Prayer for 2014

       It seems like only yesterday when New Years Eve came and I was too young to stay up for the ball to drop. I think there was a ball that dropped, back then. Like I said, my parents wouldn't let me watch..

     Many years later, many lives and personalities later, I find myself standing, staring out at an expansive precipice, the extremely dark side of forty.

       You older folks reading this, I can hear chuckling, ( late forties, old? Wait till he hits my age and forgets where he stored the toilet paper!).  I'm Assuming that's what your thinking anyway. Assuming  again, having not crossed the 50 year dash yet.

       The past twelve years, have by far, been the best run of my life ever. The first thirty six, not so much.

         But these last twelve...

            This past one...

               In this last year I have been forced to approach work a bit differently. We run by committee now, from how a machine operator pushes a broom to what an electrical tech ( me) can do to fix a machine.

  I thought this loss of autonomy would drive me insane at first, but I have learned to adapt.

        When the committee comes up with an idea, good or bad, and asks if I can do it, I just say yes.

          After our meetings, machine operators threaten me with multitudes of industrial tortures as I implement the groups solutions that will inevitably inhibit their performance and make their job more difficult by a multiple of eight. I suggest that they proactively give their input to the " team "as we both know this present decision is ludicrous and unworkable. The " Team" has more meetings, more suggestions. I just say yes. The cycle continues, more threats to my vulnerable body parts are made, but I stay busy and all of us remain actively involved and engaged.

    Eventually, exasperated, outside of the meetings, some individual ( usually the infuriated machine operator) comes up with an actual  solution and begs the boss privately if we can try it. The boss asks if i can do it and if it will work. I say yes. The committee bypassed, the problem is solved..

          That is my year at work.

             

                                            Home time ...

          I fell into better hours at work that gives me week ends off, a 4:00 p.m. quitting time and a four day weekend off every other week with the family. Unfortunately, it came with the loss of built in overtime that had been in my check since I first started, almost eleven years ago.

               A bit of a financial adjustment...

        I cannot say that it has not added stress to our household, because it has. I can say that the boys are happier to see me more.   Often, so is My Wonderful Wife.

                                           It is the proverbial "Catch 22".

                           Money or time, but never the right balance between them.

                  So we learn to plan our purchases and say " No, we can't afford that" to our boys and ourselves a lot more. We play more board games, card games and enact many more shannagens.

        Christmas was scaled down and the real focus was not blocked by piles of presents under the tree. Excess did not hinder us and my sons spoke of Jesus and his real gift.

                    We cut back on K- cups and potato chips. Ouch!

                Funny thing is, this has all turned out to be " good stuff". The boys have not really noticed or really complained. We adults...well, let's just say we're still adjusting.

               I get to hear my boys laugh more. Fight more. Grow more. 

        I look into my Wonderful Wife's eyes more. Sometimes they are nearly overwhelmed over the checkbook. Some days they are frustrated that although I'm home more,  the kids still yell " Mom!" while I'm in the the same room with them. Sometimes they glitter with outright amusement over the concepts that come from her husband and growing children's imagination...

    ...and sometimes they mirror the night I saw them first in the moonlight.

                                      Like I said, it's all good stuff.

                       We have been so blessed. One of the major complaints in our house is not having enough room in the refrigerator. Too many potatoes or onions in the pantry. Too much " stuff", too much clutter. Sometimes it is too warm in the living room.... 

                                                   Luxury problems...

                  I try not to take any of this for granted. We give what we can, when we can to those in need and thank God at every meal for what he has portioned us. Health. Love. Family. 

           In this world these are all ephemeral, as the geographer in " The Little Prince" says.

      " In danger of speedy disappearance". In the blink of an eye these things can all change. Usually all it takes is the blink of the eye...

           I look around and see so many friends and familes that our family loves and watch them walking today in a different season. Seasons of loss. Seasons of grief and uncertainty.

   Seasons that build their Faith as it breaks them down, then brings them back up higher and reminds us all how precious and fragile and ephemeral we all really are.

