Growing Pains Table of Contents

Growing Pains

• One Out of Four
• Suck It Up
• The View From Behind
• A New Card In My Roledex
• Run Kelly Run
• Running On Prom Night

GROWING PAINS, #6, RUNNING ON PROM NIGHT:

RUNNING ON PROM NIGHT

  What I don't want is for him to look back and say, "Dad didn't do what he thought was right."

It is 8:30 on prom night and I'm not feeling so good.  No, it's not that I'm having a bad date.  I'm not having a date at all.  I'm 43; I have never been to a prom and at this point I don't intend to go.  My son, though, who is 17, tall, good-looking, very popular, an all-state runner, and excellent student, very much wanted to go, but he didn't go either.  Right now as I begin to put my thoughts into the computer he is at his girl-friend's house, looking at her dress. 

In a way that is appropriate for a 17-year-old he loves her and she him.  She is a nice girl, cute in a pixie sort of way.  Except for the difference in height--if Chris lays on his back, his toe comes up to Nancy's waist--everyone says that they make a perfect couple.  But everyone knows that their difference in altitude is really not important. 

If anyone other than my hard-drive ever reads this article, by the time they get to this point they will be crying out, "Why?"  As I read these words on the screen I wonder if even some chip in this machine--built on logic as it is--is going to suddenly flash a message on the screen,

Does not compute.  Please provide justification.

The feeling in the pit of my stomach asks the same question, "Why?" 

It's not that I don't trust him.  I do.  A few weeks ago we showed the film, Sex Lies and the Truth, at our church.  At the end of the showing I asked the kids to sign a pledge card promising to maintain a standard of sexual purity.  He signed, and later told me that a week before, he and Nancy had been talking and had come to the point where they had made those promises to one another.  When he told me that, there was this little guy in my head pumping his arm, saying, "Yes, yes, YES!"

As you can imagine my son and I have had several conversations about tonight.  I wrote him a letter.  He was around for some of the conversations that I had with his older brother (Who is at the prom.  I'll explain in a minute.), when I tried my best to explain my reasoning.  Neither of them were impressed.

"Why?" you say, "Why are you doing this to him?"  I have asked myself the same question over and over.  I have problems with the sexual overtones of the modern dance, but can't say that I am absolutely opposed to dancing.  I know David and Meriam and others in the Bible danced.  Though I am sure that what they did is far different than what my son's friends will be doing tonight.  I pastor a church that has an official postion that says that those in positions of leadership are to abstain from dancing, and several other taboos.  I have gone on record as saying that that clause should be removed from our constitution.  I am quite sure that if my son went to the prom he would do more sitting than dancing.

Likewise, I have trouble with the music, mostly with the words to some of the songs.  Though my conclusion is that music itself is a neutral vehicle, I realize that some of the songs use that vehicle to push buttons that I don't want pushed in my son or his girl.  Still, I have realized long ago that I cannot isolate my sons from the "sounds of the world."  He can, and probably does on occasion, “tune it in,” dance or no dance.

The local school has done a good job of promoting an alcohol free event, and even if it were served I don'think Chris would drink any.

I have surveyed my mind again and again.  My background is one that matches the mentality of our church’s constitution--dancing is one of those things that Christians simply don't do.  I think I have pretty well sorted out my past, keeping the good stuff and throwing away the junk.  But, have I?  Could I be making my son pay a price because I am holding on to some vestige of my tradition?  I know that there are those who would look down on me if I were to let my son go to the prom.  There are those who would try to feed me some of my words spoken at a time when talk was cheap.  Again, I honestly don't think that is the reason.  In fact I think those who look down on me because of my present position out number my hypothetical detractors should I let him go.  It hurts me to think that Nancy, her parents, my older son, and who-knows-who-else think I am wierd.  I find myself almost getting paranoid about it.  "Are they talking about me?"

I still haven't answered the question, “Why?”  I don't have any one single reason.  I can't point to any absolute that I would violate if I let my son go or he would violate if he went.  But when I put the whole thing together I just couldn't say, "Sure, go ahead and go."  I wanted to.  A part of me regrets that I did not. 

