Library Stories: Incident Report All-Stars

Once upon a time, there was a binder in the branch manager’s office of the public library. In this binder were a collection of documents known as “incident reports.” In these reports were meticulously edited accounts of library patrons who misbehaved in one form or fashion on a given day. A handful of patrons earned a number of mentions in this binder, but most only once. The ultimate purpose of these reports were 1) to detail formally the actions of a patron should they find themselves involved in legal wranglings, and 2) to protect the staff by detailing their policy- and/or procedurally-guided responses to an incident. While these reports excluded the descriptive flair and drama crafted by your favorite novelist, I had frequently remarked while still employed, “This would be great material for a book.” I no longer have access to these documents, but age has not yet withered my memory irrecoverably, though I fully expect that day to arrive in the approaching years. So, while my gray matter survives, here I lay out for posterity my list of Incident Report All-Stars.

Scooty-Car Man

After almost four years as an entry-level reference librarian, I was compelled to pursue a promotion. I had learned enough to know if I was going to learn more than enough, I needed to try my hand at supervision. And the next logical step-up for a professional on the public front-line was “Assistant Branch Librarian” — essentially an assistant manager. These positions made rare appearances in the job listings, especially if you wanted to remain in your 26-branch big-city system. Two became available, and finding my opportunity, I was encouraged to apply.

In my opinion, there is no position in a public library, or perhaps in other similar workplace settings, more versatile than “Assistant Branch Manager.” In a 10- to 20-person staffed branch, this dependable worker bee can be expected to wear the greatest number of hats, and he/she tends to wear them well. More than any other position, its duties expect one to float from circulation to reference desk with ease and grace and perform everything from shelving to management. It is, by design, the ultimate backup for all other positions at a small- to medium-sized branch, and, therefore, offers the greatest opportunity in a public library system to amply pad the “experience” category of one’s resume.

In any event, I was invited to interview, so I dusted off the suit, showed up, and answered the questions. The branch manager, with whom I would develop one of the best working relationships I ever had, was a couple of decades my senior and a veritable extroverted yin to my introverted yang. She also had an uncanny talent for assigning unique, surreptitious nicknames to our more troublesome patrons, merely, it would seem, for our staff’s amusement and as a way to cope with the special kind of intense interpersonal stress they brought with them wherever they would go.

First among many I would get to know was, as she dubbed him, “Scooty Car Man.” Scooty, it should be noted, earned his moniker due to his mode of transport — a motorized wheelchair. At the risk of sounding cruel, it was difficult not to find humor in the way he both filled the chair space and operated it. Resembling a grizzled and bloated Professor X with a death wish, Scooty left both drivers and pedestrians no option but to be vigilantly hyper-aware of their surroundings as he zipped with reckless abandon over sidewalks and heedlessly through crosswalks or crowds, taking the privilege of “right-of-way” to mean that any vehicle’s momentum can and would be arrested without his need for caution. My boss admitted at least once to a narrow miss with her SUV as he sped carelessly across the pavement on his way to who-knows-where.

In the library, he spent his time planted before one of many public computers surfing the web — that is, when he wasn’t complaining to staff in a series of gradually escalating tirades, which characteristically climaxed with accusations of us remotely fiddling with his computer over the network in the back workroom anytime he ran into problems. And as interesting and mischievously fun as that might have been, as our children’s librarian put it to him with all the delicacy of a hammer one fine day in an insufferable moment, “You’re not important enough for us to do that!”

I was the chosen recipient more than once of his ill-temper, merely for the fact that I happened to be the lucky professional seated behind the reference desk when the dam broke. We all kept an eye on Scooty anytime he was in the building. And each time he reversed from his computer station, there was only one question on our minds: will he then turn left or right?

If the former, that meant either a trip to the restroom or, better still, the exit, where he would obliviously provide car owners the unnecessary opportunity to brush up on their defensive driving skills against a rogue, rapidly mobile paraplegic. If the latter, it was a slow and suspenseful motorized crawl in your direction as he fixed his angry, droopy gaze straight at you, trapped behind the desk, having entirely too much time to anticipate what was about to happen as he creeped forward ever closer. I admit to periodic cowardice, having escaped a few times for a “restroom break” as soon as I witnessed him reversing, leaving him ultimately stranded at the desk for a victim. In any event, when once he arrived before you with as much speed and haste as the Nine on their quest to Mordor, you had time to imagine and prepare for at least a dozen variants of verbal lashings, but mostly your patience was tested and tried for the wait. Rarely was it ever rewarded, as either you offered to accompany him back to his station to take a look, or you shrugged your shoulders, recognizing that he merely wanted to spit fire and venom before backing up, turning, turning some more, straightening up, then rolling forward either back to his station or out the door.

One day, he ventured too far with our children’s librarian and foolishly allowed his “comments” to assume the form of a threat. While it’s likely he posed no actual threat, there comes a time for any public servant when enough is enough, and a customer — any customer — relinquishes their right to be served. I had learned as much at the larger branch where I had begun my career that you can and may request officers to arrive and simply be present as you issue a criminal trespass warning to an offender, formally banning them from the premises indefinitely. While there are legal limitations to the power and effectiveness of such a warning, as I learned over time, most patrons got the message and departed, allowing us to breathe a little easier.

I’m sure it looked either comical or tragic to any passers-by as I stood next to the officer in the lobby, both of us glaring imperiously down at Scooty as I informed him he would not be returning anytime soon due to his threat, not to mention his general, accumulated mistreatment of staff. I can’t recall how he responded, but I know we didn’t see him again until the new and improved library building was completed a year or two later. While we could have confronted him and reinstated the ban, we chose to let it slide and instead observe. Fortunately for us, his temper had diminished, though he still occasionally had his moments. Overall, he was a much cooler customer. We all have our challenges, I learned, but there isn’t an excuse for a lack of kindness and patience with others, regardless of your circumstances or, as it were, your mode of transport.

Jersey Joe

“Don’t touch a hot stove.“

“Don’t let your kids play in traffic.”

“Don’t consume alcoholic beverages in the library.”

There are common-sense rules in life, which is to say that they shouldn’t require official documentation and find themselves posted in full view of the public as a warning or carved indelibly into stone tablets and carried down a mountain to the waiting world. However, once you enter a “public” place, you quickly learn that anything at anytime can be expected of anyone, and you find sense isn’t quite so common as you thought. And even if it is a generally understood rule, bad habits are hard for some to break, common sense notwithstanding.

He called himself “Jersey Joe.” He rode hither and yon around town atop his faithful pedal-powered mechanical steed — an inexpensive but cherished no-frills bicycle he referred to as “The Flying Fortress.” Small in stature, he wore the simplest of threads and a visage that betrayed a body aged at least 10 years older due to the strains of life and to poor self-care. When sober, he was humble, courteous, and easy to talk to. When off the wagon, all inhibitions slipped away, and you were in for an intervention.

