“This is good news.” Our DHS caseworker said. “Well, bad for you, but good too.”  Apparently we were so broke that we qualify for the full Oregon Health Plan Plus program – 100% expenses paid.  That is good news – except for the part where we are that broke!

What a roller coaster this last couple of months have been.  To be terminated in the middle of the worst recession since 1929 is not a recommended path.  Our faith has sustained us, but I have to admit the vacillation between discouragement, dis-empowerment, anxiety, and disillusionment has been a wild ride.

“Also, because of your lack of income, you qualify for the full food stamp allotment of $600 a month.” Our very kind caseworker informed us.  Our kids were being entertained in the next cubicle by another kind caseworker.  I don’t know what you’ve ever heard about DHS employees – but I’m here to tell you they treated us very well – and were very kind.

I’ve applied for several jobs – some I thought would be fun, others would be challenging, and still others I could do while standing on my head. All have turned me down.  I sought to reinvent, redefine, and re-envision my purpose – I saw myself in roles I would never have imagined.  And still nothing.

“It will take up to 90 days for your mortgage hardship case to be reviewed,” the nice lady told me over the phone.  But I don’t have enough money to last that long I explained.  “You can miss up to three payments before foreclosure proceedings start.” Whew! Another reprieve.

When we arrived in Portland we had three months wages in savings – as is recommended.  But it’s amazing how fast a family of four can burn through cash.  Because of a miscalculation in our escrow account, they raised our house payment $500 a month last year.  Then, because of the downturn in the economy, we were not given cost of living raises.  Poof!  In less time then you can say fiscal responsibility, our bank accounts were drained.  It was at that point when the termination came through.

“Nationalized healthcare is socialism!  We are not a communist country!  Healthcare is not a right!  The state should not be responsible for taking care of people – the Church should be taking care of people!” And so the epitaphs would fly.  It’s one thing to argue against government supported healthcare, when you are covered by insurance.  But interestingly enough, the only people I heard argue against the currently debated plan, are those who have jobs and health insurance.

One thing that has become very clear to me in the last few months is how much paperwork is involved in being poor. Every agency, every time I turn around, has a form for me to fill out.  some are online, some are in arcane paper forms, and some are just over the phone.  There are phone cues, websites, and regulations to navigate.  It is a full time job.  I don’t know how people get through this – especially those with less education, fewer resources, or those for whom English is not their first language. I don’t know how some people manage.

I’ve found it interesting that those who say the Church should be taking care of people, actually have nothing to back up those words.  The state just came through with the equivalent of $1200 a month in assistance, but the Church has offered nothing – and we haven’t asked, because we know the Church doesn’t have those kind of resources.

Of course, the fear of losing our house loomed large.  But, in the bigger picture, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.  My real fear was to move into a one, or two-bedroom suburban ghetto apartment complex and the influence of the others on my family.  It’s not like we can lock our kids in the apartment all day – but then again, there are scary things happening in apartment complexes.

But this week has been a week of victories.  We now have full health insurance coverage!  We have a larger food stamp allotment than we generally spend on food!  And, it looks like we may be able to squeeze out a few more months in our house – without a foreclosure!  I believe we’ll make it.

Earlier this week, I met up with an old friend who was coming through Rainier.  He’s a former paramedic and firefighter.  He asked me why I didn’t recertify as a paramedic.  To be honest, he’s not the first person to ask me this – but he is the first who actually knows the score.  Later that day I made some phone calls and sent out some emails – and this actually looks very doable.

So, stay tuned.  We’ll see what’s next on the agenda.  But, I just wanted to take a few moments to praise God for sustaining us through these difficult times – and for the light at the end of the tunnel.  The Walter family has hope today!

In the last 60 years, he has owned three businesses, raised a family, owned a vacation home, an RV, and has always driven sporty cars. He pioneered some “green” practices within the municipal water distribution systems around Portland. (To be truthful, he wasn’t trying to be green ~ that word didn’t exist in the 1980s ~ he was just being frugal and practical)

My Dad is an optimist, he is driven, and everyone likes him. In 1998, after his stroke, I flew to Portland to take over his duties.  For two weeks straight, everyone I spoke with told me what a great guy my Dad is – and I still hear that from people.  He is very well liked.  My Dad works hard, he doesn’t take no for an answer, and he knows how to get the job done – no matter how many rolls of duct tape, sheet rock screws, or bailing wire it takes.

But, his chronological age doesn’t match his biological age. In the early 90s he had open heart surgery to replace a congenitally defective valve.  A couple of years later  a physician made a medication error  that almost killed my Dad from a cardiac tamponade.  I’ve spent a lifetime in the back of ambulances, it’s a whole new experience to be back there with my own father.  Then, as I mentioned, almost 11 years ago, once again due to a medication error, my Dad suffered a stroke.

All my life he’s told me that I may get bigger/stronger/smarter – but I’ll never be tougher than him. Now, I help him carry his laundry into the house from the car.  He’s still tough – there is no doubt about that – unfortunately, his body has betrayed him.  Sometimes mental toughness is not enough though.

During his Korean Conflict Army tour, they discovered his IQ to be 140. Well within Mensa qualifications.  Unfortunately, raised in abject poverty, with no emphasis on school, and very little post high school education, my Dad was never able to capitalize on that raw computing power between his ears.  In fact, it was his lack of understanding in capital  finance and business practices that forced him to leave self-employment – more than once.

Right after my Dad’s stroke, in another poorly made financial decision, my parents sold their house (which was almost paid for), and proceeded to burn through years of capital in a very short period of time.  Now, three and a half years after my Mom’s death, my Dad lives in a 20 x 20, one-room, studio “house.”  This is a step up from the 24 -foot RV where he was living in my driveway – but not much.

My brother and I, in an attempt to allow my Dad his independence and freewill, have tolerated this sub-standard living space.  The place is cold, drafty, and smells of mildew.  Less than 25% of his lifetime accumulations are in the house, the rest are at my house.  In addition to the downscale environment, the place has electrical issues and other safety concerns.

When he lived in our driveway, he would eat many meals with us. One concern we now have is whether he is meeting his nutritional needs.  It appears that he’s lost weight and vigor, since he moved  into his own place a few months ago.  He has lost stamina and even balance.  But despite repeated invites, he seems to prefer his independence.

Lately, we’ve been trying to find another solution that would provide a better standard of living.  We once again offered to let him move into our spare bedroom, which is a little smaller than his house, but he didn’t want to do that.  We offered to move out of our master suite – giving him fully 25-30% of our house, his own bathroom, enough room to set up a kitchenette, and a room as big as his current house.  Overall he would increase his living space by 30-40%.  He was reticent.

