Boy Germs

We survived another Scandinavian Festival. What a treat that the kids get to participate in this every year. They don't know how lucky they are, really.

My son was in the 1st to 3rd grade group this year, and even at this young, innocent age, the girls (who usually outnumber the boys in these groups) are starting to be repulsed by sweaty, grimy boy hands--cooties, as they were known in my day. And I realize that for the next five years or so, it will only get worse (before it gets better--or perhaps, when the girls decide K is cute and fun and smart, I will longingly wish for the days of cooties).

But in the meantime, how sad to be rejected because you are exactly what God made you. Earlier this summer, I looked at the strawberry lovingly being offered to me, served up on a muddy hand, and I tried not to let my mind imagine where all that hand had been before I smiled and savored the gift. One day, a few years back, I came in from the pasture and took note of all the Tonkas strewn about the back yard and sand box--as if the lunch whistle blew and the crew abandoned the equipment for refreshement. It might as well have been a neon sign that read, "A Boy Lives Here". I stopped and I savored that vision and locked that feeling and memory deep inside my heart. I pull it up now and then to look at it.

A boy lives here. My life is complete. Perfectly good computer fans get their wires cut off to become the bases of rockets. Pens get taken apart just to see how they work. Words of ownership get written on bathroom walls. The garden becomes a forest for the bike/wagon train hauling lovely composted dirt from here to there, to repair a break in the tracks. The born foreman hollers instructions to imaginary workers. A boy lives here.

And someday, some girl is going to notice him and treasure him. And I hope that when she trips over his shoes in the middle of the night or finds his underwear anywhere but in the hamper, her heart will be warmed and she will think, "A man lives here."