When Popsicles Fly

 There’s a split rail fence surrounding my backyard.  It separates our small stamp of grass from the trees and bushes that someone planted to decorate the main street in our neighborhood. Several years ago, a flying popsicle cleared said fence and got hung up in the bramble of a burning bush hedge. These things happen. 

It was an early summer weekend, with yard work on the to-do list. One of the top items was to give the lawn a once-over raking. Aeration plugs and a winter’s blanket of dried grass needed to go. I set out the rakes, bags, and gloves, and then went inside to pry the kids away from the “non-to-do list” items. 

Once the complaining and threats were out of the way, both were finally on task... my daughter out front, my son in the back. I gave each a quick tutorial, setting the objective and helping build some momentum.

Bouncing back and forth between them, I thought back to my childhood yard and all the times I worked in our garden or mowed the prairie of acres we called a lawn. It took me hours. “These kids have it easy,” I thought to myself. 

As I rounded the corner to the backyard, I saw the rake lying next to a meager pile of debris. Describing the meagerality of said pile gains me no credit, but meager it was. I rounded the house again, calling for him, but there was no sign of the un-hired help. 

After a full circle of the house, I found him sitting on the back patio eating a popsicle. 

“What are you doing?!?” 

“I’m taking a break.”

“You barely started! You don’t need a break!” 

“I wanted a popsicle!” 

“You don’t need a popsicle yet! Get back to work!” 

I swear the conversation happened pretty much like that. There was probably a bit more energy in it, and maybe a couple more exchanges, but you can see where this is going. Actually, I already told you. 

Moments later, said popsicle took flight. From my hand. From my anger. 

With frustration overflowing, my exasperated son yelled “I hate you” and then stormed off to retrieve his snack. I crumbled into a different kind of meager pile, knowing how fully I had blown that moment. 

Sitting on the patio, another moment from 30 years ago came to mind. Another son, another yard, another father, another task. The son did his best and offered the work of his hand to please his father. But instead of praise, a curse was given. It was not enough. Frustration overflowing, the son turned and fled, bursting into tears.

That defining moment, with the scar left undressed, burned in my heart all over again. Here I sat, wilting with regret, wanting so deeply to be able to pull that popsicle back from the bushes. 

Several minutes pass. Heated tempers cool. My son somewhat reluctantly returns, having salvaged the snack. “It never hit the ground, so it’s okay, Dad.” I smile through tears and ask him if I can tell him a story. I unpacked that day with my own father and how his words cut me so deep. I told him how I wished we could have talked it out. How I wished he would have said something different. But those words never came. And decades passed.

Then I told my son how sad I was for what I had said and done to him that morning. I apologized and asked for another chance to start over. He tenderly leaned in and his forgiveness was apparent.

These things happen. When things break, things need to be repaired. Especially in the closest of relationships. It would be best to never have thrown the popsicle. I carry that regret. But I also carry the healing that came from the repair. In that, I have no regret. Only gratitude. 

As fathers, husbands, men… we all have the ability to hurt or heal. It’s better to never hurt in the first place, but when that happens, intentionally or not, we get to make a second choice to be men who heal. Be that man who lives with No Regrets. 

Bart Lillie
Restoration Project Chief Catalyst