A MY-T-FiNE Boy Builds a Box Guitar

Joel's co-op teacher asked the third graders to do science projects this year. It could be on chemistry, light, sound, or weather. He at first wanted weather, so he could build a volcano or tornado. I said, "I betcha half the class will do that." (Which was nearly true. Weather dominated.)

" Why not choose something no one else will probably choose?"

I told him that since he likes music, and music is made of sounds, how about building a musical instrument?



He agreed it would easy and fun.

I watched him draw precisely.
What I noticed , again, was just how soft his hands are. How he holds a pen. How he bites the tip of his tongue when he's concentrating. How that he didn't want me to take a picture of his face because his face "has nothing to do with science. It's not educational," he added. "No one wants to see my face. They want to see how to build a box guitar."




I beg to differ. I know your face will not stay this soft or smooth forever.
I want to study every hair in your eyebrows, every shade of blue-grey that your eyes turn in the course of a day, like your Pappaw's. I like the way you tilt your head and smirk when I say something corny like, "That's a My-T-Fine box guitar ya got there, son."









I watch in wonder, amused and intrigued by your sense of order. The way you taped down varying lengths of rubber bands and labeled each with a number, "so the people reading the instructions on your blog will understand, Mom."

You somehow fear or suspect that everything you say or do is potential blog material.








You used to beg me to take pictures of you for my blog. You'd dare me to take a picture of your tongue and "show everybody" how blue it turned from your Freezie-pop.


Nowadays you grab the camera and threaten to delete all the pictures that show you smiling. You gotta be a tough guy. Why?







And then when your box guitar is all finished, and you want to experiment with the sound of it, you head outside and perch on the front steps.

The top of your head reminds me of someone else's. Your oldest brother's.
I used to admire the top of his head . Now I rarely see it because it's two feet above my eyes when he's here.



"Hey, this sounds cool!" you say, pleased with your workmanship.


Your love of science is infectious.
Your sense of order and logic tells me of the God who designed you in His image. Your gift of music pleases my soul.

Another school project complete.
Another deadline met.
Another meltdown your mother had, not because time was running out to help you finish your assignment, but because I feel like time is always running out on mine.