Tag: wyatt and seth

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Lies and Laughter

The week before last was a bear for Wyatt. Elementary school is like the rest of life: there’s sad people and fearful people – and the sad, fearful people take the meanness that’s been heaped on them and hurl it onto others. Sometimes my dad-self wants to march onto the school grounds and put the fear of God into a child or two.

After a particularly difficult day for Wyatt, I had words my son needed to hear. I got on the floor with him in his room, and we talked about the truth. We talked about words that are lies and words that are true; and we talked about how truth is something we hold tight, clinging onto for dear life while lies are the things we stare down and then, with a chuckle and a wag of the head, we say, You are just ridiculous. Wyatt liked that. He liked the word ridiculous, particularly when I repeated it, stretching it out (ri——di—–culous) while exaggerating the laughter and the roll of the eyes. These lies (the ones aimed at the soul) aren’t something to ponder and dissect; they’re something we disarm by refusing them the dignity of a conversation.

This is true for Wyatt in 4th grade. It’s true for me at 40 years. By now, the lies are predictable. I’ve heard most every one (or close cousins) a bujillion times. I can hunker down for the assault and follow that familiar cycle of self-violence. I can give that old snaggle-toothed lie my energy. Or I can stand up straight, breathe deep, and, with the lightheartedness of one who knows nothing’s at stake, I can have a laugh and say, You, old pal, are plain ridiculous.

✣

After a couple of these conversations with Wyatt, he asked me, “Dad, when you’re a kid, is it bad to love your dad almost as much as God?”

“No,” I said, sensing tears, “not at all, Wyatt, not at all.”

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Generous Goes the Love

Generosity is another way to talk about love. Love doesn’t insist that the punishment meet the crime. Rather, love is always on the lookout for a left-handed way to slide someone an extra helping of mercy. Generous love plays a late game of chess with the boy who’s had a whale of a day, the same boy who’s lost his mind more than once this weekend, the same boy who made his mom and dad pull the tag-team card. Hey, Miska, you crawl into bed with the book, I’ll take the next round.

Generosity doesn’t hold back, waiting until one’s whims (or demands) are sated. Love looks for what particular grace another needs; and then, as best one’s able, love gives that costly grace away. I love Francis Maitland Balfour’s words: “The best thing to give to your enemy is forgiveness; to an opponent, tolerance; to a friend, your heart; to your child, a good example; to a father, deference; to your mother, conduct that will make her proud of you; to yourself, respect; to all people, charity.”

Find out what you can give, and go give it. And if you’re having trouble deciding, just give away love until you figure it out.

 

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I Wish I’d Laughed

Miska's been out of town a couple days, and this morning I was up early, downstairs with a friend and coffee. I heard the pitter-patter of feet on the hardwood above, the wild tribe arising. I found myself saying a prayer for these sleepy-eyed boys, for goodness and love and God to cover them all their days. I had an image of a Wyatt and a Seth, years from now – men who know themselves and their God and their work. My eyes grew moist. These moments catch us unaware.

Then breakfast came and the rush-to-school madness. No one would mistake me for being proficient at such things. My dialogue went something like this: Brush your teeth, get on your socks, grab your backpack, did you brush your teeth?, where's your other sock? uh, brush your teeth, is your homework signed?, where's you hoodie?, no. we can't take your four crates of legos, did we eat breakfast?, socks, boys, socks, Brush. Your. Teeth! Exhausting.

I finally herded the boys down the stairs with instructions to pull on their shoes. When I followed, I noticed Wyatt standing underneath the coat rack, mostly hidden by scarves and jackets and hats. Looking closely, you could make out two little legs and two little Nike tennis shoes. Wyatt was intensely quiet, convinced he was invisible.

I didn't play along. The clock ticked. My nerves were sufficiently taut. I tapped his shoe and, more gruffly than I wish, said, "Come on, Wyatt, let's go."

He did. Wyatt piled out of the mound of clothes, and he grabbed his bag. But before he headed to the car, Wyatt said, "Dad, you didn't even laugh."

I wish I had. I wish I'd laughed. Next time, I hope I do.

