My Son My Teacher

Mike and Heather came last week. I was in on it but it was a surprise for my husband who didn’t know he was going to be treated to a Conestoga steak for his birthday.

We really didn’t plan for day following. It was just a day to visit and enjoy company and do “whatever”.

For Mike and I “whatever” came in the form of a trek down to the pond to adjust the sights on my rifle. I wasn’t really comfortable doing it myself and he welcomed the opportunity to become acquainted with one of the loves of my father’s life.

So we grabbed paper, a box, tape, shells, an ink pen and the gun, and headed down the hill. Our pond is a great place to shoot because of a steep bank on one side. When you place your target there whatever you hit, or even miss, becomes a permanent part of the ground. With livestock, a road and neighbors, that’s important.

I was impressed. He turned the rowboat up to steady his aim and sort of sit/laid, sniper style to shoot. It didn’t take too many rounds.

Then it was my turn. I grudgingly got down in the dirt and dutifully held the gun as a drill instructor had taught me so I could utilize my dominant eye. It was a good technique, but according to Mike, it was wrong for me.

Teaching, i.e, retraining me came as natural to him as breathing . . . it wasn’t planned – it just happened. He showed me how to hold the gun on the other shoulder and look down the scope with both eyes open. His goal was my success and we went through several rounds, with him coaching to fine tune my skill through each one.

Halfway through all this it hit me that the roles were now reversed. For so many years I taught him and tried to coach him in successful life skills. We both took some lumps and bruises in the process. Now it was his turn, and he was doing the same for me. Line upon line, precept upon precept, he helped me learn something I thought was impossible. I stood in awe of his knowledge, and even more of his teaching skills. He didn’t learn any of that from me.

I kept the last target. It’s folded up in the case as a memento of the day. It’s not that I hit it five times in succession, which I quickly admit I’m proud of, but as a reminder that God makes boys into fine men, and that we’re never too old to learn from our children.