Puddle Jumping

Another parenting poem...

For much of the world Sunday is Sabbath,
a day when counting to twenty four
takes the hands of the clock
just a bit longer that it does on the other six,
providing plenty of time to grab a bagel,
meet the press, read the comics,
and make the all important the call,
replacing one QB for the other on my field of fantasy
and if it falls just right
there might even be just a few ticks left
to claim the coveted afternoon nap.

When the LORD sighed and said,
“Now this…is good,”
this is what he probably had in mind.

However, on Sundays I am on –
services at 8:15, 9:30, 11:00 and 5:00
are a day filled singing songs,
praying prayers, preaching parables,
and checking the aches and pains
of the bodies and the souls
of my friendly faithful

Sundays always seem to leave
a little something behind
a little someone actually
a blond haired bundle
of answered prayer
thirteen months old

On this day of so called Sabbath
too often my only connection to him
is a stolen moment captured
across a crowded coffee hour
before he is quickly lost in a sea of knees.

For me, Sunday worship happens late in the evening
between the hours of 7:00 and 8:30 –
the ninety short ticks between
the last shake of the parishioners’ palms
and the sands that sprinkle
a pajama clad lad drifting away on clouds cumulous.
These moments are the real sacrament,
when this little boy becomes the priest
breaking me open and pouring me out
displaying truth and beauty
in their simplest, and yet, most profound forms.

It was a picture prefect late August evening
when the kid and I began our pilgrimage
to the playground behind the church –
his sanctuary of swings, slides and sandboxes.

I walk a few steps in front
until suddenly the “Pop, Pop, Pop,”
of his little popcorn popping pushing car stops
and I turn around to find him
staring in amazement
at a small pool of water
collected in a concrete crack
of the parking lot’s pavement,
the last reminder of Thursday’s rain.

“Look Dad!
There’s water!
Right here!
In the cement!
Can you believe it?”

I couldn’t believe it –
his shoes!
He was about to ruin his shoes.
“Hey! Come on, let’s go!”
thoughtless words blurt

He froze. He was caught –
not in the act
but in the moment.
He was being asked to make the
first big decision of his young life.

He was going to have to choose –
choose between the messy splash of the puddle
or the appeased approval of his father.

the puddle stained pant cuffs
and muddied shoelaces
of the boy priest
and his dad

are the only remnant remaining
from the last sermon preached
that Sabbath Sunday.