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On the Second Day of Christmas…

The boys like pallets on the floor
during the holidays

Seth and our dog Daisy went running with me this morning. Seth wanted to bring along his pack of Mentos that arrived in his Christmas stocking. He thought he might need a snack. Seth wore his Clemson jersey, and we hit the pavement. We walked as much as we ran, which is alright with me – you can talk more with a slow pace. When we reached the spot where, when I’m running alone, I begin to pray for my sons, I told him. And I told him what I pray for each of them. We walked that road that has become hallowed ground. I love that boy.

When we returned, it was Wyatt-time. Wyatt had his big Christmas gift, a Lego Kingdoms set, scattered across his floor. I built a castle tower while he constructed a tower and a wall and another tower and sundry other expression of medieval architecture. Wyatt paused his rapid focus only for the several occasions when he felt the urge to comment on how painfully slow my single tower was coming. Wyatt’s decided he’s into rap, God help us; and so for Christmas I searched around for a rapper with appropriate lyrics. We listened to rapper Lecrae and stacked Legos, a strange combo that somehow works. Those moments are prayers, and those spaces are absolutely hallowed ground. I love that boy.

Tonight, I pulled the boys close and told them a story of Prince Calyn who was courageous and strong and true but who, if he would only have listened to Merlin, would have been wiser. But Calyn’s young, and goofing up is the way we actually learn wisdom — there’s plenty of time, plenty of time. Seth lay next to me, nodding off. After The End, Wyatt said, “That story’s alright, but you know…” He makes a tough crowd, but I’ll keep trying. If I want to tell good stories for anyone, it’s these two. Those moments are prayers, and those spaces hallowed ground. I love those boys, I do.

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Dad with a G

I have a dad. Most likely, you do too. I have a good dad. I hope you can say the same.

When we have a good dad, we easily utter this familiar line to our prayer: Our Father who is in heaven… When your dad has been everything but good, however, that line can stop you cold.

I have two boys, and I hope to be a dad who helps, not hinders, their prayers. Most days, I don’t have a foggy clue what that means. When it comes to parenting, it’s mostly holding hands with your mate and praying for mercy. But one thing that comes with the “good dad” kit is this: generosity.

Generosity doesn’t mean giving your kids whatever they want. That’s a sure-fire way to raise a hellion who comes running into the room screaming bloody murder and demanding that all present dote on them like they were a little emperor (sorry, flashback). Rather, generosity means that we are open-hearted, that we are quick with mercy, that we see the best in our kids even when it’s oh-so hard to see (and it’s often oh-so hard to see).

Generosity also means we’re easy on ourselves. We’re going to screw-up. We’re going to loose our cool. We’re going to say that ridiculous thing all parents say – but is undeniably lame. But we also know that we’re surrounded in generous love, so we’re going to be okay. And the kids are going to be okay too. And we tell them so, we love them so.

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Moral Quandary of Legos

After the boys left for school Monday morning, I came downstairs to this gruesome scene. Wyatt and Seth had a little Lego cum Star Wars battle on the kitchen counter. Apparently this crew means business. I mean, the Stormtrooper I understand. But the dolphin?

Right now, I’m taking a course at the University of Virginia on the Just War Tradition. This scene now raises a whole new host of questions for me.

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Impressive

Wyatt’s in Tae Kwon Do. Seth’s hitting gymnastics. Our living room floor now groans under catapults and high-forward kicks and the ferocity of sweat-drenched boys. And, of course, they want Miska and me to watch. Every handstand. Every punch. Without an audience, it’s not nearly as much fun.

We never grow out of this desire to be seen. Nor should we. We were made to be reveled in, to receive another’s delight. However, in the sad twists of a world wounded by sin, we discover soon enough that no human can ever fill our desire. No kiss lasts long enough. No touch delves deep enough. No relationship or accolade or promotion or best-seller does the trick. The affirmation sticks for minutes, but unfortunately, the criticism lingers for years.

All this means that we live with a severe deficit, and so we claw harder, fight longer, grunting and preening. We’re desperate to be seen, desperate for approval. With all our desperation, all our exertion, we become the person we think will gain another’s nod, the person we presume others will find acceptable or intriguing or accomplished. The tragedy is that we lose ourselves. We become a caricature of the person God has made us to be.

