He Goes Boldly...

I help him step out of the truck, curbside at the front door of his middle school building, among the crowd of students waiting for the doors to open.  The usual greeting of the teacher or classroom aide who I hand him off to is not yet present.  It’s the day after a holiday and we have arrived earlier than usual.  I don’t wait.  As my 14 year old steps onto the sidewalk he turns and I help him put on his backpack.  I look one more time as the early crowd files in, take a solid breath, and ask him, “Do you remember where your classroom is?”  He points toward the door.  I say to him, “Alright, then go there.  Have a good day.” Off he lurches toward the door in his Corban style of walk.  I walk back around to the driver’s side but I don’t jump into the cab just yet.  I pause with one hand on the door and watch my son with cerebral palsy disappear around the corner of the entrance leading into the front door.  He goes boldly.  I wait for just a little longer then I get into the truck and slowly drive away.  My eyes glance into the mirror to see behind me, looking for him in case he decided to bolt back out of the school.  Then I go boldly.  The fear that wants to grip my heart tightly, loosens as I pry its fingers away and steel myself to the truth that I cannot always guide his every step.  Some days it seems easy to go boldly; some days, not so much.

Today…you go boldly.

Father Flattery

Father Flattery is this guy that I see occasionally; seen awkwardly at times.  Then a void will pass before he suddenly pops back into my life.  His most recent visitation was two weeks ago while I was working in the yard and looked up to see him standing on my front porch. He’s a small figure of a man, full of energy going off in different directions, his grin infectious.

I was honing my skills in using the week fork which is a sharpened V-shaped metal tip mounted to a three foot wooden handle, the right length for prying up those most stubborn weeds.  I had mounded up a large pile of weeds from the Bermuda when I happened to look up and see Flattery standing on the porch, leaning on the wooden colonial rail.  He’d been watching me for how long I don’t know but he was waiting for the look.  That’s when he made his move and stepping off the porch he made his way carefully down the steep driveway.

I can’t say that I blame him for standing on the porch, in the shade, because one look at my sweat covered face and clothes would give a normal person pause about coming out into the direct sun.  Flattery was now standing beside me and motioning for a turn with the weed fork, I handed the tool over to him and stepped back to watch.  Carefully and with two hands just as he had seen me wield the instrument he dug into the Bermuda, pushing the sharp tip into a green mass.  Then stooping over while holding the handle with his left hand he reached with his right near the metal prongs and pulled up a small patch of grass.  It was not weeds mind you, it was grass. 

I stood there, sweating, watching, returning Flattery’s smile as he turned his face to look over his shoulder at me with an expectant look.  The sound he made could be audible to anyone but only translated by me into the statement which he was making…”See dad, I can do it too.”

I am sometimes desperate for Father Flattery to show up but then sometimes I see him even when I’m not looking for him.  I think his message to me is to be expectant.  I wonder what Father Flattery’s message to you might be?