Mar 22 2011
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Lent

Lent’s Compass. Day Eleven: Where Love Blooms.

This is the irrational season
When love blooms bright and wild.
Had Mary been filled with reason
There’d have been no room for the child
~ Madeleine L’Engle The Weather of the Heart, p. 45

Life is irrational. We don’t want it to be. We carefully map out plans and hope to execute them flawlessly. The perfect birthday picnic. The vacation of our dreams. The career defining business presentation. As much as we plan, we can’t stop the rain from falling. We can’t prevent the house from being robbed while we’re away. We cannot envision the LCD projector bulb burning out as our presentation is about to begin. Life happens.

When it does, the plans upon which we had placed so much hope, are ruined. Most of us don’t give up. We keep going. Now, I may throw an adult-sized tantrum before I let go. I still let go. Not because unconsciously I realize that there are no limits to life’s irrationality. Not because I believe that no matter how irrational an event seems it is part of God’s plan, so there must be a reason.

I go in because I know that it’s in the unexpected places that I am likely to find God. It’s not that God is present in those moments more. Rather, the absurdness of life allows me to forget my attachment to my plans. I let go. I change. When I do, the craziness gives way and “love blooms bright and wild.”

Mar 20 2011
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Lent

Lent’s Compass. Day Eight: Your Qualifications.

” The marvelous thing is that . . . holiness is nothing we can earn. We don’t become holy by acquiring merit badges and Brownie points. It has nothing to do with virtue or job descriptions or morality. It is nothing we can do, in this do-it-yourself world. It is gift, sheer gift, waiting there to be recognized and received. We do not have to be qualified to be holy. We do not have to be qualified to be whole or, or healed.” ~ Madeleine L’Engle Walking On Water, p.57.

If you ask a room of first graders “Who in this class can climb Mt. Everest?” Hands will shoot into the air in response. You’ll also be asked what Mt. Everest is. Still, nearly every child will raise their hands. Pose the same question to seventh graders and you’ll get wrinkled foreheads and expressions of disbelief. They will ask you if you’re serious. They will judge you. They will judge themselves.

Merit badges, Brownie points, degrees and job titles measure achievement. With measurement comes an assessment of what’s good, what’s good enough and what isn’t. All too quickly life seems to become what we have or haven’t achieved. If we’re not careful, we can bring this parable by Anthony DeMello to life:

A group of tourists sits in a bus that is passing through gorgeously beautiful country; lakes and mountains and green fields and rivers. But the shades of the bus are pulled down. They do not have the slightest idea of what lies beyond the windows of the bus. And all the time of their journey is spent in squabbling over who will have the seat of honor in the bus, who will be applauded, who will be well considered. And so they remain till the journey’s end.

In the midst of our race to achieve, we’re called to holiness. It’s our fundamental vocation. Yet our holiness, our wholeness is not something we can earn. It’s a gift.

The other day I read a story about a mother who upon receiving her first born, exclaimed, “I don’t know what to do!” She echoed my kids mom who remarked when Bud was born that he “didn’t come with a manual.” Fortunately, a friend gave her the next best thing: Anne Lamott’s wonderful book Operating Instructions: A Journal of My Son’s First Year. Looking back, I think what she quickly learned to forget her anxiety and trust the deepest parts of herself. As Parker Palmer would say, she became who she always was.

[T]he idea that vocation, or calling, comes from a voice external to ourselves, a voice of moral demand that asks us to become someone we are not yet—someone different, someone better, someone just beyond our reach. . . . is rooted in a deep distrust of selfhood, in the belief that the sinful self will always be “selfish” unless corrected by external forces of virtue. It is a notion that made me feel inadequate to the task of living my own life, creating guilt about the distance between who I was and who I was supposed to be, leaving me exhausted as I labored to close the gap.

Today I understand vocation quite differently—not as a goal to be achieved but as a gift to be received. Discovering vocation does not mean scrambling toward some prize just beyond my reach but accepting the treasure of true self I already possess. Vocation does not come from a voice “out there” calling me to become something I am not. It comes from a voice “in here” calling me to be the person I was born to be, to fulfill the original selfhood given me at birth by God. ~ Parker Palmer,Let Your Life Speak: Listening for the Voice of Vocation

When it comes to holiness, don’t worry that you’re not Dr. King or Mother Teresa. All you may need to be, is your true self.

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Mar 16 2011
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Lent

Lent’s Compass. Day Seven: What’s New?

