Our daughter’s name is Ashlyn. We call her Ashes for short. Which brings to mind a familiar nursery rhyme; one that she loves. In fact, tonight, before putting her to bed, all four of us (well actually five, one vicariously through my pregnant wife) circled up in the living room, grabbed hands, spun around and sung that awful song about the bubonic plague, Ring Around the Rosy.

You see, some contend that this famous nursery rhyme has its roots in English history, dating back to the Great Plague of London in 1665 (bubonic plague). The symptoms of the plague included a rosy red rash in the shape of a ring on the skin (Ring around the rosy). Pockets and pouches were filled with sweet smelling herbs (or posies) which were carried due to the belief that the disease was transmitted by bad smells. The term “Ashes Ashes” refers to the cremation of the dead bodies! Not everyone buys into this, but regardless, it makes for a good story…and you should have seen my kids faces as I sat them down to explain the dark historical origins of the song we were dancing to.

OK, so I didn’t really share its origins. But as we were dancing and falling, dancing and falling, dancing and falling…the words and actions of “ashes, ashes” and “we all fall down” felt a bit odd to me, knowing its history. But despite its dark and morbid origins (who writes these kid’s songs anyway?), our family laughed and sang and fell and did it over, and over, and over again. We were loving life.

Here’s the clincher. As we were circling, our 85 pound dog, Cheddar, wormed his way into the middle and circled with us! When we fell, he would attack, lick, and paw us.

So I challenge all who read this to submit your original lyrics for, “Ring Around Cheddar”…you can post them as comments…

So to make up for Ashlyn commanding me to sit down and not leave (see previous post), my son went and totally redeemed my prodigy. This morning I woke up to a dark house, quietly got ready, typed a few blog comments, grabbed my jacket, headed out to the garage, opened the garage door and snuck into my Jeep. I fired it up, turned on my lights, put it into reverse and began pulling away out of the garage. As I did, I looked out the windshield and saw the house-garage door swing open. My son Caleb came barreling out, barefoot and in his sweats (he refuses to wear pajamas), running through puddles of water, waving. “Bye Dad!!!!” he shouted over and over; his face was gleaming with joy over the fact he woke up and made it outside before I left.

I said goodbye, my face gleaming with joy and heart melting to mush. Talk about those 5-second moments that make your day……actually, my week. Love ya bud!!

“Bye Dada!” are words I hear often from my 2yr-old daughter Ashlyn. Mostly they come enthusiastically each morning when I leave for work. But sometimes I just grab my cell phone, “Bye Dada!” Or pick up my shoes off the floor, “Bye Dada!” Or put my keys away, “Bye Dada!” Her typical enthusiasm in saying goodbye is what made one particular night all the more difficult.

A friend and I had planned on getting together for coffee in order to catch up on life and talk theology (if there was such a thing as a theologian-nerds, we’d fit right in). I had been home for about an hour and went into the bathroom to say goodbye to Ashlyn who was bathing. Jen was in there with her. I walked up to the bathtub, leaned over and planted a kiss on her wet head. “Bye Ashlyn!” I walked out of the bathroom and heard an “Oooohhhhh, how sad,” from Jen. Curious, I turned around and walked back into the bathroom. There sat Ashlyn, soaking wet in the tub with the biggest pouting lip and puffy eyes I’d ever seen. My heart broke. She was not happy to see her Dada go. I told her I had to go and that I loved her, half expecting her traditional “Bye Dada”……but not this time.

Pointing to the toilet next to the bathtub, she declared, “No Dada. Sit!”

“But Ashlyn, I have….”“No Dada. Sit!” she said even more adamantly, her face changing from pouting to sternness.

I told her I loved her and slowly left, leaving my heart there in the tub with her.

That night was one of those moments in parenthood that both brought me joy and broke my heart. Joy that I’m loved by such a precious child; heartbreak that my non-presence caused so much pain in one whom I love and who loves me.

Nothing new…see this all the time. But then I rounded the table where I saw our Golden Retriever, Cheddar, covered in yogurt. Through my smile, I asked Ashlyn what happened and she said simply, “Paint Cheshu……messy.” I had to show Jen this. I led Cheddar down the hall into the bathroom where, on perfect cue, he shook yogurt all over our bathroom. Kids, dogs, and a goofy dad…what a great combo.

This year, for our Christmas tree, we decided to cut––in more ways than one. First we decided to cut how much money we spent and looked for the cheapest place/tree we could find. Second, we literally decided to cut…to cut down our own tree. So we called up all the tree farms in the area and found the cheapest one: $24 for any tree.

