The only thing I recall with middle-aged clarity about my high school graduation is stepping outside of the gym following the ceremony and finding no one waiting to congratulate me in front of the school. As I drove home in our faded-yellow Cavalier, I wondered what was so important that I couldn’t have at least been extended that minor courtesy. My answer arrived once I pulled into our driveway and stepped into the house to find family and friends waiting to celebrate the accomplishment in more comfortable surroundings. I quickly abandoned my disappointment and enjoyed the rest of the evening. My memory also fails me as to anything I might have been gifted, but what I haven’t forgotten is who was present with me. That would not be the last time such a significant detail instructed me about what’s most important overall about life’s milestones — who has been willingly present with you.
Our oldest graduated from high school yesterday. It’s her accomplishment, of course, and we have fully celebrated with her in a number of ways. I look forward to what’s to come for her and plan on being present for the road ahead as well, understanding a little better the day after, as I think about the next steps, the truth that parenting is indeed a lifelong commitment. As I held her face in my hands, kissed her forehead, and told her I was proud of her, any frustrations I bore up to that point over the last several years since she came to us at the impressionable age of eight didn’t matter so much anymore. The often expressed notion from seasoned parents that it’s all worth it began to materialize in a very new and fulfilling way for me, as did appreciation for the task of parenting and my own parents’ sacrifices to raise me.
Any parent would echo that your kids’ accomplishments feel, to an extent, like your own. You understand the extensive efforts and support that went into bringing them to this point, even if they don’t, at least not completely enough to appreciate. That impression can feel more pronounced if their life before you entered it was less than ideal and stood to take a very different, potentially unfortunate course.
The other half of the truth, however, is that they have to accept what you provide and make a conscious, grateful effort over the days, months, and years, even if an imperfect effort. Progress, not perfection, as they say. I’m happy to say last night is evidence that she has made such an effort, if the genuine smile on her face is any evidence of the attitude she has chosen.
So, I pray and expect she, like me, will remember best in these moments not what but who was a part of them.
Congratulations to our oldest, our kid in every sense of the word.
Once upon a time, my wife and I were DINKs. For those who don’t know, that stands for “Dual Income No Kids.” It’s a very comfortable life, I will admit, and a very appealing option. I judge no couple for choosing it, but do note how vastly different it is from the choice to have or bear children.
Once upon a time, Jenny and I also had the opportunity to do one of our favorite things, which is travel together abroad. This coincided with our DINK lifestyle, prior to children. She periodically continued to travel for work after the kids, but it wasn’t quite so much fun since one of us (i.e., me) had to stay behind with them. C’est la vie.
One of our last trips abroad as DINKs was to London, right before the kids entered our home and altered our status forever, back in the spring of 2016. We thoroughly enjoyed it, even as we had no idea how thoroughly life was about to change.
And here we are again, providing the kids with one of their first sojourns across an ocean, once again in London. It feels full-circle, especially when we consider that our oldest is potentially leaving the nest here in her last year of public school. It feels like an accomplishment, not only for her but for us as well, when you think about where they began.
I acknowledge you’re never really finished with the job of parenting, but there are a few satisfying stages I still hope to cross, this being one of them. All the more meaningful when you consider, even if they don’t yet, where they’ve been and how it could easily have been a different outcome for them.
Kids are a form of chaos. It’s true — don’t try to deny it. Navigating the critical stages may feel like a cakewalk, or more likely a turbulent off-road adventure. It depends on the kid. Regardless, it will require effort on your part, not to mention sacrifices on your part, which they may or may not acknowledge. Lack of recognition is part of the job, unfortunately, that I daily try to swallow and simply move past.
But here and now, seemingly full-circle in a country with all the kids we once were about to take on, I feel a glimmer of accomplishment and hope, which is fleeting and temporary at best in the day to day job of parenting. They may have no idea about either in the ignorance of adolescence, but I can see it clearly 9 years into the job, as one of them happily prepares to move on, and seemingly happy to be here with us, still calling us mom and dad.
The satisfaction of completing challenges take many forms. Parenting, adoptive or otherwise, is its own special form, I will tell you. We’re still in the thick of it, but I think I will remember the two trips to this specific place as a couple of bookends, from the uncertainty of the task ahead, to a stage of the task fulfilled, regardless of whether or not it looks exactly like I imagined.
“If you’re going through hell, keep going.” – Winston Churchill
Churchill knew a thing or two about adversity and perseverance. His dogged resolve and determination effectively halted the advance of the Germans across Europe until allies joined the fight to push them back into the heart of the continent, ultimately ending the war that had consumed that part of the world. Although he would lose his political position of influence at the close of the war, his legacy remains that of persistence in the face of incredible odds. Even today, his bulldog-like visage is all it takes to conjure such feelings and find inspiration to carry on.
Perseverance implies adversity, struggle, conflict. If not against something, it is against someone, individually or collectively. For those of us who characteristically avoid conflict, it could be argued that we, likewise, avoid perseverance in general, whatever the cause may be. I might have included myself among such shrinking violets, if not for the confidence that others have often had in me. We all know how we feel about ourselves. We often forget how others actually see us, however. “Perception versus reality,” as it’s typically framed. In my case, it was, lately, one of our children who offered a change in perspective.
In a recent group counseling session, we were given the opportunity at the close of our time for each of us to share one thing we genuniely appreciated about one another. We made the rounds, as did our oldest, and when it came her turn to direct her grateful observation concerning me, she fumbled at first to find the words to describe what she felt. What she eventually got across, after hinting at the significant challenges we’ve had with our unique experience of parenting via adoption, is that she is grateful, in short, that we have not given up.
Not what I was expecting to hear.
“As the body goes, so goes the mind,” it’s said. Here in my late 40s, my shell, so to speak, has begun its deliberate, gradual decline brought on by none other than time, which waits for no man. I’ve felt in recent months I’m now fighting a losing battle with my physiology more than ever before in my life, and knowledge of such has drawn my mind to follow suit and give ground, reflecting the “posture,” if you will, of retreat, frequently posing the question, “What’s the use?” There are other factors in play, but within, my mind is lately choosing to follow the flesh rather than vice versa. I have no fatal illness — don’t misunderstand — other than aging itself, but it’s begun to rear its ugly head and, well, affect my head as much as the rest of me.
The change frequently manifests itself as a poor attitude overall, and while there are pharmaceutical remedies, I’m told, which I may ultimately allow, I see there is no going back. I admit I’m having a hard time with it, though I had imagined I would welcome growing older. It seems, however, that I didn’t take into account the actual effects, and my fickle feelings, more often that not these days, counsel surrender, and I shuffle through the day as if a beaten foe.
