Old Pals

They sat on the steps of an old porch floor,
Two buddies of so long ago.
And spoke of their life and the years before
When time was no threatening blow.

Tear filled my eyes as I saw them there,
So sad they couldn’t be me.
With so many things to do in my life
And many years left just for me.

I wondered why there were no tears
From two old men with so few years.
On each weathered face was a special smile,
I decided to stay, to listen a while.

They spoke of their youth, of skipping school
To fish in old man Chaney’s pool.
And vowed if one was ever caught,
To say they did and the other did not.

One laughed as he spoke of a girl he once knew
Who frowned when his pal had to come along too.
She told him he’s better make up his mind
And he took his dear pal and left her behind.

Their wives, their children, the bad times, the good.
They spoke of them all, then the old buddies stood
And helped each other down the stairs,
Seeming to have no worries or cares.

I watched them walk beyond my sight
And at that moment knew
What memories mean, so long old pals,
I’ve got some living to do.

For the past few years, I have tried several times to really portray the true glory of bike riding to my youngest daughter. I attempted to explain how amazing it feels to glide along the concrete with the wind in your hair and a big stupid smile on your face. I have dazzled her with amazing stories of my brothers and myself living countless adventures only afforded to us because we mastered our fancy two wheeled yachts. Actually, our bikes were usually “Frankenstein” bikes that were skillfully pieced together by our then step-Dad. But, regardless, we would spend hours on them roaming the neighborhoods, jumping ramps, and creating our own trails.

I spent more than  many hours in the past, grasping the back of my daughter’s bike seat and running for miles down the sidewalk while she screamed, “I can’t Daddy, I can’t.” Sometimes, I would let go and she would go a few feet, but the moment she noticed I was gone, she was terrified and her worse fear was realized… she fell. Sure, we did the helmet thing. And knee pads and elbow pads and whatever other kind of pad was available. But always, the threat of road-rash was foremost in her mind.

And then one day, we gave up.

Now, this story is ripe with metaphor that is all too easy to spot. Simply replace the bike riding with any other fearful task and cast God in the Daddy role and… well, you get the point.

But, that’s not all this story is about. Spring has recently rolled around the corner and I (once again) brought up the idea of trying the whole bike thing again. Her arguments against it were the same, but they had grown much more eloquent and persuasive through the years. In a list ditch attempt to do something, I “Googled” the problem. I simply put “learn to ride a bike” into the search box and the number of suggested links were endless. After sifting through many many many websites, I ended up on You Tube.

There was video showing kids in New York (bikenewyork.org) learning to ditch the training wheels with a simple solution: they take the pedals off. Yep… they took a wrench and removed the pedals. The idea is that if you take the pedals off and lower the seat so that your kid can have both feet flat on the street, they can then propel themselves around at will. They are in control and have no fear of falling since their feet can catch them at any time. When they want to, they pick up their feet and coast for a bit to feel the balance. Eventually, you put the pedals back on and they get it. Seemed to good to be true, but we thought we’d give it a shot.

Needless to say (after about an hour or so), when we saw our beautiful girl ride those first few feet alone, my wife and I were beside ourselves. We threw our hands up in victory. You would have thought she had just won a gold medal in the Olympics. I’m not too proud to say, I had blurry tear filled eyes. And my angel had the biggest grin that she unsuccessfully attempted to hide. She spent the next hour riding in short bursts up and down our street.

Later that evening, I took her up to the church parking lot to give her the chance to ride without stopping for the incredible amount of cars that suddenly felt the need to utilize our thoroughfare. She rode in circles, straight lines (of a sort), and figure eights. Once, when she rode close to me, I asked, “well… what do you think?” She shouted, “I feel so free!”

It’s been a while since my heart felt that happy. I will cling to this memory and replay it many times. What an amazing day.

Ever since I can remember, I have wanted to be on stage. I was never an extreme extrovert that wanted to be the center of attention. In fact, I was always relatively shy. I still am, for the most part. I only know that there was a feeling in my heart, a “tugging” that I could not explain. I needed to be in front of an audience.

When I was about six years old, I remember making my father and a friend laugh until they had tears in their eyes. I don’t remember what I was doing, but I will never forget the amazing warmth in my chest as I watched them fall over themselves. I just knew that laughter had to be my life.

For a good part of my youth, I was going for my dream. I put a lot of effort into pursuing opportunities to make audiences laugh. I performed in plays, musicals, and improvisational comedy shows. At the risk of sounding like a fruitcake, I would say I was truly doing what I thought God had called me to do.

And then time passed and life changed. Some good changes. Some not so good. Some really bad. And for a very long time now my dream has been buried. Little voices in my head whisper of the futility of my dreams. Dark thoughts suggest that perhaps it was never a calling after all. Surely, I was kidding myself. There are more important things.

Lately, the “tugging” has returned and is stronger than ever. I so deeply long to dream again. I still perform when I can in the ways that I can, but… it’s not enough. I miss my dream. I want it back. I want to feel like I am answering the call again.