“Bach is, for me, the Christian artist par excellence, and if I ask myself why, I think it has something to do with his sense of newness. I’ve been working on his C Minor Toccata and Fugue since college, and I find something new in it every day. And perhaps this is because God was new for Bach every day, was never taken for granted. Too often we do take God for granted.” ~ Madeleine L’Engle, Walking On Water, p.55

What’s new? When I’m asked that question I pause and think. I literally try to remember what is new in the last twenty-four hours. I also consider what “new” the person posing the question might want to hear. Should I describe my failed attempt to create a high fiber waffle by adding oatmeal to the batter? The resulting mess that ensued and my flailing attempts to recover my children’s faith in my ability to prepare their breakfast?

On television news, it’s understood that “if it bleeds, it leads.” Does a morning battle with a stinging styptic pencil fall under that category? Will it matter enough?

What’s new? We ask and answer the question reflexively. Most people do not want to hear my anecdote about the razor and the styptic pencil. They’re just being polite and making conversation. The spinning hard drive in their head might have pulled up the questions “How are you?” or “How have things been?” And while a simple “Good morning!” meets expectations of social interaction and tidily wraps with a reply in kind accompanied by a smile, it’s less likely to be on the playlist of people you know.

What’s new? Recently I’ve noticed that news outlets I “like” on Facebook begin the day asking me a variation of this question. “What’s new?” becomes “What news” (am I following)? Whenever I see the phrasing I’m tempted to comment: “You’re asking me? I tune in so you can tell me what news I should follow!” I wonder though, if I do, will that become news?

What’s news? Last week I dropped Sweets at her Junior Girl Scouts meeting. A friend pulled to the curb moments after I did. I waved, got out of my car and walked up to his. He rolled down his window and placed an index finger to his lips. He whispered, “Shh….” He was listening to NPR and having a “driveway moment.” We didn’t speak until the story ended. What struck me, is that I didn’t think the story was that interesting. I realized that what made it interesting to my friend was as much what he brought to it as what the story gave him.

Madeleine L’Engle started working on Bach’s C Minor Toccata and Fugue when she was in college. She attended Smith from 1937 to 1941. Walking On Water was published in 1982. At the time of publication, her driveway moment with the piece had lasted forty years. She found the new in it every day. What new holds your imagination?

Mar 16 2011
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Faith, Lent

Lent’s Compass. Day Six: Piles of Laundry.

John of Kronstadt, a Russian priest of the nineteenth century, counseled his penitents to take their sins of omission and commission, when they get too heavy, and hang them on the cross. . . . Sometimes when I hang on the cross something which is too heavy for me, I think of it as being rather like the laundry lines under out apple tree, when I have changed all the sheets in the house. The wind blows through them, the sun shines on them, and when I fold them and bring them in in the evening they smell clean and pure. If I could not hang my sins on the cross I might tend to withdraw, to refuse responsibility because I might fail. . . . ~ Madeleine L’Engle, The Irrational Season, p.48

Sweets wears a uniform at school. It’s simple. A collared white shirt and navy bottoms. When she gets home she changes her clothes. She changes again at night before going to bed, wearing the set of PJ’s that strike her fancy.

Bud’s school doesn’t require uniforms to be worn. Invariably he wears a hoodie with jeans. At the end of most school days, he’s broken through whatever 24-hour deoderant was lathered on that morning. His chosen product is with him at all times. He doesn’t change after school. If something smells off, he layers on more deoderant. It helps. A little.

Generally, the clothing they wear is worn once and put it in the hamper to be washed. Every few days the hamper overflows. It’s as if the clothing is reproducing like a Tribble on Star Trek. Rabbits seem celibate in contrast.

I change my clothes daily too.  What I don’t do is place a pair of clean pants in the laundry after one wearing.  A sweater may simply need to be aired out. And hats? I think the last time I washed a hat it turned into a yarmulke with a bill.

What kind of a life do you want to lead? A good one or bad? A good one of course! Given our consumerism and tendencies towards exceptionalism, it’s not just a good life that we want to lead. It’s the good life.

In that small shift we lose the Golden Rule and miss the point. We’re off target. That’s sin. It takes away from who we are. It stains us, the way dirt stains an article of clothing. If we are to hold onto the Golden Rule, living a good life and living well looks more like making life good for others.

We strive and we fall short. Either through words and actions that make another persons life harder or by choosing not to do or say things to make their lives better. During Lent many repent for these sins by giving something up as penance for their failure.

