Sam?” I asked.

“Oh, he ran away,” Ethan replied.

Now, it’s a sad commentary on the plight of the last born that instead of calling 911, I just asked how long he’d been gone.

Our 15-year-old headed up the search and rescue, and within minutes the teary-eyed prodigal was home. After stern warnings regarding the dangers of children leaving home, along with some cookies, cuddling and commiseration, Sam agreed to stay with us awhile longer.

Late that night I opened his backpack to see what Sam thought he needed to survive on his own. All he’d taken was his blankie, his stuffed dog and a pencil. Food wasn’t a consideration, because his destination was Grandma’s house, and she only lives a few blocks away.

We’re the lucky ones. Our son had fled in a fit of childish anger with a safe refuge in mind. But according to the National Runaway Switchboard, an organization that takes calls and helps kids who have run away, one in seven children between the ages of 10 and 18 will run away at some point. And there are one million to three million runaway and homeless kids living on the streets in the United States. Sadly, the issues that cause many kids to flee are far more serious than early bedtimes.

When we’re young, running away seems a viable solution to most problems. Unfortunately, some of us never outgrow the tendency to bolt when we don’t get what we want. The flight or fight mechanism is hardwired into our brains. As we mature we learn when to cut our losses, and when to stick it out, but it’s never easy to distinguish the difference. If we’re lucky we have wise and loving people in our lives to help us sort through our options.

Ironically, we often are the very thing we’re running from. Sam and I will always be the youngest in our families. Changing locations doesn’t change birth order, nor does it alter more serious problems. Wherever we go we take ourselves with us.

More importantly, running diminishes the hope of reconciliation. Relationships are hard. We’re frail human beings given to selfishness. We can’t help but disappoint each other. Families are where we learn to live with our limitations and tolerate those of others.

Velcro made it easy for Sam to run. But it also meant he wouldn’t trip over his shoelaces in his haste to get home.