To Van, My Gentle Second Oldest

To Van, My Gentle Second Oldest

 

 

I notice you. 

I notice you, my unhurried, unruffled, second-oldest, newest son.  You are steadfast, quietly amused, content.  You have no need to be noticed, so unlike the rest of us.  We five vie for attention, wrestling the room's mood like an opponent.   

You watch. 

I used to think you judged us, but now I think you love us unconditionally with a God-given heart of gold.  And you watch, not quite sure how to be a hurried, ruffled, waffling, wavering, striving, straining, chest-pounding attention seeker.  And you wonder if there is something wrong with you because you're not at all like that. 

I admire that you're strong enough to know you don't want to be like that.  And it also frustrates me, because to me it sometimes seems like "don't care." 

But--

This morning I was sitting at the kitchen table, coffee firmly in hand, with my Bible open in front of me.  I'd already completed my study for the morning and had actually flipped to a novel on my Kindle.   

I teach you boys to notice.  I preach at you boys to notice when something has to be done rather than pretending you don't see the dog dancing around needing to be let out.   

This morning I read my novel next to the dancing dog as you stood at the counter in the middle of preparing your toast.  I watched you place two slices of multi-grain bread precisely on the plate with the knife catty-cornered across one edge and set the peanut butter jar next to the plate. 

And I watched as you, without a hint of persecution or complaint, without even a molecule of sarcasm, spoke gently to our dog, left your breakfast in progress on the counter, and stepped out the door with her. 

And I noticed this, too:

You turned to me and assured me, "It's okay, I got it."

You stood with a small smile and watched the dog fumble through the door wearing that silly cone collar.

You asked that sweet pup to find her toy.

You played with her, not impatiently.

Your breakfast sat on the counter.

You came in for the plastic bag to poop-scoop.

You laughed, quietly amused, to yourself, unaware and without need of an audience, at the sight of that dog running up to you with her favorite toy--an old Gatorade bottle-- lolling from her mouth, surrounded by that ridiculous cone collar.

You washed your hands and resumed your toast-making as if there had been no interruption at all. 

I know I would have huffed and puffed and gestured, mean-faced, at my toast preparations.

I would have made a production, scolding the dog for having bodily urges and banging the back door.

I would not have played with her.

I would have poop-scooped, yes, but it would have been a persecuted poop-scooping.

And if I found the sight of her prancing with a plastic bottle while wearing the pitiful cone of shame humorous, I would have called attention to it, to my hilarious sense of humor, to be noticed myself.

As I write this, you are quietly unloading the dishwasher simply because it needs to be done, as I sit here typing and one of your brothers glances in at you and pretends he doesn't notice you unloading the dishwasher. 

But you don't seem to mind.   

I notice you, Son.  It took me a while to appreciate the person you are.  I almost missed it.  But God's been teaching me lately, gently humbling me in many areas.  And one of the greatest blessings to come out of this process is that, finally, I notice you. 

And I love what I see.

 

ErinRMS

August 1, 2014