Taking Responsibility

"It's not my fault!" seems to be the mantra, blame never owned.

"If you didn't cook it, I wouldn't eat it." "If you didn't make me so angry, I wouldn't have blown up at you." "If the weather were better, I'd walk more." As goes the saying, "If wishes were horses than beggars would ride."

The inevitable result of such sidestepping is poor health, harmful relationships, and unlived potential. Personally, I'd go so far as to say the current financial tsunami breaching our economic levies is a result of lack of accountability.

The piper will always be paid, either now, or most surely later, burdened with painful interest.

So, I was torn when I realized I realized my then-eleven-year old had absconded with the tray of quarters I kept near my nightstand. I understood it was a small infraction. But yes, it mattered; small things do. Sigh...if parenting only came with a manual.

I called for him.

"What's up Dad?" he asks. Do I remember the same nervousness in my voice at that age?

"I've got a problem," I begin. "I had a bunch of quarters that are now missing. Any ideas?"

I pause. To me, the silence is loud. To him, it must be deafening. Will he pass? Would I?

"I took a quarter," the lump in his throat is audible.

"One?" I call on stillness again.

"Maybe two." Wait a beat. "It could have been more, probably five or six." Another beat. Looking at his shoes now, "I'm really sorry, dad. I needed some money so I took yours."

I am not without compassion; but he has to feel this. He is afraid of the repercussions. I would be. To this day, I hate admitting wrongdoing. I might get yelled at. People might not love me. Yet, courage is not the absence, it is the overcoming of fear. He is showing bravery, and in the process, developing integrity.

"I'm proud of your honesty," I say. "But there must be consequences. I want you to give away something you value so you to understand what it feels like to lose something you didn't want to lose."

"Like what?" He asks.

"That's up to you."

He opts to give away first one, then - after my insistence - two, plastic action figures. It's a thorny, painful decision at his age. We place the booty in a bag and head to a church. He's sad. I cannot rescue. He must experience this also.

He hands the sack to the minister, saying he wants to donate them to the play area.

"Why do you want to do that my son?" asks the preacher.

"I stole from my Dad," he says, barely a whisper, "I want to give something back, to make it better."

With tears in his eyes, the exchange takes place. I know he's breaking up inside but I'm so proud that words are inadequate. I want to hug him.

I do.

Reaching across the space, embrace his sweet head in my arms. In his eyes are the sadness of loss. As he returns my hug, I sense his relief in my touch. Mostly, I see pride. He hasn't even reached puberty, yet he's becoming a good man.