I don’t recall my first encounter with him, but I do remember the evening I witnessed the first of his many transformations wrought by drink. Sitting at the reference station at the corner of the building opposite the circulation desk, I whiled away the evening completing incidental tasks on the staff computer, waiting patiently for 9:00 p.m. — quitting time — to arrive. The last hour was often both the quietest and most sluggish, which sounds dull but can, for the introverted librarian, feel like a reprieve from a challenging afternoon or morning attending to all manner of public needs.

He slipped in unnoticed and seated himself at a public computer along the row on my side of the partition. Only a collection of study tables separated us, and I had full-view of both his back and the chosen contents of his screen, though I paid no attention to either at the time. That is, until I heard it above the otherwise placid evening atmosphere.

Singing. He was lost in the rhythm and melody of the song, belting it out as articulately as a slurred tongue would permit, unaware of his elevated volume, as many of us are when headphones cover our ears. His body likewise participated in the tune and swayed sloppily in time like a drunk, organic metronome back and forth, at risk of knocking into adjacent patrons. My easy coast to closing time would be interrupted.

I rose from the desk and made my way to Joe, prepared only to inform him that he needed to lower his voice. As necessary as that was, with all the uncanny observational skill of Sherlock Holmes, I spotted there beside his seat on the floor an unhidden empty 25 ounce can, accurately deducing that it may, in fact, provide a clue into his rowdy behavior. Information changes things. I now had to don my manager hat and escalate this from a simple noise issue to a possible public drunkenness charge, calling on the assistance of local authorities.

I fruitlessly asked Joe to keep it down, which he accepted but was in no state to do so capably, and then called the police non-emergency number as he jovially resumed swaying and crooning. They arrived and carried him away to dry up without major incident, and peace was restored. He would return again and again over the weeks and months, each time approaching me to apologize, which I graciously accepted. He would, however, fall victim repeatedly into his habit, and once again we would be expected to address it and usher him out.

We all have problems, personal or otherwise. Those disadvantaged with resources the public library provides bring not only themselves but often their addictions as well, which staff is unfortunately forced to address, notably when it infringes upon other patrons’ use of the same resources. It was difficult for me to feel harsh and judgmental of Joe because I knew who he was when sober, and I understood that he wanted to be better. Last I heard shortly after leaving, his inebriated mind convinced him that he needed to direct traffic in the parking lot. The badges, on a first-name basis with him by this time, showed up to relieve him of this unnecessary task. Joe wouldn’t be the last alcoholic I got to know on the job, but I still wonder what became of him and hope to God that he found his way out.

Homeless “Fred”

After four years of assistant management, the opportunity to manage the branch where my career began presented itself. I had imagined that such a responsibility dwelt much further into the future, and I hardly felt qualified to lead. Other colleagues around me felt differently, however, and I was encouraged to toss my hat into the ring. To my surprise, I landed the job, both excited and intimidated at what lied ahead and determined to vindicate those who had chosen to place me in this position.

First on the agenda, as I was told, was to address a delicate issue with a problem patron who the staff had been unable to correct. Moreover, handling the issue would inform the policy I would ultimately draft not only for this branch but for the library system as a whole. Simple enough, except for one thing:

How do you politely tell a complete stranger that they stink?

My children have no qualms whatsoever informing each other that they smell. Come to think of it, I tell them frequently myself, followed naturally with instructions to go and bathe. They’re my kids, and I’m their dad. I have the right to expect it of them. Bearing the responsibility to share this information with a customer at your place of work, however, ranks high on the list of awkward and unpleasant conversations no one wants to have with anyone, ever. But there I was, and a job is a job.

So, I inquired of the staff about the gentleman in question. As they explained, they had confronted him many times, albeit graciously, attempting to enlighten him about his odor, of which, it would seem, he was fully aware. They offered information on where to get a good shower, where he might find a place to wash or acquire clean clothing, etc. With each painful interaction, he would hear the advice, but it became evident to staff after each return to the library that he had no intention to change anything.

I asked the staff to point him out the next time he arrived. It proved an unnecessary request. “Fred,” as I’ll call him, bore as potent and putrid a scent as I’ve ever encountered by either man or beast. His overpowering body odor could be detected across a large, open room, announcing his presence from yards away long before you ever laid eyes on him. And it was the eyes that informed you with the final, critical clue that Fred, by all appearances, was homeless.

I recognized him walking the sidewalks in the neighborhoods and streets around the library. He was always patiently moving, aimless, as it were, towards no particular destination. He wore the same drab, oversized coat, irrespective of the weather. His clothing, never changed, might as well had been a second skin, every much a part of him as an essential organ.

The homeless are regular “patrons” of the public library, and this should come as no surprise. As an institution, it exists to level the playing field by offering its services free-of-charge to all, unless you count the minimal, practically painless tax exacted from each citizen to maintain its offerings. It’s a place to escape from the elements, to catch a nap, and, of course, to acquire information or entertainment during open hours. As long as one doesn’t interfere with others’ use of the same facility and services, take all the time that it has to offer. The 2018 film The Public, starring Emilio Estevez, intentionally featured this patron group and setting to drive the plot. However, as the film’s story depicted in more dramatic fashion, their use of the library, unfortunately, often can and does interfere with others’ use — a reality staff and professionals continue to try and address as graciously and justly as they can, though not always with the outcome either would prefer.

In Fred’s case, there was no question that his was an issue of hygiene that affected others who were even a substantial distance away. So, one afternoon, I did my job, asked him gently aside to chat, and shared the unwelcome news with him that he undoubtedly had heard many times before, though providing him options with shelters and services nearby to take care of the problem.

“Once you take care of this, you’re welcome to return.”

It pained me to say it to a stranger, but I did it. He left disgruntled, but he did leave, I assumed, to do what needed to be done.

A day or two later, Fred returned and seated himself at a computer station as the same familiar, offensive odor wafted far throughout his corner of the library. Sighing, I once again approached him privately and engaged in a second difficult conversation with him, changing little, if any, of the message. Again, he left unequivocally unhappy, and I hoped against hope that he wouldn’t force my hand and would either choose to heed my advice and make a change or choose not to return. I received my answer not many days after.

Regardless of our privileges or station in life, we all have choices to make. Those choices can and will affect others. It’s a reality I sometimes think to which we turn a blind eye, quick to assert our rights to ourselves and our “individuality.” While this may not have been running through Fred’s head at the time, it became clear that he had an interest neither in making minimal effort to change nor in considering those around him, regardless of whether he actively engaged with them or not.

