John Jarmin’s First Day of 2025
It’s not about how hard you can hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward.
– ROCKY
It was the first of January 2025 and, naturally, John Jarmin was expecting a near perfect day. The evening before was predictably late and the family was more tired than usual on new year’s morning. Two of the three children were up before Mr. and Mrs. Jarmin and the rest is almost history. Is it just this author, or is it a truth universally acknowledged that when the parents wake later than the (young) children the battle is all but lost?
Nevertheless, the Jarmins arose and made an attempt on the day. John had been reading The Gospel of Matthew to the children over breakfast for the past few months, and in the last week he had been closing the time with a reading from Blomfield’s Family Prayers. They are short enough to get through and long enough to put everyone in a contemplative frame of mind (ideally).
This particular morning was one with all the right ingredients but perhaps not the right order or the right proportions. Some had almost finished breakfast before others had started. There were two yogurts and three children. There was cereal enough for two. There were no eggs. These mornings, John thought later, appear to call for grim faithfulness. The ducks are not in a row, neither do they like the sound of a row. The challenge is laid down.
The reading of Matthew began smoothly. The parables chapter (13). This was until two of the three children, one after the other, departed during the reading to visit the bathroom. John looked over the table at the four-year-old. “He won’t mind if I wait for the other two to come back,” John thought. He didn’t. The wait was just long enough to invite a little irritation in John. This was usually a trigger, but today he rose above, declining the irritation. It was new year’s day after all.
Once the children had returned the reading continued. After highlighting some features of the parable of the weeds for understanding the world around us John moved over to the prayer book. “Heads, hands, eyes,” he said. This was a family custom for prayer. An attempt to still the body and focus the mind. But this morning it was not to be. Multiple toys were toyed with. Multiple eyes were open. John called for ‘heads, hands, eyes’ again. The commitment was half-hearted. They were only halfway through the prayer. Shifting in seats. Some chatter. More eyes opened. And then it happened.
“Close your eyes!” came the shout from John. The frustration at his own indulgence of anger and the irony of forsaking his patience in the midst of prayer brought a painful clarity to him. Prayer was over. “Finish up and move on to what you need to do next.” He closed the book and cast it into the middle of the table. “In a little while I’ll need to confess my sins and apologize to you. You might want to say something to me too. But for now let’s just move on.” He added some words of complaint about “monitoring,” which the children should not need. They were controlled words but still frustrated. Immediately disappointment at his own sin and at this poor start to the first day of the year clouded John’s vision. It is often the moments we least expect that are the occasion for our besetting sins.
Thankfully, John had a bed to put together, the family having just moved to a new city. Mrs. Jarmin, exercising great wisdom, left the bed to her husband.
After the bed was assembled the family was also, this time for an early lunch before heading out. It was time for confession in both kinds (to God and man) and there was less feeling in John to do this than there was cereal in the cupboard. Thankfully, there was sufficient conviction to do the right thing. “Dada needs to say sorry to God now. I sinned against God and I sinned against you. Let’s pray.” And so he did.
“Our Father in heaven, please forgive me for my sins this morning. I used my anger to frighten and punish rather than to protect and defend. Please forgive me for indulging my anger, abandoning my patience, and neglecting the calling you’ve given me as a father. Thank you for Jesus and his blood shed for me. Soften my heart, help me to be patient in these moments in future and love and lead the family as I should. I ask in Jesus’ name, amen.”
“I’m sorry for speaking to you in anger this morning,” he said, turning to the children. “It was wrong and I wasn’t a good dada when I did that. That’s not how dadas are supposed to speak to their children. Will you forgive me? In future I will speak to God more regularly about my need for a soft heart and patience.” The children apologized for their failures to listen and sought forgiveness from John, which he gave.
There is something even better than a perfect record as a family. It is even better to take a loss and come back from it the right way. It doesn’t feel better. Of course it doesn’t. Winning is the best feeling. But feelings are frivolous things. Rocky said it so well: “It’s not about how hard you can hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.”
It was time to leave the house as there were some chores to be done outside. The plan was to park at the nearby train station and ride into the city. Running a little close to late, John dropped the family off at the door and proceeded to park the car. With everything back on track and it still being the first day of the year, John Jarmin was expecting a near perfect afternoon.
He turned off the car, grabbed his backpack, and, just before opening the door, heard a sound like a great gust of wind. A very great gust. There was a course of action to be taken on account of this sound which native Canadians will know, but a native Canadian John Jarmin was not. He opened the car door with only a guiding grip, and faster than Hermoine Granger could shout, “Accio, door!” it was ripped from his hand by the wind and embedded into the side of the neighbouring vehicle. John briefly contemplated the meaning of the universe.
He got out to inspect the scene. Mercifully there was little to no damage done to his own door. The same could not be said for the neighbouring car. The indentation could have housed a small bird in search of a warm place away from the Toronto winter. What a remarkable wind. Was this the same wind that blew into the selfish Giant’s garden?
Instinct number one: drive! Instinct number two: repent, and leave your name and number. It struck John how easy it would be to move his car and not have to deal with the repercussions. And isn’t this what most people would do? Hadn’t this been done to him by others in the past? He was sure he remembered finding dings and dents in his own car that others had put there. No one had ever left a number.
John could not make head or tail of Immanuel Kant. But one of those categorical imperatives had never left his mind upon first hearing it: what if everyone did it? What sort of world would we have if everyone pushed in? If no one let anyone into their lane in busy traffic? If no one ever left a note after damaging someone else’s property.
But philosophy aside, what would God think? John imagined that some Christians might flee the scene and confess their sins to God all the way home. Better to deal with a forgiving God than an unforgiving neighbour and his repair quote. But John knew this would not do. Far better to endure the discomfort of the repair bill (and possibly the wrath of the neighbour) and honour and please God by telling the truth when it hurts to do so.
He found a piece of paper and (carefully) wrote his name, number, and a brief explanation of what had happened. It was almost entirely the wind’s fault, obviously. But the wind was not going to take the fall, obviously. Walking away John was tempted to wallow in this second setback and consider the day a write-off. Could he do nothing right today (he also caused the family to miss the train)? But although he had failed twice in two different ways, he had done the right thing in response both times. It did not feel good, but it was good. It really isn’t about how hard you can hit. Not in a world that is good at hitting you. Or in a world where human beings have developed the entirely unnecessary skill of hitting themselves.
If it really was about how hard he could hit John Jarmin might give up. On too many occasions he simply could not hit hard enough. But it seemed that grace had been given for getting up. The mercy had been given to be able to keep moving forward. And this was a sufficient place to start on any day of the year. Even the first of January.