Saturday morning, Sean’s soccer team played against the German Nationals and it was no surprise that they were thoroughly trounced. Those German’s are good at soccer and not nearly as tall as you might think.  The score was something like 782 to 0, but our guys took no notice thusly living out the principal that it’s not whether you win or lose, as long as there are snacks.

There’s no sorrow that a Moon Pie can’t sooth.

In spite of the loss, Saturday afternoon turned out to be fabulously beautiful, sunny and mild, so after the game Sean and AD took off on foot around the neighborhood looking for someone to come out and play.  They rang four or five doorbells but everyone was busy or gone, so they returned home in the second defeat of the day.

Not wanting to miss the glory of the day, we drove to a nearby park that has a big playground and a trail that runs alongside a nature preserve and a creek.  We walked the trail together, the three of us, pretending to be explorers. We hopped back and forth across the creek and in and out and through the brush, stopping occasionally to dig treasures out of the mud.  In Sean’s world this kind of outing trumps Six Flags and Disney World all rolled into one.

As we walked back to the car in the glow of a fading sun, I watched Sean gallop ahead of us.  He had a short rope that he had found that he was swinging over his head like a lariat.  He was singing some church song off key in little boy falsetto. Yellow leaves rained down around us and the warm November air smelled sweet of damp earth and decaying leaves.  And it seemed in that moment, that we were complete, that we lacked absolutely nothing.

As older parents of an only child, sometimes we are hyper-sensitive to the fact that Sean’s primary playmates are us, two middle-aged goofballs who adore him.  And that seems a little sad.  Sometimes we feel sort of sorry for him that he doesn’t have built-in playmates in siblings or that he can’t open his front door to find a mob of kids to play with as we did when we were growing up.  These days, it seems that everyone is at lessons.

But the fact of the matter is, the sense of loss is felt only by us. For Sean, in this season of his life, he would rather be with us, such that we are, than with anyone else in the whole world. And there is nothing in that to count as loss.

In his famous poem Ode to Immortality, Wordsworth wrote that our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting.

I’ve always loved that imagery. I love the idea that at one time, in some unknown form, we dwelled with God, that we communed intimately with him, knew every line in his face, the softness of his hands, the sound of his voice, the warmth of his embrace.

And then we were born.

No wonder we come into this world wailing.

As we are awakening to a new world, we are dying to another.  Every minute of life carries us further away from whence we came; the older we get, the less we remember of it.

Last Sunday evening during Children’s Bible Hour, the children were asked to draw a picture of God.  Sean immediately got to work. There was no question in his mind what God looked like.

The teacher called him to the front of the class and asked him to talk about his picture.  He held it up and told an audience of 30 or so children with confidence that he thinks God is a happy face in the sky with a beard and some swirly lines.

The teacher nodded and said with a sigh that he was sure there was a message behind his picture. Sean shook his head. “There’s no message behind the picture,” he said and then he showed the teacher the back of his paper.  Blank.  No message.

The next day, as we were eating breakfast, I saw the drawing at the end of the breakfast bar. I picked it up and looked at it again.  I asked Sean to tell me more about it.  “Well,” he said pointing his fork, “The smiley face with the beard represents God and the swirly lines are a gust of wind.”

I was intrigued by the idea of God as a gust of wind.

As I looked at the picture, I thought of how many times God has drawn near to his people in the form of wind – sometimes in a violent gust like in Acts 2:2 and other times as gentle as a whisper as in 1 Kings 19:12.

I thought of how the Greek word pneuma is used to mean both wind and spirit and how the Hebrew word ruah is used to convey both wind and spirit but also breath – the very essence of life.

And then I thought that maybe he has not yet travelled so very far from whence he came.

And I wanted to stand just a little bit closer to him.

* * *

More esoterical musings on the nature of God from my She Speaks peeps over here.

The other afternoon Sean and I went out for a walk. It was a glorious Indian summer day, warm and peaceful and perfect in every way.