Yet, here was our oldest pointedly appreciating perseverance, and in none other than me.
“The kids are watching.” Yes, they are. I shouldn’t have to say to any parent out there that they aren’t listening, or, at least, they rarely appear to be. We all experience this sad and exasperating reality daily with them, though a word or two occasionally takes root and is recalled. We, though, are a “watching” culture, if you will, and on select occasions their eyes drift away from one of the multitude of screens in their line of sight, and they land on us, consciously or unconsciously, unwittingly setting an example.
Feelings often translate into action, one way or another. But if our oldest’s expressed observation of a character trait in me bears any truth, then my defeatist feelings were overshadowed by someting else entirely, which, to her, resembled determination.
Maybe, just maybe, perseverance, for those of us who are parents, is less the poetic and stirring “Charge of the Light Brigade,” facing reckless odds under peril, inspiring as it may be. Perhaps it’s more just the simple act of getting out of bed each morning, again and again, to fix them breakfast and get them to school, banal and endless as the routines can honestly feel. Granted, parenting has its share of battles. I often find myself “Stormed at with shot and shell” on a daily basis by adolescence, and I fall easily into the laughable trap of believing that I’m the only one sustaining the barrage and being treated as the enemy. Nevertheless, rousing the troops out of bed and marching them out the door both fed and dressed, we know, is its own special form of victory. It may not always be “hell,” as Churchill understood it, but the kids will observe and report in the years to come whether or not you kept going. They’ll most certainly notice if you didn’t.
Aging sharpens perspective even as it dulls the mind.
Age may also just be a number, they say, and I’m sure there is some truth to that, but the body has a way of reminding you that it’s a meaningful number, as much as you might try to ignore it.
20 years ago, I had moved back to Houston and began my professional career, independent, uncertain of the future, and single without a prospect. Today, I’m 12 years into marriage with three adopted children, attempting a second career, and doing my best to punch these words out without grabbing the cheap yet admittedly useful reading glasses I recently purchased. 20 years from now, I can’t project where I’ll be or what I’ll be doing, but I will be on the cusp of my 70s and all that entails for one’s health and personal pursuits.
It’s a sobering thought.
I know 50 is approaching, but it seems to me it’s still going to feel as if it snuck up on me. I’m neither afraid nor anxious about it (my wife even less so), but what strikes me most lately is how 20 years doesn’t feel at all like it used to. I can remember the very day I stepped out as a professional, as vividly as I can see everything in this room right now, and yet, it was two full decades ago. There was so much time ahead, it seemed, yet here we are now, as if it swiftly and imperceptibly sped along with no regard for our consideration, and there are no signs of slowing.
My grandparents’ passing this year and my parents’ last and final move to a new home has done much to alter my perspective. The fact alone that my grandparents’ were roughly my age when I was born, or the still lucid memory of celebrating my father’s 50th, for that matter, is enough to do it.
At 20, it can already feel as if you’ve lived a lifetime. Up until that point, you’ve been through so many developmental changes to have a sense of having been a different person at different times. So much has happened, yet so little relative time has actually passed.
When 40 arrived, I barely noticed. For many, if not most, of us, it’s the “busy season of life,” as they call it. Kids, career, marriage—everything is rolling along with its own relentless momentum, and you don’t (at least, I didn’t) purposefully take the time to ponder where you actually are.
At 60 — well, I can’t speak to that as of yet, but I’m starting to get an idea of what to expect. Somewhere between 40 and 60, your body, if nothing else, rudely reminds you of the score, in case you weren’t paying attention. This, I find, is also roughly when your attitude and perspective on the passage of time shifts, if you have allowed yourself any opportunity to be undistracted and observant. The time you’ve spent is just that — the time you’ve spent, and it isn’t coming back. Moreover, it didn’t take nearly as long to spend it as you carelessly imagined at 20. With hope, you have few regrets.
My kids are on the cusp of everything, and I desperately want them to understand all of this, as any parent does, as I look ahead to the future along with them, though with different eyes. Yet, there is truth in the saying that “youth is wasted on the young.” I hope this is not the case for them over the next rapid 20 years, but there are some things only experience can provide. I hope it teaches them sooner rather than later.
In the meantime, may I make the meantime meaningful. Time is a gift, and not a second to be wasted, I discover more each day. I pray the next 20 pass with hope and satisfaction.
When I survey each decade of my life, my 40s will, unquestionably, be all about parenting. Whether I did it poorly or well remains to be seen once they attempt to launch post-graduation. Our first attempt at a “launch” is just around the corner with our oldest at the close of next school year, and preparations and plans are currently underway. I certainly hope the mission isn’t scrubbed multiple times for various reasons, though, with kids, few things work perfectly the first time every time. “Flexibility is key,” someone told me prior to parenting, and I have found, for the most part, they were right.
I’d say our experience has been unique with three adopted kiddos and no biological, but I have nothing else personally to which to compare it. Our experience has been our experience, and so there it is. They’ve willingly come “home” after school at the end of each day for the last several years and they still call us “mom” and “dad” despite having a history prior to us, so we must be doing something right, though I often feel I’m doing it wrong. Parenting has been the one thing I’ve earnestly attempted in my life at which I’ve felt I haven’t excelled, though, I admit and have learned, results aren’t entirely up to you.
Nonetheless, there are moments you may permit that you must be doing something right. One of those moments is when they willingly make a decision to accept your faith as their own. This bears even greater significance for an adoptive parent since, again, they have a history prior to you and are clearly aware of it. For each of them to make such a choice is to align themselves further with you and your influence upon them as parents. The meaningfulness behind such a choice can’t be overstated.
This evening, our youngest, Calib, will be baptized here at Pine Cove family camp at Crier Creek, a place he, like us, has grown to cherish after seven summers. He made his own decision to follow the very day my grandfather passed away, and we all agreed to make it even more special by immersing him here. Each day, he has reminded us with an eager smile how many days are left until then, and now the day is here.
I have the privilege as his adoptive father to baptize him, as I did our oldest. The scriptural imagery of being adopted into the fold by a Heavenly Father doesn’t escape me. I’m about as imperfect a father as it gets, but how fortunate I am that they each grasped the meaning behind it and allowed the unique creation of a family and spiritual memory.
“I have no greater joy than to hear that my children are walking in the truth,” said John in his third epistle to his “spiritual” children. But it’s an easy fit for parents.
Let’s be clear: This kid knows how to drive me crazy, and I often find my patience tested. He knows this, and so do I. But today, he is most excited about one thing, and that is being baptized by his dad.
