A boy becomes an adult three years before his parents
think he does, and about two years after he thinks he does.
LEWIS B. HERSHEY
Our eldest child has grown up fast, graduating from high school and considering what’s next. We were on the golf course one day when an oil tycoon strolled over and offered him a job at ten times the salary I earned at his age. I couldn’t believe he didn’t take it. When I asked him why, he said he wanted to do something bigger with his life than make money. He said he’d been listening to me preach and that I had advised people to do something they loved and they wouldn’t have to work a day in their lives.
“I said that?”
He smiled. “You did.”
And so Steve enrolled in Bible college, a decision that has his mother and me rejoicing and sniffling and clutching our wallets all at once. The price for Bible college has not decreased since I attended in the latter half of the last century, but I assured him it would not be a problem. We would sell his little brother into slavery to pay for the first semester. (I’m kidding. I did not sell my son. Please do not write me letters about this.)
One hot fall morning he set out for the Montana mountains to begin Explore, a wilderness leadership program “where Christian leaders are born, where apologetics meet practical teaching in a pristine wilderness setting.” I have the sneaking suspicion Explore is really an excuse to go on an extended camping trip while getting to know women.
And I’ll admit to something else. Bible college wasn’t on my agenda for this boy. I’ve checked Fortune 500 and Money magazine. There are very few ministers, missionaries, and camp directors listed there. I will reach retirement age in twenty years. Who will pay for my medication?
That morning the girls in the program watched as Steve’s mother kissed his cheek and I hugged him good-bye. He’s never been a hugger, but he didn’t wriggle away. There were no tears in his eyes, and certainly none in mine. In fact, I couldn’t have been happier. It was a holiday. The sky was blue. The air was warm. The clouds were nonthreatening. I would go home and hoist a ginger ale, then cut the grass.
Pushing our old weed whacker along, I considered all the reasons I was happy to have this kid out of the house. These were just a start:
No more toothpaste on our bathroom door.
No more mold growing beneath his bed.
His music can keep someone else up now.
I can find my ties, my tools, and my remote control.
No more stepping in remnants of last night’s yogurt snack.
Or tripping over clothes on the floor.
We will save roughly four hundred dollars per month on groceries. Two hundred in milk alone.
No more adjusting the seat and mirror when I drive the car.
No more phone calls interrupting my work: “Dad, let’s go golfing.”
No more flopping on our bed at night to tell us of his day.
I was free.
That night we crawled into bed, Ramona and I, the lawn neatly trimmed, the house cleaned, the back porch swept, and she said, “Aren’t you glad Steve wants to serve God? We’ve prayed that he would since he was knee-high to a Lego block.”
How could I disagree? I started reciting my list, but Ramona had drifted off already, so I lay there with my hands behind my thinning hairdo, gazing up at the stippled ceiling. My smile had subsided a little. It wasn’t like I’d been baptized in lemon juice, but you get the picture.
Most nights Steve brushes his teeth outside our bedroom door. If the door is open, he comes in. Boys are easy to talk to when there’s toothpaste in their mouth. Suddenly I missed those talks. I missed him pretending to wipe out as he came thumping down the stairs, just to see the horrified looks on our faces. I missed the music he would crank up about 11 p.m. in the room below us. Even if it sounded like someone killing chickens with a jackhammer. I missed him rolling on the floor with the dog and sometimes me. I missed standing at the fridge together about midnight talking about our day and wondering where Mom hid the mayonnaise.
Grandpa and Grandma missed him too. “We pray for him every night,” they said.
Even the dog missed Steve. I went looking for her one night, thinking the hound was lost. She was lying on Steve’s bed, her tail in the downward position. And try as I might to be brave and manly and a positive thinker Robert H. Schuller would admire, there were tears on my cheeks there in the dark.
I know there are far worse things than hugging your firstborn goodbye as he goes off to Bible college, but I missed my son.
“Lord,” I prayed, “take care of this boy. I know he was on loan, but we got pretty attached to him. Wherever he is and wherever he goes, go with him.”
And I thanked God that He loaned us two more kids. I’m so glad they’re around. They’re bright kids. I think they’ll make good lawyers. They can buy my medication.