Category: God stuff

On Penn State, and Protecting Your Camp

I read an article on CNN this morning that was talking about the utter failure of Penn State to protect children from Jerry Sandusky when they were well aware of his fondness for raping young boys.

Apparently, the image of the school and its storied football program was much more important than the physical harm, sexual abuse, and irreversible psychological damage done to a series of boys over something like a decade.

This is so hard to get my mind around. These men knew what Sandusky had done and could potentially still do. And they did nothing. Marine and blogger “America’s Sgt Major” wrote a great piece back in 2011 just as the story was becoming nationally prominent.

Let me be as clear as I am able. As a believer, I am well aware of the measure of forgiveness dealt to me, and I am grateful for it. As a man who is a father, and is not a pedophile, I think of it like this:

If I was camping with my family and a bear was threatening the camp, I would take appropriate measures to ensure the safety of my family. If a member of my family was somehow hurt, then typically the bear would be captured and possibly destroyed.

Or you could consider what would happen to a dog that bit ten people.

Either way, the animal would no longer be a threat. The men at Penn State had a chance to prevent a lot of pain and they pissed it away out of self-preservation.

I know that as a follower of Christ I should forgive Sandusky and pray for him, that he might repent of his many sins.

I struggle with that. Some things–as a man and father–are difficult if not impossible to forgive.

Now, thankfully, Jerry Sandusky is reaping what he has sown. He is no longer a threat. And he will likely be a marked man wherever he is incarcerated.

Now I find myself thinking not that I hope he turns to Christ, but that he meets a very special friend in prison that will show him what it feels like to be a victim.

I know it’s wrong to feel that way, but I am a human being. I think of the DC Talk song “In The Light.”

This only serves to confirm my suspicion
That I’m still a man in need of a savior

Sometimes…

I look at what the world has become and it is easy to imagine Jesus weeping over a city.

It seems that we–both as individuals and as a culture–have not just forgotten God, but have forgotten how to treat others as people.

Death is everywhere. There are wars and rumors of wars. We make movies and write books about kids fighting to the death for entertainment. We play games where you can wander the streets and kill prostitutes.

Society has also taken an act designed by God to show love between husband and wife and made all manner of perversion commonplace. There’s a series of widely read books right now that has millions of stay-at-home mothers thinking Sadism & Masochism is normal (and we’re not just talking about a little slap and tickle).

It’s not the way God wired us, people.

Yet we have so damaged each other through our actions, words, and even entertainment that bondage and murder are fun ways to spend a few hours. Playing at them, anyway.

It’s like we’re on a treadmill powered by the world and getting pulled farther and farther away from God and his plan for our lives.

The question I’ve been thinking about is how do we get off the treadmill without making things worse?

What comes to my mind is Jesus sitting on a hill and weeping for the people that will soon call for his execution.

He didn’t weep for himself. He wept for his people.

He still does.

Scars

I knew this girl a while back that used to cut herself. I didn’t really get it at the time–it kind of freaked me out, to tell you the truth. It wasn’t until much later that she explained it to me as it was a way for her to control something–some part of her life, because the rest of it was sort of a whirlwind.

I didn’t get how slicing her flesh offered her any measure of relief, but she actually seemed happier when she was doing it than when she wasn’t. It wasn’t until much later on in our rather complicated relationship that I saw the latticework of scars on her arms and legs. It took her a long time to show them to me, and she did the best she could to always hide them.

But once I saw them, I always knew they were there.

A month or so ago, I heard a song on the radio that finally gave me some measure of understanding of this girl, and her need to harm herself.

I think the song is called “Scars,” by Jonny Diaz, and the refrain goes “Praise God we don’t have to hide scars.”

The girl I knew thought she needed to hide her scars from me and the world because once we saw them we would either turn away in horror, or keep looking, and either pity her or think she was off her gourd. Either way, we would look at her differently, and never the same afterward.

She didn’t know she could trust me not to look away, until one day she did. I wanted to cry the first time I saw the scars, but I couldn’t allow myself to do it. Instead I just looked, and said something like “I’m sorry you had to do that.”

I think it’s the same with Jesus.

We don’t want to trust Him with our scars, because they hurt, or because they’re ugly, and we know that if we show them to Him, he’ll look at us differently afterward. Or maybe we feel like He’ll hurt us more once He knows what we’ve done to ourselves, or what’s been done to us by others.

