A Father's Day Without My Dad

On my first Father’s Day without my dad, I feel a listless dread. Not so much tearful, but stunning pain on the inside. It’s hard to believe that I will never have another real Father’s Day, where I can look my dad in the eye and say, “I love you.”  It’s not fair of course.  But, I don’t really care about the fairness.  I just miss my dad. 

Today we doled out his clothes, rummaged through his drawers, and clicked through hangers full of striped polos, unworn golf shirts, and Kirkland branded button downs. Piles of shorts and shoes gathered on the floor and bed.  One pile for giveaways. One pile for the lucky sized sons-in-law. One pile to be cut up into quilts. 

It felt like bits of my dad scuttled up in the air, escaping even more as we unruffled his organized drawers. Ten of us in his room, his walk in closet, sifting through his socks, sitting on his bed, watching the piles grow.  For a guy who only wore a handful of shirts most of the time, his drawers were chock full.  Oh, dad. Why didn’t you tell us to stop buying you clothes for Christmas? We never knew what to get you...you never said what you needed. 

I took some shirts home with me, but my dad is not there.  He’s not anywhere.  He’s in my memories, but those ache, and I push them away most days. I cry a little on some days, a lot on others, and my 3 year old knows instantly what’s wrong, “You miss papa?” and pats my back. 

What my dad needed the most he didn’t get.  What he wanted the most was time with his family.  I hope he was in that room with us in spirit, laughing at our dysfunctional way of dealing with the pain- gathering his garbs.  But, emptying those drawers won’t empty the sting of today.  It won’t close the chapter of grief any faster.  In those piles still loom piles of hurt and “whys” to God.  Why God? Why did you have to take away our earthly replication of you? The one who took care of us, looked out for us, sacrificed for us, and loved us beyond himself.

He was and is a saint in my mind – having an "exceptional degree of holiness and likeness to God." That’s my dad.  He had no need or want for earthly items. Only time, the one thing he couldn’t have.  We miss you dad and love you.  I hope God’s taking very good care of you up there (and I hope you don't need any of your clothes back... ).  Happy Father's Day. 

A Eulogy for the Ages

Monday, April 20th, my 10 year old son stood up at my 60 year old father's funeral to speak about the qualities he admired about his Papa.  Though 50 years separated the two, in that moment, both were ageless.  I could see the spirit of my dad in my son.  He spoke with conviction, tenderly, slowly, not too loud, but loud enough to hear.  Each word was carefully chosen.  That was my dad to a tee.  You listened when he spoke.  Throughout that day, I watched a certain mantle fall on my son's shoulders, a need and want to carry on my dad's legacy and remember him the way he deserved to be remembered.

Earlier that week, my son sat snipping away on paper at the kitchen table, letting the scraps fall where they may, in his usual unhurried way.  "What are you making, Tyler?  A paper airplane?" "No, mom, it's a star for Papa. See?"  He held it up... That it was.  It could easily pass as a snowflake too.

 "That's nice honey.  He would have liked that." But, I didn't get it.  This wasn't a paper craft my son was making, an outlet for his feelings.  Not at all.  It was a carefully constructed symbol.

Though cut with scissors from ordinary paper, this star is no ordinary star.  Each shape, notch, and rivet represents an enduring quality.

He explained further.  "See? This curve around the edges means love.  These diamonds mean strength.  The fact that this diamond is bigger than this diamond means there is hope in strength."  On and on he went about the intricacies of this paper starlike snowflake. "This shape means harmony and love and faith and hope." On it he wrote, "The Star for Papa."

Using symbols and meanings from an age old art form (Pysanki Eggs that he learned in art class) my son helped make a new pain more bearable.  I cried with him and held that star, studying each cut.  "Really, it means all that?" I asked.  He nodded solemnly.

Just as solemnly, in front of family and friends, Tyler stated each characteristic about his Papa that he admired and wanted to be like.

That star is taped to our window.  In the toughest, most misunderstood situations, a simple symbol can bring comfort. When the sun shines through it, I see each shape a little better, and it feels like my dad is reminding me to be like him - strong, hopeful and faithful - qualities that last through the ages.

Raised Gardens, Fallen Hopes

If you were going to pick any tree in a vast forest to personify my father it would be the tallest, sturdiest, most faithful tree you could find.  His roots go deep.  His shade is wide.  He covers many. 

Now cancer has its horrible grip on our beloved tree - the one we all depend on - and we don't know what to do.  He's a very special tree you see.  He doesn't bend in the wind, but remains strong, steadfast, unshakable, unmovable.  We love this tree.   So much.

This past week, my family underwent yet another pet project in one of their favorite pastimes - home improvement.  They constructed raised gardens.  Much time and care went into the design of these raised gardens.  My dad called me the day before his scheduled surgery to remove his tumor to tell me about them.  "You really should see it," he said, "It's very different looking" and proceeded to tell me about the team of non-English speaking landscapers who were diligently leveling the ground, spreading mulch, and erecting the handmade cedar walls under his watchful and discerning eye.  These clever contraptions actually raise the soil level to make a backbreaking job more enjoyable, with the added benefit of giving plants more room to take root and grow in plush, tilled soil. 

This project epitomizes my dad.  Take something good, like a garden in the sun drenched spot close to the house perimeter, and make it better...  by giving it a better chance of getting clipped and pruned by our soon- to- be- hard- at- work mother.   It accomplishes two of his favorite goals.  Make something that is good, better, through intuitive design.  And put our mom to work! (lol)  Plus it would be his last gallant grasp at industrious activity before his eight weeks of bedridden recovery.  So, he was thinking ahead.

The following day after those raised gardens were set in place, our hopes for a fast and full recovery fell.    We were told our dad's surgery was canceled due to his tumor's growth.      

Our beloved tree remains unshaken.  The center of our garden.  The tree with a root structure that keeps all of the rest of us from eroding and washing away.   As hard as the wind blows and the storm rages, our beloved tree does not bow.  But, our hopes have fallen.  We need a team of Mexicans working overtime to level our fears, build up our optimism, and raise our hope.  

Please pray for my dad as he fights this storm.  We raise him in prayers, faith, love and God's grace.  He is the wind beneath our wings when we need to fly.  The unwavering branch when we need something to hold onto.  And the constant true north in our lives.

