In 2010, we took a trip out East. One of the stops was Gettysburg, which we toured in our van, a voice from a CD providing details of the gruesome and pivotal battle, guiding us from stop to stop, one of which was Devil’s Den. The history of the place was almost entirely lost on my children, the ground no more hallowed than our back yard. To them, these were just fields. But Devil’s Den had something our back yard didn’t: giant rocks to climb and explore. They had no idea how many had suffered and died on these rocks; this was a chance to be out of the van.
Our house has one bathroom. While this indoor plumbing puts us ahead of billions of people who rely on pit toilets or less, it isn’t ideal.
Driving home with the family, usually by the time we turn onto our street, it isn’t unlikely for someone to call out, “I’m first for the bathroom!” This can be followed with calls of second and third, but it can also lead to some negotiations, such as who has to go worse and the particular nature of your visit, the clear logic being that number one takes less time than number two, so that now it is common to position yourself in the hierarchy of need by calling out first pee-er or first, second, or even third pooper–which is not, let me tell you, an enviable position.
For far too long, we lived with a broken drawer—the exact kind of household project I find every excuse to avoid. The metal track under the drawer kept falling off, so the drawer rested on nothing but the frame of the cabinet. It was a pain to pull out and push in, and if you weren’t careful you could pull the whole drawer right out and dump everything on the floor. It was the drawer that held, among other things, the baggies for the kids’ lunches. So each school night, when they made their lunches, they dealt with the drawer.
One night my daughter asked something like, “Why do we live with a broken drawer?” Or maybe she said, “Nobody else’s house has broken drawers.” Although, now that I think about it, she may have been more philosophical: “Why do we live in a world where drawers break?” [That is not how she remembers it.]
I turned to her and said, “I’m glad for broken drawers because they make me thankful for everything that isn’t broken.” I can be insufferable at times–and my nuggets of wisdom aren’t always appreciated.
If we aren’t careful, all the beautiful scenery and smooth-gliding drawers and indoor plumbing in our lives can belie the horrors that hallow the brokenness of this world. Yet it can all be too much at times, the suffering and the waiting. I want to protect my kids from the worst of it. I want them to jump, carefree, from rock to rock.
We haven’t shielded our children from the world. When their grandma was dying of cancer, they knew basically what we knew. When news of the outside world filters in, of killing and natural disasters, we’ll talk about it. But their lives, thank God, have been sheltered. And I’m all right with that. As long as they learn to appreciate the unbroken things and to live graciously with broken drawers and standing in line to poop.