When I was 4, and my brother, M, not quite 6, we lived in Dallas, Texas. I remember that Spring being, oh, so very windy. Every kid in our neighborhood had a kite. Back then no one I knew had the fancy expensive kind you buy down at Kitty Hawk, but the cheapy K-Mart plastic kind with the thin white string that if you flew the kite too high, well, that string would snap right in half, then bye-bye kite.
My father took us to K-Mart, and I don’t remember what M chose, but one look at the bumblebee kite, and I was captivated. Now, this was a bit of a strange enchantment as I am allergic to any and every kind of bee – carry that epipen in my purse or in my running/hiking Camelbak. But perhaps that was the fascination – here was a bee that could finally not hurt me. I could touch it, play with, and it could not do one blasted thing to me. Nothing would do but that bee kite. So, dutifully, my father paid, drove us home, then began to put the kites together without reading the instructions.
My father never, ever read instructions. Printed instructions were for those not savvy enough to figure it out on their own. Most of the time his projects came together well but took a little longer than if he’d read the directions. So, my bee kite, which should have taken all of about 5 minutes took about 30, and I was not a patient pre-schooler. (I’m sighing as I say this. God has used much of my life to try to teach me that particular virtue. Sometimes I want to scream at Him, “Fine, I get it. Next, much, much less painful lesson, oh, Father God, please?”)
So, kites finally spit-glued together (M’s had taken almost as long), one hand held gently by my daddy and the other gripping onto that precious kite, the 3 of us walked down the sidewalk to the big open field to and straight into the scene from Mary Poppins where the Banks family dances down to the open garden where the whole of prosperous London is flying their kites – only we were minus music and singing.
Oh, but it was a sight to behold. Hundreds of kites in the air catching the wind and dancing upon it. I could have stood rooted to the spot for hours, breath stolen away by this beautiful sight before me, oblivious to anything else. So, my father tugged gently at my hand and pointed to where M had run ahead. We followed him, and Daddy taught us how to reel out the kite string, how to let it catch the wind, how to control its dips and turns. And it lasted about 5 minutes until my wonderful bumblebee got caught in electrical wires. (Please do not ask why the people in Dallas were flying kites near overhead electrical wire. I do not know.) And, I cried. So, we left.
When we got home my mom was feeding my baby sister, L. I ran to my mother and sobbed the whole tale to her. About learning to fly the kite, how it was the best kite ever, and then the heartbreaking collision of the kite with the electrical wires. I’m sure she consoled me, but nothing was going to make that loss better. My brother still had his kite, but my wonderful, perfect bee was gone forever because my father, unreasonably, refused to climb up that electric pole and get it down, and even worse, I wasn’t allowed to either. Talk about unfair!
I curled up in bed that night, sullen and dejected -sad over such a little thing! But unlike now, I had no problem sleeping, and when I awoke the next morning, do you know what was at the end of my bed? A brand new bumblebee kite still in its plastic wrap. Excitedly, I squealed one of those high pitched, ear-splitting little girl squeals and hopped out of bed to find my parents who both acted as if they had no clue where that bee kite would possibly have come from. Rigggghhhhht.
That Spring we flew my bumblebee kite and flew my kite until it finally did break apart from the wear on its cheap parts, but I was not heartbroken. You, see, someone had loved me enough to get me that kite at all when disaster struck the first time. I’d been pulled from the “miry clay” if you would. Yes, it is totally an American a middle-class child’s version of “miry clay” and disaster. I will not dispute that, or that children go hungry or shoeless or lacking in medical and dental care; and that that “Miry clay” is true tragedy.
But to a 4 year old in Texas, a field of flying kites moved my heart, because what I saw was an act of worship to the God who created the world, the wind, and us. I saw His presence that moment smiling at His children who knew only that they were connecting with the heavens, maybe not even whose heavens, but heavens none the less, and acknowledging through reeling out their string farther and farther, that there was something more than themselves existing above them. Yes, He was definitely present.
When my first kite broke, so did my tie to Him in that manner. But both my Abba and my Daddy loved me, and wanted me to be happy. So, Daddy had gotten me the second bumblebee kite, and every time we’d let her catch the wind, I felt Abba there, felt His smile as the sun on my back and on my blonde hair. And I knew I was blessed because He loved me enough to give me a Daddy who loved me, and that was the true blessing.
The Unexpected Life 