Buried Treasure

Today, my sons and I viewed a dinosaur exhibit at the Science Center - Dinosaurs in Motion - an unusual display of recycled metal hammered into mechanical art of life size creatures.  Running from exhibit to exhibit, my 9 year-old was the effervescent teacher and I, the student, as he rattled off from memory the crucial details of these fantastical beings.  I learned each one's scientific name, prehistoric era, length, height, and food preference.  He even pointed out the difference between an herbivore's teeth and a carnivores'.  I was beyond thrilled as you can imagine.  His eyes lit up as he reached a new display, and my eyes lit up as I watched his eyes light up.  We enjoy 2 hours of pulling levers and pushing dials to make these rustic dinosaurs come to life.  With each yank of a pulley, a metal claw or jaw or spike came to life and gave new meaning to recycled cans.

To commemorate our fond memories at the gift shop, Tyler opted for a small replica of his favorite dinosaur - the Velociraptor - packed in a solid square of sand with a small hammer, pick and brush.  He was elated.  Cloud nine.  "Mom, when I get home, I am going to start right away digging out this dinosaur to prepare for my career as a paleontologist."  "That's great son."  "I can't wait to get home, Mom. This is the best present ever.  When I'm done with this one, I want to get the Tyrannosaurus Rex or the Diplodocus.  I can do them all, Mom.  This is great practice.  I am so excited. I really am a chatterbox when I'm excited." 

One archeologist makeshift tent in the yard and a couple of hours of digging later, this resolute boy starts to see some bones.  It's a tough job.  He has to carefully scrape, pick, dig, and brush off the sand to extract his treasure.  Too hard, and the delicate bones will break.  Too soft and the sand doesn't budge.  It's tightly compacted around each stray piece.  Tyler is engrossed.  His mission is to extract the individual bones in order to construct a complete and whole product. 

Later that evening, I had my own hours of digging at a dinner date with my longtime mentor and friend.  The main topic of discussion.  Buried treasure.  While I didn't have a tent in the backyard, I did have a pick and shovel and some determination (like mother, like son).  In hunt for purpose and making a difference in this life, I have found a bone here and there - scraped the surface.  But, it's difficult.  Tougher than I thought.  And much tougher than the instructions on the box say.  You have to store the good advice to remember in the bad times.  You have to believe that you will find your way out even when you fall in a dark hole that may or may not be near your dinosaur bones. 

I think many of us are searching for our "finding" in some pretty packed earth.  Some of us are searching in the wrong spot.  Some of us have missing pieces or may have misplaced our tools, and some have just given up.  But, my son's tenacity and belief that he could get this thing out sparked something in me.  His excitement and fervor spoke volumes to me.  That sometimes all we need is a will and a way.  A will that we can do it.  The confidence that we know the right way and the reaffirmation that we have been given the right tools.  We've had them all along.  We have been "equipped for works of service" and can attain the whole measure of who we are supposed to be.  Life's storms are inevitable.  Tossing us back and forth by waves.  But, finding our way back to solid ground and picking up our tools is the important part.  We have to keep digging and scraping our way to the truth.  There is no clean or easy way to do it really.  It's about reaching our fullness in who we were designed to be.  Fullness in spirit.  Fullness in life.  And whether it takes a pick or a shovel or a darn backhoe, I'm going to find it!     

The Bombers Go All the Way!

Last night was the final game of fall ball for my son’s baseball team, “the Bombers.”  Dressed in cherry red and navy blue uniforms with cursive letters on the front of their jerseys, this scrappy group of misfits looked fresh out of the post World War 2 era.  We were playing our last game against the formidable team, dubbed the Pirates “A” team.  They were an elite team of polished players who poached good players from other teams and held tryouts to man their roster with only the best, relegating the rest to the “B” team. 

Dressed in all white, the Pirates looked pristine prancing out to their positions.  Their coach chewed tobacco on the 3^rd base line and yelled orders as each player solemnly walked to the plate. 

The Pirates’ dugout was serious and quiet, as the team patiently listened to coach’s strategy and laid out their game plan.  Our dugout, on the other hand, was mass chaos, as our coaches focused on getting the players to actually stay in the dugout rather than running off to go potty or doodling in the dirt.    

As the parents, we just hoped it wasn’t a blowout.  “Watch the ball!  Stay ready!  Bend your knees!,” we yelled anxiously from the sidelines.   

The Pirates were undefeated and had a reputation for man handling their competition.  They were “in it to win it” and we were pretty much in it to…. well, just to be in it.  They lacked the uniqueness of our team though.  We had Joey – a cross eyed, small kid with a crackly high voice, who was too young to be on our team, but we needed players and let him on anyway.  Joey was the one who had to go potty every 30 seconds. 

Mick was tall and lanky but slow as an elephant and about as disinterested as one too.  Cory was a couple years too young and came up to some of the pirates belts in height.  But, we kept him on because he was going to be good and his dad coached the team.  

We were a determined bunch.  By some happenstance, Joey always managed to get on base, and we had Luca.  Yes, Luca Zarky - our best player.  Bigger, taller, and could hit the *** out of the ball.  We all cheered when Luca came on base and silently prayed that he would wallop one out to center field far enough so little Joey could get around the bases.  Try as he might, Joey, ran with his chest first and head and legs behind him, pumping his little arms and skidding his feet with each step.  We all just held our breath.  “Safe” was the call…. Whew. 

Oh dear, I sighed, it was going to be one of those game where you watched with one eye closed and a silent prayer on your lips. 

With half our kids big and uncoordinated, and the other half small and zippy, we looked like easy Pickens for the Pirates.  They would raid our ship, claim our booty and be off in the sunset before we could say, “Strike three.”  Yikes.  All the parents knew the odds weren’t in our favor.  But, our kids could have cared less.  Through our weekly practices, they had grown in camaraderie.  They liked to talk to each other out in the field and cheer each other on when we were hitting. 

Then something happened.    

It was like something clicked.  We caught ground balls, threw to first and GOT OUTS.   Tyler played 3^rd base, threw to Luca on 1^st and got out after out.  This was a big play that we had been working on in practice.  Another force out came when Tyler scooped up a ground ball, ran and slid into 3^rd, just barely beating the runner.   I couldn’t believe it.  Our defense actually looked better than the opposing teams.’  Our practices were paying off.  They had worked on the little things, like catching, throwing accurately, picking up ground balls, running in a straight line to the bases and not twirling in the outfield.  And it was working. 

Halfway through the game, we were winning 9 to 3, and I could see the other teams’ coaches start to get nervous… and angry.  The next inning, they got 4 runs, but our boys continued onward, like nothing had happened.  We got to the plate and scored three more, winning the game 12 to 10. 

