I’m searching for my son, to let him know it’s time to leave the Mormon church building, when she stops me.

She’s one of half dozen church members in the library when I poke my head in.

Your son is a real hard worker, she tells me.

Well that’s nice, I think. He better just hurry up and go, because I have got to get a nap in before I go to work. How dare he interrupt that?

She must have sensed my lack of response, because she repeats it again with emphasis. No, you don’t understand. He’s REALLY a hard worker.

Oh.

Sorry for the hesitation, but this doesn’t jive with my preconceived notion of my oldest boy. In my mind, he’s the boy who rarely cleans his room, interrupts constantly, chews louder than Old McDonald’s Farm, debates whether the sky is blue or not, dwells on money more than Alex P. Keaton and must be redirected every 30 seconds.

Later he comes up to me, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He’s been there for two hours, spraying, wiping and scraping. Nobody’s holding a gun to his head, no money’s involved or food coercion of any kind. Riley comes because he wants to.

He wants to stay, but I tell him no. Finally after another phone call with mom, he’s allowed to stay at the church. Even if it means walking home in the rain.

I remember a complex principle of parenting as I walk away, deeper than nuclear fission or more mysterious than Alan Thicke’s acting career. I know it’s been presented at several university graduate programs.

It goes something like this. Dude: If your 15-year-old wants to stay at the church and work for free, shut up and get out of the way. Something good just might happen.

Now if he’s still there on Tuesday, I’ll send somebody after him.