So, I did what I was expected to do when all other options were exhausted and I wasn’t being heard, which, sadly, was to call on those charged, if necessary, to exercise force. After sharing with them the details upon their arrival, they approached him and asked him to step aside with them, to which he refused and loudly protested after inquiring as to why. It remains one of the few times in my career when my decision resulted in a patron exited the building wearing cuffs on his wrists. While it was, indeed, a way to fix a problem, and though he never returned again to resurrect the issue, such a conclusion is always, at best bittersweet. Librarians, especially public librarians, generally want and are pleased to serve those they encounter rather than turn them away, and it hurts a little to think that they may not be able to take advantage of the privileges you provide, immeasurably more valuable to those who have almost nothing in this life that they can call their own.

There are many other stories I could tell of difficult people in difficult circumstances, but these three earned a place near the top of my 18-year career. I have a wealth of colleagues who can easily top these, including one at a branch that almost routinely deals with blood in some form or fashion, believe it or not. Public librarians are among the lowest paid professionals out there when you consider that it requires a masters degree, but you won’t hear many of them whine about it. They didn’t get into it for the money but for the love of what they get to provide — not simply information but a little of themselves as well. And while they may not have expected to encounter such “charming” characters as I’ve described, they finish the job with plenty of interesting stories to tell. Be mindful, however, how you treat them, else you find yourself a subject of such stories.

Spring Broken

“The happiest place on earth” is one of the most brilliant marketing slogans ever created.

It’s also a lie, as most advertising is.

Before the devoted Mouseketeers among you take offense, let me explain.

If you’re willing to ask any parent who’s bought the slogan hook, line, and sinker, they would likely regale you with tales of bitter unhappiness in their ranks upon visiting one of the prohibitively expensive houses Walt built. My wife and I took a brief trip to the east coast version prior to parenthood and were witness to no shortage of tantrums and meltdowns. The kids in their charge were also challenging. In fact, they were the sole source of their parents’ grief. One indelible image burned into my memory took place at the Tomorrowland Speedway, where children have the opportunity to sit in the driver’s seat and practically demonstrate to mom and dad just how thoroughly unprepared they are to handle the family sedan. While my wife and I each waited in our designated spots for a repurposed riding mower with a paint job (I have no idea why we thought we wanted to do this in the first place), I was prevented from entering the vehicle due to a toddler with a death-grip on the steering wheel, mother’s arms wrapped tightly around his legs, awkwardly pulling him forcefully in the opposite direction, full-horizontal. Mom, of course, ultimately won this battle of wills, and I can only guess at what awaited him as they exited. My wife and I then hopped happily into our respective rides, pondering smugly how we would never tolerate such behavior in our own kids, if or when they arrived.

It had escaped my memory as I puttered along the guided track that my siblings and I had provided our own parents a decent share of frustration years before as children after they had saved scrupulously to bring us to this very magic, only to be met with timid reluctance to enjoy ourselves. The five of us were bunched together outside of the entrance to Big Thunder Mountain Railroad, my mother wondering what the hold-up was. The noise and speed of the coaster as it roared past paralyzed the three of us. My mother would later tell us she grew up a fearful child, and, by God, she wasn’t about to allow that to transpire with her own. We were boarding the literal crazy train whether we liked it or not. My younger sister’s tear ducts began gushing with anxiety as our fate was decided, and so, we marched into the snaking line as if dead men walking. We sat down, we coasted, and my sister continued wailing (it never stopped) as we exited. Once she was able to quell her sobs sufficiently to form intelligible words, she shared our joint sentiments through tears now transformed: “I want [sniff] to [sniff] ride it again!” Mom’s dogged determination paid off, though it wouldn’t be the last time a carefully-planned family vacation was met with momentary misery.

The further along I move in parenting, the more I come to believe that kids will never meet all of our expectations, not even when it comes to the “fun” we plan for them. Likewise, we can be a source of disappointment as parents if we aren’t paying attention. I don’t know when exactly it occurs, but we forget at some point along the way what it’s like to be a kid in a world constructed and managed by adults. I tend to believe the best parents keep this truth at the forefront of interactions with their children, and, consequently, that such kids stand the best chance of adapting well to adulthood.

I often forget this truth as a parent, however, as I’m sure some of you would echo for yourselves. The stress of a given moment can bring out the worst in all of us, and sometimes our kids may be the closest target, though they may clearly have a part in the resulting strain on our nerves. Vacations are an excellent opportunity to test such scenarios, and ours are no exception.

As I’ve mentioned in the past, my wife is a planner and organizer to the nth degree. She’s assembled massive, complex spreadsheets and itineraries both for work and home that would make your head spin. Another talent I regrettably don’t share is her ability to summon an inexhaustible supply of ideas to serve as the content of said spreadsheets and itineraries.

This year’s idea for our annual spring break family vacation had us abandoning what was swiftly becoming a Disney tradition after three years. A couple of the kiddos wanted a change, so my wife went to work researching and preparing, settling on an experience they would never enjoy at the balmy sea-level climate of Gulf Coast Texas. And so, packing an additional large suitcase to carry winter apparel, we left the sunny, crowded beaches of Galveston behind for the white but equally crowded slopes of Beech Mountain, North Carolina.

For those unaware, as we were, Beech Mountain rises to an elevation of 5,506 feet above sea-level. The average high in March sounds more like the average low for what passes in Houston as winter: 47 degrees. Access to the resort involves weaving deliberately in and out of a seemingly endless series of hairpin turns that will challenge otherwise eager travelers prone to carsickness. My wife, a characteristically nervous passenger, chose to maneuver the airport rental herself due, no doubt, to the fact that I’ve carelessly rear-ended one too many strangers in the last six-years, and nobody needs that complication miles from home in a vehicle that doesn’t belong to you.

As we made the twisting ascent, the sun hid itself behind the accumulating clouds as the temperature plummeted in the space of less than an hour from a moderately comfortable 50 degrees down to a bone-chilling single-digit. Green gave way to white as snow collected in the passing surroundings. By the time we reached the summit resort village of Beech Mountain and stepped out of the van with the intention of paying in advance for the following day’s access to the slopes, the gusty, frigid wind hit our faces like a hammer. Seconds was all it took for the muscles to feel the icy pain of cheeks frozen in place. The trip up and then down the snow-covered stairs to the resort booth for tickets proved fruitless as we learned we would have to make our purchases the following day. My wife’s spirits gradually fell with the temperature, as did our youngest’s as they gingerly made their way back on the slick steps to the van in the frozen air. “I wish we had gone to Disney!” he lamented.

Once back in the van, the plan had been to make our way to the Walmart in the nearby town of Boone for a curbside order of basic provisions and to grab a bite for dinner before returning to the mountain and settling in to the Airbnb. The roads and weather precluded the likelihood of making it out of town, or back, for that matter, so we altered the plan and attempted what should have been a brief drive to the house to wait it out and simply get off the roads and into shelter. My wife relinquished the wheel and allowed me behind it this time as we set out.

The short distance to the house lasted twice as long on the steep, slick neighborhood inclines and declines. We unwittingly passed it by due to the absence of posted numbers and had to shift in reverse, precariously backing up until facing the driveway. Ascending it without snow/ice-treaded tires was out of the question, so the van would remain at the base of the driveway, just out of the way of passing vehicles.

