Backseat Driver

I don’t really buy into the idea that simply being around kids keeps you young. As the saying from Geoffrey Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales goes, “Time and tide wait for no man.” We can teach second grade or lead the Pre-K children’s church all we want, and those are obviously good things to do. But their pint-sized energy doesn’t automatically rub off on you. If anything, you could argue that they drain whatever energy you have—albeit understandably, unintentionally, and without ill intent. They’re cute, often loud, inquisitive, and highly repetitive little leeches of delight—their version of it, and their version alone. Of course, however, they don’t know any better; and that’s part of what we’re there to help them with. Still, their youthful innocence can easily make mincemeat of our adult defenses.

Although you wouldn’t know it from my daily demeanor while tackling most of the tasks on my plate, I try to remain a kid at heart. Spending time around little ones over the years has certainly helped with that, even if it hasn’t slowed or paused the aging process. But I absolutely get a kick out of being around kids.

The older my wife and I get, however, the more we’ve learned that if we babysit for someone, we need prep time beforehand and downtime afterward. Our ability to bounce back—whether from catching a cold from our new little friends or simply from the general exhaustion that comes with caring for tiny folks who require so much attention (especially since we don’t have children of our own)—isn’t what it once was. That’s the way the cookie crumbles, I suppose.

Nevertheless, if we take our minds off ourselves for a moment, it’s easy to see how much kids have to teach us. There was a little girl at the post office the other week. Everyone in line eventually learned her name from her mom repeatedly calling her: “Amiyah.” She couldn’t have been more than four years old, yet she had the stamina and enthusiasm of an Olympic sprinter. Around and around the counter she ran nonstop, pausing only occasionally to hide—despite the fact that everyone could easily see her—in one corner or another.

With great seriousness, she would direct us strangers to keep her secret, pressing an index finger to her lips in a innocent “Shhhhh” gesture while calmly shaking her head back and forth. Meanwhile, her mom, still trying to keep an eye on her from the counter, would call out, “Amiyah,” and homegirl would then giggle, and immediately take off circling the aisles again. I we all got a kick out of it. Then, too, we knew we wouldn’t be the ones stewarding her vast liveliness the rest of the day.

Children, of course, can be horribly indecisive, unregulated, and inconsistent, with notoriously short attention spans. Without guidance, they race from one toy to another, from here to there, and from one interest to the next. But they also live fully within their age. They don’t yet grasp bills, conflict, broken family or relational dynamics, work, war, politics, or death—and that’s part of the point. Not yet being exposed to, and somewhat sullied by, many of these realities helps to fuel their imagination, faith, and sense of play.

At least to a degree (and though there’s certainly more to the story than this) children are often fearless in the way they live because they are so fully committed to living. Beyond the occasional nightmare or scraped knee, they throw themselves wholeheartedly into life. They take seriously the critical nature of playing with stuffed animals, riding bikes, spending time with family and friends, and laughing a lot along the way.

One distinct challenge of rearing children is helping them grasp the idea of “stranger danger” and teaching them not to be so trusting of everyone they meet. Beyond that, you also must help them understand that gravity is real and, therefore, they cannot fly. It isn’t safe to dart across traffic—especially without looking first. They are not a dinosaur, helicopter, firefighter, or Dash from The Incredibles. The point is that children are naturally trusting, carefree, genuinely grateful, and exploratory. Of course, not all kids are the same. Between nature and nurture, they are every bit as diverse as the adults they eventually become.

Still, if you’ve ever heard a child pray or enthusiastically express appreciation for someone or something, you know exactly what I mean. Looking out into an audience, a child will go bananas the moment they spot a parent or favorite uncle who got off work early just to attend. At church, or before begrudgingly going to bed, they may say something to God like:

And I’m thankful for our next-door neighbor, Ms. Johnson, and the tomato plants she just planted. If you could help them grow, that’d be great. I’m thankful for my new sneakers and dollies, but especially Doc McStuffins. I love her. Oh, and I have show-and-tell tomorrow. Billy Johnson and the twins, Amy and Tykese, sit up front, so I’m just hoping they behave. I try to be friends with them, but they’re so mean sometimes.

What I find myself repeatedly convinced of is this: we need more childlike qualities—not only in general, but especially when it comes to faith formation.

The other day, I saw kids at the pool wearing these lifejacket contraptions with little ladybugs attached to the back. I don’t know if there’s a safe way for me to show up someday dressed as a turtle, but I caught myself thinking, “Man, that’s so cool… Shoot, I want to be a cool insect or animal too! I need a different lifejacket.”

Having faith like a child is something we must fight for, nurture, and protect once adulthood sets in. Adulthood surely has its place. It’s crucial we know how to earn and manage money wisely, work industriously, fix things when necessary (or call someone who can), drive, mow the lawn, set the alarm, go see the doctor, plan vacations, and all the rest. That should go without saying, though generations exist now that severely struggle to “adult” in ways that were very basic life skills woven into the fabric of society.

Still, when was the last time any of us sat crisscross applesauce in the grass, laid back on the ground, and admired the sky slow-dancing overhead? When was the last time we said, “Good morning,” to a worm, a squirrel, a bird, or even one of those crazy geese that strut around like they own the place?

When was the last time we sat and people-watched—or better yet, intentionally struck up a conversation with a total stranger for more than two minutes while in transit? How do we weave deep, childlike trust in God into our lives when it’s so convenient to turn to YouTube or Google for insight about everyday conundrums?

I’m not advising that, firmly planted in adulthood, you try your luck running around in circles like our buddy Amiyah. I had a bad experience with that as a kid while defiantly spinning like Wonder Woman—or someone—at my paternal grandma’s apartment. Regrettably, that act introduced me to her ancient wooden coffee table in the worst way. It involved my lip being split open like the Red Sea God parted for the Israelites, and my dad sprinting—carrying all the chunkiness I embodied in his arms—several blocks away, the nearest hospital for stitches.

Those stitches, in case you wanted to know, were absolutely from the devil in my estimation, and I fought against them—and the orderlies, and the doctor, and my dad—like the world depended on it, because to me, it did. So, whether you’re 30, 50, or 70-something, the point isn’t to literally act exactly like a child. It’s about spending time with them and developing some of the awe, adventure, godly reliance, and silly fun they’re naturally much better at than us old fogies.

Believe me, it’s worth it.

I hadn’t heard the song “Backseat Driver” by Kane Brown, but it came on in the car the other day, and I thought it beautifully captured what I’m getting at. He describes his daughter making pointed observations during their drive and letting her beautiful curiosity run wild with questions. She says,

Daddy, look / There’s a plan in the sky
Are we there yet? / Did you just see that dog run by?
Do squirrels have house in the trees? / Why’d God put stingers on honeybees?

I’m not naïve enough to think this will solve all my problems—or the world’s—but I want to relate to God, and to life, in these ways whenever, wherever, and however I can.