Something about having a baby in the house brings back memories of growing up. I suspect my brain is trying to warn me about what lies ahead. This morning an episode came to mind that caused me, yet again, to realize just how weird raising a child will be.
It was a crazy Wednesday evening, as was so often the case. There was some sort of church activity that we needed to attend. Everyone was in the van ready to go, except for my youngest brother, who was dragging his feet. My mother, in her favorite teaching style, decided to give him an object lesson, and drove off without him. Now this was only a ruse. We drove around the block and came right back to the house, certain that he would be suitably chastened for his tardiness.
Instead, we discovered the house abandoned. We searched high and low, but there was no sign of him. He was only a young teen at the time, and didn’t have a driver’s license yet, so we knew he couldn’t have gotten very far, yet he was nowhere to be found.
After about ten minutes the telephone rang. It was someone from our church. My little brother was there, and looking for us. He had set out on his own, determined to follow our supposed course. Unfortunately, he had severely underestimated the length of the trip. Fortunately for him, a family friend saw his trek and offered him a ride. And that is how, by being late, my brother got to the church first.