Great Outdoors
Thunderfoot. That was my daughter Bay’s nickname because of how heavy her foot planted with each step across the hardwood floors of our old house. One day, those steps came pounding down the hall toward our bedroom. My dad sonar also picked up the familiar, yet much more subtle, pinging of her little sister’s steps. Both were running, as if the bass drum chased the cymbals- one after another. They rounded the corner, stopped suddenly, and then both looked surprised to see Hannah and I standing there like a catcher waiting at home plate for a runner who should have stayed on third base.
Cape was five years old. She started with a whaling “Bay hit me!” Her face was fire ant red, but no tears rolled. Bay was eight years old. She batted her eyes a few times at me and shrugged her shoulders, with a Julia Child’s look of “I’m offended at the notion.” The truth was, Bay had been going through a bullying phase. I had already warned her that Cape was growing and catching up with her, but that didn’t deter Bay. So, without giving it much thought- and probably in a state of frustration- my response was quick and decisive. “Hit her back.” I was sure Cape would ask for clarification or at least ask “Are you sure?” Certainly, she would glance in my direction like the RCA dog seeking affirmation. Instead of a momentary pause or hesitation, Cape reached back as far as she could and brought a haymaker she found somewhere in the neighbor’s backyard and clobbered Bay far worse than anything Jake Paul could ever muster. Before I could crack a grin or act shocked, Hannah yelled “What are you doing?” Her venom was directed at me so now I had become a menace to society. Bay lay on the floor in a puddle of her tears and humility. Cape seemed to be dusting her hands off and grinned like the cat that ate the canary. Hannah was picking Bay up, yelling at me, and scolding Cape all at the same time. I was secretly impressed with Cape’s roundhouse, yet frustrated by her lack of diplomacy, sympathetic to Bay’s hurt and scared of Hannah’s wrath- and randomly, I craved a Little Debbie.
Twenty minutes later, we all sat on our big green sofa in the living room, snacking on Cosmic Brownies, and watching Auburn football. Bay’s face was still flushed from tears, and she was folded up in Hannah’s lap. Cape’s face was littered with brownie crumbles as she and I jockeyed for the last Little Debbie. I let her win of course. She devoured one half in a single bite, then gave the other half to Bay. Bay smiled, and Cape crawled over and into her arms. Their relationship had matured. From that day forward, Bay never bullied Cape again and Cape never hit Bay again.
I wish I could claim some sort of fatherly insight and say “I told you so” to Hannah, but the truth is, it was not my doing, but His. “Every branch in me that does not bear fruit He takes away, and every branch that does bear fruit He prunes, that it may bear more fruit” (John 15:2). As parents, we sometimes foster the pruning process that He does in our children. That is… if we will. Not that I necessarily made the right decision that day- but I decided, nonetheless. And He did His work with my decision. Be present and decisive, parents. Our children need us to hold them accountable so that He can prune.
-Walt Merrell
A Christian Outdoorsman who writes of his adventures with his family, with the hope that others might be inspired and encouraged to embrace God’s tapestry, otherwise known as the great outdoors, as a means of finding Common Ground. You can follow him at Shepherding Outdoors on FB, YT and IG and at shepherdingoutdoors.com. His most recent book is available at shepherdingbook.com. Read his faith story here.
