Holding his hands in mine I ask him,"Which hand do you want to use?" "Left," he says. So I clutch his left one, while trying to shape it in the right way to hold his crayon. Guiding his hand across the paper I try to help him keep between the lines. He's grown so much in three years. No longer looking like a baby, but like his mother's little man. He has his moments, as all children do at that age. Overall he has a good heart like his mom. He looks up at me and grins that mischevous grin. "No, let me lead your hand, son," I say. Still feels strange calling someone son, when that's what I had been called for so long.
Life's roles change so quickly though. The father has a son and then the son becomes the father. Time waits for no man, I know. It doesn't seem that long ago to me I was sitting on my dad's lap coloring. Saying almost the exact same things that once was spoken to me. How funny to consider the way I speak, and even the way I hold my head reminds me of him.
Now my son looks to me for guidance. He tries to follow my footsteps. "God help me, help my stupid self," comes to mind at the very thought of someone following me. My path isn't straight, more like one step forward, two to the left, five to the right, three back, and then right on my face.
Never have been much of a leader. And being a father scares me to death. Every move I make for better or worse is scrutinized by young eyes.
What dark blue eyes he has, too. He's always looking for an opportunity to show love to someone. The first hint from a person that they are going to be receptive to him, he's off. Arms wide open and always with a kiss on the cheek, he comes. One lady, at a restaurant, upon recieving one of his classic hugs, remarked,"Wouldn't it be great if we all could love like that?" How right she is. A child's love like that is unconditional. Maybe there is some part of me, long forgotten by me, at his core. It could be, like I referenced earlier, his mom's caring heart. I like to think the latter.
Looking at the clock I see it's time for me to go to work. "Gotta go, buckaroo," comes my good bye. "But, I'll miss you," is his reply. Now what I can say to that except choke up. "I'll miss you, too." He holds on a little tighter, laying his head on my shoulder. Boy, I tell you, it's hard to put him down after that. I hand him to my wife. And with a kiss good bye I leave.
Backing out of the driveway he waves, another moment in my memories. Oh, how fleeting are those moments. What kind of impact am I making in his life? Will I be able to keep between the lines to lead him?
I bow my head,"Father, oh Father, how can I lead, when I don't even know where this road leads in the end?"
Feeling a hand on mine as I hold the steering wheel, my answer comes. The answer comes in a voice so simple and low. The voice is from so long ago. Learning to drive my father said,"It's a long, narrow road. Only the good Lord knows where it leads in the end, but you've got to begin. Don't worry, if you need me, I'll help you keep it between the lines." And so life begins again, as my soul searching continues between the lines. The lines are God and us, and between them is Jesus. (For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus; 1 Timothy 2:5)by