Our parents were tired. That’s the most obvious explanation for, well, a lot.
I’m thankful that they had me, though a “planned” child, I obviously was not. If I’ve done the math correctly, Mom was 42 years old when I was born, and Dad was 44.
Since I am confident that I was no surprise to my Father, it’s never bothered me that I was completely unexpected by my parents—until the doctor confirmed that I was expected. I can only imagine how that news took their breath away. I wonder what they were thinking. My two-years-younger brother has a simple answer: “Oh, they weren’t thinking.”
Math again. If my former calculations are right, Mom was 44 and Dad was 46 when Jim came on the scene. Was he planned? Oh, I think so. I’ve told him many times that he was obviously brought on board to serve as a companion for little Curtis. It’s simple logic, I’ve assured him, and he should find a great deal of peace and satisfaction by facing reality and just accepting that a major part of his purpose in life has been to make my life better.
Our folks already had three children—two boys and a girl. My sister (my next oldest sibling) was 15 years older than me. My oldest brother and his wife could almost have been my parents. That fact, I’m told, added to the surprise and some confusion when the news of my impending arrival got out.
So, obviously, our folks already had one well-established family when Family Number Two took up residence. Mom would later do some math herself and report that she had at least one child in public school continuously for 40 years. Who does that on purpose?
Were they tired? Oh, yes. And that explains why, according to our older siblings, that our parents’ standards slipped a great deal with the second bunch, and pretty much all Jim and I had to do was to stay out of jail. I’m not saying that I completely admit the accuracy of that opinion, but neither would I say that they were utterly without evidence.
I give one example. I won’t go into the details, but Jim and I tried a brief flirtation with organized sports and soon discovered that we had a good deal more fun on our own. During our growing up years, fewer bad guys were blowing things up. Chemistry sets included a wider variety of useful chemicals, and we discovered that the neighborhood pharmacy could augment a toy chemistry set quite nicely.
A real breakthrough for us came when we learned in school how to make a paper mache volcano. The prescribed recipe would produce a little civilized “lava” rolling gently over the top and down the sides of the volcano. But using laudable initiative and employing some creative problem-solving skills, we found that a slightly altered mixture could produce a few seconds of real fire blowing out of the top. After the excitement, imagine a gratifying amount of ash settling gently down around the perimeter.
That led to further experimentation. I still maintain that it was not my idea at all to try the mixture on the top of a neighbor’s new fencepost. To any aspiring young chemists reading this, I simply say that I am in no way suggesting such “research.”
My parents were tired, for sure. I’m not sure if their second family kept them young in many ways or hastened their aging. But, seriously, though neither they nor any of their children were without human flaws, our parents trusted in God’s love and grace, and I will be forever thankful for that.
At best, life can be hard, and none of us gets it right—least of all, folks who think that they do. We are all broken in many ways, and we all do our share of breaking. But I believe this: We all have a Father whose love and grace is absolutely available, no matter how often we fall. Not one of God’s children need ever go to sleep wondering if he or she is wanted or loved.
Text copyright 2024 by Curtis K. Shelburne. Permission to copy without altering text or for monetary gain is hereby granted subject to inclusion of this copyright notice.