Sweet As Honey
Sweet As Honey
Adventures with Braxton: Unveiling the Mysteries of Duke University's Divinity Building
I went to Duke University and discovered a five-year-old taking a poop provided me with more wisdom than any of the distinguished faculty of the Durham, North Carolina based institution could ever provide.
All right, all right … take it easy. Duke is a great institution with tremendous faculty. Oh, and a basketball team.
This isn’t me trying to belittle Duke University. I’m not jumping on the Duke-hate bandwagon which is populated by any fan of a collegiate basketball team without a “Blue Devil” mascot, envious of Duke’s storied basketball accolades.
On the contrary. I write this story in an effort to express how awesome a little boy named Braxton is. Also my brother, his wife, and all their other kids.
Today: The story of how a five-year-old taught me about the bliss of a shame-free perspective on life.
Contrary to what my carefully crafted misdirection of a first line of this post might indicate, I didn’t attend Duke. My brother did. He earned his Doctor of Ministry degree at Duke’s world renowned Divinity School. Make no mistake, my entire family and I, and so many others in Jeremy’s community are quite proud of the accomplishment. Ministry is our family business. My maternal grandfather, and his father before him were evangelical clergy. My father is a pastor. My paternal grandfather was as committed to lay leadership in his church as you will ever find in anyone anywhere. My brother is a pastor, and his desire to earn a doctorate was so he can be better at his job and serving the community where he works.
Contrary to what the media might have you believe, evangelical work isn’t always about saving souls. It’s about saving lives here and now.
Anyways, it’s common knowledge, I think, that working towards a doctorate is difficult in and of itself. My brother, however, did it while raising six kids.
Six.
Kids.
Oh, and while he was putting the finishing touches on his doctoral thesis he was also preparing his household to be a place to take in foster children. It’s amazing he finished.
As graduation approached, his oldest son was completing his freshman year in college, and his youngest child was finishing up preschool. What this means is that when he began working on his degree, his oldest child, Brayden, was beginning high school and at least one of his six kiddos, Braxton, was in diapers. The other four, Brooklyn, Brenna, Brayden, and Brielle, fell in between, and had all the needs kids normally do. Six kids can be more than a handful, even if they’re as well behaved as my brother’s are.
The number of children in our family is one of the areas where my brother and I are different from each other. I have two kids. A boy and a girl. My wife and I find that to be the right amount for us. When my brother announced to us that his second child was actually going to be twins, I teased him a bit about the amount of work twins were going to be.
Because, you know, I’m a brother, and teasing is part of my job. Even as an adult.
Silly me.
Silly, because they handled the twins no problem, just kept going, and I shook my head in bewilderment with each subsequent pregnancy announcement. But they kept coming. Honestly, if he called me tonight and told me they were expecting another, I wouldn’t be surprised. If I’m honest, I’d probably say I’d be more happy for them than I had been in the past, because I’ve grown to understand he and his wife, Meghan, really knows how to “do kids,” if you will. They’re good parents.
As if inspired by the Kardashians, the two of them gave all their kids names that start with a “B.” (Actually, it’s “Br.” Not that I’m judging. My wife and engaged in the same alliterative practice. We all share the initials “JS,” and everyone but me is “JCS.” Even more, our dog’s name is Jive, and when we had a gecko, we named it Jgary, deciding the “J” was silent.) As the family and the activity within their household grew, my family began referring to their home as the “B-hive.” The home is always buzzing with activity. Anytime we’re getting together with them, we say, “we’re going to the B-hive, or the B-hive is coming over.” The nickname is a term of endearment, and a good one, I think.
I don’t not like kids. Kids are great. In fact I love newborn babies.
I begin to grow uncomfortable when their motor skills develop to a point where they become mobile and their little brains start developing opinions about the world.
Oh, and the germs.
Children are like walking incubators for bugs and viruses just waiting to infiltrate and test my immune system, possibly causing me to engage in the one human activity I hate more than all others …
Vomiting.