He spied the very last of the ripened dandelions and plucked it out of the ground.  “Okay Mom,” he said, “Be quiet.”

I stood quietly and respectfully off to the side while he stood as still as a totem pole, eyes closed and holding up the dandelion to his lips.  Then he whispered, “I wish Vivian could come see me every year!”

He inhaled deeply with a squeak and then blew with all his might, scattering his wish to the wind. He blew and blew and blew until there was nothing left but a bald stem.

As we continued our walk towards home, I told him I thought that was a nice wish.  I told him I thought it was much better to wish for people than for stuff.

He nodded in agreement.  Then he said, “You know a prayer is kind of like a wish you share with God.”

All I could do was nod in agreement.

So then, Sean’s homework assignment for today included, you guessed it, tally marks.

Today his mission was to count the knives, forks and spoons in the silverware drawer and tally them up.  Since most of our everyday silverware was either in the sink or the dishwasher, we went to the formal dining room and pulled open the top draw of the china hutch, where we keep the good stuff.

I pulled back the flannel cloth, grabbed all the forks and then laid them in a jumble on a placemat for him to sort.  He carefully laid four forks side by side like soldiers, laid the fifth one across the four and then put the rest in another group.

I was relieved to see that he had conceded to the universe and decided to go along with the five-mark tally system, not because it will make his life easier, but because my new goal in life is to never give another persuasive speech on the merits of the five-mark tally system.

After he recorded his findings on his little clipboard, he tucked his pencil behind his ear and then rolled up all the forks in the placemat.  As he handed the roll of forks to me to put back into the drawer, he exclaimed, “May the forks be with you!”

“Get it?” he said, “May the FORKS be with you? FORKS?!”

And then he threw his head back and laughed hysterically at his own joke.

My heart was flooded with joy, at the way he makes me laugh, at the way his eyes make the shape of a rainbow when he laughs, at how I  couldn’t think of one thing that could make my life one drop sweeter.

My little boy drew this and it makes me happy to look at it.   It’s a bear. In case you were wondering.

AD and I are both creative types, so it is not so surprising that Sean is creatively bent as well.  AD is creative in a money-making, problem-solving, making-the-world-more-functional kind of way.  Whereas I don’t know how to do any of that; I just seem to need to swim upstream.

Having been upstream a time or two, I know that insisting upon doing everything your own creative way can make life harder than it has to be.  And I don’t want that for Sean.  I want him to understand that sometimes, in certain matters, it’s better to just go along — even if you do know of a prettier way to do things.

Recently, I wrote about how I tried to teach Sean how to make tally marks and how I was met with some resistance.  The resistance wasn’t willful disobedience; it was just that he knew deep down in his heart that his way was better.

The next day, we had another tally mark homework assignment, and again, he wanted to make tally marks in his own way, in groups of six.

And once again I tried to explain to him that where we are located in the time and space continuum it is universally accepted that tally marks are made in groups of five; four vertical lines with one diagonal line cutting cross the group of four.

On another planet, I told him, it could work differently, but here on Earth, someone, somewhere, long, long ago, maybe even God, decided that this is how tally marks should be made.  Enough people agreed and thus it became a convention, meaning that’s just how we do it.

I could tell from his glazed over expression that my dissertation on tally mark norms and conventions had fatigued his spirit.  And that as a creative person he did not much esteem norms and conventions.

He twisted his mouth and looked up to the left, as though he was giving the matter thoughtful consideration. He tapped his pencil on the counter.  Then he shook his head.  I had failed to persuade him.  No, he said, he was going to go with groups of six.  He said that six was a nicer number than five.

I told him that would be fine, but that IT WAS WRONG! And then I pulled all my hair out in one clump.

No not really.

I smiled and gave no indication I cared one whit. I just told him that he probably wouldn’t find that many people who would be willing to change over to his system.

“That’s okay,” he said, “I like it better this way.”

Whatever dude. Jump in and swim upstream.

