I miss MommaKay;

she’ll come get me soon.

I don’t want to stay.

It smells nice here,

but not like home.

I miss MommaKay:

she’ll come get me soon.

I don’t want to…

This bed feels warm,

but not like home.

I miss MommaKay;

she’ll come get me soon.

I don’t want…

Don’t turn out the lights,

it’s not like home.

I miss MommaKay;

she’ll come get me soon.

I don’t…

These aren’t my brothers,

they don’t feel like home.

I miss MommaKay;

She’ll come…

I…wonder,

what…

is…

home?

I may have created a monster.

My daughter slowly approached me a few nights ago at the kitchen table. I arrived home late from work and sat there eating my dinner, enjoying some conversation with my wife.

Alone.

“Hey, Dad, what are you doing?”

“Just talking to your mom,” I said, well aware that something else was on her mind.

“I’ve been thinking, Dad. Could I get my own email address?”

“Do you really need one?”

“Well, all my friends have their own email and most are on facebook too.”

I waited for a moment before offering her an old, time honored classic.

“If all of your friends jumped off a cliff, would you jump too?”

I knew the answer coming, and the truth is she had me at “hello” anyway. She didn’t even have to bat her eyelashes or snuggle up to me like she did, but it added some tasty icing to an already sweet cake.

“No, I wouldn’t Daddy, but this is different.”

I continued the inquisition, and made sure she knew I would only do it with complete access to her account. She didn’t hesitate. We then spent a few minutes together setting up her address and password. I made her send me a test email to make sure it was working and to store my address for the future. We did the same thing with her mother’s address and a couple of others as well.

All of that happened Monday night.

At 5:15 p.m. on Tuesday, I was surprised to find six emails waiting for me at work. The first one said:

“Hey! How was your day? If you get the chance at work to write me back PLEASE do!”

The other five were small talk about her day at school and a request to go running together when I got home from work. She even sent me one last night at 9:15 after she was in bed, which I found this morning.

Most of what she wrote was the sweet ramblings of an eleven (nearly twelve year old) girl who’s growing up way too fast. I could scarcely imagine, back in August of 1998, the day my daughter and I would correspond with email. In fact, I’m not even sure I knew what email was back then. It just seems so crazy, but I suppose sometimes, a little bit of insanity isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

I do have to be honest, though. There is a nearly unexplained excitement I feel when opening my email and seeing a new message sent from Mary Jordan. It’s kind of like the feeling I remember years ago when hearing on the radio that schools were closed because of bad weather.

It just feels so…so…perfect.

All this electronic messaging with my daughter has created a bit of a problem, however. I just can’t bring myself to delete her emails. I know a day is coming when I’ll have to, but for now I want to enjoy this ride as long as it lasts.

Not sure if that makes me weird or normal or a little bit of both. But, I must admit I haven’t created a monster. It’s just a new frontier for a smitten dad. And, I like it and her.

A lot…

Now if we are children, then we are heirs–heirs of God and co-heirs with Christ…

This isn’t easy to tell. My wife’s been having an affair for a long time. What’s even worse is that most of you reading this know him.

His name is Atticus Finch, and he plays a leading role in Harper Lee’s classic, “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Finch is the kind of man women love. He’s smart and educated, but well acquainted with humility. He’s a man of uncompromising convictions with a common sense approach to life and relationships. He’s honest and hardworking. He’s kind and mannerly. He’s a man of many talents who can handle a hostile crowd with his tongue and a rabid dog with a gun.

Mostly, he’s a man with an extra large helping of gentleness.

The words of Atticus inspired Lee’s novel. Finch explains to his children the temptation of a waiting gun and how eventually, they would want to do more than shoot old tin cans with it.

“Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit ‘em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”

He goes on to say that a mockingbird does no harm to anyone or anything, but exists only to make beautiful music.  For this reason he believes they should be more esteemed than others-words reminiscent of Jesus himself when he claimed those who took care of the least of his brothers would reap great reward.

I can understand why my wife loves him so much.

Gentleness may be hard to define in words, but it’s easy to see in action. It’s compelling and attractive.
It’s the tone, mannerisms and way of behaving that says, I care more for your needs than my own–the world and those in it were made for me to protect–not the other way around. At one point in the novel, Atticus teaches his children with these simple yet profound words:

“You never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view–until you climb inside of his skin and walk around in it.”

Indeed, I am gentle when willing to view the world from another’s perspective without demanding he understand my own first.

It’s the way we best communicate love itself.

