The time for mystery and adventure is over.

I have spent years of my life seeking out ways to enter into mystery and adventure. My first adventures were in religion and in reading fiction. Years later I left home to attend boarding school. Another call took me to the seminary. I traveled to Guatemala to immerse myself in Spanish. After the priesthood, social work gave me the opportunity for countless adventures. I finished writing my book. I traveled through Europe, Southeast Asia, South America, and Central America with my wife.  This was followed be a return to school and the challenge of multivariate calculus as I neared forty.  After finishing school for the third time, maybe my time for mystery and adventure was over.

Now I go to work each day from 8:30 to 5. I help change diapers and cook dinners for a two and a half year old and a one year old. Grocery store trips and potty breaks are my most common weekend activities. Travel shows help put my one year old to sleep. I am 41 and have other people and practical concerns which need to be focused on. Rent and health-care premiums preoccupy me. Any trip involving plane fare may not be in the cards for a while.

Today I realized the perspective I gave in that last paragraph is nonsense.

Watching my boy grow up for two and a half years has finally pressed through onto my consciousness that he is a mystery perhaps more intoxicating than any I have known. Even though his body is not full grown and his experience of the world is limited, he has ideas and desires of his own. God’s path for him is already twisting and turning in directions toward destinations unknown and beyond my control.

Yesterday, I said to him 3,000 times, “Be careful” as he raced about the house playing ball and climbing onto his stool to wash dishes. After one trip down the sledding hill, he was begging me, “All the way. WAY UP THERE, this time daddy.” His little boots slipped on the slippery snow. He rolled to the side a little as he lay in the snow and smiled at me.  I DID take him up higher the second time.

 I admonished him to be careful as I pulled on his pants while he did his best impersonation of a trout pulled from a raging river. This little wiggling and writhing game had already garnered him one rough fall and a head smacked on the floor when he lost his balance with two tiny feet stuck in the bottom of his pj’s.  Why did he say he didn’t need to go potty and then promptly wet his pants.

My expectation that this shouldn’t happen anymore was ruining a little sliver of my day with him. Just underneath the skin my stomach churned. A tangle of frustration and anger flooded me as I looked into my little boys blue eyes. At that moment, he saw his one year old brother climbing toward the edge of the couch and sprinted over to protect him. “Be careful, Bubba. This is too high. You can fall and bust your coconut.” He waved his little hand in front of his brother showing him he should back up. What do you do with that?

He is a mystery. A human miniature of love, desire, will and community. He is a mystery- something that had always thrilled my soul. Another piece clicked into place. Hadn’t he always thrilled my soul? From the day of his birth, riding with him in the ambulance to the downtown NICU, my heart thrilled with the reality of his fragile little life.  I am immersed with him in our little family 24 hours a day. No pilgrimage required. No determined meditation needed to open myself and prepare for the encounter. He chases after me. He wakes up when the first rays of the sun push over the horizon and start to light his room. At that moment, he comes in to wake me. “Dad, it’s morning.” No fear of missing the appointed hour of meeting the beloved in prayer. The prayer seeks me out. “Dad, come play with me.” My heart thrills.

I think it is time.

Time to stop telling him to be careful.

Time for me to stop being careful.

Time to do what I have disciplined myself for and practiced doing for decades.

 Time to stop holding back and let go.

Time to fall into the mystery.

Time to be swallowed by love and thrill in the presence of the familiar little mystery that is always seeking me.

The Perfect Place to Be

My face hurt. The air was brutally cold, but “Light Up Lakewood” would still go on. The side-street parking that I found left more than a short walk to the festivities. My generic smart- phone confirmed my tardiness. I guess a giant blow up slide would have to wait.

I found an open door into the large hall in the center of town. Children bundled in gigantic puffy coats tossed bean-bags onto squares marked with prizes. Volunteers smiled and handed out candy. There was no giant slide.

I spotted a young woman who appeared to be giving directions. “I’m here to help with the giant slide?” I offered with a hint of questioning. “Oh yes, they are just getting ready to set it up!”

So much for being late. Three young men wrestled with giant plastic bundles. They pushed and tugged as they man-handled the slide through the double doors. Business-like, they opened them and connected the large blower. Soon, flat formless plastic began to rise in an amorphous bulge in the middle of the auditorium. The massive peak of the slide barely fit.