My wife’s visible but unjustified regret over planning what was shaping up to be a miserable family vacation was about to get worse. As she and the kids attempted to gain footing up the driveway followed by two flights of stairs to the front door, I began grabbing seven pieces of luggage, one at a time, up the same ascent. I stepped inside to a warmer climate, thankful for an escape from the bitter cold outside. After a few passing minutes, one of us, I don’t recall who, observed that the lights didn’t seem to be working. In fact, nothing requiring electricity seemed to be functioning.

No power. Wonderful.

Now, here I must pause a moment to observe the state of attitudes among our party, which I have glossed-over until now. Needless to say, my sweet wife was on the verge of tears at this point. I was intensely stressed on her behalf but was doing my utmost to remain upbeat, but the strain of the effort was wearing my nerves thin. Our children were, for the most part, faring better, save one, who will remain nameless. This one, I regret to say, often has an irritating tendency to offer needless, sarcastic commentary during almost any circumstance, be it positive, negative, or otherwise neutral, merely, it would seem, for its own sake, or for the delight of simply being a drag. We’re really not sure after six years. In any event, there is a time when it’s tolerable, and there is a time when mom and dad’s patience can no longer bear it. This was one of those times.

After returning with another piece of luggage, I stepped across the threshold, but to my consternation, my feet found only a slippery surface on the wet linoleum. It took only a second as my legs flung clumsily into the open air, and like a circus clown, I fell flat on my behind with a “thud.” No laughter was heard from our brood. Cue, instead, yet another dry, sarcastic comment from said child about how amazing a vacation this was shaping up to be. As I regained my footing and rose to my height, my anger broke like a dam, having heard one too many such unhelpful comments over the last hour of the journey. Before I knew it, the brief but cutting words shot out of my mouth like a cannon, aimed squarely and unequivocally in our child’s direction.

And just like that, I had uttered bitter, divisive words to one of my children, words I’ve admonished the kids never themselves to say to anyone.

I’d like to say I immediately regretted it, but, we all know, this kind of anger doesn’t step aside easily, at least not immediately. I wanted to be angry. I nevertheless moved on to the next task, which was comforting my wife and then trying to solve the power problem. I stepped outside searching for a breaker/junction box but found no identifiable issue there. Unthinkingly neglecting to inform my wife of plan B and having left my phone in the house, I began walking up the street to neighboring residences, hoping to either acquire assistance or information. Again, the air was a brisk and breezy 9 degrees. Not until climbing to house number four did I encounter another “survivor,” who told me power was likely to return before the evening, in his experience. This didn’t fix the food problem, since we had no inclination to die driving off the edge of an icy mountain, but I did acquire his cell number to update me, or, I thought, to plead for rescue.

I made it back to the house, where I found my wife beside herself with worry. I had not, as I mentioned, shared with her where I was going, leaving only her imagination to toy with her as to why I had not returned from the base of the stairs or why I was not answering her literal calls into the woods surrounding. Wrapping my arms around her as she sobbed, afraid she had been left alone to face this debacle, I apologized, doing my best to reassure her. I don’t remember when, but not long after, the neighbor-stranger became a God-sent friend, and he graciously invited us via text to share the warmth of his fireplace along with a hot meal cooked with care on his gas stove, if we were so inclined. We gladly accepted, but did not make the climb until dad, anger subsided, chose to make amends.

Though my words were directed carelessly at one of our children, I realized I needed to apologize to each of them. I did so in turn, and it appeared to improve matters. We made our way to the home of our new friend in much better spirits. As he cooked and conversed with us, after no more than half an hour, the familiar electric hum of appliances was heard suddenly as light bulbs above burst back into bright existence. The day was saved, our bellies were full, and our temporary home, upon returning after a couple of hours, was now warm and inviting. We would all get a good-night’s sleep, only to have another adventure or two the following day. It would, at the end of it all, be a vacation to remember, with several more ups and downs we wouldn’t soon forget.

_______________

Parents, we know, are expected to exercise patience with their kids, but some kids, I’ve observed, appear to hold fast to the conviction that it is their sworn, conscious duty to test the limits of their overseers. We have just such a child, and the effort to remain calm but firm often feels impossibly Herculean, even for someone like myself who, prior to kids, was known for longsuffering with difficult people, notably in the professional realm. Library patrons, however, are not one’s children, though they clearly may act like them, to which I can attest.

There are many days I wake up nervous and uncertain of whether the Doctor Jekyll or Mister Hyde version of our child will rise to meet the day, ready either to challenge the world at large or to cooperate with it. More often than I care to admit, it’s often the former, at least with us at home. My wife and I have searched and prayed for an answer as to why one would actively work to antagonize those closest to you rather than seek peace and pursue it, but we have yet to find a reason, other than the lingering scars of an unstable, painful past, of which we, regrettably, had no part.

They say you have to love the child you have, as they are, and not the child you hope to have. This can be tough when it feels there is so, so much in them that needs to change. With adoption, there is no guarantee that you will make an impression, especially if you were absent from a child’s most formative early years, as we were with ours. It’s hard to know how to approach parenting under the circumstances when it often appears that nothing is effective in the way that it should be. Some kids are that eager for a fight. I’ve consequently lost count of the number of times I have felt like giving up, like we’re simply biding our time until graduation, when the house may return to us and a consistent peace will reign once again.

But we don’t give up, though I often am compelled to. And we’re not called to. I’m reminded of the words of Paul to the Romans, as he closes his letter: “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.” Implied in these words is a truth about the life of faith, if not life in general. Behind the hope, patience, and faithfulness encouraged is an understanding that life will not be easy, no matter what’s before you. How much more so for those of us doing something we believe He’s called us to, even though we might feel we’re doing it all wrong or that there seems little evidence on a daily basis that He’s behind it?

Among those three, I struggle most with “joy.” It’s a chosen attitude, and I tend to allow the appearance of circumstances to drag me down, unlike my wife, who, to me, can find within her the capability to be endlessly positive — unless, that is, a spring break trip she has planned for the family is rapidly transforming into an episode of “Survivor.” We continue to plan them, nonetheless, which, I suppose, is good evidence that we aren’t giving up and continue to provide the kids with memories. Regardless of attitudes, struggles, or misfortune, or the appearance of little personal change among one’s charges, we press on, and we do best when joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.

“Life is difficult.” That’s how M. Scott Peck opens his esteemed work The Road Less Traveled, and I love it, though I struggle, as we all do, to accept it. Truer words have never been spoken. We all want relief, ease, and convenience. You could make an argument that it’s the American way. But, no matter how many “just a touch of a button” solutions technology fashions for us, we’ll still have children to raise, as difficult as they may be, we’ll still lose our cool with them on occasion, and we’ll still have forgiveness to seek. God help each of us to choose joy, whether in the middle of family business at home or a spring break trip gone awry.