Sometimes that negative reinforcement works. Sometimes it’s just short term withholding. A minor punishment to make up for who and what we’re not. But what if we look at this season a little differently? What if we follow the advice of Joan Chittister and use the season as an “opportunity to change what we ought to change but have not.” What if we make it “not about penance. . . . [but] about becoming, doing and changing whatever it is that is blocking the fullness of life in us right now.”

“We have refused for years, perhaps, to even think about renewing old commitments that we’ve allowed to go to dust — spending time with the children, visiting our parents, exercising, taking time to read good books. We’ve closed our minds, maybe, to the thought of reconciling with old friends whom we have hurt. . . . Lent is the time to let life in again.”

Perhaps it’s time to treat our sin the way Sweets treats her clothing. If it stinks, don’t lather on another layer of deoderant. Send it right to the spiritual hamper! With laundry everything comes out in the wash. Yes, sometimes you have to pre-treat and if you don’t read the label or think, an item might be permanently changed. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred? Your favorite shirt comes out as good as new. It’s not new, but that doesn’t matter, it is fresh and clean and light. Like dirt, sin washes out. And that ninety-ninth time when something changes you forever? That’s character.

Mar 14 2011
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Faith, Life, Tsunami

Lent’s Compass. Day Five: Quakes, Waves and Sonnets

“You mean you’re comparing our lives to a sonnet? A strict form, but freedom within it?”
“Yes,” Mrs. Whatsit said. “You’re given the form, but you have to write the sonnet yourself. What you say is completely up to you.” ~ Madeleine L’Engle, A Wrinkle In Time.

Like many, I’ve been thinking about the tsunami that followed Thursday’s earthquake in Japan. The event calls to mind our agreement regarding what L’Engle–in comparing life to a sonnet–calls the “strict form” of life.

We live most days without thinking about the way we agree on the nature of this “strict form.” We know to avoid casual conversations about politics, religion and the specifics of how another parent should raise their child. We share a clear agreement to not discuss these things in public.

Many of us also lean towards the hopeful side of the form, believing that if we pray hard enough, hope hard enough, believe hard enough and work hard enough, only good things will happen in our lives. Less daringly, we urge each other to do these things so that circumstances will get better.

Watching the waters wash everything away is stunning and transcendent. Clearly there is nothing a single person can do “hard enough” to slow the waters inland push. We are pulled towards two forms of the same question: Why? and How could God let this happen?

Aside from a discussion concerning the science of plate tectonics, these are not questions that can be answered.

That doesn’t mean folks won’t try. Glenn Beck is already echoing Pat Robertson from a year ago. He is blaming the victims, assuring his listeners that there is a reason! I’m not sure if he’s thought of one yet, but I won’t be surprised if he does.

At America Magazine, James Martin, Why Do We Suffer? discusses perspectives on the question offered by the Jewish and Christian traditions. If you’re as flummoxed by the question as I am, the full piece is worth the read.

At the end of the story Martin notes that because a question cannot be answered, it doesn’t mean that you have to blindly accept the result:

“When we are suffering, our friends will want to help us make sense of our pain, and they will often offer answers . . . Some answers may work for us. Others may leave us cold or even be offensive. But, in the end, every believer must come to grapple with suffering for ourselves. And while our religious traditions also provide us with important resources, ultimately, we must find an approach that enables us to confront pain and loss honestly with God.”

Earthquakes, Tsunamis and all manner of natural disasters challenge faith. We have visceral reaction to hearing words that blame others for them. I think that shows we’re aware that it’s a mistake to do so. When we blame God for not stopping these events, I think we make a similar error.

We cannot answer the question of why suffering happens. It is part of the “strict form” of life. Perhaps the freedom within the strict form of our sonnets, isn’t found in the answer to why suffering happens. Instead, maybe it’s found in the way we respond to it.

Mar 12 2011
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Uncategorized

Lent’s Compass. Day Four: Are You Ready?

As I read the Old and New Testaments I am struck by the awareness therein of our lives being connected with cosmic powers, angels and archangels, heavenly principalities and powers, and the groaning of creation. It’s too radical, too uncontrolled for many of us, so we build churches which are the safest possible places in which to escape God. We pin him down, far more painfully than he was nailed to the cross, so that he is rational and comprehensible and like us, and even more unreal. And that won’t do. That will not get me through death and danger and pain, nor life and freedom and joy. ~ Madeleine L’Engle

Bud had a Confirmation retreat today. At the end of the day, families were invited to join the Confirmation class for Mass. As his mom and I arrived, he saw us from the corner of his eye. He turned his head and mouthed “Did you have to?” and faced forward. It was a brief performance for his friends, whose parents were also present.