Plastic. Huge. Majestic.  Children began to hover nearby. The erectors of this modern marvel briefed me on the procedures. Shoes off. Feet first. No flips. Make sure there is only one person coming down the slide at a time. Little did I know that these words would become my mantra for the next two hours. Oh yeah, and If it starts deflating re-attach the blower.  Okay, I can handle this.

Most of the time, I was just repeating cautious phrases and helping kids wait patiently before climbing the gigantic slide. There were a couple cuddly moments with big brothers helping little sisters climb, and a couple cuddly moments of mom’s (below the weight limit of course) sliding down with their little people.

After briefing my replacement, I hurried home hoping the reindeer and sled dogs would still be there when we got back. We bundled up the two year old and the baby as fast as we could, which is to say that it took us quite a while. We wanted to bring them out to see the lights and animals. I managed to get the baby’s coat on and bundle his blankets over and around the car seat. After another few minutes, mittens were on as well.  His cute Peruvian hat snugly pulled on his little bald head. He was adorable! Charlie wore his new winter coat and the “Wisconsin Badger” hat provided by his aunt.  Mysteriously, by the time we were at the car, one of the baby’s mittens was gone, and after five minutes in the car the hat was off too!

 The whole time I was hoping that we would be able to find parking close enough to arrive before the reindeer were taken home or the sled dogs headed for the hills. Luckily the spot I scouted out was still there when we returned. I unfolded the stroller while my wife re-hatted and re- mittened the baby. The car seat released from it’s base and locked into the stroller. We were on our way. The quiet hum of a crowd moving in the cold filled the air.

There were several stages with live music. Steamy vapor rose from the tables selling hot chocolate and kettle corn. We made our way through the crowd to where the corral held the reindeer. They did not seem quite as tall as the claymation Santa shows make them out to be, but hey Santa is supposed to be an elf too? My two year old  had no problem accepting them. I have pictures of my badge- hat-wearing son in front of the reindeer to prove it. We stopped to enjoy some music. We bought a led light “wand” and a bag of kettle corn before slowly making our way toward the sled dogs. Compared to my little boy the dogs did seem gigantic. One look in their direction and he was leaping into my arms. Note to self -“Giant dogs do not seem overly cute to a three feet tall child.”

At this point, my wife and I were starting to get hungry. Our newly opened wine bar was only a half a block away, so we made our move. Luckily, the hostess said our wait wouldn’t be long. It wasn’t. The smiling young lady pulled up a high chair, and we settled in for our snacks. Our order was brief and to the point- Two glasses of Malbec, cheese plate, and fire roasted pizza. The atmosphere was warm inside and filled with the pleasant holiday murmur.

The cheese plate and wine arrived quickly. My two year old loves cheese with the added bonus that grown-ups love to see a two year old sitting very seriously with a gourmet cheese gnosh. Another young couple sat one table over. Mikey caught the woman’s eyes and made flirting sidelong smiles in her direction. We struck up a small conversation.  “Mine are all at home. They are a little older, but we needed a date!”  she said. We exchanged pleasantries regarding the merits of Lakewood entertainment between bites of the cheese plate.

A short time later, Mikey began to cry.  I walked around a little while quietly singing in his ear. A fairly large group that had just been seated nearby watched us. The group consisted of about five women in their sixties and a couple of men. “How old is he?” one woman asked.

 “Almost one.”

“Poor little guy. We are here for a baptism, we miss NE Ohio.” We chatted a little more before I turned to make a few more small laps around the room.

Mikey was starting to calm down but was still upset. The same woman gathered her courage  and intercepted us on our lap. “If you don’t mind, I can give it a try. I am a grandma in withdrawal, and I hate to see the poor little guy cry!” Without a protest or a whimper Mikey dove into the lady’s arms. He snuggled into the fuzzy collar around her neck.  She started singing softly and his eyelids began to flutter.  A few minutes later he was snoring in her arms.

