It’s true that there is no sense worrying about the next day
because tomorrow will worry about itself. This past spring I was worried about
tomorrow based on the failures of the day. In my conversation with my principal
I stated that last spring, I came home, napped, ate and did nothing else. It
wasn’t until June was over that I finally began to realize that enough was enough.
Was I going to do this to my body again? How will weighing over 350 pounds affect
me this time? In my 40’s no less.
This school year hasn’t been the madness that was the
spring. The Fall season isn’t typically a time for renewal, but for a school
teacher, Fall means crisp new bulletin boards and cellophane-wrapped loose-leaf
paper. Its new shoes, clean desks and fresh dry erase markers. I have 31 kids
this year, one over my contractual limit. I had 33 at one point in September,
but two students were sent to overflow schools. My one boy who left told me, “Thanks
for being a great teacher for 6 days.”
It’s amazing how something can change in the matter of days.
People move in and out of your life. The schedule offers no mercy for teachers,
and even more so as a parent. There are objectives to reach and lessons to be
learned. This is true of parenting as well.
I was thankful that school ended last spring simply because
there weren’t any more chances for my son’s school to call us. No more tantrums
with “unfair” teachers and “stupid” rules. Our home life was manageable, to a certain
degree. I didn’t know that the bad habits that I had established as a parent months
before, even years, would manifest itself so disastrously this fall. While
school was being managed, nothing would prepare me for what was to come in September.
Any parent of an oppositional defiant kid knows how difficult
it is to reign in a child who simply won’t be governed. Any parent of an ADHD child
also knows the challenges that impulsivity and self-control have on your home
life. We have both. A nasty cocktail of emotions and defiance. When your son
runs out the house and into the neighborhood because he doesn’t want to do his
homework, what would you do? Do you make a scene in the neighborhood? Do you
begin to chase him and hope that he cowers on the curb like our dog would when
he escapes from a hole in the fence?
The evidence of our struggles mark different areas of our
home like a minefield. There are holes in the basement walls. In the living
room, our ottoman sits lopsided. One of its stump legs has been broken from too
many body jumps of a kid who thinks leaping from the couch is an Olympic event.
Another jagged hole sits like a portrait behind the recliner. Upstairs my son’s
room door doesn’t close all the way because the hundreds of slams went against
the manufacturer’s intent.
A visitor wouldn’t know about the invisible egg shells all
of step around the house. No one knows the screams and tantrums we’ve all had
to deal with, on a constant basis, for the past several weeks. The questions of
authority, the cries of unfairness.
Yesterday, I had to slam the door of the van and lock my
door to keep my son from screaming at me. The problem? Does it matter? It was
the only time in my life where I was happy to leave the house. I remember
sneaking peaks at him in kindergarten, hoping he was doing well. I’ve coached
him in several sports to keep him near. I followed his path when he first began
to ride his bike, allowing him to feel grown up to go freely on his own, but
still young enough to need me.
I went to school. Our class sang silly songs. I laid on the
floor in the hallway to play a game with a reading group. I taught my ass off
and succeeded, like many classrooms across the nation. But when the bell rang
and it was time to leave, I felt anxiety of going home to my son. Who thinks
this way? What parent doesn’t want to be with their kids?
When teachers call their students’ homes, they speak with
the voice of someone at their wit’s end. Sometimes they hear a voice on the
other end that is just as clueless as to the behavior of their child. It’s a
voiced helplessness. Inner city kids get bad raps for this. They curse their
teachers out. They throw things. But when those behaviors are happening at
home, there is no one to call to ask for advice. There is no one on the other
end of the line who just listens and feels just as astonished as you are.
So I called the only person equipped to help.
I date all of my devotions. On days like these, when there
are no foreseeable answers to my problems, I find gaps between the dates. A
week here, a few days here. It’s a reminder that I need to have that
conversation on a daily basis. It’s not just saying “Yes” to Jesus every day,
my salvation, but it’s also about connection. I noticed it had been 24 days
since my last devotion. I had been filling my time with reading, tv binge
watching, playing apps and flirting with a pornography addiction. Nothing in
that last sentence will make me the father I need to be for my home.
Sure enough, God sent me to Philippians 3. Forget what is
behind you and strain toward what is ahead. Press on toward the goal to win the
prize for which God is calling me heavenward. Then James. Consider it pure joy when
you are facing trials because the testing of faith develops perseverance.
In my commentary I read by J. Vernon McGee, he states that
patience is the fruit of the Holy Spirit. How does one attain such fruit? “Patience
comes through suffering and testing.” He goes on to say that there is much
confusion, strife, turmoil and criticism in today’s church because many of its
members have not fully matured. They are still babes in Christ. My church is my
home. “God must send us trouble so that we learn patience.” I know there’s a
lot in that one statement. On a theological level, you may disagree with McGee.
But in my case, perhaps this is what is needed for all of us in our home to
grow. We are babes no longer.
So today was a day of doctor’s appointments. Adjustments to
the calendar came in the form of much needed rain. Otherwise we would have had
practices for both of my kids, and a perfect excuse to not change anything. My
son isn’t happy with the rules, but what kid is. It’s time to earn some privileges,
and it’s time to sweep the egg shells out of the home. I know it already will
be another test. He screamed earlier about how unfair it all was. I stayed
patient. I didn’t raise my voice.
Tomorrow starts a new day. Doesn’t it always? I’ll say “Yes”
to God and wear the clothes of a mature man. At least outwardly. The true test
of whether or not I can dress in the true maturity of a growing Christian
remains to be seen. But it won’t be another 24 days until I ask God to help
again. I don’t have the time to wait.
