Kids & Parenting

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Saturday, December 19, 2009

NO SOUND
I was not ready. I had been told that when it happens, one is fully prepared for it. But I wasn't ready.

Sometimes, I awaken to the memory of sound---of chopsticks or something more innovative being practiced upstairs, the rushed excitement of early morning ice time, the sound of a one hour shower, the pounding drums vibrating the kitchen ceiling, or the smell of Belgian waffles; all the myriad pieces of another life coloring the texture of this home.

And, it's not that now. Really. It isn't a home. It's just the shell of a decrepit building; rotting wood, aged roof, mold, mouse infested insulation, massive amounts of fur and...stuff. The stuff that one collects over years of raising them. The stuff revealing the lack of time to discard. The stuff that seemed so important at the time, that really, in retrospect, means nothing at all without the life of another human sharing it.

Yes. We do continue. We breathe in and out. We eat, sleep, wake, work, putter...all hollow endeavors now because that purpose, what God truly meant for us, is gone. And, make no mistake, it is what we were created for. Training up children in His way...what is more purpose filled?

I would not say that a moment of those giggle years; those skate and fall and crash into others on the ice years, those fingers on the right keys years, those voice as sweet as an angel years, those cuddle on the couch with "Lucky Chuck" or "Wombat Stew" years, those "Mommy, I love you" years, were wasted. The smiles, the tears, the necessary discipline, the hugs and kisses--I relished those as he grew into the young man God intended.

At the time I participated fully. I was not a watcher but an energetic and willing enjoyer. I kicked soccer balls until my toe ached, threw baseballs, broke fingers in goal, tackled, tickled and laughed. I sang seven songs each night, read his favorite books and prayed. I told stories, wrote books, comforted and wrestled. I skated and roller-bladed in every arena in the North Country. I listened to sports tales, created art work and cross-country skied. I held his little (big) hand as he went into ear surgery and as he had those tubes removed. I wandered in the woods, played GI Joe, Legos and Robin Hood with super soakers. I acted out Bible stories, explained, prayed and listened patiently to the newness of his reading skills as he read his favorite; the Good Samaritan.

All of it, every moment was treasured. I remembered to remember as I tucked them away in the overfull scrapbook in my mind. As busy and involved and yes, sometimes overwhelmed as I was...I would not remove a single drop from the fullness of that bucket.

As I awaken again to the silence...I hold my breath for a minute. Maybe for just today this will be a dream; maybe the heavy footsteps on the stairs will happen, maybe the voice, "I'm hungry, what's for breakfast?," maybe the sound of fresh skates on 6:00 AM ice, maybe the wafting of wet equipment in my car, maybe the silly boy stuff of overzealous floor hockey and the building of forts. Yet no sounds...each day no sounds.

As I awaken this particular below zero morning, the sun reflects from the brilliance of the snow. I watch a little brown rabbit munching beneath the window and listen to the fight of the greedy blue jays. I hear the silence inside and quickly sprint up the stairs to look in his vacant room. No sound. Do You feel this way, Father, when we wander away? No sound?

"Roots and wings," we are told, "roots and wings." If we accomplish this, we will have been successful. But as he flew off, I could not help feel the door close. The final thud in a life almost completed. Who told us how painful that would be? How empty? How inexorably alone we are? There is no human comfort in that!

But as always God comes through like a trumpet blare, and I am reminded that, "This is the day that the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad in it." So I rejoice in the time given. Thank You, God for the opportunity to train up this boy. Forgive me for my errors but thank You for the privilege. Keep my memory intact and the pain...well..I will accept that as well.

I have learned that when no loss is felt, there was never a gain.

Thank You, Father.

c12/19/2009 M. LaPointe

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