We persisted in inviting him to move in with us. Finally, I resorted to the idea that we needed the help – financially.  The $3-400/month that he would pay, might  enable us to keep our house – given our own unemployment/cash-flow issues.  This is the truth, by the way – but not the original motivation.  Finally he relented.

So, I asked him when he was going to give notice at his current place?  Not until the end of October.  Hmmmmm….

As The Wife and I discussed this, we came to the very real observation, that he doesn’t want to move in with us.  He would have his own entrance, we’d make accommodations for his dog, et cetera, and so forth, but…  The bottom line is, he values his independence more than he does his health and his comfort.

Of course, everyone has to die someday, but no one enjoys facing the death of their parents.  In fact, most people revert to infancy before their death – whether through dementia, failing health, or whatever, at some point the kids need to step in and parent the parents.  Sometimes we have to manage their medications and finances, other times we have to take away their car keys.

UPDATE: Last night, before I was able to post this, my Dad joined us for a nice dinner. (Yummy Lentil soup!)

I asked my Dad last night if he really didn’t want to move in. “Not really.” he said.

I asked him if he’d rather stay where he is.  “Yep”

I asked him these important questions:  “How will we know when you’re no longer able to take care of yourself? When will we know to take your car keys away?  When will we have to make those decisions for you?” Or, to sum it all up: “Are you going to fight us all the way?”

His answer was not unexpected, but was pretty funny: “You better believe it!”

And we all had a good laugh – but I hope he thinks about it.

http://www.caring.com/questions/

[Confidential PS to my brother: Dad is still planning to move in with you when you get your house built – “because he’ll have more privacy there.”]

Photo by Ucumari

One thing My daughter and I have always enjoyed doing is wrestling.  Well, it really isn’t as much wrestling as it is tickling, crawling, laughing, and cuddling – but she calls it wrestling.  It’s always been one of our special times.  Just recently my Smiling Son has figured out how fun this is too!

He and I go through phases in our relationship.  Several months ago, it was like a switch was flipped and he became infatuated by me.  It was awesome!  If this is what it’s like to be worshiped, then bring it on – ‘cuz my son was worshiping me.  Then a a couple of months later, The Wife attended an event and took Darling Daughter.  My son looked at me with distrust a bit of fear.  It was as if he was saying, “Do you have what it takes to meet my needs?”

“What if I get hungry?  What if I need a diaper changed?  What if something happens and I start crying – do you have what it takes?“

It was pretty funny really, but I had to dial back the machismo and be more tender.  I had to reassure him that I could meet not just his wants, but his needs too.

Then in the last two weeks, Smiling Son has discovered wrestling.  He wrestles with me, he wrestles with his sister, he tries to wrestle with his (“I am not a playground; your Daddy is a playground!“) Mommy, and sometimes he lays on the cats hopping they’ll wrestle with him.  He comes up to me and says something along the lines of: “ree? ree? Ree!?”  Which of course sounds a lot like his words for raisins, water, new diaper, potty, kitty, and a few I haven’t figured out yet.

Photo by Ucumari

But in the last couple of days I’ve figured it out – there is only one thing he wants from Daddy with that sort of urgency: “REE-e!“

“Oh!  You want to wrestle.“

“Yeah!” He says, with the one of the words he has perfect diction.

“No way!” I laugh.

“Yeah!” He says.

“No – not you?  You want to wrestle?”

“Yea-Ah!“

“No way!“

“Yea-Ah!” He laughs in anticipation and I go over and lie on the floor.

He loves to stand on my chest and jump off, tickle my stomach, and have me hold him tight and roll around.  I can pick either kid up by the back of their thighs and pretend they are on a precarious balancing ride that may drop them off at anytime.  We laugh, we tickle, we roll around, I chase them on hands and knees, and they chase me.  We have an absolutely great time!

Sometimes while playing with my Darling Daughter, she will exclaim, “This is the best day in the whole world!”  It is awesome.

Photo by CC Carlstead

Tonight while reading kids books, I came across a photo of a lion and her cub. In my head, I imagined that cub running, playing, biting, and tugging on its Daddy’s tail.  That’s what my son is doing – that’s what my daughter is doing.  Lately too, my son, who sleeps in our bed with us, has taken to cuddling with me all night long.  I love this job!

PS: The coolest thing ever though, is to watch my kids wrestling with each other – their laughter and giggles are so authentic and so absolutely delightful.

On the way there, Darling Daughter wanted to know why her cut finger was healing, even though there was no medicine in the Band-aid®.  It was a good question – insightful really.  Mommy gave her a medical answer about cleanliness, bacteria, and the work of the band-aid.  But as they spoke, a thought came to my head.  I realized that we are created to heal.  People have been healing for centuries without the aid of triple antibiotic ointments.  It’s in our DNA.

That’s when the light came on to something I’d never thought of.  If we are made to heal physically, why wouldn’t we be made to heal emotionally?

For some reason, I’ve had this weird idea that if someone were to experience a horrendous tragedy, they would be emotionally scarred for life.  Yet that doesn’t always seem to be the case.  Take Elizabeth Smart, she went through what is quite possibly every parents worst nightmare – and beyond.  Yet, from all apparent signs, she is healing well.  Granted, she has had some excellent care, but nonetheless, she is healing.

My own example tells the same kind of story.  Born with disfiguring facial defects, multiple surgeries, a lifetime of being taunted, teased, and bullied, and then just when my life should be launching, I enter a terrible marriage and near life-ending divorce – all before the age of 23.  And in the last 27 years, I’ve bounced back – stronger, more resilient, and standing on a much better foundation than ever before.

I’ve heard it said that kids are resilient – they bounce back.  It’s been hard to accept that though.  I never want my children to experience the pain I’ve experienced.  Yet, while I still believe it is my role to shelter them until they are ready to fledge, I realized today that life is filled with pain and my kids will experience some of that pain.  But they will move through it.

While I can still take preventive actions to avoid accidents and dangerous situations (e.g. Child safety locks, seat belts and car seats, be careful about who they associate with, etc), I realized today, for the first time, that we are built to be resilient.  Emotionally, as well as physically.  We’ll get hurt – that’s a given.  It’s what we do about that injury that determines the depth of the scars.

The locals were trying to make a living and the interruptions of ambulance calls were inconvenient to them.  They were more than happy to let these 19 year old punks carry the pagers.  Unfortunately, running ambulance calls and studying were not a good mix for us (and likely not for anyone else either).  There was some chatter about a fire down in Oregon and we turned our attention to the scanner.

Apparently there was no organized fire department in the Oregon territory just south of College Place.  People don’t consider the need for these sort of niceties until their house is actually on fire.  After hearing reports of smoke, some of the locals from Walla Walla County Fire District 4 started looking for the fire.  In rural communities, postal addresses are seldom used.  Landmarks and dirt roads are the usual method of navigation.  So it was no surprise that no one really knew where this fire was located.  As we listened to the radio chatter, there was some confusion as to whether this burning house was in Oregon or Washington.  If it was in Washington, the county fire guys would take care of it.  If it was in Oregon, they would have to let it burn.

