To My Children, If They are Listening:

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. 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 had challenged every vestige 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 ever 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-

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...

That Place...My Place...

2010-09-28T11:41:00.015-04:00

We only lived there for a couple of years.

And, even though I was young, my first real memories of life, of family, of love and loss came from hot summer days spent there. It's the first house I ever remember living in. It's where I learned to ride a bike.

It's where my first and only dog lived and died.

I remember the day we first moved in. The house had stood vacant for some time and the grass was nearly as tall as my five year old frame. It took my dad almost a week to mow all that mess. My mother, like many from the mid-seventies, loved the brick ranch style home on a corner lot at the top of a hill. Us kids- we loved the basement and back yard.

Great adventures waited.

We walked to school. We played in the adjacent woods and discovered an exciting world previously unknown. We opened the garage door and rode our bikes quickly down the steep driveway turning and braking hard in the final moments before we plunged headlong into the basement wall. We played football in the fall with our friends from the neighborhood. Dad brought home a small puppy we gently held in our arms as he lapped up warm milk.

It snowed one cold day in January.

We left two years later in April of 1977. My mom came to the elementary school and picked us up in the middle of the day. Dad had discovered greener pastures in Virginia. I sobbed quietly in the car as we left those memories and our extended family behind.

"Gold-that hardest hue to hold," I suppose.

Nearly thirty years later I sat in a car on the street outside that house in Birmingham, Alabama with my wife and three kids. I fought back the tears once more. Our summer trip south was a nostalgic sojourn of sorts. We visited some family the kids had never known-some they had. All the while I felt the beckoning of that old house- that first house and neighborhood from my past. I wanted to go there; to see it once more and finally extinguish the anxious fire smoldering inside me.

I needed to say goodbye to that place...to my place...to a chapter written long ago from a book still unfinished.

I wanted my kids and wife to see my place, as if doing so might help them know me better…help them see a part of their lesser known history…help them understand the legacy our lives write. Maybe to help me see the proper bearings more clearly...right my ship drifting slightly off-course.

Vivid memories rushed in. I felt overwhelmed.

Everything looked so much smaller than I remembered. Weeds pushed through small cracks in the cement driveway. The shudders needed paint. Dead, brown grass mixed with splotches of dirt and pine needles covered the yard.

It hurt to see it there and the toll thirty years had taken. I became acutely aware of my own mortality...of a body aging too. My stomach rolled over and I gasped for air trying to hold something back.

We stayed only for a few, brief moments breathing it all in.

But now, looking back, I wish I had knocked on that door. I wish I had walked around the yard and to the edge of the woods where my only dog was buried. Mostly, I wish I could have salvaged something tangible from that place-something useful for defining a future course.

Instead, I peered meekly from the car window at my history on that corner. I did little more than slow down as we drove by. Tears hung on my eyes. My voice cracked.

“Here it is.” I said.

"What's wrong, Daddy?” My daughter asked.

"Nothing is wrong, sweetheart."

"Then why are you crying?"

"I'm not quite sure.

I guess sometimes...

it's just really hard...

to say...

goodbye..."

all images courtesy of photobucket.com

The Least of These...

2010-08-23T19:12:00.001-04:00

I rushed out of my office this morning to a waiting car parked on a curb directly across the street from a pet store near my work. I needed to make a deposit in the bank. I felt hurried and anxious. As I reached for the door I heard a conspicuous squeal above the din of travel and commerce. I looked toward the noise and saw the young girl in the parking lot of the store.

She sat in a wheel chair affixed to a lift descending out and down from a large, commercial looking van that I recognized from a local rehabilitation center in our area. Two other children who looked physically and mentally challenged stood below with two social workers.

They cheered for her.

A broad grin covered the young girl's haggard looking face. Dark, disheveled hair sat atop her head and jeans concealed what I'm sure were withered legs. I guessed her for twelve or so.

Near the same age as my own daughter.

I stood there for a moment; the sound of passing cars on the avenue behind me invading the peacefulness of the late August day. I wondered about the source of their excitement. I wondered how long she had lived in that chair. I wondered if this was her first time being outside and away from the painful memories of more uncertain destinations.

Mostly, I wondered about her family. The family all children deserve. The family they so desperately need.

Maybe she would spend a few minutes roaming the store, stroking the pelts of some furry creatures oblivious to her plight. For a brief moment maybe she would feel invigorated-knowing the warmth of a mostly elusive normalcy, bothered all the while by the impending truth of her life waiting back outside.

I thought about my charmed life-my healthy, happy children.

My easy road.

I thought about my pettiness too-my infected, carnal self. I thought about my going here and there and my quest for storing up worldly treasures.

The vanity of it all.

Soon, the brief touch faded as I resumed my worldliness. I went on about my business. I suppose she went about her own ...such a different and infinitely harder road, but likely more content than others to whom much more had been given. I focused again on myself, on what I need, what I want.

What would make me happy.

Meanwhile, children all around us in their quiet places long for much simpler things-to walk and run free; to jump and swim; to love and be loved back; to know the security found in a body that's whole.

Some travel easy roads, while others walk more rugged paths.

And for some like her-well, they never get to walk at all...

For more about children go to: http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/08/carnival-21/

images courtesy of photobucket.com

Little Girls Should Laugh...

2010-08-09T22:27:00.007-04:00

Little girls should laugh.

Sometimes they don't.

I met her for the first time last December. Her Mother and Father were abruptly removed from a local shelter, and together with her infant sister and older brother, the five had been sleeping in a car during the cold, early winter nights.

Lisa called me at work.

"They need a place to stay tonight. They have a place for the baby, but want to keep the four year old girl and her six year old brother together," she said.

The hastiness of it all caught me off guard-too sudden for me to adequately prepare effective excuses and the proper defense of the negative position.

"Are you sure we can handle this right now? It's so close to our Nashville trip." That's all I could muster.

"I've already asked our kids and they're all on board.  It's up to you," she said.

A few hours later the two new children along with the social worker sat in our family room as I finally arrived home from work.

Both were striking children. Michael was broad shouldered and muscular.  Rebecca was petite with short black hair and big brown eyes. He seemed distant and had great difficulty sitting still. His anxiety produced several nervous ticks and he appeared to be developmentally delayed. She appeared very smart, but one much acquainted with sorrow....too familiar with things others discover much later in life.

Our association ended quickly. The boy had extremely difficult needs. He required specialized treatment. The family with the infant agreed to take the younger sister. The transition happened fast. She never saw it coming. After nearly a month, our house returned to normal.

Now, seven months later we stood in line to buy ice cream after our oldest son's baseball game. I heard the voice from behind.

"Hey Jeff!"

I turned around and saw the face of her new foster dad. I had known him for many years and talked with him before we made the switch back in the winter. Immediately I looked down and saw her. Our eyes met. She clutched his leg and closed her eyes as if doing so could exorcise the former demons her young heart was so ill-equipped to handle.

I briefly recoiled, unsure of the wisest course.

Then I walked over. We exchanged pleasantries, he and I. I looked down.

"Hello Rebecca! How are you?" She stood silent squeezing him tight. "Do you remember me?"

She nodded up and down slowly. I didn't know what else to say. She seemed confused and bothered by my presence, showing little emotion on her face.  She laughed nervously.

After all, I had abandoned her too.

And, a day is coming when she'll lie alone in the darkened corner of a cruel world...tired of denying the pain any longer. A torrent of tears will start, finally replacing the nervous laughter she's relied on for so long.

She'll cry hard...she'll cry until there are no more tears...she'll cry for something real, for something true, for a love that will last.

Maybe in that room she'll cry out to the One who breathed the life into her lungs so many years before...

I hope she'll find Him ready and waiting...

Mostly, I hope she'll believe He really does care...

For different perspectives on laughter go to: http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/08/laughter/

-images courtesy of photobucket.com

-names have been changed

Shifting Sands...

2010-07-26T21:40:00.009-04:00

Six thirty comes fast when you're on vacation...especially at the beach. Mary slept soundly at the foot of our bed so she wouldn't wake the others as the time for our morning run arrived.

Just the two of us.

A few weeks earlier she had begun her training for the high school's cross country team. Rising seventh graders are allowed to join so she decided to give it a try. A few days before our trip to Nags Head, NC we hiked with several teammates up a well-known trail in our area. The others were slightly older than my daughter, but she carried her pack and ascended the mountain right along with them all.

It scared me, though. Her growing up, that is-mixing so easily with these teenage women.

She seemed groggy as rays of light now infiltrated the tiny spaces between the blinds in our strange home for the week. I dressed quickly and quietly in the bathroom.

"Do you still want to go? It's really going to be hot."

"I know. I want to go," she said in a perturbed, defensive tone, as if my question immediately insinuated her weakness as the fairer of the species. I didn't mean it that way, but they never believe you anyway, so I kept silent.

Soon she tied her laces and we opened the door to greet the oppressive air. The weatherman was most correct in his prediction. Sweat started to bead up on me before we finished stretching. My shirt showed the signs by the time we got to the end of the driveway to start running.

"How many do you want to do?" I asked as we began.

"Oh, eight miles should be good."

"Eight miles? We're on vacation for crying out loud. Besides, it's hotter than a depot stove out here. How about we just run until we think we need to turn around? Deal?"

"Deal," she said.

Around two miles I noticed her flushed face as she began to rest her hands squarely on her hips. She labored hard in the humid, coastal air.

"You ok, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine," she said in the same defensive tone from earlier.

"Want to turn around?"

"Only if you want to, Daddy."

I knew what she meant.

"I want to," I said.

After the third mile, I sensed her struggling some more but didn't dare mention it.

"How about we slow our pace a little?" I asked. "My old legs are starting to ache."

"Ok, if you need to," she said.

We slowed abruptly and shortly thereafter we could see the house in the distance.

"How about we sprint the last couple of hundred yards?" she asked.

"Ok, if you want to." I replied.

At once she took off. Suddenly, a wave of nostalgia filled with tension flooded over me- a tension born from a father fighting to graciously embrace his daughter's speedy evolution.

Nine years earlier we had come to this same beach, albeit much younger versions of our current selves. I had carried her on my shoulders and in my arms then, walking along the shore; breathing the intoxicating fumes of the setting sun. Together we scratched from the sand wondrous treasures- her perspective so new and innocent, as I dangled her tiny legs in the ocean's foamy surf; protecting her from the fury of its relentless assault.

Now, as she ran away, her goals and my age filled the space between us. It was bittersweet and I could taste them both. She's so much like her mother. Sweet and dreamy, but a wild strand or two in her otherwise tranquil sea of blonde. Just enough to keep a guy honest and still interested in wanting a little more.

I couldn't catch her, but a curious thought occurred to me.

One day storms will most certainly rain down. But, when they come, I hope she knows I'll always be right there...He'll be right there...close behind.

Ready and waiting to pick her up...

To gently carry her...to protect her from...

the waves that crash around us all...

The Heart of the Matter...

2010-06-24T11:09:00.008-04:00

I woke up about 5:30 this morning and rolled over on my side, carefully placing my left arm around my wife's waist. She slept still, but seemed to almost subconsciously notice the pressure around her...to interpret my presence.

Her husband. The man that should love her most.

Around 6:00 I went downstairs to the kitchen for some fruit and drink. I checked my email and then came back upstairs to dress for a quick run. The old wood floors cracked, popped and creaked in a way so acutely perceptible in the morning silence; so offensive to fresh ears. I sat on the edge of the bed tying my shoelaces and wondering if the noise had stirred her awake.

It had.

"Are you going running?"

"Thought I would."

Almost immediately she began talking about our upcoming plans for a weekend trip to Pennsylvania. She talked of the children-their similarities...their oddities too. We laughed for a couple of minutes, comfortable in the tranquility of a world mostly asleep.

I stood up.

"Oh, don't go. Stay with me for awhile," she asked.

"I have to, honey. I'm forty now. Have to keep working, keep this body all firmed up for you."

She chuckled a little and soon my legs pounded in the humid air of the country roads around our house. Her words kept popping up in my head, though:

"Stay with me...don't go."

It occurred to me that I spend so much of my life running...running from so much...from relationships of the present, from opportunities of the future. I mistakenly think chiseling out hard sinews from my flesh is the most direct way to her heart.
The way to make her love me more.

Perhaps in some ways a noble idea, but likely not the way most excellent. Most of the time, it's ears content to listen without trying to solve every problem. It's looking into her eyes with affection, reminiscent of the gaze she remembers from a different time; a time before we were married. It's showing her she matters most. It's confirming she's valuable...her ideas most noteworthy. It's taking the time to notice her.

It's more in the humility of a gentle spirit than the strength of an enduring body.

Time is so short. Chances missed today, forever gone.

And, inside an old farmhouse just down the road, my wife rolled over wanting something I couldn't give.

While I kept running...running away.

Maybe one day, before it's too late, I'll get the anatomy right.

Not my bulging arms or toned legs.

But instead, the heart of the matter.

HER heart... images courtesy of photobucket.com

It's How They Know...

2010-06-18T16:49:00.007-04:00

Figured I would put in my two cents worth today.

Much will be written and published over the weekend about fathers- the role of fathers, the importance of fathers, and Father's Day. I've been a father to three biological children for twelve years and I'll admit we've had some ups and downs...successes and failures.

I'll also be honest in saying I really want people to think I'm a good father (husband too). And, it's not just because I want people to think it. It's because I want to be more than just what my children need.

But, on occasions like this I always wonder about children who, for whatever reason, have never really known an earthly father...of real flesh and blood, bone of their bones. Sadly, children everywhere, in every corner of the earth, long for the one thing they may never find in this life: a real, living and breathing man who, despite his weaknesses, loves them as only a father can.

Little girls without fathers especially bothersome in my opinion.

So, in the interest of improving my fathering, I googled "how to show your children you love them." I briefly skimmed the pages full of articles and book references written by the most learned in our society. Strikingly absent was the one piece of advice I recall from long ago. I don't remember where I read it or who may have told me, but it remains indelibly etched in the annals of my memory:

If you want to show your kids you love them, then love their Mother.

Life is hard. Living without two loving parents is even harder. I can’t help but believe every child deserves the love of a mother and father, and the confidence bred from knowing they love each other too. It’s ashamed when they don’t and I wish it didn't have to be that way.

Psychologists and sociologists may forever try to prove the irrelevance or expendability of fathers. They may say one mother or two mothers will do just fine. And, in fact, children from such situations may conquer great things. But the real truth-there's a hole inside us all nothing else can fill.

A hole that was made for daddy...for his love.

Children need that daddy in their life. They need to see him when they go to bed at night. They need to know he'll be there when they wake up the next morning. They need to see him praying with momma, holding her hand, kissing her gently on the cheek. They need to see him considering her more important than himself-others more important too.

They need to see him loving her.

In the end, it's the how we best teach our sons to be men after God's own heart and how we teach our daughters to find one. It's how they recognize the face of God himself.

Mostly, it helps them see better and believe beyond a doubt, in the loving Father who made us all...

Images photobucket

Psalms 68:5

A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling

It's Only a Number, Right?

2010-06-14T21:03:00.000-04:00

Yesterday it finally happened.

I turned forty years old. I was born in 1970 and while growing up I always thought about the year 2000 and the thirty year old mark. Thirty years old, though distant, still seemed possible as a child and teenager. When it came I didn't even think twice about it.

Forty? Too surreal to even consider back then. 4:17 p.m. on Sunday marked the official commencement of my middle age and I'll have to admit it bothered me some.

I don't feel much different--not a day over thirty nine anyway. Getting out of bed is hard, however. My left knee cries foul when I dare bend it. My back feels pretty decent until I try to bend over in the shower. Stabbing pains assault my hip when making quick moves to the left. I'm kind of stuck in this perpetual state of painful mobility with joints that don't play well together.

I know running is bad for them, but I just can't stop. Guess cantankerousness comes with age too.

I'm facing some follicle challenges as well. Much of the hair on my head has begun a mass migration to points south, including my nose, eyebrows, and a pesky patch of undergrowth infiltrating the right side of my back. What's left on my crown recently decided to change its once dark color for lighter hues of brown and gray. Still more pepper, but the salt is gaining momentum.

My sweet daughter, Mary, assuaged my age anxiety yesterday...or tried to anyway.

"Oh, dad, I'll always love you," she said.

I beamed while almost missing the final refrain.

"You don't look that old."

I had to drink half a bottle of Nyquil to calm my nerves after that one. Ok, not really...I didn't drink quite half. But, I did think a lot yesterday about getting older.

By most scientific standards I've eclipsed the half-way mark of my life expectancy. I thought about what I have and have not accomplished. I thought about the metamorphosis of my dreams.

Ambition consumed me while growing up. Playing major league baseball didn't quite work out, so I opted for high-powered lawyer instead. That lasted for awhile until I discovered you had to go to another school after college in order to practice the discipline.

No thanks.

I decided, instead, to jump right into the business world. That's where I would make my indelible mark. I married my high school sweetheart in the fall of 1992 and we began our life together in Nashville, TN. One year later she decided to come back home to Virginia with or without me.

Thankfully, I had just enough good sense then to get on board.

God saw fit to bless us with three children in the past twelve years. We've lived a charmed life...me, especially. We've faced a little fire and He's used it to refine some rough edges on me. Still not that smooth, but better than where I started.

Curious thing too. My dreams have changed some. The older I've gotten the more I long for times more simple. For quiet times-places far away from worldly noise. Money and conquest have lost most of their once brilliant luster.

Things are becoming less important. Relationships more so.

The older I'm getting the more I'm coming to understand God wants good gifts for me just as I want good gifts for my own children. I'm better understanding the evolution of what I thought were good gifts then and what I know them to be now. Mostly, I have a new clarity on life and my vapor that will quickly fade to some other dimension.

I still have a lot of questions though...not too many answers. I still have some dreams left-projects unfinished.

Probably a few more fires too before I'm done...

or before He's finally done with me...

images courtesy of photobucket.com

Anyone for Yak Milk?

2010-06-05T11:49:00.007-04:00

What's wrong with America?

If you've been to church services on any kind of regular basis lately, I'm sure you've probably heard this question posed by the powers that be. I suppose it's worth asking, although sometimes I wonder if the answer isn't easier than we make it.

From Kennedy to Constantine to Tutankhamen, the problem with the world hasn't changed much. The diagnosis is a rather simple one.

It's made up of people.

But, recently I did notice something about our culture and its problems. Not sure if it's symptom, disease or a little of both, but it struck me enough to write about it.

My kids often call me at work when they get home from school and ask me about my day. Eventually, we get around to the real purpose in the call: To find out if I'm coming home early enough for dinner.

They want me at that table.

The dinner table may seem innocuous, and in fact, hum-drum. For young kids, it's often a time to put away play things or stop adventures enjoyed in the back yard-for older kids, perhaps a time to stop the relatively new phenomenon of vast social correspondence. But, I still think of all the great times we've had around the table- the mundane conversations that ultimately led to things more serious.

The place where we most easily discover what it means to be a family.

I think about all the laughs too. Just this week, Thomas recounted an experience at school while we shared dinner together. When asked by a teacher about beverage suggestions for the upcoming end of year party, many students raised their hands and asked for varying sodas or juices. Thomas waited until everyone finished and then raised his hand. The whole room now sat quiet, waiting for his request.

"Yak milk," he said.

Okay, he's a little bit of a smarty pants. He gets it honestly, though, from his um...um...well, his father.

"What did the teacher say," I asked.

"He said no because you had to be able to buy it in a can from the grocery store."

"Did he laugh?"

"No, he didn't think it was very funny. I was being serious. Yak milk has lots of vitamins and minerals."

I gave him a pass because we don't keep soda at our house and he doesn't really like it anyway. We all laughed together and shared some good times helping to better acquaint ourselves with what it means to love and be loved in return.

I have a friend, not especially spiritual minded, who requires all of his children and their significant others to present a reading around the dinner table for all holidays and special occasions. I've always thought it was a neat idea worthy of unbridled plagarism for my crew. One day soon I may start that same tradition.

Social scientists tell us because of society's busy schedules, family dinners together at home are becoming rare. It's ashamed and I'm glad that we can make it work most days in our home because the world has enough fast food. I think a little "slow" food may be in order.

But, I still wonder what has happened to that table. I wonder about opportunities forever lost in American kitchens. I wonder about children who may never know the beauty of sitting with their real family around a real table, and eating a meal with those that should love them most. I wonder about how the wealthiest, most well-housed people in all the world may, in some ways, be the poorest.

I wonder most about what happened to the place where we learned family.

And, in its absence,

how we'll ever really learn it again...

Asphalt Diaries...

2010-06-01T18:28:00.008-04:00

It's the phone call I dreaded.

"Daddy, can we go to Haiti?'' The voice on the line asked. My oldest son, Luke, waited on the other end for an answer. Our church planned a special, miracle Haiti offering for the upcoming services and had begun preparations for a week long, relief expedition to the broken country in August.

This sparked the interest of my son and his other two siblings. I gave him the typical, ambiguous response that really isn't so ambiguous.

"We'll see."

That was Saturday afternoon. Before church on Sunday those words echoed in my head during an early morning run. Haiti placed last on my to do list. I didn't want to go.

I hoped God had different plans for me and my family. I listened closely for His voice on that road. I wanted a different kind of revelation-a revelation to help better rationalize my complacency. I searched for something more convenient to me.

I had to find it. I had to find some easier way.

The hill I fear most on my path approached at the two mile mark. Stabbing pains shot through my left knee while my right calf tightened unexpectedly. I lacked my usual vigor. My breaths quickly increased in frequency. It's not the steepest ascent, but, what it lacks in pitch it easily eclipses in length.

I finally reached the summit. I looked east to the hazy mountains. Freshly cut hay covered the ground below them, and in the distance smoke billowed from two stacks-their presence clear evidence of the curious revolution that ushered in my current prosperity.

A country forever changed by the division of labor; a country so proficient at the production of things.

I thought hard about my past as I desended the incline. I wondered about all the minutes, hours and days wasted in the empty pursuits of those things. I wondered about all the money wasted. I wondered about the clanging cymbal accompanying my selfish song for so many years.

I wondered about the heart of a child so wanting to do the right thing and a father who couldn't say the same.

I kept running, thinking, hurting. I heard no quiet voice directing my path. No grand revelation.

Only more questions.

Hoping for a glimpse of rivers that finally converge into one; to be washed in those waters.

Praying for a day when this empty cup will be filled with something more real...

For more about emptiness go to : http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/05/emptiness-blog-carnival/

By the Dawn's Early Light.

2010-05-27T15:57:00.005-04:00

I’ll admit tears nearly escaped my eyes.

It’s a funny feeling standing there in the presence of the same flag which inspired Francis Scott Key nearly two hundred years ago. The tattered, red and white-striped cotton flying over Ft. Mchenry in 1814 was the backdrop for perhaps the most famous verse ever penned in America, and ultimately used as its National Anthem.

A flag that bore witness to the growing pains of a great nation.

I found myself there with my youngest son on an adventure of sorts-part birthday trip, part history lesson, part expedition into self-discovery. We made the two hour trip to Manassas, Virginia the night before. We dined on his favorite cuisine of lasagna at the Olive Garden.

We drove to Fairfax the next morning and hopped the metrorail for downtown Washington D.C. The Smithsonian Institution, these museums which have captivated Thomas for several months now, served as our ultimate destination.

We walked to the Air and Space Museum first and wandered its floors, taking time to watch an imax film about black holes. Next we walked across the mall to the Natural History Museum and finally finished at the Museum of American History.

This final stop housed the famous flag.

I felt drawn to it; compelled to inspect every inch of its antique edges looking for history in the decaying fibers. I thought about Mr. Key and the emotions of that day so many years ago. I thought about the blood spilled by real people with real feelings just like me.

Mostly, I contemplated where faith fit into it all.

As we left the doors near closing time, the ironic juxtaposition was stark. A natural history museum whose inner walls honored the Darwinian theory of evolution stood next door to the American museum, honoring a country forged by settlers who mostly believed in something altogether different.

We walked out to the grassy mall with the Capitol building in clear view to the west, and the more obscure Lincoln Memorial on the east horizon. We stood in the middle of arguably the most powerful place in the entire world. Two competing world views consumed the ground around us.

And suddenly, I remembered a few, lesser known words from the last verse of Key’s poem I had read inside the museum a few minutes earlier: “And this be our motto: ‘In God is our trust.’ "

I wondered hard.

Do we really?

And even harder...

Do I?

The Razor's Edge...

2010-05-25T13:18:00.007-04:00

I had a good run this morning.

The endorphins flowed early. I felt relaxed and refreshed when I finished. I couldn’t, however, have prepared myself for my wife’s heinous act of marital treason.

She used my newest razor to shave her legs.

The hot water felt good. I lathered up taking great care to cover every inch of my stubbly neck and face. My first warning something had gone awry was finding the razor on the bathtub ledge beside the soap and loofah or whatever that thing women exfoliate with is called.

She didn’t-not my shiny, sharp, never touched an epidermis before razor?

Oh yes… she did.

Trying to shave my beard with that thing reminded me of trying to slice a tomato with a butter knife…or maybe even trying to cut butter with a butter knife. As my Alabama brethren would say, my face looked like I “shaved through a screen door.”

Isn’t it bad enough that we have to take a sharp edged blade and cut hair from our face so whiskers don’t scrape the woman we pledged to forsake all others for? It's so dangerously close to our eyes, lips, and carotid artery for crying out loud. One wrong slip and you would have the whole bathroom to yourself until the new husband moves in. But then, add a significant other, surreptitiously christening a new shaving utensil in a brazen act of eminent domain, and you have the not so merciful coup de grace.

It’s just not fair.

I know; I know; women are from Venus and well men…men are from Mars/Hell. But I did some research this morning. Wives may be correct to attribute ¾ (or all) of the dirt and grime in a bathroom to the man’s use thereof, but ¾ (make that all) of the space in a bathroom is controlled by the fairer of the two.

I mean, what is all that stuff in the cabinets used for anyway? Talk about oil spills. We have a disaster waiting in our powder room. I found tea tree oil, sweet oil, fresh and fruity x-virgin olive oil, and some other oil looking liquid/solid whose label I couldn’t read. That doesn’t even account for whatever all that other stuff is that I was too lazy to inspect.

Our bathroom looks like the old counter from the Sears and Roebuck women’s department.

During my investigation I did see an interesting bottle that seemed to have an identity crisis. It looked like some sort of cream, but the tag said warm vanilla sugar hand soap with green tea extract and shea butter. I didn’t know whether to eat it, drink it, or rub it on my newly formed facial abrasions.

It’s like corporate American got in an ingredient war.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my wife’s silky smooth legs and young looking appearance. In fact, she still revs my engine after twenty three years of knowing her and the three children she bore. She doesn’t look a day over twenty-nine and I wouldn’t care if she did anyway. And, I don’t mind sharing anything with her. She learned that early in our relationship when she never would order any food or drink, but would always eat or sip mine.

But, can’t a guy have his own razor? Can’t we keep one last frontier free from female exploration?

I’ll keep loving my wife even if she dulls my edges with her legs and other what nots. She’s still the greatest thing to me since sliced bread….with butter on it. But, Father’s Day is coming up and I think I’ve discovered a great gift idea.

I’m a simple-minded man…just buy me a new bag of disposable razors.

And, don’t go near them…

images courtesy of photobucket.com

Where's the Fountain Free?

2010-05-21T12:55:00.008-04:00

The cool air and warm sun kissed my cheek kindly as I left the house this morning. The pavement waited for my aging legs.

I began to run.

My thoughts quickly turned to a woman, however. Her hollowed face haunted my every step on that lonely road. I wondered where she was and what she was doing.

I first met her two years ago at work. Fire red hair outlined her sharp-edged features and covered the gray hiding underneath. I guessed her age for late seventies.

She bought a brand new Cadillac and presented an image of a worldly woman with great means. She wore trendy, colorful clothes and lots of sparkling jewelry. Sweet perfume filled the air about her. She talked loudly-the kind of person whose presence is immediately noticeable.

Just yesterday, two years later, she stood across the desk from me crying in a hysterical fit induced by a fourth wreck in this big car. She looked much as I remembered, but the two years had taken some toll. She wept uncontrollably. I wanted to get her into a back room, away from our other customers, but my efforts proved futile. So, there we sat in my office, the glass windows the only barrier between our conversation and everyone else. Two other employees involved in the situation stood just inside my door.

One quickly fetched some tissues from the ladies room.

"It wasn't my fault," she said. "Your guys didn't fix it right before. I could have died. My life was in danger."

She had driven the car less than two hundred miles since picking it up from our body shop where the damage from her third wreck had been fixed. According to the police officer, this time she tried to pull into a jewelry store parking lot and missed causing a rather large drop into the ditch beside it. The inner tie rod snapped upon the impact evidently. Part of her car blocked traffic. The officer provided assistance until the tow truck arrived.

I tried to present a calm demeanor to keep the problem from escalating.

"I'm sure it scared you," I said. "I'm so sorry this happened."

"You should be sorry. Your people nearly killed me," she cried.

"I may be emotional, but I'm not crazy. You think I'm crazy don't you? I didn't hit anything. Your people didn't fix it right before."

"No ma'am, I don't think you're crazy. I just think you're upset. This kind of accident would scare anyone."

My attempts at calming her didn't work as I continued.

"Do you have any family or friends close by we could call?"

The floodgates opened quickly, catching me wholly off-guard.

"I don't have anyone. That car is my life. It's all I have. My husband died years ago. I don't have any family or friends except a son who lives three thousand miles away. I have nobody. Everyone I know is dead and I wish I were dead too."

Suddenly a wave of sadness consumed me as I began to recognize the story between the lines. Hysteria grew from the brutal truth confronting her. Despite the money, she was bankrupt. The changing reality of growing old with nothing more than things hung squarely upon her. The priorities and pursuits of her past offered little peace for the current predicament.

She knew no God beyond this life.

The opportunity waited there for me-this chance collision which most likely wasn't chance at all. I knew her thirst. I knew the living water she desperately needed. I knew the hole she tried to fill with things moths and rust destroyed.

I hesitated. I resisted. I let her go, hoarding these flowing fountains all to myself. The one thing I knew she needed remained the one thing I found unwilling to share.

She left finally, still crying pitifully as the rental car finally arrived.

What's more pitiful, though? Never knowing the healing waters of a loving Father, or knowing them well and keeping them under a bushel?

I am mostly content to preach from a distance-reluctant to intimately practice. Something bothered me on that road this morning, as I nearly heard in audible tones, "when I was thirsty, when I was thirsty."

It occurred to me as I finished running, that on this Sunday I'll gather with others to praise the God who made us all. I'll smile gently and exchange pleasantries with like-minded Christians, embracing the "entertainment" of the occasion under the devious guise of filling my tank to fuel the work of his great commission. I will indulge in his deep water.

I'll go home refreshed and full.

While somewhere, in a darkened corner of an old mansion, this woman will sit in desperation trying to reconcile the emptiness of her final years. She will quietly weep, trying to make sense from the vanity in it all.

There she'll wait alone...

and thirsting still...

Matthew 25: 41-42
41 "Then he will say to those on his left, 'Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. 42 For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink,...

Images courtesy of photobucket.com

The Tie Binding us All...

2010-05-18T13:58:00.002-04:00

Today was different.

Lisa left the house about 6:15 this morning with our daughter for a girl's only breakfast date. I normally wake up every morning between 6:00 and 6:15 just like clockwork only I don't need the clock. I stirred as Lisa showered and dressed, knowing I would need to get the boys going soon for our 7:30 a.m. departure time.

The next thing I knew 7:18 stared me in the face from my nightstand.

I jumped up so fast the sheets and comforter twisted around my legs causing a most ungracious fall onto the floor below. I bellowed all the way to the boy's room as I begged them to awaken and get going.

Their reaction reminded me of what the beginning of the apocalypse will probably look like.

I frantically showered, brushed my teeth, and dispensed with the shaving, leaving my prickly whiskers intact for one more day. When finished, I rushed into the hall to check on the boy's progress. Thomas had taken up residence in the bathroom, while Luke sat on the bedroom floor putting on his shoes.

"What are you doing in there, Thomas?" I asked.

"Using the bathroom."

"Have you brushed your teeth yet?"

"No, but I will."

I screamed the same question at his brother.

"No, Daddy," Luke said. "I couldn't get into the bathroom because Thomas has been locked in there."

My agitation level hovered around def con 3.

"You boys need to get the lead out. Get your teeth brushed, get downstairs and take the dog out," I ordered. "Do it now. Understand?"

"Yes, Daddy," they both replied almost simultaneously.

The clock said 7:32 a.m. I had five minutes to get myself dressed and them fed.

At 7:37 a.m. I entered the kitchen where the two stood.

"Did both of you brush your teeth?"

"Yes."

"Who took out Ruby?" I asked, knowing there was no way they had time to do both.

"Uh, I'll take her out now," Thomas said. Def con 2 came fast.

"Hurry up," I replied in a loud and abrasive tone.

Of all our children, Thomas is the most concerned with doing right and pleasing his parents. He's the most sensitive with an equilibrium easily upset by conflict. I knew the anxiety was building in him, but found myself momentarily uninterested in softening my stance.

While he took out the dog, I filled a bowl with dry cereal he could eat in the car on the way to school. Luke gobbled down his toaster treat, and as soon as Thomas came back in I aggressively coerced them both out of the front door toward the waiting car.

The ride was a bit strained and neither muttered a word. I spent the time trying to gather a bit of composure and dignity. As we approached the school, I looked in the mirror and noticed a red-faced Thomas fighting back tears trickling down his cheek.

"What's wrong now, Thomas?"

"Uh...uh...nothing Dad."

"Tell me what's wrong now," I said.

"Uh...uh...I left my folder on the table with my homework in it."

Def Con 1.

"When did you realize you had left it at home?" I asked.

"Well, I knew when we got in the car, but I was too afraid to say anything."

I angrily turned around ready to deliver my diatribe. Suddenly, however, a massive wave of guilt stopped me dead in my tracks.

I slept late. I was supposed to be the responsible one. They depended upon me and now my boy was too "afraid" to tell his own dad in the driveway that his homework was on the table?

And, I'm supposed to be a Christian on top of it all?

"After I drop you guys off I'll go back and get it."

"No, you don't have to. You'll be late for work."

I finally summoned enough of what I needed to tell the truth. "It's my fault we were late. I shouldn't have yelled at you guys like that. I'm sorry."

My most sensitive child proved to be the most forgiving.

"It's alright, Dad. Sometimes people just have a bad day."

After I dropped them off, I called work to let them know my predicament. I went home quickly and returned to the school in about half an hour. When I walked into the classroom his face lit up, as a big smile replaced the tears that had consumed him a few minutes earlier.

The affection in his gaze was well worth the lost time at work.

Guess he just needed a little grace today...

And so did I...

And so do we all...

For more about grace go to: http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/05/grace-blog-carnival/

The Story We Write...

2010-05-15T10:34:00.007-04:00

I didn't know John Elliott. Never met him in life.
I hurried to the bank in downtown Staunton on Friday to make a deposit. I had places to go and bills to pay. Worries about the future consumed me.

I rushed into the drive-up and placed the check in the drawer as I've done hundreds of times before. I strummed my fingers on the steering wheel and patted my foot in anxious tension. Problems waited for resolution from the work I left. I didn't have time to waste.

People depended on me.

The bank teller processed everything quickly. Soon I turned out of the parking lot and onto the main road. The first stop light in my path was yellow as I approached. I tried to make it, but harldly noticed until it was nearly too late the van in front of me that didn't feel as adventurous. I braked sharply as the car came to rest inches from the other's bumper.

The van stood just a few feet away from my eyes. Vinyl letters affixed to the back glass told the story of John.

"In memory of the world's greatest Dad. John Elliot. 1/17/1942  -- 9/15/2009."

It struck me because I'm a dad. It struck me because my own father was born in 1941 and his first name is John. Mostly, it struck me because my haste nearly destroyed it.

I thought about my children. I thought about my dad. I thought about Mr. Elliot's life and wondered what it looked like.

He probably stopped to smell some roses along his way. He probably invested more in relationships than things. He probably didn't spend a lot of time worrying about the future. He probably understood the value of time.

As I contemplated the words on the van, something briefly distracted me from the reality of the here and now. It occurred to me, for better or worse, each day we write the history of us. And one day, as our flesh stiffens and cools, others will gather together and distill from those pages the epitaph we'll carry into eternity.

At once the van sped away as the light turned from red to green.  The words quickly blurred from my vision, but something tangible remained in their wake. For a brief moment, I heard with stunning clarity the presses turning and the clock of my own life-

ticking...

image-photobucket.com

Matthew 6:25

"Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes?

"Love Me Tender." Tribute to the King...

2010-05-09T20:44:00.013-04:00

I noticed her more than others on the stage at church today. I knew the other couples standing there, but not her. This woman with short hair atop a short frame stood stoically with child and gift in her taut arms.

Alone.

Baby dedication Sunday should be a joyful time and perhaps it is. Mostly. But, I couldn't stop the thoughts about her and the father of the young man she held close. Who was the dad? What kept him from being there beside her like the other fathers? Why couldn't he be there holding the child as she held the gift offered to them on this special occasion?

How did she feel with all those eyes fixed upon her?

Maybe a good explanation waited for those who cared enough to try and know. For my part, I left quickly.

A Mother's love summons uncommon courage. She had it and it humbled me.

My mind left her for a moment. I thought about the pain many suffer on this day dedicated to honoring the women who birthed us; those whose moms were sick or gone; those whose mothers left little to fondly remember.

I thought of my own mother and remembered the first time I understood that she really didn't like the back and neck of all those chickens she ate while we were growing up.

I thought about the wife God placed in my path at just the right time; my affection infinitely multiplied by the way she loves our children.

Uncomfortable thoughts consumed me briefly-something that rears its head every now and again. I felt a sudden flood of guilt for my charmed life; for the love of two parents, who despite their faults loved each other and me too.

For a Mother who saved the better parts of a chicken for her children.

I wondered about those so deficit in love...those longing for the love of...

Momma.

And then it occurred to me that time can't heal some things-that a mother's love fills our cup like nothing else. And it's a great sadness for those, who because of time or space or circumstance, long for that intimacy.

But, for those that know Him, there may be some comfort.

Because, our God is greater...our God is stronger...our God is...

LOVE...

I John 4:16
And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love...

I John 3:1
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!