Parents: And the kids who raise them

It’s a funny thing having children. Actually, I mean raising children as opposed to giving birth. There’s nothing really funny about the actual process of giving birth. In fact, it’s quite disturbing. Fortunately, once you are done with the whole birth process everything after that is a breeze. Now, you may be wondering how I could possibly say something like that. It’s easy, I’m lying.

Everyone who has actually tried to raise a child (as opposed to the parents that don’t really try) knows that it is an extremely difficult task and only the most qualified professionals should ever attempt such a task. And that’s the tricky part. You become a professional by experience. It really is trial and error. That kind of makes me sad for the firstborn children.

I’ve concluded that the reason that a lot of firstborn children end up being CEOs, engineers, and presidents is because A) they’ve been hardened by a lifetime of their parents mistakes and B) they want to be in positions of authority so they can inflict the same sort of pain they endured upon others. There really is no other explanation.

Take the first few days of my son’s life for example. I remember going to the hospital in the middle of the night after my wife’s water broke with an eager anticipation to meet my baby boy. We had prepared for years for this moment. And by “prepared” I mean that my wife had read approximately 8,000 pregnancy books and I had read ESPN.com. All of that preparation was about to payoff. I remember speeding down the busiest street in Cedar Rapids with a reckless abandon almost hoping that a cop would pull me over. I had the perfect excuse for speeding. That, and I also thought it would be cool if a police officer delivered my child in the backseat of our two-door Tercel. Surely he would be so scarred by the incident that he would tell has his buddies never to pull my vehicle over ever again. It was a rather ingenious plan. My wife didn’t like it. She told me to slow down.

Eventually, we got to the hospital and we rushed into the birthplace with much drama and fanfare announcing that my wife’s water had just broke. I was prepared for what would happen next. There would be shouting, rushing, panic, beeping noises, screams, and eventually a child. I think I read that in a book somewhere. But that didn’t happen. At least not right away. Instead, a little old lady calmly and quietly walked up to us from behind a desk, grabbed by wife’s arm and walked us down to our room. I reminded her that my wife was in labor in case she forgot, but that didn’t seem to induce the panic I was expecting. Instead she smiled at me and I think patted me on the head. Little old ladies tend to do that to me. After a while, our nurse came into the room and told us that our doctor wouldn’t be in for another 6 hours so we should go ahead and get some sleep. I’m not sure if that was a joke or not, but I remember thinking it would be like telling someone on the Titanic to get some sleep because the boat wasn’t going to sink for another few hours or so. The doctor finally came in and after what I can only guess was about 382 hours of labor followed by an emergency C-section, my son was born.

I thought the first few nights would be a really hard adjustment as we learned the ropes of being parents, but it wasn’t that bad. And I think I realized why it wasn’t that bad. We weren’t being parents. You see, the system at the hospital is pretty fantastic, but it’s also sort of dangerous. Here’s why. After your child is born you have nurses (not to mention the 3 million visitors) coming into your room to hold your child, bathe your child, feed your child, and essentially raise your child. And if you ever get tired of that, well there is this nice little button you can push where the nurse will come into your room and take your child away. I remember using that button once when my wife was sleeping. I told her to get some rest and that I would watch over our son for a while. However, that was before I knew that he would be crying and pooping black stuff. As soon as my wife was asleep I found the button.

Beep
Nurse: Yes, may I help you?
Me: Um, my baby is crying.
Nurse: Okay, would you like me to help
(Now, I’m pretty sure at the sound of a male voice she already knew that I needed some help, but it was nice of her to ask)
Me: Um, okay. What do you have to offer by way of help?
Nurse: Well, if you would like to get some sleep, we could take the child to the nursery for you.
Me: You can do that? What’s that cost?
Nurse: Sure, it doesn’t cost anything (except for the $28,000 you’re already paying). I’ll be down in a little bit.

Several hours later my wife woke up and noticed that we didn’t have a child anymore and calmly asked me if I had lost him. I explained to her that I sent him to the nursery. I saw it as his first social opportunity. She saw it more as neglect. Be that as it may, we utilized the nursery on more than one occasion while were there and we were just starting to get the hang of the whole parenting thing when they threw a rather large curve ball in our direction. The nurse told us we could go home. And that’s when things got kind of scary.

I wasn’t quite sure what they meant by “go home”, but I was certain that they couldn’t possibly mean that they were going to send us home with our child all by ourselves. I mean we loved our son and we were happy to be parents, but we were in no way prepared to deal with the noises, smells, and fluids that this child was producing all by ourselves and yet, this is precisely what was expected of us. And when the day came, they wrapped him up, put him in his car seat and handed him to us. I remember feeling like someone had just handed us a nuclear warhead and sent us on our merry way. Now, just so that you understand, I don’t know what to do with a nuclear warhead, but I’m pretty sure that if I did the wrong thing bad stuff would happen. This is what I was afraid of. Bad stuff.

Well, we went home and the next few days and weeks and months and years were certainly interesting. I’m not sure if it is a man-thing or a me-thing, but the way learn about a new computer is not to read the manual (or 8,000 manuals) on the subject, but to sit down with it and start pushing buttons and seeing what happens. Sometimes I like what happens and I find myself more and more comfortable with the technology. Other times I’ll push a button and give out a, “GOOD GRAVY!!! What did I just do???” as I see smoke rise from the back side of the monitor. This is how it has been with my son. But, you know what, it seems a little easier with my second born, my daughter. I know that I shouldn’t touch that button, cause I don’t want to see the smoke. And I know if I push another button something good might happen. Of course, we’re dealing with the differences between boys and girls which is not really comparable to the Mac vs. Pc analogy as much as it is to a Mac vs. Emotional ticking time bomb. So, obviously there is a learning curve there. And she’ll have to take her lumps as the first girl in the family. But I’ve already learned a lot in these first few years. When we went to the hospital for my daughter’s birth it was a lot easier. We knew what to expect. And I’m guessing if, Lord willing, we go again it will be even easier. I find myself now concerned with what’s on the hospital’s menu more than anything else. And I’ll realize that “the nursery” is just a temporary luxury, and the nurses aren’t going to come home with us, and our child really isn’t all that scary. Well, mostly anyways.

So, I’m learning. And that’s what parents do. And that’s how you get qualified to be a parent. You have to go through all these steps. You have to play around with the new computer and see how it works. You have to spend hours and hours doing good stuff and bad stuff with that computer. And eventually, you’ll know a little bit more about computers. I’m on my way to being qualified to be a parent. I’m on my way to being an expert in computers. And if it takes a process of trial and error then I will eventually get there. I’ve done some rough calculations and in order to finally be considered a professional in the area of raising a child all my wife and I have to do is have 43,656,743.8 more children. I wonder if there’s a big nursery we can send them all to?

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

The evening’s activities were over. Presents had been opened, prayers had been prayed, and lots of sugar had been eaten. My parents gently tucked my brothers and I into our respective beds so that we could begin dreaming about sugar plumbs and whatnot, but what they didn’t realize was that this Christmas was different. A dramatic shift had occurred in the Guthrie home. At the tender ages of eleven, nine, and seven my brothers and I had figured it all out.

You see, every Christmas Eve we would open up the majority of our presents, but an “extra special” gift would be reserved for Christmas morning along with some stocking-stuffers. We never fully understood how the Christmas morning gifts got there. All we knew was that we would go to sleep and they would be there in the morning. But this year was different. The gig was up.

What my parents must not have seen as they tucked us in was the sparkle in the eye of a child that says, “I know it’s you, and when you’re asleep tonight I’m going to sneak downstairs and peak at my gift”. There’s no way they saw that sparkle. We were much to clever.

We waited in our beds for what seemed like an eternity, until it was positively assured that our parents were asleep. And so, after the longest fifteen minutes of our lives we crawled out of our beds with surgeon-like skill and precision. We moved through the upstairs hallway like a cool breeze moves through the morning air. We dared not turn on any lights for fear that we would get caught, but this didn’t concern us. This was our territory and we knew exactly where we were going and nothing could get in our way. Or so we thought.

You know how when something terrible happens it feels like time stands still. Here’s how it played out for us. It took approximately one second for the following to occur. As I attempted to descend the stairs the first thing I felt was something under my feet. Immediately, I heard the rustling of paper and plastic. Both the sound and the feeling of something under my feet caused me to panic and I quickly lost my footing.

There’s an unwritten rule with brothers that goes like this, if one brother is falling it is his duty to grab his nearest brother so that he might fall with him. Of course, I felt compelled to follow this rule. My brother, as he was falling, also felt the same compulsion. And so, in the next few seconds, all three of us were tumbling down the stairs in unison and accompanying us was that same mysterious sound of paper and plastic.

You know how when something terrible happens it seems like you can figure very complex things out in an amazingly short amount of time. Here’s how it played out for us. Somewhere between the top of the stairs and the bottom of the stairs as our bodies twisted and bent in ways we previously thought was impossible it occurred to us. Somehow, against all odds, our parents had seen that sparkle in our eyes. Somehow their old, dormant minds had figured out what our young fertile minds were planning. And somehow, they had outwitted us. At the top of the stairs they had placed an ingenious trap. They had taken the garbage bags filled with wrapping paper from the evening’s previous activities and placed them strategically between the upstairs and downstairs. The unmistakable sound of rustling paper would awaken them and they would expose our ruse. Most likely, they didn’t anticipate the debacle that would follow.

And so, here we were. Three clever boys enjoying the fruit of our labors. A jumbled mess of humanity lying at the bottom of the stairs covered in bags of garbage. The moans of my younger brother came from somewhere underneath me. My older brother rubbed his head in a mix of confusion and affliction. I felt pain over my entire body. We laid there for a few seconds anticipating the inevitable. Our parents would rush to our aid caressing and kissing our wounds. Perhaps they were already dialing 911. And then, in the midst of the darkness, we heard something. The reassuring voice of my father coming from their bedroom. “Go back to bed” The gig was up indeed.

As I laid my bruised head onto my pillow drifting off to dream about sugar plumbs (whatever those are) I could hear the moans and sniffles of my brothers and I couldn’t help but think that there was a sparkle in my parents eyes.

Continuing Education

I’ve tried and tried to remember the first time I met Michael, but I can’t seem to place the actual moment. When I was in college, during Spring Break one year, some friends and I drove to Clemson, South Carolina to visit a young church primarily made up of students from the university. We left that trip very impressed with the church, the school, and the town itself. I quickly bought as much Clemson attire as I could to show my affection for the school that I knew about for approximately three days. A few years later my wife and I were preparing to head to Dallas Theological Seminary. As the preparations came together, we heard from a friend that someone very involved at the church in Clemson was going to be starting seminary at the same time. I was very excited to hear this and immediately made plans to meet this guy, knowing that anybody associated with the coolest church I had ever been to, in the coolest town I had ever been to, had to be cool.

I’m not sure if I met Michael the very first week of school, or if we were “fixed up” by friends, but somehow we ended up being involved in the same Spiritual Formations group. This was a small Bible Study group, organized by the seminary, intended to keep the students spiritually nurtured and connected by interacting with other students in a more intimate atmosphere. We had chosen to be part of a group that would involve our wives. So, when our SF group started, my wife and I eagerly went to meet our new compatriots in this exciting journey called seminary.

Both my wife and I immediately seemed to “connect” with Michael and his beautiful wife Jen. We had the church in Clemson in common, which I’m sure was a little awkward for them since I pretended to know all about it having spent about 72 hours there. But they humored me, and my wife was drawn by their easy going and good natured attitudes. They didn’t seem like “high maintenance” friends and this was exactly what we needed at this potentially stressful time of our lives.

Michael was about as likeable a guy you could find. In fact, I’d be interested to know if anyone ever didn’t like Michael. I’m pretty sure it couldn’t happen. Michael and I had a fairly immediate connection over his love of sports. Of course, he was particularly obsessed with all things Clemson. I’m sure I probably tried to humor this obsession as much as possible, while maintaining my Midwestern roots, something his wife shared in common with my wife and I. We would get together to watch the occasional football or basketball game and would always enjoy the time together.

