Ben has a job for the summer, so every Tuesday and Thursday I drive him over to North Vancouver. I'm going to miss those drives. Every time we head out Ben plugs in his iPod and starts Sky Blue Sky, so we have a fairly consistent sound track for our drives to North Van. Somewhere close to the Lions Gate Bridge is when we get to "Please Be Patient With Me," one of my all time favorite songs. Can there be anything better than a beautiful morning drive with your son? The sun is up, the windows are down, we're enjoying one of the most beautiful views in the world and we're listening to Wilco. Sacred times.
Our trips are usually pretty quiet. We're guys. Plus we're listening to Wilco. I sometimes wonder how I'm doing; you know, with the whole father thing. Maybe I should talk more, say more stuff, try to be wise and whatnot. I sometimes wonder, of all the conversations, phone calls, iChats, discussions, arguments, sermons, lectures, laughter and tears Ben overhears—what sticks? What does he notice? What does he think of all the blah blah blah going on around him? As I say, we're often pretty quiet, so sometimes I'm not sure, that's why I'm wondering if I should talk more, find out what's going on. Well, yesterday he showed me a poem he wrote. I guess the blah blah blah-ing can't be all bad. Here it is: [he gave me permission to post this]
To The Man At The Door
Am I not welcome?
How can this be?
I think you've got things wrong
because I'm a son
no less than you or the next man
And no greater than the
one on the street
Tell me now
what would Jesus do
If you were him
and I was you?
You know, I get it now
a mosaic doesn't fit in
your square picture frame
if it did, not all of the pieces
would be welcome
In your square slot
there's no room to dance
or move at all
So tell me door man
is the shape of my tile
not suited to your slot?
If not, don't worry
I know a place down the road
they will have a spot for me
in their mosaic
and they won't think twice
before bringing me in
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