Sweeping the Egg Shells

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.