One Turn

“$134,500.”

My jaw hit the floor. At best, I would have guessed a couple thousand, which would itself have been justifiable cause for celebration. But I had long forgotten about the copy of the will that had been sent to the library many months ago and had begun this particular day with no expectations whatsoever. A seemingly routine call would change everything.

“How much?!” My elevated tone must have implied insult on the other end of the call, which couldn’t have been further from the truth.

“Is that not enough?” the executor replied. After reassurances to the contrary, we shared a laugh and then commenced discussing the details of the late Mr. Lee’s bequest to the Clear Lake City-County Freeman Branch Library, which I had been managing for just over a year. I then would do my best to wait patiently for the check in the mail. In other professions, such as my wife’s chosen field of chemical engineering, cash like that is chump change, here and gone in the course of an afternoon. In a public library, it’s a windfall of serious capital. We had just won the lottery.

Nine years previously, I had trepidatiously begun my career as a public librarian at this branch, which was on the cusp of closing the doors to its third architectural iteration, circa 1970s, and reopening in a state-of-the-art facility almost four times larger directly across the parking lot. At the forefront of my mind was my uncertainty from the first day I was placed alone on the reference desk whether having earned the degree would prove time and money well-spent, or if I should have instead opted for choice number two — to be all I could be in the U.S. military. Had I selected the latter, which I nearly did, the following year would have further altered my fortunes in the service of my country after the tragic collapse of a pair of towers on home soil. It’s anyone’s guess where I might have found myself deployed and what fate would have awaited me in some remote corner of a world in conflict. As it would happen, I selected study over soldiering, and so I landed among books instead of a battlefield.

After a year as an entry-level librarian on the front line of public service at this branch in and around the Johnson Space Center community, I nearly threw in the towel and ventured to other less turbulent waters, so to speak, or so I thought. I knew not what to expect after taking a job working for the general populace, and I certainly didn’t expect to be treated so poorly and ungratefully by the everyday folks I was sincerely trying to help. More often than not, the interactions were admittedly positive, and I proved myself capable of pinning down the answers they sought. But it’s true that one bad apple can spoil the bunch, in this case the bunch being the collective patron interactions in a given day. A single, truly negative encounter is a pall over one’s work day if you allow it to be, as I did time and again. I’d had enough of this entitled crowd, and so I would roll the dice and see if I could find better patrons elsewhere.

I was still too green to understand that working directly with the public simply opens yourself to encounters with difficult people. It comes with the territory. Changing the scenery is no solution. They’ll find you. In almost 18 years in the profession, I’ve observed there are many long-time front-liners who remain nervous and perplexed about this reality and who continue searching in vain for a remedy that will never present itself outside of themselves.

In any event, I attempted an escape to another large municipal system and was offered a position. Upon arriving for a day of preliminaries and paperwork, I stepped unwittingly into a HR disaster. At least one of many new-hires was wise to the dysfunction and walked out within the first 15 minutes, expressing her disgust at having wasted a day of vacation for this. I, on the other hand, decided to stick it out. The situation did not improve. By the time the day was done, it was discovered that none of us were informed about documents we were required to bring with us, after repeated inquiries they still had not determined at which of the many branches each of us would be placed (an important detail when searching for a spot nearby to lay your head), and, oh, by the way (as we all were departing in the late afternoon on our long respective routes home), there is one more stop here in town we neglected to tell you about; you’ll have to use additional leave time from your present job in order to return and take care of it. As if this weren’t enough, I was provided one final disappointment — I was not being hired for the position for which I interviewed but a step and pay grade beneath it.

Now, I do believe in providence. The 8th chapter and 28th verse of Romans I often forget to apply duly to any and every circumstance. This was a rare moment when a prayer for direction earlier in the day when circumstances began to deteriorate returned an answer as clear as fine crystal. The inept crew at this particular HR department were hardly working for the good of those they called and, by all appearances, were under the impression they were paid instead to sabotage their employer by repelling new-hires. On the flip side, I left with the bittersweet certainty that I should stay put where I was, and I was fortunate to learn that I would be welcomed gratefully back to the branch in Clear Lake, two-week notice notwithstanding.

______________

How does one determine the will of God? Why, in that moment, did I interpret circumstances as an indication he wanted me to stay where I was? Why could it not, from an agnostic perspective, simply have been what it was on the face of it — an incompetent organization in desperate need of improved hiring practices?

I can’t imagine a scenario in which I could irrefutably prove to anyone that God was indeed guiding me that day. I am not a skilled apologist, I have learned, so I’ll make no attempt here. I do think, however, that if all of us were honest with ourselves, there is plenty that each of us accepts on faith, though the substance of that faith may differ. As for me, I have seen and experienced enough, especially while I was under my parents roof, that convinced me of a good God who is involved in the world, and it has informed and shaped my faith over the years. But I also don’t believe I had no choice in the matter; I wasn’t irresistibly compelled to believe, though it could be argued I would be foolish and stubborn not to. Choice, I find, is still left to us, though God may be sovereign. It is just a part of what it means, I think, to be created in his image.

Dostoyevsky may have said it best in his novel “The Brothers Karamazov,” suggesting that we may willfully apply our preconceptions when interpreting events, personal or not, particularly if one is a realist/unbeliever:

“The genuine realist, if he is an unbeliever, will always find strength and ability to disbelieve in the miraculous, and if he is confronted with a miracle as an irrefutable fact he would rather disbelieve his own senses than admit the fact. Even if he admits it, he admits it as a fact of nature till then unrecognized by him. Faith does not, in the realist, spring from the miracle but the miracle from faith. If the realist once believes, then he is bound by his very realism to admit the miraculous also.”

I wouldn’t say I encountered miracles as much as intervention that day. Nevertheless, it is left to us to choose an interpretation based on the substance of our faith. I could have proceeded with the move, I suppose. The truth was, I was running from a difficult situation in an attempt to make my own life more comfortable, or so I thought. There is value in facing challenges, though many of us are conditioned to interpret them as a sign to seek an easier, more convenient way.

While I believe God was making use of circumstances to influence my decision, there was another hard truth I needed to understand — running from a challenge may involve nothing more than running towards another. Life isn’t always best lived seeking one simple, convenient, and pleasant path after another. If it’s not the frustration of dealing with contentious patrons, it will undoubtedly be something else. And sometimes, one difficult choice, one turn, if you will, is all that’s needed to make a world of difference in your life or mine.

______________

John Lee Hancock, like me, grew up in the blue-collar, chemical refinery town of Texas City. I would venture to guess that our similarities end there, but I have found it curious that there isn’t a movie director in present-day Hollywood whose films I am almost guaranteed to appreciate more consistently than his. In any event, his film “The Highwaymen,” released in 2019 on Netflix, tells the story of the manhunt for notorious killers Bonnie and Clyde from the perspective of the former Texas Rangers commissioned to track them down. Leading the pursuit is Frank Hamer, played convincingly by Kevin Costner, with Woody Harrelson in the role of his partner, Maney Gault.

