The house is quiet except for the ticking of a clock marking either the time we have lived or the time we have left and I remember . . . .
I remember what it was like to have a little boy, my first little boy, at my side during what seemed to me to be his every waking moment. I remember seeing him every day, from the moment he woke up until I carried him to his bed in a heap, completely spent and exhausted from a day of hard play.
I remember meals together with him around our table, giving him his nightly bath, pushing him in a stroller and oftentimes carrying him on my shoulders. I remember him pulling me down to the floor so he could pretend he was a mountain climber as he crawled and climbed over one side of me only to do it again—up the other side—and on and on it would go until I was mercifully rescued by something else that caught his eye.
I remember taking him to school and telling him story after story as he laughed and laughed at what no one else would ever think was funny. I remember him helping me mow the grass, plant trees, paint the house, pound nails, butcher pigs, build fences, put up barns, and anything else I was busy doing.
I remember somewhere along the way him saying, he loved Jesus and I was glad. I remember him learning how to read and wanting to read the Bible and I was glad. I remember just watching him and knowing that God’s hand was upon him and wondered what he would become or do.
I remember teaching him how to play baseball and how proud I was when he became the first-string pitcher on his little league team. I remember going to all his games and feeling every cheer as well as every criticism, he received. I remember his fears about playing ball and not wanting to fail. I remember how proud he was of his uniform but how glad he was when the season was over. I remember that he didn’t play much baseball again.
I remember when he learned how to play the guitar and the little jingles he would write. I remember listening to his songs and wondering where thoughts like that came from. I remember when he began to lead worship in church and how proud I was to see him grow from being a follower and a learner to a leader.
I remember teaching him Greek, how to study his Bible, how to drive, as well as hunt, cut wood, take care of animals, love his family, to do things right the first time, and to always do his duty with integrity, honor, and joy.
I remember the day he joined the Army and the fatherly pleasure I experienced as I saw him follow in a family heritage of serving his country. I remember him leave for Iraq and I cried to see him go. I remember him coming home on leave and how much shorter two weeks is now than it was years ago when he was younger. I remember a little boy who is now a man and I am so glad I have so much to remember.
He’ll be leaving soon—in just a few hours. He’s all grown up and has responsibilities all his own and a duty to fulfill. And he has much more to do with his time than laugh at my stories and ride piggy-back around the house and he’ll probably never know, until he is a father, the matrix of pride, sadness, and joy I feel as from a distance I watch him pack his things and watch the clock at the same time. Pride in the man he has become, sadness in how short our time together has become, and yet such great joy in having so much to remember.
Dads don’t piddle your time with your children away. The delusion of our time is that time is on our side. It’s not. Live life with your family. As I send my son to Iraq again, I look forward to his next homecoming with great anticipation as well as with the joyful satisfaction that whether it is with me or His Heavenly Father—I have lived a lifetime with my little boy and enjoyed every minute of it.
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