When the kids were young, before the school bus took over – it was up to me to drop them off and pick them up from school. As they get older, their portfolio of activities grew. After school programs. Music lessons. Art class. Karate. Friends houses. They had to get from place to place, and they weren’t going to drive themselves.
The sweat broke out on my brow when I was late picking them up. The after school teacher would be bent out of shape, and the kids would belly ache.
If I was on time they would trundle in, without a word of thanks…
And woe be it for me if we got home and there was a missing jacket or lunchbox. Cary would give me the silent treatment.
But of course, all of this is exactly it should be.
If you are doing your job properly, no one notices.
That is true of a lot of jobs – it is especially true of parenting.
If your boss at work takes you for granted, you have a legitimate reason to be annoyed.
But if your kid takes you for granted, there is no good reason to be annoyed. When your kid takes you for granted, it means that you’re doing something right.
There was a period of time when Amos expressed some interest in horses, and it turned out that one of our neighbors, Sheri, had a stable where she boarded horses. Sheri was glad to let Amos help her out on Tuesday afternoons after school.
One rainy Tuesday, when I was dropping him off at the top of the hill, Sheri must have been inside the house or something, cause we couldn’t find her out at the barn.
And I was in a hurry…
Oh, was I in a hurry!
I wrapped the little boy up in a yellow slicker to keep him from getting too wet, and after a couple minutes looking for Sheri, I gave up.
I was so impatient!
I told him to stay put until Sheri showed up.
And I turned to go.
“Hey Dad.”
The words were hesitantly dropped into the air, as if he spoke them without intending to.
I turned around.
There he was, standing under the trees, his yellow raincoat so beautiful in contrast to the quiet rainy world. I think he must have been about eight years old – his eyes peeking out from under the yellow hood – an unruly strand of wet hair sticking to his forehead.
Such a sweet child.
In the distance, out over the hilltowns, there was a rumble of summer thunder.
Today is the day that we Americans celebrate father’s day.
Celebrating father’s day, of course, means that we pay particular attention to our fathers.
The Home Depot dropped a number of emails in my inbox, offering me father’s day specials. I’ll bet Father’s day is a big revenue day for Home Depot.
For some reason, we associate men with power tools. Certainly women can use power tools too – but in our culture, power tools are kind of a “guy thing.”
Power tools. Football games. Beer. Grilling. Motorcycles. Hunting.
These are some of things that we associate with masculinity in our culture… and the businesses that cater to these interests are likely to do well this weekend…
But while all fathers are men, by definition, not all fathers are into motorcycles. Not all fathers drink beer and watch Monday night football. A lot of them do, but not all.
I can attest to that myself.
I am a father, and I can’t remember the last time I drank a beer or watched a football game.
Thankfully, you can be a father without having to watch football, run a table saw, or go deer hunting. Not that there’s anything wrong with any of those pastimes (in moderation of course) – they just don’t interest me much.
Being a father, on the other hand…
That interests me a great deal.
The two parables from the gospel of Mark that Debbie just read for us are not, specifically about fathers, but in a certain way of thinking, they concern something that is more crucial to fatherhood than drinking beer or driving a Harley.
In both parables: the Parable of the Growing Seed, and the Parable of the Mustard Seed, we are invited to consider the agricultural act of planting, and the subsequent miracle of growth.
Needless to say, this is not the proper place to discuss the particular details of how the process of planting a seed is central to the notion of fatherhood. You have nothing to fear, I will not make you squirm in your pews. It is interesting to note, though, that while it is taboo, in all cultures, to discuss the particulars of this seed planting – it is, at the same time, universally accepted, that it is precisely this planting that turns a man into a father.
Or is it?
Fatherhood, as a biological category, is defined by the physical act of fathering a child, but the center of gravity of these parables is decidedly not in the physical act of planting. In both cases the initial stage of the process – the sowing of the seed – is passed over without apparent concern. The real interest, in both the parables, is not in where the seed comes from or how it is sown.
The interest is in the growth.
For me, like any heterosexual man, there is some interest in the physical part of the whole thing – but as with these parables, that interest is fleeting compared to the real interest – the real spiritual interest.
