I knew my son belonged at the School District Art Show, when I noticed that the top of his shirt was buttoned backwards.

How does one even do that?  One does that, when one is an artist.  One does that, when one belongs.

Walking through the grocery store with my 9-year-old son, I spotted an opportunity for comedy gold.  Giving him a nudge and pointing to the shelf, I remarked, “You know, those are made with real zebras.”

My boy began laughing.  A genuine laugh.

A few more feet and I pointed to a new box, “And those are made with butterflies.”

More laughter.

Yes, I had found the sweet spot.  It’s just like Little Debbie to serve it up.

Eating leftover sushi, my teenager gave me a playful grin.  “Hey Dad, I’ll give you $20 to eat that wasabi.”

Looking down at the to-go container remains, I considered it.  “How much?,” I asked.

“All of it,” my teen calmly replied.

I sized up the challenge.  About 3 Tablespoons of wasabi.  Probably ten minutes of pain and a full day of discomfort for $20.  Stakes too high for my aged digestive system.

There was a time, when I would have taken the bait (about 11 months ago).  My, how I have grown.

It has been long theorized that my 9-year-old son Ben and I have a few too many personality traits in common.  Sort of like seeing a mirror image of my personality, but in a younger form.  This theory gained more credence this morning.

After looking at a paper in his backpack, Ben looked at me with concern.  “Dad, this paper says that the t-shirts for the school project were due on March 16.”

You see, Ben and I had previously discussed the “shirt project” and I had assured Ben that he had plenty of time.  Returning the look with my own troubled glance, I said, “Well, since that was yesterday, I suppose on Monday we could check with your teacher and see if it would be okay to turn in a shirt late.”

Overhearing the conversation and sensing that Ben and I were about to blame each other for the error, my 14-year-old son Jacob rolled his eyes and stepped in, “Hobos, yesterday was March 9.”  Ah, such a caring way to deliver the news.

Ben and I glanced at each other with relief.  We would have another seven days to procrastinate.  Whew!

“March”

I open the curtains

I see snow outside

It used to make me happy

Now, it makes me sad

Where in the world are my 14-year-old son’s socks?  Well, it appears as if they’re tuckered out from playing games.

So I have a friend who is having mid-life crisis type thoughts recently (okay, it’s me).  Heavy stuff like, “I know I could go any minute now and what have I really accomplished?”  Yep, heavy stuff like that.  Good thing it’s my friend and not me (okay, it’s me).

The thing is that these thoughts seem to linger, like a heavy meal late at night.  Something my friend has told me about (okay, it’s me).  Just buying a motorcycle or something wicked like that should shake me out of it, but I suspect not.  At least this is the discussion that I had with my friend (okay, that’s me talking to myself).

Well, in the mail today was a card for my son Ben.  He had his first Communion on Sunday and was happy to get a follow-up congratulations card in the mail.  Ben began to read the card aloud with the earnest voice of Third Grader.  “For surely I know the plans I have for you,” says the Lord, “plans for your welfare and not for harm, to give you a future with hope” (Jeremiah 29:11).

I listened.  I took a deep breath.  I calmed down.

Friend, it’s going to be okay (me calling myself “Friend,” that’s nice).  God has plans for you.  They may not involve a motorcycle, but rather a future filled with hope.  I’m guessing that is probably for the best and it certainly will all be okay.

Accompanying my Eighth Grade son to conferences, we walked by the “Lost and Found.”

Water Bottles – To be expected.

Sweatshirts – Must have set them down and forgot.

Pants – What?  How do you forget your pants at school?  “Hum, I know I’m missing something.  Oh yeah, my pants!”

Walking through a school, you feel sort of old.

Walking by the pants in the “Lost and Found,” you feel grateful you outgrew that phase.

Charlene was getting dressed for work.  She surveyed her clothing options in the closet.

I was rushing around to get ready.  Hurrying out of the bathroom, I had a half baked plan.  Take off my PJ bottoms, fling them into the hamper, race into the closet, get some clothes, and done.  Good plan, but as always, execution is everything.

As I peeled off my PJs, I was mid-stride.  Mid-stride translating into a foot getting stuck on my PJ bottoms.  Translating into me tripping myself with my PJs around my ankles.  Translating into me falling head first by the closet.  Translating into Charlene seeing me plummet bare bottomed by the closet.  Translating into gravity taking control.

Thankfully, today was not my day to say goodbye, as I caught myself on the edge of the bed.  Inches from the wooden edge of the chest at the end of the bed.  The chest containing sheets.  The chest which almost killed me.

Realizing that I was safe, Charlene smiled through tears of laughter and relief, as I pulled my PJs back to full height.

Yes, that was a close one.  Yes, that was not the way I wanted to die.

Putting my 11-year-old son Sam to bed, he asked me a question.  “Dad, I’ve been thinking.  If there is a multiverse (an infinite number of universes, each just slightly different) does each one have its own God?”

Me, trying to keep up, “No, an infinite number of universes, but one God.”

Sam, not entirely satisfied, “Yes, but is Jesus different in each?”

Me returning the volley, “The human part of Jesus could be different in each, but the God portion would always be the same.”

As Sam quietly pondered the thought, I said goodnight and at the speed of light flipped the switch to darken the room, before another question could be asked.

Whew, survived that mind bender unscathed.  Jesus, thanks for the whole God made man thing.  Handy for both salvation and astronomy.  Who knew?