Atticus didn’t use his physiology or endocrinology as an excuse for neglecting it. He recognized the common predicament of those around him-rich or poor, strong or weak. He was the voice of those struggling to find their own.

Atticus was accustomed to accepting hickory nuts and vegetables as payment for his legal services, but on one particular occasion even poor Walter Cunningham found himself at Finch’s mercy.

“Mr. Finch, I don’t know when I’ll be able to pay you.”

“Let that be the least of your worries, Walter,” Atticus replied.

He knew how to let a lesser man win a losing battle and keep his dignity doing it. He knew how to be gentle.

So what’s the lesson here for me?

Gentleness isn’t an option for a Christian. It must be some of the fruit I bear because it proves the Maker’s Spirit lives in me. There can be no salt and light without it. It gives me the moral authority to share my faith and the credibility for others to believe it.

We need look no further than the pages of the gospels themselves to find the greatest template for authentic gentleness. It oozes from every word of the Christ we serve. The life and times of this humble carpenter provide an especially good model for men today searching for the key ingredients necessary to lead their families. Gentleness ties everything else together.

It helps others love me more easily…especially my wife.

And, maybe if I’m lucky, she will notice some of that Atticus in me. Maybe it will be what sends her running back headlong into my aching arms again, where I’ll be waiting to embrace her once more.

Ever so….gently.

It was a nice surprise.

Lisa showed up at work last night with Mary.  The boys were with their grandmother and so the girls surprised me at work with a dinner date.

They decided to do a little shopping while I finished up and then meet me at a local restaurant.  As they left, I heard a vague reference to TJ Maxx and finding a “crimper” for Mary. 

Finally we met for dinner and our conversation turned to the “crimper.”  Evidently, TJ Maxx had several in stock a week ago, but sold all of them.  I tried to get an accurate definition of a crimper, but despite their best efforts in explaining, still I didn’t quite understand.

How many different pieces of electrified tools do women need to prepare their manes?  Curling irons, flat irons, hair-dryers, and now crimpers?  I mean, I like pretty hair and everything else, but isn’t this just a little too much?

Anyway, Mary decided to ride home with me so I thought we might stop and try to find this elusive crimper somewhere else.  She’s outgrown the Easter basket, so I figured this would make a good present for her instead. 

She flashed a bit of excitement when I presented this option, but I did make one crucial error.  I suggested we go to Wal-Mart.  Why wouldn’t we?  They have everything and it’s usually cheaper.  Apparently, many women just don’t think that way.  She was still her sweet self and all, but I could tell that’s not where she wanted to look. 

I insisted.

Wouldn’t you know?  Wal-Mart didn’t have a crimper either. 

“How about Target?” I inquired.

“Mom and I already stopped there earlier, and they didn’t have them.”

“So where should we try?”

“Maybe Ross’s?” she replied.

I know for some reason girls have this aversion to Wal-Mart and prefer stores like Target instead even if Wal-Mart sells the same stuff and has more to boot.  I learned that from my wife. I guess it just looks nicer on the Target shelves and the atmosphere is better, which is half the fun for women who shop anyway. But, has this already been socialized into my eleven year old daughter or is this a nature thing?  Just asking.

Anyway, she decided we should try Kohl’s first since it’s in the same area is Ross’s, Target and several other stores.  I’m just now learning how these companies conspire against men by putting all these chick stores together to expedite the retail experience.  This must surely violate some anti-trust act, but that’s a story for another time.

Well, Kohl’s didn’t have anything resembling a crimper and I began to wonder if she simply stopped there as an excuse for a retail fix.  But, I had my doubts because neither she nor her mother is really that type anyway.  I’ll admit Kohl’s made me feel a little uncomfortable.  It seemed a little, uh…feminine, shall we say? 

Next, we went into Ross’s (her original destination).  Guess what?  No crimpers.

No problem though. Bed, Bath, and Beyond was right next door. 

Talk about uncomfortable.  It even smelled like a woman in there.  You know, all perfumed up.

I just wanted to hurry up and find the “beyond” section because I was pretty sure we wouldn’t find crimpers in the bed or bath areas, and I was little scared at what might be waiting there.  I was beginning to wonder if these things even existed at all.

Finally, I suggested what I should have started with in the first place. 

“Why don’t we just go home and look it up online, Mary?”

She smiled and we left.  On the drive home, she even told me she had fun on our fruitless journey. Guess too she’s wise enough to recognize the fruit that’s harder for us guys to see.