Chris has returned from Nancy’s house; he’s out running.  He needs to get his training in, but I am not so foolish as to think that the only reason he is running is for the benifit of his legs and lungs.  Maybe I am wrong, but it was my call to make and I believe that I would be wrong to not call it the way I see it, even if I don't see it as clearly as I would like.

In less than a year when Chris turns eighteen, unless he does something really stupid in the mean time, I will turn over to him some of the decisions that I have been making for him.  I did that with his brother.  I have no doubt that when I tell Chris that the prom is his decision that he will do just as his older brother has done.  He will go.

I don't expect him to always make the same decisions that I would make.  I only expect him to carefully look at the situation, examine the scripture, pray and then do what he concludes is right, even if it is hard.  If I had done anything else tonight I would have failed in setting that example for my son.  I can stand for him to look back and say I think dad was wrong.  I don't want to be wrong, but I know it is inevitable that on occasion I will be.  What I don't want is for him to look back and say, "Dad didn't do what he thought was right."

That is why my son is out running instead of dancing.

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

GROWING PAINS, #5, RUN KELLY, RUN

RUN KELLY RUN

By

Howard Merrell

Published in Bristol Herald Courier, Feb. 22, 1998

                By the time the young women who run the distance events began their last minute stretches, stride-outs and psych-ups, the track meet had taken on a certain subdued character of its own.  At any one time you could observe some athlete totally focused on giving his maximum exertion to his event, while nearby another participant would be taking a nap.  Groups of participants who had already competed earlier in the day stood around and talked.  Spectators were hot, hungry, and tired. Their attention to the events was sporadic.

            As the parent of a distance runner, I had become familiar with the pre-race ritual.  The routine had an almost religious regularity. Those of us who knew the liturgy could tell that the girls 1600 meter race would begin soon.

            The talk in the stands, among those of us who knew and cared, turned to: Who was fast? Who hadn’t been doing well? We wondered what kind of time the pre-race favorite, last year’s state champ, would have.  The parents and loyal fans were moving to places where they could see better and more effectively yell encouragement to their favorite runner.  Watches were cleared. The fans have their ritual, too.

            Then I heard it—not the real thing, only a weak imitation—from out of a group of fans I heard, “Run Kelly Run”. The three words uttered by a veteran fan brought instant chuckles and conversation from all of us who heard.

            “Is he here?”

            “I think he’s on the bleachers on the other side of the track.”

            “I wonder if we’ll hear him over here?”

            Those of us who knew him had no doubt he would be heard—maybe in the next county. Everyone else was soon convinced.

            The crack of the starter’s pistol had hardly died—the girls were still accelerating; the faster contestants had not yet distinguished themselves from the starting pack—when we hear the voice, the real thing.  It boomed across the infield with a power that defied one to not look for its source.  The voice, sort of like an articulate chainsaw, the two end words elongated for effect, the last slightly less than the first, “RUUUUN KELLY RUUUUN!”

            We were in the presence of a phenomenon, before whom lesser mortals had to shrink.  I am loud, and I often yell myself hoarse at sporting events, but this man is the Babe Ruth of cheering.  The Sultan of Chant!

                                                   RUN KELLY RUN—Page 2

            Like a fog horn on a stormy night, the chant repeatedly fills the track, the bleachers, the surrounding countryside.  The three words of encouragement so fill the air that it is difficult to find the point from which they emanate.  Just the other day I found the source.  I was near enough to him that I could hear not only the famous three words, but words of endearment and quiet encouragement he shared with his daughter when she ran near his seat—or standing place—or pacing area.  The famous chant came from the heart of a dad who loved his daughter so much that he was willing to make a spectacle of himself to help her run.  She chose to run.  He was going to do everything he could to see to it that she did it to the best of her ability.

            “Run Kelly Run!” was still echoing in my mind when I thought about the kid to whom I had given a thumbs up, a “Way to go!” after his event.  I remembered another youngster I had congratulated about a good finish. I wondered about the disappointed kid for whom it just hadn’t happened that day, or the one for whom everything had clicked—he had the performance of his life.

            Don’t get the idea that these are generic kids, made up to flesh out a story.  Each of them has a name.  Each of them is real.  Each participated in the same track meet as Kelly, but there was no one there for any of them.