The bible promises us that isn’t true. Isaiah 42:3 says “A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.”

I think that’s so true.

He sees us in our brokenness, and He sees our scars. He wept for us before we knew Him, and he weeps still, that we hurt.

But a bruised reed He will not break.

I don’t know if that girl I used to know ever trusted Jesus with her scars. It may be she did, and if that happened I praise God for the healing He undoubtedly brought her.

He can bring that healing to you, just as He brought it to me (anyone with a bunch of time to kill is welcome to peruse my blog if you want more details about any of that).

Just know you don’t have to hide your scars, not from Jesus, and not from the people you love.

Praise God we don’t have to hide scars…

The Gray Haired Man

We stopped at the Circle K on 24th Street and avenue B on the way home from Sunday dinner at Ken & Linda’s place last night. I had a paper to write on the Passion Week and knew I’d be up a little later than usual and would need a caffeine boost so I’d be able to retain my usual literary standard of mediocrity.

We pulled up in front of the store and I could see a few customers in line as I got out of Jen’s car. One of them was a sixty-something older gentleman with long, dirty gray hair and a straggly beard. He was an obvious homeless man by the look of him. I didn’t see what he bought, and I didn’t see him leave the store as I walked in.

I got Jen and I some drinks and as I turned to pay, I could see he was gone. David came into the store just then and told me Jen told him to come and tell me there was a man on the sidewalk outside and I should get him something.

I said OK, and stepped out of line.

I grabbed a sandwich and bottle of water from the cold case as I stood and talked to David.

“Mom said he was by the pay phone,” he said, “but I didn’t see him.”

I wondered how many other people hadn’t seen him? I probably would not have if David had not come into the store. I told David to go back to the car and I would be there in a minute.

I stepped outside and the gray haired man was sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk next to the pay phone, holding an almost-empty bottle of water. He was looking left-to-right, right-to-left and muttering unintelligibly to himself.

I crouched down in front of him and handed him the bag with the sandwich and the water. “I thought you might want something to eat.”

He looked at me almost like he was angry, and continued the muttering and whispering and darting his head back and forth. Jen told me later the woman in the car next to us told her the gray haired man “didn’t like people to help.”

“My name is Tom,” I said. He looked at me for a second and stopped muttering. He held out his hand. I shook his hand and noticed he had lesions of some kind on his face.

“I knew a guy named Tom once,” he said clearly. Then he went back to scanning and muttering.

I listened for a moment to see if he’d say anything else I could understand, and he just looked back and forth, back and forth.

“I have to go,” I said. I wished him God’s blessing and got back into Jen’s car.

As we backed out, we could see him take the cap from the new water bottle and pour a little on the sidewalk. I told Jen we used to do that if or when someone died. We’d pour out a little beer and say, “for absent friends.”

I wondered if the gray haired man poured water for an absent friend, or if he had a friend at all. Either way, I was glad I’d spoken to him, and shook his hand.

Whatever clouded his head had cleared long enough for him to reach out his hand to mine. He’d understood me, and had spoken to me so I could understand him.

He’d known a guy named Tom once. And now again.

It occurred to me once again I have not arrived yet where I need to be. I should not have needed my wife or my son to tell me someone needed help. I need to pray for better vision, and eyes to see.

I need Jesus to break my heart for what breaks his.

I plan to do my best to see people from now on, least of these or otherwise.

Everyone deserves to be seen.

That Dad

I don’t remember my father very well. He’s been gone since 1984, and sometimes it’s hard to picture his face when I think about him. He used to make these Super 8mm movies all the time and would record narration on this cassette recorder he carried like a satchel while he filmed. I don’t have the movies, but I have a few of the tapes he made, and I can hear what his voice sounded like. It’s hard to put that voice with the pictures I do have. That makes me a little sad, when I think about it. It’s also sad that he’ll never meet my wife, or my kids.

My memories of my dad take the form of a series of incidents—specific memories—rather than a continuous narrative. I always had the idea in my head that since my father and I weren’t that close, I didn’t have any of the scars, or wounds, or traumatic childhood memories that many of the kids I knew with absent fathers had to deal with. I didn’t realize how deeply my experience with my own father had affected my life until I really tried to think about it, and remember.

