Working Out

Grant is standing at the bottom of the stairwell. He's jingling keys.

I'm upstairs, in the family room, trying to find my running shoes. I think I kicked them off, last night, when I was about to keel over.

"C'mon, Mom," he says. "It's been close to a hundred years."

He's probably right. I'm slow. I'm not quite ready to go back to the gym.

Grant is on a workout kick. And the amazing thing? He's asking me to go with. My son is seventeen. These invitations, I know, aren't around forever. And I want, deeply, to connect with my son.

I peer over the ottoman and half-hope to find my pink-and-black shoes.

Connecting with the boys is something I've made a strong effort to do. Someone long ago told me to meet my sons right where they're at - where their interests and time are. Sometimes it's not hard at all. Like reading a book with Logan (we just finished The Great Gatsby). Sometimes it's just fun. Gabe is an Othello wizard, and I love to play ( though he wrecks me every time).  But this every-day-at-the-gym thing? For me, this is more of a stretch.

I gather an armful of towels (and remind myself to bust some swimmer boys) and sure enough, I see my shoes. I drop the towels in the hamper and head down the stairs.

Grant is still standing there. He steps back and lets me pass. We walk through the house and out the door. And on the drive, though he's at the wheel and I'm half clutching my seat, he begins to talk. I listen. Ask questions. Listen some more. Things are lighthearted, today, and once in a while we laugh.

It doesn't take us long to get to the gym.

Grant pulls into a parking space and I just sit and watch. This seventeen year old boy-man. He's
precious to me. And at that moment, though I'm dreading the elliptical, there is absolutely, truly nowhere else I'd rather be.

Connecting at the gym.

 Praise the Lord.

Things, with my teenage son, are working out.

Thank you, Lord, for these sweet connection points with my boys...