I feel this temptation in my writing, wanting to be taken “seriously,” whatever that means. With such a shallow and selfish goal, I don’t give away what I truly have to offer the world. Rather, I give away what I think someone (and who exactly is this someone??) expects me to give away. I feel this temptation as a pastor, wanting to be seen as one who “leads well,” whatever that means. When I care much about how I’m seen, I inevitably care little about truly seeing others. I perpetuate this vicious merry-go-round, and we’re all spinning, spinning.

Frederick Bruner gives us this hopeful word: Jesus wants to liberate us from having to be impressive to anyone, including ourselves. God, that sounds good.

image: derrickT

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Words from a Son

Seth turns eight this week. What? I’m pretty sure it was only this past summer that Seth was sneaking out of the house, leaving a trail of shirt and training underpants so he could dance in the front yard sprinkler, not a stitch of clothes to be found on the young buck. That was more like five years ago, I guess. Seth is still dancing. However, he usually keeps his clothes on. Usually.

Seth is all heart. His motto is why have a little drama when you can have a lot? Unlike other not-to-be-named members of our family that I’m married to, I can never remember those Meyer’s-Briggs profiles or Enneagram dealies, but whichever ones describe the person who loves hard and plays hard and laughs hard and wants to dive headlong into every possibility of beauty, joy and delight – that’s Seth.

Sunday night, as I was putting Seth to bed, he said the words every dad hopes one day he might hear. Dad, Seth said, when I grow up, I want to be like you. I might not hear those words again, so I’m going to savor them.

It’s Seth’s birthday, but in truth Seth-style, he’s the one giving the gifts.

Seth and one of his 50bujillion hermit crabs

the resting place of one of the crabs that didn’t make it

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Watching

A few nights ago, Wyatt shared his latest ambition. “I’m going to be like Justin Bieber and make a singing video and put it on the internet and become famous.” We aim high in our house. I smiled and told him to start practicing. As I left his room, Wyatt added, “Hello, Youtube.”

Of course, Wyatt has already moved on to other visions. Last night, he described his future dream house with rooms for 1,000 cats, a cheetah and a machine that popped out any and every food imaginable, with the mere wave of a hand over a sensor. If I recall, there was even a go-cart track in this house somewhere.

My suspicion is that Wyatt will not go the way of Bieber and will most likely never herd 1,000 cats (mercy upon us). But he will sing a song. He will love creatures in this world. These places where his imagination wanders (wonders) offer clues to the contours of his heart. Wyatt enters fourth grade this year, and the conversations we’re having carry a new tone. He’s seeing things. He’s listening. He’s watching. I’m listening and watching too.

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Yes

We have a cat.

That’s a line I never thought I’d write. I’m not fond of cats, but I’m no hater either. In high school, I had a friend who had a sadist streak toward cats. One day without any provocation, he snagged a stray by the tail and spun her round-and-round over his head, the cat’s shrieks piercing new decibels with each whirl. Finally, my friend released the screeching cat, on the high arc of a spin, sending the poor creature rocketing through the air and landing on a roof. The cat dug her claws into the shingles, stunned and motionless. I felt bad for the traumatized feline, and I’ve never forgotten that cruelty.

I carry no ill toward cats; they simply aren’t my thing. More than this, though, we’ve been in a season of life when I can’t imagine taking on responsibility for one more creature. I’m maxed out on emotional energy, financial resources and mental capacity. Kids will do that to you.

So a couple weeks ago when Miska raised (again) the fact that Wyatt was begging for a cat for his ninth birthday, the only words I could muster were, Are you kidding me??? She was not in fact kidding me.

Neither was Wyatt. He begged. He pleaded. He gerrymandered. He teamed with Seth, and they staged a coup. He worked his Wyatt-ly manipulation. He concocted plans to save up $150 for the adoption fee, littler box and supplies. When Wyatt said he would gladly take responsibility to clean the litter daily, I knew I was finished. This coming from the boy who has been known to gag over the sight of a carrot (a carrot, I say), the boy who acts as though the Apocalypse has arrived when asked to clean his room.

But something good was emerging in the heart of this son of mine. He wanted a creature to care for, a creature to love. This was no passing whim. A piece of who Wyatt truly is was finding expression in his desire. This was one of those moments where a mom and a dad know we’ve been offered the opportunity to love a boy, to see him and to love him and to encourage him toward his best and truest self. I would have been a fool to say no.

I’ll have many opportunities, with both Wyatt and Seth, for these yeses. I hope I recognize them.

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