Tyler was a first-grader with one dad, one mom, two little sisters, one dog, and two cats. He wanted a nerf gun. More than anything. Tyler begged his mother for a bigger allowance, but the fact of the matter was, his piggy-bank remained a few dollars too short.
So he stole some money out of his father’s wallet. It was just sitting in there. The white outline of the wrinkled, faded green twenty, corner flared out a centimeter from the end of the folded wallet.
His little hand reached to the kitchen tabletop and pulled down the thick chunk of leather that held all of his dad’s stuff. School pictures of the kids, a driver’s license, some plastic swipe cards. And one long, thin compartment with that worn-out twenty. Tempting, and easy to grab.
“Mom? Dad?”
A little louder the next time. “Mom? Dad?”
A third try for good measure. “Anyone home?" Nothing. The coast was clear.
After a few glances right and left, his two little hands dug into the billfold and slipped out the twenty. It was in his pocket as fast as one-foot pencil-arms could shove it. He ran to his room and, breathing hard, jammed it into his dog-shaped piggy bank.
Dad’s got so many, what’s it matter anyway?
Half an hour later, his father, Scott, kicked off his grass-stained tennis shoes as he came into the kitchen after mowing the yard. He poured a glass of kool-aid. Purple – Tyler’s favorite.
He bent over to find his wallet on the ground, open, and short a twenty.
“Ty?” Silence.
“Tyler?” he yelled through the house. No answer again.
So Scott climbed up the stairs and stepped into Tyler’s room. He looked at a lump under the bed covers, moving up and down with the rhythms of shaky, but controlled breathing. “Ty, buddy?”
He realized what had happened when he saw the piggy bank sitting under the bed instead of on the dresser, where an oval devoid of dust marked its usual resting place. It was below the inhaling and exhaling lump wrapped in a cocoon of race-car print bedding.
The dad tenderly pulled back the covers. “Tyler, buddy, did you take my twenty dollar bill?”
Tyler’s sweaty body jerked to the other side of the bed as he tried to squirm away and run out of the room.
“I didn’t take it! It wasn’t me!” he squealed.
But Scott’s swift and steady arm clutched Tyler's skinny ankle and yanked his son toward himself. “Tyler. I know what you have done. It is not right to steal from daddy.”
The dad took Tyler’s belly and put it on his knee. He was going to get a spanking.
“Don’t, daddy! Don’t! Let go of me! Don’t!”
"Tyler, hold still. You need to learn not to steal."
“Let me go!”
The father paused and realized how little he was accomplishing.
The boy was still crying.
The boy was still fighting.
He was still struggling to anchor the boy down with one arm so that he could spank with the other. Nothing like how he envisioned his relationship with his son eight years ago when he was born.
He set Tyler down, helped him to his feet, and held him by the shoulders while squatting down so that they were face to face.
Tyler’s bowl-cut bangs were pasted to his forehead with sweat just above his eyes, which avoided his father’s gaze by looking down at the ground.
“Tyler, look at me.” No response.
“Tyler, you look at me right now.” Tyler’s body shook to try to free itself, but to no avail.
“Noooo! Let me go!”
“Tyler, let me see your eyes.” In a sort of surrender, Tyler’s big baby blues peeked up, as his look evolved into a contempt-filled stare.
The father’s eyes were focused in.
Seeing Tyler’s anger.
Seeing Tyler's stubbornness.
Seeing all the baggage that came with the simplicity of his son’s rebellion.
“Tyler, you have two options right now. You choose.”
“You either take a big long spanking until my arm gets too tired to spank any longer,
or,
you let me snuggle with you for as long as I want, until I’m done.”
Ever feel like you've just got to be missing something? A few weeks ago, I found my Father looking me right in the eyes, telling me I had two options.
Amen, brother.
