The Scariest Movie

For some reason, lots of people like scary movies. They like chainsaws, guns, knives and guys with hockey masks.

Why? I’m not sure, but I decided a long time ago that those kinds of movies were not for me.

Actually, the scariest movie I’ve ever seen was not “Friday the 13^th,” “Disturbia” or anything of the sort.

It was “Ordinary People.” It scared the heck out of me. I still remember the night I saw it in Seattle 27 years ago. I couldn’t get that movie out of my mind then, and I still can’t. Not a day goes by when I don’t think about it.

Based on a novel by Judith Guest, it is about a family struggling with the tragedy of their son’s accidental death. It is about a parent’s worst nightmare.

When kids are little, we pick them up after they fall, we encourage and teach them; we pray for them.

As they get older, though, our influence as parents shifts. Instead of tending physical bruises after a child falls, we tend the psychological bruises. Oh, we might offer a little advice, or a word of encouragement or an admonition. Sometimes, many times, the best thing we can do is simply to listen.

Even though a son’s voice is deeper than mine and he’s four inches taller than I am, he still needs to know that I’m there for him. As a parent of four sons — three teen-agers — I am constantly reminded of how tender is the soul of a teen-ager.

Yes, they’re loud and occasionally ornery, and their music is even louder and more ornery. They make rude jokes and make me laugh in spite of myself. But every kid is more fragile than the finest china, and each in a different way.

Too often, we tend to take kids for granted. We believe that they will be around long after we are, building a life of their own. Maybe it will mean marriage and kids.  Maybe it will mean something else, but we assume they will be there always.

I went to a funeral the other day — I’ve been to too many in the past few months. It was for a young man. He was 23.

I cannot remember being more sorrowful. I was utterly heartbroken at the reality of his death. But amid that sorrow, amid the stories of his short life, of his personal triumphs, of the love his family and friends have for him, I was reminded of something: You cannot tell your kids you love them too many times. You cannot hug them or hold their hands too much. You cannot know when it will be last time you look into their eyes or see a smile punctuate their face. Life is too tenuous, too full of unexpected turns. Of accidents.

As I walked out of that service, I could only think of one thing: that I would tell my kids I love them every chance I get.

So, dear readers, here is my humble advice. Tell your sons and daughters that you love them.

Tell them today.