Pondering...

I am a fortunate man. I may not have great looks, wealth or fame (or many of the other attributes that people associate with men of good fortune), but when I take the time to stop and look around, I know that I am blessed beyond what I deserve.

I consider myself fortunate for many reasons, such as the fact that not only are both my parents still alive, but they are still married and living together (in the very same house I grew up in). Although they bicker a bit and don’t seem to communicate with each other in a way that I fully understand, they go together like biscuit and gravy. It’s as if they always were…and always will be.

The relationship of child to parent is much different now than it was when I was growing up. My parents did not feel the need to entertain us or be our friend. I can’t remember ever being asked my opinion on where to go out to eat or where to go on vacation. Of course, I can count on two fingers the number of times we went out to eat as a family prior to my sixteenth birthday, and vacations usually consisted of visiting family in Indiana.

No, my parents didn’t read a book on how to raise a child. They didn’t get advice from Dr. Spock or a government study on child psychology. There weren’t people on the news every morning telling them what they were doing was wrong, and if there were, my parents would have been too busy to watch. They fed us, clothed us, took us to church and made sure we brushed our teeth. If we had homework, we were expected to do it, no excuses. We had chores. We didn’t get an allowance. We got clothes and a couple of toys from Santa Claus at Christmas and a new pair of jeans and a toy on our birthday. It was more than enough.

I never worried when I was a child…about anything…and that might have been my parent’s greatest gift. I lived under a dome of their protection. I somehow knew, despite it never being said or even thought about, that they would keep me safe and taken care of. I wasn’t smothered in hugs at home, nor told each day that I was loved, but there was never a doubt in my mind that either one of them would have died to keep me safe. I slept well in my parent’s house.

I don’t sleep as well anymore. Worry is strong caffeine. I have the weight of my own children’s well-being upon me. I worry that I can provide what they need and nurture their self-esteem. I worry about the choices they will make and what outside influences will affect those choices. I worry about the diminishing list of things I can control and the ever-expanding list of things I cannot.

I also worry for my parents. Age and health issues have gradually chipped away at them, as it will to all those fortunate enough to see time pass. Dad survived a bought with cancer ten years ago, and steps a little slower after the fight. Mom has suffered through heart surgery, poor vision, high blood pressure and back problems. They have their good days and their bad days.

I was able to spend most of Mother’s Day weekend with my parents in Kentucky. Each year I tell myself that I will make it a priority to go there more often, and each year I fail miserably. I had not been “home” since late December, hindered from returning sooner by many seemingly reasonable excuses. Like most things that keep us from doing what we should, each excuse made sense at the time.

Sunday morning, as Connie and the girls hurried to get dressed for church; I stood at the back door and watched my parents walk to the car on the way to Sunday school. Mom walked slowly…eyes down and watching the familiar sidewalk as she carefully took each step. She could not afford a fall. Her bones are too fragile now and her skin prone to tear. A broken hip could take her independence in a matter of seconds, and recovery would be difficult. I pray that her feet continue to land firmly and her balance stays true.

I worry too about my father driving. At 81 he’s still much sharper than I about many things, but when I see big SUV’s and trucks speeding through town and weaving through traffic, I worry about his reaction time. How much longer can he keep his focus on the road, and who will tell him to hand over his keys? Will I do the right thing when the time comes, and protect them like they have for so long protected me?

It’s very hard to live so far away from my Mom and Dad. It helps to know that my brothers are close by and willing to do anything necessary, but I feel guilt over that too. I want to do my share. Despite the fact that my parents have cared for me my entire life with no expectations and no interest charged, I owe them that.

I am fortunate that my children have gotten old enough to have good memories of my parents. They know the warmth of my parent’s home, and I know they feel comfortable there. They love their “Mamaw and Papaw,” and I know that they will carry that love and those memories for the rest of their lives.

I hope that for however long I am blessed to have my parents on this Earth, they know how much I love them and how much they mean to their family. I hope they can forgive me for the stupid things I’ve said and the stupid things I’ve done; those things were “in spite of” not “because of” anything they taught me. They’ve placed me in the frustrating position that when I do stumble, I don’t have the excuse of saying, “I didn’t know better.”

Because of their example, I have always known better.