Newcomers to rural living are often shocked to hear there is no organized and official fire suppression agency. Like tap-water, toilet paper, and electricity, they just assume this stuff is provided by some omniscient political body.  Actually, modern, public fire agencies are fairly recent technological development.  Benjamin Franklin is often credited as the inventor of the fire department (I have never fact-checked this, and today I’m on a roll and don’t want to get distracted by opening more tabs on my browser, if I’m wrong, let me know in the comments).  For many years, fire suppression agencies were operated by the insurance companies who were seeking to minimize their losses.  Eventually, as the 20th century matured, more government agencies formed their own fire departments.  But there are many areas, especially rural communities, that still have no agency tasked with providing fire suppression, medical, or even police services.

It was quite interesting to listen to the old-timers on the radio.  There were references to the “old Miller farm” and that field that used to have a “couple of oak trees back in ’63.”  By now we could see a column of smoke from our third-story dorm room.  We hadn’t fought a good fire for several months and it was beginning to sound like this house-fire was just across the border in Oregon.  Almost without words, we decided to grab our turnouts and head down to see if we could “help.”  We grabbed the scanner and ran to Ray’s car – an early 70s, red, Ford Maverick.  After stopping by the fire station to grab our gear, we headed south to find this unchecked house fire.

Although we were driving into unknown geography, both of us have a keen sense of direction, and that, coupled with the confused voices on the radio – not to mention the large column of black smoke marking the location – we pretty much drove right to it.  A column of black smoke indicates a “working” fire.  A lot of carbon is being produced and the fire is freely burning.  Columns of white, or gray, smoke indicate a more slowly burning fire.  The column generally does not rise as quickly, and is often mixed with steam because of the water being applied by firefighters.  Smoldering fires are filled with more toxic gases, carbon monoxide, and unburned materials.  The column of smoke from this house rose hundreds of feet, straight into the air.  It was black and we knew this house was burning pretty well.  We weren’t quite ready for the scene that unfolded before us though.

Long before seeing the flock of cars parked in front of the burning house, we saw a couple dozen people milling around the house, wringing their hands – literally, and figuratively.  As we parked out front, we saw that this house was actually burning from the top down – like a cartoon.  I’ve never seen a house burn like this ever again.  The roof was fully involved and the flames were consuming the house from the top down.  Several men were running in and out of the house, doing their best to salvage furniture, keepsakes, and appliances.  Ray and I parked on the dirt road out front and just looked at each other with wide eyes.  Now what?

There was no sign of any fire apparatus – despite all the chatter we’d heard on the radio.  This house was located in a rural Oregon county and no agency had authority to fight fires there.  Again, without much discussion, we donned our gear and began to walk up the long driveway.  We didn’t know what we were going to do, but we figured we were better trained and better prepared than anyone else there.  We received a rock star welcome as the crowds parted to let us approach.  Apparently they had more faith in us than we had hope in the situation.  They applauded and cheered us as we strode to the fire – oblivious to their welcoming overture.

By the time we arrived at the front door of this inferno, the flames had already consumed the roof and half of the walls. A couple of men had just removed the refrigerator from the house, but it was now unsafe for anyone to reenter the house – even with our protective gear.  We stopped a man who was trying to get in.  It was too hot to even be on the front steps.  Now what?

Ray and I were quite the team.  We both had been involved in emergency services since our mid teens, we skied, hiked, climbed, and really enjoyed each other’s company.  Just two years earlier, he was the first person I met when I transfered to a new school.  Not only did he take the time to introduce himself and welcome me, but at lunch time, he invited me to sit with him and his friends.

Now, as sophomores in college, all our energy was going into the local volunteer fire and ambulance organization.  Besides upgrading equipment, procedures, and ticking off the old-timers, we loved to run calls.  The ambulance was equipped with advance life support (paramedic-level) equipment, but we were only basic-life support (EMT-level) certified.  That didn’t stop us – we charged ahead, using the heart-monitor/defibrillator, IV supplies, and medications.  Our primary drug-of-choice was gasoline.  We drove fast and aggressively.  What were they thinking, turning over a 5000 pound 1964 Pontiac ambulance, with a Cadillac 454 under the hood, and three (count-em – three!) sirens – to a couple of teenagers!!  We were insanely dangerous and hooked on adrenaline.

Before the school year was over, both of us dropped all our classes, left a trail of debt, and took a bucket-load of memories.  It is really hard to get up and go to classes when you’ve been up a couple of times in the night – saving lives and alleviating pain and suffering.  Often, we’d get a routine medical transport, right in the middle of my extremely boring History of Western Civ class.  No worries – I’m a rescuer!  See you later prof!  If the truth was known (though I’d never admit this), I got a real thrill acting like the “big-man-on-campus” – disobeying traffic laws, running out of the cafeteria, ditching classes, etc.  It didn’t help my academics, or my social standing, but it was certainly fun!

Again, without many words, we decided that trying to save the house was pointless.  Even if we had five fire engines and an unlimited supply of water, the best we’d hope for was to save the foundation.  However, right next to the house was a large garage/shed/out-building.  Firefighting isn’t just about suppression, it is also about minimizing loss.  If we can’t stop the fire, maybe we could keep it from spreading.  Because of our turnout gear, we were able to put ourselves between the house and the garage.  It was hot, but bearable.  Unfortunately, there was no water.  When the roof burned, it severed the electrical drop line to the house and the rest of the property – including the pump house.  Now what?

Improvise!

Someone figured out our plan and noticed the hundreds of Mason jars in the garage.  We organized a water brigade, not with buckets, but with quart jars.  A long line of people formed, filling the jars in the horse trough and handing them down the line.  We then splashed the water on the side of the garage to keep it cool and prevent the fire from spreading.  It wasn’t much, but it was something.  At least they’d have a place to store that salvaged furniture.  As the fire continued to burn the wall of the house, just 10 feet from the garage, Ray and I took turns splashing water on the siding of the garage.  It was these efforts that kept the garage from catching fire – which would have eventually spread to the other outbuildings nearby.

It was in the midst of this surreal scene – two teenage boys, directing an eager team of rural farmers, to save what we could of these people’s property – when a 1946, Army-surplus, fire contraption showed up.  It was red, very dusty, and had a hose real on it.  Like keystone cops, these old farmers drove this rig right up on the front lawn, sliding to a stop – they jumped off, fired up the Briggs & Stratten pump and started spraying water on the now, nearly-incinerated house.  Ray and I looked at each other in disbelief!