Midway through the plot, Hamer pays a visit to Clyde’s father in Dallas. Perhaps seeing little to gain from either in the investigation, the pair use the encounter instead to wax philosophic on the nature of choice and fate. “One turn on the trail,” each utters familiarly, suggesting the notion of a course in one’s life set and determined irrevocably once a pivotal choice is made. While the elder Barrow’s imploring for his son takes issue with the idea that the choice reveals one’s inherent, inescapable nature, Hamer illustratively applies the phrase to himself, describing a single moment chosen in his youth that, he believed, dramatically altered and fated his life’s profession. The choice, the one turn, changed everything.

______________

My wife and I were once good friends without a hint of attraction between us. I still believe friendships can evolve into some of the best marriages, but that’s a topic for another time. Over a decade ago, I don’t remember precisely when, she was in the process of purchasing her first home, and I happened to be the friend available to whom she first decided to show it. We turned into the neighborhood, down the street, and then parked alongside the curb in front of the house. She excitedly shared the details with me for a few minutes seated there in her sedan.

Now, at that moment, I had no idea about what the years ahead held for me and how this casual afternoon stop was as much about what was in store for me as for her. Had my future self spontaneously appeared in the back seat to drop unwelcome spoilers, I wouldn’t have bought a thing he was selling; I wouldn’t have been prepared to hear any of it:

“Let me tell you what’s about to go down, Jim. First, this house. Take a good look, because a lot is going to happen right here for you. Your name will eventually be on the title. Yes, you heard that right. You don’t know it yet, but this is also your first home, which leads me to my second surprise. The girl seated next to you is the one you’ve been after for so long. She’ll figure it out before you do, but once you recognize it, you’ll have difficulty imagining anyone else better suited for you. Cue wedding bells. Third, you two will start a family right here. Maybe that’s not surprising, but here’s the kicker — you’re going to forgo the baby stage and acquire three older kiddos in one blow. Oh, also, they will bear absolutely no resemblance to you whatsoever. I’ll just leave it at that. Fourth, that great big library you unsuccessfully tried to escape several years ago? They’re going to put you in charge of it. Yes, you. Moreover, you and the staff will be afforded rare but rewarding opportunities to make significant impacts on the community, impacts that will be publicized even outside of the city and state. Much of it will begin with a phone call you aren’t expecting about the generosity of a man you’ll never meet.”

I never for a second would have believed any of that. But it did, in fact, happen. And it might not have had I ignored how I was being directed and had instead effected my flight a few years previous.

Time and hindsight reinforce anyone’s faith, I find. The downside is, of course, the waiting. I feel as if I daily face doubt about the goodness of God while dealing with one irritating, sometimes disheartening, challenge after another, especially in this stage of life raising kids in the home. Assurance can be long in coming while buried in the grind. But when I pause to look back on that day and see all of the remarkable things that have followed because, I believe, I obediently chose to stay, how could I not believe in a good God?

We’re taught in Scripture that not one of us is beyond the grace of God; not even a single choice can alter that. However, time isn’t returned to us, which makes each choice more valuable as the minutes slip away. It’s the earliest turn that stands the best chance of affecting the greater share of all those that follow. And that’s good news for those who believe in a good God.

Chapter 2: Dalhart

Carving broad lines into the dirt, he circled the tractor at the edge of the field his father farmed as a hired hand, straightened it out, and started anew. Plowing one endless furrow after another, Joel stole a longing glance at the cars speeding past on the adjacent road, each headed anywhere but here. Family duty held him firmly in the driver’s seat of the tractor’s cabin, though he would gladly relinquish it for a ride in the backseat of even the slowest vehicle escaping this dry and dusty patch of land outside of Dalhart. While he would later appreciate the work ethic instilled in him by his father, who expected him and his brothers to do their part by participating in the family trade as long as they remained under his roof, he derived no pleasure in farming and anticipated after graduation a life outside of such a town that offered few, if any, other means of making a living, even to this day.

Granted, there was nothing to discredit the modest, deliberately-paced community of Dalhart, so named for its establishment between Dallam and Hartley counties in the Texas Panhandle. Then again, there was nothing much to its credit either, in Joel’s opinion. Living in a small agrarian town suited men like his father, who had spent his entire life there, was devoted to his trade, and knew as much about the world outside of it as he wanted to and nothing more. In a way, Dalhart was a refuge from the busy, chaotic world beyond beyond its borders. Even my grandfather’s television, a veritable window in one’s living room opened to the wider world, was, as I recall in his later years, rarely tuned to anything other than golf or the weather; there was little else that captured or required his attention, and this by choice. I once asked him if he had ever considered living anywhere else, myself having recently arrived for a visit from the sprawling, noisy metropolis of Houston. “What?!” he exclaimed. “You’d have to be crazy to want to leave this place!”

My father shared no such sentiment, a fact that did not evade the attention of his own father. It isn’t a stretch to say that the numerous years David Johnson had spent working the land as a matter of necessity had become stitched inseparably into his very identity. To have a son who did not find equal meaning in this respectable form of labor was to suffer a personal affront. He was not an emotionally demonstrative man, however, though his departure from his childhood home as a teenager was contentious, to say the least. He made a rebellious escape of his own from a father with whom he didn’t see eye to eye and never once looked back in regret. Exiting the dust-bowl era, he found a way to make life work for him in spite of an unfinished formal education, eloping with his teenage bride, Zola Faye McBrayer, and focusing his life’s labor on tending the land. Five kids were to follow, Joel the fourth in line, preceded by Peggy, Nancy, and Steve, and trailed by Don.

Zola Faye’s fourth was an unplanned pregnancy. To make matters worse, conception was discovered following a procedure his mother had undergone known obstetrically as a “D and C,” which involves clearing tissue from the uterine lining. No viable pregnancy is biologically equipped to withstand such a procedure under the best of circumstances. Upon learning of the mistake, the doctor counseled abortion, convinced the fetus either would not survive or would be born unhealthy or severely disabled. Zola Faye refused. Defying the odds, the baby would be born to term, alive and healthy. She would give him the prophetic Biblical name “Joel,” meaning declaratively “Yahweh (the Lord) is God.” The improbable birth would be documented in medical literature. I would first hear this story many years later in a sermon delivered by my father, who shared of his mother’s conviction that it presaged a life determined for a special purpose or moment.

Whatever that purpose might be, this story would lend Joel a profound sense of God having miraculously intervened in his life long before he possessed a formed mind to perceive it. The words of Psalm 139 might as well had been penned by him, who, incidentally, was given the middle name “David” by his mother and father.

“Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days were written in your book before one of them came to be.”

