“Did God say anything to you, today?”
My question—phrased something like that—was a bit out of the blue, I suppose, but I didn’t expect the blank reactions I got around our dinner table that night.
One of our younger ones, after a couple of false starts, concluded, “I don’t know what you mean, Dad.”
“Like…” a chewing teen deadpanned, “a voice? Nope.”
Yikes! Who’s raising these kids?
I feel like every day is me craning forward, desirous of hearing God’s voice.
Maybe I haven’t talked about it out loud enough with these guys?
Only to have another teen chime in and relieve me that I’d at least been doing some child-raising all these years.
“Guys, listen!” he said. “God speaking is like something inside you, not something in your ears, necessarily. He puts things in your mind when you’re reading the Bible, or listening to a song, or in church…”
“Exactly,” I went on. “Guys, I’m just meaning to ask if he put something on your heart, led you to do something, say something, filled your mind with a thought from a verse, anything like that.”
“Oh…!” came the chorus. “Why didn’t you say so?” Our time took an upswing as I asked one kid after another, with clearer wording, I guess, and we all got to listen to some very sweet answers.
I think the only kid that didn’t get asked was Everett. Not that I did it on purpose. I wasn’t sulking from having had a particularly hard day with him, nothing beyond the normal surviving him. He wasn’t behaving “badly.” The day had held no tantrums or sabotage or big lying.
I chalked up my inadvertent exclusion as legitimate byproduct of his maturity level.
Only to get twinged by the reminder that our faith is a faith for children. It calls me to be like a child.
But it was no big deal, right? What was he going to say? He didn’t even seem to notice, and I was sure the whole thing would be forgotten before we left the room. However, I could identify some regret in the fact that, in that moment (and I know there are others), Everett hadn’t gotten from me the grace that our Heavenly Dad always extends to us.
We went up for bedtime. A half hour later I was lying on the floor guarding his door because now there had been problems. An ugly fight with Hope. Blatant defiance of Tammy. Yelling, stomping, and what looked like another tantrum brewing.
I just let him be.
Time helps him these days. It never did in the beginning. Past a certain emotional point, it was always going to go all the way over the edge into violence. But we’ve moved beyond those days, and sometimes, now, he can stop himself.
I gave him time. Didn’t even say anything when he got out his headphones and music, though he often needs to be kept from playing or goofing if he’s in the middle of defying us or acting like there isn’t broken relationship in need of mending… But I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and believe he might actually be trying to calm himself down.
5 minutes. 10. Not long after that, he takes off his headphones.
“Dad, I’m ready.”
Our signal that an episode is over. He’s ready to make things right. Wow.
“OK, Everett, good words. I’m glad. Ready for what?”
“To say ‘sorry’ to Hope.”
“That’s wonderful, son, but I think Hope’s about asleep. We’re probably going to have to do that part tomorrow. You could make things right with mom. And me.”
“Could I just call to Hope from the hall?”
“That’s really good asking bud. OK, let me see if she’s still awake.”
“She is!” Eden (who lies awake for hours every. single. night of her life) yelled over, saving me from getting up.
And Everett went out in the hall and did just lovely.
Coming back to where I was lying on his floor, praying through some silly stresses about money, my conundrum of a son knelt down and whispered in my ear.
“Jesus talked to me.”
Eyes popped. I cocked my head to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“In my music. A song came on. John 13:thirty…something. It said ‘love each other,’ So I had to talk to Hope.”
The tears Tammy and I shared as I told the story before we fell asleep that night were not the usual tears we’ve cried over this son. This time, for a change, we got to cry the good kind.