          My heart breaks as I beg God to remind them that this IS just a season. Please keep in all their hearts hope and your everlasting love. Please raise their Faith and comfort them in this time of confusion and remove all doubt that creeps in. Let them know, deep in their soul, that they are not alone. You are always with them.

                This is my prayer for the New Year, for the new seasons...

New Years resolution ?!?

            " My mother used to tell me, Elwood ( she always called me Elwood)  in this life you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant. For years I was smart. I recommend pleasant.."

         ( Taken from the play " Harvey", without permission)

                 I was in this play in the mid - eighties, as the character " Wilson", the attendant who dragged both Elwood and his sister Vera into the sanatorium. 

             It is a great play. Elwood is a lush who pals around with Harvey,  a 6 foot tall invisible , magical 

Rabbit. He is a pookah and only those who he allows, can see him.

               The ending scene has Elwood given the choice to take medicine that will stop him from seeing the rabbit forever. Out of love for his sister who detests Harvey ( she CAN see him ) he willingly concedes to take it. The cabbie who brought Elwood in tells everyone in the room that he has taken other people to get this medicine and he then describes the changes in personality it causes. They come happy, friendly and filled with wonder. They leave crabby, critical and cheap. Regular people. " and you know what kind of bastards they are" he ends with...

                   My sponsor used to ask me if I would rather be right or if I rather be happy? I usually chose " right".

                     I used to say the only thing worse than being wrong was being wrong and having the other person be right and knowing I'm wrong...

                                       Quite the charmer, right?

                     I would like to say that those wonderful personality traits I'm speaking of have disappeared and today, I am a pleasant and personable individual...

      The problem with that statement is that my Wonderful Wife actually reads my posts, and is unfailingly honest. She would gently correct me and most everyone who reads this blog knows i am a contankerous sort, anyway.

    So, no, I guess that I will not say that. Not only would it be untrue but it really is not who I want to be. I am just being honest here. I still sort of like being argumentative and contrary.

Somewhere in between these extremes is what I usually shoot for. As a Christian, I know I should set my sights higher, but one of the traits that hasn't budged much in me is that of being an unflinching realist.

               It is not a good combination, wanting to be right to such a degree and being a Christian. There are things in life that are important enough to be unyielding over, but in reality there are fairly few of them.

        Many days what is called for most is patience and tolerance; sometimes staying out of unnecessary conflicts is more important than winning an argument. With these ideas, I truly struggle.

         About a year ago a wonderful friend posted a simple question regarding a belief that I felt strongly about and held for a long time. It was not a combatative question she asked. 

        I can debate with the best of them, but when this sweet non judgemental lady asked, I had to stop and look deeply inside myself to answer.

        I struggled, back and forth. I read Bible passages and searched for truth, for the first time in a long time, seeking real truth instead of being right. Not so surprisingly, I found a different answer than I thought I would.

               I learned more that moment than I had learned in a very long time.

           Since that question, I have realized something even more important...

              Being wrong is not nearly as bad as being an idiot.

                                            New Years resolutions?!?

                                           To be wrong a little more often.

                                

                                             

                                    

  

             

           

A non-linear pull.

     The Christmas story had never felt very personal to me for most of my life. I had read it in The Bible countless times and heard it in Church school, Church and of course the hundred or so Christmas specials on T.V.

       Sunday our Pastor was trying to humanize Joseph and Mary's plight by having us picture the initial fear they must have felt and how the stigma of her pregnancy occuring while she was betrothed but not married must have affected them. I followed along, trying my best to picture it but something kept pulling me away from the sermon, tugging at me inside to go to a different place. I tried to shake it off and willed myself to concentrate on the holy words spoken. I felt that gentle, unyielding tug again and remembered times it has occurred in the past. It reminded me almost exactly of the instances the Holy Spirit wanted my attention.

            I looked to my left side and saw my oldest son Nicholas and felt his head leaning on my shoulder. Next to him was my Wonderful Wife. Behind us sat a dear friend, a young mother with her two children. Eight or nine rows ahead was another friend, pregnant, sitting with her older children. The youngest were in Church school and the nursery downstairs. To the left was another expectant mother and to the right across the aisle was another new couple, un married but probably heading forward in that marital direction. It was sensory overload and I had no idea where it was taking me. But when the Holy Spirit tugs, I have learned to go along for the ride...