My experience with my dad was not abusive, by any means. Nor was he exactly neglectful in the sense that most people would define neglect. It was just not a particularly loving or nurturing relationship, though I did get that from my sisters and my mother, when she was able to give it.

I can understand the way my father was to an extent, because men of his era weren’t raised in the “touchy-feely” style of parenting you see everywhere today. They expected certain things from their children, and did not expect others. Sharing feelings was part of that. Seems to me most men coming of age in the 1930’s and 40’s simply were not raised to be in touch with their feelings, or anyone else’s. My dad did the best he could with the tools he had to work with. But he was definitely not Ward Cleaver.

He would sometimes bring me places with him, but all I can remember about that was sitting in his truck with the windows rolled up and watching him yell at people (he was a cement mason, and I got to visit a few job sites). I remember he would sometimes get so mad the big veins would stand out on the side of his neck and his face would turn red. I didn’t inherit his temper, thank goodness. I’m hoping it doesn’t skip down to John, either, though he too is very vocal when things don’t go the way he likes.

Other times Dad would take me sailing with him, which was something extremely difficult for me. Actually, I hated it, but was made to go often enough that I became resigned to it, after a fashion–seasickness was the rule rather than exception. I didn’t always puke, but I did always feel like I would be better off if I did. I could tell that it frustrated/disappointed him a little, but he never really said much about it. He had his sea legs, and I just…didn’t. I felt like I should have enjoyed myself, and something was wrong because I didn’t.

Still, I would do my best to elicit praise (or really even attention) from him whenever possible. I would bring him coffee in the mornings on weekends when I was small. I would run to the liquor store to fetch the paper. I would sometimes ask to go places with him I really didn’t even want to go just to tag along, and be with him. I remember riding to Thrifty to get ice cream with him on a couple of occasions when I was small, and sitting on the back of his motorcycle, clutching him desperately. It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

I see a lot of that now with David. At 7, he is possessed of a curiosity about nearly everything, and every time I leave the house, he asks if he can come along. It doesn’t matter where I’m going. And I can reach back and see myself doing the same thing with my own father. I wonder if he had the same thoughts in his head I do with David? I wonder if he struggled with the same things I do? The same doubts? Did he wonder about whether or not he was a good father, or if he was messing up his kids and teaching them the wrong things about what is important?

In any case, I can now appreciate what it’s like to be the father of a small boy at + 40 and counting. It’s not easy. And I don’t want to leave the wrong impression. There are plenty of good memories as well. Good and bad, in equal measure.

My favorite memory of my dad was when I was maybe 5 or 6, I think. I would get up early sometimes, so I would be there when he left for work. I would say, “See you later, alligator,” and he would respond, “After a while, crocodile.” Not original, I know now, but it meant a lot to me then. Sadly, the older I got, the less I would get up to see him off, and our little routine soon disappeared.

But for the most part, my efforts were of little avail. I’ve spoken to my sisters about it, and the consensus was that it was just how dad was. He would provide, but it seemed he often would not or could not provide much affection. I can’t speak for all of my siblings, but I can’t remember much but apathy from him toward my life. I was pretty much free to do my own thing. I think I would have been satisfied with even a little validation, but like many of the other things in my childhood, the only place I got it was from my sisters.

The thing that was so frustrating about that was that I wanted him to care what I was doing. I wanted it desperately, but the only time that seemed to happen was when the possibility arose of costing him some money. Like shopping for school clothes, or getting school pictures taken.

I’m sure that much of it was that his work was seasonal, and we often didn’t have much money. Regardless of the reason, what it began to feel like after a while was that I was an obligation, and should not expect to have much spent on me–time, or money, or anything else. I don’t know if that was true, but I do know that’s how it felt. I can still feel it. So I would wear old clothes that used to belong to my brother, or were obtained at thrift shops. If it was new, it usually came from one of my sisters. Dad made it very clear that he did not like to have to “waste” money on things (I know how the preceding paragraph sounds, believe me. I’m just trying for a little clarity about where much of my needs as a child ranked in the household priorities, or at least how I felt they did).

Still, Christmases were not that bad (thanks to my sisters, usually). The interesting thing about them is that they were often more like my parents growing up than my parents were. Anyway, back to my father.