We had already pushed the walls of the house into the fire to keep them from falling outward. The house was really not much more than a foundation filled with burning coals, and now these yahoos (yeah, I said it!) were dumping precious water onto a lost cause.

Fortunately our helmets and firefighter gear gave us a level of positional authority.  No one knew us, no one knew our names, and we didn’t know any of them.  But we had absolute authority.  Much like Superman or the Lone Ranger must have experienced when they showed up to save the day.  I asked, no, told the man spraying water on the ashes to give me the hose.  Couldn’t he see what we were doing?  Didn’t he see us struggling intensely to save this garage?  Though the fire was nothing more than a heap of coals, it was still hot enough to ignite the garage if we didn’t keep it cool.  What was he thinking!?

As I took the hose, Ray got a pike pole off this old fire rig. With the pole he was able to move burning debris away from the house.  (An interesting aside: Apparently this old fire rig was owned by the father of a paramedic I worked with years later at Buck Ambulance in Portland.)  They kept this rig in case there was a grass fire that threatened their wheat of hay – but most of the time they used it to spray pesticides.  This is the first – I learned one night several years later – and last fire they had ever fought with that rig.

With the arrival of the fire apparatus, we disbanded the Mason jar brigade and used the hose to keep the garage siding cool enough to prevent ignition.  Within an hour of our arrival, the house had been reduced to smoldering pile of hot ashes.  The once vertical column of black smoke had given way to a wispy, low-hanging cloud of white, choking puffs.  The garage was no longer in danger of catching fire and the excitement was over.  Ray and I walked back to his car, put our gear in his trunk, got in the car, and drove back to campus.

We weren’t trying to escape, we were just done.   Being good task-oriented individuals, we figured the task was done, so we went home.  Besides, we were still on ambulance call, so we really needed to get back in our area.  Thinking about this now kind of makes me laugh.  I imagine those people looking around after we left, wondering: “Who were those guys!?”  “I don’t know. But they left this silver fire nozzle.”

About half way back to campus, we looked at each other.  Wordlessly we asked: “What just happened!?”  And then we laughed all the way home!

I believe we are born with this need to be special. I believe that parents have an obligation to meet that need as best they can.

I once read that more US Presidents and Fortune 500 CEOs were second-born children – rather than holding other places in the birth-order paradigm.  The theory is that first-born children often get all the “special” attention – which many of us would think would lead to natural advantages that would assure greater success.  However, what happens more often than not is that second-born children try harder. They learn to try harder to be noticed, to be appreciated, and to keep up with their older sibling.  This leads to a natural inclination to succeed – where the first born often rests in a sense of entitlement, that does not lead to success.  More than anything I want my children to be successful – not necessarily in a financial/career sort of success – but more relating to life, love, and contentment. In order to best raise them to achieve that sort of success, I want to enable them with a healthy self-esteem.  Not proud, not arrogant, and not insecure. or defeatist.  It’s really a delicate balance.  So, how does one accomplish this?

The other night, while reading to our kids – a night time ritual – I leaned over and whispered in the ear of my Darling Daughter. “I love you.” I said. “You’re my favorite daughter. You are very special to me.” These are not foreign words to my kids.  I often say these things to them, publicly, privately, tenderly (when we cuddle), and laughingly (when we’re wrestling and tickling).  I love to give them verbal and physical affirmation.

It was a real wake up call to me.

As I whispered these words to my daughter though, I was struck with an epiphany. It was a real wake up call to me.  I immediately shared it with The Wife; and the next day I shared it with a young married couple with kids. If you give me a moment, I’d like to share it with you…

The Medium is the Message:

It is one thing to be told we are special – sometimes that message hits home, and sometimes it doesn’t.  It usually matters who is telling us.  If we admire and respect the other person, if we have a significant relationship with them, or if we seek their approval, that message is going to have a lasting impact.  I remember an authority figure in my life, who recently told me that I was one of the best firefighters he’d ever commanded.  This hit hard and sunk deep.  I will never forget that statement.

Sometimes however, people who we don’t trust or respect, will give us a compliment.  It just doesn’t seem to have the impact.  Oh sure, praise always “feels” good, but that doesn’t mean it affects us to our core.  In fact, we’re more likely to internalize criticism from strangers, than we are to receive their praise – but that’s another post for another day.  The truth is, if we don’t respect or trust another person, their praises, terms of endearment, of affections – well, they just don’t have the same affect.

My Role as a Dad:

There was a time in my life when I worshiped the ground my parents walked on – especially my Dad.  But as the years have gone by and I began to see their failures, I realized my parents had feet of clay.  It wasn’t just their imperfections though – often it was their poor judgement, stupid addictions, hypocrisy, and lack of integrity.  (Please don’t get me wrong, I adore my parents – still – and always!)  While I still appreciate my family’s affection and affirmation, it doesn’t really carry as much weight as it could.

I mentioned to The Wife: for our kids to experience the affirmation, esteem, and specialness that I intend in those words, I have to live an authentic, transparent life of integrity.  That means I have to seek forgiveness and make amends when I mess up.  I have to admit failure.  I have to be constantly and consistently learning, growing, adapting.  I have to be the man, that others – especially my kids, will respect.  In other words, I have to achieve the success I want for them – or at least be striving for it.

Granted, there will come a time in every child’s life where they will seek to create space between themselves and their parents.  There will be teenage angst, a seeking of identity, and a rejecting of their parent’s values – but the key here, is to live a life of consistency, integrity, and contentment, so that these phases will pass without too much damage in the relationship.  The ownership is on the parents – not the teen.

It was at this point that my mind took a brief trip into the world of infinite possibilities and back to the caged world of my childhood.  Snap!

(Please note, the next few reflections are not meant as criticisms as much as they are learning opportunities)

I know, intellectually, that my Dad loves me – but when he lies to me, even those little insidious white lies, I don’t feel very special.  When I would watch him lie to my Mom, a business associate, or a friend – my faith and trust in him were assassinated.  So, as his son, I know I’m loved – but I don’t always feel it in a way I’d like to.  I’m not sure my Dad knows how to love the way he wants to love – and for that, I forgive his failures and accept what he can give.

When my Mom used to tell me how special I was, and how proud she was of my accomplishments, I knew she meant it.  But her meddling, controlling, and co-dependent behaviors and words, seriously diminished the impact of those statements.  I began to see that her statements of affection were really cries for reciprocation.  She needed me/us to express these things to her.  But should the parent really be that needy of their children?  Shouldn’t it be a bit more spontaneous?

My mother was sexually and emotionally abused by her parents.  Is it any wonder she entered adulthood without a healthy self-esteem.  She wrestled with these demons of inadequacy until her death in January of 2006.  None of us could ever give enough for her to feel whole again.  The damage was done, but those she trusted the most.  Neither therapists, loving family, my Dad, or her kids – we were never able to replace the brokenness in her heart.