Sometimes in life, you need to be creative and other times you just need to follow the rules.  And the wisdom is in knowing the difference.

How to teach that? I have no idea.  Maybe he’ll figure it out on his journey upstream.

Something changes when I flip the calendar from August to September.

Even though it is still hot, and will be for many more weeks, even though it is still light out until well after dinner, and will be for many more weeks,  something changes.  Turning that page makes everything feel just a little bit different.

September 1st means that summer is over and another season has been put away to the ages.  Expectations change,  even if the weather and wardrobes do not.

When I took note that today was the first day of September, I wanted to record it in some way, so Sean and I took off on foot with the camera to smell September air and see September sights.  As we walked along our usual route, Sean pointed out things that he thought belonged to the new season, things that should be photographed for the record.

“You have a very good eye,” I told him as I snapped the pictures he pointed out.

“I know — and I think it’s this one,” he said looking up at me and and pointing to one squinching and fluttering eye.

I laughed and I loved how that sound felt in my ears.

Copper hair, sweaty and sticking straight up, dirty hands and face, eyes the color of the deep blue sea, the way he makes me laugh.

These are the things that belong to this first day of September.

As of late, Sean has been trying to convince me that he is over being a baby, that being a baby is so yesterday, that he has moved on, that he has joined the ranks of the big boys.

But like a politician, his actions don’t always line up with his words.

The other day as we were leaving the house for a play date, he ran back to his bedroom and grabbed Mr. Monkey to take with him in the car. As we are walking towards the garage, I notice his grimy little boy fingers, set to automatic, busily working and petting Mr. Monkey’s muzzle.  Mr. Monkey used to have a nose and a mouth. But they have long since been loved off.

His fingers are long and delicate and even pretty.  I remember how I marveled at them, the first time I saw them, how fragile and breakable they felt in my hand, how they moved as though powered by batteries. I was fascinated by his fingernails, miniature and as fine as tissue paper.  The thought of trimming those itty bitty fingernails terrified me.

I still marvel at those fingers although now they are scraped up and have a good amount of dirt under the nails which need to be trimmed.  Even so, they are still long and delicate, and even pretty.

As we walked towards the car, I watched him out of the corner of my eye, his fingers methodically twitching over Mr. Monkey’s muzzle. I wondered if he was feeling anxious about the play date.  Then he turned to me and said, “Mom, I don’t care for cartoons anymore. Those are for babies. I prefer real shows with real people, like The Food Network and Survivor Man.”

“Oh really?” I said more than asked.

I was struck by the composition, the stark contrast between the boy clutching Mr. Monkey and the same boy telling me he has moved beyond childish cartoons.

He is conflicted.  He is a boy wobbling and balancing on a high wire between two worlds.  On one side of the wire is a soft and sweet and safe place, where all the anxiety and ills of life can be soothed by a fraying and well loved monkey. On the other side is a not safe and not soft world that calls to him to come taste new and exciting things.  And he is conflicted. He wants to live in both worlds.

I’m conflicted. I want him to live in both worlds.  And daily we swing wildly between the two.

As we settled into our seats at church on Sunday morning, Sean opened his fist and proudly showed me a tiny blue guy wearing a parachute.

“Dude, that is awesome!” I said. “Where did you get that?”

He told me that he got it in Sunday school, that it was a reward for reciting his Bible verse with no help.  I told him I was proud and impressed and that I looked forward to playing with it WHEN WE GET HOME.

I had a nightmarish vision of him throwing parachute guy into the air and it landing several rows ahead into someone’s lap.  Or worse, it lands in the hands of another child who throws it again.  And it becomes like a beach ball at a rock concert.

We attend one of those churches where every Sunday they serve communion by passing little trays of crackers, followed by little thimbles of grape juice.  In this past year, Sean has decided that he is a big boy and as such he should like to pass the communion and offering trays ALL BY HIMSELF — which is fine when he is sitting between his parents, but a bit more nerve racking when the next person is a further down pew.