I think the thing lacking most in my relationship with my dad was something I didn’t even know was missing until much later in my life, and when I did, things began to make more sense to me. Well, the plain truth was that he while he provided as best he could, he did not really father me, in the traditional sense. By that I mean doing “dad” things–I’m not implying an infidelity by any means–anyone who sees me and a picture of my dad would know I inherited more than just his road rage.

In my opinion, one the main responsibilities of a father is to raise his son, not just being there as he grows, but participating in his life, and teaching him. He, as a father, is meant to pass on knowledge, and truth. Not just throw a football around, but being there in more than a physical sense. I missed most of that. I would drive off a bridge before I would give David and John that kind of childhood.

Yet…

In a sense, I can’t blame my father that much–he was just about 40 when I came along, and probably thought he was long since done with kids. And when I got older, he was still doing a hard job at a much older age than most of the men he worked for and with. It must have been so difficult. Work was dependent on so many things, and money was tight most of the time.

One of the things I’ve struggled with most since becoming a believer is the notion that Jesus will think of me and treat me the same way my earthly father did. And that assumption helped to generate a great many lies about God, that I’m ashamed to say seemed very much like truth for much of my life.

1. He did not care about me

2. He did not mean for me to be here

3. He did not love me

4. I was not important to him

5. My wants and needs as a child did not matter to him

The Lord has been working on helping me find the truth of these statements, and others like them, which is completely opposite from what I was telling myself.

Interesting how difficult it is to separate my memories of my earthly father with my misconceptions about Jesus. It something that I continually need to refresh myself on, and in truth, it seems like it’s going to take forever. Another useful application of truth to pray for would be the realization that healing is a lifelong process. I know this, but sometimes I don’t know it.

This is something I’ve been battling for what feels like years, and I periodically find myself wandering off into the wilderness, spiritually speaking.

Sometimes I feel like God is not listening to me, and I allow myself to believe that he shouldn’t be. I feel like a little kid, following him around and pulling at his shirttails, begging for attention. The hardest part for me, more often than not, is connecting my head knowledge of God with what I know I mean to Him in my heart.

Because knowing is one thing, but feeling is another.

Lately I’ve been realizing more and more that the healing I’ve experienced is great, but I should by no means think I’ve arrived. I am not complete, and I won’t be until I stand before the Throne and Jesus says “Well done.” Hopefully.

What does Jeremiah say? “Look for me, and you will find me when you seek me with all your heart.”

I will find Him when I seek him with all my heart? Have I been seeking Him with all my heart? Have I really? Have I prostrated myself before Him in prayer, and thrown myself on the altar? Have I earnestly and truly sought his counsel? Have I asked him to be my Father?

The answer is sometimes. When I am at my most bleak, certainly. But have I been sharing the blessings of my life with Him? Of course, He knows well enough how blessed I am, but have I been going to Him in delight at what he’s shown me and done in my life? Have I been running to Him and saying, “Look, daddy, Look!”

No.

I haven’t. I didn’t do that with my dad, either.

When I look at him through my adult eyes, I see that he probably did the best he could. He loved me in the way he was capable of loving. He was not a bad person, but he was older than his years, and so very tired. And in that regard, I need to forgive him his shortcomings. I can’t believe it was so hard to really “get” that. I’ve been working on forgiving other people in my life for a long time, and it never occurred to me Dad was one of those people.

I need to confess my own shortcomings as a son as well, and ask Jesus to forgive them. I don’t know if my father is with Him or not, but I know I’ll find out one day–hopefully not for a long time. I also need to ask forgiveness of my shortcomings as a father. I see with alarming clarity how much of my father is in me now in regard to my work and my relationship with my boys.

I am spending (or expending) so much of my time and energy on my work that I have very little left when I get home. I am not an absent father, but I am often absent in the way the boys need me the most.

That’s not acceptable, not at all.

I think that’s why the movie Courageous touched me so much. It detailed with remarkable clarity the struggle of being a Christ-following father in a world that could often not care less about the edification of its children. The film deals with real issues that trouble every dad, not just Christian fathers. It’s about taking responsibility for the upbringing of your kids, and teaching them the path to follow when they’re young so they don’t depart from it when they’re older.

I told myself often when I was younger that I would never become the father my own dad was, and was not. In many ways I’ve succeeded, but I have also failed.

