Family Squeeze (6 page)

I never expected to see the day when girls
would get sunburned in the places they do now
.

W
ILL
R
OGERS

I
t’s surprising how much you can learn when three teenagers are hanging around the house eying your car keys. For instance, I learn humility whenever my daughter says, “Why did you get a haircut? Nothings happening up there.” I learn self-control whenever I can’t find the remote control. Or when my son informs me that eighteen friends are coming to watch three movies in fifteen minutes and that they haven’t eaten in four days.

I learn about history from one of my sons, whose room looks like Pompeii.

I learn diplomacy when shopping with my daughter, something I have been suckered into only twice. (I would like to tell you I also learn patience while shopping with her, but that is still a ways off.)

I learn that teenagers are too old to do things kids do and too young to act like adults. So they do things no one else would dare.

And I learn that times have changed.

When I was a teenager, boys chased the girls. I remember the day in tenth grade when a blonde named Ramona moved in next door, and I made it my life verse to love my neighbor as myself. I remember how my science, math, and geography grades began to plummet in the wake of her presence, and how I pursued her across the vast ocean of courtship by phone, by foot, and in my father’s car.

Back in those primitive years before the invention of helpful objects like cell phones that work underwater, we boys spent a good deal of time chasing girls. We planned for it, we paid for it, and we preened for it. But something happened a few short years ago: role reversal. Girls began chasing boys.

They are aggressive. They are like hungry lionesses preying on limping antelope. They yell out car windows at them. They call them on the telephone. We fathers greet these calls with the same enthusiasm we reserve for telemarketers. “You’d like to speak with my son?” we say. “I am sorry, he is on a mission trip to Zimbabwe where he is marrying several local girls.”

The caller does not laugh at this point. In fact, she thinks she has the wrong number, hangs up, and calls again.

This time we try something different: “Is this Emma, Sophia, or Ashley? There are so many, I get you mixed up.” Believe me, this one works. Try it for yourself if you doubt me.

Since my sons are both receiving calls from lovely girls who I am sure will make fine wives for someone in twenty or thirty years, I have decided to issue an edict to help them increase their chances of that someone being one of my children. I understand there is a list for daughters, but not for sons. Until now. Though shorter than Martin Luther’s Ninety-Five Theses, I believe this list is worth nailing to the front door. I will be doing so myself later today. With a staple gun.

1. If you would like to talk with my son, please do this in the church foyer when the lights are on. Remember to bring your family Bible.
   

2. If you call my house to talk with my son, your call may be monitored by our customer service department.
   

3. My son is sixteen. The following locations and activities are acceptable for your date. Um…I am drawing a blank here.
   

4. If you want to hang out with my son, you will have to put up with me. I am out on a weekend pass from a nearby institution and don’t have a clue what I will do or say next.
   

5. My son cannot use my minivan to drive you to a mall. The van is already booked that year.
   

6. Please do not touch my son. Do not lean up against him unless you are falling over and in danger of injuring yourself or plunging from a cliff. Do not even pull lint from his ear. I have been trying to do this for years, and he will not let me. He can do this himself.
   

7. I am aware that it is considered fashionable for girls your age to wear Britney Spears T-shirts that do not reach their low-slung pants or necklines that sink lower than the Russian ruble. My wife and I have discussed this, and since we want to be fair and open-minded about it, you are free to show up in such attire. My wife will affix it properly to your body with a glue gun.
   

8. Above all else, please remember that we’ve been praying for this boy since before God gave him breath, and we will continue to. If you’re the one, we’ve been praying for you, too.
   When and if he chooses a godly girl, we will be happier than Mr. and Mrs. Turtle when they finally exited Noah’s Ark, but until then we’ll keep praying that both of you will pursue Jesus first, and watch everything else fall into place.
   

P.S. If you are a teenage girl who has read this and still has a smile on your face, go ahead and call. Our number is 1-800-321. If you somehow get through, just remember that your call may be monitored by our customer service department.

It is remarkable with what
Christian fortitude and resignation we
can bear the suffering of other folks
.

