“…I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation…Philippians 4:12
My son, with the help of the apostle Paul, has been teaching me about contentment. I shouldn’t be surprised. In his few years on this earth, my son has taught me much about life, faith, and spirit.
I am a man with friends of every kind and every financial situation. I have a friend who is a millionaire and a friend who wonders how she will put food on the table for her four children. I am a man with friends of political power and those who are oppressed by it. I know friends who live deep abiding faiths and those who disdain all things Christian.
They have taught me much. I have seen them make trophies of gadgets: cell phones, GPS systems, and more. I have seen them count themselves successful because of the address on their door or the location of a new vacation home. I have seen them smile broadly at the nameplate on their new car, the invitation to join the biggest country club, the plan to add more space to their large home. I have seen some grow bitter with envy or loss.
But my son and St. Paul keep trying to drive home to me lessons about being content. The idea, they tell me, is not in any external thing.
Paul, you will recall, wrote to the church at Philippi that he had learned to be content in times of wealth and poverty. He had learned to be content with any circle of friends, with any new challenge, with meal, be it a feast or a few scattered morsels. And he wrote of his contentment — provided through his relationship with Jesus Christ — while held inside a Roman prison, chained to a Roman guard.
My son tells me a similar tale. He lacks, of course, the eloquence of Paul. He lacks, too, Paul’s Damascus Road experience and his deep understanding of scripture.
But Bryson is chained in a place few of us would want to be. He relies on a wheelchair to get around. He needs help dressing, in the bathroom, at the dinner table, and getting into bed. Cerebral Palsy keeps his muscles and his brain from working in concert and so each of his limbs work with varying degrees of efficiency. Mostly, they don’t do what he wants.
Still, my son has a spirit that soars.
On sunny spring afternoons, he pleads for time after school to be outside. He wants the chance to check on the neighbors. He wants to the chance to roll along up and down the sidewalk in front of our house. He wants to talk with the passersby: walkers, joggers, pet sitters. He wants to wave to the guys in trucks and find out the source of motorized noises or the bouncing basketball.
He stops people I have never seen before and greets them as if an old friend has just arrived. Often, I am surprised to learn he already knows their names.
He has asked me to stay in the background, so I have. Dutiful parent that I am, I have drawn some limits. No crossing the street without my help and knowledge. No going past the house on the corner. No driving up through the yards without talking about the slopes and the pitfalls of uneven terrain.
And, of course, I have seen those limits ignored. I have found him across the street and learned he got there himself. I have called out to be sure he’s nearby and seen him disappearing up the street, his chair just slipping over the crest of the hill. I have heard him calling out for help and found him stuck, the wheels of his chair sliding on the slick grass and preventing him from getting out of the yard into which he was not supposed to go.
In virtually all situations, I have heard him laugh, heard his voice rise with excitement in the sharing of a story, and heard him call out to the new neighbor running by. Forget the chair, the uncooperative muscles, and the things he cannot change. Like St. Paul, he seems content with a little bit of space, a little bit of sun, and the hope he finds in the chance to explore, to meet, and to know others.
He isn’t concerned with what he cannot do or what he does not have. He’s too busy making the most of what he’s got.
