I have elephants in my office. Lots of them, too.
Hand-carved oak.
Ivory.
Bronze.
Some no larger than a golf ball and others about the size of my hand. They are muted in color and easily missed as they sit on my office shelves among the many books, family photos, and decorative items picked up from adventures along the way.
The elephants have been on my shelves for years - though folks rarely ask about them and, honestly, I easily forget about them.
Imagine that - near-invisible elephants. Overlooked elephants(!)
Years ago, they had been part of my granddad’s collection of elephants that he’d had for years. No one is quite sure when or where the collection started, but for as long as I can remember his elephants stood numerous-and-varied among a host of shelves in the home where he and grandma lived.
Granddad died when I was in eighth grade, and eventually grandma gave away the elephants to her children and grandchildren, myself included.
And while I have no strong feelings on elephants one way or another, the fact that they are a tangible connection back to granddad places their current valuation somewhere between ‘lots of money’ and ‘priceless.’
Admittedly, my actually memories of granddad are now few, but one remains quite vivid - and it’s the elephants themselves that take me to that memory sometimes.
In the 4th grade, Mrs. Veeser told our class that if anyone made a real, live boomerang we would get a lot of extra credit. I don’t recall how the boomerang related to the lesson, but I do recall a surge of energy going through my body.
I want to try that!
I walked a couple blocks over to my grandparent’s house that weekend, and granddad helped pull together the material.
I began by outlining on paper the exact shape of the boomerang so that we could have a template that then would be traced onto a piece of wood and cut precisely from there.
“Are you sure you don’t want to measure this, Bobby?”
At that moment I had pencil-to-paper, and I was eye-balling what I thought would be a good shape and size for the boomerang.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Ok. I think you could get a better boomerang if you take the time to measure.” And granddad left it at that.
I set the advice aside, continued in my excited haste, and I felt pretty good about my hand-drawn boomerang that then became the template for our cut.
Shortly thereafter I had a real, wood boomerang(ish)!
Sure, the edges were not straight.
Sure, one side of the boomerang was a little longer than the other side.
And sure, it did not actually work.
But this did not bother me. I painted it red with black stripes, and on Monday I showed up to school with it.
Mrs. Veeser was thrilled someone had taken up the boomerang challenge. “Wow, Bobby! Great job.”
“I did one, too.” Another student, Matt Houghton, pulled forth from his LL Bean backpack a perfect-looking boomerang. Seriously, his boomerang could be sold in-store that very day. The edges were sharp, the angle perfect, and the very look of it whispered a smooth, confident, “I can fly.”
Mrs. Veeser immediately canceled whatever plans we had for that next half hour. “Ok, class - let’s go outside and throw the boomerangs!”
The deafening cheers-and-applause Mrs. Veeser garnered in that moment must surely remain one of her greatest teaching memories. All were beyond excited for this boomerang bonanza - except, of course, me.
I knew mine didn’t work. I didn’t think anyone could make one that actually worked. We’re only in the 4th grade!
The bonanza went as you might envision.
I threw first, and my awkwardly-shaped wood flew from my hand and fell flat onto the playground dirt fifteen feet in front of me.
Matt threw second.
The immediate “Whoas!” turned to “Get out of the way!” as Matt’s boomerang lassoed deep-and-far through the air, cut sharply back, and then began racing back toward the class.
No one was hurt, all blinked in awe, and Matt walked around with an ear-to-ear grin for an entire week.
To be sure, Matt’s dad had helped him. A lot.
Much like my granddad helped me. A lot.
And I don’t know how Matt’s dad handled things, but I do know how my granddad did.
He was happy to help. Happy to sit by my side, suggest guidance, and help with the actual cutting of the wood. But, also, he was ok to let me try what I thought was best and discover for myself if that really was the best tact.
Which is to say - granddad was willing to let me fail.
Sure, I got some extra credit. I also felt a good amount of embarrassment for showing up with a shoddy-looking boomerang that had no chance of working. Granddad surely knew this kind of moment might come around for me.
But I think he also knew that there were truths that would stick within me far longer than the extra credit or even the momentary embarrassment.
Truths like…
Maybe it’s ok just to sit together and enjoy making things - perfectly, imperfectly, or somewhere in between.
You want to make something (or yourself) fly? Take your measurements.
Failure is the best teacher.
—
This is why, today - amid my many learned books, joyful photos, and decorative items collected on the adventure of life - there sit tiny elephants.
They are whispers from one of the giants of yesterday.
They remind me about the joy of simply creating.
They remind me that Good Things Take (Measured) Time.
They remind me, too, that Failure is the inevitable road one must walk to find genuine learning, joy, and adventure.
In our society ever-bent upon quick fixes, overnight success, and a desire for everything to look perfect… such truths are often near-invisible and easily overlooked.
But there they sit, unmoved. Strong as oak and ivory and bronze.
—
What if today - amid all that fills the shelves of our lives right now - we picked up one of those overlooked elephants and let it ask questions of us?
Questions like:
What does flying look like in this season of life? At work? In the family? Your own life?
What measurements can be taken to move toward that? Is it time to get out the ruler? Or calendar? Or priorities list? What’s the next, right line to draw?
What has fallen flat recently?
About your answer to that last question in particular - take heart.
Many of your memories about today will be gone in a few years. But the failure, the fall, or the break that you’ve named… that will prove deeply durable in the soul’s memory. And somehow from that - precisely from that - the seeds of flight are being birthed.
Indeed, I’ll never forget the first time I gave a sermon where I opened with one image, let the sermon fly in a far-and-wide, and then lassoed it back into a conclusion that tied the whole sermon’s flightpath back to that introductory image.
Almost no one saw coming - which allowed for hearts to unfold-and-receive far more fully.
To be sure, that sermon took a lot of slow-and-steady, behind-the-scenes measuring (and no small measure of trust that the Wind would catch it just so).
It was a boomerang born of a failed boomerang, of course.
Thanks, granddad.
Gives a whole new meaning to the comment about an elephant in the room. I remember measure twice before you cut once from my dad. When I forget that there is usually a lesson learned. Thank you for the stories.
Great story Bobby. I have about 100+ elephant collection as well, which have been exiled into a box, wrapped up as some are old and fragile. I kept a handful of my favorite ones from being sent to the box.