Our pizza came a short time later. The crust was perfectly crisp and the toppings nicely melted and hot. We chit chatted with the couple and the baptism party. I asked the proxy baby-holding lady if her arms were tired. Smiling, she said, “Not quite yet. I would love to hold him for a few more minutes if you don’t mind. You three can relax and eat in peace.”  We enjoyed our pizza and  retrieved our baby. After sitting for a few moments more of relaxation, we decided to brave the cold and journey home which was all of three quarters of a mile.

 Well wishes were exchanged. An evening was very much enjoyed. The atmosphere at Humble Wine bar had cut the chill, and the night was a success.

Lakewood is the perfect place for us to be.

Surprised by inspiration!

You never know where or when inspiration will find you

I don’t always pay attention my wife will tell you. Other times, something catches my attention and won’t let go.

                That happened to me recently.  I had gone to take my son in for his well check.  The waiting room was nearly empty. The only other people there were a mom and her little boy. He looked a little bit younger than Charlie. As is sometimes the case, we struck up a conversation. She told me that she had arrived nearly an hour early.  She brushed her hair out of her eyes, and I noticed that she had a hearing aid. She explained matter-of-factly that she didn’t have transportation of her own and she didn’t want to take chances on bus connections. “My boy’s appointments are too important.  I have to make sure he gets here and that he is doing good.”

“Maybe they can take you in first or they’ll be running ahead of schedule,” I tried to offer helpfully.

“I don’t mind. I am just glad to be here with him. Do you know that when I was little they told my parents I wouldn’t even live long enough to grow up! ”

Her son and mine were looking at each other across the table of toys in the office.  One was rolling a car and the other was ‘galloping” a toy horse. She had her bag of things for her son just like I had mine. She smiled, and her son saw her and smiled back.

In my imagination, I could see the doctors huddled around the little baby, the parents holding her fearfully. The white-coated man probably began apologetically.

“I’m so sorry. She probably won’t live past the age of ten.”

Remembering how I felt with my son in the NICU, I can imagine the father’s eyes wetting. Maybe he cried silently with quick hot tears running down his cheeks. Maybe the mother sobbed or screamed. Maybe she was silent. The little baby girl’s health issue remained a mystery to me. I don’t think it really matters what it was.  That baby didn’t know she faced long odds, but she still overcame them.

                 I don’t know the young mother’s details. I barely met her, but when I thought about her at home that night I was inspired. A life that wasn’t even supposed to happen but did. Here she was: a survivor. She had grown up. She was a mom. She made sacrifices to make sure her son was doing well.  Here was a hero that had never walked out in front of a cheering crowd at a stadium. She never made a billion dollars or appeared on the cover of a magazine.

How many people walk in our midst every day that could inspire us? People with stories of their own that are very different from ours? Different joys? Different struggles? But they are still our brothers and sisters that can inspire.

                Do you have a story of someone that surprised you with inspiration? 

I would like to know about it: Michael.floreth@gmail.com.

My boy is not always a snuggler

My boy is not always a snuggler.

It was a very busy social week for my two year old. His social calendar fills up so fast!

It looked something like this:      Thursday – meet at library with mom’s group to speak Spanish

                                                                Friday – meet with mom’s friend and his little friend K to play

                                                                Saturday – playdate, cook-out and hot tub with A &A and family.

                                                                Sunday – Visit and pizza with family in Medina.

Needless to say the boy slept hard on Sunday night. On the down-side, so much kid-time leads to a large increase in the chances of getting the sniffles. This is especially true in the heart of back to school season. All the kids are sharing the germs that summer had kept apart until now! Or possibly it could be the change in weather and an allergies. Regardless of source, he had a little sniffle already on Sunday evening as he got ready for bed.

Which brings me to today. Monday. This morning at about 6AM, I heard the ever so light sound of a two year old's steps at the foot of my bed. His cheeks were a little flushed (not uncommon when he is waking up) and he was sniffling. His eyes still looked bleary, so I had pity on the little guy, right?

“Come here bubba,” I said as I reached out to him. Wordlessly he held out his arms for me to pull him up into bed. His eyes were already closing as I lifted him through the air. He was forming into a compact sleeping curl as he neared the surface of the bed. By the time I had landed him, he was already sleeping hard again with a small string of drool trailing his cheek. Subconsciously, he burrowed into my side and wiggled to get comfortable.

