Three Steps Away

He used to sit on my lap during worship, or any other time we happened to be sitting.  But now, when Ethan gets mad at me because I want him to be still, or stand up, or focus his attention on something important...now, he stands three steps away.

I watched, and counted.  One.  Two.  Three steps...to get away from me.  And there he stood, simmering by himself, focusing his attention on what he wanted to focus on.

The gap looked like a chasm.

So this is how it is...three steps, then four, then five.  And the heart kind of breaks a little.

But this is how it is.  They have to do this.  We have to do this.  We have to move away...to lose ourselves ...and find ourselves?

But my head and heart don't connect...they don't agree.  Not now.  Not right now.  Later...my heart will catch up.  It will.

But three steps...

Minutes later, as we stood for the final prayer, he was next to me.  And I put my hand on his shoulder and slid it slowly down.  And he reached up...and took my hand.  And there we stood, holding hands with our heads bowed.  Gratitude.

Three steps...not four.  Not yet.

Sleepovers

After a night of Minecraft on Xbox, basketball in the basement, and two episodes of Duck Dynasty, Ezra and Owen were finally tucked into bed.  It was Ezra's third official sleepover...and he was making the most of it.

I figured the buzz from Ezra's room would eventually subside.  But the chatter only seemed to intensify as the boys took turns sharing sweeping stories of their seven years of experiences.

Ezra told of his new Red Ryder BB gun and how his first shot had found the bulls-eye.  Owen shared his own story of BB gun mastery...and how he looked forward to growing strong enough to pull back his newly inherited compound bow...and then, how he might deer hunt next year.  

Eavesdropping from the living room, I was surprised how neither boy seemed to pause between stories.  It was as if they had been storing them up for this very moment and couldn't wait to be the next one to share.

After twice visiting the boys with gentle reminders to wrap it up, it became evident that stronger influence might become necessary.  But as I gathered myself for another visit, my memory began to summon my own history of sleepovers...

Many late nights were spent at the bottom of 6th Street hill, watching and re-watching Red Dawn or Nightmare on Elm Street on LaserDisc with Cam Hybels...or at French's listening to Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet, riding the three wheeler through the dark corn fields, or playing Tecmo Bowl and eating huge amounts of Cookies and Cream ice cream.  We'd get so tired, talking long into the night, that our words often became a mishmashed medley in the strange twilight between sleep and wake.

As memory flooded my mind, I began to realize that this is how it happens...  This is the beginning for Ezra and Owen.  This is how two boys begin to realize they have their own thoughts and stories...and relationships.  This is how a boy becomes a human being with their own life. 

And surprisingly, the chatter began to sound less like two little boys trying to stay up late...and more like like two human beings...growing into themselves.

I settled back into my chair, put my feet up, and listened to the sound of two little boys on a sleepover...living their histories. 

Ordinary

It is an ordinary summer evening.  I'm working on a project inside.  For once...the house is peaceful.  Through the kitchen window, I see Ezra and some neighborhood kids jumping on the trampoline. Their sounds of play cascade through the sliding glass door.  They sound like the morning birds, calling forth the dawn light.  The sound pleases me.

Just then, Ethan steps through the slider, off our newly built deck.  I had not known where he was.

"Dad, I've been sitting on the deck for a LOOOONG time."

He pauses, apparently lost in thought.  Then he looks me square in the eye.

"How can such an ordinary man, build such a great deck?"

Ordinary indeed...

She's the One

She's the one who sings you, "Christopher Robin and I walked along..." every time you ask.

She's the one you snuggle with on the couch and call "mama polar bear" because of her white cozy robe.

She's the one who shows up every week with bags of groceries, wondering if someone might be willing to help her...but puts them away by herself even if no one shows up.

She's the one who paws through hundreds of pages of schoolwork and handouts and schedules to make sure you study and learn and show up on time.

She's the one who somehow finds a way to incorporate vegetables into every meal, but compromises when you don't want to eat all of them.

She's the one who plans everything and takes you to Jungle Joe's and Bounceland so you can feel special your birthday.

She's the one who came up with family dance parties.

She's the one who brings you to practice and attends all your games (even when it's cold, wet, and windy) and cheers extra loud for you no matter how good or bad you play.

She's the one who makes you stop and look at beautiful things like Pileated woodpeckers and swan babies.



She's the one who takes you roller skating, downhill skiing, and sledding.

She's the one who lets you ride on her water skis, even though it hurts, so you won't be afraid to try it on your own.

She's the one who thinks it's ok for you to have an extra privilege once in a while.

She's the one who continually wipes up pee from every crevice in the toilet so the bathroom doesn't perpetually reek.

She's the one you run to when you get hurt.

