It's happened two weeks in a row.

Last Wednesday I was at Parker Elementary for the Youngest Sister's violin lesson. I go every Wednesday and it's a highlight of my day to study with her. We learn about pitch and rhythm and the technique implicit in the Suzuki songs she's learning.

The lesson went along fine. She played, I took notes, Mrs. Branch gave us a practice sheet with tips for the week. The Youngest Sister put her violin away and asked could she walk me to the end of the hallway. Nothing unusual, we've been doing this same routine for two years almost.

I gladly held out my hand to her and she offered up her tiny six year old hand - grubby with rosin, magic marker, and pizza sauce. She squeezed me and I squeezed right back and she looked up at me, eyes coy and full of laughter and love for her daddy. She smiled her contagious smile and it melted away the morning's stress of mean-spirited "church" people. Automatically the corners of my mouth turned up.

We walked to the end of the hall and she took a drink from the water fountain, kissed and hugged me bye, and stood there waiting until I walked out the door. I turned to look over my shoulder through the wire grid of the safety glass and I swear to you it was like I was in a Hitchcock movie - you know, one of those scenes where the camera lense pulls back and the camera tracks forward? Everything is all distorted, except in this case the zooming was across time.

Here's what I mean.

Her six year old frame morphed into this long-legged, chestnut haired adult beauty skipping down the hall. She moved like a little girl in her zig-zags, but she was tall and leggy and all womanly. I knew instinctively to burn the moment into my brain with this sharp sense that God was telling me to hold tight to this sight, like a snapshot or some other precious trinket that contains all the memory of a special event. From the "schoolhouse" clock hanging in the hallway, to the terrazzo flooring and concrete block walls, to the bounce of her confident curls on the white of her uniform, all this surrounded her and held still in time, yet she changed right before my eyes.

"Hold on to this," my soul screamed.

"Don't miss this," my heart pined.

Even though I was about to be late for the next thing, I stood there and watched her skipping into adulthood, feeling like I was watching a secret happen. It was as if I saw time the way God sees it - the God who knows knows nothing of my boundaries, those forces of finitude. In that hallway all time collapsed and converged and collided and I, a mere mortal, watched a girl become a woman in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye.

And then the moment was gone, she turned the knob and went back in her class without looking over her shoulder.

Three days later - on Saturday - I took a long look in the mirror. Even though my beard has been graying for a while, I saw the first tufts of silver in my temple. It was only on one side but it was big. I would've sworn it wasn't there last week.

As I looked in that mirror I remembered my long look down the hallway at the Youngest Sister. In another time-collapsing moment I saw what I'd guess my own father surely saw while he watched me play baseball, or play piano, or read. I saw a boy in a grown up, aging, wrinkling body.

As I saw, I knew.

These days of raising children are stressful, tiring, and sometimes frustrating. But they are also precious times of struggle that will forever bring me joy. The greatest sermon I ever preach will pale in comparison to the importance of the legacy I leave with my children. So I need to be wise and judicious in how I spend my time and invest in them. You and I know this already, we've seen enough movies and Hallmark cards to know this.

So this Wednesday I was back for the violin lesson, but I fidgeted the whole time. Would the woman-child want to hold my hand and walk me down the hall? I got my answer when she asked to walk me to the end of the hall again. We didn't hold hands this time, but when we got to the door where we'd have to part, she took her ritual drink of water, then gave me a big hug and a watery kiss.

I put on my shades and stepped into the glaring sun of the last day of April. I was scared to look over my shoulder for fear of what I'd see, but you know what I did. I pressed my face to the glass and cupped my hands to block the glare. I saw it happen again, the little girl grew up into a full grown woman as she bounded down the hall.

This sequence was slightly different, though. Just as that little hand turned the knob on the door to her class room, she looked back at me, and with her free hand she blew me a kiss.

Just like a six year old little girl should.

Tough Call - Underoos or Cleats?

So Monday night I was out at the Westbury Little League field serving as a volunteer dad. The deal is this: I go over and umpire a baseball game for other teams when the Brother isn't playing. The dads from the other teams take a turn umping when the Brother's team is playing.

It's a pretty good system, but I have come to appreciate how hard it is to make a close call in any sport as an official. It's hard because occasionally you have to make a tough call.

I'm impressed by these little leaguers. They really do look like big-time ball players. They wear their cleats, their bright socks at the bottom of those short legged white baseball pants, and their jerseys tucked in just so. Pay attention to the part about the pants being "white," ok?

So there I am, standing on that infield/outfield margin about halfway between first and second base. The coach is yelling at a kid in right field about something, "Pay attention! Get your head in the game."

I turned around to see what the coach was yelling about and the kid was bent over picking clover and throwing it in the air. Dangerously, he was also facing away from the action. He bent over again, oblivious to the crowd now chuckling at him.

That's when I saw it.

Through his white pants it was easy to see that he is a fan of Spiderman. We know this because we could all see Spiderman Underoos shining through those white pants.

Underoo's and cleats.

Little boy trying to be a big man.

Tugged by time in two directions.

"Get your head in the game," the grown up is yelling, telling him to pay attention, be responsible, get on the ball, grow up, be mature.

"Let's play just a little longer," his Underoo's beckon, read comics, toss some clover, roll some matchbox cars on the floor, have a tickle fight, tease your sister.

Now that's a tough call says the man who wants to play just a little longer.