We are watching Nate, our eldest son, inch toward the isolating cave of the American teenager.  Really the kid is my hero.  He has a blend of confidence and humility that is a rare jewel.  I think he understands the true posture of humility in ways that most of us would not allow ourselves to comprehend such a trait.

This past weekend we went to the mall; a group of teenagers said loudly enough for our whole family to enjoy, “How can he walk around with his face looking like that?”  I thought they were talking about my unkempt beard, but further along in our consumptive stroll my wife asked, “Did you hear that?  Nate did.”  Nate has a port-wine stain on his face, a birthmark.  If I had realized what was said while we were in their proximity, I might be posting this from jail.  Fortunately for the group of slacking miscreants and for my police record, I am slow.

The boy wears his hair long, over his face.  His personality is dominated by kindness, though sometimes I worry that he might withhold this because of his learned shyness.  Sometimes I worry that he hides behind the hair and the birthmark; I haven’t witnessed him doing this, but people are themselves at home, which is the only place I am able to consistently observe him.  Around here he is confident in his abilities.

The medical procedure to remove a port-wine stain is not considered cosmetic; our insurance covers it due to the way a port-wine stain collects red blood cells – I don’t completely understand this.  So it is an option, one which he neither embraces, nor fully rejects.  He thinks about it.  He talks about it with Molly and I, but then, like someone who understands all of life already, pronounces that we are his parents and therefore wholly void of objectivity.  His comprehension of our relationship is astounding to me.

He was wearing the pre-teen sadness last night, so we asked for some kind of explanation, which he was unable to articulate.  But it comes back to the damn birthmark.  I think the splotch on his face has made him incredibly aware of his emotional make up.  He was looking for advice, but not ours.  So we helped him make a list of people he respected whom he could consult.  Then we told him that talking with these people about it was up to him since he disallows our slanted input.

I don’t know if he’ll be wearing the birthmark when he is 13 or 14.  I do know that because he has worn it the first 11 years of his life, he tends to accept people for who they are.  He has a rare openness.  I wish he learned it from me, but instead he learned it from something he wishes wasn’t there.  I suppose he could be a mean and over-compensating young man because of the way he has often been judged; he is not.

I wish he’d bloody a few lips with his wiry muscles.  Test them out.  “Finish it,” I say, “don’t start it; end it.”  He doesn’t feel the need just yet, perhaps one day he will.  Whether he teaches someone a lesson or if he refrains, he is heroic in his manner and wise beyond his years.  To his father he is a walking lesson in grace and compassion.  “One day,” I tell him, “people will notice and appreciate your strength of character, but for now you’re in middle school surrounded by a collection of idiots.”  I hope he remembers this when it comes true.  Because right now, I’m just a father without objectivity.

I think God is like this.  If so, the calisthenics of self-improvement aren’t very useful.  They’re not necessarily bad, but they do tend to lead us into self-sufficiency, if they are not performed with utmost humility and honesty.  You learn these things if you’re born with a port-wine stain.