ready?

Kevin walks into the living room, where the morning light turns golden and Adam’s music makes a mini city of silver disc towers in front of the stereo. The room swells with harmonies. Adam roams, a lanky builder carefully settling one more disc atop one pile and then turning to lift a disc from another. The towers sway, like skyscrapers in the wind, like two simultaneous games of Jenga. Adam saunters away from his construction zone, satisfied, long limbs swinging a little as he walks. We build worlds, and Adam’s makes more sense as strings of numbers, notes curling into repeated musical phrases.

“Ready?” Kevin says to Adam, just that one word, without preamble or precedent or explanation. Adam’s Alpha has arrived, and in the eyes of the son, all worlds belong to him.

“Yes,” Adam quickly agrees, alert now, even though he’s still unsure to what activity Kevin refers. Kevin stops purposefully in the center of the room, planting his feet, holding his arms by his sides. And as if by some practiced response, as if recognizing some intention, Adam stops his wandering and turns with purpose to stand beside his dad. Adam plants his feet next to Kevin’s; he straightens his long arms, looking at his hands, tapping his legs with the tips of his fingers. Whatever it is, yes, he’s ready.

I look up from a book, watching them, holding a page between my fingers. Something touches me about the faithful simplicity with which Adam assents to the will of his father, matching Kevin’s posture, fitted with readiness. And suddenly, without another word, Kevin begins to dance.

The song rumbles and races and stirs. Kevin’s movements match–big sweeps of his arms, rapid spins, stomping kicks, and no matter what Kevin does, Adam follows. We grin now–all of us, big, wide joy. I gather it all up close to my heart, wondering how it would be to join the sacred dance so easily. Follow me, Jesus said, so many times. Imitate me, Paul wrote, as I imitate Christ (1 Corinthians 11:1). Kevin laughs now, mentions Adam’s music and movement teacher at school, says, “I think maybe she’s got him well trained for choreography.”

And I nod, because this is true. I’ve seen her up at the front of the room, commanding careful attention from a whole snarled knot of differently-abled kids, smoothly, patiently teaching them to follow her. Adam’s response is practiced after all. Once I arrived early, during rehearsal, to pick up my kids for an appointment. The whole room turned to greet me. Some of the kids enthusiastically stepped out of line, wrapping me up in warm hugs. Their teacher, my friend, sighed, stopping the music. Distractions won’t do when you’re learning to dance. On our way out the building I heard her say, “Okay, eyes up here. Pay attention everyone. Let’s try this again.” And once again, the music began to play. I chuckle now, remembering, imagining her joy over the evidence of what must have felt like messy, persistent work. But so it is with modeling the steps, with teaching someone to follow, until finally, attentive imitation becomes as natural as a breath.

What was it Paul had said, so much earlier in that same letter to the wildly distractible Corinthians? “…in Christ I became your father through the gospel. Therefore, I urge you to imitate me (1 Corinthians 4:15-16).” Spiritual parenting, that’s messy work too, I’m thinking, as I watch the dance dissolve; as father wraps son in a delighted embrace; as our joy becomes complete.