            I had never seen a mom or dad there to yell for any of these kids.  Oh, there were those of us who seek to encourage them to run, throw or jump, but it isn’t the same.  It can’t be.  Our cheers are sincere, our wishes genuine, our desire to encourage, console, challenge is real.  I’m sure they appreciate the recognition, but I’m equally sure that all of it together wouldn’t measure up to one single heartfelt word of praise from someone who really cares today, cared yesterday, and will still care tomorrow.

            Kelly didn’t win that race.  She came in second, behind the state champ, but she ran a good race.  I am confident she did her best.  I don’t know Kelly or her dad, but I think she will continue to do so.

            I don’t know what kind of a father he is.  I only know that on race days he models something that our culture, our kids, could use a lot more of—parents who are willing to give their kids the priority in their lives that they desperately need and deserve.

            My bellowing friend went to the track meet to encourage his daughter to run.   In the process he encouraged me to be a better dad.

                                                         

                                                        RUN KELLY RUN—Page 3

Newspaper Footnote:  Howard Merrell doesn’t really know Kelly Rector’s father, V.T. Rector, III.   Merrell—from another town and rooting for another team—noticed Rector’s enthusiasm for his daughter.  Three words inspired this story and caused a stranger to re-examine his own role as a parent.  Rector, a graduate, former teacher and coach at Patrick Henry, has been an educator in Washington County, VA, since 1966.  He is currently principal at Rhea Valley Elementary.  Kelly, a 1995 graduate, was All-State in cross country and currently attends James Madison University.  She ran track the first two years but suffered a hip injury and no longer competes.

Footnote from HM:

As it says above I never really knew V. T. Rector.  Chris, my son who is a runner, and I used to refer to him as "Run Kelly Run."
At the meet that I mentioned in the story, somebody took a picture of V. T.  He was kind of hanging out over the railing of the bleachers where he had taken up residence.  The picture which was published with the article above, shows me in the background.
When V. T. died this past year, from complications related to Alzheimer's, the family invited me to read this story at his memorial service.  The service consisted mainly of tributes to V. T.  Kelly's older siblings told how he yelled the same way at football games, and even marching band competitions.  The picture is Kelly and me after the memorial service.

Growing Pains, 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

Growing Pains #3, "The View From Behind"

The View From Behind

Today my son outran me.  To be honest, that is no great feat.  Over twenty years ago, when I was on the high school wrestling team, I and a guy we called "Panda" were the slowest guys on the squad.  You would think that a guy with that kind of history would find losing a foot-race to be insignificant at this time in life, but it wasn't.

In my forty-first and his fourteenth year my son outran me.  Oh, I always knew it would happen, and besides I'm still not the slowest in the family.  If I stay healthy, I'll be able to outrun my older boy for a long time.  In fact he's not even interested in running far enough to see if he can outrun me.  He seldom runs at all unless someone's chasing him or he's chasing a ball.  But the younger guy has the lean, leggy, loose-jointed look of a distance runner.  We've run together a number of times.  I can remember days when I waited on him, and other times when I wore ankle weights as a handicap.  My mind told me, "He is on his way up and I'm on my way down."  Still, it just didn't seem right to finish our three mile run seventy-five yards or so behind him.  I knew it was coming, but it wasn't supposed to happen this way.

I guess I'm a closet romantic.  I had imagined a long process: the time in which I could generally outrun him would gradually become the time in which we were evenly matched and that would shade into the time in which he could generally outrun me.  I imagined this process stretching over a couple of years of good natured rivalry.  My "process" was compressed to one morning--a little more than twenty minutes. 

Like I said, I knew it would happen.  I'm getting older and stiffer and slower.  He's getting older and stronger and faster.  This morning about a mile and a half out, his growing strength surpassed my aging strength and, I am reminded, life will never be the same again. 

I was judging everything by the slow, comfortable, plodding decline that I see taking place in my body.  I had forgotten the explosion of change that takes place in the young.  I guess, especially since it was my youngest child, I was forced to realize that never again could I simply assume the mastery of these two lives that I had helped to bring into the world.

