Jeff is our youngest child, a big, tough, stylish kid, handsome and strong—the teenager all the little kids love and the kind girls phone to discuss math problems with (or at least that’s what they tell us when they finally get past our customer service department).
His laugh was enough to bring the house down when he was a boy, but that contagious laugh began to vanish by the time he turned 12 and was completely extinct by his 13th birthday. It’s a horrible thing to watch someone view life wearing the glasses of a teenager, trading in joy because it isn’t so cool.
Our kids have always laughed a lot, partly because they got their sense of humour from my wife’s side of the family, whose motto is this: “It’s all funny until someone gets hurt. Then it’s hilarious!”
I slip on an icy sidewalk, landing on my rear, and these kids will snort and laugh until they hyperventilate. But by the time they are teenagers the hyperventilating had pretty much been cured. Life is as serious as a cracked rib. Laughter seems out of place, like a puppy at church.
To complicate things, the boy was struggling in school. He was late on assignments as often as United Airlines. A teacher called to tell me that if he could issue marks below zero, he would give them to my son. Imagine telling your friends you have a minus 23 in Chemistry. Not an F, but an H.
I received a welcome phone call in the midst of all of this. It was Compassion, the international child development agency, asking us to go to the Dominican Republic on a short mission trip. I prayed about it for one-third of a nanosecond, then eagerly said yes. I would run away from home. And take Jeff along.
The teacher caught wind of our escape plans and called to accuse me of taking leave of whatever senses I had left. I considered telling this teacher that I learned about six per cent of what I now know in the classroom, but thankfully I went with a saner response. I am a Christian and sometimes I am relieved to find myself acting like it. “I’m so glad you care about him,” I said, “But I’m really concerned about his spiritual health.” I did not say, “I don’t want his schooling to interfere with his education.” I’m thankful I didn’t.
That night I waved the plane ticket in front of Jeff like a carrot. “Smarten up, listen up, and catch up on assignments or I’ll give this to a complete stranger, maybe even the next girl who calls.” He smiled ever so slightly. “I will,” he promised.
We were met at the airport in the Dominican Republic by Pastor Bernard, who has a glow about him like he works at a nuclear power plant. Bernard doesn’t say a lot, which is one of the first signs of sainthood. He speaks three languages fluently, but he’d rather listen to you. Jeff latched onto him during those 10 days. He listened to Bernard’s stories of God at work. He watched Bernard tell others of Jesus. Of his death and resurrection. Of the hope He gives. Of the joy He brings.
We stood in a village devastated by a hurricane, but Bernard’s face was beaming. “They want me to tell you that their houses are gone but it’s OK. The church is still standing.” The crowd smiled and nodded. Jeff kicked at a rock and shook his head. We saw children who subsist on food they’ve scrounged from the dump, kids with hollow eyes and bloated bellies. When we said goodbye, it was amid tears and ample hugs.
“I’ll miss you,” said Bernard.
“Me too,” said Jeff.
If you were to ask me about the happiest moment of fatherhood, I might mention the Good Friday soon after we returned. Jeff’s marks were up a little, hovering near the passing mark. And the laughter was back. Along about midnight I smelled something, so I crept to the kitchen to see what it was.
The boy had cracked half a dozen eggs into a bowl, covered them with a pound of shredded cheese, and thrown an entire package of Canadian bacon into a sizzling frying pan. “Dad,” he said, “I’d like to sponsor a kid in the D.R. It’s 35 bucks a month, right?”
I tried not to let him see my tears, then decided it didn’t matter. I’d just watched my son go from talking about Christianity to doing it. From following those who follow Jesus, to following Jesus for himself.
Even at Easter, hope catches us a little by surprise.