At the end of the game, we commemorated the season with personalized trophies and team photos and our coach congratulated our little team on a winning season! 

Last season, we were easily one of the worst teams in the league and now we had beaten the undefeated Pirates.

I looked at their happy faces in the cold, brisk evening, and each face gleamed in the full harvest moon.  Our beloved Bombers couldn’t have been happier.  They knew they had accomplished something big and had a blast doing it. 

That night, going to bed, I couldn’t stop thinking of our team’s accomplishment.  In a way, my son’s little league is like the big league of life we adults find ourselves playing.  We may have a losing season, but if we work on our weaknesses, stay focused on having fun and making friends, we create a winning atmosphere.  We have to keep plugging along, practicing the basics, waiting for that “something” to click.  I think that “click” has a lot to do with staying positive and working on improving the “small things.” 

Our team didn’t go to the batting cages once.  We practiced the team skills of working together, throwing and catching, and fielding.  In life, sometimes it’s not about the big “at bat” of a job interview or a big presentation at work that wins the game.  It’s the little things like praying with your son before bed, watching his favorite show, “Call of the Wildman,” with him and encouraging his current interest in the book, Moby Dick, that make the difference.  (Yes, Moby Dick..... a tall tale for next time….)     

Rocks of All Ages

It's Friday night, and we're headed to our much anticipated Friday night dinner.  Time to unwind from the week.  In the car, my husband comments that he didn't get much sleep last night.  "I did.  I slept like a rock.  I was so tired."  Tyler pipes up, "Me too."  My husband laments, "Yeah, spring is coming, and I don't know what I'm going to do with you two snoring machines."  I spout off suggestions - Breathe Right strips, antihistamines, nose surgery?  "Yeah, maybe I need surgery too" chirps the backseat.  He takes a long sniff.  I hand back a Kleenex.  "But, dad, I can sleep with mom.  Her snoring doesn't bother me."  Sniff again.   "Yeah, because you two sleep like a couple of rocks." 

Sniff.  The backseat is quiet for a few moments... thinking.  "Yeah, except rocks don't snore."    

The boy has a point. 

Seating in the booth at our favorite Mexican establishment, we discuss names for Tyler's soon to be born baby brother.   

Tyler, as always, is an active participant in the conversation.  We are thinking Trey or Luke for first names.  For the middle name we want a family name and something with meaning.  My husband asks Tyler, "Do you know who your middle name is after?"  He shakes his head.   

"In the Bible, there was a young fourteen year old boy whose name was David from the country Israel.  He was thin and scrawny, but very clever.  One day there was a large man more than 8 feet tall who kept taunting the Israelites.  Do you know what taunting means?" 

Tyler shakes his head.  He is kneeling in the booth, half sitting, half standing, elbows on the table.       

"He was making fun of the Israelites because they were so scared.  He was like a bully.  This giant's name was Goliath.  He had a very large sword and a whole army behind him.   No one from Israel wanted to fight him.  Except David.  David took out his slingshot, found some rocks and faced the giant.  Goliath laughed at how small David was.  David was not scared.  He swung his slingshot with his first rock and hit Goliath right in the forehead.  The giant fell down dead.  And this teenage kid used the big man's own sword to cut off his head.  Do you know why David was so special?" 

Tyler shakes his head.

"He was the great, great, great, great grandfather of Jesus." 

His eyes light up like bulbs in a pinball machine.  

"If David had not been so brave, Jesus might not have been born!  Isn't that amazing?" 

He nods his head.  We can tell the story has definitely had an impact on him. 

"We should definitely not name the new baby Goliath!" 

Yep, the boy has a point. 

Whether it's the sleeping habits of rocks or the rocks in his predecessors' weapon, this little boy certainly knows how to slingshot through to the truth.  

He's funny, yes, but also insightful.  I hope and pray he finds his own rocks to use in life...the stones of truth that you collect along the path of life, and the Rock of our Salvation.  I hope he continues to live up to his name and create his own legacy that generations of his children's children will speak highly of.   

A Little Slice of Heaven

Profound statements often come out of my seven year old's mouth when he's bathing.  He starts floating in the water on his back... his hair spanning out from his head, where the ideas start knocking around like the last 30 seconds of a bag of popcorn in the microwave. 

"Mom, I don't want you to die." 

"Mommy's not going to die for a long time... you don't have to worry about that," I respond, trying to brush past the subject.  How am I going to explain dying and age to a boy who has yet to lose all his teeth. 

"Am I going to die Mom?"  He does not let the subject go.  "Not for an even longer time than mommy bud."  "Besides we're all going to be together in heaven... so you don't have to worry about dying." 

Pop...pop...pop.  The barrage of questions starts filling my son's head.  "Will we have a house like this in heaven?  I like this house... I want everything the same as it is here... Can I be hockey player in heaven?  Is there ice in heaven?  What age are we in heaven?  Is Santa Claus in heaven?  Will our fish be in heaven?" 

I am in no way qualified to answer these questions and frankly do not know the answers to half of them... but, I muddle through... "We don't get old in heaven...heaven is better than here... because it's perfect and you can get everything you want.  And I'm not sure about the fish."

He stares back at me with bubbles on his head... doubtful.  "But, I like everything the way it is here.  I don't want anything to change."  More tears...they are streaming down the bubbles.  

"I don't want you and daddy to die mom.  Is grandmum going to die too?"  I weigh my answer.  He pretty much thinks grandmum is invincible, so I don't want to touch that with a ten foot pole.  Who knows... maybe she will live forever.  

Bath time is a little late this evening, and he's in no frame of mind to excavate the mysteries of the afterlife.  The mysteries are becoming more apparent to me as well... I haven't thought this deeply about death ever...Do I lie to make him feel better?  How do you tell a tired, dripping wet and confused first grader how we're all going to die and live happily ever after in a place called heaven?  More tears. 

"What is making you think about this bud?"  He shrugs..."I just love my life so much," he sniffles.  He doesn't want to lose the people, things, and routines he loves so much.  It's his little slice of heaven.  And he wants no part of the actual whole pie that he knows nothing about.  No way... no how... He likes his bedtime routine, his fish, his letters to Santa that he is still sending him via the Iphone app, and his baths.  Heaven is no comparison.  I try to relay what I think I know about heaven.  "There are streets of gold, mansions, angels."  "God is there.  You get to really be with God!"  Nope... he's just fine with him living in his heart.   