Funny, the differences between men and women.  If that had been the boys, they would have loved to go to Wal-Mart and would have never said they had fun if we came home empty.  Kind of makes me think.

The women in my life are great blessings and I’m thankful everyday for them.  They smell nice too.

And somehow, in their own unique way, they just make life so much better…

Song of Solomon 7:5
Your head crowns you like Mount Carmel. Your hair is like royal tapestry; the king is held captive by its tresses.

I remember it well.

A few years ago I was headed to the lake with my oldest son on an especially warm day late in March.  He was five years old at the time.  We talked of many things, but our conversation soon turned to the upcoming Easter holiday. 

I was recounting the story of Christ’s triumphant entry to Jerusalem and the subsequent events that culminated in his barbaric death on the Roman cross.  He seemed especially stunned by the soldiers who taunted Jesus and the one who finally pierced his side. Suddenly, he spoke the words I remember to this day.

“Daddy, when I get to heaven I’m going to hit those soldiers on the head.” 

“Why?” I responded.

“Because Jesus is my friend.”

We hadn’t yet discussed the finer points of the Christian faith, which might account for those soldiers not being in heaven with him. Nor, had we ever really approached the subject of turning the other cheek.

It was simply an honest reaction from an innocent child, and it strikes me nearly as much now as it did back then. I remember telling Lisa I wished I felt like Luke, but for some reason it never occurred to me. The soldiers’ cruelty really angered him.  Jesus was his friend.

 I’m not sure I could say same.

One reason I write so much about kids is because the birth of my own did prompt a spiritual awakening of sorts inside of me.  I think God made us that way.  There’s just something miraculous, in my opinion, about experiencing firsthand, children birthed from the union of husband and wife.  I remember how this new responsibility softened my heart and heightened my sensitivity.

Time has a way of changing things, though.  The brilliant incandescence of that time has faded some.  Selfishness is creeping back in.  My spiritual intensity just isn’t the same.  I can still preach and pontificate with the best of them, but living out that faith when the microphones go dead is an entirely different story.  I know all the right things to say and do. I want to feel like doing them, though.

History is certain of a man named Jesus who lived, preached and died  two thousand years ago.  That is incontrovertible by any standard.  The hinge of our faith, however, is the empty tomb three days later.  It proves his connection to the God who made us all.  The absence of this emptiness proves the insane belief of a mortal man.

It’s so easy for a child to believe.  Why does it sometimes seem so impossible to me? 

The Easter season is a time of renewal and rebirth. The sun feels warm again. During this time, all of nature bears witness to a great gardner who planted a magnificent field.  It’s a time to sow seeds which will produce a great harvest.  It’s time for me to live what I preach.

I need to get back to basics.  Jesus made clear the few options available when it came to children.  Become like one again and reap a great reward.  Ignore the challenge and a future of less certainty waits.  I need to rekindle a sensitive heart wounded by the Savior’s pain.  I need to believe like my son. The real truth is, recalling how I felt at the birth of my children may be the only thing driving my quest for another revival anyway.

I need to know Jesus is true. I need to know time hasn’t separated us. 

Mostly, this Easter, I need to know He is still my friend.

The second blog I want to highlight during these twelve days is Anne Lang Bundy’s, http://building-his-body.blogspot.com/

Anne’s faith and wisdom provide for readers an uncompromising perspective on what it means to live for Christ.  She uses her gift of writing to clearly communicate Biblical truths and practical advice for today’s Christian. 

She honors Christ’s great commission in her worship and jail ministries as well as counseling, prayer and teaching.  Her writing is honest, straightforward and succinct.  You won’t find her beating around any bushes.  She reminds me of Phillip Yancey’s words:  “We also serve that point and click.”

 Her blog is a light in a dark world and offers daily encouragement for any Christian sojourner.  Her mission, plain and simple, is to make a difference for Christ and reach as many people as she can. 

Visit her blog and you’ll see how she does it.  You’ll leave better than when you came.  I promise.

http://highcallingblogs.com/5087/12-days-of-self-promotion/

This afternoon was movie day in our home.  It turned out to be a perfect time for staying in with the cold rain and blustery winds wreaking havoc outside. 

I enjoy hanging out with the family, but I have to admit that I wasn’t looking forward to the offerings on the playlist.  First, Thomas recently read James and the Giant Peach and assumed the movie would be equally as compelling. 

It wasn’t.