And, wouldn’t you know it, a few days before my brother’s family was ready to hop in their full-size passenger van and make the journey from Boston to North Carolina for Jeremy’s graduation, they were hit with a nasty stomach bug. The symptoms were right out of my worst stomach-bug nightmares. So significant they were, that one of his kiddos spent two nights in the hospital after spiking a temperature of 107 F. (That’s 41.7 Celsius for my non-United States friends.) So, as I got into my car for my drive to meet them at graduation, I was comforted to know I had my own hotel room 25 miles from them, thus decreasing the likelihood that I would contract the bug. I’d interact with them, but I’d made a decision.
I was going to avoid physical interaction. I might hug them, but probably one of those one-arm, side hugs.
I figured it would probably be easy to accomplish. Most of the time I had to entice them to hug me, guilting the twins who are now teenage girls about how I’m their uncle and I don’t get to hug them often. The younger kids would play shy for a while, and I’d have to tease them until they hugged me. I felt confident in my plan for no hugs on this trip.
(I recognize I may be coming across as a creepy uncle here. But, rest easy. Hugging is a thing in my extended family. We love each other, and hugging is the way we show affection.)
I arrived at the crowded home where they were staying, an Air B+B which was barely large enough for them and a set of grandparents. I walked into the kitchen where they were sitting down for a snack of Kraft Macaroni and Cheese - the shells kind. The moment I did, five-year-old Braxton saw me, smiled big and exclaimed, “Uncle Jeff!” He then jumped off his chair, ran over to me and squeezed my legs tight before looking up at me with a big grin, both arms extended skyward with the unspoken ask for me to pick him up. And then I remembered…
My commitment to love these kids was far greater than any fear I had of vomit.
I bent over and picked up this little boy - the one who began the current bug infestation - and hugged him tight. As he hugged me back he said - and I’m not making this up for dramatic effect - “I love you soooo much!” My heart melted.
I don’t think he’d ever said that to me before. Certainly not unprompted.
All the kids came over and gave me hugs. Even the twins, and I didn’t get the sense they did it out of obligation either. There was a lot of love in the kitchen that day.
As late afternoon turned towards evening we gathered in the line in front of Duke Chapel for the hooding ceremony. The adults began to assess our situation as there were about twice as many people who wanted to attend as there were tickets to the event. Jeremy had been provided with 7 tickets. One for each member of his immediate family. But, our 97-year-old grandfather made the trip with grandma Judy, as had both of my brother’s in-laws as well as my parents. They’d be opening the doors to those without tickets after the ticketed seating was complete, but there was a chance it would fill up, and we’d be redirected to another room to watch a live-stream of the event. So, we could see it, but it wasn’t the same as being in the room. We all wanted to be in the room, and Jeremy had left the tickets with my mother to distribute as appropriate.
“Here’s a ticket for you,” she said, handing one to me.
I was a bit taken aback, not entirely sure it was appropriate for me to be in the room when there were others, like, say, his children, who certainly should have been at the live event. Mom read the unease on my face and continued, “You can help us save seats for the others when they open doors for general admission.”
I took the ticket, but wasn’t comfortable with it. I’m not a great seat saver. I never have been. I’ve always felt like telling someone else they can’t have a seat feels like telling them they’re not important. Even if, in the larger scheme of things they’re not as important to me as my own family is, I still don’t like the implication of not allowing them to have a seat. Besides, I thought there was a good chance that we wouldn’t be able to save seats for family members, his children, for instance, who should be in the room over me.
“Mom, I really shouldn’t have this ticket.” I said. But even as I did, I knew giving it up didn’t really help anything either. Someone was going to be left outside.
Several of us, even. It was awkward. Everyone wanted in, but we knew the reality of the situation. The kids were doing their best to be understanding.
Well, most of the kids. One of them had other things on his mind. To him, there were more pressing issues at hand.
“I’m hungry!” It was Braxton. I wasn’t sure he was hungry or bored. Probably both. Waiting in the line wasn’t the place for a hungry five-year-old.
