Evan

I find it fascinating how different siblings can be. Born of the same parents and raised in the same home, and yet polar opposites in personality and habit. Such is the case in my family. Each of my sons is very definitely his own person. My oldest son, Eddie is almost ten. He is creative, active and generous. His first word was "WOW!", and he has pretty much lived his life by that motto. Scotty is my second, and he’s eight now. Scott has the strongest personality I have ever had the joy of knowing. There is no force on earth that can stop that boy once his mind is made. Jesse is three and a half. Recently I was told by a middle-aged mother that she wanted to marry him. Oh, yeah. He’s cute, but he’s trouble. Ross is still pretty little, but he has an impressive will and a fierce temper.
In counting, you may have noticed that I omitted number three. I assure you, this was not accidental. He is the topic of today’s soap box presentation. I have briefly described each of my other children. Now let me introduce Evan. Evan just turned six. You’ve seen the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade, right? You know those giant balloons that have to be grounded by about a hundred people to keep them from floating away? That’s the best way to describe my Evan. I tell you this to help you better understand my predicament.
One day about a year ago, Evan came down stairs and announced that he was going to get a penguin for a pet. Knowing that his little heart is a tender one, I wanted to be very careful not to hurt his precious feelings. My initial argument against his plan was that Kansas is not a cold enough place for penguins to live. He responded that we could fill the bath tub with ice and they could live there. We went back and forth for weeks. Every time I came up with a brilliant thought that I was sure would dissuade him, he answered back with what seemed to him to be a very rational solution. I was mortified. I had no idea how I was going to get out of the whole penguin thing, and even less idea how I had gotten so far into it to begin with.
It all came to a head one night some weeks later. At our house, Daddy does the tucking in. It gives him a chance to have a little alone time with the kids, and also to make absolutely certain that they are too wound up to sleep. And so it happened that I was downstairs enjoying some quiet when I heard Evan going off. I phrase it thus because he sounds roughly like a tornado siren when it isn’t being drowned out by a storm. Anyway, down he ran, his little face doused in tears. When I asked him what was the matter he managed to sob the words, "Daddy said penguins are wild!" I was speechless. Weeks I had spent trying to gently let my boy down, and Daddy had done it in one word: wild.
Obviously, Evan and I understood the word "wild" differently. The denotative meaning of the word wild is: living in a state of nature, not tamed (dictionary.com). Evan’s connotation of the word meant: "I can’t have one as a pet." We were communicating in completely different ways. If I had only known exactly what to say, and what it would have meant to my sweet Evan, weeks of stress and fruitless hoping could have been avoided. Besides that, I learned one other valuable thing. When he came up with the idea of our whole family riding inside a whale to get to Disneyland, I referred him directly to his father.

My goal was to visit my Grandma and Grandpa. My plan was to hold a fund raising garage sale. As I was pondering on this, another idea came to me. As is my habit, I immediately acted upon this idea. I emailed all of my friends and family and asked them to save anything that they no longer loved for my sale. I felt very clever. Then I prayed.

I should have learned by now that when you ask the Lord for something, you need to be prepared to accept the consequences. In this case that meant dealing with a two car garage packed to the hilt with boxes, beds, bags and other unloved items. Before all was said and done, it was spilling over into nearly every room on the main floor of my house and even into my back yard.

When the day of the sale finally came, we found ourselves up to our necks. We had 17 long tables set up and an unbelievable number of things yet to be unearthed. We prayed. Then we waited. People came and went, without purchasing a thing. We were getting very nervous. Surely in all of these things they could find something they wanted? But as the day grew later, we found that we had no reason to fear. My sister kept whispering the words "If you have it, they will come." My mother kept counting out money. I kept refilling tables. It was a lot of work. Toward lunch time, my dad and his band stopped in. We danced, talked with the many neighbors who came to visit us and ate hot dogs and drank lemonade.