Central to this sense of meaning and purpose was the church, and for the Johnson household, attendance was routine and expected for all in the family. His father, David, arrived early every Sunday to open the doors of the First Baptist Church of Dalhart, his deaconly duties extending only insofar as gatekeeper and collector, namely offertory contributions and attendance numbers in Sunday School classes. Aside from this, he characteristically could be relied upon to shutter his eyes during the service not in meditation or prayer but in slumber. Yes, the pastoral message was important; he diligently brought his family each week, after all. It seems, however, he was simply a man who was at his best and most alert when moving, and a sermon afforded little opportunity for that. Zola Faye, by contrast, kept conscious and active attention, teaching the young married’s class, singing in the choir, and occasionally serving as pianist and, for several years, church secretary. As for Joel and his brothers and sisters, they were present and accounted for given the doors were open — Girls in Action, Royal Ambassadors, childrens and youth choir, Sunday evening church training, vacation Bible school, etc. Religious or not, one’s best social opportunities in a small town at that time were often provided by an engaged church, and the Johnsons’ extracurricular activities would imply it was practically a second home for them.

Growing up, Joel’s interests inclined toward literature. His oldest sibling, Peggy, unwittingly practicing for her eventual career in education, taught him to read before he ever set foot in a classroom. Once children’s stories were covered, he moved on to the family encyclopedia, an educational staple of many mid-20th century American homes. Further along than most by the time first grade began, he and another student were permitted in their reading class to occupy a corner of the classroom and lose themselves in any available story that seized their interest. He acquired a library card at the earliest opportunity and pored over every book on the shelves detailing the history of World War II and the Civil War. The daring adventures penned by Alistair MacLean were his favorite. When these were exhausted or unavailable, Readers Digest bound and abridged novels that amply lined his mother’s shelves would do. To this day, my father’s preferred posture is seated comfortably in a recliner with an open book. Conscious of it or not, he was building habits and forming values that would extend to his own children years later. My own career choice of librarianship undoubtedly began its formation during those early reading lessons decades ago between my aunt and father. For those of us led to believe we are the masters of our own fate, I would argue that nurture and influence stretch much further back into our familial past than we might imagine.

At 15, a friend loaned him “The Lord of the Rings” trilogy. “It’s a dangerous business,” Tolkien writes, “going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” Joel would spend hours discussing the volumes with his friend, enthralled not only at the exploits of the nine but, more importantly, moved by the spiritual themes undergirding the patient, expansive story, which, like many others he read, depicted places, real or imagined, dissimilar to the one he inhabited, fueling a desire to tread his own path into the unexplored world once given the opportunity. Something greater and deeper than the adventures he had read about continued to stir within, inspiring him soon to begin taking his first steps into a vocational life of faith.

Whether it was the stress of this call that weighed upon him or simple adolescent immaturity, Joel found himself during his senior year succumbing for a season, due to the influence of friends, to more than a passing interest in alcohol, a developing habit that he managed to conceal from his abstinent parents. Late in the academic year, he would pass evenings several times a week with friends overindulging. He didn’t relish the taste, but it did the job and did it well. Certain evenings passed out of memory entirely; the manner in which he made it home on these occasions were left a mystery.

There are few times in life that bear stronger potential to form both our best and worst habits than adolescence, and at his rate, alcoholism could thereafter have grasped and held him captive with relative ease if left unchecked. Had it succeeded, the story told here would read differently or, perhaps, not be read at all. To our great fortune, however, resourcefulness is one of God’s most enduring though often overlooked qualities. Every tool is at his disposal to shape our circumstances and character as he sees fit. He would recognize in due time what awaited him without an adjustment and would, thankfully, quit cold turkey. He would never touch another drop. The lessons learned would be put to good use, as they should for any seasoned minister. There is no shame in possessing a past, especially if it offers a personal education on the meaning of grace. And who better to comprehend and appreciate the lessons of one’s past in humility than those committed to professional ministry in the service of others, each with their own pasts? Christ saves us all from something.

Joel had spent abundant time pondering these and other spiritual matters for much of his brief life thus far, which led him eventually to consider whether it hinted at a call to a career focused wholly on God’s work. But to what, exactly? The works of Scripture, especially in the Old Testament, do not always describe the “call” of God in precisely the way many of us understand it today. Then, the Levites fulfilled the “professional” function, but primarily due to bloodline; it was a “default calling,” if you will. Many of those “called” who we read about were tasked with a very specific job in mind that did not necessarily carry a socially- or culturally-defined title that limited their role and responsibilities: be fruitful, build an ark, father a nation, lead my people, conquer, save my people, be anointed as king, rebuild the city, etc. All were called of God, but to an ordained task, not a defined title. I have met those who pursued a call in seminary who did not belong there, and I have known instructors who shared that observation. While there is no clear fault in following a call in the best way we know with the information we have, it’s wise to consider that we may limit God to think he can work with us only within the confines of professional ministry, though it most certainly has its place.

As best as Joel could surmise, just as many others do, his call should be pursued as a leader and shepherd of a congregation much like the one of which he’d long been a part, so he duly set out to obey prayerfully in the best way he saw fit. Consulting with his church’s pastor as well as select deacons in the body, he was approved and officially licensed into ministry. The duration of his first sermon barely gave listeners time enough to warm their seats after only seven minutes in the pulpit, but the brevity was no discouragement to him. Joel would continue in that direction.

At long last, graduation arrived. He summarily struck out on the road leading from town, blazing past furrowed fields over which he’d once driven. From here, there would be no stolen glances toward the tractors carving the dirt hours on end, though perhaps the metaphorical but fitting words of Christ, to whom he had pledged himself, echoed in his mind as he fixed his gaze forward and forged ahead.

“No one who puts his hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

Just as the plow prepares the ground for the growth it will foster, Joel was unknowingly headed not yet into a life of career ministry but rather one of patient preparation for a task God had designed for him years later, a task which he would share with another. Her story began many miles southeast of the quiet farmlands spread across the Panhandle, nearer the noisy, steam-pluming refineries stretching along the lengthy coasts of the Gulf. Hers was a different hope for the future they would soon inhabit together.

Paper Mirror

I have a problem with the phrase “the patience of Job.” I don’t know who coined it, but reading his self-titled account of misery (arguably the oldest book in the Bible, in spite of its placement), I can’t help thinking that whoever popularized it skipped ahead in the script and overlooked his bitter lines. When I read his story, which I have more than once, I’m left with the distinct impression that the only thing separating Job from your children or mine is that Job simply complains more eloquently about his lot in life.

I’m over-exaggerating, of course. The fact is, I don’t begrudge him his penchant for extensive bellyaching, in which I personally see little of the ascribed virtue of patience. There are few in Scripture who have more of a right to it than Job, in my humble opinion. After all, his suffering was not the result of personal sin, karma, or even chance; nobody to blame there except, maybe, yourself. No, his misfortune was the result of a bet staked between the Creator and the “Accuser.” While this book is among my favorites of the 66, it does feel a bit cold the way his life was essentially employed as a playing field to settle a score. Then again, as Job concluded, who am I to judge? “Surely I [speak] of things I [do] not understand.”