But, he dries off, wipes his tears and changes the subject, leaving me more confused than him.  He got all his questions off his chest and goes back to living in the moment.  I wonder about that slice of heaven.  He's living for today, not a better tomorrow.  I think I'll take a slice.  

Reflections of a Seven Year Old Sitting on a Toilet

Every month my son has "share" day at school.  He brings in his prized possession and shows it off to his class.  One day he brought his Transformers Bumble Bee arm that makes powerful noises and lights up.  For this month's share day, we had it all planned that he was going to bring his Cardinal's honorary "contract," signed by Tony La Russa and stamped with an Official Seal of Excellence.  This document confirmed that he did indeed catch a foul ball on the day of September 5th and included a guarantee that "at no time will the holder's loyalty to the St. Louis Cardinals be traded to any other Major League Baseball club."  I had it framed and on the table ready to go.  This was going to be special.  Not many other kids had a contract to show off.  Our little hero in the making.

But, this hero's loyalties were in a different place.  "Mom, I was thinking of bringing the pictures of the baby instead."  Tyler was very excited about his new little brother or sister to come, and I had recently shown him the scroll of ultrasound pictures.  We got out a ruler and I showed him that the baby was still only 4 centimeters long.  He was amazed.    

"I already told my class that you were pregnant mom."  I'll bet he made an announcement in front of class.  My seven year old has told more people than I have told... Yikes.  This little guy sure was special. 

Sitting on the toilet, thinking, passing time, he inquired out of the blue, "Mom, do you think it will be a boy or girl?"  Turning to his upturned face, I answered, "That's something that God decides.  Did you know that?"  He nodded in the affirmative.  "Yep.  I know."  I went on, sensing this was a good teaching moment for the little hero on the john. 

Did you know that God decides what you are going to look like, act like and be like?  He decides everything about you!  Tyler's eyes light up. "It's like the Wii where you get to pick your character!  Only he has tons more choices."  I can imagine God holding his numchuck scrolling over the thousands of choices he has on his Wii.  "Yeah, that's exactly what it's like."  He's got a big job.  He picks your hair color, your eye color, and all of your gifts and talents.  He made you really special with a lot of gifts to use.  Thinking this over, he had to agree with me.  He was good at a number of things. 

"Why did he do that mom?" 

"Because he wants you to use those gifts to make him happy.  Do you know he has a plan for you?  He has a plan for everyone." 

"What's his plan for you mom?" 

"That's a good question bud.  I'm still figuring that out, but I know one of them is to take care of you and make sure you know how to use your gifts." 

"I think his plan for me is to be a hockey player mom."    

"It may be, but you're good at a lot of things, so you just have to keep doing what you're good at and figure out how you can help people with your gifts.  This makes God happy." 

"I think I can help a lot of people being a hockey player mom." 

So, as I work on expanding my son's career choices, I realize that he has no lack of confidence and resolve.  He just needs direction on how to use his abilities to achieve God's plan.  In fact, we all need direction and a bit more confidence and resolve.  Maybe we all should take a moment, whether it's on the toilet or not, and ruminate over our plans and gifts and how we are using them.  It got me thinking that maybe some of my gifts are buried and not producing anything.  While I look at my son, I see that none of his are buried.  He is jumping into anything that he can get his hands on, not looking back, with no regrets.  But, all of this running and gunning could turn selfish if he's not guided to help others and think of how to make God happy.    

As we approach this season of reflection and hope, I hope we all get guided into using our God-given talents and make a resolution to find more of these talents that we have hidden away.  Why do we hide them away?  Why don't we have the same confidence and resolve we used to?  Because we stopped believing.  Again, we can take a note from our smaller counterparts.  Believe that there is a Guy up there who gives us gifts for a reason.  He may not have bells and a sleigh, but he has a still small voice in our hearts.     

A Thanksgiving Tradition

I love Thanksgiving... spending time with family... eating lots of food... watching the rest of the leaves fall.  This year on Thanksgiving, we all trooped over to my sisters' house, where she had painstakingly orchestrated her first official hosting of this carb-filled holiday.  Twenty-one people submerged her granite countertops with spreads of cranberry stuffing, marshmallow sweet potatoes, pecan cheesecake, perfectly cut carrots and cucumbers, red eye dressing, and gobs of turkey and ham.  

To keep us all busy, my son exercised the spirit of giving by asking each couple if they would like a check for one thousand dollars.  Of course, no one turned down this spectacular offer.  So, he busied himself with making out his fake checks and signing them...

He soon realized that he was going to run out of checks and came back to his old standbys.  "Mom and Dad," he whispered through his cupped hand.  "I think you're going to have to split a check."  We nodded solemnly and he bounced back to finish his John Hancocks. 

At the tables, we each had a sheet of paper with a quote about gratitude on our plates... a nice touch.  The quote read, "Gratitude turns what we have into enough.  It turns denial into acceptance, chaos into order, confusion to clarity.  It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend.  Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow."  This is why I like this holiday so much.  For a day, we all focus on the good, the possibilities, how precious the present is and how promising the future is. 

By definition, gratitude means an awakening of the heart.  My son seems have to have these little awakenings throughout the year and voices them regularly.  When deciding between the homemade apple pie, pumpkin pie and pecan pie, he turns to my mom, his grandma, and states, "I'm going to have what you brought because you do everything good."   He's grateful to me on a regular basis - "I have the best mom ever!  I just love my mom!"  While part of me wonders what it is he wants in return for these fawning phrases, another part of me marvels at his easy transition into an "awakened" state.

It seems he looks at the bigger picture more than me.  He is thankful at the drop of a hat... sings songs in the backseat about how much he loves his mommy and daddy.  He declares out of the blue, "My teacher is just fantastic!"  and doesn't stop there...

Why is it easier for kids to tap into their gratefulness and wonderment more than adults?  They seem to be very certain and not easily confused.  Yet another lesson we can learn from our successors.  "Don't let the past weigh you down.  Allow yourself to be happy in  the present.  And look forward to the future." 

The chaos and confusion we let into our lives only block our view of what really matters.  With gratitude, we still have dilemmas to sort through and problems to fix.  But, it helps us sort through the difference between the facts and the truth.  They are two very different things.  The facts can change with circumstances and come and go... The truth never changes, and when we hold onto this, facts don't matter as much...  

