My Son the Man

        Another school year is well underway, and this year feels different. Weighty, momentous. I started my third year back in the classroom. Wayne, his 22nd. Ry is in 4th grade. Addie is in 6th. And Caedmon—always our marker of life’s milestones as our eldest—started high school as a Freshman. How is this possible? I was just peeling him off my legs at nursery drop-off the other day. 

        He is now a head taller than I am. His shoes—these giant boats—are a perpetual tripping hazard by the door. And he’s no longer allowed to play slug-bug with his siblings in the car; there were too many tears. But when I look at him, I still see his little sideways toddler smile, and his fluffy hair that defied gravity and bounced when he ran. I still hear his wobbly speech when he finally started talking at three… “ah-jigga!” “ahvvaaahh!” “a-mama, a-mama,” “whatchooDOOning?” I see his little-boy earnestness, his frowns of concentration when building his train tracks and LEGO towers. In my mind’s eye, his toddler-self is a constant shadow, even as I watch my 14-year-old man-child hulking down the stairs in the morning, his groggy “good morning” five octaves lower than mine.

        And Sharon Olds’s poem, “My Son the Man,” now hits my heart with a new force.

Suddenly his shoulders get a lot wider,

the way Houdini would expand his body

while people were putting him in chains. It seems

no time since I would help him to put on his sleeper,

guide his calves into the gold interior, 

zip him up and toss him up and

catch his weight.  

    

        It truly seems like no time since those little years…

        It’s sweet to hear Wayne talk about having Caedmon on campus with us, driving him to school, anticipating the concentrated time he’ll have with Caedmon, and Wayne's desire to be intentional with this opportunity, to pray with Caedmon in the mornings and just be around Caedmon on the day-to-day, every day, as he grows up… In these next four years, our son will become a man. Right before our eyes.

I cannot imagine him 

no longer a child, and I know I must get ready,

get over my fear of men now my son

is going to be one…

    

        But at the same time, as these summer days grow shorter and a few trees in our neighborhood are already starting to drop their leaves, we’re learning to hold this rosy future loosely.

        In the wake of a devastating diagnosis for some close family friends, we grieve with them, our friend who will NOT be able to watch his own sons grow up. And we recognize how uncertain, how fragile and temporal our lives are this side of Heaven. Our best-laid plans and most treasured dreams and desires—for us and our children—are not ours. One day, maybe in a snap, they could be gone. 

        The poem ends with hinting at Houdini’s impending disappearance, a surrender and acknowledgment of the natural yet heartrending course of our babies growing up and wrenching out of our arms. It’s a reminder of the not-ours-ness of our kids, and in essence, every other part of our lives… 

  

Now he looks at me

the way Houdini studied a box

to learn the way out, then smiled and let himself be manacled.

    

        As our friends grapple with their grief, I’m astounded by their peace. In their own surrender and acknowledgment of this natural yet bitter turn of life, they are grounded in knowing that our God gives and takes away… not out of spite or sport, but out of his goodness and love. In one word, were I to describe this family struck by this sudden suffering, incredibly, it would be grateful. In the face of actual loss and real physical pain, they recognize the blessings of what has been. The big: 18 years of marriage; 5 beautiful, spirited children; a life lived not for themselves but the privilege of serving God and others. And the small: the countless visits to their favorite theme parks, tiny beings jumping in their beds (even now at the hospital), the little hands slipped into theirs or that grab onto their shirttails as they walk down the street. They perceive the uncertainty of what will be, but even more so, they recognize the grace given to them for each additional day they have together, as they continue to live the now and hope in an eternal future.

    

    And so I hold onto this tension as we charge into the school year—excitement for our growing children and heartache over their waning childhoods; sorrow for our friends, yet learning from them a posture of both grief and gratitude. I’m buoyant as my arms wrap around my son’s broadening shoulders, yet I’m very much tethered to the ground. And we eagerly, though a bit trepidly, lean into what’s to come. Even as it leads to a sort of ends in maybe many ways celebratory and tragic. 

    

    But it is the natural course of life. And I thank God that we are in his grasp. How fortunate and blessed we are to be here now, humbly, learning to anticipate the future loosely, with gratitude and surrender.