Perhaps the most intimidating thing about Michael was how smart he was. At first I thought that Michael was just a mere mortal and that he was just as frightened and intimidated by the academic undertaking that we were all facing. In fact, I thought that maybe I had a little edge over Michael because of my undergraduate degree at a Bible college, but I was wrong. After knowing Michael for a while, he finally admitted, rather reluctantly, that he had just finished his Master’s degree before attending seminary for another Master’s degree. And of course, his Master’s degree was in Engineering, a subject that transcended every conceivable area of my intellect. Anybody can get a degree in Biblical studies, but only smart people get degrees (let alone Master’s degrees) in Engineering. Furthermore, I learned of Michael’s intentions for his Master’s degree at seminary. He planned to complete his degree in three years, a feat which was spectacular in it’s own right. The ThM at Dallas Theological Seminary is intended to take four years and I believe the average student takes about 4 ½ to 5 years to complete it. When Michael announced his intentions to complete the degree in 3 years we were all amazed. Unfortunately, I also felt a twinge of competitiveness, and decided to join Michael in the three-year-plan. Had I known how difficult it would be I probably would have left Michael to tackle that feat alone with his academic super powers, but I was young and foolish. I’m sure that Jen would attest to the fact that Michael didn’t have any academic super powers and all his success was due to hard work and determination. This is probably closer to the truth, but as we all observed how calmly and resolutely Michael attacked his studies, we were certainly impressed by his academic prowess.

In the years that followed, Michael and I spent many hours separate and together studying, praying, laughing, and working our way through school. When we would meet together as a group of men to discuss the various struggles and pitfalls of seminary life I always marveled at Michael’s singular mind. He was a very devoted individual. He would not sway from his devotion to his Lord. This was evidenced in his love for his wife, studies, and church. I remember Michael’s insistence that we as men should not waiver in our diligence toward those things. It seemed such an easy stand for him and so difficult for the rest of us. But I never felt that he was putting on a show. Michael was always genuine, and because of that his singular devotion was all-the-more impressive. I remember thinking as I sat at a table with a group of guys that Michael was truly the best of us and it was because of his passion that wouldn’t allow him to be otherwise.

Unfortunately, after seminary we didn’t stay in contact as much as we should have. This was mostly due to my laziness. Michael took a job at a church in Atlanta and my wife and I moved back to Iowa. We exchanged an occasional email and the annual Christmas card. Even through those small windows into his life I could tell that his passion had not waned. Instead, the focus had shifted from academic pursuits to a constant devotion for his wife, two sons, and ministry.

One Christmas we received the Colwell family Christmas card and in it Michael mentioned something about some tests that he was going to have done on some spots the doctors had detected. I was completely shocked, as this was the first time I had heard anything about this. I immediately sent Michael an email and he calmly responded that he was trusting in the Lord and appreciated our prayers. Several months later I emailed him to find out the test results and didn’t hear anything back. I figured no news was good news and didn’t bother following up. About two weeks later I got an email from a friend in South Carolina who knew the Colwell’s stating that Michael was having brain surgery. Needless to say, the news hit me like a ton of bricks. I scoured the internet and was able to get updates through Michael and Jen’s Facebook pages and eventually a blog that Jen began to keep.

As Easter 2008 approached my family decided to take a trip Myrtle Beach in South Carolina. Robin and I were not able to go due to finances and the fact that my wife was going to deliver our second child in two weeks, but as the date approached, I had an idea. I would go with my family and have them drop me off in Greenville where I would rent a car and drive to Atlanta to see Michael. Unfortunately, this would require me to leave my very pregnant wife at home and potentially leave me in Atlanta when our second child was being born. I agonized over the decision and when I learned that Michael and Jen were going to have family in town and potentially be very busy I decided it might be a little selfish of me to leave my family and interrupt their busy weekend just at my whim. At the very last minute I told my family I wouldn’t go with them to South Carolina. Michael and Jen never even knew of my spontaneous plan to come see them. I’ve often laid awake at night and thought about that decision. That was the last chance I would have to see my friend alive.

My daughter arrived on time about two weeks later and in all the business of having a newborn, I didn’t keep up to date on Michael’s condition. The last I had heard Michael was having tests done on some tumors in his brain and they were researching different medical options. Then one day, about a month after Easter, I got an email from a friend informing me that Michael had passed away. Perhaps it was the utter shock of it all, but it took a while to sink in. As I write this, about eight months later, I’m still not sure that it has. I find myself thinking about Michael often and trying to reconcile the fact that my friend is gone and that his wife and two young boys will have to live without him now. I find myself tearing up at random times thinking about the time we spent together and the opportunities I lost due to my laziness to remain in contact after seminary.