I was just starting to relax and have a good time when an unnerving sight caught my eye. It was my five year old son, painstakingly dragging a cardboard box across the grass toward me. Anybody who knows Evan at all knows that this is not a good thing. This particular box I knew to be occupied by a donated race track. The kind with lots of little pieces and far too many items to step on. When finally he reached me, he looked hopefully up into my eyes. I couldn't help wondering what his plan was. After a few seconds of silence, he opened his little fist to expose a handful of shiny rocks. That moment created the kind of emotion in me that always makes me want to laugh out loud. And not just a little laugh. A great big belly laugh. The kind that makes you cry and your abs hurt for days. I was overcome by a mixture of pride, hilarity and heart break. Here was my sweet little boy trying his best to barter for something that he really wanted. I took him aside and explained that the rocks were very lovely, but just not the kind of currency we were looking for. He was crushed. I felt horrible for him. So we came to an agreement. I would put the toy aside for him in exchange for slave labor. He quickly agreed. I thought the situation was handled. I soon found that I was wrong. It wasn't that my son had learned the value of a little work. And it wasn't that he had learned something about money. No, sir. When I wasn't paying attention, he learned that you can still buy brownies from mema with pretty rocks.

Would my ONE FRIEND friend please step forward!

I have often been heard to say over the years that I really didn't have many friends. Just a few months ago, while watching my sweet son struggle with the problems of childhood, it came to me. You don't need many friends. You really just need a "One Friend." A true, honest and sincere friend. The kind of friend that you would lay down your life for. A person that is always there through challenges and growth, through pain and joy, through failure and accomplishment. The kind that you pine for when life takes you down seperate paths. The kind of person whose life you can change and who can help you become more than you ever hoped to be. Put this way, friendship looked like a much different adventure. I realized that I had been blessed with an abundance of "One friends." And so have you. I would bet my life on it.

As life has gone by, I have known many, many people who I cared for. A few have met my criteria for One Friends. The first was Megan when I was 10. We met just after my family arrived in Schweinfurt, Germany on a three year tour of duty. An unlikely friendship to say the least, she was my closest friend for more than five years. We were both restationed to different areas of the United States in 1989. After a few years we lost contact. I have never been able to locate her again. It is a regret that I carry with me where ever I go, and that I have vowed to never relive.

Next were Gen and Melissa in high school. Vicky just as I was growing up. Heather in San Diego. She saved me from utter despair more than once. Brigitte in Kansas City, who saw me through eyes that no one else could. All of these women were known and loved in my past. Each of them holds a firm place in my heart today.

I have had the pleasure in my new home of meeting yet another One Friend. I'm amazed at how quickly I have come to love her. I probably don't even know her that well , but I feel as though I always have. She is the one that has led me back to my dream and encouraged me to jump in. She has liked me just because. She has helped dig the skeletons out of my closet and allowed me to move on. She has loved me and mourned with me through the hardest times of my life. She has become a permanent fixture in my heart. She is a blond, a brunette, and a silver haired beauty . She has blue eyes, or green, or brown. She is tall. She is short. She is boisterous and quiet. She is silly and serious. She is fun and games. She puts her nose to the grind stone. She laughs and cries. She serves, in her own unique way. She is beautiful. She has touched my life, and I love her for it.

"And it came to pass...that the soul

of Jonathan was knit (tied) with

the soul of David, and Jonathan

loved him as his own soul."

1 Samuel 18:1

Valentine's Day, or not?

Today is a day that many people spend thinking about the romantic love in their lives, or the lack there of. They spend a small fortune on perishable items, many of which are used up and forgotten, or gifted to people whose presence in their lives will be short lived. They eat chocolate, dine in expensive restaurants and try to out do their lovers best efforts.

Personally, I like to spend today kicked back, enjoying a death by chocolate brownie, a glass of skim milk and a good book. It's one of four days a year that I may cry for no good reason. I will spend it celebrating the presence of someone in my life who I love very much, and who changed it very dramatically. But it won't be my darling Gene. It won't be my best girlfriends. Or even my mom and dad. No, today I will reward myself for accomplishing a feat I never would have thought possible. Seven years ago today, I delivered a nine pound, twelve and a half ounce, twenty two and half inch baby boy. And I hardly broke a sweat.