The Reality of Ideals

One of the many things I dislike about getting older is the slow deterioration of my idealistic perspective of life.  I used to be a hopeless idealist.  Now, whether is it experience that comes with age or living through more trials and errors, I am sliding into a realist.  Life becomes muddled with busy work schedules, deadlines for bills, and getting through the work week.  My rosy outlook on life that good intentions always win has become less absolute and more pragmatic.  Oh, dear... I'm becoming pragmatic in my middle age... like my grandmother Vivian.  She had a realistic perspective on life.  Never pie in the sky.  Never missed the mark.  And, she was respected and feared because of it.

So this leaves me to wonder what do we live for if we know that our ideals are not always going to be upheld?

We live for those who still have those ideals.  We live for the inspirations and moments in life where we see those ideals win.  My son, like most children, is absolute and idealistic.  I try to live up to his ideals of me as his mother. 

Last Thursday, I picked him up from school.  We did our errands and headed home.  Out of nowhere, he makes one of his famous from-the-gut observations, "Mom, every day is a new you.  I like it!" 

"What do you mean every day is a new me.  I'm the same person aren't I?"  I look in the rearview mirror as he's biting his lip thinking.  "No, mom, every day you do something nice, and it's like a new you!"  I'm skeptical that this is his way of putting a positive "spin" to saying, "Gosh mom, I sure am glad you're not crabby today like yesterday."  But, I take it as a compliment.  It's his "ideal" of his mom.  A new mom who is nice every day.  And, he likes it! 

I realize that even though my perspective is jaded and a bit more "Vivian like" as I grow older, I do still get to live up to my son's ideals.  That is an inspiration in life and a great purpose.  I get to strive to be as good as my son so undauntingly believes I am.  Living up to his idealistic perspective is not only inspiring and encouraging, but meaningful and hopeful.   

Life's inconsistencies, burdens, and injustices pale in comparison to the new goal of living up to our next generations "ideals" of us.  They don't see the realistic side of life yet.  And I think that's a good thing. 

In the car, I ask my son if he got a star today.  He gets a star from his teacher, Mrs. Custard, if he does something extra special and well behaved at school.  These stars are given out judiciously and take a lot of effort.  He is excited about his fifth star that month. 

"Mom, how many days are in October?" 

"Thirty-one." 

"I'm going to get thirty one stars this month!"  he announces from the backseat. 

Knowing that this goal may be a little unrealistic considering he won't actually be in school all those days, I hold back my concern.  Why burst a bubble that is full of so much hope and determination. 

I just give my encouragement.  "That would be great bud."  And I realize that sometimes holding a balloon of hope and ideals is more fun to live for than sticking a pin in it with reality.    

A Star is Born

We have a little star on our hands.  A Kirkwood Star to be exact.  My son is officially a member of the Kirkwood Youth Hockey League.  They wear the star proudly, and we watch as shivering and elated parents with stars in our eyes. 

My son officially began as a "mite" two weeks ago.  It is very exciting, as they are currently in "try outs."  The thirty six and seven year old kids are being judged and placed by their ability level.  The parents watch on the sidelines nervous with anticipation.  Down the length of the ice there are red, white and blue teams, each team scrimmaging across the ice.  The red team is fast and superior.  They have real goalies and jet across the ice effortlessly.  The white team is not quite as good, but better than the blue team.  They don't have goalies.  But they have heart and guts (and small nets.)  The blue team is made up of  beginners. 

Our son falls between the two teams.  Placed in the lowest team first, we watch as he scores four goals and skates circles around his teammates.  They move him up to the white team.  We try not to yell out loud for fear that the blue team parents will give us the evil eye.  We try to inconspicuously move over to the white team bleachers.  The next practice, he is back on the blue team.  We are confused, but resume our space in the last bleachers.  He takes his turn on the ice and the coaches quickly check their clipboards.  They move him up again.  We breathe a sigh of relief.  Oh, good.  He hasn't gotten worse.  I feel like this is college tryouts...  

Since last practice, we have given him our most constructive advice.  No diving for the puck.  Skate fast.  And no pitching hay.

Pitching hay is our new term for Tyler's bad habit of standing upright and holding his stick parallel to the ice up in the air across his body.  He does this to look cool.  He glides toward the puck and waits for it to come to him.  He has one hand on each end of the stick, and the end that should be in contact with the puck is parallel with his waist.  "There are no pucks in the air," we remind him.  Then we show him the movement of "pitching hay"... very similar to the movement he is making on the ice.  Yes, he looks cool.  But, he is not making contact with the puck.  He has to bend down, put his stick on the ice and go after the puck.  He has to earn his star status. 

It's the same in life.  We have to earn our stars.  There is no gliding.  Nothing comes to us that isn't earned.  Diving in the way of the puck never works.  And scoring is hard work. 

This early in his career, they say it's all about how much "ice time" he has.  It's about the basics and how well he skates.  I notice that more than half the drills involve skating hard, falling down, and getting back up as fast as possible.  After the basics of skating are mastered, the rest of the game comes more naturally.  It's his competitive drive that makes him fake out his opponents with clever stick-handling and score.  But, skating is work and requires d discipline.  Talent takes over after the discipline is established. 

I notice this in life as well.  Once we have our "feet under us," and the discipline necessary to succeed in our "sport," our talent can flourish.  But, the fun stuff - the flair - never comes without putting in the long hours of practice and drills.  Skating in hockey is like dedication to a purpose in life.  The dedication and discipline it takes to fulfill a purpose may be behind the scenes.  But the final product will end up starring.  Talent will prevail if discipline holds it up!

Catching Life's Moments - Big and Small

Out of forty two thousand fans in the Cardinals Stadium on Labor Day, my son was one of the more excited ones.  He had his glove (which he almost forgot in the car) his Cardinals cap and jersey, and a great seat almost behind home plate in section 148.  We were ready to go!  The older ladies next to us joke with my six year old.  "Will you protect us from the foul balls?" they ask Tyler.  He nods assuredly.  I looked down the row.  All women.  He had a big job. 

Every time a player came up to the plate, Tyler would punch his fist into his glove and focus intently on the pitch.  "Foul tip."  "Strike."  "Ball," he would color commentate through every play.  In the third inning, rookie Allen Craig came up to bat.  We all watched - my husband, my sister, and my son.  We had to.  We had already seen several foul balls ricochet through the stands.  One bounced off the box and into the seats to the right of us.  Another one beelined into the crowd behind first base.   Ouch.  That one looked like it hurt...someone. 