Offer me riches or fame to give it up if you like, but I’ll pass. The memory, much more valuable, will last a lot longer — into eternity, in fact.
My first day of kindergarten was an attached child’s nightmare. While the vividness of the anxious memory has faded appreciably over the years, a trace of the feelings associated with the experience have lingered. I was the firstborn, and my parents duly spent plenty of their willing effort and time in my formative years to ensure that I felt fully connected to the two of them. Few others felt as safe as they did, so, naturally, to expect that I would take to the supervision of another as happily as a bird freed from a cage was pure folly. So it is with most birth parents and children, I expect. At any rate, as mom departed, leaving me in the care of this elder, pale, otherwise sweet raven-haired stranger called a schoolteacher, I wept bitterly as if I’d just become an orphan. It was as close as I’d ever truly understand such a sensation, so the nascent trauma likely registered imperceptibly on the scale, especially once mom faithfully arrived several hours later in the afternoon, along with each weekday after that, and I learned to trust that I was not, in fact, nor would I ever be, abandoned.
In the developing years to follow, I always believed kids would be a part of my future, given that I found the right partner. While I wouldn’t say I viscerally longed for it the way some do, I knew parenthood was an experience I would always regret not choosing. I simply could not have foreseen, however, that I would pursue it as late as I did with my chosen spouse in the manner that we did.
As I recline here on a beach lounge chair next to my wife in the adults-only section of a cruise ship, our children, old enough to wander safely about on their own (to both our independent delight and theirs), the horn sounds and the ship thrusts laterally from the pier to begin the journey home from Cozumel. It’s the kids’ first cruise, and they have, by most accounts, thoroughly enjoyed it. Two of our three have enjoyed every rich, new minute, our youngest only upset when we have to remove him from the fun, while one out of three hasn’t yet had her moment of self-discovery to learn how much of a homebody she is at heart and that fatigue does not always make her the most pleasant company. Such are annual family vacations in our diverse company.
We spent the day on an excursion at a nearby “dolphin encounter.” While the activists among us, I thought, might see the darker side of the smartest of sea animals performing interactive tricks for food in several ample seaside pens, albeit while being treated perceptibly well, it seemed fun for fish and footwalkers alike by all involved. While mom and I did not fare quite so gracefully with either the dorsal-fin pull or the snout “foot-push” ride provided by both Olivia and Miranda, our esteemed waterborne mammals, our oldest, Deztinee, easily the most athletic among us, rode like a seasoned pro. Equally stellar has been both her company and overall attitude on the trip, which, as any parents out there would echo, is not always the case when traveling with your children, even more so with your teen.
Now 16 and in her junior year of school, Deztinee has come around to a late adolescent stage in which one’s parents are not necessarily the uncool companions they once were thought to be, and the two of us couldn’t be more delighted about it; not that we were ever treated very poorly by her, but, again, the parents among us know how teenagers can be. It’s a rocky road at times, but we’re in as good a place now as we could have hoped. And the places in which she had once been could just as easily shaped her character negatively, as I’m sure it would have mine under similar circumstances.
Our introduction to our oldest, other than a photograph, was at a CPS agency on the west side of town in the spring of 2016. Jenny and I arrived both nervous and excited, like any parent meeting their child for the first time. The staff person charged with transporting both her and her younger brother, Calib, arrived after we did. Soon enough, the two of them ambled cautiously in, Deztinee an 8-year-old in a pretty yellow dress holding the hand of chunky toddler Calib, hair braided tight to his forehead. We were guided to a room for our first interaction with each other, and while Calib had little understanding of what was going on but played along, Deztinee’s emotions mirrored our own, and she comprehended fairly well the likelihood of the two of us becoming her new parents. The brief visit left us all anticipating the months to come, and as the two of them returned to their respective foster homes until placement, our next stop was the dealership, where we immediately traded my compact, zippy Honda Fit for the first family van — an eager push of our chips all-in for the next big play in our lives.
I’ve written once before about the day she and Calib arrived in our home. Their sister, Dezira, would join them, unbeknownst to all of us, the following year. Her arrival would not quite reflect their experience of the transition, though just as welcome, but that’s a story for another time. Calib, being the youngest, would take the shortest road to bonding with the two of us over the coming months, while Deztinee, though willingly calling us “mom” and “dad” from day one, would travel a little longer, over the years protectively holding a part of herself in reserve.
I distinctly remember one of my early impressions about the attempt to connect, which is the penultimate goal of adoption. We were visiting another couple friends of ours one pleasant afternoon, and I couldn’t help but observe how he interacted so comfortably with Deztinee, like a father should. I felt very little confidence about my own similar attempts, lacking assurance that I would ever successfully bond with her, a child who looked nothing like me and whose early experience of growing up I couldn’t identify with. It plagued my mind and worries over the days to come to the point that I wondered if we had made a mistake, if I was, as it were, the wrong person for the job.
It’s said that time heals all wounds, though this is no guarantee. While I was not the wounded party, we could only hope this would hold true for the trauma our children might have experienced, even as we learned to become the parents they needed, albeit imperfectly. There is much in Deztinee’s history prior to us that testifies to her now living in a better place, but I still must respect it as her own, not to be shared publicly until such time as she would permit. Suffice it to say, she would quickly learn soon under our roof how her previous circumstances were less than ideal rather than simply just the way life was.
The unofficial rule-of-thumb regarding the time needed for a child to feel connected to their adoptive parent, or so we’ve heard, is the same age at which they arrived. So, at almost 3 years of age, our youngest would feel fully bonded at 6, though we know it happened much, much sooner for him. For Deztinee, it should have been ostensibly somewhere around the 16-18 year mark. Based on the status of our relationship, this loose rule seems to hold up. It doesn’t hurt that she’s been characterized as an “old soul,” either.
Another lesser but still helpful and important target with adoption is the ability to facilitate conversations about your child’s history before you entered the picture. Such conversations can be tricky and have to be handled delicately depending on the level of trauma. Accepting and/or coming to terms with one’s past and present history is critical for anyone, and all the more so for an upbringing that changed from at least one primary caregiver to the next. Discussing the majority of the past with Deztinee has become rather effortless, attesting to her growing maturity. One might find it hard to hear your adopted child use the same terms of “mom” and “dad” when speaking of those who held the title between then versus now, as if it’s a judgment of your current role or attachment, yet somehow, I’ve learned, it isn’t. I can’t imagine what it’s like to form an identity with such a splintered personal history of caregivers and yet live fully connected to both, yet she’s managing it, as with many other things, like a pro, which, though ultimately up to her, I hope provides me at long last with some confidence that maybe one becomes the right parent for the job.