My youngest son outran me today.  He and his older brother will do a lot of that.  Already there is so much in their world that I can't quite reach.  When I finished the race this morning I was just a short way back.  Soon both my sons will be running off out of sight accomplishing what I never will. 

I would be lying to you if I said it didn't matter.  It does.  I write with a strange, proud sadness.  It is a feeling that those who have not been parents will have trouble grasping.  It is the passing of an era, but it is a good passing.  I'm nursing a sore thigh, but I've been training some any how, and I'll be increasing my milage when my leg feels better.  I plan to outrun him again, but it will never be the same.  It can't be.  It shouldn't be.

My son outran me today. 

Run, son.  Run far and fast and straight.  Run with purpose.  Run when your legs ache and you think you can't go any more.  Run when your comrades have given up.  Run because God has placed in your heart something worth running for.  Run, because even though I can't keep up I'll be with you.

Son, now that you can outrun me, remember how I used to wait on you.  I'd love to run with you every once in a while, but look out, because on one of those days when you just don't feel right and I feel great I'll get you.

Postscript (March 1999):

I will enter my 49th year this month.  After the day I describe in this story I never did outrun my son again.  I don't feel bad about that, because there were lots of others who didn't either.  Chris went on to set his school record for the mile and two-mile.  He was single A state champ in the two-mile his senior year.  He presently runs for Cedarville College.  He is nursing a bad foot but plans to compete in track this spring. 

He has done well, running and in other ways as well.  He will graduate this year, after only three years.  He is getting married in August.  He plans to pursue a career in Youth ministry.

Though, I can't run with him any more, we do enjoy occasional bike rides together.

I enjoy watching him run!

Happy 21st Birthday Son.

dad

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

Growing Pains #2, Suck It Up:

I stood on the side of the cross country course watching my son go by, his face grimaced with pain, an ace bandage coming unwrapped, trailing from his left leg.  He had pulled up lame a week or so before; he hoped to be able to do well enough today to go on to the regional meet.  I was juggling my heart--not too skillfully I might add.  Do I encourage him to go on, knowing that if he goes on he'll push himself in such a way that his pain will increase?  Or, do I yell, "Son, don't hurt yourself.  Pull up."? I Know that no one will blame him for not continuing to run on a bad leg.  "These things happen.  You've got two more trips to the districts.  Even if you do hang on and qualify will your leg heal in time to do your best at regionals?" 

Of course I couldn't have said all of that out loud.  There wasn't time as he ran by.  But I knew that with a nod, a look, a few shouted words I could have communicated most all that.  Maybe it wouldn't have made any difference.  Perhaps I flatter myself to think that what I would say would make a difference at such a point.  Maybe, but I don't think so. 

Instead I yell, "Hang in there 'Topher.  Remember your brother's advice."  Big brother, his macho freshly charged with the news that he will be starting this Friday against the #1 football team in the state, had eloquently stated, "You gotta suck it up."  (For any who read who are not familiar with sports-macho-talk that means to keep going even when it hurts, for a determined mind to tell an injured body to keep on going.  For maximum effect the line needs to be delivered in a course low voice.)  It was my son's version of a thousand usually corny sounding statements that coaches spout and hang up on locker room walls.

Only today it wasn't corny. 

I knew success in life didn't depend on whether or not my son finished that race.  If he didn't qualify for regional competition his life wouldn't stop like some town clock forever frozen at the time of the big earthquake.  But all of us must learn to "suck it up."  Was this one of those times?  I wish I knew for sure.  I'm really not any closer to being sure today than I was yesterday. 

Maybe he needed to face the hard fact that God doesn't guarantee that hard work will lead to success--at least success as recognized by the passing out of ribbons.  Maybe he would have learned more courage by facing the potential scorn of his peers, who would say, "He had a big chance and he let a little pain get in his way."  Even in the quiet reflection of the next morning I don't know.  That is often how it is.  We just don't know, yet as parents, when our kids run by, we are expected to yell something.