My Dad was raised by an absent father.  Being of solid Germanic stock, my grandfather worked from sunup to sundown – often 100s of miles from his family.  It wasn’t just his physical distance that did damage, this geography was just a symptom of his inability to connect emotionally with his wife and kids.  Though raised in poverty, my Dad’s family never starved – except for affection.  It’s no wonder my Dad didn’t know how to love.  It was never modeled for him.

The deepest blow was 30 years ago. I was going through the worst crisis of my life and I needed my family.  Unfortunately I was making some choices that made me afraid to be transparent with those I loved most.  When the feces hit the oscillating air mover, I reached out to my Dad.  Unfortunately, he was ill-equipped to deal with a struggling son.  He didn’t call me, he stood me up for lunch appointments, he couldn’t look me in the eye.  He wasn’t there.

Without that anchor, I made poorer and poorer choices. Without any sense of worth, I acted on the shame, disgust, and loathing I had for myself.  I sought affirmation from strangers.  And yet, in retrospect, I’ve found that partiers and pretty girls are a poor substitute for genuine affection, affirmation, and specialness.  I’m glad I survived and lived long enough to discover that – and to forgive my parents for their failures.

But how does one move forward when their parents are still making poor choices? What if your father never calls you – or doesn’t come and visit?  What if he shows more attention and affection towards his friends, job, and other obligations, then he does to you?  What do you do with a mother who wants to love her children, but is barely able to manage her own life – let alone speak leadership into the lives of her kids?

It is these sorts of issues that are creating anger in the lives of children, and adult children, across the landscape.  Kids have a right to expect their parents to be there for them – through thick, thin, joy, and grief.  Mere words are cheap.  Actions speak louder than words.  Presence is the medium – and the message is in the medium.

So, as I look at the innocence of the children that are a gift from God, I am struck by my own brokenness. My failures, my inconsistencies, and my lack of integrity.  I have to continue to learn from failures, grow in my brokenness, seek healing and learning, and lead the way for my kids.  I have to be the leader – not just in words, but in actions.

It is my job, to be more than just a father in name only. I have to be a Dad – in actions, thoughts, motives, and intentions.  This is what it means to have a Dad Attitude.  It is more than words – it is about true leadership.  It is about influence.

My job is to instill a healthy esteem in my kids. Not inflated, not defeated, but balanced.  This is how I can enable them to achieve their dreams and their hopes.  This is how I provide a solid foundation for them to launch.  This is the best gift I could ever give to my kids.

My problem?  I want immediate gratification. But real happiness takes some work.

Spiritual growth is not for the faint of heart. I much prefer anesthesia – at least in the short run.  I’m glad I’m past the hard stuff: sex, drugs, rock‘n roll, etc.  But it’s funny, my current drugs of choice can be more deceptive.  Food, TV, mindless, eternal web surfing, sleep…

For several nights (weeks?), I’ve been sleeping like a paramedic.  We go to bed around eight or nine in the evening, I sleep for a good hour or two, then, like a misbehaving circadian rhythm, I’m wide awake.  Since I’ve been sulking in my cave for the last month or so, I just took this as status quo and stumbled off to my office cave to toil the night away.

Some nights are more productive than others, but for the most part, I wouldn’t use the words productive and insomnia in the same breath. Sometimes I just needed a place where I could toss and turn without disturbing the family I sleep with.  Fortunately I have a relatively comfortable couch in my cave.

Too often, however, I find myself wasting away the night and getting sleepy about the time the robins signal the approaching sunrise.  I’ve seen a lot of sunrises, but most have been from the back end.  My philosophy is that if God had intended mornings to be enjoyed, He would have put them later in the day.

Last night was different. One wouldn’t know it by watching me, but somethings happened last night – spiritually, holistically, mentally, emotionally.

As I slogged into my office for the night shift, feeling pretty content about the two whole hours of sleep I had tucked into my resume, I had an urge.  It was a small urge – a little voice, if you will.  It was a good thing.

Let me back up a bit…

Last week, after writing that 3000+ word post, I thought I was making a breakthrough.  “Aha!” I said.  “I’ve got this one nailed.”  I had it all figured out.  But have you ever noticed that we don’t always have integrity between our emotions and our knowledge?  Sometimes what we know to be true doesn’t match with what we feel?  Yeah, I thought so.

I’ve been thinking for a few days that I need a breakthrough. But what does that look like?  For those of us who primarily are defined as melancholic, that may be different from the sanguines – or the phlegmatics.  It is definitely different from those overachievers, the cholerics. For me, it isn’t enough to just know I have to make changes – I have to feel it.  This usually comes after a significant epiphany.

Interestingly, as I stumbled through the dark last night (actually, virtually, and metaphorically), I heard a “still, small voice.”  It was calling me.  Yet, small voices are easy to ignore.  I know – I’ve ignored that voice too often before.

Years ago, while struggling with some very deep heartaches, I found myself wishing that an angel would show up and save me from my despair.  One night, about two o’clock in the morning, I was on top of Council Crest – alone.  I was broken, discouraged, alone.  Did I mention that I was alone?  Anyway, I was alone and wishing an angel would show up to give me some hope.  Cuz, well, I was alone.

No angel appeared.

Several months later, I had an epiphany.  I don’t know where it came from, but it was deep (Well it was deep then).  Somehow I had this notion that angels were these soft, gentle beings.  Yet, most of the time, when stories are told of angel encounters, one is left with the impression that angels are powerful warriors.  They are not to be trifled with.

Most of the time when people encounter angels, they are driven to the ground and left speechless.  The word “awesome” was coined for just these experiences.  I began to have doubts about my desire to have an angel show up.

I remember seeing a Harrier Jump-Jet perform at the Rose Festival Air Show. This was the aircraft the was featured in the movie True Lies with Schwarzenegger.  The sheer, raw power of this machine had me in tears.  When the pilot turned the aircraft towards the audience, less than 150 feet away, and dipped the nose toward us, I was screaming.  Imagine this thing coming up over a rise, loaded with rockets, and you’re in its sights.  My chest was pounding, I was dancing on my tip-toes, the power just awed me!

It was this thought that made me rethink my desire to have a face-to-face with an angel.  I’m not sure my heart, or my mind could handle that sort of encounter.  I withdrew my wish.  And yet, here I am, ignoring the whispers of my Creator.

Like I did last night.

I felt compelled to spend time with God.  But, I reasoned, I’m too tired.  I don’t feel like reading, I really can’t express my thoughts/concerns verbally – I’m not sure I’d be very good in this arena.  So, instead, I sought anesthesia.  It’s always better to listen to the leading.  To not make Him shout.