Adoption can be felt as an unwelcome stigma for some kids, especially among friends and classmates who remain with their biological parents. A couple of years ago, we learned that during introductions in such an environment, Deztinee had shared that she was adopted, which elicited a plaintive “Aww,” from someone present. The reaction, she shared, confused her, because she herself didn’t feel similarly about it. I’d like to imprint a self-serving “Adoption: You’re doing it right” under this word picture, but, again, it takes two to tango. Both child and parent have to choose placid, calmer waters, and Deztinee has elected to sail along.
I realize I may sound as if I’m painting a picture of perfection, and that would be plainly unfair and inaccurate. Like a good photographer or artist, you prefer to show only your best work. Ups and downs are packaged with any experience of parenting. But it’s difficult not to feel merely hopeful but also expectant of good things to come for your child, even more so for one who had a rough start for which you were not present.
College is just around the corner, and many conversations of late have danced around this exciting transition. The fact that this is not only a possibility but an impending reality for her is a reminder of how different things could have been. I shared with Deztinee roughly a year ago how impressed I am with her, that her overall attitude and outlook remains positive in spite of her early circumstances, for which none of us have a choice. And thank God for that. I was once acquainted with a kindergartner who could hardly have adjusted as well.
The question arises from time to time as we swipe through personal photos on the phone, suggesting that it’s a broad, encompassing experience in our collective distant past, and thank God it is. Hearing now the occasional news of the day that so-and-so just contracted it no longer carries with it the alarm and concern it once did. In many ways, it’s been reduced to the severity of the common cold as new strains’ potency has waned even as our own constitutions have become better conditioned through vaccinations or previous exposure. One family member of mine recently learned he had been infected yet found himself able to carry on capably with the tasks of the day. How easy it’s been to forget what changes were wrought both near and far in our lives once the virus took hold.
Routines were radically altered in a moment. The way we interacted with others, the way we spent our money, the way we traveled, whether across borders or the short drive to the store — all of it changed, and caught in the middle of this were our kids, who relied on us, as always, for a sense of safety and security in spite of the panic and fear that existed beyond the front yard. Many children found themselves irreversibly altered, faced with new anxieties their parents still struggle to alleviate.
Daily thrown-together, makeshift homeschooling — it’s own unique, fresh hell for parents such as us who were not trained as educators — tested our nerves and patience. One friend of ours said it best over a phone conversation at the time, excusing himself from the call as it was that cherished time of day to endure “rage math” with his grade-schooler. Lessons with our youngest were typically characterized as such and were actually tag-team matches between my wife and me, desperately tapping out once voices were elevated and tears of frustration began flowing freely for both of us.
For all of the uncomfortable realities created, the year of COVID also fostered a wealth of pleasant experiences and memories for many families, ours included. We as parents were compelled within the forced isolation to explore and implement new routines to keep our progeny engaged and distracted from the stresses presented by a 24-hour pandemic news cycle. We were no different. Our breaks between dreaded school assignments involved trips to a local park, followed by drinks from Sonic and “name-that-Disney-tune” on the drive back home.
Following a game of hide-and-seek in the park during one of these homeschool breaks, I captured a casual selfie of the kids and me, unaware that it would become my favorite picture of the four of us. It would later sit framed on my work desk prior to exiting the professional world, and it now sits on a shelf in our bedroom beside my favorite photo of my wife in her flowing white dress on our wedding day. Not to brag, but, as far as pictures go, to me, it’s perfect and is in need of no editing or correction.
As I’ve mentioned in the past, for a period of time, I dabbled in photography as a hobby. Time spent in study and practice taught me a thing or two specifically about composition, which isn’t necessarily aided with the use of high-priced, high-tech equipment. The most priceless purchase I ever made while engaged in the hobby was a simple, inexpensive, overlooked book with the banal title How to Take Good Pictures, published by Kodak, which had much to say about the subject of composition with little use of the word itself. I still recommend it to any budding enthusiast. Contained within the ten tips are two this favored picture employs, notably, “move in close/fill the frame,” and “use a plain background.” I would argue that these two points alone remarkably improve almost any picture captured with any camera.
Technical aspects aside, there is much to be divined from each of the kids’ personalities and character in this frozen, candid moment. Deztinee, our oldest, stands apart but otherwise upbeat in the background, willingly included but happily reserved. Dezira sits almost inconspicuously in the corner of the frame, careful not to forget Charlie, the diminutive family pet, who joined us reluctantly, I’m sure, on a few of these trips to the park. Her natural, felt kinship of cute, furry creatures is on full display. Calib, our youngest, appears prepared to tumble exuberantly over me and into the lens. The most closely connected of our children to my wife and me, he comfortably presses tight against my shoulder, clueing the viewer in to his unequivocal attachment to us.
It’s all there, and I’m sure much more could be said. The smiles are genuine. There’s no unpleasant subtext lurking behind the subjects, no hint of misery due to a global pandemic. The happiness is real and palpable.
More than a picture, I realize, it’s a critical lesson for times of trouble or misfortune. Joy is present and available if you choose it. Maybe this is another, perhaps subconscious, reason I cherish the photograph. God knows how I can feel beleaguered by the stresses of the day. Yet, here is proof positive that even I can feel differently, in spite of the fact that the entire world itself, at that very moment in time, was drenched in uncertainty and fear. I pray it serves as a stark reminder to my kids as well in the unknown future that awaits each of them.
If you’re not familiar with the name “Sisyphus,” you’re certainly familiar with his plight. In ancient Greek mythology, this ill-fated individual was punished by Hades for twice cheating death with the task of endlessly rolling a boulder up a hill only, through enchantment, for it to tumble back down to the bottom mere inches from reaching the apex. It’s an apt metaphor for any task that seems or is, in fact, ultimately futile or pointless, as in a “Sisyphean” effort.
Matthaus Loder, Sisyphus engraving, 1st half of the 19th century, engraved by Friedrich John
Now, I’m what’s called a “stay-at-home dad.” I am not a fan of this term, however. If you use it to describe me during the first conversation you and I may be having after you ask me what I do, and I characteristically respond that “I take care of the house/kids,” I’m likely to correct you with, “Well, there isn’t necessarily a lot of ‘staying at home.’” You would courteously laugh or smile, and I, and perhaps even you, subconsciously, wouldn’t be sure if I had lost a little of your respect. Yes, it’s a brave new world of redefined gender roles, but there still lingers with some of us out there the idea that men are the breadwinners and women are the caregivers, even if we don’t announce it openly.