That's right, girls. It was a breeze. (Just in case you feel the need to throw flowers at my feet, I like carnations.) Scotty was my second born. He out weighed my eldest by more than two pounds and was more than an inch longer. He also had a head full of dark brown hair, which has now been replaced by a handsome orange-ish red that matches well every hair color in the family save one--mine. He's also a fairly small child. About average height and weight. Deceptively thin, he looks like a wimp but is remarkably strong.

Right from the start he was a pistol. We called him "Cranky Wayne" when he was newborn. When my boys were tiny, I often propped them up in their carseat, unbuckled, but at my feet, while I took care of household tasks. One day when he was about two months old, I had done just that while I washed the dishes. It only took him a few minutes to scoot his bottom down far enough to get out of that seat and flip it over on top of himself. He began walking at eight months, but even before that he would scoot around (he never crawled) holding paperback novels that he retrieved from my book collection and trying to get me to read them to him. He spoke in complete sentences before his first birthday. At about age four he decided he wanted to learn how to read. So he figured it out on his own. He started Kindergarten reading fairly well for a child his age. At the beginning of first grade we had to fight, alongside his really awesome teacher, for him to have access to library books that were even ALMOST a challenge. He blew away the placement testing. Now, about half way through the school year, he is approaching his third grade brother. And Eddie reads well into the Middle School Range.

I guess I sound like I have a problem with humility. I think that is entirely possible when it comes to my four boys. But don't let me misguide you. Scotty has given me more writing material than I would care to discuss. And it is seriously not funny. At least not right away. A little story to illustrate.

When Scotty was about eighteen months old, we lived in a tiny little duplex. It had a basement which housed the washer and dryer, but the steps down to it were shared with the next door neighbor. Doing laundry was a real production, what with running up and down and hauling things one direction or another. One fine summer day while I was trying to do said laundry, Scotty decided that he was thirsty. Actually, to be more specific, he was thirsty for juice. I tried to reason with the child, I didn't have any juice just then. At least none that didn't resemble an ice brick. So I quickly filled his cup with milk and ran downstairs to change the laundry. When I returned, Scotty was standing in the kitchen looking mutinous.
"Where is your cup?" I asked him.

"Shoos!" He replied.

"Where is your cup?" I asked again.

"Shoos!"

This conversation continued for quite some time. Finally I gave up. (Any smart mother would have thrown in the towel shortly after spotting the little dear, wearing only a diaper, with his arms crossed over his chest and a very amusing glower on his face. But not me! I like to have my way, too.) I began searching the house. I checked the fridge, the toy box, the basket under the stroller, even the toilet. Finally I returned to the kitchen. Scotty stood just where I had left him, arms crossed and glower in place.

"Where is your cup?"

"Shoos!"

Yikes! It was time to change the laundry again. As I walked toward the door I spotted it. Lying all alone at the bottom of the trash can. We compromised. I washed the cup and filled it with kool-aid. And he never tried to dispose of his cup in exactly that way again.


I can laugh about this now. It even almost seems cute. I can only hope that in a few years I will be able to look back at his current antics and laugh. The truth of the matter is that I love this child far beyond reason. I suppose that is true for most of us. Children have a way of being loved, often in spite of themselves. Scotty is sometimes one of these cases. And sometimes not.

Tonight, while you are out with your sweetheart being wined and dined, don't look for me and my family. We'll be at home, eating Shepard's Pie and Red Velvet cupcakes and honoring a young man we adore. And maybe, when the lights are out and the sound of soft breathing fills my little rural home, you can find me in my bed. Thinking of all the times that have been, and all that will be. Feeling his adulthood pressing in on me like a wieght. And letting the tears roll down my face unchecked.

Thank God for you, Scotty.