As Saturdays and particularly Sundays aren't really...ah...good days for me, I've managed to miss every single cub scouting camping trip my boys have taken. The wife has taken 'em instead. She always comes back with her hair slightly mussed and smelling of woodsmoke and marshmallows. It's a very appealing scent. If you really wanted to make a perfume that drew the interest of men, that might be a good place to start.
Last month, though, with the last camping trip of the little guy's season coming up, he began asking if I could go.
I hemmed and hawed. Things are challenging at the church right now. My session usually meets on the second Sunday of the month, and we've got some pretty serious ecclesiastical heavy lifting to do. And...
And...
And my youngest son, on one of the last camping trips he's may take as a scout, was asking me to go along. "I just want a chance to hang out with you, Dad," said he, meltingly.
For a moment, that little demonic meme that misapplies Scripture in ways that make male pastors crappy, distant fathers tried hitting me with something about hating family and even life itself. But I batted it down. Most of that is just ego and self-importance, masquerading as spirituality. Nothing was happening today at church that couldn't be rescheduled, or handled perfectly capably by someone else. The life of your children, on the other hand, has an unfortunate tendency to pass by. Just once. Miss it, and it won't be back.
So I handed some things off to folks, rescheduled others, and left for the mountains with my boy. We came back just a few hours ago, sleepy and s'more-sated and smelling of woodsmoke. I love that smell.
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