I mostly hover and flinch as he takes the tray of grape juice and this makes him bristle, my hovering and flinching.  But I will say this, he’s gotten better at walking slowly and holding the trays evenly and gently offering it to the next person.  The first few times, instead of handing off the tray carefully,  he thrust it at them with a bit of enthusiasm which caused me to involuntarily shout “Help me Jesus!”

To be honest, the passing of the grape juice always puts me on edge no matter who is doing it.  It’s just such a precarious proposition.  The likelihood of one of those trays getting dumped seems pretty high to me.  Yet in all of the Sunday’s I’ve sat in a church that takes communion in this manner, I think it’s only happened once or twice, and then on the other side of the assembly. I had nothing to do with it and that in and of itself is amazing given my propensity for this kind of thing.

So then, you’ve got the high likelihood that 30 or so little cups of grape juice could get dumped on someone’s Sunday clothes at any moment and then you add to that a five-year-old who wants to help.  And that gives me a bit of anxiety.  They should pass around a little Xanex along with the communion for the uptight believers like me.

That’s my dissertation on the perils of communion which has nothing to do with anything thus far or hereafter.

So I’m sitting on the end of the pew and the usher hands me a fresh tray of grape juice. I’m holding the tray with one hand and choosing a thimble-sized cup with the other hand. And just as I lift the tiny cup to my mouth and throw my head back, out of the corner of my eye I see blue parachute guy buzz the tray.  Blue parachute guy does a military-style flyover over the grape juice, complete with sonic boom sound effects.  The tray vibrates and wobbles.  The juice sloshes from side to side. My heart comes to a complete stop.  But by the grace of God who loves that boy and saved him from imminent parental-inflicted harm, nothing spilled. Not a drop. A miracle.

“Parachute guy wants communion too!” he whispered at me with bright-eyed glee.

I turn to see AD give Sean “the look” — the same one that God used in the Old Testament to set various things on fire.

AD nabs parachute guy and removes him from the fellowship of all believers. Parachute guy is disfellowshipped (which as it turns out is not really a word).  Excommunicated.  Cast into the deep dark depths of purgatory to await mercy and redemption.

I passed the tray over Sean’s head, which was now hanging chin to chest in sorrowful repentance.

The rest of the service passed without further incident.

Because we are a family who has received grace freely, we extend grace freely and absolved parachute guy as soon as we got home.

But he will not be welcomed back into the fellowship of all believers any time soon.

There are some questions for which I have no answers.  And with a 5-year-old about the house, the list of those unanswerable questions grows daily.

We don’t have a house full of fancy furniture, but AD and I go to a lot of trouble to teach Sean to respect what we have so that it might become ingrained in his being to respect the property of others as well as public property.  We think this is important and wish deeply that everyone held the same view.

Since the sippy cup era, we’ve repeatedly asked Sean not to set his drink down on the wooden coffee tables because “water and wood don’t mix”.  Likewise, if there is a spill on the hardwood floors, we tell him to see to it quickly because “water and wood don’t mix.”  When liquid sits on wood, bad things happen.

This morning, Sean got up early to ride his bike. When he came in all red-faced and glistening from the morning sun, he said he thought some lemonade would be “refreshant!” I told him I thought that lemonade was great idea and that he should make some.

I got out the pitcher, the lemonade mix and a wooden spoon.  I gave him some direction and then tried to not take over.

He did a great job.  He could be destined to own a lemonade stand.  Or at least to make lemonade when life hands him Country Time Lemonade mix.

After he stirred up the lemonade, he pulled the wooden spoon out of the pitcher, licked it and then held it up.

“Mom,” he said thoughtfully, “I thought water and wood don’t mix.”

I didn’t quite know where he was going with this, so I looked at him and raised my eyebrows hoping for more information.

“Then why are there wooden spoons?” he asked pointing the spoon at me.

That’s a good question, I told him. A very good question.

“I don’t know the answer to that one,” I confessed, “but I like the way you think.”