I'm continuing the series of stories I began a week ago. I had planned to write a story called "Picking Up Jacob," but as I got into it, the title changed on me. I hadn't thought about Elliot in a long time and was surprised to find him in this story.
Looking for Elliot
I would say that the hardest part of not having a son is knowing that when my father dies, it will be over. The father-son relationship will end, and I will have experienced it from only one point of view. With three daughters, there's a good chance I'll have sons-in-law. I intend to cherish them if and when they come, but that's a different kind of relationship altogether. For one thing, they won't be living with me. At least I pray to God they won't.
Now that my dog has died, I'm alone in a sea of women. In some ways that's nice, but I'm missing something. I miss the shared perspective that a father and son have. If a father is gentle and true, he and his son see the world through each other's eyes. One is a man, and the other becomes a man while they both watch this unfold before their very eyes. There is a slow changing from dada, to daddy, to dad, to father, to mentor, to friend. Sometimes there is a sad and sweet ending where the relationship is turned upside down and father becomes son.
My own father and I are currently in the friendship stage, and I hope things stay like this until the end. But if this relationship needs to go through another change, I stand ready. If he calls me I will go to him and allow nothing to stand in my way. I owe him that, and this is a debt I carry with pride.
This journey of father and son that we share has been so full and rich that I would love to have had a chance to go around a second time with a son of my own.
But my own son never came. He was going to be named Elliot. Elliot with one t, and I can almost see him sometimes.
It's been seven years since I came to understand that there would be no Elliot. The grief has receded. There is no sting in it now. It is something I thought would be, but will not be after all. And now that my brother and sister have each had a daughter, boys seem like an exotic species to me. I look at boys like I look at mansions on a Hollywood tour. Such homes are utterly beyond me, so I feel no envy. I just stare, amazed that such things exist in this world.
Little boys fascinate me now. There seems to be an awful lot of them running around, so I don't suppose there are any special tricks to getting one.
I wonder how we kept missing?
Now there are four little boys at our church, all about the same age, all hovering around three. Kevin, Steven, Jacob, and Adam. And a merrier band of swashbuckling fellows you've never met in all your life. I want you to imagine the four of them, arms around each other's shoulders, fists full of toy trucks, plastic swords shoved in their belts, singing at the top of their lungs because the world is a great place and everyone loves them. Imagine that and you're getting the picture.
Adam likes racecars. He REALLY likes racecars. He wears racecars on his clothes every Sunday at church. For a while he was getting a new Matchbox car every time he went to the bathroom by himself. Creative parenting – you gotta love it.
When Adam runs up to you to show you whatever racecar he happens to be wearing that day, you really must stop whatever you are doing. His excitement seems to know no bounds. Sometimes I wonder who he thinks I am. Maybe little kids don't think too much about who you are. You're just one of their big people. Maybe I'm just the man who likes his racecar shoes.
Kevin is a quiet and rather dignified boy who comes from quiet and rather dignified parents. At least they seem that way until you get to know them. Kevin didn't start speaking as soon as some of the other kids, and then one day he was speaking in sentences. His parents are seriously smart people, so I knew all along that he was going to be some kind of Einstein character.
Kevin has huge eyes and reminds me a little bit of a snuggly Koala bear. There's something quiet and marsupial about the way he turns his head and locks those eyes on you. He's fond of trucks and of running in circles while the adults are cleaning up after our weekly meal. When he runs, there's something about his feet that reminds me of his dad's feet. I almost always call Kevin by his first and last name because I like the way it sounds and because it seems to fit him.
Then there's Steven. Steven is the little boy I wrote about in the Elliot stories. I changed his name in those stories because I was trying to stay anonymous and because it gave me a chance to use the name Elliot. Anyway, if you've read those stories you know how long we waited for him and what he means to our church.
Steven is a gentle boy, and he likes to sing. There seems to be a purity in him that's a little spooky, but perhaps we invest him with that because of how he came to us. It doesn't really matter because a community can give purity to a child just by expecting it of him. Sometimes you travel far before returning home, but it's powerful hard to rid yourself of what your people see in you.
Steven's dad was estranged from his own father and carried that wound in his heart for years. He and Steven are working that out together quite nicely. His mom is a singer and an actress and an artist in her soul. If you asked me I would say that Steven is a healer and a dear heart. The circumstance of his birth was a powerful sign. Perhaps they should have named him, "Mends broken hearts."
We shall see what little Steven does with the life that has been given him.
And finally, Jacob. Jacob is exactly how I imagine little boys should look. He's a stocky little fireplug with a thick torso and arms and legs that are always moving. His blonde hair defies all attempts at combing and mostly sits like a woven mat on the top of his head. He is struggling to speak clearly with his little hoarse voice, and right now he has a kind of Donald Duck lisp working for him. When Jacob says my name I would give him the world if I could.
There are no words to describe Jacob's smile. It is the smile of a boy who has never known fear. There is nothing in all the world for him but to be cared for, and to run, and to see what the big people have planned next.
When one of these little boys walks past me, I sometimes get an uncontrollable urge to get my hands on him. There's something about the way they walk around, little self-contained boy units with their own plans and agendas. They're always going somewhere, it seems. I want to snatch them up and posses whatever it is they have. I want to feel their boyishness. I want to know that little boys do indeed exist in this world.
It's funny about holding children. We all know that children need to be held, but I think mostly we hold them for our own reasons. We're trying to turn our world upside down for a moment, trying to remember something we lost or trying to make peace with something we never had.
I saw Jacob on the church porch the other day. He was tooling along with his hands in his pockets and not a care in the world. I growled like a monster and made a move toward him. He shrieked for joy and ran away, hoping I would chase him. I did chase him and caught him and lifted him up in the air.
A quick hug, a couple of words, just a boy in my arms for a moment and all seemed right with the world.
Then I turned him upside down for some reason. Some kids like this, but he didn't. His laughter turned to terror, and when I sat him down he ran for his father.
Later I saw him in the hall with a fistful of Cheetos he had just swiped from the kitchen.
“Hey Jacob. Do you like to be turned upside down?”
“No,” he said, barely paying attention. He was too interested in his Cheetos and walked away dribbling little orange crumbs onto the hall carpet.
“Okay, I won't turn you upside down,” I said, even though he was already gone.
Then I talked to myself for a moment. “Who would? Who WOULD like to be turned upside down?”
The answer, of course, is me. I would like to be turned upside down, please. I would like someone to turn the world upside down and shake it a little, so that when we set it right side up, maybe Elliot would be there. I'm looking for Elliot in every little boy I see. I'm turning them this way and that to see if I can find something I lost even though I never had it.
Looks like Jacob. Heart like Steven. Mind like Kevin. Passion like Adam. Yep that's Elliot to a tee. Sometimes I can almost see him.
There's a little bit of Elliot in each of these boys, and I'm hoping that will be enough Elliot for me.
rlp
The Elliot Stores:
The Advent of Elliot
The Passion of Elliot
