Today, as I was preparing a lesson for Elder’s Quorum, out in the foyer of our chapel, a young boy, maybe eight or nine was playing and came up to me. Very sweet. I asked his name. “Nick.” I know the father of the boy, and think highly of the family. They are your typical hard-boiled New Englanders, but also not so typical. The father is somehow single and is raising a large family of somewhere from four to six kids (one of the daughters is black, the others are white). Nick (who happens to be a little wall- or cross-eyed, a somehow endearing feature) is one of them. I’ve never had the nerve (yet) to ask the father where the mother might be, but I watch them closely out of love and interest, as the family are converts and he is doing his best to fit into this new world of our crazy church and raise his kids well.
So Nick was playing in the foyer. Such a sweet kid. He came up to me and started asking me a lot of questions. (Sound familiar?). “What’s that? A question mark? Why are you asking questions? You should make it a statement. [I was writing my lesson which he noticed.] Do you want to see me do a triple jump? Do you want to see me do that again? [He fails his second attempt.] Did you see me almost fly? Do you have any games on your phone?” And so forth. Very sweet kid. I let him play with my phone, and pulled him up beside me on the sofa, and thought to myself: I’m going to be a good Dad. I can be wild and courageous and good and kind and everything a father needs to be.
Nick was a gift to me today.