First, your questions about God and you, and how you fit Together. All your doubts, fears and angers thrust out in the open. Your repentance once coming face to face with the truth. Then, as if someone had given you the answer unbeknown to any of us, you just slid right into the relationship with God you had resisted in your logic and reason for as long as I can remember.
Now you know of Him. It is of no question or concern to you anymore.
He's there - you're His. It's okay. And you are moving in closer all on your own.
Your responsibility level where your commitment to God is concerned is inspiring. Only God could have reached in and moved you to this area in this way. The decisions you are making, the things you are putting first, I could have preached until I was blue (and sometimes did) and I couldn't ignite a spark much less a fire like the one you have burning now.
Thank God.
And then there was the night when something opened up in you. Something, I guess I imagine is more of a gift or talent than a commitment or discipline.
I wanted to write it down immediately, what happened. I wanted it to be full of fresh details and to sort out all the mystery of it as soon as possible. But the unusual nature of it all made me question if it was real.
I didn't write that night. I don't know that it would have been fair to have described it quite yet. So unprocessed and still not fully understood.
This morning, I look back on last Saturday night with the same questions I had in the moment. What happened to you? What was that spark? What caused it? Was it as good as it seemed? When will we see it again? Why aren't you always in that place?
Looking back, I try to connect the dots, but all the words I can come up with seem so futile in comparison what happened. It's so hard to explain.
I retrace the steps that led up to it:
We went to the races.
You were very pleased. After a few minutes in our seats you seemed to become discontent, even nervous. As usual, you were quiet about it. We had to notice and then ask you what was the matter. You could only whisper it to one of us, also typical. You expressed that you were very worried about your hearing. You do worry about certain things (rats in the house, fires, robbers/things that have never happened to you), so this didn't seem out of the norm to us.
We bought you some earplugs and you were happy as could be.
You won something publicly. People praised you, gave you things, shook your hand, smiled and nodded, waved and whistled. You were photographed. That was new for you.
You rode in the water truck. I had shown you the water truck as it went around the track when we first arrived. We asked you if you thought you might like to enter the drawing that would give you a chance to ride in the water truck. You said "yes". We were a little surprised. You're not comfortable riding your four wheeler, or sitting on peoples' laps on riding lawn mowers, etc... we were kind of unsure that you would accept this ride if you won.
(When I put your name in that box with all those other names I almost wrote Kevin LeBreck, so you could hear them call you "Kevin".)
When they called your name I acted surprised. I felt something, not like my own personal feelings. I felt like something happened. Not that you won, or that you would ride the truck. But something happened to you, for you, in you. Not pride. Not a false sense of worthiness. But something good and big and deep.
I still don't know if it was related to your name being called, or if there was just something much more to it all. More than I'll ever understand.
Your Dad asked me privately if you would be able to do it. I encourage him to be quiet and just let it happen.
You and I went down to the pits when it was time. They put you in the truck. I watched your eyes. Big truck. Fast track. Lots of attention. Strangers. No control. The unknown.
I did wonder how you'd fare.
But they slammed the doors, revved the engine, and you were off. Lap after lap after lap. I checked your face as best I could as you passed by. You seemed fine.
When you finished, you were good.
Had the change already happened, or did it begin somewhere on the truck? I don't know.
But the first I saw it, we were on our way back to our seats. I remember you holding the pop can. You looked at the label and you said fast and different (I wish I could explain that better),
"Mom, this pop has 45 grams of sugar. Just like the last can. That means I'm going to have had 90 grams of sugar, because 40 + 40 = 80 and 5 + 5 = 10 and 80 + 10 = 90."
And it's not that you aren't very smart son. But adding is the one thing, the ONE THING, we have met who has given you a run for your money. I never knew you were speed adding in your head, numbers, one by one. And you formed a habit, early on. And we have been working slowly on reforming to memorization. This untaught break down of addition did certainly catch my attention.
If it hadn't been for this one thing, I might have thought it was the soda. The 90 grams of sugar. But looking back, it's too obvious that what happened in your mind that night, started before that second can of soda was even opened.
From there, we returned to our seats and finished the races with ear plugs and very little talking on account of the noise. There were some bathroom breaks, and lots of waters. But when the races were finished and all was quiet, we were in the car heading for home and it was then you opened up.
It wasn't anything profound. It was just so unlike you. You're so quiet and serious most of the time. You were talking and talking and talking. Your Dad and I just kept looking at each other, shaking our heads and smiling.
I must have asked you 10 times what you did with my son. We joked that we took the wrong kid home from the races. "Where is all of this coming from?" we asked you.
You were hilarious. Talking and joking and coming up with all this stuff. So entertaining and certain and fullness gushing. Unusual.
Don't get me wrong. You are sweet and funny and intelligent and SO fun to be around. But you have never been a fast talking, quick witted, steal the spotlight and the show, confident, uninhibited chatter box by any means. Until that ride home.
And when we got home you were still at it. And so, maybe you had a lot of sugar. I was thinking this would be a great side effect to sugar, and we should buy some root beer and sun drop to test this theory out, because I could live with this. It was like, all the parts of you that keep you from being completely like me (the refined, cautious, peacekeeping, insecure parts/like your Daddy) were all gone. And you were just there. Like "Take it or leave it - here I am world!"
It was adorable.
Then, I mentioned the possibility of a chicken coop next spring. I was pinning photos of different types on my laptop, and you whip out papers and pencils, and measuring tape. Then you were drawing your own coop plans. You couldn't stop talking, and I want so much to remember what you were saying, but I was just laughing and shaking my head in amazement the whole time. WHO ARE YOU? I kept asking.
You drew your coop. You wrote the words describing each and every part as a diagram. Then you used the measuring tape to decide the actual size of the coop and the length of boards you would need. You wrote them down on another paper as a supply list. At this point I stopped what I was doing and watched you. Planning, and drafting, and sizing and list making are not new concepts for you. You see me do this all the time. But something was happening to you. Something was different.
And all at once memories came rushing to me: I remembered back to all the times when you were so small and you would stand in the doorways, rubbing the walls and looking up at the angles of the door jams. "Built it?" you would ask.
I remembered how you would inquire about the construction of a place well before you would ask the more obvious kid questions.
I remembered how anyone in construction (Jesse, Kevin, Home Depot workers) made you stare, follow, and light up. How you would try to unscrew your toys when you were a toddler. How you tried to plaster the wall. How you could start and pound a nail by three years old.
I realized that I built you a wood working bench when you were three, and you would sit outside mornings, pounding and pounding. That we still have that station set up in the garage today. And you still construct on a regular basis. You are always asking me if you can use your saw to cut a box or some wood we just finished with.
And here you were, just pouring out all of this on paper. I want to say, big deal. You're smart. You like construction. You were just doing what you do. But honestly, you weren't like you at all. You were different. Your Dad and I both saw it. We saw it so much that we let you stay up until 11:30 because we didn't want it to stop.
And the next day, you crawled out of bed, and you were back. My boy. Quiet and shy, a little uncertain, snuggly, and sweet.
I don't know what, but I do know that we saw something. Something different than we know of you. Something happening inside. And I can't wait for more.
Oh, how could I forget. That night you made a declaration. I wish I could explain what it felt like when you said it. How I know you SO well, and it was SO not like you. The least like you of all of it. But the MOST believable part.
You randomly spoke out while you were drawing your coop,
"You know I'm totally going to grow up to be amazing. That's my plan."
And we know this Zeek. What ever you do, you will be amazing. But to hear that you know it too, is so very very wonderful. Especially, coming from someone like you.
No comments:
Post a Comment