What’s in the summertime that we both love and hate? Would there be something special it has to offer making it the most important season of the year? Or would it be no different from the summers of our past.
I was surprised by the thoughtfulness of my son, Nathaniel, who would be turning four years old this coming August, when I saw him holding a plastic dipper scoop and watering the plants. I water the plants regularly, one in the morning and another one at dusk, except this morning. I didn’t say a word, but I just watched him do what he pleased.
I could tell from the look on his face that he meant business of what he’s doing. This summer is one that is special to me, I told myself. Then it’s time to intervene. “Why did you water the plants, Son?” I asked him. “Because you failed to water them this morning,” he said.
How thoughtful of him. And it bothered me not to tell him the truth about it anymore. It rained in earnest last night that the ground was still wet in the morning and I’m pretty sure the plants absorbed enough water from last evening’s rainfall. It was the first real rain for this summer.
Childhood memories flashed back on my mind. The summer of my youth—those simple and timeless joys of simply walking barefoot in the grasses, watched fellow kids run through an open field, got dirty, and to feel the warm breeze wafted through and touching our innocent faces. Summer is finally here but this one was different from the rest of summers I’ve been through.
This was different because I am a father now. Nathaniel may not come to experience exactly just the same things I had during my childhood but, right here and now, he was just like me. I looked at him and wondered what dreams he would be dreaming, what mountains he would climbing, and what joys he would be having.
Watching him grow is the delight of my life.