My Kids Needed an Adventure

DCIM118GOPROLast week, my son Cody (10), my daughter Laila (8) and I, along with my friend Matt and his oldest daughter drove two and a half hours north to Traverse City, Michigan pulling a trailer with five kayaks and a trunk full of gear.  Matt had found out about an island in the Grand Traverse Bay with over 200 acres of nature preserve plus a small island connected by an isthmus that has five rustic camping spots.  So, arriving at Bowers Harbor, we put all our gear in trash bags, packed the kayaks full, and began the 3+ mile paddle to the island.  The winds were not in our favor and the trip over was a real challenge – both Matt and I had the kids’ kayaks tethered to ours for safety.  We even had a false start in which we decided to head back to shore and wait an hour for wind conditions to improve.  We made it safely though, and for the next 3 days we camped, ate, explored, ate, swam, kayaked, and even slept a little.  We gave the kids trail maps and they led the exploration through the thick forest to the sand beaches.  They collected wood and stoked the fire.  They got filthy dirty.  And as I watched my son and daughter own the island for a few long days, I was left with this one clear thought –

My kids needed an adventure.

They needed their eyes wide and their blood pumping.  They needed to sink their toes into new sand and soil.  They needed an awakening.

Even when my wife and I are at our very best and most intentional (which, I don’t know about you, but there are a lot of times when we aren’t), it is very easy for us to let our family and home slip into a routine.  Do this, eat that, go there, drive here, shop then, wash this, brush that, rinse and repeat.  Pretty soon, you find yourself operating on autopilot.

Autopilot is fine in airplanes, but harmful in humans.  And kids aren’t immune.

Sometimes we just need a break from the routine…something that shakes us out of our complacency.  We need a challenge.  We need adventure.

I loved watching my son come alive as he ran and climbed.  He loved tending the fire and smashing sticks against trees and chasing a raccoon from our campsite.  And the craziest part?  Not once did he say those two words parents dread – I’m bored.  He didn’t ask for screen time because he was out of things to do.  Adventure has a way of slaying the boredom dragon.

This trip was important for my daughter to experience too.  Sure this sounds like the making of a good father/son trip, but I wanted her to do challenging things too.  It is important that she sees herself not as fragile and helpless, but that she can be strong and confident.  She can do things.  She can have adventures.  And more importantly, her dad wants to have those adventures with her too, not just her brothers.

IMG_3886Not all adventures will look like this one.  Maybe camping is not your thing.  What’s important is that you do something that breaks you out of the routine…that reminds you that life is not simply composed of calendar appointments and to-do list items or searching Netflix for something decent to watch.  Find something that opens your eyes and invokes wonder, and be sure to invite others (kids/friends/random strangers) to do the same.

So, what adventures have you been on lately?

 

 

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These Things Are Rarely Things [Materialism]

[This is a revision of a piece I wrote last year, hence the baby references of my youngest.  Otherwise, I thought it might be timely.  mb]

I said it again when I prayed tonight. I didn’t really mean to but it just slipped out, sort of like when you go into “sub-conscious prayer mode” and find yourself reciting phrases without really thinking about what you’re saying. Left unchecked, pretty soon you realize that you have just repeated to God the items you need to pick up at the grocery store tomorrow.  Embarrassing, I know, but anyhow I said it. I prayed “and thank you for all the things you have blessed me with.”

Which got me thinking how these “things” are rarely things.

I am writing this after the close of a truly spectacular autumn day. The magnificent yellows and oranges of the trees beg a second look. It is before such a backdrop that I was able to watch my blessings unfold. Today, it’s the sheer surprise and joy in my son’s eyes as he connected the bat with the ball in our backyard this afternoon. It’s my daughter’s silent expression of belonging as she plops down next to me on the couch. It’s our youngest’s unabashed raising of arms in the air in an effort to once and for all answer the “how big” question. It’s someone to share these precious days with. Family is my blessing today.

It’s funny how when answering the blessing question, my mind seldom visits the ideas of touch screen cell phones, flat screens, or designer jeans, and if it should happen to, it doesn’t stay long. That’s because these “things” are rarely things.

Sure, today I’m also thankful for meals and roofs and clothing, and each one of these is cause for thankfulness to our heavenly father, but I get the sense that when Jesus said not to worry about what you will eat or what will cover you, it was not simply about provision but also about priorities. Don’t get me wrong, my roof is great.  It keeps most of the rain out and most of the heat in, but for me today, it was more about what was going on under my roof that led me to be thankful. That is the “thing” I felt blessed by today.

I wonder what it is about the human heart that causes us to cling so tightly to things made of metal and plastic.  What makes us hunger so deeply for “stuff?”  With the commercials for Christmas already in full swing, you can’t help but feel somewhat un-American if you don’t spend the next two months in a mall somewhere living on a steady diet of Auntie Anne’s pretzels and lattes or if your guest room closet doesn’t resemble a squirrel nest just before winter.  I don’t mean to sound cynical, and I sure love giving and getting as much as the next person, but I just worry sometimes about the amount of stock we put into things that are just, well, things.  Beyond being “just things,” they simply don’t last.  They are temporary.  Fleeting.  They have their moment in the sun but it is truly that…a moment.  Just ask the beanie baby that was once enshrined in an air tight glass case with the name and number proudly in view about the transition to becoming the dog’s chew toy in the backyard.  Okay, so maybe don’t ask the beanie baby…but you get what I’m saying.  The allure of things is short-lived.  The next thing will be replaced by the next big thing which will give way to the next bigger thing.

I imagine at some point in time an eager friend calling another to excitedly announce “Hey man!  I just picked up my new Commodore 64 Computer.  This thing is beautiful!  The green tone of the screen is even more vibrant than in the pictures.  And it’s got 8 bits!  I don’t have a clue what a bit is but there are 8 of them!  That’s gotta mean something!”

I’m guessing it’s been a long time since the Commodore 64 has received that kind of attention.  Now, it’s a large paper weight- a huddled mass of metal and plastic taking up space in some corner of the basement alongside crusty paint cans and a salad shooter.  This is the temporary nature of things.

Over ten years ago, I was in a small impoverished village outside of Tiajuana, Mexico.  Houses made of tarps and cardboard.  Sewage running through the streets.  Barefoot children walking among trash and debris.  Though this was over a decade ago, I can vividly recall the joy in the faces of several young boys as they played with a discarded hubcap on the side of the road.  They tossed it back and forth, rolled it, spun it…you name it, they did it.  And they laughed.  Man, how they laughed.  I had come to teach a thing or two to these “poor people” and yet, I was the student that day, for back in the States, I had not one, but four hubcaps.  They were attached to my car which was parked in my driveway which led to my house that contained my bedroom that was filled with drawers and closets and boxes and dressers full of stuff.  Things.  Metal and plastic just like that hubcap, but better.  Nicer.  Newer.  More-er.  I had everything and yet they were the happy ones.  I was jealous of them.  I longed to be like them.  I get the sense that the joy in these kids was very much related to the fact that they had very little.  They had learned at a young age not to cling tightly to things simply because there was nothing there for them to cling to.  A hubcap brought joy but I would guess the joy was more about the running and throwing and laughing and less about the possession of an object, for they possessed very little.  Maybe a better way to put it is that they were possessed by very little.  They used the thing without it using them.  As quickly as they snatched them up, they could set things down and move on.

It’s been over ten years and I’m still trying to set things down.