The second movie, however, was a different story in every way.  When Lisa told me she checked out The Boy in the Striped Pajamas from the library, I wasn’t very interested or inspired.  It sounded like some Dr. Seuss adaptation or another James and the Giant Peach or Pajama  knock-off.

I was wrong.

The story is a riveting tale told from the perspective of an eight year old German boy, Bruno.  He leaves Berlin with his family when Hitler promotes his father to Commandant of Auschwitz.  Ultimately, Bruno meets a Jewish boy, Schmuel, on the other side of the electrified fence enclosing the concentration camp.

Susan captivates her readers with brilliant photography and poignant verse.  She weaves in relevant scripture references which ultimately bestow blessings and encouragement for everyone.  If you’re looking for some inspiration or just want to enjoy some scintillating pictures, then you really need to stop by her blog. 

I always enjoy her sweet soul that jumps off the page at me.  I’m sure you’ll find the same!

http://highcallingblogs.com/5087/12-days-of-self-promotion/

I didn’t know what to do.  He missed school for two straight days, but Tylenol was still controlling his fever and his head didn’t hurt too bad. At least, that’s what the adrenaline was telling him.

I knew he wanted it, and I remembered feeling the same way many years ago.  But, he was sick, and I was his father. For someone who prides himself on an acute ability to pick from many options the best course (whether I follow it or not), I experienced angst over this one.  In the end, the deliberation was short.  I made the decision.

Let him play.

The cool air had settled in by the 7:00 p.m. starting time, and the darkness would soon follow.  I was still at work, but I had talked with him several times during the day and our conversations revealed an excited child with nerves busting at the seams. 

Young boys throw many strikes and hit long homeruns for the audience of one.  Playing under the lights, amongst a volatile crowd, however, is  another challenge unto itself.  Effectively dealing with it separates the men from the boys.

I arrived shortly after the start in the top half of the first inning to see him proudly defending the infield from third base.  I stood behind the backstop.  He noticed me and shot a wry smile my way, but then quickly glanced down, picking an imaginary rock from the dirt to disguise his expression from others who might notice–not too cool for a ball player to replace his game face with a kind gesture at good old dad. 

I didn’t hold it against him.  I knew exactly how he felt. 

The dream he shares with many nine year old boys, however, is standing on the white rubber of a dirt hill and pitching for his team.  I had prepared him for the possibility of that not happening very soon.  Older, stronger boys with more developed skills waited ahead of him. I told him he needed to be content wherever he played and help the team the best he could.

Well, my “not too soon” speech turned into the third inning with one out and bases loaded. The call came. The coach made the change.

At first, Luke was startled, not quite sure the coach had even called his name. When he finally realized what was going on that wry smile appeared again, but he had a harder time trying to wipe it away. He jogged from his place in the field and ascended the mound.  This was the first time he had ever thrown a pitch from a real mound in a real game. 

I was proud of him.

Nevertheless, it was an inauspicious start.  He walked the first two but settled down to strike out the next two and retire the side.  He didn’t do particularly well at the plate either and ultimately our team lost.  But, it hardly dampened his enthusiasm, and I was the fortunate recipient of the play by play all the way home and for thirty minutes thereafter.  I don’t think they need to start clearing a space in Cooperstown yet for my boy, but what’s wrong with dreaming a little dream? I mean you’re only young once, right?

It’s funny how history repeats itself.  I perfected the craft of detailed recall on the baseball field many years ago and was always able to find the most circuitous route in reaching the end of a short story. 

Oh, what I put my own dad through!     

Suddenly, a curious thought occurred to me through this whole experience.  Maybe I’m good at noticing the best paths now because I had so much experience from my youth picking the wrong ones. 

Luke is like me in so many ways. 

I sure hope this isn’t one of them…

Proverbs 4:10-11 NIV
10 Listen, my son, accept what I say, and the years of your life will be many. 11 I guide you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight paths.

My gym bag was neatly packed and sitting beside the bed.  As it turned out, I wouldn’t need it. 

The alarm clock pronounced itself at 5:30 a.m. on the nose.  I rolled over in the dark and reached toward the direction of the offensive sound to stop its attack.  I didn’t need to leave until 6:30 to make it to the gym for a quick run and then get to work on time.  Lisa began to stir a bit. 

“Are you going to the gym?” she asked.

“I would like to since I haven’t been in three days, but I guess it depends on how Luke feels,” I said.

