I like photography because it freezes in time the moments I want to re-live forever and ever.
But sometimes a camera cannot capture the depth of a moment. Because the moment is in itself far too simple. Far too mundane.
These ordinary moments are the ones I never want to forget. The moments like today when I let my son skip school and hang out with me. We ran some errands and he, taking full advantage of his 70 pounds of ten year-old life, sat in the front seat. He discovered the little plug-in to my I-Phone and played various sorts of music, begging me to download "that I got twenty dollars in my pocket song," to which I explained that I am not sure if there's a clean version out there...to which he responded "What do you mean?" To which I responded, "Uhm, it says the F-word in the real song..." to which he began singing "...this is freakin' awesome." There was more where that came from, as he has begun to call me "man" and "dude" and I can't help but laugh at how the southside of Indy has already gotten to him, even though we've only lived back in the USA for less than a year.
But the moment frozen in my mind occurred when we were listening to a Christian radio station. Two songs that he sang for his spring program came on and he was belting them so loud in this sweet non-pubescent boy voice. "Your love never fails, it never gives up, it never runs out on me..." And of course I was singing along with him. I didn't let him see me glance over at him. I didn't let him know how I was praying in that moment that those words would stick with him forever. That he would forever know that God's love will never give up on him, no matter how far in sin he may fall, no matter how far he may run.
Not that I am saying he will.
But I know he will struggle. Because we all do. And I never want to be surprised by the fact that my children are sinners.
One of the proudest moments of parenting for me happened recently when Elias came to me to confess something he did. He was so broken inside. Tears streamed down his face as he cried out, "Just ground me forever..."
But we didn't ground him. We praised him. He could have hid his sin, like Adam and Eve hid in the garden. But he didn't. And I knew in that moment that this was the beginning of my relationship with a tween/adolescent. And I felt the weight of my response. I knew he would see Jesus' forgiveness of him in the way in which I would respond.
I breathed deep and allowed his confession to settle into my heart, into the parts of me that are broken too. I related to him in a way I never had before. Unbeknownst to him, I empathized with his shame. With his guilt and his heartache. And like going on stage for the first time, I performed a response that I had played in my head since I was a child.
I didn't react. I didn't say a word. I looked into his tearful eyes and loved that boy more than I had ever loved him, not believing it possible. I cried with him, and after much silence, I told him I was sorry. For sin. For it entering the world. For the struggle that robs us of joy and lures us into the darkness to hide...to believe the lie that His love does give up on us. Does run out on us.
My son laying in bed crying in confession. That same son belting out praises to God. That same son singing "this is freakin' awesome."
This is it. The human experience.
I don't want to miss a minute of it. Those images are juxtaposed in my mind, intertwined into the fabric of my son's DNA: sin, confession, forgiveness, praise. Those images are the ones my camera will never capture, but that will fade endlessly into eternity when they will become but a reflection of the glory of a sinless, struggle-less kingdom.
Until then, may I continue to be silenced by these little people. As they teach me, from the front seat, about honest worship.
But sometimes a camera cannot capture the depth of a moment. Because the moment is in itself far too simple. Far too mundane.
These ordinary moments are the ones I never want to forget. The moments like today when I let my son skip school and hang out with me. We ran some errands and he, taking full advantage of his 70 pounds of ten year-old life, sat in the front seat. He discovered the little plug-in to my I-Phone and played various sorts of music, begging me to download "that I got twenty dollars in my pocket song," to which I explained that I am not sure if there's a clean version out there...to which he responded "What do you mean?" To which I responded, "Uhm, it says the F-word in the real song..." to which he began singing "...this is freakin' awesome." There was more where that came from, as he has begun to call me "man" and "dude" and I can't help but laugh at how the southside of Indy has already gotten to him, even though we've only lived back in the USA for less than a year.
But the moment frozen in my mind occurred when we were listening to a Christian radio station. Two songs that he sang for his spring program came on and he was belting them so loud in this sweet non-pubescent boy voice. "Your love never fails, it never gives up, it never runs out on me..." And of course I was singing along with him. I didn't let him see me glance over at him. I didn't let him know how I was praying in that moment that those words would stick with him forever. That he would forever know that God's love will never give up on him, no matter how far in sin he may fall, no matter how far he may run.
Not that I am saying he will.
But I know he will struggle. Because we all do. And I never want to be surprised by the fact that my children are sinners.
One of the proudest moments of parenting for me happened recently when Elias came to me to confess something he did. He was so broken inside. Tears streamed down his face as he cried out, "Just ground me forever..."
But we didn't ground him. We praised him. He could have hid his sin, like Adam and Eve hid in the garden. But he didn't. And I knew in that moment that this was the beginning of my relationship with a tween/adolescent. And I felt the weight of my response. I knew he would see Jesus' forgiveness of him in the way in which I would respond.
I breathed deep and allowed his confession to settle into my heart, into the parts of me that are broken too. I related to him in a way I never had before. Unbeknownst to him, I empathized with his shame. With his guilt and his heartache. And like going on stage for the first time, I performed a response that I had played in my head since I was a child.
I didn't react. I didn't say a word. I looked into his tearful eyes and loved that boy more than I had ever loved him, not believing it possible. I cried with him, and after much silence, I told him I was sorry. For sin. For it entering the world. For the struggle that robs us of joy and lures us into the darkness to hide...to believe the lie that His love does give up on us. Does run out on us.
My son laying in bed crying in confession. That same son belting out praises to God. That same son singing "this is freakin' awesome."
This is it. The human experience.
I don't want to miss a minute of it. Those images are juxtaposed in my mind, intertwined into the fabric of my son's DNA: sin, confession, forgiveness, praise. Those images are the ones my camera will never capture, but that will fade endlessly into eternity when they will become but a reflection of the glory of a sinless, struggle-less kingdom.
Until then, may I continue to be silenced by these little people. As they teach me, from the front seat, about honest worship.
