Sunday, February 07, 1999
The things we all take for granted
BY PETER BRONSON
The Cincinnati Enquirer
We were driving home from basketball practice at the end of a busy day, and my son had an important question:
“Heydad,” he asked (that's one word), “what does liver taste like?”
That's not the kind of question I get at the office. Those kind I can usually field with a routine forehand or lazy backhand — “No, I'm not on drugs,” or, “Yes, as a matter of fact I was kidding.”
But how do you describe the flavor of liver?
“Well,” I replied, “it might be the only thing that does not taste like chicken. And it doesn't taste like beef. I've never heard of a liverfish. So I guess there's only one thing liver tastes like ...”
He could see it coming. At age 9, he already knows all the old man's moves. So he took a wild guess.
“More liver?”
Exactly.
That's what passes for comedy for the two of us. Pretty lame. Ordinary. Everyday stuff.
Like any two guys, we don't have a heckuva lot of “issues” to discuss. We just enjoy being together, at basketball practice, Cub Scout meetings, watching sports on TV, working on his Pinewood Derby racer.
It's the sort of stuff all parents try to sandwich into their overstuffed schedules. There are so many demands — church, volunteering, social events and work, work, work which can gnaw away at a lifetime of years like termites behind the walls of a house. One day it looks sturdy and permanent, the next day it crumbles in a pile of sawdust.
And at the end of it all, men and women who look back on their lives never say, “Gosh, I wish I had spent more time at the office.”
What they miss is the fast-forward years of raising their kids, the magic island of time when separate, individual children and former-children called parents somehow combined to form something greater than the sum of the parts, a one-of-a-kind oasis of love and support, learning and discovery.
A family.
What we usually say at the end of it all is: “Gee, it went so fast. I wish I had spent more time with my family.”
We realize too late that the really important moments were not the career promotion or the big presentation or the cars and furniture and houses we purchased and replaced like forgotten clothes in the attic. All that material stuff vanishes like footprints on a beach, washed away by relentless waves of time.
The really important moments are the everyday, ordinary things we take for granted. Just being together.
There's no meeting more important than discussing the day's events over dinner with your family. There's no deadline that is a higher priority than being there when your children need you, to share in their triumphs or hug them just as hard when they lose. There's no paycheck or bonus that can buy back precious moments we've lost. There's no job title more rewarding than “heydad.”
Anyone who has loaded the whole famn damly in a minivan for a 10-hour road trip knows there is such a thing as being too close. But that's not a high risk in most double-income households.
Most of us are doing our best to prove we can make it without being close enough.
Most parents are stretched as tight as a hospital sheet, torn between the feverish temptations of the world and the responsibility and rewards of their family.
It's so easy to fall for the big lie, that the empty spot inside our hearts can be filled with cars, alcohol, sex or drugs. We all want to be loved, and our culture deceives us with a seductive Material World Mall overflowing with shabby substitutes that always leave us more empty than we were before.
If we are blessed, we learn soon enough that there is only one source of lasting, reliable and unshakeable love, and that the living, breathing, huggable expression of God's love is waiting for us, right at home.
Last week, we had a tragic shock at The Enquirer. A death in the family. Jim Borgman, who is a loved and respected member of our extended family in the editorial department and the rest of The Enquirer, unexpectedly lost his wife, Lynn.
Even journalists who write every day are at a loss for words to describe the sadness we feel for Jim and his two children, Chelsea and Dylan.
There are some questions we cannot answer. Some things no words can describe. But this much we know: Life is a precious gift, filled with infinite beauty. It can be lost so fast. And we take it for granted every day.
Peter Bronson is editorial page editor of The
Enquirer. If you have questions or comments, call 768-8301, or write to 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202.
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