That nasty little year that was 2020 altered the landscape of work location, among many things. Those of us who only needed a computer, a chair, and a WiFi connection to do our jobs, to be fair, did not suddenly become “stay-at-home” engineers, “stay-at-home” teachers, or “stay-at-home” stockbrokers, though they probably should have. Enveloped within the term is the mental image, if we’re brutally honest, of said individual literally sitting around, idling away at home. And I know of few “stay-at-home” parents who do much sitting around. So, I say, let’s get rid of the term and its implications entirely for something more fitting. I’m partial to something along the lines of “pro-bono caregiver.”
I digress. We were discussing futility, as I recall.
Of the many tasks of a parent, instilling good habits in our children requires the utmost patience and persistence. The earlier you start, the better. Usually. Maybe. I think I read that somewhere. Anyway, this can be a special challenge with children who have been adopted in later years, but it isn’t necessarily impossible.
“Clean your room.” This one has been as constant as it gets, inspiring in recent years eye-rolls or grunts of exasperation at our nagging. My own parents did a pretty good job with my siblings and me. We still make our beds and prefer to have personal things each in their orderly and designated locations, and I’ve tried my best to do the same with ours, but often, at the end of the day, observing a mess that has experienced a miraculous rebirth only an hour since its extinction, I think of the ancient king of Ephyra, pause for a moment of silence, and share his pain.
I feel you Sisyphus. I feel you.
Our son could often be described as an ADHD-fueled comic whirlwind surfing on a sprinkled-donut across a rainbow, and it wouldn’t surprise us if he one day gives the late, great Robin Williams a run for his money. He has a very sweet, loving, and generous disposition when he isn’t bouncing like a pinball off the walls, ceiling, minivan interior, whatever, but, God help him, for all his endearing qualities, he can’t keep a clean room to save his life. He is also a “collector” (my wife prefers the term “hoarder”), and decluttering can cause an emotional reaction, so to speak. We have in the past “freed” select items surreptitiously and in small, inconspicuous doses, as if cat burglars who toss rather than keep their stolen trophies. Such secret missions have been a success, for the most part, but the mess still returns minutes later.
I’m convinced I could handily persuade FEMA to provide us emergency assistance. It’s often a disaster, by my observation, and his middle sister isn’t much better, though she is periodically inspired to purge with much stopping and starting over, say, several months. With her, random items of unknown function or purpose may wash up in clusters around the rest of the house as if carried by the tides. In recent days, the reality of the endlessly returning chaos of things hit me like Sisyphus, and I’ve consequently almost begun to overlook it, as parents learn to ignore the noise of children, though not without a sense of complete despair of ever helping them care about or notice the mess they create.
My wife recently returned from a trip with our oldest while I was away on a trip with our middle after dropping off our youngest for trip with his grandfather (Yes, our summers can be a bit much; then again, so is the school year). While all were away, she was inspired to tackle his room before overnight guests arrived and found, after two-hours, she had barely scratched the surface. Undaunted, she planned on regrouping and plunging in once again after an 8-hour work day to address how to clean it up. “Have you tried a good, strong, weapons-grade blowtorch?” I thought to myself. She had her own strategy, and, she decidedly pointed out, after I shared my despondency over any change in our children or interest in it, that we just have to keep after them, plain and simple.
If there is an optimist and a pessimist in every relationship, I think you can intuit where each of us land. It isn’t difficult to work it out. I can get stuck in a muddy rut of negative thoughts if I’m not careful with my head. And after our phone call, I found my thoughts shifting from my despairing attitude regarding our children’s poor organizational habits to one of the many purposes of marriage.
We recently attended Pine Cove family camp, as we have for six years now. It’s a priceless experience for innumerable reasons, all of which I can’t share here, but one of the opportunities we had this year was to publicly share what you appreciate about your spouse. I selected hers easily with little consideration and happily offered it to the audience, interrupting another couple in the process.
My wife seeks out challenges, as I stated. She doesn’t shy away from them or rest long on her laurels. On to the next. I, on the other hand, while characteristically an achiever, often need a nudge out the door, but then I’m off and running. I can lose steam, however, as many of us can, and especially lately, I’ve learned, when it comes to the never-ending job of full-time parenting kids who don’t yet see the importance of good, lifelong habits. You can’t give up, and she doesn’t. I often want to, though, and I certainly would if she wasn’t my partner.
Marriage has many functions and purposes, and different couples likely emphasize certain of them more than others. But chief among them isn’t, I would argue, fun, or sex, or happiness, or whatever. The leisure-saturated world around us suggests that those options are in the running. No, I think marriage, companionship aside, does its best when it encourages us to be better persons. Iron sharpens iron, as Scripture reads. We wed for many reasons, but I believe marriage makes us better images of God overall. He fashioned a “helper” for Adam, and so they learned to help each other. Help makes us grateful, improves us and our circumstances, inspires us to love. It changes us, in short, to be better, to do better.
I don’t know where you think you’d be without your partner, but I know I would remain in a funk forever were I doing this job alone. God forgive me when I’m determined to stay there in spite of her efforts. I’m not one to alter a meaningful myth, but if Sisyphus had a partner to help him push, he stood a much better chance to overcome. And if not, they at least would have each other to appreciate the shared struggle.
We all remember this common slogan as the smartphone gradually infiltrated every aspect of our lives less than two decades ago, as if to suggest it, or the apps for which it served as a vehicle, could provide answers to almost any of our problems.
Equally prevalent, or so it would seem from the abundance of pharmaceutical commercials targeting specific demographics in between your favorite shows, is the suggestion that “there’s a pill for that.”
I personally don’t hold fast to such an idea, but I am more of a believer than I once was when it comes to the condition of ADHD, which afflicts our youngest. After we tackled the problem with behavioral techniques and strategies, it was evident after a grade level or two that he simply needed help we couldn’t provide in order to get him successfully through the school day. So, we took the medicinal plunge, and the results were clear and immediate. We were pleased to witness a calm and poised version of himself as he found the ability to maintain focus as academic success was soon to follow.
Most early pediatric drugs assume liquid form and are typically tasty and easy to swallow. Pills in any shape or form, however, are a challenge for children, as any parent could tell you as their own come of age. It’s not uncommon for capsules to travel swiftly back up little throats for no other reason than the fear or sensation of choking. Swallowing a tablet is a learned skill. Some grow into adulthood still uncomfortable with the effort.
Our son recently graduated to the pill form of his medication, and pinpointing the correct dosage during the transition was its own special problem, requiring a brief time away from school till the doctor got it right. He simply couldn’t help functioning as a classroom distraction without it, much to his teachers’ consternation, though we, and they, would gladly refer to him at least as a “happy” mess. Once the dosage puzzle was solved, he returned, and all seemed right once again with the world.