We loaded up in the van and headed out to find the perfect Christmas tree; for the Johnson’s that is. What we ended up bringing home had to be the most scrawny and ugly tree they had, but to us, it is perfect because we hiked together, found the tree together, cut it down together, carried it together, drank apple cider together, loaded it into (yes, into–I told you it was skinny) the van together, set it up together and laughed together as we chose our lightest ornaments as too not break the branches. Afterwards, Caleb looked at it and said, “Yep, this tree is perfect.”

Somehow, not having the perfect tree feels perfect.

At the end of the memorial, 6 solders marched up on stage carrying a folded American flag. They proceeded to unfold it and then fold it back up in the all familiar triangle shape—military style. We then followed them to the courtyard of the church where there were four more soldiers standing at attention, three of whom were holding M-14s (assault rifles). One called out orders and the other three obeyed, swinging their guns around, aiming and firing three times into the air. The sound echoed in the courtyard. Then silence. The awe and respect was deeply apparent. Another soldier, standing in the corner, swung out a bugle and “snapped” it to his mouth. Three notes later, not a dry eye existed. The soldier continued playing the hauntingly beautiful and universally known tune to honor an American soldier who has passed—Taps.

I held myself together during the whole memorial service until those notes played. The emotional power of that tune, the heritage it holds, just melted me and I wept. We were witnessing a heritage and tradition that far preceded us and will far proceed us. This man, Harry Hallman, our grandfather, was being honored in a way few are, and the witness of it broke us in its presence. After the bugle stopped, the commanding officer turned to the family, extended the flag and spoke words of honor before surrendering it. Those who were not weeping, were now.

There is something to be said about tradition and ceremony when done properly, in respect and honor. It can move the soul and cause us to weep in the presence of him who is being honored.

Twenty minutes later after I rolled out of bed, shaved, got dressed and went into the living room.  There I saw my son with scissors and permanent marker in hand.  He was sitting next to our green micro-fleece blanket…well, part of it anyhow.  The other parts were spread all over the floor.  I gave Jennifer a knowing nod with my eyebrows raised in a question.  She looked back at me with the look that said, “Don’t say a word.”  Though our nice warm blanket was shredded, I listened and kept my mouth shut.

It was then that I saw our blanket’s new shape.  On the carpet in our living room was a giant green heart.  In the middle sat Caleb, leaning over writing.  I read his words.  He was writing messages of thanks and love to his first-grade teacher, Mrs. Hoffmore, on the green heart-blanket that used to keep us warm.  Today was his teacher’s last day in his classroom and they were having a party for her.  This was his gift.  The cool thing is, he thought of the idea himself.

So, we are short one blanket.

But Mrs. Hoffmore now has a gift that will warm her in more than one way.

My son, Caleb, had a Thanksgiving performance today at his school. You know, the kind where all the kids dress up like pilgrims or turkeys (didn’t the pilgrims eat the turkeys? Anyway…) and then sing some silly songs. If you’ve been to one of these things than you realize what the kids tend to do. They all stand up there performing for an audience of one––their parents. Their eyes are locked onto each and every expression their parents make, and likewise. So our son is up there singing away, proud as can be, looking for his parents (us) in the crowd. He looks, and looks, and looks…and looks……and looks. But he cannot find them. Why? Because we suck as parents, that’s why. We forgot!!!! Crap! (I could use another explicative, but I’ll choose this one). His poor little heart. Just sitting up there; the two people dearest to him are not there. Crap.

So when I go to pick up Caleb from school this afternoon he asks, “Dad, did you see my play?”

“Ughhhh…….no bud, I’m sorry, I didn’t even know about it.” Which I didn’t. So I suppose that gets me off the hook, a little.

“But mom knew,” he said.

“I’m really sorry, bud,” trying to change the subject, “Did you sing good?” Crap.

We came home. Jen saw his pilgrim hat and just crumbled. Then to rub salt on the wounds, Caleb began to sing some of his songs from the performance. Open the floodgates of tears. “Mom, why are you crying?” Because we suck as parents, that’s why!

But, I take comfort––all be it twisted––in the fact that we are not the only parents who suck. Two of our friends forgot too. But at least they had the wisdom, unlike me, to lie to their kids: “Um, yea honey, I saw it. I was in the back where you couldn’t see me.”

Crap. Why didn’t I think of that?

P.S. I hope you picked up on the sarcasm and tongue-in-cheekness!