I imagine the virtue of patience is better applied to Job at the end of his ordeal, when he couldn’t possibly experience thereafter anything worse than what we read. Nowhere to go but up. And let’s be honest — it’s tales such as this that prompt us to think twice about asking God for more of this quality, which reminds me of another phrase: “Be careful what you wish for . . .”

Patience serves well those in my profession of public librarianship. Insert the word “public” before your chosen occupation and you’re likely to deal with anything and anyone, with special emphasis on the “anyone.” Moreover, the all-encompassing “public” includes you, me, and that difficult person you do your best to avoid. More often than we’d like, it’s the latter we librarians encounter across the reference desk, and without an extra measure of patience we’d probably finish most days with cuts and bruises, both given and taken.

During my time at the desk, I was given special regard among my colleagues for this quality when interacting with patrons or people in general. I even once was told by a staff person that they would settle when I showed up to handle a tense encounter; I brought calm to a situation, she said, though I seldom felt it. When once I paused to wonder why, it came as no surprise. I was bred, if you will, in relative peace and calm, thanks both to nature and nurture. I can’t recall a moment growing up when my siblings and I ever came to literal blows over anything, though we had our minor spats on occasion. I learned later as an adult, to my surprise, that such domestic tranquility is atypical. Nevertheless, my mother made it her mission to create an environment for us she rarely experienced in her own upbringing. Our consequent peace-loving natures unknowingly cultivated in us a conspicuous patience in our interactions with others, which, for the most part, has served us well in relationships. Patience, it seemed, was as natural to me as any functioning internal organ; whether I thought of it or not, it was somewhere in there and did its job regardless.

Enter children.

If you want to get to know yourself better, have kids. Contrary to popular belief, they don’t enter the world naked. They arrive equipped with a figurative outward-facing mirror designed to reveal to you and your spouse both your best and your worst characteristics.

Calib, our youngest, is still unaware that one of his purposes in life is to refine my patience, to demonstrate to me how little of it I actually possess. It turns out, I’m not quite the paragon of longsuffering that I once thought. He and his oldest sister, Deztinee, entered our lives just over five years ago and their sister, Dezira, a few months after that. As for him, it was clear from the start that this 2-year-old was not informed by the adoption agency that he had to accommodate my idea or manner of expressing patience, much to my consternation. It didn’t take long to discover that I myself had an inner toddler that felt the impulse to rebel when things weren’t going his way.

Our first family pics, only months after placement, were in Alexandria, Louisiana, home to my in-laws. One photo in particular of the two of us currently hangs on his bedroom wall. We were not able to cut his hair yet, per the rules, but we also hadn’t a clue what to do with it in the meantime. He consequently resembled a Don King mini-me, an expression on his face betraying an interest in stirring up mischief. I sit behind him, and it is, admittedly, a cute picture, except that my smile is forced, which only my wife would be able to identify. The photo is an honest picture of how I often felt and how he was bent.

Calib’s thorn-in-the-flesh, we would later learn, is an irritating little beast named ADHD. To be fair, almost every little boy has moments of inattention or overexcitement. I once was among those who discredited the disorder as an excuse for poor parenting or the result of too much screen time. While I wouldn’t dismiss that possibility out of hand, my wife and I could see we were doing the best we could, yet he struggled to focus and get it together, especially in school.

There are an overabundance of distractions in our day-to-day life, notably digital. With ADHD, however, the tendency toward distraction can be triggered by anything; digital devices, interestingly, often provide an opportunity to focus. External distractions, however, abound. A two-minute task such as getting dressed in the morning, unsupervised, may take twenty minutes, or may never happen at all without oversight, since the die cast superhero figures need to be setup in a row on the bed frame, and, hey, is that a dog outside? I love dogs. Where is my dog book? I don’t see it, but this other one has stickers in the back and etc., etc., until mom or dad return to find that, while many steps have been taken over the last half-hour, not one of them was in the right direction. Make this a daily occurrence for multiple tasks and you’ll have some idea of the struggle.

That’s the AD side of the coin. The HD, in Calib, manifests itself, at its peak, as a surplus of supercharged joie de vivre, as in, life is a musical comedy, he’s the leading man, and dad is proving a tough crowd; no matter, I’ll just sing louder and see if I can break him. He can put on an entertaining show, but it makes for a long day. I once attempted, at bedtime, to almost hypnotize him into standing still and quiet. While he made a valiant attempt, the resemblance to an animated rocket shaking under the pressure either to launch or explode was jarring.

Put the two of these together, AD and HD, and it’s difficult for the afflicted to get anything done. It became clear after some time that he, and we, needed help. If he wasn’t focusing in school, he was using the environment as his stand-up stage, his classmates a captive club audience. Such a bright shade of positive energy may not sound like the worst one could imagine, but he simply wasn’t capable of reining it in. After a diagnosis by both a psychologist and physician, it was determined he was a candidate for medication. Once the dosage was pinpointed, the change was almost immediate with no negative side effects. Straight As and no more notes or calls from the teacher.

I don’t necessarily consider it a miracle and wouldn’t stand in front of a camera to laud the benefits of medication, but it proved an enormous help for the time he has to spend in a classroom. You can’t and shouldn’t medicate 24/7, however, at least not in our case. For the moments in between, which is typically with us at home, my patience is still significantly tested. As with his condition, it remains at times hard for me to rein in my impatience.

For those who attempt it, getting kids ready for church on Sunday mornings is its own special challenge. Success or failure hinges on getting everyone out the door and into the van at a reasonable time with lofty aspirations of arriving no more than fashionably late. It’s tough, but it can be done. First things first, though. At breakfast recently, I responded to his antics with severity rather than understanding and lost my cool with him more than once, much to my wife’s, and his, displeasure. As justified as I felt at the moment, and though there was resolution, albeit imperfect, self-talk, as it’s known, judged me a terrible father. It often does.

By the time service was finished, he stepped into the van and passed forward to me from the back his most recent masterpiece. On it were the words “I love you Dad” and his best impression of me, complete with baseball cap and facial hair, not to mention a smile on my face. Jenny, my wife, also received a similar image from his time at camp a week before. Though it was intended as an opportunity to write a letter to mom and dad, he took the artistic route and penned a simple picture of her surrounded by hearts. In any event, his portrait of me didn’t reflect in the slightest what I saw of myself that morning, but it was a revelation to me that the mirror our kids unwittingly hold up to us seldom reveals how they actually see us.

Beneath the ADHD that frustrates and tries my patience almost daily is simply a kid who loves his mom, wants to please his dad, and who would rather spend his camp money on gifts for each of us than on himself. To that, I say thank God for the patience and forgiveness of our children. Without it, we would not see ourselves as they do and might not have the courage as parents to get back up and try again.