His Confirmation day approaches. The question I ask is, “Is he ready?” I wonder if he is ready to make an adult commitment to his faith. I don’t know. While he and I pray every night before he goes to sleep, I worry that faith and Church remain largely an obligation where God is pinned down to the hour or so of Sunday liturgy. I want him to realize something of what L’Engle is pointing to and which Annie Dillard describes in her book Teaching a Stone to Talk: Expeditions and Encounters:

The churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping god may wake someday and take offense, or the waking god may draw us to where we can never return.

I have been asking him, “Do you want to do this?” The question is ironic. Having studied Theology at the graduate level, I desperately want him to say yes in reply. I laugh at myself too because I know that when I was his age I only went to church for one reason. Madonna. Not Madonna Louise Ciccone . Rather, the Madonna who sat with her family in the pew behind mine. I went to Church so I could turn at required time, say, “Peace be with you” and shake her hand. At thirteen, that was as close as I got to the girl I had a crush on. Bud is already a better man than I was at his age. His response to my question is consistent. He says, “I don’t know.”

With those three words, my heart swells. At some level readiness is a real question. It may not be L’Engle or Dillard real–or maybe it is–but it’s there. I am proud of his “I don’t know.” I am proud of him. I bet God is too.

Mar 11 2011
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Faith, Lent, Love, Poetry

Lent’s Compass. Day Three: Unrequited Love

Unrequited Love by Jude Simpson

Jesus is in turmoil.
He can’t stop thinking about you.
Every moment without you feels like eternity.
He blushes whenever someone mentions your name.
His heart skips a beat when you walk in the room
any room
every room
he’s in all of them.

Jesus lies awake at night trying to think of ways to get your attention.
He composes emails to you that never get sent.
He really has to force himself not to follow you home.

Jesus remembers every word you’ve ever said to him, and I mean every word
though to be fair, there aren’t a great deal.
Only on occasions,
when something feels like it’s about to go really wrong.
Once when your Nan died.

Yesterday, Jesus spent half an hour just trying out your name with his –
how good you would sound as a couple – Jesus and Shaun – or Shaun and Jesus?
He’s tried swapping surnames – both ways.
He thinks Jesus Penlington sounds marginally better than Alison Christ.

Jesus keys your name into Google at least twice a week
The results are always the same –
an obscure mention in someone else’s blog,
and the medal table of a judo competition when you were twelve –
but even so, it still makes him feel very slightly closer to you.

You see, Jesus wants to be with you all the time.
He could sit all night just watching you sleep
Sometimes he does,
but not very often,
in case you wake up and think he’s a psycho.
That might not help.

Jesus tries to say to himself, that he just wants you to be happy
but he doesn’t.
He just wants you to be happy with him.
Jesus bought the Zutons new album last week.
He overheard you mention that you like the Zutons.
If you ever come round, he’s not sure what he’ll do.
He might have to hide it in case you realise he only bought it
because of you.

But if he’s feeling confident, he’ll casually leave it out, and when
you see it he’ll go, “yeah, I love the Zutons – what –
you do too? Wow, that’s amazing! Hey, actually –
what a coincidence!
I’ve got two tickets for their next gig next week
and my mate’s just pulled out – I don’t suppose you’d …..

But it’s all just a fantasy,
what can he do if you don’t even seem to notice him?
You are Jesus’ hero and you haven’t got a clue.
Sometimes Jesus feels like you don’t even know he exists.

~ original post found here: rejesus.co.uk/site/module/jude_simpsons_poems/P5/

I’m spending Lent working through 40-Day Journey with Madeleine L’Engle (40-Day Journey) Each day’s entry begins with a quote of L’Engle’s followed by questions to ponder, journal reflections and prayers for the day. I’m using the quotes as writing prompts for my own reflection, which I’ll share here. Sometimes, like today, the quote will spin in my head and remind me of someone else’s work and reflection. I’m not sure how often I’ll be able to post. I’d like to do a daily post, but that might be beyond the scope of what I’m able to do. There may be pauses in between posts, where life takes me to different places and keeps me from sharing my thoughts here. We’ll see.

And so, the first three posts move from agape’s unconditional love, to the impossible becoming real and now Jude Simpson’s “Unrequited Love.” The link to Simpson was triggered by a quote about false expectations. You may find yourself chewing on both.