J
ONATHAN
S
WIFT

B
efore our children entered their teen years, Ramona began having seizures—grand mal seizures, they call them. I assure you, there is nothing grand about them. A typical episode saw her muscles seize up and her body slump to the floor in a rigid and seemingly lifeless heap. Then would begin a period of violent convulsions during which I held her and prayed my favorite prayer. These random occurrences lasted up to an hour at a time and frightened the living daylights out of us both. Unable to drive, uncertain how to plan each day, Ramona slid into a dark pit John Bunyan referred to as the Slough of Despond.

One doctor informed us that sleep deprivation and alcohol abuse are two major causes of seizures. Then he stopped talking, his eyes darting from Ramona to me.

“I’ve thought of alcohol,” she admitted.

“She’s as dry as my high school teachers’ jokes,” I interjected. “But sleep deprivation, now—you’ve heard of Irish twins? We almost had Irish triplets. She hasn’t slept since 1986.”

The seizures continued to worsen. One night I asked Ramona if
there was anything I could do to alleviate some of the pressure around the house. “Hire a maid,” she smiled.

“No, really,” I repeated. “What can I do?”

“You’re going through enough with all of this,” she responded. “I’ll be fine.” Ramona could never be accused of inconveniencing anyone. Lend her an egg; she’ll bring you back a full carton.

“When would you like me home?” I asked her.

“Can you find a way to be here for breakfast and get the kids ready for school?”

I told her I would find a way.

“And how about the rest of the morning, just to massage my feet?”

I told her she was pushing it.

“I just wonder about the kids,” she said, her voice trailing away. “How they’re handling this.”

“I promise you something,” I told her. “I’m not much good with massage, and my cooking needs work, but I will always be here for you and for them.”

Over the years I’ve missed a boatload of deadlines. I’ve hit the wrong net in hockey. I’ve deposited hundreds of golf balls in fine creeks everywhere. But, thank God, I’ve never broken that promise.

Sometimes the children and I enjoyed the weirdest concoctions for breakfast. Did you know that you can disguise almost anything in an omelet? I invented porridge a la mode, much to their delight. Sure, they had stomachaches by lunch, but it’s a happy kind of stomachache best treated with a large bowl of fresh raspberries topped with maple syrup.

Some of my best memories of those years come from taking the three of them bowling after dinner. Or swimming. Or out for ice cream (as if we needed more). Before bed we curled up on the sofa together, and I read a Bible picture book or told them a story of my childhood. I remain convinced that story hour is one of the greatest bonding opportunities parents are afforded. To leave the TV off and read books is the closest some of us come to pure sainthood.

The stories often gave way to discussions and almost always to laughter. And before I tucked them in, I prayed aloud and blessed them and told them that of all the children in the world, I couldn’t have picked out three better ones—and I meant every word.

I have had the pleasure of traveling the world, of attending professional sporting events, of eating and sleeping in the finest hotels, but I assure you that the memory of these pleasures does not bring a smile to my face like the memory of those evenings on the sofa.

A lady with a prunish look once pulled me aside to tell me that seeing their mother have seizures would be hard on children, that I really needed to shield them better. I’m not quite sure what she had in mind—sending them somewhere in a spaceship? (She would really think I’d gone over the edge if she knew that we later invited my parents to live with us.)

Of course I’d love to protect my children from pain, but life happens instead. And as it comes along, so does mercy and—thank God—grace.

I see brief glimpses of that grace in the fact that these three kids still want to hang around us. Okay, not always. But come bedtime most nights, I notice them lingering in the living room like they want me to pronounce the benediction or something. And so, whenever I can, I do. If we have time, I read to them from a rich biography of some great hero of the faith or a quick story I’ve clipped from somewhere. The time allotted me is shorter now because of their schedules, so sometimes we just sit and talk as they munch on their bedtime meals. Just as we did when they were small, we finish our day with prayer. And I tell them that of all the children in the world, I couldn’t have picked out three who eat more.

After months of testing, diagnosis, and the eventual prescription of antiseizure medication, Ramona’s health slowly returned. All of us watched with thanksgiving as she gradually emerged from the Slough of Despond.

I do not wish to trivialize the many lessons we learned about suffering and pain and compassion for the struggles of others. In hindsight, I have not experienced growth apart from difficulty; in fact, I doubt I have learned one solitary thing worth remembering that was not forged in the furnace of suffering. But certainly one of the greatest lessons our family has learned is this: When it comes right down to it, the only way to face a crisis that makes any sense at all—is together. And the only direction to face—is up.