The real spiritual interest in parenting – is in the process.
The process of growth that takes place over the years.
**
When I turned around and saw Amos standing in the rain, looking a little bit frightened, all of my impatience instantly evaporated.
The beauty of the moment grabbed me and held me in its sway.
I knew, with perfect clarity, that I was witnessing, in that precise moment, the essence of this boy’s childhood.
He was so beautiful, and so vulnerable.
He was looking to me to give him the emotional anchor that he needed, and I was there – my nature, as a father – was there to provide him with that stability.
In the headlong impatience that is our lives, we are apt to forget that there is nothing more important than providing stability for a child. If we can stop long enough to see it – it is there before us – in our very nature — just as it is in the nature of a mustard tree, after it is grown, to provide a place for the birds of the air to make their nests.
**
Last August – almost a year ago now – amazingly – my youngest son, Silas, left for college.
When the day came, it just so happened that it was quite a busy day. We had been planning on replacing the back deck, which was rotting out from under us, and we’d hired our friend Ben to do the work. I was in back helping Ben, when Cary called out to me.
“Hey Mark,” she said, “I think we are ready to take off.”
Cary and Silas had packed the car full of the stuff he wwas taking to college, and they were about to leave on the 10 hour drive out to Ohio.
Silas was excited. When he is excited, Silas starts talking, and you can’t stop him.
So Silas talked, and talked, andI stood there until eventually I got the chance to give him a hug.
“Bye, Dad.” he said.
“Bye Silas,” I said. “Drive safely, OK?”
“Mom’s driving,” he said.
“Ok then, make sure she drives safely…”
They got in the car. Silas rolled down his window, and as they drove down Greenfield road, he waved to me…
And they were gone.
It was a busy day.
I went back and continued working on the back deck with Ben.
I held a piece of decking in place as he screwed down a bracket.
“Well,” I thought, “That wasn’t so bad.”
In China, for many centuries, there were two schools of Buddhism: the gradual school, and the sudden school.
The gradual school believed that to achieve enlightenment, it was necessary to work diligently at the process for many years.
The sudden school believed that it was possible to receive enlightenment in a sudden flash of realization.
I cannot decide which school has it right – actually, I think that both are true.
Truth is in the process.
But sometimes we must see it in a flash. Sometimes it must sneak up and grab you and shake you.
And you have to be able to see it.
This is how the spirit fills our lives with meaning… this is why mystery is more essential to our lives than any power tool, no matter how useful it might be.
Later that afternoon, when Ben called it a day, I took a trip down to the local hardware store to get more decking screws, so we could hit the ground running the next day.
In the hardware store I ran into an acquaintance. He was there with his son – a little boy.
“Don’t tell me,” I said, “I’ll bet you’re six… Am I right?”
The boy scooted behind his father’s knee.
“How old are you?” his father asked him.
“Five,” he said, in a small voice.
“Well,” I said, “that’s the best age to be…” and looking at his dad, I said…
“Enjoy him. It’ll be over before you know it.”
The man and his son said good bye. I bought the decking screws and walked out into the parking lot…
And when I got to my car, I stood there for a moment, steadying myself, and before I knew what was happening, I was weeping.
I did not try to stop my tears. I let them take over.
A young latina woman walked up to her car, which was parked next to mine. She did not say anything, but she looked at me with concern.
I smiled at her, rubbing the tears into my face. I did not try to stop the tears.
**
When I saw Amos in the rain in his yellow slicker…
And when I saw that little boy in the hardware store…
These were revelations…
Revelations of the purity of childhood
and the heartbreaking understanding that, when you turn around…
it is gone.
And yet, as a father, I know my children
They are present to me – alive to me – as six year olds.
I know them…
It is as if, the next time I see them, they could be twenty, or they could be six.
Neither would surprise me, because each age is equally present in my heart.
They will never be six again.
But in my heart, they will never not be.
Sudden.
Gradual.
The revelation of love in its purest form.
Thank you God, for the lovely child in yellow raincoat
Thank you God, for the little boy in the Hardware Store.
Thank you God, for letting me be…
a father.
Amen