The Movement You Need…

Note: Thanks to a hacker’s destroying some files, my site design has changed since this post was published.  The banner referred to in the first sentence no longer exists.  The full picture from which it was cropped remains in the post.

I’ll start at the beginning.

The banner image I chose and cropped for this site is a portion of my 1964 kindergarten class picture. In the banner, I’m the shrimp at the far left. This picture is very important to me, and I’ll get to that in a bit. You might notice that I’m the shortest child in the picture; the kindergarten I attended was a two-year program. I was only four years old when this picture was taken, but so were half of the other kids.

Throughout all my years in school, until my senior year in high school growth-spurt, I was always the shortest kid in the class, and usually by several inches. Needless to say, I had to find creative ways to make up for my physical stature, lest I be picked on. I’m sure I’ll get around to describing some incidents regarding my defense of shortness in future posts.

But this post isn’t really about this picture.

This post is about my parents, particularly my Dad. It is about what they gave of themselves to me.

This post is about one moment in time. This post is about what a single incident can do to instill a meaning that lasts throughout a person’s lifetime. This post is about the process of “becoming” that every single soul goes through by his or her own path. And I hope this post makes you think about a cherished memory that at least brings a smile.

This picture, and a couple others from my kindergarten days, are my reminders about how I began to become the person I am today. The mental images I cherish from this time are far more important than the end result of light exposure upon film transferred to photo-sensitive paper. Every time I look at or think about this picture the memories flood back. And it always makes me happy.

Surprise!

My conception was a surprise to both of my parents. My father had been ill for many years before I was born. By the time I was a zygote, Dad was fully disabled by heart attacks and strokes. My mother had miscarried several times. The doctors had told them both that having more children would be impossible. But as my sister tells it, one day late in her senior year of high school she came home to find my parents camped out on opposite ends of the sofa not speaking, just sort of pondering something important.

Sort of in shock.

They had just learned that despite the odds, Mom was pregnant. And, wouldn’t you know it, she carried me just long enough for me to survive birth. Dad was 58 years old and Mom was 40. But I made it into this world and thrived despite a load of complications. I can only imagine my sister’s angst, being a freshman in college with a father who might pass on at any minute and a mother who nearly died during child birth.

Those were the circumstances in which I came to this world. My early years were spent with Dad being at home, Mom working, and me being reared the best way they could muster given the circumstances; I admire them for it immensely.

I remember my father being bedridden at times. Oxygen tanks. Medicines. Whispered conversations. Fear. I remember having to be more adult than child far too often. But the most important and most vivid memories I have of my young life are those of my father’s pride in me.

And that is where this picture and the banner for this site comes in. You see, the following year (I’ve got to find that 1965 picture-it’s around here somewhere), the Covenant Presbyterian Church Kindergarten Valedictorian was…me.

Much of the graduation ceremony was confusing at the time. I remember being on stage with my classmates in front of a packed church. I remember there being various awards handed out to some of the students. I remember the fanfare building as Mrs. Von Sprecken, my teacher who remained my friend until the day she died a few years back, began to announce the honor graduates.

This is the part I was sure, at the time, I was not confused about: There would be a first, a second and a third place. And I remember wanting so badly to be in “first place.”

So, there I stood in anticipation.

Mrs. Von Sprecken began, ” this year’s Honored Graduate is…Barry Swain.” I was crestfallen as Barry stepped forward and received his diploma and pin.

“I didn’t get first place!” I thought.

Then she said, “Our Saluatatorian is…Paul Ivill.”

“What?” I thought. “I’m not even second? And what the heck is a ’salutatorian’ anyway?” She handed Paul his diploma and pinned him. I was near tears!

“And our 1965 Valedictorian is…Bob Finch.”

“Well, great,” I thought. At least I got third place.” At five-years-old, I didn’t understand that pageant winners are always announced last. Figuring I was third in the pecking order, I gamely walked forward to accept my diploma and get pinned.

But then something unexpected happened. I remember thinking, “why is everyone starting to stand and applaud? Why is the organist going bonkers with “Pomp and Circumstance?” Why is this all happening? I do not understand!!!”

I remember my parents coming forward to get on stage with me. I remember telling them through tears that I was sorry I only came in third. I remember Mom explaining to me that they always announce the winner last. I remember the flash of understanding and my sadness turning on a dime into utter joy!

But most of all, I have and hold my most cherished memory of my father, just a few minutes later, holding me on his shoulder in front of that church as all the parents came to congratulate me. I still feel the slight roughness of his always impeccably shaved face to this day. I remember seeing the man I had seen so sick and so sad so often beaming in pride over his son. I remember his love. And it still makes me misty-eyed to remember.

That moment made me a different child and it still makes me a better man every time I hold it up for examination, especially now that I’m a parent of a soon-to-be four-year-old myself. Unfortunately, Dad didn’t live long after that day, but he gave me one of the most important gifts a father can give to his son in a lifetime.

That was a wonderful day in 1965. It was the day I learned about self-confidence.

What’s the point?

If you’ve read this far, right now I want you to find that first moment in memory in which your parent gave you the gift of love, or self-confidence or hope. I want you to think about it and what that moment has meant to you for all these years. I want you to realize that whatever that moment may be, it is still within you. And nobody can ever take that away.

You are still that person.

Now, consider this. There are many children, moreso today than in the past, who never are given such a gift by their parents. I guarantee you that I will do everything I can to give my daughter (and hopefully my future children) the same gift I received one day in May of 1965. I wish I could give that same gift to other children who have not been blessed with the sort of parents God gave me.

Would it be possible? Or is this sort of gift something only a father or mother can give to their sons and daughters? I want to know. But I don’t know how to find out.