And failing is ok...

So the other day my boy, Tristen, had to make a speech about his hero in life. Dun dun dun…enter Dad minus the cape and spandex. It started off pretty predictable - born here, moved there, works as a financial advisor (whatever that is)..and then it took an interesting turn. “My dad failed a big exam two times. But he’s gonna do it again. He taught me we need to persevere in life, and it’s ok to fail. Thank you. The end.” And that’s how it ended. Literally. On a sort of low note. And, let’s face it, when translated into 8-year old boy language, a sort of looo-ser note. I even found myself saying, ever so head cocked and stuttery, “uh T, do you want to maybe add something like, ‘my dad is the coolest guy I know?’” Nope, I’m good, he says. And apparently it was good. Or, at least according to him it was, the next day. It seems like only yesterday he and his brother were having brag-offs with their buddies over whose daddy was the strongest. Usually the measuring stick came in the form of biceps able to overcome the weight of a mac truck. (Naturally Luther was able to pick up the truck with one arm.) Since when did my 8-year old see strength as learning how to pick yourself up? Rewind a few weeks back to the day he got the news. I had to be the one to deliver it; he would make the coffee. I read out that rancid three-word proclamation from the bedroom: not yet competent. He stood in the kitchen and let the coffee burn. For anyone who hasn’t studied with a family and a job (and another job called ministry), it probably whiffs of eau de Danielle Steel hyperbole. But for those who’ve ventured down this dark and dangerous path, you’ll know exactly what I’m talking about. It took all of 2 seconds to disqualify an investment that totalled hundreds of study hours - countless nights with death-by-tax-law manuals and Saturday mornings off the sports fields and away from pancake breakfasts. We all took this test, we all paid the 9-month price, and we all felt soccer punched that morning. But then I realised something. That bubbly in the fridge still needed to be popped. He may not have passed the board exam, but there was another test on the clock. One was written by disgruntled nerds with bad acne scars who had their puppies kicked one too many times as kids; the other was written by a far more benevolent being. He never wanted to learn this stuff necessarily; he did it because he felt a providential nudge to do so. And for that reason alone, we toasted his obedience and grit that night and celebrated the other test he passed with distinction. That would have been enough. It was a ‘well….sweet’ redemptive end to a bad start to a day. And then our dear friend and house hero, Loraine, walked into the moment. Loraine is one of those ‘talks least, says most’ kind of people. For every one of my 24576 words she has 50 - and those 50 say as many as my 24576. She has eyeballed heartache and disappointment and somehow stared them down, unbroken, every time. And when I’m moaning about my champagne problems like owning an iPhone 5, she’s dealing with…like…real problems. She’s been dragged through the mud of South African immigration countless times, and yet she refuses to wear the stains of self-pity or resentment. She’s amazing, and I listen when she speaks. And speak she did. “I haven't had the heart to look you in the eye all day,” she told my husband. “But I want to say I am sorry, but I am not sorry. I’m not sorry that you failed, because you have to fail sometimes for your children. I cannot give up myself, because my daughter is watching me. If I stop now, what am I teaching her? God will make sure we fall sometimes, so we can show our kids how to get back up - again and again and again.” Bam. Drop the mike. Tristen never heard that conversation that evening. But she was obviously right. Of all things that T could have said on that day to impress his classmates, he boasted in a dad who’s willing to try, try again.

II want to raise my kids in a house where ‘it’s ok to fail.’ I want to get back to that little dinner table tradition we had going at one point, where we each boasted in in a big mistake and how it could become our innovative fuel for genius. I want honesty to stay the trump card in our family and truth to be bubble wrapped in a no-matter-what kind of love. I want to get quicker at shrugging my shoulders when brows raise in scrutiny over decisions I’ve thought through. And equally I want to go slower at assuming I know anything - learning how to ask the ones I love, what inside me still has to go so that others can go beyond me? Failure is not a popular message. One way or another, we’re all vying for a throne. But the irony is, we’re all desperately looking for signs of it. We all want to be let off the hook and reminded that we’re enough, just as we are. I’m so grateful that empty-handedness is a prerequisite to my daily living and that I’m actually encouraged to give it up. It’s actually required of me. The pressure’s off to prove a thing. So I’m going to keep welcoming our mistakes to the dinner table and letting our worst foot take the lead sometimes. What’s the worst that can happen? You might just not impress people you don’t even like. Or God forbid, you may just learn to laugh louder and rise quicker when you fall.