I sat there, in the family car, and fumed. 

I glared at the parking lot in front of me, willing it to say one word at me, and I’d argue it back to the street. 

Because the parking lot was guilty of being a conveyance of sorts to the feet of my boys. 

It had sent them straight from the car, directly to the store which sold jeans that I had no use for.

Jeans that had no place in the likes of my home, much less on the body of my boys.

I didn’t know how I was going to address this one when they came back out of that store, but I knew I’d have my guns spiked, one way or another, and I’d let them know exactly where I stood on the matter.

Time dragged.

My anger cooled down to a slow simmer.

And then, in the clearest of impressions, I got the message telling me what I needed to do.

It wasn’t right to expect my boys to navigate this time alone, much less, under the towering cloud of my anger.

They were living their most vulnerable moments right then; I couldn’t stand by, and expect everything to fall into place, could I?

But the choice of action that suggested itself was far from appealing.

“Pay it forward.”

For a moment, I thought I had been hoodwinked by some wild timelapse gap in the neuroplasticity of my gray matter.

But then I heard it again.

“Pay it forward. How do you expect them to feel about you someday when you need help, or are in a vulnerable situation yourself?”

I put the cap on the simmering pot of anger inside me and doused the fire out that was feeding it.

I got out of the car, and walked myself across the same parking lot, into the same store that the boys were in.

I eased around, as much off to the side as I could, just there, if they wanted.

They looked up, startled to see me in there, but I let them have their space.

It wasn’t long, and one of them came over with a shirt in his hand.  “See this?  See the deep maroon in just the right light?  You should get it,” one of them said.

We soon melded into a single group, tossing out opinions and ideas on what was a good product and what wasn’t.

I don’t remember if they got the jeans or not.  All I know is that what I felt in the store with them was a lot better than what I felt by myself out in the car.

*****

From that day on, you might could call us sharecroppers in this game called life.

I know it’s extremely important to be there for your boys, when they are in the toddler stage and all; probably the most important of any time of their life.

But I also know that later on, it seems about as important to put a little time down, being there for, and with them, in a sort of blood payment, if you will. Really, is it asking so much when you think about One who gave the ultimate example of such some years ago?

From what I gather, based on my own experience, paying it forward like that never is easy, but it accrues in immense percentages as time moves along.