It was about 5PM, and while there was a reception after the ceremony, it was a few hours off. The adults and older kids would be able to handle it the wait, but I knew it was going to be more difficult for Braxton. I began to see the tell-tale signs of a kid about to escalate from whining to pouting, and perhaps even crying.
I looked to my left and saw Brayden, Jeremy’s oldest son standing there, ticketless. “Hey, mom, why don’t we give this ticket to Brayden? He can save seats just as well as I can, and he should be in there rather than me in the case that we can’t save seats. I’ll take Braxton to get some food.”
“Are you sure?” She asked, concerned that I’d driven to be a part of my brother’s ceremony experience and wouldn’t be able to.
“Yes. I’ll go to the overflow room with whoever else needs to, if we need to.” I was resolute that if people were going to be relegated to the wings, I would be among them.
Braxton and I went for a walk. We played games like, You Have to Step Where I Step, a twist on Follow the Leader. He climbed up on brick walls and balanced on the top of sidewalk curbs. We made sure not to step on any cracks out of an abundance of caution for the health of our mothers’ backs. Eventually, we found our way to the pizza restaurant where I bought him a piece of cheese pizza, and a slice of pepperoni for myself before returning to the hooding ceremony line.
In the end, we were all able to get into the chapel for the ceremony. Those with tickets were able to save us some extra room in the pews, and with a little bit of clandestine efforts, those of us sitting in the overflow room returned to the chapel and were able to make it past the ushers and squeeze in together. More on this in a moment. While graduation wasn’t until the next day,, this Baccalaureate hooding ceremony was what we all came for. This was the moment when each name would be called, the students would receive their hoods, and we’d all cheer for them.
After the ceremony we walked to the nearby Westbrook Divinity Building for the reception. We’d been sitting at our table enjoying the calories and the afterglow of the event for about fifteen minutes when Braxton, ever the ball of energy, once again decided he’d had enough. He stood up, took my hand and looked up at me.
“Hey, Uncle Jeff…” I peered down into his sparkling eyes. “Want to go exploring with me?”
I mean, there was only one answer, right?
“Ab-so-lutely I do!”
I looked over at his father, gave him a knowing nod and said, “Apparently we’re going for a walk.”
“Sounds good!” He said, smiling back with a look that indicated he understood his son was rambunctious, and that it might be his best of his many good qualities.”
Braxton and I did, indeed, explore.
“Let's take the “evalator!” He implored, clearly the chief of this two-man expedition.
“O-kay!” I replied with all the excitement I might have had if I was also five years old. Braxton pushed the down button on the elevator, and we entered when the door opened.
Looking at the buttons inside, one for each of the three floors, Braxton asked, “What floor should we go to? I’ll push the button!”
“Push them all!” I replied, remembering that pushing buttons was the best part of the elevator experience for kids his age.
“YEAH!” he squealed back at me, following my suggestion.
The elevator took us to the basement. “This way!” Braxton pointed to his right when the door opened. I followed him through the halls of each level, and as we passed empty classrooms I explained that this was where his daddy went to school for his teachers to teach him. “And these are the offices for his teachers!” I pointed at the office doors, closed, and dark behind the white, translucent windows. Admittedly, there wasn’t much there for a small boy to get excited about.
I appreciated the off-white tones of the tiled floors and the architecture of the aged building. I even found the musty smell to add to the ambiance of a department devoted to studying ancient scriptures and theological belief systems. I began to get lost in the pictures of Christian intellectuals, world-changing leaders, and preachers from the past. I was trying to figure out if all of them were martyrs, or just the few I’d noticed first when Braxton once again interrupted the silence.
“I have to poop.” He said, slowing his gate.
……..Awesome, I thought.
“Alright, let’s go get daddy.” I suggested, in a weak attempt to avoid an awkward situation.
“No. I don’t want to do that.” Came the tentative reply. Braxton was shifting weight from side to side, obviously trying to fight the prairie doggin’ that was about to take place.
“OK, let’s find a potty.” I said with false confidence. Fortunately, there was a one-seater right around the corner. I opened the door for him to go in, and began to test the “what can this kid do on his own” waters. “There you go, buddy! I’ll be right outside if you need me!”
