Yesterday, Caleb went to a birthday party. He'd been excited all day and constantly checking the clock, so we wouldn't be late. Finally, it came. At 3:00 I dropped him off at his friend's a bouncy, happy seven year old kid. When I came to pick him up a couple of hours later he had the gate of Eyore.
"I didn't have so much fun."
"What happened?", I asked.
"Well no kids wanted to play with me. And when we played flag football no one would pass the ball to me." he said, trying to play it "tough".
"Ahh, Bud I'm sorry. Nobody?"
"Yeah well, a couple kids did sometimes, but no one really liked me. I'm not a good sports kid"
My kid, my cute-as-can-be seven year old, was hurting. The truth of the matter is that Caleb is not a "sports kid"; he inherited his mom's coordination (which did improve somewhat in adolescences). But adolescence is a million years from seven when your hurting.
"Yeah, that happened to me sometimes too. But I noticed that you're really funny, and a good actor. You've got a good ear for music. Maybe you won't be a sports kid, maybe be you'll be a music guy and learn to play the guitar - like Will, and Scott and Wil and John. He perks up. Those guys are hero material, and they DO play the guitar. I think I've won, but Defeat never gives up so easily.
"Nah, I'm gonna be the "no friends kid."
He is seven.
Seven.
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"That heavy beat of failure, that pounding bass of disappointment, it has pulsed through my days and I've mouthed the words, singing it to myself, memorizing the ugly lines by heart. They become the heart. For years, I tried medication, blade, work, escape all attempts to drown out that incessant, reverberating drum of self-rejection. All futility, acidic emptiness."
Those are the words of Ann Voskamp - but they could be mine. I RAGE that the "heavy beat of failure" would pound against my son. He is seven. The assault is full - too heavy for little boy shoulders. It is wrong - I know it.
So what is the solution when I see the vibrations of Self-Hate course through the veins of my little boy? He thinks the song is His own. That vile tune of Shame seeps into the heart. Hell's song.
I need a new melody. A stronger one - one that will shake the gates of Hades.
CS Lewis argued that the most fundamental thing is not what we think of God, but what he things of us.
God says,
You are precious.
You are honored.
Gifted.
I love you.
You are mine.
I'd die for you.
"I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness." It's the Siren Song of God. It's the strong melody to overpower Hell's furious beat.
This melody must course through my veins and pound truth into the broken places. It heals. It frees. It overcomes.
If it were the catchy tune that stuck in my head, and I hummed it through my day, maybe my son would learn it too.
Precious. Loved. Gifted.
Precious. Loved. Gifted.
Precious. Loved. Gifted.
You are God's own child, set apart for the Great Adventure.
I could drown in that.
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