Thanks to scripture, and prayer, and truth being revealed to me in several ways (including Courageous), I have come to realize that it is not too late to change. It is not too late to make good on my own failures as a father, and to show my kids what God can do in a life.

I tell you this: it is not too late for you, either.

Take your doubts about yourself and about God to the Father. Find accountability as a man, and as a Christ-following father. This is—or can be—the hardest part of the whole thing, but it is also one of the most important. You need to realize you are not alone, and you never were. This will involve supplication, and require humility and transparency. You might not be used to such things as a man, but I promise you in the end the dividends paid through finding the ability in yourself to put forth these things will be enormous.

So even if you are “that Dad,” and told yourself you never would be, you can change.

How to Play

One thing I’ve noticed of late is the longer I’m married and the older my kids get, the harder it is to relate to unmarried people, or people with no kids. I imagine it’s like that for everyone. Single people talk about things like the latest movies, or what they did over the weekend. You can’t really relate because you haven’t been to the movies in a year, and what you usually do on the weekend is laundry and grocery shopping because both you and your wife work all week.

What is fun is getting together with other people in the same place as yourself and telling “my kid” stories–because one thing kids are is funny. My 18 month old, for instance. Time Warner has a channel here (2), which shows slides for local businesses and services while playing classic and current pop music, interspersed with the occasional classic rock tune. John likes to change it there and listen to the music while he watches the slides. Yesterday he was rocking out to Careless Whisper by Wham!

My older son was talking about something last night he called his “wiener-titty” and it was all I could do to stay composed long enough to figure out he meant “nipple.” I don’t remember why he mentioned it.

Married couples with kids have tons of stories like this, and you need to hear them to balance out the terror and uncertainty of child-rearing. Make no mistake, as hard as baby-sitting might seem at times, it ain’t got nothing on being a full-time parent, especially a stay at home parent. I only do that once in a while when I have time off and at the end of the day I just want to hang out with my wife for a little while and talk about things that aren’t about video games or cartoons.

My boys have so much energy, and while it’s catching for the first part of the day, usually by about 1500 I feel like Tokyo after Godzilla came through. Sometimes I wonder if they haven’t been to an al Al-Quaeda training camp.

I think I found the problem this morning, after being home with John all day, and David in the afternoon the day before.

I forgot how to play.

In the mess of work, and church, and family, and life, I forgot how to play.

My kids will be happy to teach me again, and I am looking forward to learning.
This morning, God had a word for me when I sat down to read. It may be for you, too.

Enjoy your kids, tiring as they may be. Remember how to play, and wrestle, and throw a ball, and have tea parties, and draw pictures, and color, and get dirty.

Remember how to play.
Life is different now, and that’s OK.

Kicked in the Nuts

Last Wednesday morning I woke up feeling completely spent–like I could sleep for about a year and it wouldn’t be enough. It seems like the alarm clock has been going off at 0400 forever. I went out to the living room like I usually do to do my reading, but this morning I could hardly stay awake enough to do it, so in the interest of not dozing off and waking up at 0600 when Jenny got up, I decided to just get ready for work earlier instead.

That woke me up, but it didn’t get me any more focused. I gave up and left for work. I asked God to give me a little better perspective on my work. I’ve been having a problem being grateful for what I have, and growing almost resentful about all that I have been missing in regard to my family and my kids. I listened to XM63, The Message, while driving to work, and the last song I heard before I drove up to the gate really kicked me in the nuts—it was by Mark Schultz, and I think it was called “He Was Walking Her Home.”

It made me think about my wife. I hope we have 80 years together, but even if we don’t, after a little while, we’ll have forever.

After getting to my office, I decided to listen to more music on the way to my test site, so I popped in my ear buds, and put the Iphone on shuffle. Got kicked in the nuts a bunch more times:

1. What Love Really Means by JJ Heller

2. Glorious Day by Todd Agnew

3. Give Me Words To Speak by Aaron Shust

4. Washed by the Water by Needtobreathe

5. Where I Belong by Building 429

6. God by Stryper

7. Come to the Water, by Matt Maher

8. Alaba el Padre by En Espiritu y en Verdad

And because my Iphone is crazy:

9. Big Ten Inch Record by Aerosmith

I think it’s going to be a good day.

Indiana Wilkins and the Temple of Prose

Everyone has different gifts.

