Last week I gave a talk in church about prioritizing. I first established my credibility on the subject by letting everyone know that I had no idea what I was talking about. I referred to last summer when I was so preoccupied with school that I completely neglected my family. One morning I looked in my planner to find a note written in my to-do list by Allison: “Spend time with your wife.” I juxtaposed that story with the time when I was reading for one of my classes when my son, Joshua, anxious to play with his daddy, ran into my arms and sat between my book and me. We laughed and we giggled, we tickled and we played. I was a father and he my son. Preparing my talk allowed me to reflect about what is most important in my life.
But this week I failed to live up to my ideals—I found myself a hypocrite. Wednesday morning came too soon, too abrupt: my son, gagging in his own vomit, woke my wife and me up at 2:00am. In the comfort of my bed, I pretended everything was fine while I listened to my son, tired and confused, as he cried in pain between episodes of violent heaving while my wife soothed his tiny body and cleaned the mess. I slept. Or I tried to, at least. I convinced myself, I have so much to do—I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time for my sick son? Later, I got up to find Joshua burrowed in the caring arms of his mother as they slept peacefully on the couch, an acidic tang hanging in the air. I should have helped. It’s funny, what you regret. I regret not holding my son’s contorting body, his face buried in the toilet, his stomach wringing out his insides like a dirty wet rag.
I should have been there.
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Blake...you're post is interesting. it really makes me think about what I'm missing in my life that I'm just convincing myself not to do. For example, I have had this feeling that I really should get up the guts and call my grandparents and visit them (they live only 20 minutes away!), but I never did. Low and behold my grandpa went into surgery on a 90% clogged artery and I had no idea. I really should be helping them, but I don't know whether they are home or in the hospital now because I never gave the time of day to help out.
ReplyDeleteI am compelled by your post to respond. . . but I don't know how. I am older than you are and still have no answers. I know that at one time in my life--probably the busiest ever as I was teaching, going back to school at nights and on weekends, and raising 6 kids (mostly teenagers)--that I prayed daily to make sure that I made the best choices for that day, that I made a priority what should be a priority, at least for that day. I don't know that I was always good at it, but I think prayer helped during that time. Given that experience, I should still be doing it, right? Yes, but. . . Some lessons are hard to learn, I guess. But I sympathize with your dilemma.
ReplyDeleteP. S. Also, I think your writing is powerful here. I could see and smell and feel what you wrote about. Great one-sentence paragraph, too.
This post hit home Blake. I'd say about two or three weeks ago the exact same thing happened with my daughter. We woke up late in the night to hear my daughter throwing up in her bed. The funny thing was that reading your thought process was like hearing my own repeated. It's hard to take time out to spend time with family. Looks like we're in the same boat.
ReplyDeleteBlake,
ReplyDeleteI really like this post. I'm not a father or a husband. Heck I don't even have a girlfriend! Anyway anyway that's not the point. The point is, you wrote a beautiful (yes I used the word beautiful to describe this) entry about how we let the busyness or (bus-i-ness) of life get in the way of those things that matter most. It reflects the extreme difficulties we all face as we balance and juggle all the little things in life. I feel ya brotha!
Thanks for the healthy reminder about where my priorities are at.
Of all sad words of tongue or pen, / The saddest are these: 'It might have been'-- John Greenleaf Whittier as quoted in Monson's Talk, Hidden Wedges. Good Luck Blake, this sounds rough.
ReplyDelete