She's the one who makes food for our neighbors, and takes you with her to pass them out so you'll know how love your own neighbor one day.

She's the one who came up with worship walks.

She's the one who tells you how handsome you are (and believes it) even when you have lost your two front teeth and look really funny.

She's the one who goes without praise, acknowledgment, or even thanks even when she really, really, deserves it.

She's the one who cries, hopes, fights, and prays for you, and wonders at the unbelievable mystery that you are.

She's the one who writes letters to you and saves them in a folder so you can read them when you grow up and know how much she loved you all the days and months and years of your life.

She's the one who gladly chooses to die to herself...everyday...for you.

Just in case you forget...she's the one.

I Want to Show You

My black recliner called to me.  It had been a long day and Bilbo's phrase rang true.  I felt "sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread."

"Dad...I want to show you Minecraft."

Later E.  I need to rest for a few.

"But Dad, I really want to show you what I made on Minecraft."

Not now E.

I shadow passed over him.  I barely noticed.  

The last thing I wanted to see or hear right now was a computer game.  I closed my eyes. 

Suddenly, the gray walls of my 1990 basement bedroom surrounded me.  My 16 year old hands held Dad's classic Epiphone acoustic guitar.  After months of many futile attempts, my voice and hands were starting to pretend like they wanted to work together.  I felt proud for my first song was ready for presentation.  I yelled up the stairs, "Mom, Dad...I want to show you something!!!"  The echoes of my voice faded into the next 22 years...

Dad...I want to show you...  Dad...look at me...  Dad...see what I am doing...  Dad...care...  

I felt an old pain and a new shame.  

I had forgotten how it feels when you are a boy trying to live in a big person world, wishing for no greater thing than to be seen and acknowledged by the people you care about most.  I had forgotten that somehow, though you pretend you could care less, every "later E" feels like a surprise gut punch.  I had forgotten that feeling...that sick feeling, when you realize the world may not really want to hear your version of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn."

My black recliner didn't feel very comfortable.  I opened my eyes.  

"Hey E, what did you want to show me?"

Battlefield Kitchens

Bullets flew everywhere.  Bodies were flying, falling, and flipping.  The noise was deafening.  I had unknowingly walked into a nerf gun warzone.

The boys had recruited our neighbor Anya to take part in the mayhem.

Luckily, our house has a basement designed perfectly for such endeavors and I firmly instructed the infantry to move the warzone to the nearest basement bunker.  And of course, like any good soldier, they heard and obeyed...but then they forgot...three times.  I should have made 'em give me 50.  But I simply reminded them...again....and again...and again.

After the third time something strange and beautiful happened.  As the bodies and voices continued to swarm like a nest of angry hornets, time suddenly held no sway, and in a dream I saw what would be.  

The kitchen was quiet.  No voices, no bodies, no battlefield...just silence and emptiness.  And I knew in my heart that this is how life is -  when you are young, you are loud and fast, and being a soldier is easy and fun.  Kitchens can be battlefields or race tracks or anything at all.

But things change; children grow up, and the sounds of loud laughter and play fade like a mountain voice echo.  And old kitchens grow silent as they have been before.

And with the past, present, and future dancing in my heart, something small and beautiful grew in me, something that had been trying to grow for a long time.

Acceptance.  grow...grOW...GROW!

May God bless the underaged soldiers and their parents...and battlefield kitchens that always grow silent.

Old Memory

An old memory and passion has been awakened.

The awakening started during Ethan's first official Parchment basketball game. I have seen a lot of football and baseball games in the past three years. But none of those compared to this...

I was excited...really excited. My son...out there playing defense, passing, and making shots...just his father before him, and his grandfather before him.

I recently read a journal entry my dad wrote in 1982. "Lon attended his first basketball camp this summer, and was selected to the Cougars youth basketball drill team. It choked me up when they announced it."

Strange timing to read that within days of Ethan's first game. After the game I searched for Ethan. All I wanted to do is see my son. When I finally found him, I knelt down so I could look him in the eye. Suddenly, I could barely speak...and I understood how my dad felt so long ago.

"I'm proud of you son. You did great. You played defense. You passed to your teammates, and you took the shot when you had it. Great job."

I had wanted to say more...to explain that my emotion wasn't about what he can or cannot do in some game. I wanted to tell him I'm proud to be his dad, like my father before me. I wanted to tell him I'm so glad we belong together, that we can share the same interests, and laugh at the same things, and have the same people in our lives. But in a moment, he was gone...high-fiving his buddies, glowing in the aftermath of his first ever basketball game.

I suppose that's just about right. His time for old memory will come in his time.

But today is my time. And I'm glad for it...glad to be apart of this great undeserved grace. A grace received from my father. A grace passed on to my son.