What do you believe in when you are eleven?
Santa, the tooth fairy, and the switch witch have been demystified. You are now one of the keepers of the magic who can help create the facade for those younger than you.
By eleven you have figured out that your parents are far from infallible and their expectation that you act more like a young man and less like a toddler is sometimes a pretty tough row to hoe. You're pretty sure that your parents love you but you're less sure that they always know what's best for you. In your mind, they proved that when they made you come in from hanging out with your buddies to spend time playing your guitar and proved it again when they made you go to your grandmother's even though you wanted to play soccer.
This week, this little guy turned eleven. We celebrated the way that we always do with the birthday boy choosing what we would all eat for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Miles arrived home from school all pumped up for hamburgers which he, for the first
time, formed with his own hands . His willingness to participate came complete with the requisite sounds and expressions of disgust.
Usually the birthday person gets to choose the activity we engage in. Birthday or not though, I had a parent's meeting with Miles' soccer coach. In spite of playing just one season of house
league, his skills were outstanding enough that he had made it through five tryouts and landed a spot on the select team for 2015.
I dragged him away from friends and off to the meeting with me where he sat alternately fidgeting and silently begging for access to flappy bird on my smartphone. Forty-five minutes after the meeting began it ended.
"Race you to the van," he said when our feet hit the pavement.
So
we ran in the darkness, laughing while the cool evening wind slapped at us.
"I win," he declared delightedly when I caught up to him.
"Yes you did," I conceded graciously, it wasn't that long ago when I had to deliberately hang back to let him win.
On the way home, we made a quick stop at the grocery store.
“Race you,” he said again and again we ran. This time,
however, he ran past the entrance to the store and off to a place I
couldn't see him.
“Hey!” I called. “I win...you missed the entrance.”
He came racing back and entered the store behind me.
As we walked
the aisles he asked “Mom, can I have 5 or 10 dollars of my own
money?”
“What for?”
“It's not what you think," he said. "When I ran past the entrance, I saw a homeless woman.”
I was a little ashamed that I had immediately thought he wanted the money for candy then touched by his ability to see this woman when so many people
find the homeless invisible.
When we got to the register I realized that I had only a ten dollar bill with me
and I had left my bank card in the van.
“I can't give you ten,” I informed him. "I can only give you the change."
"Can you use your bank card and give me that ten?" He asked eyeing it.
"I left my card in the van. It's the change or nothing."
"Ok."
When we left the store, I handed him the $7 left from my purchase.
He pointed to the homeless woman who was seated on the bench of her
walker holding a sign that said “Please help." I deliberately stood back and watched him deposit first the bill then the $2
coin into her outstretched hand.
The woman thanked him then made eye contact with me and said
“Thank you.”
“That was his money," I informed her with pride. "His money that he earned, not
mine.”
As he walked from her to me, I noticed a little swagger had
entered his step.
“Thank you and God bless,” the woman called out after him.
He stopped and turned to throw a hearty “You're welcome," over his
broadening shoulders.
Together we walked to the van in silence. I looked at my son.
“Not everyone would do what you just did. Even some adults with more to give would walk past that lady and not want to help her. I am proud of you and proud to be your mother. No matter what else you believe in, believe that you are a good, kind and loving person."
In that moment we both knew it was true. I hope that it remains so forever.