To be sure, I’ve found that God is big enough to speak to me through a myriad of methods. He’s used sci-fi, rock’n roll, and even drug-induced moments of purple haze.  While I don’t agree with some of my AA friends that I have to learn the hard way, I certainly choose that way more often than not.

I realized, this is one of the reasons I fear growth. I am afraid that if I adapt to other’s, um, suggestions, I will lose my identity…my true identity. But this is a lie, isn’t it? Seeking health and healing doesn’t have to mean that we have to lose ourselves.

At one point, House’s doctor asks him if he thought Van Gogh would have been Van Gogh if he’d had treatment.  House’s reply was exactly what mine would have been: “No.”  But the doctor replies, “Van Gogh would still be Van Gogh, but both ears would still be intact.”

That’s the hard part.

Would I still be the man I am if I didn’t feel about things the way I do?  If I slept all night, if I didn’t act on my creative urges, if I didn’t grieve the loss of certain things in my life – would I be the same guy?  More importantly, what if I didn’t anesthetize myself with the current drugs I use?  TV, food, – even reading.  Sometimes the good can interfere with the great.

Image via Wikipedia

So, here’s the bottom line.

I’ve been waiting for the big epiphany, but sometimes it’s the still small voice that speaks the loudest.  But it’s also the easiest to miss.  We want big answers (I want big answers!).  I want to know why this unfairness happened?  But sometimes it isn’t the why that matters. Usually it is the answer to this universal question that matters: “What will I learn from this experience?“

Here’s what I’m learning…

I’m again learning to listen to that “still, small voice.” I’m learning to quit using anesthesia when things get painful.  As M. Scott Peck says in the opening paragraph of his book, The Road Less Traveled, “Life is difficult.” Or, as I’ve heard it said, “God isn’t as interested in your comfort.” He is interested in my growth though – and ultimately, my happiness.

My problem?  I want immediate gratification. But real happiness takes some work.  Like I said, spiritual growth is not for the faint of heart.

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’cause I gotta peaceful easy feeling
and I know you won’t let me down
’cause I’m already standing on the
ground

What could be better than an afternoon nap on a warm Fall day? The sunlight streaming through the window, followed by a gentle breeze.  It doesn’t take much to follow these sensations back to childhood memories of carefree afternoons.  It doesn’t take much more than a few peaceful, easy feelings to relive the days gone past.

As I awoke from my short nap, I had this sensation that I was in Colorado Springs.  Before kids, Jennifer and I bought our first house – and life was pretty easy.  I didn’t want to let go of that feeling – even as I realized reality.  So, I just lay there and let my mind wander.  I recalled our Colorado home, the view, the emotions, the memories.  Then, without warning, my imagination took me even further back, to my childhood home in SE Portland.  Again, lying on my bed after an afternoon nap – watching the sun stream through the window, and followed by a warm, Fall breeze.

Nostalgia is a powerful emotion.  It is often triggered by sights, sounds, smells – an old photograph, a familiar meal, or a found object, long forgotten.  These memories are like treasures, buried into the recesses of our mind, sometimes accessible, but too often forgotten.  Innocence lost, wisdom gained, and a lifetime discerning the two.

As I watch my kids discover life and make their own memories, I’m struck by the idea that they don’t know the value their childhood.  Or, as my grandmother would say, “youth is wasted on the young.”

Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind
Summer breeze, makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

Photo by Leamington Malfoof

(continued from yesterday’s Part 1) Summary:

I’ve been a little off my game lately. Well, OK, I’ve been a lot off my game.  That’s OK though.  I needed to retreat and pull back a little.  I’ve been hiding out in my cave.  Even though I saw the unemployment coming – and knew it was for the best – it still hits like a ton of bricks.  Especially when I’m the sole support for three other people and two cats.  Then there were three surgeries in as many weeks – granted one of those was only a teeth-cleaning and minor cavity repair – it was still surgery!

Several weeks ago during my quiet time, I heard God saying to me (by the way, I don’t hear Him audibly) to take some time and rest.  It’s OK to hide out in the cave for awhile.  I thought I was slipping back into the abyss.  I was discouraged and broken – but God said I needed to recover. Three surgeries in three weeks, newly unemployed, the stress of the past year’s conflicts, financially broken, and ostracized by my spiritual community – yeah, I agreed.  I did need a break.

I needed that permission. As a fighter – a self-confident achiever – I was going to make it work.  But the God who loves me said, “Take a break.  I got it covered.”

As I begin to crawl out of this cave, I am better prepared to face the fight ahead – it’s not over – but I have to admit that I’m not quite up to speed. I’m feeling a little tenuous about life in the great big world.  That’s OK though.  I don’t have to bite off more than I can chew.  It’s still one day at a time. . .

Two Worlds

For almost two years I’ve felt like I was living in two different worlds.  It’s an odd place to be, but when one ends up in a job situation, that isn’t a good fit, it is sometimes necessary.  Now, if I were just an employee – say in a production, or service-oriented position, it is easy enough to “just put in the time.”  However, the higher one climbs in areas of responsibility, the more important it is to have personal and professional synchronicity. Without that harmony, someone is going to be unhappy.  And when you’re the leader, and your values don’t match those of the organization, it’s time to leave.

Photo by Joseph Thornton

I’m not a quitter though.  I figure that I have a lot of room to change, to grow, to adapt – I see conflict as an opportunity to improve relationships.  I do not fear conflict – I don’t always enjoy it, but I don’t fear it.  So, when things began to unravel last year, I saw it as a great opportunity for me to improve my interpersonal and leadership skills.  What I didn’t take into account was that other people don’t always have the patience to work through the conflict.  So around May of this past year, I knew it was over – others had already given up hope on a successful resolution of our values conflict.

In fact, during my daily Quiet Time, I came to the realization that I was released from that position. But I wasn’t given permission to quit.  As a spiritual person, I seek to hear the voice of God in my heart.  If you’re not a spiritual person, that may sound strange to you.  If you have trouble separating religion from spirituality, this concept may even be offensive to you.  But hear me out for a minute:  I’m not a very religious person either.  And yet, I am on a spiritual journey.  But I don’t always know what that means, or where I’m going.  To the bystander, it may look like I’m lost – wandering – and there are times that is true – but for the most part, I’m being lead by a Power greater than me.

Serenity Now

To me, it’s about serenity.  If I lose my serenity, I begin to lose my ability to survive.  Seriously.  It was just a short time ago (almost two decades, but who’s really counting?), that I was dying.  Lost in a world of mind-altering substances, I was either going to die in a horrible car accident, kill myself, acquire some drug-related disease, or fall into an abyss of insanity.  However, through the grace of God, I discovered a path out of that mess.  Ever since, I have continued to move forward, one day at a time.