Is this the time to let him stretch the limits?  Is he ready for this next step?  Do I encourage him to run through the pain or do I let him weep in my arms and tell him there will be other days, other races?  We aren't equipped with a manual that is that specific.  Even if we were, we wouldn't have time to read it.  So we stand on the sidelines and yell things as our kids go by.  We love them and try to have the best desires for them and try to listen to them and pray for them and hope that at that critical moment when they rush by on their way to adulthood we will yell the right thing.  I wish that it were more precise than that, but it's not.  If it weren't for the fact that I trust God I would probably give up in despair.

I am firmly convinced that my heavenly Father loves my boys even more than Kathy and I.  While I am yelling out to my sons He is encouraging me.  Like another old sports cliche', He only expects me to do my best.  I need to make sure that my soul is filled with His word and that my heart is tender to His leading.  At the critical moment there is no time to study; often there is not even time to think.  I need an internal guidance system that always points to the right way.  I need to regularly program that system with the data of the Bible.  Even if I do my very best the fact remains that I will sometimes fail; if I had to depend solely on my ability to always say and do the right thing in order for my sons to turn out right, I would be a very frustrated dad.  I try to do and say what is right, but in the final analysis I have trusted them to God.

It is hard.  I guess I just have to "suck it up."

Growing Pains, Table of Contents

Growing Pains #1,

ONE OUT OF FOUR

I was looking at the man who was about to conduct the most important interview of my son's life.  This time next year this boy should be in college.  He has the plan, the ambition, the talent, the grades, but the money--that's what the interview was about. 

I had been chatting with the man for several minutes.  My son was off in another room taking something called a "physical aptitude exam."  The gentleman with whom I was speaking spoke to a great many young men and women who had the same hopes as my son.  We exchanged pleasantries for several minutes when the man told me that only about one fourth of the young people who came for this interview were accompanied by a parent.

My son is seventeen years old.  This interview could lead to a decision that would affect the next 13 years of his life.  My son is seventeen years old.  I thought about letting him come to the interview by himself.  I don't want to smother him.  This is his life.  The man is considering offering him the scholarship, not me.  If it is offered it is his decision to accept or refuse the money and the obligations that go with it. 

My son is apt to say that he is almost eighteen.  Using an inflection that makes that sound as old as possible.  I'm more apt to say, "He's only seventeen."  The truth no doubt lies somewhere between his inflection and mine.

Three out of four parents, who have managed to raise a youngster who gets good grades, who can generate good recommendations, who has the initiative to consider a program like this, just let that youngster go off to face the process alone.  Maybe I don't really trust my son.  Perhaps I cling to that irrational parental hope that just my being there will somehow change the facts.  Maybe I am clinging.  Maybe, but I don't think so. 

Just because our almost grown children can dress themselves and drive cars and make change and do all sorts of adult things doesn't mean that they are grown.  My son is at the age when I expect him to make most of his decisions himself.  He does a pretty good job, but I don't think he is ready to make all of them yet.  Probably most kids who read this will disagree.  They will speak of being old enough to fight in the military, vote, etc.  Some parents weary with the process will object:  "I got them this far," they say, "They’re on their own now."

My son is almost on his own.  For almost eighteen years I have sought to be a prime influence in his life.  I realize that my impression on him has largely been already made, but I'm not finished--not quite.  

My son is involved in making some decisions right now that will set the course of his adult life.  I want to help him to not blow it.  I am pleased with the person he wants to be.  But, his experience at how to become that person is pretty slim.  I am glad that what I have taught him is reflected in his plans for life; now I want to be there to help him bring those plans to pass.

I realize that I'm not being fair to those three out of four parents.  There are, I am sure, many reasons why they didn't accompany their teen to that important interview.  I don't write this to judge them.  I write to examine my own motives.  For a moment I wondered if I should have been there.  From somewhere came a voice that said, "You've worked all his life to teach him to fly now let him go."  Yes I am confident he can fly, but it is foggy out there.  I've seen the wreckage of too many who have crashed and burned because of poor decisions at the point of take-off. 

Through my son's life his mother and I have tried to point him in the right direction.  We have introduced him to the Lord and taught him to obey God's word.  We have sought to give him a system of values.  We have seen to it that he has gained the skills necessary to succeed.  We want to make sure that all his potential is not wasted.

That is why I was the one out of four.