1995-1996 was a yellow boot year for my son, Turner. For one solid year, he attached himself to a pair of yellow boots I ordered for him from a Land’s End catalog. We picked them out together and he was so excited. As soon as we opened the package he put them on and refused to take them off. He insisted on wearing them to his preschool and everywhere else we went.
I insisted that he didn’t.
They just looked strange and didn’t fit in to the practically perfect model of a well cared for and well-bred child. Morning after morning we struggled with the yellow boots. I gave him alternatives. I tried to buy him off. Finally, at the urging of wise teachers and friends, I gave in and let him wear the boots. It was challenging. I endured the jokes, the unceasing comments everywhere we went with the yellow boots. I was mortified, but I learned a lot about God and myself during the yellow boot year.
I had to learn to let go of what I wanted my child to be. If I were to admit it, I wanted a “Gap” kid; a child who modeled what little boy should look like. Forget his decisions and his choices. He was my child and therefore it was my privilege to choose everything.
“Not so”, counseled God. Daily, God met me as I stepped into the ring with Him. He reminded me over and over again that this child, Turner was His creation. Turner belonged to Him first and not to me. Surely good care and proper discipline were something He would delegate to me, but things like yellow boots? Hands off. God wrestled him away. Slowly I learned to let go of Turner’s hand so I could see who he was.
There was something about those yellow boots. During our busy afternoons they turned Turner into a confident fireman. They kept his feet sturdy as he became a noble garbage collector, riding on the back of his red wagon and collecting sticks on the side of the road. The boots made him fast when he became a policeman chasing criminals. They kept his feet clean and official as he solemnly buried dead lizards. Turner insisted on wearing them when he met his baby sister for the first time. The yellow boots were magic.
One day Turner took off his yellow boots. He gradually outgrew them and now they rest on the shelf of his closet. They are forgotten and uncool. The boots passed into history with Barney videos and Matchbox cars. Turner had moved on. I love the yellow boots and I check on them often. I will never throw them away. I protect them. I dust them. I inquired about bronzing them, but was laughed away. Instead, a black and white portrait of Turner with his yellow boots illuminated and self-barbered hair hangs on my wall. He is now seven. Age four is gone.
In spite of this lesson I continue wrestling with God about my son. “Mine” I tell him through clenched teeth. “On loan” He reminds me with a loving whisper. It’s almost as if the yellow boots were a reminder; a marker from God that Turner was his child first. A fruit of His vine. “Let go of his hand…I’ve got plans for Him”. What a hard lesson for a parent to learn. I cannot change God’s peach into an apple and why would I even try? I love peaches. Slowly I learned to let go of Turner’s hand.
Turner is on to exciting new phases and taking different directions now. When I think back to the brief yellow boot year, I relive fireman days and exciting police chases. I think of innocent imagination and creative play. My embarrassment of the boots turned to grateful praise. I’m glad God protected Turner’s yellow boots.
What I wouldn’t give if Turner would wear them just one more time.