Until it wasn’t, that is. Not too terribly long after, we began to notice inconsistencies with the medication, which he routinely took before school. Periodically, his teachers informed us of the same, tired behavioral issues in class, none of which were major but nonetheless required addressing. We called the doctor and waited for a follow-up to discuss alternatives. In the meantime, I made sure to observe our son taking his pill each morning just to be sure. And sure enough, I watched him ingest it and move on with the morning.
Kids are crafty, however. Our son, I discovered, craftier still. Transferring his laundry from the washer to the dryer one afternoon, I observed what appeared to be a few empty capsule shells that bore a striking resemblance to the size and shape of his pills. I resolved to watch him like a hawk thereafter and check above and beneath his tongue, baffled at how he could possibly fool me while I observed him swallowing it each morning. I didn’t have to wait long for an answer.
Another morning, another pill. Seated at the table after finishing his breakfast sandwich, he places it in his mouth and swallows it with the juice I provided. I ask if he got it down, and he nods. For only a moment I turn in the opposite direction but then quickly pivot my attention back, catching him in the act of slipping his fingers up to his lower lip in a surreptitious attempt to remove the pill and discard it in a secret corner elsewhere in the house. The little sneak had been hiding them randomly in his cheek rather than swallowing, which explained the medication’s bizarre inconsistency. Mystery solved.
“Fool me twice . . .,” as the saying goes. I wouldn’t be shamed again. Having had no success with threats of consequences or demands up to that point, I impatiently relinquished command of the ensuing drama as mom took a turn and sat down directly across from him at the breakfast table to ensure gently that he got the job done. “But it’s hard!” was the incessant, tortured refrain as he objected with each failed swallow, risking us all, including his older sister, to be tardy to each of our morning destinations.
Mom’s time managing the situation came to an end as her job required her to get herself on the road and to the office. As she exited, our son motioned me to the now empty chair opposite his. We weren’t finished and he simply wanted me to stay with him as he suffered through it.
I resolved to try a different, more patient approach and reasoned with him. It wasn’t as if the pill was larger than anything else he’d downed before; quite the contrary. By his own admission, he was afraid of choking, and despite gulp after endless gulp, the pill remained because he was still telling the pill with his tongue to remain exactly where it was. “Don’t be afraid. You’re not going to choke.” After 30 long minutes, my reassurances finally made headway, and down it went, his expression at long last relaxing. I pried both under tongue and around cheeks “like a dentist,” he later described to mom, ensuring there was nowhere else to hide, and off he went to school. Eight hours later I would pick him up and hear him proudly share that his teachers praised him as the best behaved student in class that day. I inquired to him as to why he thought that might be, and his knowing smirk gave him away as he remembered the difficult but necessary ordeal of the morning. Sometimes, you just have to swallow that pill.
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Hematidrosis, it’s called, a very rare medical condition in which one sweats drops of blood. It seems only fitting, then, that the gospel of Luke, ostensibly the only physician of the bunch, would be the one both to observe and document this phenomenon in his account of Christ’s agonized prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane. “Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me,” he says, as we are allowed a unique glimpse into his humanity, asking, as many of us often do, that God simply remove a difficulty from our lives rather than, more nobly, provide us with the strength and fortitude to endure it. Even Jesus, it appears, had a moment when he just wanted God to remove the problem. Forget how I might grow spiritually from this experience; just be the doting father that you are and take this pain away, dad.
I think had my son exhibited symptoms of hematidrosis that morning at the breakfast table, I would most certainly have ceased altogether from sheer alarm that the intense stress was causing him an actual physiological loss of blood. Christ had no such luck, however. His “pill” was his to swallow and his alone. And his Father stood by to hear his request while retaining the requirement.
I find it curious that Christ chose the image of a cup to describe what awaited him. His was a challenge to ingest, to consume something inside of himself, not merely outside of him, as in a temporal passing from one moment to the next, quickly forgotten as the next moment arrives. Though we would argue theologically that God never changes, his trial would alter things both without and within. It had to if we were to receive redemption ourselves.
God, his Father, was with him, however, even as he himself was prophesied as Immanuel — God with us — while he lived and acted in the here and now.
Presently, I have found myself struggling with the reality of “God with us,” especially when it’s the only answer you receive to your trouble, great or small as it may be. It can feel like a cheap non-answer until you understand and grasp that Christ himself in the garden didn’t get a better deal either.
I and my wife have dealt with a unique parenting challenge for much longer than we would prefer, and I’ve lost count of the number of times my faith has faltered just for the fact that the problem remains and an easy solution fails to present itself. I just want to feel better. I want God to swoop in and fix it, just as instantaneously as baptismal waters fashion a “new creation” after one rises from the surface. But the change has yet to come, and we remain years now into the cup still before us with no promise of a favorable end, or an end at all.
When my son pointed me to the empty chair in front of him, however, God used the “inconvenient” situation to teach me a thing or two. Though he continued to complain and struggle, his gesture communicated, “If I really must do this, then at least just be here with me while I endure it.” As I sat down, I shifted my own approach and told him not to be afraid, knowing, as his father, he had nothing really to be afraid of. Once he chose to believe me, it wasn’t long thereafter that the pill slid comfortably down his throat and began the work of change.
I have to imagine it’s little different with our often unwanted, divinely-ordained circumstances. I am admittedly afraid at times of what is or is not to come, and my imagination casts no shortage of worst-case scenarios. But as I sat there reassuring him of what he knew he needed to do, my mind casted no shortage of scriptural reminders of “fear not” and “I am with you.” The reminders themselves, no doubt, were evidence of his presence even then.
One of my favorite songs of my youth bears more meaning to me 30 years later. A gentle tune titled “Higher Ways,” by Steven Curtis Chapman, the lyrics tell of the singer’s wish to understand God’s higher purpose in circumstances both great and small and the hope of one day, on the other side, learning of the elusive bigger picture. It finishes:
But until I’m with you I’ll be here with a heart that is true and a soul that’s resting on your higher ways.
Simple solutions and quick answers can be hard to come by in the kingdom of God. We all want it, but we seldom get it. Maturity and trust within a relationship are the goal; not merely my comfort and ease. There is no app or pill for it. But God help me to remember that there is a prayer for it.
“Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” – Romans 12:12
He rose feebly from his elevating recliner and shuffled deliberately out the back door with the help of his walker, in spite of my insistence that my daughter and I could handle it. You don’t argue with your 91-year-old grandfather, however, especially one as headstrong as mine. While visiting my parents for a few days in the DFW area one summer, my oldest and I found a moment one afternoon to drive to my grandparents’ house and retrieve a lawnmower they no longer could use due, of course, to their age, and she and I were happy to load it ourselves into the van to transport it to my parents’ place a brief 5-minutes away; if not, that is, for his resolve first to teach me a thing or two.
