Today, I had one of those rare moments where you find yourself in the shoes of your parents and your child in the very shoes of your own experience once upon a time. I was immediately faced with a choice of how to handle a critical situation, and I quickly recalled a formative experience of my boyhood, decided on the appropriate course, and went into daddy action.
The above photo provides evidence of just how my 2 1/2 year old shattered his father's record for youngest one to have an accident. He snuck in the car, which is always unlocked up here. I was in the garage cellar cleaning up and organizing when I heard a loud bang of metal and wood coming into sudden contact.
I immediately saw my older two close by keeping me company, but my little Nick was exploring up above, my stick shift to be precise! When I came out and around toward the noise, there he was, the little man, closing the driver door behind him. He is a thorough chap who doesn't like loose ends, you know.
When he saw me, the look on his face took me back 30 years to a cold winter morning in Takoma Park, Maryland. It was a day that I will never forget, because that day I learned that my father loved me.
Back in the day, say 1978 or so, we kids attended John Nevins Andrews Elementary School near downtown Takoma Park. If you are familiar with the area, there was an old flower power group house called Maggie's Farm on the corner where we turned off Carroll Avenue each day to go to school. Our dad usually gave us a ride, and we were almost always late. That's called Puerto Rican time. It's something that I have tried to overcome all my life, but that's not what this story is about.
Our driveway was pretty big, so that meant my dad could have all the cars he wanted -many of which did not run well. Consequently, he wound up using our grandmother's 1976 Ford Granada half the time. We used to joke that the doors on the Granada were long enough to cross the street, and boy, were they heavy! The rest of the time it was in my uncle's possession. In fact, my grandmother never actually drove the thing. I mean, she literally only drove it out of the driveway into the street where one of her sons would take over. Or she might just get in a tither to simply park the beast. My grandfather had no desire to get involved in the driving thing. He was a jibaro and content to walk to his destination if need be. But, I digress.
So, the Granada's way was blocked by our 1974 Dodge Maxivan. What a vehicle! I think it held some magical sway for me, seeing as I have owned about 4 vans over the years. The story of how we got that one was another great childhood memory. My dad surprised everyone that day, and he was our greatest hero! Again, back to the story
I was probably about 13 at the time, and my dad had already taught me how to drive. I would mainly drive stuff around our big driveway and the occasional parking lot. Anyway, he asked me to move the van out of the way, so the Granada could make its regal exit.
Being that it was cold, the Dodge wouldn't stay on. I had to constantly pump the carburator and it must have conked out 10 times or so. Each time it did, I saw what seemed like a patient restraint begin to fade on my dad's face through the frosty windshield. It put more pressure on me to produce.
Under pressure and feeling like an idiot, I decided to take no prisoners. I pumped, started, and gunned the engine all at once, but the gas pedal stuck to the floor propelling me and this huge van right into the front steps of the house with a loud crash. "Oh, Lord! I wrecked dad's van! He's going to kill me," thought I.
I dreaded the look I expected on my father's face, not to mention the disciplinary action that would surely follow. When I released my death's grip on the wheel to face the music, my father met me at the side door, closely followed by my sister as I remember.
What followed was the greatest feeling. I felt like that billionaire bum who Bill Clinton pardonned on his last day in office. Mark Rich? Well, that's not a very good example. But what ensued in those next moments at the van door is an experience I have treasured deeply all my life. For it was at that moment, on that cold winter morning, that I made the discovery that my father loved me. He was Godlike that day.
"I'm sorry I wrecked your van, dad," I cried. He grabbed me by the arms and looked deeply into my eyes and said, "Son, I can get another van. I can't get another son. Are you alright?" Just recounting it is still precious to me and pulls at my heart strings in an emotional way. Can you imagine such a thing? What man in his right mind pulls those kind of words out of a hat for his teenage boy who just smashed his vehicle and his front steps? Words matter people. They matter. Those words mattered to me then, and they still do now almost 20 years after my father's death.
"Look not every man on his own things, but every man also on the things of others. Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus." Philippians 2:4,5So, my precious two year old is just watching me, wondering what I will do. 1978 passes before my eyes. I am my dad right now. Nick is me. How will I respond?
Well, it wasn't perfect. I told him he had disobeyed me by getting into the car. He began to cry. I held him for several minutes as he emptied his emotions into my chest. I guess it is harder to explain to such a young one. The hard part was that his disobedience led to the accident. I had told him just minutes earlier to stay out of the boat, truck, and cars.
The Culprit...
We went inside, and I changed his diaper. Then I administered some disciplinary measures to teach him that it is critical to obey daddy. While he cried, I remembered myself as young lad being corrected. It is never pleasant. However, in time comes understanding.
I pray that God will help me to shepherd that little heart, as well as my other little ones entrusted to me. That's one of the points of this blog - to reconnect the Family with God, our father. May we all be successful to that end. Amen.
