School ended Friday, and so begins another summer. I'm reminded of my past summers, which somehow all end the same despite all attempts to the contrary. I begin motivated, I vow to stay productive, I end up teaching summer school with a thought of working towards the next year, to fine tune myself. What eventually happens is I succumb to the human condition of perpetual regrets, bordeline depression and selfishness.
Last year, I survived until August, wanted nothing more that to begin school again and made everyone around me miserable until I went into my locked room and began moving around furniture and shuffling through dusty cabinets. Am I defined by my job? I recently commented that I was going to countdown the days until I was allowed back. Most teachers are the opposite. We count down the days until spring break, Christmas break, spring break, summer vacation. We count the days left in the school year as you remind ourselves that summer is the only reason why we became teachers in the first place. When we are confronted by a number that matters--like, how many kids in my class need to pass a test?--we can't summarize the enormous amount of data so we include excuses like, "The curriculum needs to change," "These kids won't learn," "Parents should have to take a test," and other legendary lounge room soliloquies.
My wife also reminded me that making such a countdown was proof that I wanted nothing to do with my own kids this summer. I think sometimes I fall victim to the thought perpetuated by my father, who claimed that he didn't know how to father because no one ever showed him. To some extent, he is correct, as fathers don't necessarily raise their kids to be parents. We raise our kids to become independent, make good decisions, to live under authority. When I get a notice from school that my own son couldn't control his temper I have no mirror in the house that would testify to the contrary and that their ins't some truth to the statement, "Did he get that from me?" Perhaps this summer I can exercise some patience and love towards my kids.
Then there's the issue of softball.
A friend of mine recently used the word "consumed" when he detailed how his family's lives have changed from playing compettive softball. There are several connotations of the word consume, from to do away with completely, to spend wastefully, or to eat in great quantity. My pastor in service this morning asked the congregation, and specifically to me, "Will my daughter be playing softball past the age of 25? Then why are changing our entire worship schedules on something that will not prepare them for life?"
So, my friend is consumed by softball. He's done away with other elements of his life--family time, worship, devotions, vacations--to play ball. He's spent his time wastefully by being at a park while the grass around his home devours the house, a metaphor for the lost time spent with a wife, a child. Softball has eaten away at the important aspects of life. Again, there's not a mirror in the house that I could walk by to reveal a clean heart, an unbroken spirit.
God allowed me to worship this morning thanks to a well-timed rain delay that stumbled onto a cancellation. I don't find it ironic as much as I think well-timed for me to hear that message today, to rid me of my filthy mind this morning by getting me our of bed to read the Bible. God is rooting for me from above. I love my friend, too. I will continue to pray diligently for an outcome that doesn't consume him.
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