The Week That Wasn't There

There is apparently an entire week in October that has not existed in my brain.

This one.

For the last couple of months, every time I've thought about October, I've somehow connected last weekend directly to next weekend.

This week?

Gone.

Skipped.

Deleted from the mental calendar.

I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation.

Perhaps it's an omen.

Perhaps I'm getting old.

Perhaps I simply have too many calendars.

We'll find out.

The weekend started normally enough.

Friday night, the kids went to bed and I settled in for games with friends.

Somewhere deep into the evening, I started hearing rain tapping against the window.

Then tapping became pattering.

Pattering became pouring.

I didn't think much of it.

North Carolina.

Rain.

It happens.

Saturday morning, it was still happening.

Normally, Saturday means another lesson with the kids on the Apostles' Creed.

Those lessons tend to work better somewhere outside the house where four children can run, move, talk, learn, wander, and burn off enough energy to eventually sit still again.

That wasn't happening.

So I loaded up the boys.

Mama and Zoey got some much-needed quiet.

We went hunting for breakfast.

And donuts.

Because donuts remain an essential component of rigorous theological education.

On the drive, though, I started asking questions.

Not about the Creed.

About me.

How are these lessons going?

What's working?

What's not?

How am I doing as your teacher, not just your dad?

They answered.

Honestly.

Very honestly.

Kids are helpful like that.

By the time we pulled back into the driveway, I had made a decision.

No class.

Not that day.

We ate breakfast together as a family.

Then I brought all four kids into my office.

I had questions.

They had answers.

Lots of answers.

Almost an hour.

About fifty questions.

Four kids telling Dad exactly what they understood, what they remembered, what worked, what didn't, what they enjoyed, and where I had apparently been considerably more impressed with my own teaching than they were.

It was fantastic.

Some of their answers floored me.

There was depth there.

Connections I didn't realize they had made.

Ideas they understood better than I thought they did.

And places where I could clearly see:

Okay.

Dad needs to teach this differently.

Then I released them back into the wild.

Computers.

Television.

Whatever.

They had earned it.

I sat down at my newly rearranged desk and started rebuilding the curriculum.

By shortly before dinner?

Done.

A new direction.

Same destination.

Better road.

Meanwhile, the rain kept falling.

And David kept waiting.

Baseball practice?

Canceled.

Sunday's game?

Looking increasingly unlikely.

He was disappointed.

Really disappointed.

He wanted baseball.

He wanted to play catch.

He would have settled for standing outside throwing a ball with Dad.

The rain wouldn't even give us that.

Fall baseball has apparently become less about playing baseball and more about checking weather apps to determine whether baseball theoretically exists.

We'll get the repetitions in when the sky allows it.

Saturday night brought more games with friends.

And somewhere in those conversations came another reminder:

Monday is Canadian Thanksgiving.

My wife is a dual citizen.

So Canadian culture has always had a little place in our family.

Some of it is easy.

Hockey.

Maple syrup.

I've introduced the kids to poutine, thereby fulfilling one of my primary responsibilities as a father.

But there is more to it than the jokes.

There is family history.

Culture.

Tradition.

Another piece of who we are.

So tonight, way down here in North Carolina, we're having our own small Canadian Thanksgiving dinner.

Because why not?

There are worse reasons to gather around a table.

Sunday morning arrived beneath heavy gray clouds.

But...

We got to church on time.

Everybody.

On time.

Please respect our privacy during this unprecedented moment.

The rain even stopped long enough for us to get inside.

After church, we came home to a fantastic casserole my wife had made for brunch.

And donuts.

Or...

There were supposed to be donuts.

Saturday, I had intentionally bought extra Munchkins for Sunday.

Growing up in the Midwest and going to a Methodist church, donuts and orange juice occupy a strangely specific corner of my childhood memories.

I wanted a little piece of that at home.

Except someone had eaten all the Munchkins.

All of them.

Parenting is awesome.

We were listening to Adventures in Odyssey, another little piece of childhood we've carried forward to our kids, and somehow the story playing in the background landed at exactly the right time.

Because the missing donuts weren't really about donuts.

There had been a pattern.

And eventually you have to talk about the pattern.

So we stayed at the table.

We talked about gratitude.

About having enough.

About what hunger actually feels like.

About growing up with less.

About the difference between being able to buy everything you want and having everything you need.

Our kids have the latter.

That matters.

Then I gave them a revision of the Golden Rule.

Treat other people the way you would want them to treat your mother when I'm no longer here.

That landed.

Hard.

It was supposed to.