“We have false expectations of our holy days, of our churches, of each other. We have false expectations of our friends. Jesus did not. He had expectations, but they were not false, and when they were not met, he did not fall apart. He was never taken in by golden calves! Friendship not only takes time, it takes a willingness to drop false expectations, of ourselves, of each other. Friends – or lovers – are not always available to each other. Inner turmoils can cause us to be unhearing when someone needs us, to need to receive understanding when we should be giving understanding.” ~Madeleine L’Engle

Mar 10 2011
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Healing, Lent, Life, Stroke

Lent’s Compass. Day Two: A Running Man

“When spring-fed Dog Pond warms up enough for swimming . . . I often go there in the late afternoon. Sometimes I will sit on a sun-warmed rock to dry, and think of Peter walking across the water to meet Jesus. As long as he didn’t remember that we human beings have forgotten how to walk on water, he was able to do it. . . . One of the great sorrows which came to human beings when Adam and Eve left the Garden was the loss of memory, memory of all that God’s children are meant to be. Perhaps one day I will remember to walk across Dog Pond.” ~ Madeleine L’Engle

Tuesday afternoon while walking to Sweets’ school at the end of the day, I realized I was without my cell phone. I returned home and retrieved it. Checking the clock as I headed out the door I grasped that I had three minutes to complete a six minute walk. I picked up the pace. Walking briskly, a odd thing happened. This was not something unusual in the way seeing a blind man ride a bike is. This was strange for me. It was wonderful too. As I walked, I found myself increasing speed without consciously trying to. I was merely trying to walk quickly. Suddenly I broke into a trot. I was running.

I looked down at my feet and watched them. I began to cry and worried that I might trip. I was looking at the ground, not where I was going. My eyes were full of water. Everything was a blur. I stopped, looked up and wiped the tears from my eyes. I was half a block from the school. I walked the rest of the way.

Arriving, I hip-checked one of my favorite mom’s, punched a dad in the arm, fist-bumped another and high-fived a precocious third-grader. He, I’m sure was just happy to make it through the end of a school day. In my mind I was replaying the scene in the film Rocky where Rocky triumphantly stands on the steps of The Philadelphia Museum of Art. This was my first experience of running freely in almost two years.

Running is something I forgot how to do after my stroke. I understood the mechanics of it. I knew the way my body needed to move. I just didn’t know how to get it to move the way it needed to. I became aware of this during a neighborhood kickball game a few months after leaving the hospital. Today I look back and wonder what I was doing playing kickball. At the time, I only knew what I knew. I was only able to live in the present moment. I had no yesterday. No tomorrow. No next. Blissfully, I had no anxiety either. I was wherever I was, in the way I was. So, I joined in.

During my first “at-bat” I kicked the ball as best I could and started to run. My run turned into the long stride of one leg. The other lagged behind. I lumbered toward first base. This was a game of “Parent’s versus Kids.” The kids were all in elementary school. I was out. They were delighted.

With practice, my performance improved. And yet, as late as this last Christmas, I’ve been aware that when I try to cross a major intersection on foot, my torso arrives before my legs do. They can’t keep up the pace. At least, that was my experience. I’d forgotten how to run. Now I remember. What was impossible is unselfconscious and glorious once more.

I don’t know if Madeleine L’Engle ever remembered how to walk across her Dog Pond. This Lent, as you reflect on things you’ve forgotten perhaps, you’ll find yourself running across yours. Impossible you say? And yet, blind men teach themselves to see (and ride bikes).

Mar 09 2011
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Family, Growing Up, Lent, Parenting

Lent’s Compass. Day One: Agape Dogs

“The Greeks, as usual, had a word for the forgiving kind of love which never excludes. They called it agape. . . . Agape means “a profound concern for the welfare of another without any desire to control that other, to be thanked by that other, or to enjoy the process.” Not easy. But if we can follow it, it will mean that we will never exclude. . . . Not the people who have hurt us . . . or the people to whom we have done wrong. . . . It teaches me not only about forgiveness but about how to hope to give guidance without manipulation.” ~ Madeleine L’Engle

Sweets and Bud often argue. They love each other dearly, but they’re sibs. They argue. About everything. When feeling are hurt, I ask them to apologize to each other. It’s something they’re more apt to do after the fact, when I can pull them aside and get them to consider whether what they were fighting about was anything important. There are no magic phrases or techniques. The attention they’re given in those moments is magic enough. Often attention is what they wanted in the first place.

