Church

Sunday morning Jenna hopped on the treadmill and Jackson hopped on the drums. These moments are few and far between in the life of the family man. I was a running back with blockers opening a huge hole. No one was talking to me or asking me to do a bunch of junk. I slithered to the stairs, toward the office. Freedom. Freedom would be my sweet mistress. I would kick my feet up and crack a book. I would close the door and be still. Shhhh. Maybe they would forget about me. Maybe they would think I was outside fixing a sprinkler or something stupid and manly. Then again, they are not likely to form a hypothesis about me fixing shit. But maybe they would forget about me. Maybe they would all just suddenly decide to leave me alone and let me do whatever I wanted all Sunday long. I would take back Sunday.

At the top of the stairs was a 4-year-old girl.

Fuck.

OK. I would play it cool. Just ignore her. No sudden movements. Walk right by like I’m in the middle of something important and adultish. Stay cool, Lucy. Don’t look. Don’t look, Sweet Face. I am willing you—as your Father I’m ordering you—to not notice me. Do not—“WILL YOU PLAY WITH ME DADDY? LET’S GO RIDE MY BIKE!”

The wind was blowing hard. My office was 23 million miles away. My desires were like annoying little mosquitoes, itchy and bloodsucking. I wanted to read. I wanted to play on the internet. I wanted to listen to music and stare at the ceiling. I wanted to respond to Dad Gone Mad’s negative critique of my character. I wanted to work on a blog post called Shipwreck. I was an irritable crucible of wanting. It sucked.

But then. Then the wind inexplicably shifted. And that—no matter how many times I undergo this shift, this reorganization in the basic structure of my self—that little shift remains the pinnacle of all my experiences in terms of shaping the contour of my curiosity and firing my imagination.

What am I talking about? I’m talking about finding my self immersed in a willingness to walk up & down the street forever. If Lucy wanted to ride her bike forever, I would’ve steadied her forever (unless she snapped “Let go! I can do it myself!”). It’s very important to me that this is not construed as me being a Good Father. No. I promise you. I’m a selfish motherfucker. This is about something else. This is not about me making some moral choice to be selfless. I can’t make myself selfless. As soon as I find myself trying to be selfless, I’m trapped inside a maze of self. No. This is more akin to a blessing. The wind—poof—blows me out.

I try to write from the tension that arises between the force of a tenacious will and being utterly blown away.

My kids blow me away. I have enthusiastically sought forms of this experience of being blown away with drugs and devout prayers, but have never encountered it more genuinely than by just being a Dad. I don’t drink anymore. I don’t use drugs or go to any churches. I’m just trying to steady a little girl on a bike. I’m wondering with this post if the source of religious feeling might be traced back to the experience of parenthood. Who knows? But it’s crazy to me: The extent I go to resist my kids sometimes. Because when I step back and let them in, they lead me down paths that can only be described as religious. Kids know all the coolest secrets. They helped write the bird’s morning song. They are friends with the rocks at the bed of streams. At any given moment, they might smile and turn you to wind.