Life is an after school special
By David Myers
I recently turned 44, which, you’ll agree,
isn’t very interesting. It just isn’t one of those pinnacle years. I don’t
qualify for anything; I don’t have to start getting examined once a year; and
it’s too early to be bitter because I didn’t save any money for retirement.
That will come later.
But 45 is a different story. When I was in
sixth grade, I recall a student asking my teacher his age, to which he
responded, “45.” I remember thinking -- He’s so old! Wasn’t he about
retirement age? Shouldn’t he have been using a cane? Shouldn’t he have been
touring the country in a motor home with a bumper sticker that read “Senior
Swingers”?
As it turns out, 44 – and 45 for that matter
– isn’t old at all. As a child, I had been misguided
into thinking that the years to come were somewhere lost in infinity, when
actually they were just around the next corner. I was tricked into thinking
that middle-age was just for middle-age people, and that those years between
now and then were so vast that I would remain a child forever.
In effect, my childhood became a bit like the
caffeine high you get before crashing back down to earth in need of aspirin and
Tums.
In junior high school, the theme of my
literature classes all seemed to focus on “loss of innocence” -- about kids
making that transition from innocent child to troubled youth. I guess we were
being warned -- sort of like a “contains explicit lyrics” label being stamped
on the rest of our lives.
The stories were so depressing! I didn’t want
to hear about troubled kids. If I had problems, I went to my friends, like when
I told my buddy Steve about a teacher who had gotten
really mad at me. I’ll never forget the wisdom Steve imparted: “He’s
probably from Mars or something.” And we’d laugh as we considered the ramifications of having a seventh grade
teacher from Mars. (What does he eat for lunch? Tommy Grey hasn’t been in
school for over a week!)
The stories we read were kind of like those
tedious “after school specials.” One day I was a happy-go-lucky kid watching
“Addams Family” reruns, and the next day it was ... “Sarah T.: Portrait of a
Teenage Alcoholic.” Yikes!
In high school, my eyes slowly began to open.
We’d hear about the parties -- and the stories coming from the parties -- and I
realized I’d landed on that same weird planet as Sarah T., only I was still
viewing it through a child’s eyes.
It was in college where I forgot to check
that warning label; where my Holy Spirit said to himself, “Buckle up, dude.
It’s going to be a bumpy ride.” I certainly wasn’t the most misbehaved kid in
college, but truth be told, I could have starred in an entire series of after
school specials: “Dave M.: Portrait of an Idiot.”
Like so many youth, my journey through life
had taken a detour down a pot-hole filled country road in blizzard conditions
with low visibility and high winds, and enhanced by an ever-present odor of
squashed skunk. If I could have seen my Holy Spirit at this time in my life, he
would have been wearing a safety helmet.
This, of course, is how we learn and grow. In
making, recognizing, and learning from our own mistakes, we begin to see more
clearly those made by others: It makes us become better parents; it makes us
become better citizens.
Which is also why, at 44,
having reached this non-pinnacle age, I find myself searching for those early
years of innocence, years I once thought were lost in infinity, but really are
-- for each of us -- just around the next corner.
While we can’t undo the things we’ve done in
the past that have made us older than we are, we can be made new again. Which
is pretty darn encouraging, when you thing about it!
The road we travel between now and then is a
brief one indeed; a life spent in the blink of an eye. Whether you are 25 or 95, always search for the innocence -- to be made new again.
Be a child again. Yearn to look at the world through the innocent eyes
of a child.
It can
happen. In fact, it’s easy. Just look for the forgiveness of God -- reach out
for the embrace of your Father, and you’ll discover
the child you thought you left behind.