Attention is a visible sign that we care for each other. When we give another our full attention, we stop what ever we are doing. We show the other person they mean more to us that the bill we’re paying, the web page we’re viewing or TV show that’s on screen. So we stop. But giving your attention takes time. In the moments when the kids are arguing, time isn’t something I feel I have an abundance of. Even as I try to let them work things out themselves.

Often, after giving them what I measure as enough time to work things out–and seeing their emotions take over–I’ll blow my figurative referee’s whistle. I’ll ask or tell them to “stop arguing and say you’re sorry.” I try to remember to call them both by name when I do, regardless of who initiated the argument or is escalating it. When I forget, which I also do, I hear about it quickly. The opportunity for forgiveness is lost and I immediately become “unfair.” The other child is, my “favorite.” When I remember and they do apologize? They’re as likely to implement a policy of mutually assured rejection as they are to accept the other’s apology. Why? On the face of it because the tone or inflection aren’t right. “You don’t mean it!” is a typical accusation. Even if they are expressing an awareness of the importance of intention–and they are–it’s frustrating.

That’s the crux of the matter. Providing guidance is a substantial part of parenting. At an early age, it’s easy. Kids do just about everything they’re asked. As they grow up and become themselves, that changes. Along the way, intention begins to matter. That’s true of parents as well as kids, I think. Manipulation becomes part of a parent’s toolkit and the child’s. We want to be sure they’re learning the right lessons. We want them to “mean it” and be assured as we can that they do. They want to weigh our motives and gauge our integrity versus their own. Is this necessary? Is it good? I could answer yes or no. And yet, as a Dad, my most satisfying moments don’t come in the good talks I have with the kids. They don’t come from seeing them evaluate intention or realize that they are sincere. The satisfying moments are the ones where I see them love and forgive in a way that embodies what the Greeks meant when they used the word agape.

This Lent, I want to pay attention to how intention gets in the way of my being able to forgive others. To the way it conditions my willingness to forgive. The way it conditions my love. If my love and my forgiveness are tied to your intention or my own, there is nothing agape about them. Imagine having a dog who only loved you when you gave it a treat?

Dec 04 2010
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Growing Up, Parenting

Measures of Permanence.

I wrote a variation of the following in response to this post. “Nobodys Perfect” is a lovely reflection on challenges of parenting that we don’t easily acknowledge. In my experience we’re quick to share both our exasperation with our kids and our pride in their success. The questions we have about whether we’re doing the right thing? Or of the limitations we see our kids facing? We don’t talk about either enough.
—
Report cards are in. The questions you ask: “What’s the right balance of supporting and challenging your children? How do I inspire them to try to perform well…?” are very real for me. I don’t have answers to them. All I can do is sit with them. If I’m lucky I may live my way into good answers.

Recently I did one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do as a parent.

Bud studies karate. He was invited by his teacher to test with his class for the next level of his belt. After the test there is an awards ceremony. I was there with camera in hand and ready to record a moment of triumph for the family archives. My chest swelled with pride. I waited for Bud’s award to be bestowed.
Instead, the teacher paused and spoke to the rigor of the test the class had taken. He said some students had not passed. Slowly the camera found its way into my bag. I knew. The speech was designed to reset the expectations of the students and their families in attendance. As others around him received their awards, Bud’s head sank.

All I could do was watch. My eyes watered. He glanced my way. How do you comfort from across a room? “It’s Okay, ” I mouthed. There wasn’t anyway of knowing if he’d read my lips. He’s terrible at reading facial expressions so what–if anything that he’d taken from my expression–was impossible to tell. At the ceremonies end his teacher sat with him for a few minutes, giving comfort with his presence as well as detailing what he’d missed on the exam. From there he moved quickly to the locker room, changing and emerging in silence. I reached out to embrace him in a hug. He rebuffed the gesture saying,”Let’s just go.”

Riding home, I asked how he felt. What he thought about his performance. I didn’t know what else to say. I knew I didn’t want to lecture him on his preparation or anything really. I hoped that if he talked about the test, it would help process the experience. The only thing I feared was his taking this moment of failure and giving it a measure of permanence that was undeserved. He can be very hard on himself. I didn’t know what I might say if that was the case.

All I knew is that I wanted him to know that I loved him. And that no test could change that. We arrived at the house. Before he walked in, he turned to me and gave me a bear of a hug. “Thanks,” Bud said.

Ten, twenty, or thirty years from now I’m sure he’ll have forgotten the test. If he remembers it, it will be in the context of passing the second time. That’s not hubris. He was that close. If I’m lucky and relatively consistent, he’ll also remember that his Dad loves him when he succeeds and when he doesn’t.

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