Allen Craig, number twenty-one, swung and popped one up...high up... behind home plate.  I looked up and realized that ball was flying high up over our heads and then coming down straight towards us.  My eyes are peeled but I shield my face with my hands.  Tyler stands up, lifts his gloved hand over his head, chin in the air, head up.  I do not have enough hands for shields, so I pray under my breath.  Oh, god, please don't let that thing knock us out.  My husband stands up, protectively, and tries to anticipate where it might go.  The guy behind us leans forward with his hat turned upside down.  We are all poised in various ways to see where this darn ball is going to land.  Every second is like an eternity.  I am holding my breath, hoping no one blacks out.  I wince as it gets closer.  Then I hear a pop. 

It's a clean, round pop, right next to me.  I look over and realize my son just caught the ball.  He looks in his glove surprised.  He is right next to me.  I heard the pop, but didn't actually see him catch the ball.  He shows it to me in his glove.  My husband yells, "He caught the ball!"  The older ladies look over.  "You caught the ball?" They can hardly believe it.  Someone in front of us yells, "Let's see it!" 

What happened next, I couldn't have orchestrated better had I been whispering in God's ear, "Please do this next if you don't mind."  More people turned at the commotion and another person yelled, "Show us the ball!" 

Tyler rose from his chair, still stunned, but slowly letting the revelation of what he had done wash over him.   He raised his hand with the ball in it and proudly showed everyone.  Three rows deep on every side turned, clapped and cheered.  He was a miniature hero, a symbol of what this game was all about. 

It was a dismal game.  One to four Milwaukee was the final.  But, our little section didn't care.  We couldn't stop talking about the six year old kid who fearlessly caught the sky high foul ball.  I asked him, "Were you scared before you caught it?"  He shook his head.  Another lady asked him if he went to many games.  "Only five or six this year," he said.  "Is this the first ball you have caught?"  she asked teasingly.  He was serious.  "Yeah, this is the first one," he replied, "for now." 

Of course, since the game had just begun, my son thought that surely he could catch another one in the next six remaining innings.  He had no concept yet that this was a once in a lifetime opportunity.  He will remember this for the rest of his life. 

And so will I.  I will remember it not so much for the novelty and skill.  My husband can't stop talking about the skill.  "I can't believe he caught it.  That is a professionally hit foul ball.  This kid is something else."  No, I will remember  this moment for the look of pride it put on my son's face.  It wasn't a haughty pride.  But, a shocking pride and a realization that he can do anything he puts his mind to. 

It wasn't the fact that the ball was caught that was memorable to me.  It was the effect that it had on my son that was special.    

It made me realize that life happens in moments.   Some big.  Some small.  Some once-in-a-lifetime.  What threads them all together is what we learn from life's moments and how we use those lessons to better ourselves and the people around us.   The more lessons you learn and lessons you can teach, the more you will have to commemorate, light up, and show off in shadow boxes on your wall.  Shadow boxes like the one that you can bet I'm going to get to show off that ball.  It will be a great story to come.  But, in my heart it will be a great milestone.  And it will remind me of a lot more than just a catch at a game.       

Take Life For a Spin

My son is really getting into the Game of Life...literally, on my computer, he scrolls through the Hasbro game collection until he finds it.  For hours on end, he is consumed with spinning the wheel, collecting houses, wives, children, deeds, mortgages, raises, money, and finally, a debt free retirement. 

The first question would pop up on the screen - "Career or College?"  On the first few games, he always went for the Career... wanting to forge ahead and get on with it in his typical not-a-care-in-the-world flair.  But, then he realized that not going to college didn't get him very good jobs and enough money to win. 

In his first game of life, he was a Mechanic with twin boys and a wife living in a an RV.  Then he became a hairstylist, and accrued 5 children, 3 grandkids, and a small cottage.  Finally, he wizened up and picked college and became a surgeon and veterinarian. 

Another question popped up on the screen - "Play it Safe or Take a Risk?"  Of course, he always picked the latter.  Never the path of least resistance.  After game number 10, he had figured out how to become wealthy, not over extended, and finish ahead.  "Mom, I am awesome at Life!"  I had to laugh.  Yes, if only it were just a spin of the wheel. 

In the real game of life, he was spinning another wheel trying to learn how to ride his newer and much bigger bike.  It's a red flashy Monsoon made for doing tricks.

As we give our two cents on the best way to start pedaling, braking, and stopping, I can't help but laugh at our instructions.  They are universal.  Just like in the Game of Life, a few pointers go a long way. 

Feet in the right place.  Head up.  Don't start on a hill.  And you are going to fall. 

First, my son straddles the bike and starts attempting to take off uphill.  "Tyler, don't go uphill when you're starting out" we coach.  "You're not going to get enough speed to stay on the bike."  "I can do it guys" he retorts.  He calls us "guys" like we are his buddies.  It's a generic term, but we've come to appreciate the humor every time he addresses us like his friends on the playground.  "Hey guys, do you want to go swing on the monkey bars?" 

Next, I tell him that if he going to fall, head for the grass, so it breaks the fall.  He looks me square in the eye and emphatically states, "Mom, I am not going to fall."   "Okay, bud, but if you do, head for softer ground." 

Finally my husband tells him where to place his feet on the pedals so that he gets the best rotation to take off smoothly.    

I notice he follows our advice.  Feet in the right place, start on level ground, and keep your head up.  And, darn it, if he doesn't fall, as he breezes past me going way too fast for a beginner and grinning ear to ear.  "Look mom, I'm doing it!" he yells proudly. 

I guess the saying, "It's like riding a bike," is true.  So much of life is about the basics.  But, when we confuse ourselves with our second guessing and doubts and worry, we end up in the wrong place.  My son had no second guessing.  He mounted that Monsoon and took off flying, happy as a lark. 

If you have a good foundation with your feet in the right place and your head up, your gut will tell you what to do next.  It's those moments where we know we are doing what we are meant to do that we need to hold onto.  We have to live like we're not going to fall and be prepared for when we do.  In life, the falls are inevitable.  It's what we do after them and how we learn from them that creates a legacy.  It turns out life is not a game.  It's not just a spin of a wheel and pure luck.  It is a legacy that we get to create and impart to our family and friends. 

