From the Rector

Dear Friends in Christ,

I can’t really decide when to stop writing about our kids. When do their stories become theirs to share and not mine to record let alone share?

I’m writing this one down because it’s full. 

When our oldest son first came to live with us it was no easy feat to gain his trust. It was hard early on. If I held him, he might scream. If I moved suddenly, he might cry. If I raised my voice, it was too much. 

Early on, I had to ditch whatever preconceptions about what it would mean to love and be loved as a new family. We were going to have to take this slowly and accept whatever was going to emerge without imposing expectations on it.

If any male rough-housed, wrestled, play-punched, or the like with him, then he’d scream, maybe cry, maybe break down.

We broke through that a couple of years ago. He and I did, at least. I can pick him up, throw him, wrestle, toss him into the pool, and the like. He laughs and jokes like any “normal” kid. If another guy does it, we’re back to the beginning with the fear.

I warn uncles, grandfathers, and the like who all mean well. They want him to feel at home and loved. He’s not ready. They try and he cries. They want things to be “normal” but that requires that things have been “normal” before and, for him, they haven’t been.

Luckily though, we’ve been able to break through that. We have gotten to a kind of wary peace. Even so, even if he’s not afraid, he’s never quite been at rest. 

You know that easy, warm feeling you have when your kid snuggles up on the couch or falls asleep by you? We’ve never had that. 

I know what it’s like because his brother and I do have it. His brother comes to fight, to wrestle, to play-punch, to be the victor, and then to doze off like boys do after a well-fought fight. He’s a ham. He loves the attention. 

His brother is different. He’s never fallen asleep or relaxed. He doesn’t relax. He doesn’t want the attention. That’s not his story.

Except today though.

He’s been away for a while with grandparents. So there’d be a homecoming and a reunion, but I’ve learned to temper expectations for what those are. He’s always been happy to be home. But where his brother runs and cries and jumps when he sees you after a while apart, he looks down at the ground. 

He can’t quite bring himself to look into your eyes for fear that he will see in them that you’re not really so happy that he’s home. So he doesn’t dare to look.

Anyway, he’s been home for a couple of days. Settling back in.

Tonight, after a long while cuddling the dog, he came over on the couch and sat on the other side of it. Then he scooted closer. Then he kind of laid his head back toward my arm. 

Then he did the “normal” kid thing. 

He relaxed and just watched tv and snuggled up.

We watched the British Bake Show. We talked about eel pies and how gross they sound. He was excited about the star baker announcement. He told me that he would not make me a key lime pie, I’d have to learn myself. Then he said I could teach him to make them if I found a recipe and then he’d make them for us. 

Honestly, as afraid as he was, I was too. I could tell that some important thing was happening. Some new layer of trust was forming in the scoot across the couch. Some way of love was being opened. The boxing up of the old fears was slowly, if surely, under way. 

I kind of held my breath because I’d was afraid I’d ruin it. He was afraid he’d ruin it. But we didn’t ruin it. Then, after the star baker announcement and the last hug, mom announced it was bedtime and he went off to a pallet (yes, a pallet, because we are without AC in Arizona and camping around a window unit).

There was the quick, “love you!” and then off to bed. All perfectly normal except for the fact that it has never been our normal.

It was the most cataclysmically normal thing that’s ever happened. This small step forward was a monumental thing in our life. When we kind of stepped, again, in another small way, toward not just not being afraid but toward learning to trust. 

It’s life changing, isn’t it? It’s faith changing. It’s holy.

This is probably the last story I’ll write, or mention in sermons, or the like about him and us. He’s ten now. He’s about the age when kids want to say what the world, and especially their parents, tell about them. 

But this is to say, in this last story, that I hardly believe it’s the end of the story. Love and trust still have room to grow. There’s still time for us to learn what it means to not be afraid and to trust that we are loved.

When God makes room for love, God makes room for it to grow. Despite our fears, no matter our history, through our efforts and despite them, God is love. Thanks be to God.

Yours in God’s love,

Fr Robert