               I went back eleven and a half years to St. Peters Hospital, Maternity Ward. My Wonderful expectant Wife was in labor, practicing breathing exercises that seemed useless and growing extremely impatient with her Obstatrician who kept telling her" One more push.."

   She finally had enough and pushed so hard Nicholas came sailing out. The intern assisting was so flabbergasted she got confused and told MaryAnne he was a girl. I do not know what she was looking at, but I do know from my vantage point he was most certainly male.

          And then it happened. The memory of that particular moment that eleven and a half years in the future God would use to give me a personal perspective on what happened over two thousand years ago.

            It happened somewhere between the contractions and pushing and that time a little later when   Moms lifts the blanket and counts fingers and toes; a few moments before that crushing dose of terror and the reality when she realizes she really is completely responsible for this being 24/7 for the next millennium or so..

     In between all those moments, MaryAnne first held Nick and looked at him and was wholly overwhelmed by his beauty and perfection. That is when it happened. You Moms all know what I'm talking about. The experience is practically universal.

              That moment is what connected me to the Christmas story. It was not the fear or trepidation Mary had thousands of years ago, awaiting birth. It was those few seconds in time when she looked at her Child and realized he was utterly perfect.

         Jesus was perfect and will remain so thru out time. There is no real comparison to Him and our children except in how a mother views her child in those first precious seconds. 

     It does connect us though. Even dads experience it sometimes. Two thousand years has changed little that really matters in life. As parents we have as little idea of our children's paths as Mary did on that evening. She had no idea what would happen to her son thirty three years later. She loved him, had faith and prayed for the best.

    Not much different than my Wonderful Wife...or any of you, I suppose.

      So my apologies to Pastor Matt. I know it was an excellent Sermon. They always are. Please know I did my best to stay on course. My Wonderful Wife smiles when she calls me " non - linear". 

    I am believing God does also..

What I want for Christmas.

         I read thru our boys Christmas list over one hundred times this last month or so. Some requests were amazingly specific( a day out with their dad alone, dinner and movie included) and others were very generic. Simple presents, mostly. I love the holidays with my family. I love the true reason Christmas is celebrated.

        We are going very minimalistic this year. MaryAnne suggested that since Jesus only received three gifts, maybe three would be a good number for us to go with. That amount was exceeded a bit, but not by much.

 As any parent , I hope it is a good Christmas for our boys. They know it is not about the presents, but still, the presents do matter a little...

              This is the first year in my life I can truly say that I don't want anything under the tree. I have always wanted something, a tool or toy; machine parts for my mad scientist inventions or programming software for some imagined computer controlled creation.

                                             Not this year... And I have no idea why.

                    I suppose there are things I would want, but they are things impossible. I guess I'll put the list out anyway.

   

 1.      I would love to have my Mother given one day now that she feels like she used to, before the COPD hijacked her life. One day not to worry about oxygen tanks and inhalers. One day she could play with my children or work in her flower garden, pain free.

2.       To go back in time to my Wonderful Wife's twelfth Christmas and watch her open the Tuesday Taylor Dream house that her parents gave her. I saw the photograph of her opening it and the utter joy and surprise on her face eclipsed all else.The picture is priceless. I would love to be back there and see the look on her mom and dads face, giving her such joy.

3      One more Christmas Eve at my Grandparents with all my Uncles, Aunts and cousins. At that time I had no idea how precious those moments were. It has been over forty years since the last one I remember. That would be a great gift.

4        One more Christmas at home as a child with my family. Christmas was like a cease fire in our house. It was a magic day of peace and happiness. I'd take a couple more of those...

5.        A repeat of Mare and my first Christmas dinner. Her mom, Lorretta and dad John came, along with my father. MaryAnne was pregnant with Nick and we were all squeezed into our tiny one bedroom apartment and nook of a kitchen. It was amazing..

                These are the presents on my list. I guess I'm being selfish because most of these are gifts I was given long ago. I just had no idea how priceless they were at that time.

                So today, my wish for me, is my wish for all of you. We cannot turn back time, but we can go back. All it takes is to enter our memories. I hope this season, as we all are savoring the new moments we are creating, that somewhere we find the time to remember the ones of long ago, the special times that turn our hearts into the children we were and let us re-live the joys past.

     I wish us all a Merry Christmas. After all the boxes under the tree are unwrapped, take a moment to untie the ribbon in your heart. Let loose the Christmas magic history that it holds.

         

Outrunning the Mothers curse.

               The household I grew up in was classified as "Chaotically Disengaged". Basically that means crazy and inconsistent. I enjoyed the insanity on most days. There was very little boredom and as an environment for a "non-linear" ADHD type child, long before there was a diagnosis, it turned into a pretty good fit.

                    To be fair, I was not an easy child to raise. At age seven or so, my mother would attempt to ground me. Sent to my room, I took apart my toys, transistor radios and calculators, along with anything else I could find, just to see how they worked. Often this was the initial cause of said groundings.

           I found interesting consequences to some of my experiments. On one such occasion I had the back of my walkie-talkie off and was adjusting the painted trim pots on the circuit board.

          I heard my mother swear from downstairs and get up to change the channel thru the four channels that we could recieve. This was long before cable and our T.V. reception was contingent on the station signal and the antennae perched precariously on our roof. Evidentaly, it seemed to be affected by my dissected  walkie- talkies, also. Before the disruption my mother was watching her soap opera. It was her only solace and the one single thing in her life that gave her a sense of continuity and sanity. I heard more cursing. I heard it getting louder.

                  Most children would take this as a sign to stop and desist.

                     I removed the heating vent near my dresser very quietly and tied the walkie- talkie by its antennae with a foot of fishing line to the grates fins and then gently lowered it down into the duct, being careful not to make contact with the ducts tin sides.

             I then seated the vent cover into its space and waited...

                 The next couple hours were not very pretty. Or quiet. Let's just say that my mother never found the exact source of the white fuzz and incessant buzzing from our T.V. set. Eventually, similar to Pavlovs test subjects, she put together the stimuli and effect. From then on I found myself grounded less and less..

                         Have you ever heard of the mothers curse? The one where they wish that you have a child just like yourself ? I have heard that curse thousands of times by now...

                    In some ways, it has come true. My son Jacob has been called my clone by my mother and her side of the family. I see in him the non-stop action, over the top energy and penchant for theatrics and over acting that I used to have. Nicholas has inherited my non-linear bend and a mind for thinking in systems. He is an outsider, a thinker and a watcher. Stephen is my rebel. His heart is amazingly sensitive and his will  is so strong that it scares me. When right, he refuses to back down.

        In them all, I see parts of the child I was, but by Gods grace I see influences that are not mine.

              I see in them my Wonderful Wife's gentleness and sensibilities. I see her rationality and common sense emanate from these children of ours. I see her unquenchable faith transferred  into all of them, simple and uncomplicated yet by an impending adulthood.

            Beyond our input, I hear our Churchs child workers and Bible school teachers. I hear in our boys Pastors stories and years of immersion in Temples children activities.

         So the curse? Is it real? Ask any parent and the answer is a resounding YES!

                                       But it is not absolute.

                There are greater forces at work and greater influences than my crazy childhood, long past, guiding their lives. They have Jesus and a soul all their own. Parts of me may exist in them, but they  are Children of God first...Foremost and always...

                  

A moment of silence

              I like to remember one of my favorite days from almost two decades ago. It comes to my mind frequently like a gentle haunting. Sometimes it appears when I come home for dinner; other times it shows up in a glance from this green couch I'm sitting in across our living room, to my Wonderful Wife's comfy chair.

          Our eyes meet and it brings me back to first day I met her. Not the first time I met her, really, but the first time I saw her. She doesn't remember it as well as I do. She couldn't. For her it was just another mildly interesting, slightly terrifying day. It would probably be different if she had my vantage point and saw what I saw, that night in the moonlight...

                  Almost nineteen years ago some friends of mine surprised me with a Birthday present, a ticket to a Nanci Griffith concert at a women's college in Massachusetts. Nanci Griffith is one of my favorite Folk musicians and my friends Kim and Julie were going to drive me there. Our friend Julia was supposed to join us but she had gotten sick the day before the show and given her ticket to a certain MaryAnne Butler. I had never met her, but when I did, I noticed that she was quite pretty. I secretly hoped that this was some kind of set- up. That was not to be. Within moments MaryAnne wove the fact that she was involved in a long term relationship into our conversation. Sad for me, but that was O.K...

                                            I was going to see Nanci Griffith!

                 MaryAnne and I sat in the back seat on the drive to the concert. I probably should point out that my friends Kim and Julie were lesbians and involved also in a long term relationship, so they sat together up front as Kim drove. 

                   What I always forget to mention is how I happened to look at that present moment in time.

           I was in an aging hippie phase, long hair and balding. Probably the most disturbing part of the picture was the " Charlie don't surf" Charles Manson tee shirt I was wearing.. Chalies crazy face was plastered across my chest in all his insanity. It never even crossed my mind that that might concern this lady sitting beside me. It seems that it had...

              As we finished all the easy small talk questions and answers and spoke more about our lives, MaryAnne became visibly more relaxed. She still was sitting next to a lunatic, but at least I seemed kind of harmless and did make her laugh...

           Arriving early, we found a student art exhibit and the four of us took our time checking out the paintings and sculptures. It seemed natural, all of us walking and talking about the works in front of us.

    The concert was about to start, so we went in and watched a really good folk music show..

               We left the concert and my friend Kim stole the Nanci Griffith poster out of its holder on the buildings wall.

      I didn't think anything about it at the time.

           There was a " Take back the night" rally after the show, so we traveled thru it reading the tee shirts, each covered with stories of abuse and survival. The ladies with me made me accutely aware that the Charlie tee shirt I was wearing may not be the most appropriate attire for an assembly against violence against women. They suggested I turn it inside out. I respectfully declined. A crowd gathered

twenty feet away and angry feminists began to point. Saner minds agreed that it might be an opportune time to make our departure.  I followed them.

             We started the long drive home, half laughing about the situation we escaped. Things quieted down for a moment, as the moon shone from my window across the seat into MaryAnnes face.

   She was looking out sideways from the back seat, thru the drivers side window.

       I looked into her eyes, deep and dark in the moonlight. I saw her.

             People talk about love at first sight. That is what happened that night. I looked into her gentle, tired eyes and something there connected with my heart. I smiled, somewhat sadly, knowing she was already involved. I made a joke to hear her laugh again. We spoke a few times more on the way home and went our separate ways.

      I continued hanging out with Kim and Julie. We all camped together with a bunch of friends and I saw Mare again. I joked, she laughed remembering the insanity of the night of the concert.

    We went our separate ways...

           One night Julie and I were outside on a porch, talking as she mentioned MaryAnne. She stopped for a moment and gave me a quizzical look. I asked what was wrong. "Nothing" she said, as she quietly looked at me.

     About a week later we stood on the same porch and she mentioned MaryAnne. A moment later she started laughing.  I asked what was so damn funny. She just laughed and walked away.

       A few more days passed and a group of us were standing outside talking. Once again Julie mentioned MaryAnne. Seconds later she commenced laughing, saying "You don't even know you do it, do you? You really don't know.."

        This woman was crazy. " Do what?" I asked.

       "Every time I say MaryAnne's name you stop for a second and look down. Then you go on with what you were saying. Every time I say her name, you have a tiny moment of silence!"

            Other people piped in "He does!" " We never noticed it before, but he does!" 

             I told them all they were crazy. I would notice if I did something like that.

                               I never knew it, but it was true...

                   Years later, many years later we met for dinner at the friends house who's ticket she had on the trip to the concert. MaryAnne now was recently saved and single. 

        Things went fast. We were engaged in a few months and married later that same year.

       For an engagement gift our friend Kim gave us the Nanci Griffith poster she stole that night.

    Two Christmas's ago, Mare had it professionally framed and gave it to me on Christmas morning.

       The boys wondered what the heck was going on with dad. He was crying..

              So now you know about " The moment of silence".

The Burning Bush

            It seems my heart has been traveling backward, to the places before I was saved, going to those prepetory areas of the past.

                It is no secret that I was a fall down, pass out in his own puke, urinated on by dogs,frozen to the sidewalk drunk.

                          That about sums it up...

                   Early on, I spent a lot of time bouncing in and out of Alcoholics Anonymous. I would walk thru its doors, generally in the basement of a Church and sit at the back table, quietly waiting for the moment I dreaded; the time in the meeting when they would ask if anyone is here for their first time, or coming back after relapse. Then they would give you a chip, white in color, to signify surrender to the disease and commitment to try sobriety again, one day at a time.

                    In a few years, I had quite a collection of those "White chips". Sometimes I used them to play poker. I had made a month sober a few times and ninety days once, I think. I had so many that once the old guy running the meeting that night refused to give me one. He said " Why waste it on him, he's just going to go back out again". He was right. I did. 

         I was cursed at that time with the one thing that will torture an active alcoholics life more than anything else, anywhere, in this world.

                                      Hope.

                  Somewhere deep inside was a fragment of hope that I could change, that someday I might WANT to change...

                            Wanting to want to change; an alcoholic Hell.

                               Don't worry. It does get better.

                           About six months later I was stationed at Norfolk, Virginia. It had been just over ninety days since my last drink. I had read most of the books, had the " One day at a time" bumper sticker on my Volkswagen van and was doing pretty darn good. I was attending meetings three or four times a week and sometimes shared at those meetings. I had heard of miracles, those times " God remains anonymous" as we liked to say. Stories of people on the brink having someone show up out of the blue and say something that changed their mind, touched their soul and gave them the strength enough to stay sober that particular one more day..

                     Great stories, but that had never happened to me.

                      I awoke one night about eleven o'clock at night and knew I was going to drink again. No rush, I thought, the bars would be closing in three hours. I would do it tommorow, sleep in to prepare.

                   The next afternoon I was in my van, driving down the main drag, heading for my old man style drinking hole called The Green Wheel Inn. I thought of those times that they had talked about and I spoke to God as I continued my drive to the bar. "  I've heard the stories so here's the deal. If someone from A.A. flags me down on the way to the bar, I won't drink". It was a suckers bet, I had about half a mile left before the turn into the parking lot.

                    Crazy thing is God is NOT a sucker. Seconds after I made this deal, a car on my left honked his horn. I looked over and a man was rolling down his passenger side electric window and waving, trying to get my attention...

     Frustrated, this was the only time in my life I hoped it was some gay guy trying to pick me up. I wanted to drink, damn it!

               He continued this game of charades until I rolled down my drivers side window. At the red light he yelled over " Are you a friend of Bill Wilson"?

               This is the way someone from A.A. asks if you are a member. Bill Wilson started A.A. so they ask if you are his friend. The A.A. secret handshake thing..

          I looked over at his smiling, concerned face and quietly said "Yes".

     " I was driving down the road and noticed your bumper sticker. Out of the blue something told me to stop you and say hello, let you know I'm in A.A." he said.

      " Yes, I'm in A.A. . Thanks for letting me know" I told him. He smiled, rolled up his window and drove away. I changed lanes then pulled into a parking lot. Instead of turning around I stopped the van, got out and went to the back bumper and proceeded to rip off the Mylar " One day at a time" bumper sticker. " This will never happen again" I said and walked into the bar. I drank there until they closed...

                       The Burning Bush. God had not only put The Burning Bush in front of me, He basically made it a forest fire. At that moment two things happened inside of me. The first was the distinct realization that I could never blame God again for my drinking. That was abundantly clear. He created a miracle and I rejected it. God would no longer be my scapegoat.

              The second thing actually gave me some comfort. I had lost all hope. I knew that my choice was made, un changeable , undeniable. Even if my heart did change, I had read The Bible and knew what happened when Moses lacked faith and hit the rock twice for water. He was denied seeing the promised land.

      It didn't matter. I was at peace. God took my last excuse. The torment of doubt was over and I could go on in that peace..

               

     I may have remembered Moses, but I evidently forgot about Jesus.

                            Six months later, after a series of nights drinking bourbon, eating slices of bread to keep down the booze and puking up that mixture with my own blood into a pail in my lap, I passed out for the last time.

                 This time God did not show me a Burning Bush. He sent one of his own precious children with a simple choice. Die a meaningless death after a meaningless life or accept the Salvation Jesus freely offered. That fragment of hope returned, turning out to be The Holy Spirit. It grew inside and changed the man who rejected Gods miracle months before. The new man accepted, repented and changed.

                        I told you it got better..

                  Second chances...thousandth chances...last chances..

                      He gives them to us all and Graces us with the vision to see them.

                        I missed the Burning Bush. I was meant to. God had much more to teach and I had much more to learn. When He was ready, He made me ready.

                             I guess it is just as simple as that..

Graceful or Graced...

   About twenty years ago or so, I was having a soda at Friendly's with an older ladyfriend after an A.A. Meeting.

  I mentioned I was interested in a mutual acquaintance. She politely told me I was not our friends type.

   " Shelly likes the GQ type, suave, sophisticated" she gently stated.

       " I can be suave and sophisticated " I said, defensively...

          Diet soda actually came out of her nose, she laughed so hard. 

         " You could NEVER be suave and sophisticated. Never." ( more laughter ) " The woman that ends up with you will NOT be with you because you are smooth or graceful. Sorry.. The good news is she will be with you for the qualities you actually have..."

            Wisdom and truth are wasted on the young and foolish.

            I spent many painful months(years) trying to prove my wise old friend wrong. Eventually, I  did prove the opposite; the extremely evident truth that I always inwardly knew but chose to ignore.

          I will never be graceful. 

               For some reason, I always resented and disliked " Those people ".

                   You know who I'm talking about. Tall. Attractive. Well built. Sleek and athletic.

   The people who make the impossible look easy, no miss-steps, no hair out of place, completely comfortable with an effortless charm and flowing words...

           I always believed they had it easy with the excessive gifts they were given. I envied them and actually coveted their way of being.

         Not only did they wear the right clothes, but what they wore looked GOOD on them. Always in style. I could put on a $500 suit, tailored and pressed but I will still look like a barroom brawler that was hijacked and dressed against his will. I would find a way to wrinkle a suit after the undertaker put me in it...

        Even in Church I saw these people. I would silently wish I knew the  special prayers they said.

        

                      But funny things do happen on the way to the forum...

               

  Since those early days a lot has happened. Early on, about the time of the above conversation,  I was graced with amazing opportunities to actually get to know some of these people, as .. people.  Past the small talk. Past the sports talk I knew nothing about. 

         I sat in circles and listened to some of these "paragons" as they fell apart. I learned how much effort they put into the appearance, the inward terror they had that someone might actually see past the well manicured show. In them i saw the exact same fears, insecurities and failabilities that were in ...me?

          I grew up on the wrong side of the street. Much different lessons, but still chained to the show. I learned to hide pain, creating a veneer that nothing really mattered, nothing touched me, in the vain attempt of the  terminally cool. I could lose all I had and laugh it off. I could laugh off anything.  If that didn't work I could do something crazy or stupid enough to distract anything the curtain wasnt able to hide...

       When we sat together, " Those People" and me and we got real, an incredible event took place.

          We realized that although we may have been polar opposites,  we were the same coin..

               It has been many years and I still look like a barroom brawler. I have heard some people still see me as un approachable. I do give that impression. I'm still not good at changing that body language. But... If you do walk up and start an actual conversation you will not be bamboozled by the show. I will talk about the things of my heart, my Wonderful Wife and three of the best boys the Lord has seen fit to put on this earth. I will tell you of my struggles, victories and occaisonal failures in trying to be a good man. If you stay long enough you will realize that the physical facade is just how my body looks.

         You know the same thing is often true of " Those People " too...

       I have found that if I walk up and start a conversation with them, a real conversation, the small talk disappears. We talk about about Wives and kids and the stupid human commonalities we all share.

      I may never be graceful. In fact, that is a certainty. But I have been excessively graced, allowed past not just my walls but also the walls of many others. If today God gave me the choice between graced and graceful it would be a no- brainier.

   Graced, every time.

              

             

            

      

Crazy kids in the Church basement.

          As my children ran rampant thru our Church basement and I chased, cajoled and threatened them to stop and stand still , what went thru my mind was my own Church going experiences at their age. We walked in, dipped our fingers in Holy Water, made the sign of the Cross ,genuflected before entering the pew and kneeled.

         We did a lot of kneeling. Children were to be micro-adults. If you squirmed too much or laughed at your brother, a smack on the head was a fairly appropriate response from one or the other of your parents. It would not go unnoticed by the Nuns either. You would see them again at Church school Thursday afternoons. You WOULD be reminded...

          Discipline. You did learn discipline.

              In my mind I feel like I should have that type of control over my kids. I was raised that you speak when spoken to. Above all else in school, Church and your own family...

                           You know your place.

                   Fast forward a couple thousand years. My kids don't fear me. They do not fear their Church. These boys feel completely loved and at home with their Mom and Dad, Pastors and Church family. If they get too rambunctious, there are a half dozen people who will lovingly slow them down and let my Wonderful Wife and I know.

                           I would dare not talk back or question my Dad. He was raised in the camps in WW2 and the accepted child rearing philosophy then was that kids were beat every day, whether they did anything wrong or not. The logic was they must have done, said or thought something wrong and if they hadn't that particular day, it would still be good for their constitution. You can never have to much discipline.

                       My Dad did not follow that course with us, but corporal punishment was present, frequently.  He did an amazing job in diluting the parental skills he was taught. He had his children's respect and like his parents, he had our fear also.

                         I love my Dad and have very real respect for him. The fear is long since passed.

       He is the most gentle person I know. Somewhere long ago he made peace with his upbringing and changed. This is one of Gods great blessings in my life.

                            My children enjoy the gentleness that is in me. They do respect their Mother and I, although their reaction to our directions are not neccacarilly instantaneous.

         It may take repeating something more than once. Neither of our parents ever had to do that..

                We have found that we love the child that is in them now. That means the distractions, excuses and infrequent defiance also. We deal with it and address it but it is still a part of the child they are. They will become adults. Our style of guidance and teaching and discipline is a bit more taxing. (understatement). But we will guide them thru this,  with Gods help.                                                                                                                                                   It would be so much quicker and easier to break their spirits.  Like our parents did. But the cost..

             I tell my children I love them more on most days than my father told me in my life. The flip side is also true. I have told him I love him about the exact same amount of times...

                                               Did I mention the cost?

                 I hear it less nowadays, but they do say they love me. Comfortably and naturally when they do. I envy that. This is a great gift God has given us and I treasure it over any material possession I own. I wish I had that with my own dad. 

             So I hear them laugh at Church and be loved by their silly Pastor. I watch children run thru the sanctuary to get a hug from him, Pastor Duke.. They are welcomed and encouraged in this. He knows them all by name.

    When the service starts the atmosphere does change. If a child gets rambunctious, they are brought out to another area. The Service is respected and Holy. We worship and often children are part of it.

         I have no issue with the Church I was raised in. They taught me much and for that I am grateful.

                Jesus said to let the children come to him. My children and many others have come to him in our Church.Not out of fear or duty. They went to him with love. 

         Jesus is raising us all in the same way, regardless of age or experience. He loves us exactly where we are at, regardless of our distractions, excuses and occasional defiances. For some of us he let us live a life that would break our own spirit. Like a good father, he stands on the hill, waiting for his prodigal sons and daughters to come home, robe and ring ready.