We just got back
from a week of camping. Well, sort of camping. When we go on our
holidays in summer we bring with us our big tent - one that fits all of us,
from the least to the biggest - and that makes nights a little easier.
Our family tends to take up a lot of space when we go places, and staying
in hotels all the time just isn't possible. So, we bring our big tent and
set it up in Amma's (my mom) backyard, or in the yards of friends with whom we
stay when we wander across the prairies on our summer adventures.
This past week
took us to Little Bow Provincial Park, at a reservoir down in the coulees of
southern Alberta
My inlaws, the
Co-Director's parents, sisters, and their spouses and kids all had neighbouring
sites. There were 22 of us altogether - 8 adults and 14 children, the
eldest of which - a cousin - was 10. It was beautiful chaos, filled with
love and passion and that bursting bundle of raw emotions that a child becomes
when new surroundings, new experiences, and an astounding lack of sleep
combine. I pitied the people next to us. When we went to the beach
it looked like an invading army of munchkins: that beach was owned, pounded by
related toes and feets, sandcastled, sand-fortressed, and expurgated under the
relentless excursions that brought us to the water, and back.
At the end of the
day my littles were done. I mean well-done. Eyes that drooped in sleep
glowed with manic intensity as they strove to keep on playing, to squeeze every
last drop of togetherness and family out of their cousins, as if they had to
stock up until the next time they saw each other. I couldn't blame them.
But eventually, fatherly
prerogative overruled my desire to let them play. But they were filthy.
So I took the two boys and our big girl to the only place in the campsite
that had hot and cold running water; a shower room. Well, showering with
all of them would have been like trying to corral a group of slippery eels.
So, we took over the broad counter with two sinks, and I sat them up on
the counter and I took a towel and set to the business of getting them as clean
as possible.
From top to bottom
I scrubbed: sun-reddened foreheads, little bits of stubborn sand at the corners
of their mouths (from throwing toys at each other), grit that gathered where
sunblock and sweat rested in the little folds of their skin. Dirty little
hands became...somewhat...shiny under my care, though such deep-seated dirt was
not going to come clean without application of chisel, a day off work, and a
mission statement. I cleaned them all the way down to their toes.
It was as I
cleaned those thirty chubby digits with my towel that I peered up into three
sets of eyes - all different, yet all mine; flesh of my flesh, and bone of my
bone. They looked at me, trusting me not to tickle but hoping I would at
the same time; trusting that I, their father, would make sure they were ready
for the next days' fun.
And I wondered
what Jesus thought as he cleaned the feet of the disciples on one particular
night. Did he see them from the beginning, or who they were becoming?
Christ, the greatest of all, became the servant of those whom he loved -
even the servant of the one who betrayed him. There was no action, no
potentiality, that brought anyone out of the love of Christ.
I withered under
those six earnest eyes. I looked into them, trying to discern their
future: happy, sad, exhuberant, tragic? I thought of all the endless
cliches that surround parenting, especially fatherhood - the sappy, meaningless
drivel that is supposed to give joy to someone who's idea of being a father is
buying hockey equipment - and I realized that they were all wrong.
I cannot protect
my children. I am neither big enough, strong enough, or powerful enough
to protect them from all the things that life will throw at them. I
cannot save them from bullies, from bosses; I am even powerless to protect them
from someone intent on bringing one of them to harm: I an neither omniscient,
nor omnipotent.
But I am their
father.
And because I am
their father I can care for them: I can scold them, encourage them, get them
dirty and make them clean again - as their heavenly Father made them clean in
their own baptismal waters. Scrubbing thirty chubby toes clean, I
realized one thing: of all the memories I hope I make for my children, rather
than a toy, or a holiday, or an experience - I hope, I pray, that they remember
the day their daddy washed their feet.
And I hope I
remember those thirty dirty toes my whole life long.
No comments:
Post a Comment