Other Stuff, #6, Joy in Washing a Car:

Who would have thought.
I'm not really a car guy.  I do confess to enjoying a nice ride, but I'm not one of the types who takes pleasure in car-ish things per se.  Yet here I was, this morning, taking a strange joy in washing an automobile, and the car isn't even mine.
It's my grandson's.
It is just about the perfect ride for him.  It's a 2000 Isuzu Rodeo, a vehicle more associated with young soccer moms, who can't afford the latest auto-fashion, than a young man of seventeen.  But my grandson is a drummer. One of the features he was hoping for in a vehicle was enough room to be able to haul his drums to the next gig.  It's a nice car.  It has some of the typical 12 year old car issues, but all in all quite impressive.
One reason I took such joy in cleaning up his car this morning is he bought the car mostly with his own money.  He landed a job with a landscaper/lawn service company.  That little silver SUV represents a lot of days spent in oppressive heat and humidity, walking behind a lawn mower, running a trimmer or operating the most basic of earth-moving equipment--a long-handled shovel.  He was by far the youngest guy in the crew, but he earned the respect of his coworkers by carrying his own load.  I'm pleased not only that he worked for his car, but that my son and his wife insisted that he do so.  In a day when so many youngsters feel entitled to a car of their own, and way too many parents feel obligated to provide their offspring with one, it is good to see this kind of "work for it" standard.
I took joy, as well, in knowing where my grandson drives that car.  Right after I cleaned it up, it went to get ready for a concert he is playing in this evening.  While his music wouldn't be to the liking of many who read this blog (as if many read this blog), it is music played to the glory of God.  Day before yesterday it went to a Bible study with his pastor and another young man.  I figure there is up to ten percent alcohol in the fuel tank.  I'm confident there is none in the driver's tank.
I guess, bottom line, I just took pleasure in knowing that something good is continuing on.  I felt like Joshua, "As for me and my house we will serve the Lord."  Thanks Christopher for living the kind of life so your Papa can take joy in helping you out.

But don't get your expectations up.  That might be the first and last time it ever happens.

Other Stuff Table of Contents

GROWING PAINS, #4, A NEW CARD IN MY ROLEDEX:

A New Card in My Roledex

For most of his eighteen years whenever I wanted to speak to my son I would yell upstairs.  If he wasn't there at the moment I was confident that hunger, desire for TV and the need of a phone that operates without dropping in a quarter would soon compel him back to home.  It wasn't unusual for me to leave some note on his bed, or to stop into his room right after he had gone to bed, plop down in his chair and shoot the breeze for a few minutes.

All of that changed the day I wrote my son's name and address and phone number in my Roledex and in the little directory that I carry in my Day-Timer.  Such a simple action, as a pastor I do it all the time.  There is someone's name and number that I don't want to forget; I write it down.  But in the midst of the doing, the significance of what was being done hit me.

I thought of the fence that I erected in the back yard to try to contain him.  I smiled as I remembered how he climbed out.  I shuddered again as I remembered the time that Kathy thought I was watching him, and I thought she was, and I looked up to see a policeman walking him down the driveway.  My two year old son had been walking down the middle of the road.  "If this was my boy I'd take better care of him."  The officer sternly said.  Afraid and relieved and humiliated, I stammered some reply. 

I remembered firsts:  the first day at school, his first week at camp, the first time he stayed at grandma's, the time he spent the night with my newly widowed mom because he didn't want her to be alone, his first trip, on his own, in the car. 

This day had been coming all along.  I knew it.  I encouraged it.  I even wanted it.  I am not by nature a sentimental person, but when I put the pen to that little card to write down my son's--different than my own--address it brought a lump to my throat.  Would he be all right, off on his own?  Each of the firsts had brought its own time of anxiety.  Was it too soon?  Had I adequately prepared him?  What if something happens?  Will he remember what I taught him?  Each time the boundaries of his freedom were increased and the level of his responsibility was raised, the potential for disaster was increased as well. 

For years I had preached against the selfish actions of some parents--their trying to hold on to their offspring to meet their own emotional needs.  I still agree with what I preached, but the next time I do so I will do so with a great deal more empathy for those parents who just can't quite cut the string.

I was just thinking about a day in my own life.  I was five or six.  I had mastered the "two wheeler."  My range was limited by the block on which I lived.  I could ride on the sidewalk around the block.  I could ride down the alley that bisected our block, no more.  That way I never had to cross the street.  On the day I'm thinking about, my parents told me that I could cross the quiet residential street on which we lived.  The mailbox on the corner across the street, all those houses and yards seen from afar, the unseen world of the other side of that block were now a part of my domain.  On the day that my parents had doubled my world, as I was crossing the street, a drunken driver doing more than twice the speed limit hit me right in front of my house. 

Were my parents foolish to let me cross the street?  Let me answer with a question:  What would you think of a 43 year old man who never left the block on which he lives?  Maybe it was too soon, but I don't think so.  Try as we will we cannot eliminate risk from the lives of our children, and if we love them we will always have to deal with the fear.  Will he be OK on the school bus?  What if she falls with her roller-skates.  If she strikes out and looses the game will she be marked for life?  Can I trust him to treat that young lady as he should?  If I let him cross the street will a drunken soldier in a Road Master Buick run into him? 

We must teach and trust and teach them to trust and obey, and when the time is right we must let them cross the street.  And we must pray.  And we must listen for the sound of screeching tires, or keep their address handy in our Roledex so we can pick them up if they fall and help them through the next phase of growth.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents