A Different Time

Maybe They Were Right About Elvis...

2013-05-15T23:46:00.003-04:00

I hit the best nine iron of my life about thirty years ago at the tender age of twelve.

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I didn't, however, launch some soft balata Titleist high above the thick Bermuda grass and land it close to a tight pin on a narrow green. Nor was the shot some wind-cheating knockdown hook that rolled perfectly towards its target with laser-like precision. No, the recipient of my blow wasn't actually on a golf course or driving range, and wasn't even a golf ball either. Unfortunately, it happened to be an unsuspecting, three inch Fowler's toad quietly lounging himself in my backyard at the time. His crime: picking the wrong tuft of bluegrass upon which to sun himself.

And, I've never admitted this to anyone (except my wife) until now.

It's not that I don't like animals, although close proximity to cat hair does form red, itchy welts about my body and make me feel like an eighteen foot python confused my neck for a small varmint. Even so, I don't necessarily wish them ill will. But, neither do I feel excessive (or any at all really) compulsion to protect or defend or make more comfortable our feline friends. This indifference toward cats extends to much of the animal kingdom as well. I'm not sure if my ambivalence and past amphibious abuse makes me normal/disturbed/criminal or what?

But, it's the truth, and my pseudo disclaimer for the following observation:

I've noticed our culture seemingly esteems animals more highly than humans. I'm sure you've all heard the stories about the extreme fines and jail time those who steal or destroy Bald Eagle eggs face, while women are legally justified to terminate babies in the self-interests of reproductive destiny. And, I'm sure many have heard arguments, and possibly employed them at some point, of the man vs. animal/eggs vs. baby debates. It's likely too, most have also seen videos on television of helpless and formerly abused animals destined for certain death unless adopted by generous families (I must add in a note of self-defense that I went to the local S.P.C.A. several years ago and brought home a dog for the kids, though I honestly feel no real fondness for the pooch). I'm not saying that such videos/advertisements are bad, it just appears abused children don't attract quite the same attention or reaction.

Nothing new there.

But, from the "In Case You Hadn't Noticed File," this week a jury convicted Dr. (and I use that title for identification purposes only) Kermit Gosnell on three counts of first degree murder related to botched abortions in his Philadelphia clinic.

The gruesome testimony, which included stories of babies being delivered alive only to have their spinal cords snipped, (which, incidentally, is apparently the way legal abortions are sometimes performed as long as the neck severing occurs inside the mother and not out) seems to have passed with relatively little commotion from much of America and its media.

I couldn't help but wonder what the response and American reaction would have been had a National Zoo worker snipped the spinal columns of three little, cute baby pandas? In all this, I try to reconcile grace, love, and understanding while staying consistent to a faith that just won't let me accept abortion as a means of birth control and neck snipping of babies who potentially could live independent from the mother regardless of their current geographical location.

And, often I wonder as a Christian man if I should get involved at all or just shake the dust off and move on?

But,something about "terminating" a gamete, zygote, fetus, baby, or whatever politically correct term we use to rationalize murder and assuage guilt, just offends my animal desensitized sensibilities. And, regardless of your opinion about abortion, I hope we could all agree that late term procedures Gosnell employed were particularly heinous.

Is this what we've come to? What could be more defenseless, more worthy of defense than an innocent little baby growing inside his mother?

Invariably some will point to specific moments in history like the end of prohibition, the end of school sponsored prayer, or even Elvis and his gyrating hips as the definitive moment of societal devolution. I tend to think, however, there is nothing new under the sun and we've steadily consumed bits of sewage for so long the larger doses are now just more palatable. But, I think it is worth mentioning the landmark supreme court decision of Roe v. Wade in 1973, essentially legalizing what I believe is murder, seems to me a particularly notorious historical event along the decadence timeline.

And, I really hope my previous and current animal opinions don't disqualify me from saying so.

Nevertheless, the apostle Paul spoke prophetically about the battle we face being not against flesh and blood, but instead spoke of an unforeseen enemy wielding great power in the struggle for men's souls-by spiritual forces and beings operating in another dimension yet so cunning in the world we know.

And, I suppose he was right.

But, even so, much of the time

the battle feels so overwhelming,

lost mostly,

because

the bad guys just don't fight

fair...

Ephesians 6:12 NIV
--12 For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities,against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.

Accounting 101...

2013-03-25T16:54:00.001-04:00

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We were young once, and friends. Not best friends, but good enough to open up his kitchen cabinets, pull out a glass, and pour it full of tea from his mother's refrigerator.

We both liked basketball- a sport for which his lean, muscular frame seemed well-suited. We swam in the lake during summer. We shot at birds in the barn with bb guns, talked about girls, and laughed a lot like young boys do-our wits imminently compatible. We went to church together.

Last night he died. He was forty years old.

He had nearly died twenty-five or so years earlier. After church one summer night, four teenagers left together in a car; they would never be the same. For many years afterward, the impact of that tragic night left a visible scar on a large tree in their path. He flew across the back seat and hit the door with his head. It bowed out noticeably. The others suffered lacerations and broken bones.

Frankie wasn't as lucky.

I remember seeing him in the intensive care unit while he lay in a coma for weeks with all kinds of machines hooked to his lifeless looking body. Doctors drilled out his skull and placed a tube in it to help with the bleeding and swelling- the likelihood of recovery slim at that point. The medical staff prepared the family for the worst of possibilities, and for many days, those who knew him agonized over his tenuous existence-intense prayers spoken often through desperate tears. And finally, after much waiting, God provided the answer they wanted. Slowly, he began to improve until finally he left the hospital to start his therapy.

But, his brain had suffered and he was different.

I didn't see him much after that. I left for college shortly thereafter, and well, things just kind of changed like they always do- the world kept spinning madly along.

A few years later the family still battled the insurance company over the implications of that night. His lawyer deposed me about how Frankie had changed and what the rest of his life would look like. For many reasons, I really didn't know how to answer his questions back then. I was only twenty-two years old, with smooth sailing in my past- bitter storms still mostly ahead in the distance.

All I can remember saying is, at one time, he and I were a lot alike. Young boys from a similar place, from a similar moment in time, likely with similar hopes and similar dreams. But now, after all of this, I just couldn't imagine he would ever enjoy the same prospects for life as me- that somehow he seemed cognitively changed in a way that would make our futures very different.

And, I remember feeling guilty at the time for not having known him better than I did, for not being able to answer that question with more clarity, for an accident that held him back and yet pushed me on.

Today, I feel that way again.

I saw him very occasionally throughout these past twenty years. I should have made a better effort to know his new life, to be a friend again.

But, I had my excuses.

Nevertheless, his brief life isn't a story of some manifest destiny to broken dreams or even unanswerable questions of what ifs. It is a reminder to those of us who live, to whom so much has been given, of just how much responsibility we share for each other.

Of how no one or no thing is simply just an accident, of how we are all quickly destined again to dust.

Of how we must escape the prison of self-indulgent living, transform our faith from a theological position into a physical discipline, and be a father to the fatherless, defender of the defenseless, friend to those who need one most.

On his account, I was past due.

Now, forever delinquent.

And still, after so many years, continuing to ask for the grace I desperately need, but don't deserve.

Meanwhile, a lonely mother grieves for the son she loved and lost. And tonight, in a world mostly asleep, will sit quietly in a dark room and weep.

A wise man once said for everything there is a season. And, I suppose he was right. But, even so,
the summer sometimes seems to pass before we ever noticed it began.

And the cold, hard winters-

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well, so often,

they just seem to come

way

too

soon...

Ecclesiastes 3:
1.There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven: 2 a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, 3 a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build, 4 a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance...

Poured Out and... Breathless...

2013-02-20T00:53:00.002-05:00

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It is quiet mostly.

But, just as thick calm settles like dust around the blackened room where I type, a dissonant wind infiltrates the deep silence of this bottomless night. It billows about the tree tops and bends the metal of our slick roof in a high pitched, uneven tone.

I hope it doesn't break.

It's late.

And, here I sit restless...wondering...

My wife and children, they sleep quietly upstairs, and are safe now from the demons wrestling with me-demons that assault my faith, and have me asking questions like, "how could it all be true?"

There was a time when this dark abyss didn't scare me so-when confronting it seemed so benign, almost welcoming.

When my faith burned brighter than any night.

Now, it flickers, as if the wind itself is trying to extinguish what little embers still breathe. I feel the steady cadence of my beating heart, acutely aware of our tenuous existence here, of systems so precisely designed, but destined to fail nonetheless. I feel a heaviness pressing down, closing in.

There was a time when I looked high to the steeple on my church while driving by, like a little kid peeling away a tiny corner of a wrapped present, desperate for a peek of some glorious fragment inside.

When seeing it made me gasp for air.

Now, I pass safely on the other side, without even a listless glance.

There was a time when I prayed hard and often-when breathless again, I talked to God, when I believed he heard me, when it just poured out easy- like water rushing down a steep ravine, when he seemed so real, so alive, so much like a father I loved, when I believed I was his son.

Now, my prayers are less frequent, more strained.

I read last night from J.I. Packer's book, "Knowing God." Packer said knowing and studying about God was not the end, but the means to an end. He suggested that an academic knowledge or belief in God was only the beginning to a relationship with him.

I want that again.

I need that again.

Because, I have a family to lead,

and for better or worse, a legacy to leave.

And, we are a quickly vanishing vapor.

And, I am beginning to hear with stunning clarity,

the clock of my own life,

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ticking...

The Sails of Us...

2013-02-14T15:24:00.004-05:00

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On this Valentine's Day 2013 I am reminded that:

For some, they recall their youthful past with more romanticism than what it might deserve. They felt most alive then-when the world still seemed kind and new, when the preponderance of pain and loss still waited safely in the distance. So, with inordinate clarity, they tenderly remember the emotions, the music, the culture, the relationships of that era with a wistful nostalgia.

For them, "the good old days" really were good, old days.

For others, the days long passed left little to fondly remember- the sweet bliss of youth escaped them mostly. Broken relationships, shame, guilt, and hurt knocked early and often. They looked forward to older years- for a distance to refract the past into a distorted ambivalence, for an epic of circumstantial control.

For them, "the good old days" really weren't that good.

And for the few like me, well we sip a smooth nectar through it all-a pot sweetened exponentially when living with your best friend and wife in both youth and age. For us, we treasure the past and present with equal affection. We commemorate the good old days as good and see a future with good days still to come.

A time lived fully...

lived with one who inspires us to wake in the morning,

and whose gentle breaths

push the sails of us,

quietly along the winding

way...

"I Think You'll Live..."

2013-02-08T22:59:00.000-05:00

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I heard the stairs creak.

Funny thing how you recognize who walks the pine floored stairs of an old farm house even when you can't see them. They crack just so, in the same, perfectly different sequence, as true as fingerprints or DNA. You know their gait as sure as you know bacon is frying when you're lying still in a morning bed- like a baby who knows his momma's voice even before he's born. It's unmistakable.

And, I knew it was her.

I noticed a louder noise from her upstairs bedroom just seconds earlier. I tried to ignore it. I was busy. I didn't hear a howling cry usually accompanying such commotion, and I hoped that whatever it was, well, it would work itself out.

But, suddenly there she stood. Sniffling quietly to herself, all the while holding one tiny sheet of toilet paper on her bent elbow.

"I'm bleeding daddy," she whispered through intermittent gasps. "It really hurts."

I kept looking at the computer screen, still in the middle of making my weekend hotel reservations. I glanced almost begrudgingly at her tiny arm.

"Let me see it," I said.

At once she removed the paper. The barely visible scratch sat atop her pale, freckled skin. I nearly laughed out loud- laughter born more from disgust than humor. I looked back to the screen.

"I think you'll live," I said, not wanting to be bothered with it all. I wondered why she hadn't gone to my wife anyway, really hoping she would just leave me alone for a few minutes.

She walked up beside me and pressed her little body against my arm. I felt morally compelled to hug her, but little else-my embrace cold and stiff, poorly executed by a so-called Christian.

She asked for a band-aid so I stood up and walked quickly to the kitchen cabinets. She followed. I aggressively ripped open the bandage, placed it on her arm, and hastened her retreat to bed.

A few minutes later I felt guilty.

She was a girl...a little girl already kicked by life squarely in the gut nearly as hard as a six year old could ever be, forced to pick herself up so many times before, shuffled about from this home to that, trouble in believing that anything could last. This time she wanted help getting up. She wanted my hand. She wanted a daddy's love.

Mostly, she wanted to believe in a place called home.

I finished my work on the computer. I walked upstairs and found her still awake. I approached her bed, bent down and kissed her forehead.

"I love you," she said through a wry smile.

"I love you too," I replied. "Goodnight."

I turned and left, acutely aware of my gross failure earlier perpetrated on this confused, anxious, defenseless child.

"Forgive me Lord," I thought to myself.

And, I hoped she would soon forget this night,

or maybe if I were lucky,

find it within herself,

to give me yet again,

another second chance...

Mountain Climbing...

2013-01-30T23:11:00.001-05:00

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Last week I took Emma to the doctor, but this really isn't a story about her or the doctor or her sickness.

But, I suppose it's really not a story anyway because it's the truth and it's about me. And mostly, it's the truth about me. It's a story that began many years ago.

It's my confession.

For as long as I can remember I've always been competitive, always confident, always convinced that no matter what others could do, well, I could do it better, always filled beyond overflowing with...myself.

Always prideful.

It's my vice-the one thing I fight daily, the hardest struggle to overcome. I remember an old baseball coach of mine saying the only thing greater than my desire to hit a home-run was to my desire to avoid striking out. Because, in my mind, there existed no greater indignity, no greater assault on a man's pride than to return to the dugout having failed so miserably.

When we would go out to dinner with friends, I always insisted on paying the entire bill. And, not because of some generous spirit or altruistic motive, not because I wanted to lighten another's burden, but because I wanted plaudits for me, attention for me, more deposits into my bank of pride. No one was going to out give me, no one was going to pay for my dinner, no one was going to help me. I didn't need it.

I had become quite proficient at leaning solely on me, on my understanding, on what I could do, on what I could accomplish.

Even last year, I insisted on driving my truck to the store just 5 days after having my hip replaced-not because I needed anything, only to prove I could do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, all by my own self.

All wrapped up in a self-indulgent world of me-ology.

And so now, here I stood, in the doctor's office for the first time with this new child- ready to leave. Several were gathered near the window when I stepped forward and handed my paperwork to the lady.

"Okay, Mr. Jordan, you're all set."

"But, wait. I haven't given you my copay," I said.

"Copay? She's on medicaid. There is no copay for children," she replied.

At once, it occurred to me that she was right. I understood why the receptionist hadn't asked for the money when we first arrived like usual visits with the other children. And, I realized all of those around me heard her say my daughter was on medicaid. Suddenly, I had a great desire to pull out my American Express card and show her I had purchasing power, to explain to everyone that my daughter was adopted from foster care, and therefore eligible for state coverage, to show them my own, private insurance card in my wallet, to recover a large dose of the pride forced unexpectedly down my throat.

To prove I could pay, and in many ways, scared to death because I didn't owe anything.

Instead, I said, "Oh, I got her confused with my other kids."

We left abruptly. My feelings were hurt. I was embarrassed.

Meanwhile, the resurrected Jewish prophet who once hung naked on a Roman cross with blood and water flowing down saw it all from above-this Royal Prince who spoke me into existence. He saw me fail to properly reconcile the dynamic tension between my spiritual knowledge and my carnal weakness-to rightfully accept that all have sinned, that all are equally indebted, that the things of this life are transient and of no correlation to value anyway.

He saw me use a scale loaded with worldly influence to meter out true worth, and embrace the failed philosophy of his greatest enemy in believing my status, my feelings, my pride were worth exceptional esteem.

He saw me deny him three times.

Recently, I resolved this year to commit to something more for my family.

But, I suppose it's time to start with the man staring back at me in the mirror- to fix myself so I can lead them better.

Because life is hard,

and living even harder,

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and sometimes,

the highest mountain

we must ever eclipse

is simply

ourselves...

Dirt, Potato Salad and...Home...

2013-01-18T00:04:00.001-05:00

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At first I laughed and then I felt something more.

A friend told a story of an old preacher who conducted a seminar for some younger preachers.

"One day, " he began. "One day, you will all die. And, on that day they will dig a hole in the ground, put you in a box, throw dirt on your face and go back inside and eat potato salad."

I couldn't help but think about my own, numbered days in this life, about my funeral, about ladies gathering in the fellowship hall at church and warming up the casseroles...

About this place we now call home.

I wondered about it all, about my priorities, about the brief moment in history we are allowed in this place.

It scared me.

Last year provided a lot of changes for me and my family. I got a new hip in March. Lisa and I celebrated our twentieth wedding anniversary in September. In October, I quit my job of nineteen years to home-school our youngest son and maybe go back to school myself. And, at the end of November, we adopted our two foster daughters.

But, somehow along the way...well, life just kept happening- that once narrow path became more obscured by the busyness of just getting by. And, I stumbled off, down into the weedy edge- still proficient at my God-speak, sophisticated with my Sunday show, but lacking in the private disciplines of authentic faith.

Bearings alarmingly awry.

So now, it's here I find myself at this very moment in history- knowing exactly where I am, but lost just the same.

It's probably time to commit myself and our family to something different...something most meaningful...something that will last beyond the dust to which we are destined to return.

And so, my resolution is simple:

to sit beneath the broad leaves of a summer magnolia as the sun finally retreats from sight,

to sip the silvery froth of the moonbeams trickling down,

to be still...and quiet,

and embrace once more

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the familiar Spirit of the great artist

who painted it on the sky,

to hope for a place with cloudless

days,

to live and believe with child-like faith

that another home

is waiting

still...

In My Dreams...

2012-09-12T14:41:00.000-04:00

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At first glance,

meeting eyes...

simmering wonder.

Familiar- the caress of walnut hair,

covering lilac scented skin-

voice like honey, heavy laden,

wrapped in feather pillows.

Closer I moved,

brushing my lips

gently against her cheek,

whispering with hushed ease,

"I knew you well,

even before we met.

You were lingering,

waiting quietly,

nearly every night...

somewhere,

out there,

in the wildest,

of my

imagined

dreams..."

Proverbs 31:10- A wife of noble character who can find? She is worth far more than rubies.

This Road...

2012-09-04T16:06:00.000-04:00

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For as long as memory serves, I can recall us "good Christians" always asking God for some sign to reveal His will for our life- something tangible, an audible voice, a recognizable reminder that He is here with us, holding our hand, leading the way, steering the wheel.

I've even been guilty myself of making deals with Him.

"God, if you will do this for me, then I will do that for you. 'Let this cup pass from me,' and then I will know for sure you really exist. Then I will do big things for you." Or, something along those lines-my decisions always predicated on what He would first do or show me. And so for most of my life, I became a waiting expert- content to wait for that ostensible sign from God above, hoping somehow for a miraculous revelation of His holy road map for my life.

That was easy.

A much harder theology to embrace is that in order to find we must first seek, and that seeking by definition means acting not reacting- doing something before we may feel led or inspired to actually do it.

Doing it before we get our sign.

So a few years ago my family, spurred on by the words of James to the early Christians, decided to turn down a less traveled road. We hadn't exactly heard God's royal voice, nor had we seen irrefutable evidence of His will. Didn't feel some great calling either or especially qualified to do anything other than what we had been doing in our past.

Just figured we had an extra bedroom for some kids who might need a safe place to land for a while.

And so now, I find it mildly curious when people ask me if I worry about how fostering and adopting might negatively affect my biological children, even though a few years earlier I might have asked the same question of others so inclined. My answer is always the same:

Not worried a bit.

Worried about as much as I might worry about how my wife birthing another one herself would "harm" them. Not even a blip on the worry radar. In fact, what I really worry about is trying to explain to my kids how my religion demands I care for the defenseless, how my religion demands I give food, drink, and clothes to the needy, how we have such a charmed life- a life full of blessings and bounty and how we could then choose to ignore during the week the faith we profess on Sunday. How could we refuse to share in our undeserving abundance?

No, I worry more about obscuring the light of His truth in a reclusive, self-absorbed, self-seeking, self-indulgent bushel of me.

I worry more about the negative effects of complacent faith, deceiving us into believing the chief aim of mankind is self-gratification at every given moment in time- a lifeless faith that never challenges us to get over ourselves

A faith without sacrifice.

Because,

God didn't save me to church attendance. God didn't save me to one hour of Sunday entertainment. God didn't save me to build up walls against those different from myself. He saved me to serve Him. He saved me to care for the least of my brothers.

He saved me to rescue the perishing and care for the dying.

I would be lying if I said the journey down this road was not without its sadness. The truth is our experience (despite appearances) hasn't been some cutesy, idyllic, picture perfect postcard of blissful living. It has been and continues to be hard work with a little bit of everything else mixed up and thrown in together. We've learned a lot about ourselves, about our children, about humility, about the kind of faith we hope to have one day.

And, in this process, we are still discovering something else:

We'll never see the signs along the side of the road,

while sitting quietly in

the parking

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lot...

The Final Goodbye...

2012-06-18T13:06:00.000-04:00

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Lisa stayed home with Thomas, who suffered from a stomach ailment this morning. I took the others to church. Mary and I headed to the sanctuary, while Luke walked the foster daughters to their class. A few minutes later, Luke stood beside our aisle with the youngest of them, Jennifer.

"She wanted to come sit with you," he said.

This seemed especially odd to me since she loved her class and had never missed it to sit through a sermon-a fiercely independent child, who at least to this point, maintained a much greater affinity with the wife I left behind.

Had I raised her from birth, I probably would have insisted she go back to class.

Mary offered to hold her, but Jennifer resisted. Again, uncharacteristic behavior. Instead, she crawled up into my lap. I crossed my right leg over my left and let her sit in the space between them. She leaned her head back into my chest and dangled her flip-flopped feet over my shin. I wrapped my arms around her waist for a while, but straight away my legs cramped. The next thirty minutes we spent adjusting, re-adusting and re-adjusting again, all the while my thoughts drifting back to a letter we received just the day before.

The "final visit" letter.

We had waited for this moment with anticipation and dread too. This letter told of the meeting scheduled Friday by the social services office between our two foster daughters, their biological siblings in other homes and biological parents- the meeting where hearts would break deeper and those first relationships from the past be surely severed. That day had loomed heavy on us for several months like a tapestry of billowing, dark clouds obscuring the clearer, blue sky we hoped lingered behind them. We knew the voyage across would be full of turbulence and the final destination in doubt.

And now, the reality of that horizon lay closely in the distance.

As we stood for the invitation song, I grasped Jennifer from my lap and held her like the baby she used to be before our paths ever crossed-made easier in that she is smallish for her age. She held me tight, her head resting peacefully on my right shoulder. Again, I thought of the "final visit" awaiting her on Friday. I wondered about a child-like intuition, and if somehow, she may have sensed inklings of that impending crisis.

The preacher had spoken so eloquently about the role and responsibility of fathers-the love of a great Heavenly Father who crafted the world we know from the vast nothingness of space.

"Holy, Holy, Holy, is the Lord God Almighty. The One Who is and is to come, " the church now bellowed.

I wondered how she could understand the word father at all and if she really knew what home meant. I wondered how she would define them with her four year old words. I pressed my mouth close to her ear and sang the words loudly, trying to convince the little girl of His providence.

And myself too.

At once, she turned to my oldest daughter and whispered something barely audible to my ears. Mary thought it sufficiently interesting to lean over towards me and relay the remark.

She said, "I love Jesus."

I swallowed hard and tried to suppress the tears collecting in the bottom of my eyelids. I tried to breathe deeply and avoid any noticeable facial contortions that might reveal my emotional upheaval. After all, I'm a guy who is supposed to lead my family by a stalwart example and iron-like strength.

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The tears finally began their descent,

and one thought consumed me:

I hope He is listening on Friday,

I sure hope He hears those goodbyes.

And, above all else, I hope

that she will always believe,

He really does

care...

The Long Road...

2012-05-24T23:53:00.000-04:00

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I entered the gym for the first time since having my hip replaced a few weeks earlier. I changed quickly, went upstairs and found a bicycle to ride. Just a short time ago, I would have hopped on a treadmill and run for thirty minutes or so during my lunch hour.

Not anymore.

From my elevated perch, I could see younger, virile men running on those same machines. I thought about wanting to join them, all the while recalling the words of my doctor who gave great warning against such.

I thought about how much I wanted to run with my daughter again- about cool, saturday morning winds kissing our cheeks and the lonely sounds of four feet plodding about grayish pavement-about those future memories now forever lost. I asked a greedy prayer for God's rescue from my current predicament.

And then I saw her.

She wore a purple blouse and black pants with wide, purple stripes down the sides. Beads of sweat hung on her pasty, pitted looking face. She dragged mangled, palsied legs behind her thickish frame and leaned heavily on the silvery braces hooked to her arms.

She looked straight ahead as she walked alone on the track.

Slim, tanned gym ladies dwarfed her short frame and turtleish pace. They lapped her multiple times while I pedaled. But still, she labored on. Her knees cocked inward, nearly brushing each other as she moved. Her feet twisted outward making the walk impossible but for those braces.

While watching her, suddenly I felt the urge to get off of that bike, drop to my knees and ask forgiveness from the Great Creator above for my carnal, self-pity.

I didn't.

Curiously too, I felt compelled to join her, to walk beside her on the seemingly long journey-to introduce myself and know her as a friend. I wanted to be Jesus to her- to live out my faith in a real and tangible way. I wanted to make sure she knew her true value as a child of our King. I wanted to make sure loneliness hadn't consumed her. I wanted to be a defender of the defenseless.

Instead, I resisted the prompting of His Spirit.

And then she was gone.

My mind drifted back to myself as I finished the ride. I showered and rushed back to work.

But tonight I thought about her again. I wondered about her hard road. I wondered how she had the courage to walk alone and how I lacked the courage to even ask her name.

I wondered about the vain pursuit of an aesthetic, irrelevant ideal and my best efforts to obscure the reality of time's relentless tide against my body.

And then it occurred to me.

Its long past time.

Time to loose my ankles from the mire of this selfish, indulgent swine pit. Time to crawl back onto the narrow path,and run once more in the unending pursuit of that Royal Father. Time to enter through the servant's door and find a place at His great table.

Time to make my life count for something,

to be his subject.

Mostly, time to be courageous,

and finally become

the son,

He saved me

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to be...

"Just Ride, Daddy"

2012-05-04T18:09:00.000-04:00

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I mowed the grass for the first time this year.

My father-in-law had mowed for me while I recuperated from my recent hip problems. Both of the little girls heard the clamoring of the mower and bounded out of the house, down the deck to the patio and stared.

I knew what they wanted.

I remembered my own children's fascination with the mower- something that apparently loses its once brilliant luster as they grow up. Their unexpected interest immediately ushered in a wave of nostalgia from several years earlier with my kids.

I really miss those days.

They would take turns sitting on my lap and steering the monster while their mother looked on. Looking on as only a mother can- wringing her hands over some some unexpected cyclone or unforeseen obstacle that might upset their precarious balance, and at which point, they would topple to the ground and be injured, or worse yet-run over by the machine.

Somehow we survived.

So now, here these two little ones, who came into our life less than a year earlier, stood desperate to get a turn. I could see them, but the noise and distance made hearing them impossible and they knew it. I cut the blades off and headed in their direction.

"What are you doing, girls?

"We want to ride, Daddy," said the younger.

"Well jump on, but you have to take turns."

The older stepped forward first. I was relieved when no fight developed over the mowing order.

We rode for a while narrowly avoiding the metal overhang of the chicken coop, but not so fortunate with a large rock on the edge of last year's garden. The shredding/launching of a well-disguised golf ball shocked her even more, and sparked a screaming plea for a quick return to the safety of the patio.

I obliged and retrieved the other girl. Fortunately for the little one, all the other potential obstacles were past. We had clear sailing. She rode for about thirty minutes before we finally finished the yard. Suddenly, she began to cry when I cut the engine off.

"What's wrong," I asked?

"I just want to ride, Daddy"

"We're finished, there's no more to mow."

At once, I had the urge to crank the thing up and ride around some more, but we had places to go, appointments to keep.

Her sniffling slowly subsided as we walked back up to the house from the barn, but she made sure to ask if she could mow again. I assured her she would be first in line next time.

The grass grows quick this time of year.

I began wondering what she liked so much about it. We both sweated. The engine roared, offending our eardrums. The not so pleasant smells of gas and grass filled our noses. We bounced around on a hard seat.

I actually remember wishing at one point she were old enough to do it by herself.

But, maybe she just wanted to feel the warm sunshine against her skin, the cooling wind in her hair. Maybe, she just wanted to feel normal for once, to be distracted from the conflicts of the present, to preoccupy her thoughts with something less anxious. Maybe she just wanted to think about the tranquility of the right here and right now. Maybe she just wanted a brief reprieve from the burden of tomorrow's worries.

Maybe she just wanted some attention-to be inextricably linked to something, to someone...

And perhaps,

for just a single moment in time,

all she wanted was to hop on,

sit down,

lean back,

and

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ride....

Two Worlds Collide...

2012-04-26T23:52:00.000-04:00

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The boys were playing with the little girls on the swing set as I finally arrived home from work. It was my first full day back since surgery five weeks earlier. Immediately Luke came in and wanted to throw the baseball, while Thomas asked for a quick ride to the bookstore. I told the elder to grab my glove and hobbled to the backyard.

As I walked out, I assured Thomas we would make time for books later.

I noticed the girls clamoring for attention, but hardly spoke as I brushed past them. We threw for a few minutes in the duskiness of a softening sun. I went back to the house when my hip finally surrendered and the girls followed. Entering the house, I implored Thomas to come downstairs if he wanted to go. He complied. The little ones also asked if they could come along too. Thomas and I left for the store.

Alone.

I meandered for a few minutes, while my youngest, biological child made a selection, and noticed something Lisa might enjoy reading. We left with both books. As we entered our home, my wife sat at the kitchen table helping the older of the two girls (earlier left behind) with homework. Proud of my unsolicited benevolence, I presented my gift to the mother of my children.

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At once, the older, little girl dropped her head, disguising tears with a mass of reddish hair. I bristled-the pouting offending my parental sensibilities.

"What's the problem? There was no gentleness in my tone only impatience. She had no answer.

It took me a second, but suddenly I realized she cried because I had nothing to give her. My hands were empty, and as far as she could tell, my heart too-this child so acquainted with sorrow of many kinds, so unfamiliar with with the languages of love.

Almost begrudgingly, I sat down in the adjacent chair and dragged her onto my lap. She hid her face still and buried her head into my chest. The quiet sobs turned to a torrent of tears as I rubbed her hair and back. We sat together for a moment and I eventually promised to take her and the younger sister to the bookstore the next evening. All I asked is that she let me see her smile.

I wiped the moisture from her cheeks and tickled her sides. She laughed cautiously, lifting her head slightly. A crooked grin cut into her cheeks as I stood to go upstairs. She stayed behind.

"Problem solved," I thought.

Later I heard Lisa summon me to the bedroom of the little girls. This young, new daughter asked for me. I walked in.

"Jeff, I want to show you my pictures."

I sat on the bed as she began to leaf through the small album and explain the few images linked to her troubled past. I had seen them all before. But now, she desperately tried to traverse the chasm between these two worlds-old and new. Her wounded heart struggled to make sense of divided loyalties, while a palpable tension filled the space between us. Finally, she placed the pictures on the nightstand and reached up to tickle me under my arms as I had done earlier. We jostled about for a moment and then I tucked the sheets and kissed her forehead.

"Goodnight," I said, walking out of the door and to my own bedroom. She was silent.

A few minutes later, she appeared next to me as I sat on my own bed. She hugged me firmly.

"Good night, Jeff," she whispered.

"Good night, sweetie."

At once she began to walk away

"Hey," I said, stopping her abruptly.

"What," she asked?

I felt the urge to say "I love you." I think she wanted to hear it too, but my lips resisted.

"We've got a date at the bookstore tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah," and she was gone.

In the course of thirty minutes, the merry-go-round twirled completely about. Now, I could hear Lisa bathing and the distinct yet muted noise of a razor dragging atop her legs. The other kids who normally invade our bedroom in the late evening were occupied elsewhere. An eerie, mostly undisturbed quietness hung about the space around me. And suddenly, I thought I should tell the story of this exact moment in time, because perhaps by doing so I might clearly distill some lesson from it all.

So, I opened up the keyboard,

and began

courtesy of photobucket.com

to type...

Forget Me Not...

2012-04-23T12:30:00.004-04:00

One thing that has always bothered me is the children who have come to our home with nothing more than the clothes on their back and a single, solitary trash bag containing the sum of their entire existence. It's almost as if that bag is a metaphor of their lives, of their value, of their place in our society-as if their feelings, hopes, and dreams are worthy of little esteem and nearly no consideration. Sometimes I think we might as well have painted a scarlet letter on that crude plastic.

At times I've wanted to burn those bags, sever from the present such tangible reminders of a heinous past and uncertain future-to start again. I've always resisted.

I suppose we could posit some theological argument about the value of things, of possessions, of bags and how little they should matter to us "good Christians." This, finer point of our faith however, is likely lost on a child so deeply constrained by the current predicament- this fearful and insecure child whose daily struggles are a constant reminder of how little he or she actually has to hold onto.

It's surely not lost on them, this trash bag-especially the older ones. They must notice "normal" children around them consuming the abundance of the wealthiest country in human history, while they themselves suffer the loss of relationships and things-while their life follows them around in something most just throw away. Another type of bag, however seemingly trite, must surely be worth the small investment to assuage some anxiety of the least of our brothers and sisters- to offer a shred of that normalcy in a world otherwise turned upside down.

James 1:27 gives us a perfect picture of what God wants our religion to be. I'm not convinced it's only a suggestion or a "do it if you feel called to do it" kind of thing. James tells the early Christians that perfect religion is taking care of widows and orphans and living holy lives. I am now forty-one years old. I was raised in a church that met three times a week. I attended a Christian university that required daily Bible classes and daily chapel. I have been a faithful member of the Christian church for my adult life. In all of those years, all of those sermons and classes, I cannot recall more than a casual mention of this verse-certainly no sermon ever preached on it. It doesn't massage our ears. It's not particularly palatable to our discriminating religious tastes. It's not comfortable. But, He didn't save us to a life of comfort. He didn't save us for one hour of entertainment on Sunday morning.

He saved us to serve.

How can we as Christians preach so loudly (and rightly so, in my opinion) against on demand abortion, and then turn blindly away from the children who need us most? Still can't answer that one.

The greatest and most perfect man who ever lived (who by nature was God) did not desire to be God, but a servant. He had no place to even lay his head and ultimately humbled himself to a barbaric death for a carnal and sinful human race. A benevolent Heavenly Father offered this perfect sacrifice upon His altar of love redeeming all generations. He simply asks us to offer our bodies, our lives, our families as living sacrifices- to look beyond ourselves, beyond our own self-seeking desires and help the most vulnerable among us. One day we will stand before him, giving account for our history on this earth. I don't want to come empty handed-no people fed, no thirsts quenched, no naked clothed, no lives changed...no children saved.

It's no slight thing when one of history's wisest and wealthiest men ( a man who experienced everything this world offered) said in the end all things are meaningless except for serving God and keeping his commandments. God's directive is clear. He places a premium on what others ignore. He discounts appearances. He asks us to swallow our pride, to take up our cross, to step out of the boat, to enter through His narrow gate.

courtesy of photobucket.com

Because in the end,

as Solomon wrote,

it's all that really matters

anyway...

Note: these are some thoughts I shared recently in Staunton, VA as part of a foster care initiative in this area. Visit the

http://www.theforgotteninitiative.org/ for more information. Please consider helping if you can. Thanks!

For My Daughter...

2012-02-13T16:26:00.000-05:00

I know that, if somehow I could grant your heart's desire, you would wish this correspondence today from a certain, special young man- not so much your father. A man much more youthful than myself and certainly more attractive in nearly every way. And, I know how difficult it must be for you to make sense of your feelings for him in the face of his occasional indifference towards you; knowing how it hurts to want something that seems so close to your grasp and yet so far away at the same time.

Especially when you feel deserving of it or him and believe nothing else compares.

I know how you feel because the relationship you desire with him is in many ways the relationship I want with you. Not the romantic inclinations of boys and girls, but to know that your heart beat only for me, your attention divided among no others.

Even so, you are beyond the years when I could be that man for you, when a simple pink unicorn or princess necklace, or heart-shaped candy could make you feel like the special young woman you are today. When all you needed was one man, your father, to hold you, to care for you, to love you so much. But, the nature of life, of living, of growing is different than where our intuition sometimes leads.

This nature seems much more diabolical for us currently.

For him, that God would grant a father such a beautiful, undeserving prize as a daughter like you- a daughter that he would love out of more than merely paternal obligation, but a daughter he could genuinely enjoy too. But this daughter, then, would naturally seek out the company of another man.

And for her, that she would grow to need attention from more than just her father, and that sometimes those for whom her affection ran deep, wouldn't necessarily respond in kind.

I suppose we are a mess in some ways, you and I.

But, that is where we are right now- both of us reconciling the conflicts of a seemingly unrequited love. And so if there be any comfort or consolation for you today, please know this: you will always be most special not only to me, but to someone else as well. You were my first child and my only biological daughter-the one thing I never even knew I wanted until your birth.

These are reasons for sure, but they are mine. Not necessarily His.

You are also a grand design of a Heavenly Father who loved you long before I even knew you. He will never fail you. His son, Jesus, is the one man you can count on above all others. He will sustain you in a way that no father, boyfriend, or husband ever could. He will be your sustenance. He will carry you when you are too weak to walk and He will kiss your cheek when the rest of the world turns its back

Most of all, He will care for you with an eternal love that transcends all understanding.

Happy Valentines Day!

Love,
Daddy...

The Wheels on the Bus...

2011-05-17T15:04:00.008-04:00

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Chance placed us there at that very moment in time. Or maybe something more.

My wife and I stood with our children on the sidewalk outside the school as the buses pulled up through the drive for the afternoon commute. The last bus stood directly in our path.

We all saw her.

She was a foster child who lived with us for a few months. I hadn't seen her since June of 2009, but she didn't look much different than I remembered. Medium length brown hair covered her head and small, oval spectacles sat atop her nose. She wore a pink rain jacket underneath the large bookbag pressing her forward in the seat.

A wave of nostalgia crashed into me.

Into us all.

Most of our time with her challenged the outermost boundaries of our patience and faith. She had been abused in every way a child could be and we were mostly overwhelmed in our attempts to make her one of us.

But, as we stood there my thoughts wandered to one of the few, good days during our time together. We all had traveled to Nashville to visit my brother's family, and on the way back stayed together in a hotel near Knoxville, TN with an indoor pool. She had never stayed in a hotel before and marveled at the entire, fascinating concept-especially a swimming pool inside the walls.

After checking in, the kids all begged to go swimming so I dragged myself and all our stuff down to the pool area. She was always wary and distant towards me, but as we entered the shallow waters she clung close to my side fearful of this new uncertainty. We all splashed around for a while and for some reason she asked if she could go deeper like the others.

I told her to lay on her back and she did so cautiously. I placed my hands under her and slowly pulled her around the outside edges of the other end. She squealed with delight and for the first time she called me, "Daddy." Perhaps she had said the word before, but I couldn't recall when. I certainly didn't remember the warm, vulnerable tone and childish laughter, gently inviting me into a place she had worked so hard to obscure until that very moment in time.

It felt good.

To me and her.

Other victories mostly escaped our grasp during her time with us.

But now, there she sat. Her tiny image perched in the first seat by the window of that big, yellow bus. As she looked up and saw us there she seemed startled for a moment. Then she waved vigourously, as if doing so might rekindle the fire from a not so distant past, and fill the space between her and us.

Then, the friend beside her in the seat looked at her and quickly said something. We all saw her response with amazing acuity:

"MY FAMILY," her lips said, revealing the question just asked by the little friend.

At once the bus roared away in the distance as guilt overwhelmed me-my blessings and bounty beyond the wildest imagination of most in this world.

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Suddenly I felt like an indulgent King, warm and well fed, lounging by the crackling fire inside a royal palace. While outside a cold and hungry vagrant peered longingly through the foggy window desperately soaking up the remnants of a life she could never have.

And for my part, all I could do was look away to the dancing flames

and wish her well

on the rugged

and lonely road

that lay

ahead...

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For interesting posts about the "road" click here

What Can Never Be

2011-03-29T14:40:00.030-04:00

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He desperately bit his tongue as the pain continued its tormenting grip.

Blood fell from his mouth. He lifted the bed sheet and wiped it from his face still writhing in pain from the relentless assault of demons present and past. He pushed the red button hoping someone would come quickly. The nurse entered, took her syringe and pushed it in.

He wouldn't make it through the night.

The end approached quickly so they called her. She was the ex-wife and mother of the three children he abandoned years earlier.

He begged her to bring his kids.

The oldest, a boy, had lived for just eleven years when his father left their home-old enough to hate his daddy...young enough to love him too. His two young sisters knew much less of this man and adjusted well while growing up.

Jimmy? Not so much.

He saw his father just briefly when he showed up for a couple of his little league football games making quite a scene amidst the bleachers. The bottle controlled his life. He clearly remembered his dad watching from the stands as emergency workers loaded him into an ambulance after breaking his leg in a junior league game. Jimmy cried out in the hospital begging for his father to come.

He never did.

That game was the last time he ever remembered seeing his dad.

Jimmy made some bad friends in high school. He finally dropped out, going from odd job to odd job trying to support his marijuana habit. He had a few brushes with the law, but nothing too serious. Somehow, by the grace of God, he met a nice girl and found a full time job.

He was even going to church occasionally.

Now, this twenty six year old man along with his mother and two sisters, stood at the bedside of his dying father. His dad knew what was coming and so wanted to see them one last time. They came to the man who ignored them for so many years.

The cancer ravaged his nearly unrecognizable body.

Through the painful spasms this withered man tried to make things right...to quickly seek forgiveness for years of hurt.

The two daughters held his hands and each kissed his cheek gently.

Jimmy recoiled, standing stoically in the doorway. He said nothing. Instead, he began to quietly sob. He turned and left the room as his mother followed. She finally caught him outside the hospital in the parking lot by his car.

He collapsed into her, saying nothing as the vicious onslaught of tears fell.

He cried for this man he barely knew. He cried for what should have been.

Mostly, he cried for the life he had never known,

and what for now...

would never be...

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Note: This is a true story as told to me by one of our customers from work. Always makes me think about the brokenness of children all around us. We just never know the pain and hurt that others may be carrying with them. If nothing else, having foster children has taught me that. Thankfully, there is One who offers healing. There is a Heavenly Father who cares. He offers grace, forgiveness and hope. He is... God!

Forgive me please...

2011-03-21T18:41:00.010-04:00

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It's been a while since I posted here, I know.

And, perhaps after such delay the words I choose to write should be of a more...shall we say, "erudite" nature, especially considering all the really important things going on in the world right now. But, I've got to get something off my chest, offering my sincere apologies in advance for any I might offend.

I don't like it when guys wear a lot (any) of jewelry.

Lest any that know me claim hypocrisy in my above statement let me start with the disclaimer that my (or anyone's) leather banded Timex watch does not qualify as "jewelry," nor does the gold wedding band on my left ring finger count either. That's not what we're talking about. Now, a diamond studded, 14 karat Rolex timepiece that costs more than a car and is nearly as big? Well, that's another story.

Maybe it's a sin. Maybe it's narrow-minded. Maybe it's un-Christian like to feel and say so, but it's the truth.

At the gym today I couldn't help but notice a man blinged up like like an LA rapper going to the Oscars or Emmys or whatever those music awards are where the ladies wear dresses so tight they have to hold their breath for two hours so they don't bust anything.

I know Jesus was all about the heart and discounting appearances. And, I want to believe Him. But, He didn't see Biff today in his lily white sneakers, white Polo anklets, white cotton shorts, white Addidas t-shirt and white Armani warm up jacket with a gold rope chain dangling from his neck and a sparkling tennis bracelet wrapped about his wrist. Apparently he needs an endocrine adjustment as well because it was way too hot to be wearing a jacket.

Did I mention he was every bit of seventy years old, maybe older?

You should have seen his tan too. He looked like he had been shaked and baked by Julia Childs herself. If only our thanksgiving turkeys emitted the golden, healthy hue of his old epidermis. Nobody gets a suntan like that this early in Virginia, even if he skis naked for a week. And, I know he didn't winter in some exotic, equatorial paradise because I see him regularly all winter long. So it could only be one thing: the tanning bed.

And, something about that just seems so wrong.

It wasn't just the jewelry, tan skin, and matching (I mean so much matching that it doesn't really match) outfit that made him look like a walking billboard for the Neiman Marcus senior section. Evidently he had recently bathed in a tub of Hai Karate after shave and combed his hair with the matching tonic so as to correctly layer the scents. One wiff of his aura could have rendered a baby rhino unconscious.

I mean, no need to smell or dress like a beast of burden in our "advanced" society. I get that. Heck, I have a spray bottle of Double Black Polo cologne and even wore pleated jeans in high school, proudly claiming the "best dressed" senior superlative- a small idiosyncracy my wife still finds amusing/disturbing/weird/mildly (with an emphasis on mildly) attractive. In fact, I completely shocked my wife during our first year of marriage when she realized I showered twice a day and sometimes more if necessary. But, come on. Give me (us all) an olfactory break. I think some of those Hai Karate molecules are still stuck about my nose innards even now. Besides, at his age he should know that subtlety is the real aroma of romance.

Never have seen his car either, but I'll bet you three pairs of Gucci loafers and a speedo it's some kind of spit shined, two seater manufactured in a European borough that he has to roll out of. Betcha another pair of loafers it's red with some catchy phrase on the license plate.

While we're on the subject of men's attire and what not, I should take time to mention that someone misnamed sunglasses because tons of guys wear them when there's no sun. How about, desperately trying to look cool glasses?"

But, I digress.

So please, if any of you ever see me displaying any of the symptoms above, you'll know my faculties have vacated the premises. And, you have my full permission....no, my exhortation to remind me of my own (these) words from long ago.

And please, if you ever catch me in a speedo, throw me a towel and call the ambulance immediately because the end will surely be near...

P.S.-another gym pet peeve: prostate is a male gland that tends to enlarge over time. Prostrate, however, is laying oneself down which I think sounds like a good idea right about now...

The Dance

2011-01-04T00:16:00.007-05:00

Maybe two weeks. Maybe less. That's what the doctors say anyway.

I suppose God could change it all if He wanted- in some divine act of mysterious providence offering her a brief reprieve from the certain destiny we all share. Even so, that seems very unlikely now.

My grandmother is dying. But, then again, I guess we all are.

She lies in an Alabama hospital with those she has loved for years gathered around her bed. They stroke her head and hands and whisper quiet prayers for a graceful retreat into that good night. Her nearly lifeless body is pale and gaunt, withered to something so different from more youthful days. Old and worn from hard years of living, she has almost finished the race. Soon she will breathe her last and fade to other dimensions unknown.

For now, they try to recall better times...times of fried chicken sitting on the stove, the taste of sweet banana pudding melting in their mouth, the feel of crisp, starched bed sheets against sleepy skin, the pantry full of produce put up from the summer garden, and a freezer full of catfish from the pond out back.

They will try to remember when they were a different family...when some things seemed so much more certain.

But, no matter how hard they try, other more troubling thoughts will creep in from their usually quiet places.

I suppose it's an epitome of life. For countless days our own mortality seems vaguely familiar-a stranger mostly. But, occasionally along the way, certain events beckon that stranger across the threshold and into the light for a more intimate glimpse.

That stranger is there among them...here with me too. His lesson is clear: for everything there is a season and sooner or later all will acquaint themselves with her more imminent fate.

The real truth, however, is nothing in this life stays the same save one thing and one alone. A Greater Gardner planted this magnificent field. And, He is the same yesterday, today, and forever. The faithful are promised nothing more than a place with Him at a great banqueting table.

She knows Him well and He knows her even better. He loved her before she was even born. And a day is soon coming when this new bride in her new body will meet this Christ face to face. She will sit at that wondrous wedding feast united with the one who knit her together and breathed life into her lungs so many years ago. They will walk and talk, her hand in His somewhere in that great beyond. He will lean close and wipe the tears forever from her eyes as He gently kisses her waiting cheek.

And then, in robes of flawless white amidst streets of brilliant gold, they will warmly embrace, as together

at last-

they dance...

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That's What We Are...

2010-12-07T21:48:00.003-05:00

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We drove separately to church.

I had to run by work before the 8:30 a.m. service, and when I finally arrived, Lisa and the two boys waited for me in our usual position on the left side of the sanctuary. I noticed the festive holiday decorations surrounding us and also thought it odd that both boys had stayed for the sermon. Recently Luke had wanted to hear the preacher, but the younger Thomas still preferred his normal class.

This morning was different.

I stood next to my wife as our praise team sang and Luke immediately crawled across his mother to assume his place by my side. Thomas didn't move, but I coaxed him over with a discreet hand wave so that attention to both could be dispensed fairly and evenly.

Finally we sat down as the pastor began to preach. At the conclusion of his sermon, the men stepped forward to serve communion. Both boys fought their heavy eyelids as they leaned in against my shoulders. I stared blankly ahead at the white lights shining about the tall Christmas tree on stage.

Then Luke opened his mouth, as he often does, to ask a question.

"Be quiet," I said abruptly and noticed the hurt in his eyes as he recoiled. Immediately I reached for his leg with my left hand. I grasped it just above his knee hoping to squeeze it lightly enough to declare my true affection potentially obscured by the harsh rebuke.

Suddenly, I thought of Abraham from long ago and Isaac's fear as he lay beneath the drawn dagger of his aging father. I thought of a wayward prodigal wondering if his father would take him back. I thought of the man they called Jesus groaning out his last breaths impaled to a Roman cross while crying out in pain for the Father who knew him best.

I thought about the desperation my sons would encounter if forsaken by their own father-the man that should love them most.

And so, there I sat with these two, living metaphors pressed against me on both sides...

I thought of their births and how far we had come together.

Wanting to believe in this Heavenly Father

Wondering how it could all be true...

Wanting to believe He loved me the way I loved them.

Mostly, trying to understand how-

He could really even love me at all...

I John 3:1
How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!

Hunting for Truth...

2010-11-24T22:54:00.009-05:00

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I'm not quite sure how I ended up there.

I squinted hard to see the clock, but the green numbers just blurred together. I fumbled for my glasses on the nightstand and finally saw 4:32 through the smudges on the lenses. I wanted to burrow deeper under the warm covers because sleep had eluded me most of the night. But, something urged me out into the open space and the coolness of the bedroom air hung on my skin as I stood up.

I shivered for a moment.

I dressed quickly in the darkness and brushed my teeth still unsure if I would leave the bedroom for another destination as of yet unknown. I didn't have to worry about the possibility of creaking floors waking the kids while descending the stairs. They slept safely ten miles away at their grandparent's home.

"Be careful," Lisa said interrupting the darkness.

Downstairs I wrestled on my overalls and carefully arranged the backpack. I put a banana and peanuts in the side pocket along with my knife and rope. In the larger pocket I placed a small, folded towel in between the thermos full of cold water and an extra box of shells. Clanging and rattling would be most unwelcome on this crisp, November morning.

I grabbed a flashlight while hurrying out of the house with my hands full and noticed immediately the sea of stars in the clear sky overhead. In my haste I nearly forgot to get my gun. I put my pack and rifle on the backseat of the truck and sat there for a moment waiting for the windshield to clear.

The time was now 4:57 and the thermometer read 31 degrees while pulling out of the driveway. Next, I looked at my phone and noticed a new email that had come in from my cousin at 12:23 a.m. and then checked it quickly.

"Maw Maw isn't doing well. Pneumonia is worse," it read. My grandmother lay struggling in an Alabama hospital. Nearly two years earlier to the day, I had been there with her and others for the funeral of her husband and my grandfather who passed away November 20, 2008.

Now, I was driving for some desolate spot in the middle of the woods. I hadn't been deer hunting in over fifteen years, but for some reason I bought a license this year and thought about giving it a shot. Ironically enough, my late grandfather had given me the gun now lying in the back of my truck during my freshman year of college nearly twenty-two years earlier.

He was an accomplished hunter who took pride in his guns. Upon his death he wanted to leave each of his grandsons a gun, but decided to go ahead and give me the Belgium made Browning, 30-06 over my Thanksgiving break in 1988.

This grandson he barely knew, but with whom he shared such similar DNA.

After a thirty minute drive deep into the western slopes of the Blue Ridge Mountains I parked, got out and loaded five shells into the gun. I put on my orange vest and slung the backpack around my arms. I grabbed the flashlight, but didn't really need it with the abundant moonlight shining down.

I walked a mile or so down the one lane path before getting off to climb a ridge near a creek where I had seen lots of deer years ago. I found a wide tree and cleared out all the leaves at its base. I took the pack off and settled in for the morning. The tranquility of a world mostly asleep surrounded me.

Looking to the east, I saw no signs of the sun rising across the horizon.

The tree felt good against my back and my eyelids fluttered up and down as I tried to stop the relentless onslaught of the sleep earlier missed. At once, my body spasmed and I gasped for air as if I had been holding my breath for some time. My watch, now barely visible in the approaching daylight, read about 6:45. I had been asleep for nearly an hour.

That gun-his gun lay across my legs and I studied it closely there in the dim light of the cold morning. A small chunk of wood was missing from the forward stock and beneath the action my grandfather had scrawled his name: Willard Ashmore.

I touched the letters he crudely etched years ago, trying to find something in the residue of his past currently lingering there. My fingers were numb and I felt nothing but cold metal while tracing their path.

Suddenly, I wondered about him and if he had a new body now. I wondered about the wife he left behind trying to hold on to her own, aging body for just a little bit longer. I wondered where his spirit lived-if he looked down and could see me there on the side of that lonely mountain holding onto his old gun.

I wanted to believe it was true...

That He was true.

That my grandfather lived still.

Mostly, I wanted to believe that she would soon hear his voice once more…

and recognize again,

his warm, gentle touch-

from ages long since-

passed away...

The Swing Set...

2010-10-26T20:43:00.005-04:00

I missed them tonight.

I left work early this evening and picked the boys up from school where they waited with Lisa for the end of Mary's cross country practice. I took the boys with me to get some dinner, leaving the wifemate to wait it out.

We got some fast food and made it home with enough light left for a hearty football game with the neighbor boys. I assumed my usual position of "all time quarterback." A bad knee, sore back and twenty-six years the elder of my nearest competitor had surely earned me that. We finally went inside the house after a few spectacular (and not so spectacular) moments on the field.

The clock had ticked many times, but the girls were still absent.  Luke and Thomas finished up some homework and dispersed throughout the house. But, something called me again to the backyard on this late October evening, and so, I went. Perhaps it was the waning warmth of days that will quickly turn to something altogether different. Or maybe it was a heart that beat for moments long since passed away.

Either way, I started out.

I dabbled a little in the residue of a garden beyond its prime. I kicked clods of dirt and stems that once held brilliant blooms and loosed them from their withering roots below.  I looked for signs of tomatoes, lately clinging to life.

I saw none.

But, I felt another beckoning back there in the stillness of the sun's softening brilliance.   As I noticed the swing set, I suddenly recalled late fall evenings some ten years earlier. I thought back to my daughter's more youthful years. I remembered climbing up on top of the landing just above her slide with a warm blanket and wrapping ourselves up together. She would sit atop my folded legs and lean her back against my chest. Sometimes her mom would make hot chocolate, and we would sit quietly looking to the heavens for signs of shooting stars. Mostly we saw airplanes in the night.

They fascinated her. And my little girl, well, she fascinated me.

Something was calling me again to that ledge, and so I climbed the weathered stairs. Ten years of the elements had taken its toll on the splintering wood. My legs didn't bend as gracefully either.

And so, I lay there in the quiet, occasionally interrupted by the wind's jostling of yellow oak leaves soon destined for their fluttering descent earthward. A white strip of cloud hung above me and quickly disappeared behind the darkening canopy of the night sky. I saw a lone star in my field of vision and pictured the eye of God spying down.

I wondered if He would be pleased with what he witnessed.

And then, the first plane entered into the background-its red and white lights blinking rhythmically against the black. I thought of her. I thought of our nights together when she was a little girl and the history on that ledge.

I got up abruptly and descended the stairs, now keenly aware of the evening's chill.

A lone tear fell from my left eye-

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and I gently wiped it away...

Go Back In...

2010-10-25T14:19:00.008-04:00

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He seemed himself in most ways.

Self deprecating wit and general cynicism sprinkled his conversation. In fact, there were moments with him when I even forgot he was a former yankee born and raised in Michigan. He does his best to convince others he's reformed. His marriage to a southern girl proof in his mind of legitimate conversion to our ways down here. We were playing in a golf tournament on a Sunday afternoon, he and I.

A rarity.

Not the golf, but the Sunday afternoon. That's just the way it worked out this time and that was ok. Because, the fall in Hot Springs, VA is like few other places. The sun was warm and bright-the grass green and the leaves every color of the rainbow. The greens were fast.

Just the way we like them.

I was feeling a pain in my back from a kidney stone that wouldn't play fair. I suspected he was feeling a different kind of pain. I knew in a few hours he would board a plane and leave his business behind for a while and visit his mother in the northwest. I knew she was old. I knew she was dying.

So did he.

I wondered what he would encounter in her room. I wondered what he would say when in her presence again. I knew her faculties were intact-her mind sharp. I knew she would be well aware that this might be their last time together.

I wondered what it would be like for me one day when faced with something similar-because a mother's love fills our cup like nothing else.

Mostly, I wondered about sons whose mothers were already gone...visits that never happened. I thought about those whose mothers left little to fondly remember.

This morning I got an email from my friend. He said the end for her is coming very soon. He said it was the most emotional moment of his life, and that this past week with her reminded him that for some, all that's left are memories and passing moments in our lives.

Something else struck me though.

He said as he was about to leave the house he gave her a long, warm hug and left her room. He walked through the front door, but suddenly stopped, overcome with the passion of the moment.

He turned quickly and walked back in trying to hold on for just a little longer. He entered the bedroom where she waited and embraced her once more.

He whispered in her ear, "I love you, Mom."

She held on tight inspired by his quick return. At once he left again.

And then, while reading his words, it suddenly occurred to me-

Second chances in this life are rare indeed.

But, when they come,

we all best turn around

and go back

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in...

Hold on Tight...

2010-10-13T18:38:00.002-04:00

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This wasn't typical locker room conversation.

I left work around 1:00 p.m. today and hurried to the gym for a quick run on the treadmill. I ran for thirty-five minutes and then headed to the locker room to shower and change. When I returned from showering two older men stood near my locker talking.

They spoke in hushed, muted tones, but easily loud enough for me to hear the soberness of their words.

Both were older men-one completely bald with a round face and more rotund physique. I figured him for mid-seventies or so. The other man stood taller and more athletic looking with lots of graying hair which seemed oddly long for a man his age. I guessed him for mid-sixties.

Neither mentioned any particular political views or physical ailments common among men their age. Strikingly absent were the testosterone infused exchanges normally infiltrating the airwaves from conversations of younger gym goers.

This was different.

"My dad died in 1991 and I had my mother and wife to hold on to. Mom died in 2000 and I had my wife to hold on to. My wife died yesterday and all I've got left is God," the taller man said.

The wiser sage hesitated for a moment.

"Well, the good book says there's a time for everything- a time to live and a time to die. We're all going to die someday. I guess, we just need to hold on to the people we love while they're still around."

I sensed his comments were directed towards me.

"Yeah, I suppose you're right. I know without a doubt her suffering is over and she's in heaven with God right now. No more chemo, no more medicine. I do kind of wish now I had held on to her a little tighter," he finally said.

I knew what he meant.

I finished dressing as the two kept talking. I felt the need to say something-to offer my condolences to the man who had just lost his wife, but I didn't. Words escaped me. The eerie discomfort of these two, half-clothed men's vulnerability caught me off-guard and unprepared for an adequate response.

I said nothing.

I quickly walked to the parking lot and got in my car. I wanted to call my wife, but I knew she wouldn't be able to talk. I dialed my mom's number. She didn't answer, but instead I got her voicemail.

"Just wanted to check and see how you were doing. Call me when you get a chance."

I felt an urging to say more.

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I wanted to say "I love you."

I wanted to hold on to her just a little bit tighter.

Again, I resisted.

Instead,

I just kept driving...

Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going.-Tennessee Williams

In the Garden...

2010-10-09T12:45:00.001-04:00

It’s a fine patch of tomatoes.

The black-eyed peas and green beans aren’t bad either. The cantaloupe is sweet and juicy. Overall, it’s the best harvest I’ve seen in recent memory.

My father retired at the beginning of the year and needed a summer project to sink his teeth into. I propositioned him. My wife wanted a bigger garden this year, not content in settling for the small collection of peppers and tomatoes we had planted for several years in the small beds around our house.

I had an idea. Break a big piece of ground and let my father, who was restricted by space at his own home, plant all he wanted in half and let my wife plant the other. I simply asked to glean from the excess of his labor. I knew when the dust settled, they would both work together and I would be the most satiated recipient of fresh produce. I knew he couldn’t resist.

I was right.

It’s a funny thing, though. I remember seeing him some thirty years ago working the ground, hoeing the weeds, protecting his precious commodities throughout the summer.

Things are a bit different now. His hair has surrendered the final vestiges of their darker hues. Currently, the cracks around his brow and mouth are deeper and more apparent. He moves a little slower and bends more cautiously while collecting the spoils. He’s mellowed some. His once gruff and curt personality has evolved into a more relaxed, reflective poignancy. He recalls more often now fond memories of his past and avoids those of a more troubling nature.

Time has changed him, but then again, I suppose time changes us all.

This arrangement is nothing new for him. He was raised by an Alabama sharecropper just above the cotton field they cultivated. An old general store owned by cousins stood next door within sight of the high school he attended. He wore no shoes in the hot, southern summers. Sometimes, depending upon the crops, that included spring and fall as well.

The few remaining black and white polaroids of his distant youth reflect a nearly haunting image of innocence, hope, and bib overalls. His own father was an often brutal man whose example in raising children was poor at best. It was the unselfish love only a mother could give that sustained him. Both of them have gone on to whatever rewards might have awaited.

A fate we will all confront sooner or later.

Now, he picks beans and sweats a little. Mother says the only reason he spends so much time in the garden is so he can enjoy a few more precious moments with the grandchildren he loves. Maybe she’s right. Maybe the bell that tolls for us all is a little louder for some, especially for those who’ve survived a heart attack or two.

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Maybe it’s just a wise man that learns enough from his past to avoid repeating it.

Either way, it's still a fine patch of tomatoes...