As if my years of practical experience with this simple machine counted for naught, he scooted hastily out the back door and into the driveway, released his grip on the walker, grabbed the handlebar of the mower with his left hand, and with awkward elderly aggression repeatedly yanked the pullstring with his right in order to demonstrate for my benefit how to start the motor. I gave up on my insistence and resigned myself to the likelihood that my teenage daughter was about to suffer the indelible trauma of Papaw cranking a lawnmower and collapsing violently and fatally to the pavement from overexertion. To my surprise, it started, he survived, and I thanked him for the unnecessary lesson as he shuffled back inside.
I have little desire to live to 100, as many do. Maybe I’ll sing a different tune the closer it approaches, but from my vantage point on the timeline, old age is no picnic. We all think we want a long life, but what I suspect is what we actually want is to put off the reaper for as long as possible. Though we all have our beliefs about it, death is largely an unknown, and the unknown is a source of fear for us all, especially those of us with little faith. The Bard put it best: “But that the dread of something after death, the undiscovere’d country, from whose bourn no traveller returns, puzzles the will, and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others that we know not of?”
In any event, my grandparents, now 93, find scant strength or energy to do much more than gingerly transition from one seat to another inside their modest home, and this very seldom. Trips outside of the house are rare, and for good reason. The world is built for a pace that often exhausts even me; how much more so for them, exceeding the capabilities of both their minds and bodies.
It would seem an accomplishment to have reached their age. The only fact as impressive might be the number of years they have been together: 75. Their marriage has nearly outlived the CDC’s researched average life expectancy of most Americans, which they plot at 78 years, give or take. A few months ago, they celebrated this milestone in their own quiet and understated way, satisfied with a fried chicken dinner with my parents, my wife and I, and our youngest. No gifts were requested or exchanged. There is nothing on God’s green earth nor among man’s manufactured creations they either want or need any longer other than a good meal and the company of family. They have both given and taken much of what one is able to of life and have exhausted their interest in the common wants and pursuits of younger men and women who have many years stretched ahead of them.
Our visit in celebration of their anniversary concluded on Saturday, and we left the following Sunday morning. My wife and I and our son began the 4-hour trek back to Houston, departing bright and early in order to pick up our daughters, who had spent the weekend at a church youth retreat. Timing ourselves to arrive at noon, we grabbed on the way out of town our son’s favorite sugar-saturated breakfast — donuts and chocolate milk — and were on our way.
Scarcely an hour into the drive, my wife’s phone rang. She answered familiarly, though I could only guess at who was on the other end. The comfortable greeting segued jarringly into an expressively ambiguous “What?!” as I wondered at both who might have died and who was thoughtful enough to share the tragic news. Instead, she turned to me and exclaimed with unabashed delight that our oldest was calling from church to tell us she was getting baptized that morning during the service. She had made a “confession of faith in Christ,” as we Baptists like to call it, and was performing her first act of obedience as a new Christian.
We all bear hopes for our children as they mature, some of them very specific and unique. For parents such as my wife and I, our Christian faith is an inseparable aspect of our identity, in no small part due to our parents’ influence, both of whom were ministers. The decision our oldest made that weekend remained at the top of our list of hopes for her and her siblings from day one, even more so as adoptive parents, considering we often feel as if we’re making up for lost time in their early upbringing. The relief, satisfaction, and joy of learning that they have independently embraced your faith, making it their own, cannot be understated. There are few decisions they will make in life that will have a greater impact on how they will choose both to see the world and to act upon it, a world that increasingly pushes faith to the margins or dismisses it altogether.
As ecstatic as we were to hear the news, we pled with her to wait until the following Sunday when we could attend along with her grandparents. Moreover, I asked her for the privilege of baptizing her myself, still technically a licensed minister, though I did not pursue it as a career as I once had planned. She gladly agreed, and we ended the call. Though the decision was her own, my wife and I in silence and welling tears took each other’s hand, a knowing gesture expressing a sense and gratitude that we are, after all, having an impact upon them.
Pre-baptism
Though the role of parenting never truly ends, Paul’s exhortation to his Roman readers centuries ago — “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer” —seemed fitting for where we found ourselves up to the moment she shared the news. It’s an ideal verse for parenting in general, as it is for the life of faith. And as much as I could retrieve my college toolbox of rusty hermeneutical implements to plumb its meaning, I find ample clarity on the surface to see through to its depths.
“Be joyful in hope”
“Are you okay?”
I heard this question from my wife more times than I can count during the first year of our marriage. The fact is, I hail from a family whose emotions are generally subdued. We’d make great poker players, if only for our lack of facial ticks or cues (though I am told I have made a recent habit of talking to myself). Wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve, as the expression goes, is just as risky emotionally as it is physiologically for my ilk. Not so with her kin. As couples do, we learned a few things about one another once we were under the same roof, one of many about how we do/don’t express our feelings. My answer to her question was typically that I was fine, which was true, but after a month or so of this, it left me with the impression that one of the implications of our marital vows was that I turn cartwheels across the living room if I were even moderately pleased in the moment.
While I am generally “fine,” it might surprise those with whom I’m acquainted that if there is a yin and yang in every relationship, it is I who bears the honorific of “sourpuss.” I lean towards the negative end of the spectrum in our partnership, though, perhaps, not to the extreme. With only moderate influence, my confidence may be sapped and feelings tipped easily to the pavement by the difficulty of the moment, especially when it regards the frequent ups and downs in the lives of one’s children. My wife, by contrast, is characteristically optimistic and positive about life and all that it presents. It is one of her many attractive qualities as well as a reason, I would argue, I often hear another loaded string of words from her that instantly elevates my anxiety: “I have an idea.” Such ideas as hers, furthermore, tend not to be small in stature and carry the expectation that I find a way happily to get on board. They are big and bold, and this, I believe, because she is “joyful in hope,” as Paul wrote. She generally expects the best of wherever she focuses her efforts, and even if such expectations are dashed, she merely picks herself up and moves on to the next idea.
While we both agreed to it and believe (on most days) we were called to it, parenting by way of adoption was one of these big ideas. If I had thought the 1-2 years of training was hard, I was in for a shock once the kids were placed. “They have no idea what they’re getting into,” my mother expressed to my siblings, each already in the thick of parenting for several years. Prior to parenting, the endpoint of my various “hopes” often landed at the end of the week, month, or year; in other words, at a distant point in the future. The phrase, “take it a day at a time,” however, took on startlingly new meaning with kids. The object of my hopes shrunk temporally — Let’s see if we can make it to bedtime without incident. Currently, we are finding ourselves in the thick of the teen and preteen years.
