In my recent practice, I’ve been trying to pay attention to the times I receive abundance with ease. I’m finding two edges to it. One edge is delightfully savoring what is real, life-giving, and present. The other edge is surrendering yearnings for what might absent, especially the things that have been deeply longed for. This piece fleshes that out.
If you are a parent, can I ask you a favor? At the end of this paragraph, would you close your eyes for me? Would you take a moment to just breathe and let your mind settle? Would you even place your hands over your heart? I’d like you to revisit a memory of a time you watched your child perform or compete in public. It could be anything from a spelling bee to the soccer field. Your child was out there, displaying an inborn talent or hard won competency for the world to see. The moment wasn’t just your child’s. It belonged to you and the other loving witnesses in the stands that day. Whatever memory arrives, allow yourself to soak into it. Anything about the colors, the sounds, the mood in the space–it is all welcome here. Triumphant or comedic or tragic, soak in as much as you can. Go ahead, this is important.
Thank you for that.
I myself revisit a moment as I write this. It was in a dark, stuffy middle school auditorium in the early afternoon. It had been windy that spring day, so dark, heavy coats trapped my mother and I in our respective seats. Before us was great commotion as school children talked, texted, and avoided their teacher’s disapproving views. This was a middle school rehearsal of Alice in Wonderland. I stayed for all of it, but I only cared about 2 minutes. That was when my son marched to music on stage. He was one of 6 mice in the production. At the end of their march, they moved to the center, locked arms, and bowed deeply alongside the teacher who had led their adaptive drama course. I don’t remember how much noise I made applauding or cheering, but my heart was full. Tears still form in my eyes as I write this.
That’s the only time my son has performed or competed. Which is maddening, because I find him to be so special.
He is special in that music and movement have flowed through him from the earliest age. Special in that he is a reclusive artist, shutting down as soon as he has drawn a crowd. As he struggled to build vocabulary and original speech, he began borrowing lines from movies to communicate. As he’s gotten older, his line selection and use has grown more appropriate and useful. (That’s special too). And when he found characters from Sesame Street that resonated for him, he adopted them and renamed himself Bert and Ernie. Despite earnest, consistent, misguided efforts from a variety of teachers, he has remained Bert and Ernie for years.
His mother was the first to support his personal brand. She found brightly colored Sesame Street socks that depict the characters’ faces. Each day, he wears one Bert sock and one Ernie sock. Since he wears shorts year round, his socks stand out. Throughout the day, he freely moves back and forth between the characters, mimicing their voices and repeating some of their iconic lines. Sporadically, he will just turn to someone and say, “You are a human, and we are a puppet.”
This dual character identity is critical beyond branding. He uses the characters to sort out conflicting inner realities. And, the characters tend to do it out loud, which gives myself and others a clue what is going on. This conversation, as an example, revealed his first crush to all of us.
“I like Janessa.”
“She’ll never go for you, you are a puppet.”
“Shut up, you stupid smelly puppet.”
When he started 9th grade at a new school, I went on the tour. It was there that I bumped into the drama teacher, learned students would perform The Little Prince, and began dreaming of my son on stage.
I myself found high school to be unpleasant. Overweight, shy, awkward, I was uncomfortable in my own skin. But on acting on stage, I found shelter and felt protected. If my son could get into the play, might he also find protection? And, how might another 2 minutes in another school auditorium feed me?
I pitched him on auditioning many times. Each ask strengthened and charged his refusal.
“No.”
“I said no.”
“Stop talking.”
“BOP!”
Without hope in my voice or any incentive scheme in place, I asked again the morning of auditions. He said yes.
The change in routine and fatigue in his body disagreed at 4pm. He scowled and crossed his arms, then threw his backpack, then shouted, then cried while his whole body trembled. This example of disregulation is neither common nor novel. He feels things very deeply. He rarely has words for it, but his inner world flows through and out of his body as easily as joyful music and dance. He lives with abandon, and it is a wonder to behold.
School staff were incredible. One brought in an office partition, creating a boundary between my son and other students so no one entering or exiting the building would be harmed. Another gave my son space and silence. Gradually, she used hand gestures and visual action cards to support my son’s feelings and to give him a variety of choices. I sat in witness–sad for him, consoled that this school was the perfect environment for him, guilty that I might have pushed this too much. “Who was he auditioning for?” was a question I pushed out of mind. He decided he would audition another day, and we left school.
The first miracle arrived the next day. Loving my kid and wanting him in the play, the director created a special audition.
The second came a few days later. My son was offered a part. After his mother expressed concerns, the part was right sized. He would be in the play.
He lasted 30 minutes on the first day of practice.
An hour on the second.
2 hours on the third.
The director’s accommodations and my son’s participation defied all of my hopes.
Somehow, months passed. Over time, my son would cover his socks to don a costume and would spend time with other kids. This was the greatest miracle of all. No longer was he sitting alone at lunch or walking quietly through the hallways. Instead of reading about school dances and activities, he was at them.
I bought tickets for every performance. I even dared talking about this unfolding wonder in my faith community. From the pulpit, I lifted it as a prayer that had been answered. I shared my God Box practice with them, and even brought boxes in case people wanted to try the practice for themselves.
And then it was over.
My son missed his curtain during the final rehearsal. Backstage, parent volunteers had worked feverishly to get him ready for his moment. When things looked bad, they even called and texted me.
“Puppets don’t go on stage” was his response.
There were no outbursts or tears, no violence real or threatened. He possessed total clarity about who he was and what he would not do. That was that for him
For me? I cried.
Like a good midwestern male, I cried in private. (I also broke down during two zoom meetings.) After a few days, I looked up and saw my God Box sitting on a shelf. The container had held years of prayers from every corner of my life. On my son’s behalf, what exactly had I prayed for?
How had my practice, this box, and my Source failed me? To find out, I unfurled and read every slip.
I had prayed to be guided as a father.
I had prayed for less drama and entanglements with his mother (my ex).
I had prayed for his cognitive, emotional, and social development.
I had prayed that he would experience quality care and meaningful companionship.
I had prayed that he be showered with love, acceptance, and warmth.
Every prayer had been answered.
This play had been instrumental in it.
When I am able to surrender my yearning for a particular experience for my son and for myself, only abundance remains.