Command Performances

…Then he turned his face to me one last time, / as on the day he died in my arms, and said, I would like to add / two more commandments: / the Eleventh Commandment, “Thou shalt not change,” / and the Twelfth Commandment, “Thou shalt change. You will change.” / Thus spoke my father, and he turned away / and disappeared into his strange distances.
—Yehuda Amichai, “My Parents’ Lodging Place,” in Open Closed Open, 58-59

As a parent I understand. I treasure the moment. I want it to last. You know that instant when your child is on stage, the spotlight picks up every gesture, the disbelief is suspended, and you see your son, your very own, become the star of the show. You can die happy now. You know the hug at bedtime as your daughter’s tiny arms circle your neck and you drink in the fragrance of soap and toddler. Eternity is like this. Don’t ever change.

And yet, there is also the thrill of legs and arms growing longer, the changing shape, voice, smell, and touch. You can see the magic of growth, not just physically but emotionally and spiritually. He gets better at baseball; she’s in pointe shoes now; she’s perfecting the robotic Legos; he’s developing his own journaling style. You hear the whispering promise of perpetual evolutionary motion, the generation of possibilities, the possibility of generations to come. There may be grandchildren, someday! Change, change, thou shalt change!

I can say, “Don’t change,” because I love you as you are, and “Do change,” because I love you as you are becoming. Is it wrong to claim both the present and the future and give thanks for each? I believe there is a place where delight meets hope, where the snapshot leans into the unknown. It’s what it means to be a parent. It’s what it means to be someone’s child.

Along the Way, I wish you God’s peace on today’s stage of your Lenten spiritual journey. May Christ’s companionship bless you with confidence for the day, comfort you in trouble, and put a spring of joy in your step.