Before We Turn Back

Recently our family decided to go on a hike in the Redwood Regional Park near our home in Oakland. The beauty that one can behold on the endless number of trails that can be traversed in these mountainous woods is too vast to sully in words here. But I am mostly convinced that the earliest origins of God's good earth began somewhere among these trees.

My children have a lot of energy. They enjoy a good adventure. They love nature, finding good sticks for hiking (or sword fighting), and looking at all the crazy cool bugs a child can discover. But they're also five and four years old. That doesn't typically translate into a very lengthy adventure most of the time. My wife and I have become instinctively in tune with the exact moment we should turn ourselves back in the direction we came. The worst thing that can happen to a parent is having your child shut down completely when you are as far away as you can possibly be from where you started.

On this day in particular, my son Liam was not at his Sunday best. He was a grumpy monster, and he was not having much of an adventure on this go-around. At various points quite early on the trail, he would sit on the ground, cross his arms, and scrunch his face into his meanest expression. He would follow by saying something to the tune of "I'm tired" or "My legs can't move anymore". Now, lest you think of me as a heartless parent, we could still see our van at this point. A less determined parent would have used these moments as a sign from God to turn back immediately or risk peril. But we wanted to hike that day, and by golly we were going to make that happen. The boy would just have to suck it up.

A little while later, right on cue, Liam decided to remind us again of how resentful he was feeling for being brought along on such a torturous quest. This time, however, he was out for justice. He stood on his imaginary soap box and began to preach. "This is the worst day ever," he proclaimed. "You guys don't care about me at all. You hate me," he continued. Then he stood high and confident and yelled into the air, "I'm out of this family and I'm out of here!"

With that, Liam was off on his own quest in the opposite direction. He was determined to turn back, with or without us. He felt an enraged sense of confidence convincing him that he could go at it alone. No five-year-old needs to be held down by his overbearing parentals, right? He could manage all on his own. He was off and running and focused on getting himself back to our van.

Now every parent knows what happens next in these moments. We are faced with a choice: (1) Grab them before they run off, look them square in the eyes, and offer some version of the lecture themed around not talking so disrespectfully, or how we are his parents and why we should never raise our voices to one another, OR (2) Sit back and watch how the scene unfolds. Grab some imaginary popcorn, call your child's bluff, and watch the emotional roller coaster ride that ensues. This option is quite entertaining and should always been considered if occurring in a safe and secure environment.

On this day, we happily chose option two. Sarah and I stood in our tracks, holding back tears of laughter as we looked into the woods on our left, not trying to make eye contact with our smudge-faced angry child. He began marching back the way we came, heavy-footed and huffing loudly to let us know for sure he was doing this. About fifty feet from where he began his departure, the trail dips to the left around a bend and disappears at a new angle. From our vantage point, however, you can see the people as they clear the turn.

This is how we knew Liam had stopped. He never popped out after the turn. He stayed still at the trail bend, arms crossed and quiet. He hoped that we had just assumed he had kept on marching. But he didn't. At certain moments in this pause he would lean carefully back in our direction, still slightly pouty but also looking to see if we had come after him. But we hadn't.

A few more moments of silence went by. I can only imagine the range of thoughts and emotions that Liam was experiencing in those moments of pause. 'Are they coming after me? Am I really doing this? Am I scared? Should I keep going? Where am I going?'

It wasn't long before he came back to where we were standing. He kept some of the dramatics going as his pace back to us was slower, more contemplative, but also defeated. When he got back to us, there was reconciliation. I don't remember exactly what was said, but he had realized that he was wrong, that he shouldn't run off, and that he couldn't go off on his own. Even though he was mad at us, he needed us. He had to live in the tension of that reality. For a small boy, that sucks.

Sarah and I recalled this memory yesterday on a long, 12-mile, kid-free hike around Lake Chabot for Sarah's birthday. We talked about how funny it was to watch Liam play that decision out, realize he needed us, and ultimately come back and acknowledge his dependence on us.

We do this a lot in our faith. We live our lives walking on a path God has laid out for us (or sometimes just decides to walk down with us). He's leading us on the journey, and then something happens: We get bored. We get tired. We get distracted. We get angry. We become empowered. We start to nag and demand to go in another direction. We're convinced that those paths are the best ones. Other people are on them too. They seem happy and fulfilled. Our path just keeps going on forever and we can't see the destination. So we determine that we have to go out on our own to accomplish what we feel is best for us. Then at some point, when the path we were on and those walking it with us are completely out of sight, we realize how utterly alone and helpless we truly are. We realize that, deep down, that's how we had always been before we ever started to follow something and someone bigger than ourselves.

God gives us free will, and I'm so glad for that. If nothing else, that shows love. He walks us down paths and shows us good ones to choose from. Sometimes we choose the wrong ones. He comes with us on all of them, even the ones that bring pain, hurt, and devastation. He waits there, just out of our sight and around a trail bend, waiting for us to come back home like the prodigal children we are.

You see, my son Liam wasn't being a helpless adolescent. He wasn't being a tyrannical toddler who needed a nap. He wasn't going through some simple psycho-developmental phase of life. He was simply being HUMAN.