Yesterday was one of those days. One of those days when everything is going along like normal and then one thing happens and it changes its course.
Yesterday Gunnar committed his first major offense. His first action that significantly and adversely effects someone outside of our family circle.
After an encounter with some neighbor boys last week we were having a rock throwing issue. I have been like a broken piece of vinyl: "Gunnar, don't throw rocks...don't throw rocks, Gunnar...if you throw that it could break something, Gunnar". My words were going in his ears, grazing his brain, and getting lost somewhere near his hands.
While I was busy tending to a sister G barreled into the house in a state of hysteria that immediately made me think that when he finally came into view there would be blood or broken bones. But, when I finally calmed him, what I found was a broken heart.
On a dare, he said, he had thrown a rock. His "really good pitching arm" launched said rock "really, really, really, far" where it landed on the neighbors glass patio table and broke it into "a million gajillion pieced".
His words hit me like a ton of bricks.
He started to cry harder and I know it was because my eyes were straining in my head and my nostrils were starting to flare, and we were both expecting the same thing - anger. Tense words. Harsh punishment.
That is not what came.
There, in the middle of his hysterical words and wailing and snot and gnashing teeth and fear and confession, what comes is praise. Gratitude.
He could have run from his offense. He could have lied. He could easily have gotten away with it, but his conviction would not let him run from his sin.
I was so thankful.
Somewhere in the middle of teaching Jesus and commandments and being known by our fruit, something is working. Something is taking root.
I listened to the rest of his confession and how he was "so, so sorry" and how he asked our neighbor to forgive him and while I was listening I was searching myself trying to figure out why I wasn't 'mad' at Gunnar.
It didn't take long to realize that it's because I break tables all the time.
I hear the words of The One Who Knows Better Than Me saying "Chris, don't throw that rock...don't throw that rock, Chris".
I hear the words with my heart and I read the words with my eyes and they get lost somewhere near my flesh and I throw the rock. And I break the table.
I break it, but The One Who Knew This Would Happen does not shame me.
He eagerly accepts my apology, He rejoices in my repentance.
He delights in offering me grace and forgiveness.
How could I offer my boy anything less?
In the aftermath of the great offense there were many noteworthy thankfuls -
the husband who spent three hours cleaning up broken glass,
the friend who showered wise words on inexperienced parents,
the neighbor, oh are we ever thankful for the neighbor with an understanding heart,
and the time. The time that John took to teach Gunnar this hard life lesson in the gospel language:
Sin. Repentance. Forgiveness.
It was a rough day. There was chaos. There was wailing. There were tears from all sides. There was the reminder -- this parenting thing is hard.
Today dawned fresh and there was certainly forgiveness and hearts at ease. My boy, though, is walking around with a big rock in his pocket. It's poking him. It's uncomfortable. It's getting in his way.
I'm praying that it's reminding him of how his sin gets in the way of everything, and it pokes us, and it makes us uncomfortable.
And me - I'm left to ponder what proverbial rocks I'm carrying around in my own pocket.
(Admin note: when Gunnar went out to pick up all of the rocks in the backyard (taking away the temptation) Patton insisted on going out to help him 'because I love him so much'. It was SO cute.)
