Still, a subtle exchange is underway as “first times” are seamlessly displaced by “last [...]]]> Childhood is incredibly fragile and fleeting. And though its passage can be gauged in finite increments of months and years, parents easily identify with the “first times” which punctuate their memories. Some, such as first words and first steps, are rarely forgotten.

Still, a subtle exchange is underway as “first times” are seamlessly displaced by “last times.” The last ride on the merry-go-round and the last story book and the last tuck into bed all seem to make their escapes without any of the fanfare of the “first times.” We don’t even notice their absence until someone says, “When was the last time….”

But all the while, childhood–with its wonder and hope–has been slipping through our fingers. It once seemed to have substance, even an intense presence, but like the morning mist, it dispersed before our eyes. In its place we found something else: obstacles and challenges that we couldn’t see before because of the mist. It was then that a new set of perhaps-not-so-thrilling “first times” emerged, and some of them weren’t much fun.

Parents have told me some painful stories about their children in recent weeks. They simply don’t understand how such magical, enjoyable childhoods could have turned into horrifying nightmares.

The stories vary, or course, but there is a common thread: adult children are making some terrible choices. One has moved out because he doesn’t like being told what to do; he’s joining the Marines. Another has fallen into gross immorality inconsistent with her upbringing. A thirty-year-old can’t keep steady work. Another’s drug use has caused her to abandon her children. And these aren’t the only ones.

Why have such horrendous difficulties crept in when childhood seemed so pleasant? I don’t have any pat answers, but I will share one thing that surfaces far too frequently. Deal with it, and you solve a lot of the problems.

One father told me that his son was doing fine… until he fell in with bad friends. They partied so much that the boy had to drop out of college. Another young man was indignant when his father tried to control the company he was keeping; it was too late for intervention. Friends are so influential that parents and children need to learn how to spot and avoid the bad apples early on.

Though one’s physical companions are extremely important, the issue of “friends” is far broader. It extends to the music we listen to, the movies we watch, and the books we read. In such activities, relationships and bonds develop, and bonds are hard to break.

“My best friend,” said tycoon Henry Ford, “is the one who brings out the best in me.” And that’s a good test. If a friendship–physical or otherwise–does not inspire one’s best, perhaps it should be avoided. Otherwise, the morning mist of childhood may suddenly swell into an angry storm from which there is no relief.

THE MORNING MIST

When morning mist is heavy and
It thickly blankets all,
It mutes the harshness of the world,
And problems seem so small.

It’s then that dreams can reach the sky
With future looming bright,
For nothing is impossible
When morning mist is right.

But as the day begins to dawn,
And vapors dissipate,
The challenges we see unveiled
Can cause our hearts to faint.

And though we cannot ever hold
The mist with tightened grip,
`Twill be so sad if when it’s gone
We’ve let its wonder slip.

For childhood is just such a mist
So quickly come to naught
And often taking with it all
The magic that it brought.

Copyright 1999 James McAlister

Perhaps I was too much of a stick in the mud, too slow to adapt to the drastic change in [...]]]> "Your friend," said Elbert Hubard, "is the man who knows all about you, and still likes you." Friends possess the peculiar ability to see beyond shortcomings and failures that mere acquaintances stumble over. True friends endure.

Perhaps I was too much of a stick in the mud, too slow to adapt to the drastic change in circumstances. But my recollections of college aren't particularly rosy. Duty and drudgery compelled a slow plodding through tedious classes that frequently smacked of irrelevance. The first course I remember truly enjoying didn't come until my junior year.

Though acquaintances outnumbered close friends, I focus today on two amigos from that era: Paul Clampit and Bill Childs.

When Bill and I entered college in 1963, Paul was already a junior. Nevertheless, we smoothly fell in together–and quickly assigned nicknames that still stick today.

After recounting tales (embellished for effect, I'm sure) about the Kingsland Wild Man, a fabled creature near his hometown, Bill naturally became Wild Man. Because of the similarity of Paul's last name to that of the Beverly Hillbilly TV Clampetts, we simply pegged him as Clampit. And when some doofus mispronounced my last name as "McAlizard," Lizard Man would become my perpetual cross to bear. We developed a lot of useful skills like these in college.