About an hour later, I carried an infant and was trailed by the two year old down the hall to the kitchen for breakfast while mom got a few moments of uninterrupted sleep. The two year old, Charlie, moved slow and unsteady into the living room which is a marked contrast to his usual high energy sprint.

Despite being a little off his game, he behaved like a champ this morning. #1 on the potty-check. No bopping little brother – check. No waking up mom before he’s allowed – check. He had another big day on tap...adventures with mom and little brother! After I had headed off to work, early reports from mom were good…he went on the big potty as requested at mid-morning. When I checked in with mom at mid-afternoon the reports were excellent. Big adventures and good behavior!

When I got from work at 5:40 the house was completely quiet. If they were napping now it could be a bad sign. Poking my head in the bedroom, I saw my wife and the infant sleeping. Which meant that Charlie was still sleeping in his room. I read for about thirty minutes before I heard a barely audible whimper from the two-year old's room. I waited just a moment to make sure it wasn’t a “roll –over and go back to sleep whimper”. It was not.

In his room, a very disoriented boy sat bolt upright. Now he was crying. “It’s okay. Are you ready to wake up?”

“No!” and the crying intensified.

“Do you need a drink?”

“NooooO!”

In my most reassuring voice I began trying to soothe him. “You’re okay. It’s all right. You can lay back down.” The cry became a little frantic with this so I shifted tactics.

“Do you want me to open your closet door a little and let in some light?”

“Yes, please!” Really..., he said please in between the sniffs and gasps.

I walked to the closet and pulled the door open. Now I could see his red cheeks and the tears streaming down them.

“Do you want me to hold you?”

“Yes!” With that, I scooped up the boy and his blanket into my arms. I walked around the living room for a while with him clinging to me. His wispy hair pressed against my neck and one arm draped loosely over my shoulder. He motioned to the couch where I set him down.

After a little time, he began to come around enough to tell me about the new bouncy ball he had gotten.

“Where is it?”

“Under the couch, daddy!”

Easy prey for a daddy with long arms. A quick look and a scoop and the bouncy ball was clutched firmly in skinny two year old fingers. Now, he was smiling as he held the ball to his side. “Let’s go outside, dad. Play ball.”

“Why not I thought to myself? Why not?”

We got on our jackets and shoes, still interrupted by minor break downs and whimpering. Should I have kept him inside because of his sniffles…Ach, I couldn’t do it. At the top of the stairs he handed me the bouncy ball and took my hand. Methodically we descended and then headed to the park across the street.

It was cool and windy. I carried him across the street and deposited him safely on the sidewalk in the park. He broke into his characteristic sprint. His little arms swinging like a steam locomotive working a steep grade he ran about twenty yards. Then he stopped and asked me to put on his stocking cap... which I did.

He ran a little more. We bounced and kicked the ball. We made our way past the kids practicing soccer.

And then it happened. “Daddy, hold me.” Then a little more plaintively, “Hold me, daddy.” This sometimes happens in the park so I wasn’t too surprised. Another scoop and I had a two year old around my neck.

“Do you want to run now?” Usually, a minute of being held is enough for him

“No daddy. Hold me.”

He snuggled his head against me. The wind off the lake blew vigorously.

I sang a song with made up words softly into his ear. I'm not sure why. I used to make up songs for him all the time. This song was about a loved little boy with a sniffle. A little boy that loves to run. Who just got a bouncy ball. Memories of that little boy huddled close to my chest in the NICU welled up. Memories of a little boy that could only sleep if we held him followed in quick succession. Drives for feedings and his first tear flashed in my mind’s eye. First steps. First falls. Wild giggles and his bright blue eyes. A toe lit by an oxygen monitor in the hospital.  Intense realization bore upon me that my boy was still all those little boy moments and baby moments and infant moments even as he snuggled in at two years old. The million past moments and the present fused in a white hot now. That little boy felt as solid and real as the whole world.

 My boy is not always a snuggler, but he was today.

I paused in my improvised song to take a deep breath. A few hot tears ran down my cheeks. The wind pounded against my ears, and a small soft voice continued the song, “and the little boy likes to kick the bouncy ball.”

 I was glad it was so windy. That could always be an excuse.