A Life Worth Living

School starts soon.  I am elated.  He is ecstatic.  Together, we can't wait to start this new chapter of my young son's life - first grade.  While I'm sure our motives are different, we are both equally enthusiatic about finding the perfect bookbag for Mrs. Custard's class.   While on our quest, we stroll through Kohls, looking through the toy section and clothes aisle.  My son spots the bags first.  "Mom over here!"  He runs to a row of bookbags and is overcome with emotion at the large selection of every cartoon character on the Nickelodeon channel.  He cannot decide between Phineas and Ferb and Super Mario.  We settle on Super Mario.... and he trots off excited about his new find.  "Mom, this is the best bookbag ever!"

Lately my son is commenting on everything.  Every emotion, thought, and wonder is expressed out loud and waits a response.  We look through picture frames, and he is pointing out all the words he can read.  I wander off to another row, and he comes over to me with a picture frame.  "Mom.  Look.  This would be good for dad.  "The picture frame has a caption on the bottom: "Dad's little hero."  "Yes, it would son."  Encouraged, he hops over to another aisle.  "Mom, look.  This is a nice one.  You should get this."  The frame reads, "Little Angel."  "Hmmm" is my only response.  I am not paying too much attention looking over my own selections.  He disappears and reappears for a third time.  "Mom."  I'm calulating discounts and don't look up.  Tyler is unfazed.  "Mom, look at this one."  "This is what life is all about," he says dramatically.  I look up.  He is standing there grinning ear to ear in that knowing look.  The frame says simply, "Love."  I'm speechlesss again.  This little boy makes me speechless more times than I can count.  "Yes, Tyler, you're right.  That is what life is all about.  How did you know that?"  "Because, love makes people happy."  He is unbelievable.  I've always contended the kid is a walking commercial.  But, he may be a walking prophet as well. 

The night before at dinner, we taught Tyler different words for love, like the difference between romance and affection.  We said romance is something that happens between two people who love each other but are not your sister or mother.  Affection is what you have for the people you are related to.  These basics had to covered, as he was getting them mixed up.  We asked him if he understood the difference.  He nodded assuredly and used his new vocabulary in a sentence to confirm his comprehension.  "Mom and I have are having moments of infection!"  Close enough. 

I realize that my son has more basics covered about life than a lot of adults.  He knows that life is all about love and everything worth living for in life revolves around love.  This is why he lives life to the fullest - because he loves to the fullest. 

Maybe this is why God said to us adults to come to him like children.  Because children know how to love.  They know how to express themselves and live life to the fullest.  They know how to live in love.  They know what life is all about.  While he may need a lesson on the different definitions and variations of love, in his world, there is only one kind of love - the love that makes life worth living. 

 

Midnight Conversations with God

Have you ever had your child preach to you?  And they made more sense to you than any preacher ever had?  My son spent the better part of twenty minutes after Sunday night dinner answering a lot of questions I had about life.  In his mind, the meaning of life is simple.  It is all about making God happy with the things we do in life.  He says that, “I wake up in the middle of the night and talk to God.  My eyes are open.”  “My heart and my soul are happy when they are talking to God.”  These are the words coming out of his mouth, while I listen with my mouth hanging wide open. 

The conversation starts with a common question that I pose to him frequently, “What am I going to do when you get all grown up?”  I figure he is going to shrug and answer, “I don’t know” just like he usually does and any kid would.  They think in the moment and don’t waste time on reflecting on the past.  Or so I thought. 

But, instead he answers without hesitation, “Mom, I will always be littler than you.”  I correct him.  “No, Tyler, one day, you will probably be taller than mommy.”  “No mom, that is not true,” he counters.  “I will always be your son.  I will always be littler.”   

I still think he is confused and continue my argument by reciting the facts that genetics are on his side.  He is most likely going to be at least 6 feet tall.  That is 5 inches taller than his mother.  “Tyler, one day, you will be all grown up and will look down to mommy.”  “No, mom, you will always be my mom, and I will always be littler than you.”  Then I realize that I am not having a literal, black and white conversation with my six-year old son.  We are speaking figuratively.  And, figuratively, he will always be littler than me.   In his mind, he wasn’t thinking about statistics of height.  He was thinking about my role in his life… that being my son was never going to change and that he was always going to look up to me. 

I stopped arguing and hung on his every word.  With each new point, he would pound his right fist on the marble dinner table. The fist pound was extra loud, because of his newly casted hand and forearm. (He broke his arm rough housing with his young uncle by being catapulted in the air and trying to land like a cat… only to land like a human and crack his human bone connected to his human wrist.  Another story for another time.)  “Even when I am all grown up and big, I will still be your son mom!”  Fist pound.  “Even when you are old and I have to take care of you, I will still be littler than you mom!”  Fist pound.  “Even when you die, your soul will be alive in my heart.”  Fist pound.  “Your soul will never die mom.  You will always be alive to me.”  I have to wonder what kind of conversations he is having in the middle of the night?? 

I interject, “How did you learn all this Tyler?  Who told you all of this?”  Surely he has heard this from someone.  “God told me!” he states presumptuously.  Of course I am supposed to know that he speaks to God on a regular basis.  He moves to a new subject with his didactic speech.  “God speaks to my heart mom.  This is what makes the heart and soul happy mom.  Helping people.  Just like you are doing with that girl at work.”  “What girl Tyler?”  He recalls the name, “You know, Ricky’s mom.”  He remembers when we were collecting unused toys around the house for Ricky, a boy his age who didn’t have as much as him.    

So my son deduced an absolute truth that many adults have yet to grasp about what makes the soul happy.  He shocked me with his comprehension on how we will always be connected as mother and child and he morphed that into a greater good… that we can become even happier by helping others. 

“Mom, you have learned a valuable lesson today,” he states matter-of-factly as he gets up from the dinner table.  He is abruptly finished with his speech.  He has laid out exactly what he thinks about life and death, and he is scared of neither.  In fact, for him, he thinks he has the inside track.  He listens to his heart and knows how to make his heart and thus, God, happy. 

Later that night, he comes up to me again while I am doing dishes.  “Mom, you should tell everyone what I taught you in that thing you do.”  “What ‘thing I do’?” I ask.  “That thing!” he repeats emphatically, like I should know by now how to read his mind.  He remembers the word he was looking for.  “That ‘blog’.”  “Okay, bud, I will,” I tell him.  Because we are connected and I want him to read this when he gets all grown up.

One Woman's Vision

I’ve met the most courageous, gracious woman who is a mother, a survivor, and a hero.  Five years ago, late in her pregnancy, she lost her sight to a rare disease called uveitis, an inflammation in the eye tissue.   She had to choose between medication that might treat the severe inflammation and her unborn child.  She chose the latter.  Today, while she has lost her physical eyes to this disease, she has gained a spiritual insight that knows no limits.  She lives for her son and struggles to carve out a better life for them both. 

