Bigger than Blown-Out Pants

Last weekend we went with another family to this odd, wonderful, dangerous place called Bounce U. It is where kids get a degree in bouncing with a minor in breaking bones. (Just kidding...we were all safe and had a great time.)

Our son Asher is a pro. He is three and loves somersaults, jumping, and anything that involves general mayhem. He also wants you to be involved. ("Will you play with me?" is his favorite question). So my Friday night consisted of bouncing, climbing, sliding, and generally making sure our mayhem didn't send other kids to the hospital.  

I had fun. Lots of fun. I literally blew my pants out.  

Wait, let me explain. We were getting ready to go, having closed the place down, and Asher and I were getting out of some bouncy monstrosity when it happened. I was crawling off the bouncy-thingy, one foot went one way, the other went an alternative direction, and this was the result:

The sound of those shorts rending asunder was the stuff of middle school nightmares. Those shorts are unsalvageable. They look like I either survived a shipwreck or a dog attack...or both at the same time. We all had a good laugh and the walk to the car was uncomfortably breezy.  

I will probably remember those shorts for a long time.

Which is a shame.

Because that isn't the real story about that night.  

I should remember a few things about that night, none of which have much to do with a pair of blown-out shorts. I need to remember the wonderful time we had with friends. I need to remember the pure joy, the almost-constant smile of Asher enjoying moving and playing and being 3.  

I also need to remember the boy. Not ours, another boy who was there working on his bounce degree. He was there with who I assume was his mom, and he was having a great time, but didn't have a dad there to enjoy it with him. He was alone in the bouncy-house, which is not ok...these things were meant to be shared. I don't know his story, (maybe he has a great dad who couldn't make it) and don't even know his name, but I do know he was desperate to get his bounce on with me and Asher.  For a few minutes he was a part of our family time. I know he was hungry to share the unfiltered joy with someone.

We humans are great at remembering the wrong things, or with a wrong perspective (see the history of the family of God throughout the Old Testament). Our hearts can warp, twist, and manipulate history, making it something it isn't. It can get so bad we can even look back with nostalgia on slavery and yearn to go back to our proverbial Egypts. Or we can just forget.

I don't want to forget. I want to remember. To celebrate the things God has saved me from, and the life He has saved me for. I want to remember Jesus, to remember his life, death, and resurrection in everything, to remember the ways He loved and served people, and to do the same. To follow Jesus is to remember his care for the hurting, the sick, the desperate, the starved for love and attention and food and grace.

I want to remember Asher and The Boy Who Bounced With Us. I want to remember how God gave us the opportunity to include a boy without his dad in our fun. I want to be spurred on towards seeing those around us who are desperate for family and encouragement and connection with God and people. 

May I remember those things as much as any blown-out shorts.