This is something I have heard a great deal over the course of my life, especially since moving to Yuma. I married into a family that was extremely gifted musically, and I am not…similarly gifted. I can carry a tune enough not to embarrass myself, but I am not the lifelong singer my wife and her father are.

As if that weren’t enough, they can also play. My wife plays the flute beautifully, and Ken plays anything with strings and several without. Jenny’s brother John is an amazing rock drummer, and my 7 year old son is already a better drummer than I would be if I lived to be a 1000 years old.

I can’t bang a triangle at dinner time.

That used to bum me out a little because I felt like I would fit better in the family if I could play something. I would see them up there playing and worshipping and I would feel like I was missing something.

And then I realized this is my act of worship; writing. I sing my praises through a keyboard instead of a microphone.

God gave me a decent enough brain, and the ability to turn a written phrase—and I do not have the fear that many do to speak in front of people, thanks to 4 years in the drama class of the incomparable Ed Hollingsworth.

So this is what I do.

I write.

I speak my mind to a captive audience of perhaps two or three readers. What I was meant to do? This may be part of it, but certainly not all of it.

Now, approaching my mid-40’s, I find myself heeding the still, small voice, and doing something I would have not even considered the possibility of just a few short years ago, prior to marrying the amazing Jennifer Wilkins.

I’m going to bible college.

Where that will take me, I do not know with any kind of certainty. I do know it is the right thing to do, and the obedient one.

So I will read, and study, and write—unfortunately, this will mostly consist of essays. And the occasional short burst of something like this, time permitting.

The adventure continues…

Of Sons, Oysters, and Self-Image

I have been struggling with my older son.

It’s my fault.

The struggles have been myriad, and are mainly due to baggage I brought with me from my previous life. We became a family in 2008, and he was 4 at the time. He’d already had 4 years with my wife’s awesome family, and had learned about many things I had no idea about growing up.

He grew up with the best Grandparents probably ever, and they did all they could to help my wife teach him how to be a man, using all the tools given them. I cannot think of a better example of the sort of man I would want my sons to be like than their grandfather. He loves God, and serves God, and does not put himself first. He takes care of his family, and he took care of mine, too, for the first year of my marriage.

That baggage I was talking about. What I brought to my marriage and new life as father to a 4 year old boy was the lessons I’d learned about parenting from my own father. He was very old school, and had some particular ideas about what kids should be like, boys especially. These ideas I brought with me to my marriage, and it didn’t matter that I told myself I was not going to be like him. I was. So when my son would do things any little boy would do, I held them up to my father’s standards for me. I didn’t even realize I was doing it until fairly recently.

I have to find a way around that. I am not my dad, and my son is not me.

It wasn’t that my dad talked about how he expected things to be—he didn’t talk about much at all, except to get pissed about things and yell every once in a while. I could just tell what he seemed to wish I was like based on the things he liked to do, things I would tag along for because I liked to be with him, but never really got a taste for.

He liked to sail, and I got seasick constantly. I sailed with him, though, because I liked to be around him and I wanted to get to the point where he wanted to be around me. I don’t know that he didn’t, but I also don’t know that he did, because he never talked about it, ever. I can’t recall a single occurrence of my dad talking about feelings—his, or anyone else’s.

I assume he loved me because he was my dad, but he never told me that I can remember.

I don’t want to be that guy—that father—so I try and be as vocal as I can with the boys about how I feel. I am not sure how much the baby understands, but I want him to know from the beginning how I feel. So I tell him. I tell them.

Still, it can get frustrating sometimes, because whether he knows it or not, my older son brought some things into our family as well. I believe his age when we met (4) until maybe a couple years from now is one of the times in our lives when we form the core parts of our personality. It is when we are the most malleable and just soak up things like those big, round sponges you see people use in bathtub scenes in older movies.

Anyway, what my son brought to this particular table is also not his fault. He brought what he does remember (not much) of his father, who was not much of a father at all, and does not deserve to be. Not of this boy. This boy is good, and should be treated as such.

Sometimes I wonder, though, if my son does not remember this man at times, and expect what he remembers from me.

Another thing is that all the things I love so much about my wife are also present in this strong, willful, resourceful, and very intelligent young man.

This means there are times when we butt heads. From what I understand from my wife, this is exactly what she was like as a child.

What occurred to me this morning was that if I want things to be different—and if I want him to be different—there are certain things I must and must not do.

