Kevin

When they ask Adam to name his role for the end-of-the-year play at school, he chooses, “Kevin,” says his father’s name in that deep, gravelly voice, just grunts it out like a fact. His teacher smiles telling me this.

“I said, ‘Now Adam, you can pick any name you want. Are you sure?'” she says, laughing a little. “To which he says, ‘Kevin,’ again with that voice, like ‘That’s it, just Kevin.'”

When they ask Adam to think of a costume for his character, he looks down to examine his own shirt. He describes exactly what he sees: “Adidas shirt, pants.” The costume list also mentions a hat, though since Adam rarely wears hats, my guess is that the hat was a suggestion to which he acquiesced. Someone said, “How about a hat too?” And Adam, not feeling particularly sour to the idea, just agreed. It’s a costume, so, of course. And all this means Adam wants to act like his dad for the play, while still being himself. In a spiritual sense, I have a similar goal: to imitate God’s character as much as I can, to reflect his heart, while still being just me.

I listen to this favorite teacher’s story and laugh, thinking of Adam’s odd approach to his relationship with his dad, that mixture of affection and respect, that certain fear Adam has that Kevin will ask Adam to do something Adam doesn’t want to do and Adam will have to obey. Adam turns his face away sometimes when he walks up the stairs, to avoid being called upon, in a Hitchhiker’s Guide move born of the idea that if I can’t see him, he can’t see me. The funny thing is that I understand. Sometimes I relate to God the same way; I creep around looking to see where God’s working and hope He won’t catch sight of me and ask me to participate. I look away, hoping He won’t choose me for the kind of discomfort that makes me rely on Him for comfort. I think I’m not alone; I think that’s why David wrote, “Where can I go to escape your Spirit (Psalm 139:7)?” Those of us who love God know the tension between wanting to be with him all the time and the sheer vulnerability that comes with knowing absolutely nothing at all can be hidden from him. It’s a haunting maybe, an echo tracing its history all the way back to Adam and Eve. So sometimes we dwell in comfort zones, and artfully avoid engaging in the one relationship that will beckon us from them.

On certain days, Kevin helps Adam with shaving and cuts Adam’s hair. Adam loves that intimacy but always resists it. In the hours before they spend the time together, Adam protests. “NO,” Adam says, the minute Kevin mentions the tasks. Adam looks at his watch, notes the time, and declares that they were done with these things three minutes prior, as if to say, “Well, phooey, Dad, if you had just caught me before I started my morning waltz from the living room to the kitchen, we’d have accomplished this thing you want to do, but now, unfortunately, the time has passed.” Adam wants to go upstairs; he wants to listen to his music; he wants to do almost anything except spend time with his father. Sound familiar? I call it odd, but is it really? I can’t even count the times my attitude toward God has been similar, the number of times I’ve told God that if his timing were better, I’d be more obedient; that on a different day at a different time, as long as it doesn’t interfere with what I want to do, I’ll sit still and let him tend to me.

In recognition of his own authority and maturity in the situation, Kevin ignores Adam’s protests, says, “Come on, it’s time,” steers Adam up the stairs. Kevin’s hands, lightly but firmly on Adam’s shoulders, silently say, You’re doing this. Adam plops down in the chair in our bathroom wearing a grin that gets wider the longer Kevin bends over him, gently combing and cutting his hair, shaving all the places Adam has missed with his own electric razor. Well since you insist, Dad, I’ll let you love me. On some level, Adam understands that he’ll be better for the time, that Kevin’s gentle attentions are motivated by the deepest love, that of all the places Adam could be, he’s safest here, with his dad. Adam didn’t want to do this; he felt he couldn’t spare the time. But once here, safe beneath his father’s hands, Adam remembers how wonderful it is to be so loved and how much he needs his father’s care. Like I said, I can relate.

So the story from Adam’s teacher, which for me is a honest and all about Adam’s quirky love (and mine), just makes me swell. I turn to Adam, joy spilling out so he can see, and I say, “You chose to be Kevin for the play?”

And he grins, glances quickly away, and softly says, “No.”