Along with our wives, we last assembled 19 years ago. But at Paul's initiative, we converged this past weekend at the Childs' hacienda north of Dallas. All retired from rigid professional endeavor–and empty nesters to boot–we enjoy greater flexibility and mobility.

Though demanded by a 19-year hiatus, obligatory assessments of each others' relative march toward baldness, pudginess and general oldness consumed but moments. Four decades of life's hammering had drastically altered our shapes on the steely anvils of birth, death, family struggle and disappointment.

While the ladies departed for an enjoyable lunch and shopping excursion, Lizard Man, Wild Man and Clampit quickly fell into time-worn patterns. And despite obvious dissimilarities and differences wrought by Father Time, the once-ubiquitous technical chit-chat resumed. Now, however, discussions circled around computers, software, and internet rather than professors' idiosyncrasies, slide rule technique and vacuum tube radios.

Chickenfoot dominoes punctuated by explosive laughter highlighted the evenings.

Though memories anchor us to a common past, we have evolved to different ends. Paul, to a no-frills, Model-T practicality in an oft-inefficient-but-flashy Ferrari world. Bill, to high-tech guru still sought after. And I, to the subterfuge of a touchy-feely poet in engineer's clothes.

What would we do differently could we begin again–but knowing what we know now? Perhaps we'll circumnavigate that puzzle when we reconvene in two or three months.

Tying up the loose ends of a past once fraught with frailty and foible helps reconcile us to a future we may not always understand. And I am blessed with friends willing to help me sort out who I was–and where I am. Lizard Man or not.

Copyright 2003 James McAlister

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The news that two sets of friends have discovered life-threatening health problems with their children rewound my mind 28 years to our daughter Jenny's birth. Suspecting nothing, we hardly raised an eyebrow when the doctor reported "complications" [...]]]> The news jolted me into another world–a world of long-forgotten uncertainty and anxiety. Dormant memories emerged as ghastly specters.

The news that two sets of friends have discovered life-threatening health problems with their children rewound my mind 28 years to our daughter Jenny's birth. Suspecting nothing, we hardly raised an eyebrow when the doctor reported "complications" during delivery. Even Jenny's first seizure the next morning didn't fully alert us.

But we were soon unexpectedly plunged us into deep, uncharted waters. We weren't prepared, either for the immediate crises, or their countless companions that would arise over the ensuing 22 years. Many parents had surely faced such troubles, but they were nameless and faceless, the "someone else" to whom bad things always seem to happen.

I had shunned United Way presentations at work because they featured children with "handicaps." Someone else's problems, I thought. Those kinds of things always happen to others. For me, out of sight was out of mind.

But Jenny's' birth changed all of that. We unwillingly found ourselves thrust into an elite group, a group which expectant parents fervently pray to never join. Our child would forever be "profoundly retarded."

We empathize with anxious parents who await the outcome of medical tests and face momentous turns with every report. Power-packed words like "cancer," "leukemia" and "brain damage" explode in their minds, leaving them shell-shocked. They scrabble for tiny rays of hope to guide them through the gathering darkness. Their worlds are quickly turned upside down. How, they wonder, will we ever survive?

Oftentimes, the situation may even be infinitely more difficult than they could ever image. But there is news that rights an upside-down world. The grace of God is sufficient for every trial. We can identify. We have been there. Life does go on.

Our friends in crisis have a marvelous benefit: an army of other friends and family. They are surrounded by those who will rejoice when they rejoice–and will weep when they must weep.

Hurting people don't need sermons. They need encouragement, support and hope. Still, I'm reminded that Charles Spurgeon said, "The Lord gets His best soldiers out of the highlands of affliction." And though He equips His soldiers for the battles they face, having someone stand along side is immeasurably beneficial.

Though we bore many of our burdens alone, I gratefully recall some fellow warriors from those early days when life was so hard. Seventy-year-old Mary Taylor. Neighbor Martha Rodgers. Margaret and Don Moseley. Dot and Harold Walden. Linda, Kelly, and Kim Hammett. These saints reinforced us when we were battle-weary. They are enshrined in our hall of fame.

If you would like to leave a lasting influence, draw along side those who are struggling. Babysit. Go to the store. Run errands. Write a note. Cook a meal. It's often easier to endure the thunderclaps of crisis than the day-by-day grind that slowly saps emotions and strength.

God blesses those who care enough to join the fight.

Copyright 2001 James McAlister

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