But the conversation didn't end in frightened silence.

That's important.

It ended with talking.

Thankfulness.

Energy.

Cleaning.

Moving forward.

Maybe it sticks forever.

Maybe the next box of Munchkins still mysteriously disappears.

I am, after all, raising children.

Then came the notification David had been dreading.

Baseball was officially canceled.

Again.

No game.

He was crushed.

This is fall ball.

In the grand architecture of baseball, none of these games are particularly consequential.

Try explaining that to a twelve-year-old who just wants to play.

Honestly?

I'm not sure I want to.

He loves the game.

Let him be disappointed when he doesn't get to play it.

We'll make some extra time for baseball this week.

The cancellation unexpectedly gave me something I hadn't planned on:

A Sunday afternoon at home.

Coffee.

Kids doing their things.

And me settling into my newly separated gaming space to do some spectacularly mundane material grinding for a large build I'm working on in Valheim.

No rush.

No multitasking.

Just collecting digital resources while rain moved outside.

Then every phone started screaming.

Tornado warning.

Well.

So much for that.

Computers off.

Shoes on.

Everybody together.

Grab the few things I told you to grab.

Listen.

Move.

Then everybody had a job.

My wife and the kids made the rounds.

Property.

Outbuildings.

Chickens.

Making sure everything outside was as ready as it could reasonably be.

I stayed inside.

Weather radar up.

Warnings open.

Watching where the storm was moving.

Checking what we had.

Checking what we might need.

Making sure everyone knew where to go and that, if things changed quickly, we were ready to move.

The kids listened.

That's what mattered.

There wasn't panic.

There wasn't debate.

They trusted us.

Everyone did what needed to be done, came back together, and we waited.

Outside, the sky did what storm skies do.

The light changed.

Rain moved.

Wind worked through the trees.

And for a little while, the rest of Sunday simply stopped.

Then it passed.

The warning expired.

Shoes came off.

Computers came back on.

The house exhaled.

Life resumed.

There was one thought that didn't escape me.

Had baseball not already been canceled, there's a pretty good chance we would have been sitting at the field when that warning came through.

Maybe around first pitch.

Maybe during the first inning.

Instead, all six of us were already home.

I'll take that.

Later that evening, while we were getting the kids ready for bed, I saw a post from a friend.

The same storm had taken their house.

They were away on vacation.

They were safe.

Thank God for that.

But the house was gone.

Suddenly the warning we'd waited through felt a little different.

Same storm.

Different outcome.

There isn't much useful you can say to someone in that moment.

So after making sure they were okay, I told him maybe the house just missed them and went looking for them.

Dark?

Probably.

But I got a laugh.

Sometimes that's what a friend needs.

And because my Canadian friends have today off, Sunday night unexpectedly gave us another chance to play together.

We even ended responsibly.

Mostly because Monday still exists for the American contingent.

Which brings me here.

Monday morning.

Canadian Thanksgiving.

And the beginning of...

The Week That Wasn't There.

I have grades coming back from last week's schoolwork that may change how I approach this week's submissions.

Work has apparently filled my calendar in retaliation for mentally forgetting these five days existed.

The kids have school.

We owe David some baseball.

I'm following the playoffs mostly through scores and updates because actually watching baseball requires time, which remains stubbornly finite.

But I'm hoping when the World Series arrives, I can make some.

Sit down with the kids.

Watch the game live.

Not highlights tomorrow.

Not a recording when it's convenient.

The actual game.

Together.

Some things can't be recreated on demand.

And tonight?

We'll gather around our table in North Carolina and celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving.

A little bit of one home carried into another.

Family.

Food.

Thankfulness.

After this weekend?

That seems particularly appropriate.

So we'll see what happens with the week that apparently never existed.

Maybe there's a reason my brain kept skipping it.

Maybe nothing happens at all.

Honestly?

After this weekend, nothing sounds pretty good.

Sometimes the calendar gets it wrong, or maybe we do. We make plans, cancel plans, rewrite lessons, lose baseball games to rain, argue about missing donuts, prepare for storms, and then learn that the same wind that passed over our house changed someone else's life completely. Somewhere inside all of that, there were kids willing to tell Dad the truth about his teaching, a family sitting around a table having a hard conversation, children who trusted us when the phones started screaming, friends who could still find room to laugh on an awful day, and another reason to gather around our own table tonight and be thankful. Maybe this week disappeared from my mental calendar because I didn't need to live it early. It's here now. We'll take it as it comes.

Much love.

Stay safe.

Wash your damn hands.

And I will see you, next time.