Yet, there are days, weeks, months, and, unfortunately, longer, where I lose sight of the serenity that brought me out of the hole I fell into. I find myself beginning to slip back into that pit of desperation.  And being blessed cursed with self-confidence, I begin to claw at the sides of the pit, trying to pull myself out.  It’s worked, sometimes – but if I slide deep into the pit, I usually can’t gain traction on my own.  Usually the only way out at that point, is to surrender.  Like a swimmer in trouble, I have to relax and let the lifeguard rescue me – as long as I keep struggling, I only hinder the Savior’s efforts.

So, like an athlete, I know that I have to stay spiritually strong. The way to do that, is to spend regular time in prayer and meditation.  I need quiet, quality, and quantity time (I call this my QT3) with my Higher Power, my God, my Creator, my Savior, and my Master.  He is my Universe.  He is my Life-source.  He is the air I breathe.  Through Him, I have found serenity – and that serenity has given me life.

But that still doesn’t mean that I’m a very religious person.  In fact, I still struggle with most of the trappings of church.  Not because all those trappings are bad things – but mostly because I’m still a pretty broken person and I chafe at people telling me what to do.  And that doesn’t mean that religion has it all figured out either.  Generally, it is led by some pretty broken people too – and they shouldn’t be telling anyone else what to do, how to think, or what to believe.

So, where was I?  Oh yeah…

Photo by Marc Benton

Last May, during my QT3 over the course of a week or two, I heard God releasing me from the responsibilities I was employed to do.  Just a few months earlier, I had begged Him to release me – but He said no.  There was more leading to do there.  Last May, I was told to let go.  I was done.  There wasn’t anything else I could accomplish there.  It was a tremendous burden to be lifted off my heart and shoulders.  And yet, He has not released me from spiritual leadership.  As the Dad in our family, I have a responsibility to lead – spiritually, emotionally, and in a whole bunch of arenas.  But this is different.  The call to spiritual leadership came to me in January of 1999 – and I’ve not been released from that.  In fact, it has been reaffirmed and bolstered!

The next few months were hard.  Because even though God had released me from that assignment – as a pastor of a local church – I wasn’t given permission to quit.  I know, to some of you this sounds very mystical, metaphysical, and surreal.  Believe me, I sometimes question my own sanity when I read this stuff.  Some people pass it off as my own pathology, others understand the mysticism, and still others completely dismiss it – without any explanation.  That’s OK – I’m not preaching, I’m just telling you about my journey – my perceived wanderings – my reality.  It’s OK if it’s different for you.  That shouldn’t affect our relationship.

Eventually the decision was made to terminate me.  My acceptance of that decision probably came across as arrogance.  And my last presentation to the congregation was not pleasant – for me, or them.  But it had to happen.  In fact, I wish we could still dialog – I never like ending a relationship in the middle of conflict.  Nobody wins in that situation.  I still care about those people very much – and it hurts me to think that there are unresolved issues.  However, I can only speak into people’s lives as they give me permission.  That is at the heart of my core values – attraction, not promotion.  Discussion, not preaching.  Dialog, not arrogance.  Humility, learning, cooperation, authenticity, and transparency – not pride.

As the final days of my employment approached.  I was feeling relatively confident.  The one-day-at-a-time-serenity, that has become a part of my life, allows me to not project my fears too far into the future.  However, the prospect of living without health insurance and not knowing how we will continue our mortgage payments, make it really hard to be totally fearless.  And yet, I see this as another opportunity for spiritual growth.  Learning to trust and obey.

Obedience

It was obedience to my God-inspired values that got us into this situation.  Why would I abandon those values in the middle of the storm?  If I did abandon those values, I would not only be unemployed, but I’d be a hypocrite – and that wouldn’t make any sense!  That would be like marrying The Wife, “for better and for worse,” but leaving when the honeymoon ended.  My relationship with God isn’t about the immediate gratification of my immediate serenity.  It’s not just about my immediate happiness.  Rather, it is about my longterm survival and continuing on a path of enlightened growth – holistic growth.

My walk with God isn’t about behaving better.  To me, it’s not about morality.  I wouldn’t even say it’s about eternal life.  To me, my spiritual journey is about vision and hope.  The values, the serenity, and the spiritual disciplines all add value to my life.  They give me a vision of who I can become – and that gives me hope.  Without that vision, when I look too deeply into the mirror, I don’t like what I see.  Without that vision, I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to hide my true self from others – and worse, trying to hide from my self.  In fact, the more closely I walk with God, the more freedom I have to be authentic and transparent.  It’s amazingly freeing!

The reason I tend to shun religion is because I don’t see a lot of freedom.  I don’t believe I’m the only one that feels that.  From my perspective, I see a lot of people fleeing religion because of the “shoulds.”  Too many shoulds.  As my friend Bridget said to me yesterday, “religion makes people feel bad about themselves.”  From my perspective, the shoulds create shame – who among us is able to live up to all the shoulds?  We can’t – it’s too much.

Photo by simonsterg

In my spiritual journey, I threw out the shoulds and instead I’ve embraced the vision of who I can become as I walk with God.  He invited me to join Him, to experience Him, to converse with Him, and to be embraced by His love – despite my brokenness.  And, as Robert Frost once said, “that has made all the difference!”

Like any friendship, the more time we spend with someone, the more alike we become. Witness those happy, longterm marriages where not only do the spouses look alike, but their pets look like them too!  And because God is a stronger personality than me, I’m going to be more influenced by His personality, values, and actions, than he will by mine.  (It makes me wonder what churches would be like if they actually let God lead more?)

Oops! Where was I again?  I keep going off on these tangents…

Oh yeah…

So, as the date of my unemployment came and went, and the end of our medical insurance deadline passed, my boldness began to waiver.  And of course, that shouldn’t happen – right?  Not only was I feeling a bit cowardly, but I was also beating myself up for not being brave, like I should. Aurgh!

In the meantime, we were scrambling to get somethings taken care of before certain dates. I never realized before how much bureaucracy is involved in becoming unemployed.  We live in a very complicated society – as if you didn’t know.  We were scrambling to take care of medical and dental issues, filling out unemployment claims, moving money around, ceasing automatic bill payment services, creating resumes, filling out applications, dealing with credit card companies, taking care of termination contracts, filling out forms, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera – blah, blah, blah…

It was hard.

There’s a story in the Bible that has been particularly poignant to me lately.  That is the story of David. He was anointed to be the new King of Israel at a very young age, yet it was a secret.  It was done in private and not ratified by the current leadership.  In the meantime, as David matured, God helped David to grow into a better man.  This growth process stepped on people’s toes – namely the current administration.  Saul, the first King of Israel, was not happy with the path David’s life was taking – and absent a good democratic process, he sough to kill David.

