Real Families: Meditations on family life

Summertime has come. School’s out for many of us impacted by the annual rhythms of the classroom. Whether we’re tracking with our children or a school-related endeavor is the focus of our own work, or even if our work has nothing to do with school, the onset of summer usually means we make space for vacation.

“Summertime … and the livin’ is easy. Fish are jumpin’, and the cotton is high. Oh—your daddy’s rich now. And your mama good lookin’. So hush little baby. Dooooon’t you cry.”

How well I remember Rob Eby of Rebirth fame crooning that hauntingly beautiful Gershwin lullaby on the Eastern Mennonite University, Harrisonburg, Va., stage when I was in college. It always struck me as melancholy and slightly ironic. It seemed both soothing and sad, speaking more of the yearnings of a father to comfort his baby than any arrogance the words themselves might suggest. The minor key and the swaying melody evoked wishful longing even as the words seemed meant to reassure.

The song now evokes memories of becoming a new father and the overwhelming longing I felt to reassure the tiny, vulnerable infant in my arms that I would be there for him, no matter what—and that I would do all in my power, by the grace of God, to create the conditions that would make life “easy” for him, for my beloved wife and for any other children the Lord might give us.

The livin’ certainly hasn’t been easy. Making life work is a delicate, complex process—requiring far more of me than I could begin to imagine as a young father. I’ve made plenty of mistakes and have often regretted that my children didn’t have a more exemplary father (and my wife a more reliable husband). But there are also plenty of things I’ve done well. I’ve never failed to love my children and be ready at a moment’s notice to respond to their need for reassuring support. And nearly every day I tell my wife how much I love her, and I have always been faithful to her in that love. Among the ways I’ve loved them all is by making space, finding resources and investing imagination in expansive time together as a family—on vacation.

I didn’t grow up in a family that regularly took vacations. We camped while on our way to church-related meetings or during family camp at Camp Hebron in Pennsylvania. My wife’s family, on the other hand, regularly took vacations. Since she and her siblings were often away at boarding school, her parents made a big deal of family vacations. It’s as if they were making up for lost time. She tells of vacation trips to various Rift Valley lakes in Ethiopia and of at least annual week-long trips to the Atlantic Ocean—learning to love and respect the mystery of sun, surf and sea.

I determined that vacations would be a regular event for my family. While we lived in Europe, we spent countless magical hours on the Adriatic seacoast and nearby islands, in the Swiss mountains and in travel through eastern and western Europe. After we moved to the Shenandoah Valley, we hiked trails in the Blue Ridge, camped on every Great Lake to and from Mennonite World Conference in Winnipeg, Manitoba, camped on a trek to the West Coast for a Mennonite Assembly in Eugene, Ore., and enjoyed multiple lake adventures in West Virginia, Kentucky and Virginia, sometimes on a houseboat. More recently, it’s been a challenge to get our now dispersed family of six together, but thankfully, my wife’s parents long ago established an extended family tradition of renting a house for a week at Sandbridge, Va.—right where my father-in-law used to go swimming after long days working in the vineyard and peach orchards on his family’s farm in southern Virginia. Everyone from the extended Chester and Sara Jane Wenger family are invited to come and savor time together. There is no way of calculating the enormous gift their generosity of time and space has meant for the forging of family friendship, faith and fun.

During a time of transition in our immediate family geography and rhythms, I am impressed with new intensity about the importance of planning for vacations and holiday celebrations together—deliberately protecting space and time away from the hurly-burly. As a father and soon-to-be grandfather, I am recommitting myself to carve out times when the livin’ can be easy. Time to come away, as Jesus said. Time to laugh and tell stories. Time to revel in God’s good creation by splashing and hiking in wild places. Time to enjoy good eating and rowdy family games. Time to sing to high heaven and anoint each other with sunscreen. Time to read and pray—to grieve what we’ve lost and give thanks for the gifts that are given. Pivotal times when we are there for each other no matter what.