I decided to do this with my oldest this past Monday. I had stayed home from work because my wife was sick, and was going a little stir crazy near the end of the day. I decided to take my son to return some pants, stop by Lowes, and make a visit to the Adoration chapel to pray. He's been wanting to do everything dad does lately: wearing aftershave, hammering nails into wood, and asking about girls. If she could handle the other two kids for an hour, I would take the oldest out.
Everything was going great. We made an impromptu stop for ice cream. There were two other dads with their sons, which he noticed. It was "our place" and we shared a cone, and spun around on the bar stools. When we finished up, we headed to return the pants, but in the store things started to get derailed when he saw a toy he wanted and I said we couldn't get it. He got huffy, and then when we also emerged empty handed from Lowes, he started feeling like it was a wasted trip. When we got to the Adoration Chapel, he was upset and sulky. We both kneeled down to pray, him reluctantly at first. He started to blame God for things--He's not really there, He never answers my prayers, etc. I don't pray enough for my kids, but I prayed for him there, very intentionally, that he should never fall away from the Lord.
When we left the chapel, the waterworks began. He was upset because the memories we were making in the beginning of the afternoon, he loved them. "And then you had to RUIN EVERYTHING!" It wasn't what he expected. I knelt down to his level and tried to console him but he wasn't having it.
"You know D, we can make memories from anything. That's what's great about having an imagination. Anything can be a memory!"
He stopped crying for a moment and looked up, curious.
"Listen, I have an idea. Let's make a memory, something to remember between me and you, right now. Do you want to be my race car co-pilot? Yeah? Well, let's go."
I strapped him in, and started the car. "Okay, now listen, there's going to be a lot of drivers chasing us, so you have to have the smoke bombs ready. I'll try to lose them, but I'll need your help."
He was listening, getting excited. "Okay."
We pulled out of the church parking lot and made a left to the highway. Soon enough, a car with headlights emerged in my rearview mirror. "Oh boy, D. Here we go."
"What?"
"Get the smoke bombs ready. I'll try to lose him."
I sped up. "We're losing him!" he cried. "Yeah, but there's a red light ahead. Get the smoke bomb ready!"
He was bouncing in his seat, excited. "Okay, bombs away!" He turned in his seat and threw an imaginary distraction at the guy behind us.
"We lost him!" I yelled, when the driver turned right and we turned left.
We continued to race and lose cars, throwing bombs all the way home. It was a silly game that boys love, that I loved growing up on vacation. I remembered it today, even with my lousy memory. By the time we got home, he was all smiles and told his mom and sister excitedly about everything we did. We managed to salvage a potential disaster with the power of imagination glued together with a few hours of borrowed time. It didn't cost us anything, and wasn't scheduled.
When we lose people we love, their memories sustain us. Memories are bonded to time, and they take place in real life, cached in the mind. They can also sear the heart, because we can never repeat them, only replay them. It's a kind of metaphysical currency we deal in. For a boy who has lost his dad, all he has of him are memories and mementos. If my kids ever lose me, I want them to have good ones that are worth their weight in gold.
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