She talks about her past and her journey.  She ran away from home at 16, lived on the streets, sold her body for drugs, and became an addict.  She tried to turn her life around, finished high school, started community college and got a fast food job.  Then her life suddenly changed.  She lost her eyesight when blood vessels burst in her eyes late in her pregnancy.  She states matter-of-factly, “Everyone has a journey.  This is mine.”  She looks at the bright side, counting her blessings, “If I would have never lost my sight, I would still be working at McDonald’s.”   After her loss of vision, she earned her GED.   She started a street ministry handing out sandwiches to the city’s homeless.  She won awards as a case worker helping people with disabilities find rewarding jobs.  Today, she is writing a book about her experiences.   She raises a five year old child, Ricky, who adores her and acts as her “eyes” in this world. 

Though her eyes are prosthetic and can be easily removed, as she showed me, I find that she does not need these organs to be the windows to her soul.  Her soul is wide open for all to see, through her smile, her speech, the tilt of her head.  She is a treasure to talk to and an inspiration to listen to as she uses her gift of communication to touch the deepest parts of one’s heart. 

At work, she hangs up a picture of her son, a son she has never physically seen.  As I look at the picture, I see that he looks a lot like my own son and l feel honored to share the same motherly love with this amazing woman.  I cannot imagine the daily struggles she has to overcome.  I watch her fight to stay positive, upbeat, and always moving forward. 

My troubles fit in a thimble compared to what my new friend faces daily.  But, her soul shines like a candle in a dark room.  The flood of problems that would normally drown someone in grief and self pity only makes her stronger against the current and triumphant in the end.

She wins in the end.  Yes, she has many difficulties to overcome.  But, she has what so many of us do not.  She has found her true self.  She has found her strengths, talents, and soul.  She has been driven to the end of herself and knows what it is to be lifted up from disaster and hopelessness.  She has hope and desire and passion for something bigger than herself.  Though she cannot see, she has more foresight than so many of us.  She has a vision more important than her physical vision, a vision of the soul. 

She is creating a new life for herself and her son.  She is singlehandedly breaking the generational cycle of addiction and abuse that she was subjected to as a child.  She is teaching her son the true meaning of love through her powerful example.  She is teaching a great lesson to everyone she comes in contact with – a hero is someone who sees beyond reality into the impossible and makes it possible.  In reality, she is the farthest thing from blind.  She sees the world and people for who they really are – people who need a chance and need to be loved. 

Riding Into Bushes

Every year, my extended family goes on a well deserved summer vacation.  They rent a house called the “Lighthouse,” tow a trailer stocked with bikes, beach chairs and umbrellas,  and high tail it to Santa Rosa Beach for a solid week of family fun.  It’s like the Griswalds only without the station wagon.  (We’ve upgraded.) 

After thirteen plus hours in the car, they spill out like bugs, claim their beds, and organize the first bike ride of the vacation.  Each event is a group event, equipped with plans, directions, and our mixed drink of choice.    

This year, my son and I shared a slice of this adventurous undertaking. 

We were fully entrenched in the whirlpool that is my family’s vacation.  It swirls and dips and sucks you in like none other.  I sometimes feel sorry for those that have married into the madness.  J 

Going on vacation with my large family is a lot like going in the deep end at the Raging Rivers wave pool.  You know there is a giant machine manufacturing the waves with the suction force of a plane engine; you just can’t locate its exact location.  So, you give up, have fun bobbing up and down like fishing lure and concentrate on keeping your head above water.      

The first thing my son mastered was riding a bike without brakes.  This could be another applicable analogy for going on vacation with the relatives.  It’s akin to riding a bike without brakes.  All go.  No stop.  Don’t look down. 

This was not actually his bike.  It was a little big for him.  But, he was intent on riding around the quiet neighborhood.  “Mom, just hold the bike,” he directed me while he climbed onto the seat and reached for the pedals.  “Okay mom… now just hold on while I start pedaling.”  So I trotted awkwardly with him for a few paces while he found his bike legs.  “Okay, let go mom.”  And released I did… “Be careful!”  No response.  He was already out of earshot or choosing to ignore me.  Either way, I was nervous on two fronts:

A.      He didn’t have brakes.

B.      He wasn’t looking out for cars.

“Watch out for cars” I yelled in vain.  He was racing down the street going faster than the 12 MPH posted speed limit.  I watch helpless as he jets, head down, around the bend.    

More relatives emerge from around the corner.  They are jogging their first lap around the neighborhood.  Exercising is much more exciting in a breezy, beachy setting.  Midstride and nonchalantly, my sister yells to me… “Tyler is riding into bushes to stop.“  She finds this humorous and stops to elaborate, “He finds a bush and rides right into it to break his fall.” 

Great.  We are going to be asked to leave… probably by the same people who posted the pretentious   12 MPH speed limit.  The neighborhood bylaws outlaw bush mangling I am sure.  These neighbors are not going to be happy. 

Tyler rounds the corner and I witness his technique first hand.  “Hi mom!” he yells like this is perfectly normal and crash, there goes the bush.  He brushes himself off and strolls the bike over to me, very proud of himself. 

He has mastered a bike that is meant for someone twice his age because he is fearless.  He needs a little help getting started and a bush to break his fall, but besides that, he enjoys the ride for all its worth.  “Mom, look at me!” he yells as he glides down the middle of the street, pedaling away. 

I am fascinated by his tenacious drive to succeed.  And I want to bottle it. 

He set a goal to ride that bike.  He found help, got up, and overcame the weaknesses.  Each step along the way, he could have let fear take over and ruin his bike ride.  But, he didn’t.  He believed in his ability and resolve too much.  Lack of brakes – a minor detail – didn’t deter him. 

But for so many of us, we lose before we even begin.  We could take a few pointers from a fearless six year old.  Don’t be afraid to ask for help.  Don’t be afraid to try something that looks too big to master.  Don’t be afraid to fall down.

My son wasn’t concerned about stopping or falling down.  He was enjoying the ride.  He got faster and more confident with each bike ride.  Pretty soon, I just had to the hold the bike upright while he climbed up and sailed out of my hands.  “Thanks mom!” he shouted.  “No problem bud” I yelled after him.  “Watch out for the rose bushes!”