Don’t Let Them Down
“Don’t Let Them Down”
Last Summer my wife and I toured the art galleries of Santa Fe, New Mexico. I must admit, most of what what I saw there was a bit beyond me. Please don’t think me simple. If you had seen some of this stuff, you’d say the same thing.
But there was one sculpture that captivated me. It was a bronze piece by an artist named Mackenzie Thorpe. In most of the Thorpe sculptures and paintings scattered throughout the gallery, all the children had very large heads, while the adults had rather small heads. This, according to the extremely well-dressed metro-sexual greeting us that day, was no accident. It seems that Thorpe believes that our capacity for learning, for thought, is at its greatest when we are young. As we grow older, that capacity diminishes.
It was after that explanation that I saw the bronze statue titled “Don’t Let Them Down.” The man in the statue does in fact have a rather small head. However, his feet (or should I say his shoes) are extremely large. In addition to trying to fill these extremely large shoes, the man is pushing a stroller, uphill, and obviously in the face of some other seemingly insurmountable odds such as climate (as evidenced by the raincoat that seems to be blowing in the wind.) Going backwards (or letting them “down”) is simply not an option, and this guy knows it.
I thought about my children. I thought about what I am to them. I never had a very clear picture of what a Dad looked like growing up. There’s another story there, certainly. But suffice to say that each day of my life I feel as if I’m blazing a trail. I’ve been a Dad now for eight years. Much of this time I’ve been convinced that being a good Dad meant showing your kids you loved them with words and actions. I was certain that it meant spending time with them, loving their mother in front of them, and setting an example of how to treat friends, family, and the world in general.
But the man in this picture doesn’t seemed too concerned with treating the world in general. He’s not trying to bond with the baby in the stroller. He’s not trying to foster a strong self image for his offspring. Instead, he is simply trying to move forward, despite the odds. It made me realize that being a Dad (or a Mom for that matter) is not always about what the kids see. There are so many responsibilities that must be addressed each day as a parent at a level far below a child’s radar.
Whether it’s paying the bills or keeping the house, taking out the trash or changing the oil, these things matter. Renewing your car tags, saving for a rainy day, taking care of your own parents, and voting are all ways to be a parent. These are things that will likely go unnoticed unless they go undone.
So even though the high “I” personality inside of me wants to focus on those special after-school moments with my children, I’m beginning to see how the less-glamorous moments, the often unseen, unspoken, unrewarded tasks we must face, are often of equal importance to the welfare and well-being of our children.
In short, our big shoes make it possible for those big heads to tackle the world, and we can’t let them down.
When I was younger, I wrote love letters. They began simply enough with “check-yes-or-no” messages to one girl or another. Over time they evolved into sappy pieces of sentimentality that won the hearts of some, scared away a few others, and drew the attention of more than one concerned father.
If you’ve read this blog at all, you know that I have children. Three of them. All smarter than me. Even the one who still spits up and poops his pants. I don’t deny this. But now they’ve gone too far. If I am to believe them, the smart ones, then God is now relaying messages for me through them. Not in the grab-your-heart-that’s-so-profound kind of way. I’m talking about real conversations between God and my children, all apparently meant for my benefit.
My kids . . . what can I say? They’re prodigies. Here you see my four year old is already trying her hand at Halloween cinematography. Sure it’s been done. But I must say, she’s hitting 11 on the scary meter with this one.
I saw this in my children for the first time this year. And I don’t know how I could have missed it. My oldest, McKenzie, is . . . well, the oldest. She’s predictably over-achieving and strives for perfection in all she does. So what does she choose for her costume? A Geisha. Now, I know what you’re thinking. I thought it to. ‘What? My daughter is going trick our treating as an 18th Century Japanese prostitute?’ But let’s move passed this for a moment. To my daughter (who I sincerely hope has yet to define the word’prostitute’) this costume is something entirely different. To her there is only beauty, mystery, and perfection. This is who she is, who she wants to be. And I love that about her.
Our friends joined us. Their costumes were equally telling. McKenzie’s counterpart, the Ninja formerly known as Brad, was telling all with those eyes of his. Deadly, yet adorable. Here’s a kid that has the brain power to take over the world, but the temperament to give it all back to whoever needs it. I was proud to have an ancient warrior to escort my little Japanese . . . uh . . . lady. Then there was Bailey. Another princess. Again, no explanation needed.
Next year I will take note. While there are many who will wimp out with the traditional one-eyeball-hanging-out rubber mask and Daddy’s old overalls, I’m betting that there are a few whos’ masks will do more revealing than concealing. I’ll also be watching to see what masks my children and their friends adorn. What will those masks say about them? Time will tell. Until then, it’s just me on the porch eating Candy Corn. Yum yum.
My children have a way of focusing in on reality. Beyond the drama and all the . . . well . . . pink, both of my girls have this innate ability to see past the trappings of adulthood and unearth the raw truth behind the things my wife and I have already begun to take for granted.
Surprised but slightly amused by the show of spontaneous and rather anonymous affection, the bride kindly returns the hug only to hear my daughter ask the most probing, thought-provoking, socially conscious question one could expect at a time like this, “Could I see your shoes?”
I read Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying in high school. I even wrote a literary critique on the book. Of course I merely compiled and reconstructed the thoughts of other noted scholars on the subject. This earned me an “A,” and so I was happy. The End.
My next project, Light in August. First let me say that this selection was solely predicated on the availability of audiobooks through my library’s online lending system. I