“OK!”
I’d at least avoided the crisis of him pooping his pants.
I closed the door and waited, hopeful I’d dodged an awkward moment. In the silence of the lower level of Duke Divinity School, I heard the pushing and grunting of the boy in the bathroom.
Let ‘em have it, kid!
His work done, I heard him yell, “I’m ready for you to wipe me!”
Welp… So much for avoiding the awkwardness. I prepared myself physically and emotionally by taking a deep breath, and I relented.
“Alright, pal, I’m coming.”
I entered the bathroom and he beamed up at me. No sooner had I stood in front of him, than he put his head between my legs and wrapped his arms around my knees. “This is how I do it with mommy and daddy!”
I chuckled, grabbed a few squares of toilet paper and helped the boy. I recalled that was how I did it with my mommy and daddy almost half a century ago too.
He pulled up his pants, flushed, and we washed our hands together. By that time his dad had texted me asking where we were, so we headed back to the family.
Hand in hand.
Being an uncle is one of the greatest joys of my life. Like I said, I don’t not like kids. They just scare me a little. I feel out of control. They’re unpredictable for me. That’s all. I mean, you never know when they’ll need to poop.
But then, you never know when they’ll melt your heart either. Braxton did the moment I walked into the kitchen that day. His first words to me were squealing my name and then telling me he loved me…so much!
The twins, Brenna and Brooklynn, melted my heart when they came and gave me a hug without me asking. They were with me and their grammy when we were ushered to the live-stream room instead of the chapel to watch their dad get his fancy hood. As I recall, Brenna started to tear up first, followed by Brooklyn. Talk about a heart-rending moment … They wanted to see their dad get what he’d worked so hard to earn. So, they and grammy worked their way into the chapel. As I sat alone in the overflow room, Brenna texted me, “I think you can get in too. There’s room.”
I did.
Brysen, the 4th of six, takes on the role of the middle child, which is what I was growing up. I’ve always felt an affinity for him, and if I may…I think the feeling reciprocates. He is always my little helper when it comes to mechanical things that need to be done at his house when I’m visiting. He seems to like turning wrenches like I do. Well, at least he does when I’m around.
Brielle, the almost 7-year-old who needed to go to the hospital because of the bug, well, she’s proven to be a master of manipulating adults simply by being cute. She gets what she wants just by looking at you. She knows it, we adults know it, and she knows that we know it. But it still works. Melting hearts is what she does.
Brayden, the oldest, melted my heart when, after wrecking his car on the way to Duke, owned that he probably could have avoided the accident if…well, we’ll keep that between us. All you need to know is that his honesty was refreshing.
I never thought a little bum cleaning in the basement of Duke Divinity School would be a lesson to me about love, intimacy, and trust. The little one was innocent, and didn’t have a care in the world about me being there, and not mommy or daddy. It reminded me of a verse in Genesis, which I’m taking completely out of context I’m sure. It described Adam and Eve as being without shame. They walked around their world in the buff, with no shame. Not many verses later, something would happen, and shame would be forever with humanity. We’ve all done things, and we’ve all had things done to us. Shame abounds. We need less shame, not more.
Someday Braxton is going to mess up. He’s going to feel shameful about it. I hope someone is there to help him know he’s ok. No matter what it is, we believe in him, and believe he’s capable of things we might never dream of. That even though he messed up, he’s still worthy of love.
For now, I’ll relish in the state where my 5-year-old loved and trusted me enough to help him with a clean bum.
I hope you have a B-hive somewhere in your life. Somewhere where in the midst of craziness, energy, and non-stop activity, you find a special heart-melting love and meaning.
Because I’m here to tell you this is where you find life to be sweet.
Sweet as honey.
I hope you enjoyed this story about my nephew and me. Leave a comment below with your thoughts.
More about my trip to Duke next week, and when I’ll talk about finding motivation in surprising places. Don’t miss it. Use the subscription button below to follow along.