I will admit, though, that I have felt little joy in hope, as Paul encourages, even in the smaller day-to-day portions. The fact that he does encourage it, however, indicates that we have a choice. How hard a choice it is to make. We hope especially for big change and progress in our kids, but it is often slow in coming, if or when it does.
When I lowered and raised our oldest in the cold water that morning at church, I felt a hope fulfilled. It was easy to find joy in that moment, and, not to mention, to wish that I had chosen to be joyful in my hope until then. My mother was recently asked what advice she would offer her younger self given the opportunity. “Don’t worry so much.” Likewise with hope and the attitude we choose towards it. As much a high it was in that moment with her in the baptistry, there would be a down just around the corner, to be certain. Such is life with children.
“Be joyful in hope,” Paul says. Choose joy as you wait, as he segues into the manner in which we should do so under unfavorable circumstances.
“[be] patient in affliction”
He coasted into the oncoming lane, thinking the maneuver would allow him to avoid the car that had drifted into his just ahead. The other driver drifted back, however, and then once more as each responded in kind. They collided at the last second, too late to correct.
The police report took longer to read than the event itself, which was a theory, at best, since no witnesses were present. The drifting driver was drunk, and he would languish in the hospital for another week, his life ending ironically on the day my grandparents and mother were to celebrate when my uncle’s began. His life, however, ended instantly that night on the road.
I would never have the privilege of knowing my mother’s brother, who exists for me only in various stories and a few photographs. I’ve thought it odd that he should survive the many deadly perils of the Vietnam war as a marine only to meet his end at the hands of a careless driver once home, and this not long after his return. The best years of his life should have been yet to come, but it was not to be.
My mother had anticipated upon his return a relationship as adults better than that they had shared as children, which was often strained. My grandparents had to endure the tragedy of burying their child, a fate no parent would wish upon themselves or others. For each of them, the grief of the loss became what felt much like a physical affliction, lingering and painful, deep into the marrow. There would be no closure.
The “affliction” my grandparents were forced to endure patiently following his death was not for a hope that he would return to life but the absence of an answer to the overwhelming sorrow they would feel in their remaining days, months, and years. They would live in the unexpected reality of an unshared life with their only son. How does one ever overcome such an affliction?
I can’t imagine how one could ever arrive at peace after such a devastating loss. What good is patience if my child will never return in this life? One either wallows in bitterness, or allows the years and one’s faith to reward patience instead with one’s grief. I am happy to say they opted for the latter, finding other joys in life while preserving in gratitude the memory of their son.
I still have my children, and, hence, hope for my patience with the “afflictions,” if you will, that they bring home. If my grandparents were able to move past a grief that threatened to drown them, surely I can find the patience to deal with the day-to-day.
“[be] faithful in prayer.”
My grandparents’ home was modest by today’s standards, but it sufficed, and it was a safe and comfortable place we enjoyed visiting during our childhood. We learned to love and cherish what we saw and experienced there. The backyard garden full of vegetables, my grandfather’s workshop walls lined with all manner of tools, a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies cooling on a sheet of wax paper in the kitchen — all became welcome and familiar sights as the years wore on. But it wasn’t only the daylight hours in their home that left an impression on me.
Rising in the middle of the night, a step or two was all it took to traverse from the guest bedroom for a quick trip to the bathroom. At the end of the short hallway was another bedroom, though used as such only when all three of us siblings were visiting. Without fail, if the time was right, I would catch a glimpse of our grandmother crouched on the floor, Bible spread in front of her, studying and praying. This, we learned, was her private routine each and every night. Well after midnight and into the earliest hours, she would rise from bed and take advantage of the stillness and silence to study and to pray for all those she cherished. I never learned how long she spent up in this posture before returning to bed, but what was certain is that she was faithful in this practice for all the times I spent in their home.
I wonder if this verse ever crossed my grandmother’s mind in the midst of her despair at losing her only son, a pain — an affliction — that would never fully be alleviated. There is no pill to swallow that would restore the loss. One learns to live with it and, in their case, lean on the words, even if it is a circumstance for which there will be no change. How one could chose to remain faithful in prayer rather than bitterness is beyond me, but she did, habitually rising for an intermission in slumber to pray.
I also wonder that the reason God has allowed her to live as long as she has is because he knows me and mine still require the faithful prayers of spiritual stalwarts such as her. God knows I allow myself far too many distractions to practice this discipline as well as her. Then again, it’s difficult to find many nowadays who do. I’m thankful, nonetheless, that I have one in my bloodline who has never failed to continue praying for me. I can only hope to live up to the example she has set.
Yes, hope. Seated behind each of these admonitions from Paul is, I believe hope. Without it, I have no motivation to be joyful, no cause to be patient with my troubles, no reason to pray faithfully. Hope is a foundational Christian virtue, and I find I need more than a heavy dose of it, especially with the bad news and negativity circling us daily in the world out there.
But it’s often more a choice rather than a feeling, especially for those of us not engaged in the conscious practice of choosing it. The more any attitude is chosen, the more readily it becomes our nature.
My grandmother had no hope of ever seeing her son again in this life after that fateful night. There was seemingly nothing left in which to hope for him and every reason to cease caring about a cruel and unfair world in which all your hopes, in her case for her child, evaporate in an instant. And yet, she somehow managed to continue to try and live out this verse day after day in the first and earliest hours of each and every day.
That, I realize, was because she learned not to center her hope in her child and his future but in the one to whom she was offering her prayer.
I admit to despairing from time to time over my inability to maintain good personal habits, in the behaviors my kids may or may not exhibit, or in the pitiful state of the world at large. But it occurs to me, considering my grandmother, that the reason may lie in the fact that my faith, my hope, may be misplaced. No wonder I remain disappointed.
My grandmother has never instructed me to rise in the middle of the night to pray. This has been her discipline, not mine. But, unbeknownst to her, I’ve observed it enough to admire it gratefully, not just in the knowledge that I have been and remain one of the subjects of her prayers, but in the example of unwavering hope such a secret practice she has unwittingly left as a legacy to me. It is joyful hope that prompts her to rise, patiently and selflessly sacrificing time that could be spent in sleep, faithfully offering her prayers. I’m not sure to this day she knew I was watching, but I was.
Would that I would learn to demonstrate hope through such steadfast discipline, and that my children, perhaps my grandchildren, would be left an example of hope that would likewise sustain them in the lives they have yet to lead.
Time in a Bottle 