Tonight I discovered this on an old computer disc (are there any other kind?!) and was practically howling with laughter as I read it to Will, who wrote this way back in 2002. Here it is, a story from the good old days. (You will note, his writing style is uniquely different than my own, and I really wish he would write more!)
Sunday, January 20, 2002
As I write I will continue to munch on chocolate chip cookies made by my oldest son. Which brings me to my first story about the aging process in our oldest son, a process that comes with flashes of brilliance and the general stench of dirty socks and misplaced social graces.
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| (A pic of Craig from that era!) |
“Can I go with the pastor’s son Dion to the Cheerleading competition in Springfield Saturday?” he says. “Sure son, I know Dion’s brother, your good friend Jacob, is on the squad and you want to support your friends. Your mother and I have no fear that you will be ogling the pretty girls and after all, the Pastor is your driver.”
A good time, a fine time, was said to have been enjoyed by all that attended. “I have never seen so many beautiful girls in one place,” was the only report from the son in attendance. That is, until after the church service the next day, that very service where this Pastor preaches, after which the Pastor hurries to the door to greet those who would run from the service after it is over. I have watched the mechanics of those men of the cloth who make their way to the door before you can vacate the premises. I am mature enough to know in my heart that it has nothing to do with capture or cornering a prey before they can escape. These things my wife has taught me. I have witnessed the movement in rapt attention not only as a potential victim, I mean prey, but also for the entertainment value - the eyes of those who might be trapped and even in conviction, trying to elude the grasp of the messenger.
So you must know how fearlessly I engaged in conversation with the Pastor when he left the podium and came directly at me. This he did, before going to the door to stand his post against those who would escape. Straight to me he came with reason in his eyes. “Did Craig tell you?” The oldest son’s name spoken out loud in the form of a question. Should I run or stand my ground and listen? What do I have to fear? I have been there before-- my son’s name in the middle of a question.
“No,” is always the best answer. That would be the only one that did not involve lying.
“He didn’t tell you about the cookies in the Tupperware container that were consumed without sharing?” That is the root, the genesis of the question. Yes, all of them consumed, without fail, each last cookie. Not a crumb left for the Pastor. That was not the worst of the transgression, however; that is reserved for the disposition of the Tupperware container. Gone it was, lost by a pair of boys too busy looking at girls to recognize the value in the container. Thrown away it is, gone forever, the container that sheltered the cookies. Gone, as was the pastor’s opportunity for the home baked cookies, made special for the occasion.
Who stands the biggest loser in this story? Is it the father of the son, scared by a pastor and a question? Is it the pastor, more interested in containers and cookies than the temporal happiness of two pubescent males in a socially challenging situation? Or is it the son who has a story about cookies as his best reward when surrounded by a gym full of pretty girls?
Such is the life and times in the household of which I report.
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