I have insomnia. I can’t sleep. I try, believe me. I listen to soft music, take hot baths, drink warm milk, and visualize sandy beaches with gentle waves and seagulls singing (or whatever they do). No matter what I do, my brain just does not want to shut off. It’s afraid it’ll miss something. I don’t know what it would miss at 3 a.m., but the fear is real.

Truth is, I’m not really complaining about the lack of sleep. I’ve sort of grown used to it. Sleep deprivation is not my biggest nightmare. You want to know what is? Waking up my kids!

Actually, one of them is in college, so whether or not she wakes up is her business. One is a Senior in high school and long ago I told him that if he did not set his alarm and he missed school, he could just stay home and work at McDonald’s for the rest of his life (no offense to Mickey D workers). But, I still have one that is too young too leave to her own devices or to threaten with real world consequences (however exaggerated they may be). And she knows this. She sets her alarm and then sleeps through the blaring Taylor Swift hits of the day.

I have tried it all. You name the method or kid waking gimmick and I have tried it. I almost ordered that CD from the radio for problem kids, but that seemed extreme. And costly. I have tried the nice Dad approach. You know, where you tip toe into the room and whisper, “wake up sweetie” accompanied by a gentle tickle and some obnoxious fatherly bed shaking. I have tried being the pragmatic Dad, overstating just how hard it would be to have to repeat the fourth grade in light of the forthcoming 15th truancy (or 38th tardy, whichever comes first). I have tried doing the angry Dad thing, lowering my voice a few octaves and then saying only, “get up now.” I have tried being the emotional Dad, pleading and crying. Seriously… once I cried.

It’s not that she doesn’t get up. She gets up. Eventually. But… then she’s, well… she’s NOT a “morning person.”  The whole process has become a bit scary. The other morning there was so much foot stomping, throwing things, eye rolling, spitting, and cursing under the breath that my wife had to tell me to stop it already. I really am out of control. I even told my little girl yesterday that I was going to quit my job and home school her. What, what?

Truthfully, what she does is normal. My other kids did it and I did the same to my Mom. Someday we’ll look back at all this and laugh. Please, oh please let that day be tomorrow.

I love my little girl with all my heart. Although LOVE is not that word that comes to mind when we have less than three minutes to get to school and we live seven minutes away.

Life is hard, but mornings are harder. If mornings could just start in the afternoon, things would be great. Things would be swell for both me and my little night owl. No… the apple does not fall far from the tree at all. Sometimes, it lands right NEXT to it.

I just bought The ESV Study Bible on Amazon. I was looking at the different links for this particular bible and it suddenly made sense to me; I could really use the BIG PRINT edition of this thing. How nice would it be to actually see the words of God that would soon be inspiring me and changing my life (at least for a day or two)? I was actually happy and excited about it. I was envisioning myself waiting for the FedEx lady, her  handing me the 40 pound package and me ripping into the giant cardboard box to soak up the divine text. I was just about to click the “add to cart” button and it hit me; this is what old people do. Old people buy BIG PRINT books. Darn it. I am officially old. Even though I have expensive “invisible” bifocals, I still felt the need for BIG PRINT.

I just sat there with my mouth hanging open. I was drooling a little bit. My back was hurting. I forgot what I was even doing for a couple of minutes. And then I thought to myself, “you know, I am getting older… but I am not OLD.” In fact, it dawned on me that as long as I keep getting older, I can never be OLD. It’s a stopping place. It’s like walking to the grocery store, but never actually going in the front door. When people ask where you are going, you say, “to the grocery store.” And if they say, “it’s right there,” you can laugh and just say, “well I am not ready to go in there yet, I actually like walking to the gorcery store.” Of course, you’ll starve, but you get my point.

Getting older is sometimes downright depressing. But, if we can take the time to laugh at life, at ourselves, I don’t think we’ll ever stop at OLD. My mother taught me how to laugh. She raised me up to become a laughter loving fool. She worried so much about getting old. And I understand better each day what she was going through. Still, she made my brothers and  l laugh. She gave us the greatest gift of all; she gave us a life of laughter.

I miss her so very much. I miss her laugh.

By the way, I bought the small print bible. I was squinting when I went to hit the checkout button, but I suddenly felt so young and alive.

I love to see people laugh. And while the sound of laughter coming from anyone is priceless, there is nothing more amazing to me than the sound of a child laughing. From a toddler’s gurgling giggle when her Mom makes faces, to the exploding guffaw from a 9 year old who “gets the joke.” I don’t think there is a more delightful sound in the world. I see laughter as a gift from God. Like most true gifts from God, it is hard to explain just how it works. And the reasons for why we laugh are just as perplexing. But, one thing is for sure, laughter fills the soul. It may only be for a moment or two, but for those couple of moments… life is good. In the photo above, my daughter was laughing at something while I was taking some photos. I don’t remember what it was. Doesn’t really matter. I remember the joy I felt inside (and often feel) as I watched her cracking up through the lens. We laugh a lot, she and I. Sometimes she pleads, “make me laugh Daddy!” So, I try. For her. And for me.