My oldest son, Luke, went to bed the evening before complaining he didn’t feel well with similar symptoms as his younger brother who missed three days of school the week before.  It’s hard to tell with him, though.  He’s an accomplished and convincing thespian in the role of sick child wanting attention and a day off from his studies.  Probably Oscar material, that kid. 

I knew if he really were sick, he would need to go to my parent’s house to spend the day while my wife took the others to school.  This contingency would mean no exercise for me.  I could feel my waistline continuing its relentless expansion second by second.  I resisted the urge to quietly enter his room, jostle him awake briefly, and return to my wife with the story of how he seemed fine and how I should safely be on my way.  I can’t say I haven’t tried it before, however.

I quickly ate a banana and brushed my teeth.  Finally, I went into his room about 6:20 to begin the investigation.  He was already awake.

“Bad sign,” I thought to myself.  I asked him anyway. “Luke, are you awake?”  His response would serve as the first piece of evidence. 

“Yes,” he coughed through nasal congestion and what sounded like a raw, scratchy throat. 

“How do you feel?” I continued.

“Not too good, Daddy, not too good,” he said shifting his eyes my way,  but carefully avoiding any quick movements with his head.

Repetition was bad sign too.  I felt his cheeks and forehead.  They confirmed my fears. 

“Where do you feel bad, son?” I asked.

“All over,” he halfway choked out in response.  And so, I decided on the nuclear option.

“You know you’ll miss your baseball game tomorrow night if you’re sick, right?  I hoped thrusting the potential loss of a game smack dab in front of him would serve as the magic elixir hastening a speedy recovery.  It was cruel.  It was unnecessary.  It didn’t work. Tears began to fall.

“He really is sick,” I thought to myself.  I felt a twinge of regret, but sympathy never has been one of my gifts.

“Well, go on and get dressed, brush your teeth and then lay back down until we’re ready to go.  I’ll take you to your grandmother’s for the day.”

I left his room perturbed and irritated.  I kept thinking about how his brother’s sickness had rearranged our schedules all of last week and how this one was beginning the same. 

The others finally departed for school, leaving me and Luke there alone together.  We spoke few words between us until it was time to go.  He sighed and moaned the whole way to the door, slowly sliding his feet as if his shoes were heavy bricks.

“Luke, you need to get moving, son,” I barked.  “I need to get you to momma’s and then to work on time,” I continued.  He offered nothing in response, but kept walking. 

He sat up front beside me in the car, which I’m sure violated one of those seat belt, air-bag, cell-phone laws, but it was the only way he could recline and get some relief.  I rolled the dice and took my chances.

Tension filled the car’s atmosphere.  I kept thinking about losing my workout time and the calories quietly converting themselves to heinous fat globules destined for my mid-section.  I’m not sure what he was thinking.  I turned the music up just enough to hear the words and melody, but not enough to offend his sickness induced, sensitive ear drums. 

He sat there quietly, searching for something and I knew it.  He was looking for the gentleness of a lost feather, softly landing.  I was giving him the thud of the dead bird it came from.  That gentleness was what he needed from me. He wanted the touch, the look, the gentle tone of sincere words sweetly spoken. 

It escaped me. I resisted. Something was holding me back.  I wouldn’t give him what he wanted because there was too much of me to get through.  Why was it so hard to dispense?  This child, most like his father, proved the hardest for me to gently love. 

Then, I heard the words.  The words to the song barely audible in the background stuck me hard.  “Who am I, that you might know me my King?” 

I awkwardly reached for his leg, nearly missing it completely.  “How are you feeling?” now, I asked.  His leg was too far, so I rubbed his shoulder instead.  He seemed almost startled. 

“About the same,” he responded. 

“Maybe you’ll be good enough to play tomorrow night,” I said.  “You’ve got a couple of days to get better.”  The corner of his lipped moved up ever so slightly. 

“You think so, Daddy?”

“I hope so, son.  I really hope so.”  It wasn’t much, but it was all I was willing to give.

I dropped him off and left for work.  I replayed that same song the whole way there.  I tried saying a prayer, but the words just didn’t come out right.  I wanted forgiveness.  I wanted mercy.  From my Heavenly Father, I asked for the same gentleness I had earlier refused to give my own son. 

I hope God was listening better than me.

Philippians 4:5 NIV
Let your gentleness be evident to all… 

Colossians 3:12 NIV
Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.
 
P.S.-When I talked with my wife this evening she told me Luke mentioned that I had employed the nuclear option.  He told her he knew I was trying to get him to go to school and figure out how sick he really was….guess the apple has fallen painfully close to the tree.