The first thing is that I must be different.

If I want him to be more generous, I need to teach him about generosity, not how to hold onto things.

If I want him to be more loving of other people beyond himself, I need to teach him about God, and the message of Jesus.

If I want him to be respectful of myself and others, then I need to do the same, starting with him.

If I want him to speak in a kind manner, then….well, so do I, even when I don’t feel like it.

And the truth is, he will learn from me, whether I purposefully teach him or not. So will the baby.

That being said, I believe serving God with my whole heart is a good place to start. So is prayer. Neither of those things will change God—they will change me.

Because I believe the way a boy looks at his father is the way he looks at God. He won’t necessarily mean to, but he will. That’s what I did, and that’s what was at the core of many of my preconceived notions about Jesus and what I meant to Him.

I don’t want my sons going through the same things about me.

The truth is that because he did not tell me, I have no idea what I meant to my father on earth. It is not the same with my father in heaven.

He tells me through the love I receive from my wife and my kids when I am worthy of little but dismissal at the very best.

He tells me when He guides me beside the still waters.

He tells me when he restores me from the callow and broken thing I once was to the broken but healing man I am today.

What will I tell my kids about that? How will I tell my kids about that?

How will I not? I have to. Kids respect truth. They understand it. If I want them to understand who I am today, and understand how I got there, then they need to know the whole story.

That’s how God will reach them.

Anyway, I guess what I have to do is just love them both the same, and treat them both the same, and show them God loves them, too. I will show them by leading my life in such a way they have no doubt who my father in Heaven is.

One more thing, and this is really a comment about self image, which for me was powerfully negative early on in my life. It was that self-image that drove me to find any way I could so that I would not have to look at it, or myself. Only God could really alter that image in any sort of real way, and one day did.

This was a very clear picture I got several years ago, and I wish I had the artistic skill to draw or paint it. All I have is words.

A roughly callused but gentle hand holds an oyster in an opened palm. The shell is hard and covered with the slime and sediment the bottom of the ocean brings. It is cracked slightly open, and a small amount of water smelling of the sea leaks from within.

Another hand appears, holding a short-bladed knife with a curved blade. The blade is inserted into the slightly opened oyster, and slips around the edge, forcing the shell open little by little. Finally, it pops open and sits in the hand as if it were waiting for something.

Resting on top of the oyster’s flesh sits a small object, which on first glance looks like a pebble, or possibly a chunk of shell. It’s also covered in a thin layer of slime, peppered here and there with grains of sand and sediment.

The hand gently lifts the object from the shell, and discards the remains. Slowly, it begins to clean the sediment and slime from the object, filth that took a lifetime to accrue. A soft glow begins to appear as the truth of the object is revealed, and in the end, it is not a pebble at all.

It is a small and shining pearl.

A pearl of great price.

I know that won’t make much sense to a lot of people, and that is OK. It makes sense to me. I think the key to understanding my kids, and having them understand and learn from me the way I would very much like them to is helping them to understand where I came from, so they can understand where they came from.

I hope I can teach them that.

I certainly plan to try.

I’m gonna bitch. Deal with it.

Lately I’ve been really stressed out about time–as in, there isn’t nearly enough of it.

I like my job, but the hours can be incredibly long and the work is often very fast-paced and hard to keep up with. Data needs to be accurate, but reports have to be timely, and often it seems the twain shall never meet.

Then there’s family, and church, and school. I want to do the right thing by each of those, but it seems that something has to fall by the wayside, and often does.

Last time I checked, there is only 24 hours in a day.

Then the other day, my friend Daniel remarked something to the effect that there are just enough hours in the day for me to get done what God intended.

What a great point.

I will get done what I need to, what I’m supposed to.

5 classes into my curriculum, and I am still maintaining a 4.0. I hope to keep that up.

My work is going well. I like my job and my coworkers a lot, and I feel like our boss looks out for us the best she can in an uncertain time.

My children are well, and strong, and getting into everything (we had a great guys night last night while mommy was out–it was fun).

I love my wife more every day.

What the heck was I complaining about? Is complaining, worrying, and being negative going to change anything or make me feel better?

No.

Here is what will.

Being grateful and feeling blessed for what I do have, and thanking God for those things.

Spending time with Him every chance I get.

Maybe things are looking pretty good after all…