Through all of this, David did not fight back.  It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, and he didn’t deserve it.  He hid, he ran away, and he sought survival – but even when he had opportunity, David never took the opportunity to kill Saul.  At one point David and his followers are hiding out in a cave – Adullam’s cave.  It was a God ordained place of refuge.  This is where I’ve been over the last few weeks – hiding out in the Cave of Adullam.  I needed that.  It was God ordained.

Several weeks ago during my quiet time, I heard God saying to me (by the way, I don’t hear Him audibly) to take some time and rest.  It’s OK to hide out in the cave for awhile.  I thought I was slipping back into the abyss.  I was discouraged and broken – but God said I needed to recover.  Three surgeries in three weeks, newly unemployed, the stress of the past year’s conflicts, financially broken, and ostracized by my spiritual community – yeah, I agreed.  I did need a break.

I needed that permission.  As a fighter – a self-confident achiever – I was going to make it work.  But the God who loves me said, “Take a break.  I got it covered.”

Loser

Now this is counter-intuitive to everyone I know.  People kept asking:

“How’s the job search going?“

“What’s next?“

“Now what are you going to do?“

And when I told them I was waiting for God to give me more instructions, you could see the disdain and exasperation in their eyes.  It’s as if I could hear them saying:

“Loser.”

“Idiot.”

“No wonder you got fired.“

It was hard to stand against the current in these conversations.

I have to inform you that living in a cave isn’t really a pleasant experience either. It’s dark, damp, drafty, cold, and kind of creepy.  Like the lava tubes around Mt. St. Helens, one doesn’t always know how deep the cave is either.  Or, worse, what is living in that cave with you!?

It’s hard to sleep in the cave.  It’s uncomfortable.  There’s no sunlight.  Spiritually, emotionally, socially, relationally – one is alone.  As John Gray says in his book, Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus: “There is danger to the person who tries to enter that cave!”

(In other words, The Wife has had to deal with a grumpy, crabby husband for the past month)

As I begin to crawl out of this cave, I am better prepared to face the fight ahead – it’s not over – but I have to admit that I’m not quite up to speed. I’m feeling a little tenuous about life in the great big world.  That’s OK though.  I don’t have to bite off more than I can chew.  It’s still one day at a time.  One of the advantages of trusting in God is that I know He has it all covered.  “Look at the birds,” He says. “They don’t worry about tomorrow.  Yet, I take care of them.” And then the best part: “and you’re much more valuable to me than those birds!“

This is My Job

Yesterday when I got home from WordCampPDX (which was awesome!) the family was quite excited to see me.  Darling Daughter started screaming as soon as she saw the car, she and Smiling Son came running into my arms in the garage.  The Wife was quite affectionate in her welcome too.  (Have I ever mentioned how much fun it is to be a Dad?  I love this job!!)  Despite the turmoil; despite the crabbiness; despite the chaos; and despite the unknown of the future – they still love me.  (In a perfect world, this is what church would look like too.)

After spending some time together, seeing some of the things they’d done during the day (cleared some space of weeds and blackberries and planted strawberries, drawings, clutter-clearing, etc.), I went into my office to check the blog and social-network for which I just assumed responsibility.  I was busily checking tweets, comments, and editing posts – when in trucked Smiling Son.  He climbed up on my lap and we talked a bit.  He hadn’t been gone for more than a couple of minutes when in danced Darling Daughter.  She was caught up in one of her fantastic stories. I was the Father King and she the Princess Daughter.  She too sought refuge on my lap.

I saw through their thinly veiled masquerades though.  They just wanted to be with me.  I was OK with that – it was a good thing.

This morning, as I was in the bathroom, Darling Daughter came in and sought my attention.  “Just a minute,” I said.  But out of the corner of my eye I caught some body language that made me take notice.  She wasn’t hurt, per se; it was more like she had interrupted me (which she had) and would just disappear.  Something inside of me said, “Daddy.  Pay attention.” And I did.

In her hands she held three bird feathers.  Insignificant to you and I, but very important to a creative, intelligent, and socially aware four year-old.  As I squatted down to look at the feathers, I sought to dig the meaning or significance of these feathers to her.  Instead, she wanted to know why there was shaving cream all over my face.  She was fascinated by the process and asked me why I had to shave everyday?  “But why is there shaving cream on the back of your neck?” She asked.  I explained about my hairy neck.  The questions continued and I remained at her level – physically, emotionally, and intellectually – for awhile.

It was a connection point.  It was real.  It was intimate.  There was balance.  In the not-too-distant future, I’ll be watching her graduate from college, getting married, having kids, and moving away – not always in that order.  I am determined to take these moments and live fully within those moments.  The past is the past.  The future is yet to be discovered.  But right now, today, I have a Beautiful Wife, a Darling Daughter, and a Smiling Son who need there Dad to be present.

This is my job.

After spending some time together, seeing some of the things they’d done during the day (cleared some space of weeds and blackberries and planted strawberries, drawings, clutter-clearing, etc.), I went into my office to check the blog and social-network for which I just assumed responsibility.

I was busily checking tweets, comments, and editing posts – when in trucked Smiling Son. He climbed up on my lap and we talked a bit.  He hadn’t been gone for more than a couple of minutes when in danced Darling Daughter.  She was caught up in one of her fantastic stories. I was the Father King and she the Princess Daughter.  She too sought refuge on my lap for a bit. . . 

I saw through their thinly veiled masquerades though. They just wanted to be with me.  I was OK with that – it was a good thing.

This morning, as I was in the bathroom, Darling Daughter came in and wanted my attention.

“Just a minute,” I said.

But out of the corner of my eye I caught some body language that made me take notice.  She wasn’t hurt, per se; it was more like she had interrupted me (which she had) and would just disappear.  Something inside of me said, “Daddy.  Pay attention.” And I did.

In her hands she held three bird feathers.  Insignificant to you and I, but very important to a creative, intelligent, and socially aware four year-old.  As I squatted down to look at the feathers, I tried to dig out the meaning, or significance, of these feathers to her.  Instead, she wanted to know why there was shaving cream all over my face.  She was fascinated by the process and asked me why I had to shave everyday?

“But why is there shaving cream on the back of your neck?” She asked.

I explained about my hairy neck.  The questions continued and I remained at her level –physically, emotionally, and intellectually – for awhile…

It was a connection point. It was intimate.  It was real.

In the not-too-distant future, I’ll be watching her graduate from college, getting married, having kids, and moving away – not always in that order.  I am determined to take these moments and live fully within them.  The past is the past.  The future is yet to be discovered.  But right now, today, I have a Beautiful Wife, a Darling Daughter, and a Smiling Son who need their Dad to be present – and in the moment.

This is my job – and I love it!

(click here for Part 2!)