Michael and I shared a period in our lives where we were seeking to grow in our knowledge and understanding of God through academic pursuits. But the funny thing about such pursuits is that you often end up learning more outside the classroom than you do inside. I think about this a lot as I remember Michael and what he taught me with his life. A picture of Michael with his wife and two boys now permanently resides on the front of my refrigerator and it serves as a reminder of the education that I got at Dallas Theological Seminary. An education that never really stopped, and continues to tutor me in areas of friendship, sorrow, pain, love, and ultimately passion. An education I’m receiving from the Lord thanks to Michael Colwell.

As hard as try I can’t seem to remember the first time I met Michael. And the more I think about it, the more I think that maybe God intends that, because it reminds me of the next time Michael and I will meet. Someday I will see him again at the pierced feet of our Savior. And for now, I eagerly anticipate that day when I will see my friend again, when I know that no sickness or laziness will ever again separate us, and when at long last my education will be complete.

Pride cometh...

Winter in the Midwest is always interesting. This winter was particularly weird. We experienced all kinds of different weather, including record-breaking snow. But it wasn’t the snow that threw me off this winter as much as the ice. Generally, ice storms occur a little more south, but this year it seemed that we got the full force of “old man winter”. For some reason, the ice was really brutal earlier in the winter. I remember one storm was especially bad.

I went to sleep at night and everything was peaceful. As I slept I heard the faint pitter-patter of rain on the windows. I slept fairly well as I drifted off to a dream world that involved hand guns, Alex Trebek, and a kangaroo that had a face that, believe it or not, resembled my great aunt Erma. I woke up earlier in the morning than expected due to the ringing of our phone. On the other end of the line I heard the gravely voice of a fellow teacher informing me that classes at the school I teach at had been canceled. I stumbled into the bathroom, wiped my tired eyes, and looked out the window. To my surprise what I saw was anything but a rain soaked lawn. Instead, I saw my neighborhood covered in, what looked like, glass. But it wasn’t glass, it was ice. Sometime during my escape to the land of gun-wielding Jeopardy hosts and kangaroos, the rain that was lightly falling against my windows turned to ice. And the ice, although beautiful, did some damage.

Multiple homes down our street had large tree branches littered throughout their yard. We were lucky because we didn’t suffer extreme damage, but we did have one large branch that just couldn’t bear the weight of the heavy ice. That branch sat in the middle of our front yard for most of the icy day until my wife finally convinced me that I should stop spending my day off playing X-Box and I should start cleaning up the ice damage in the front yard. As the leader of the house I decided I should stop spending my day off playing X-Box and I should start cleaning up the ice damage in the front yard. I was proud of myself for coming to this conclusion.

I spent the next fifteen minutes putting as much clothing on my body as humanly possible. After I felt that I had single handedly kept the winter clothing industry in business, I decided to brave the outdoors. I stepped outside and looked at the “crystal” world that surrounded me. I stood in awe at how absolutely beautiful it was. Little did I know, how dangerous it could be.

I stepped onto the snow in my yard to begin my trek toward the fallen branch. I immediately heard the crunching sound of ice breaking beneath my feet. Occasionally, the ice would not break right away and I would feel my feet sliding out from under me. I walked as though I were on a tight rope hundreds of feet above the ground with both my arms stretched out to either side to help me balance. I’m sure it was quite a site for the neighbors.

I finally made it to the middle of the yard. In front of me was the large branch that had fallen from the tree. I wasn’t quite sure what I should do with it and then a thought occurred to me. Just behind our house runs a creek and this creek is rather useful for the occasional disposal of leaves, dog poop, and broken branches. I decided I would haul the branch to the back yard and I would throw it into the creek. With any luck the branch would eventually float down stream and make a nice home for an impoverished beaver. It was the humanitarian (or beavertarian) thing to do.


After I had, rather daintily, walked across the ice in the front yard I thought I needed to do something to assert my manliness. I grabbed the branch with two hands and with as much testosterone as I could muster I hoisted the branch above my head in what I can only describe as, an impressive feet of strength. As I held the branch above my head, I felt the familiar feeling of the ice crunching below my feet. Suddenly, with my chest puffed out and my pride swelling I was no longer concerned about slipping on the ice. I was doing my manly duty and nothing could stand in my way. It was quite a rush.

I quickly made it to the back yard and I stood at the edge of the creek bank. About 12 feet below was the creek and somewhere downstream was a helpless beaver awaiting a branch to build his home. I was ready to do what was required of me. In fact, I was so excited and secure in my manhood that I didn’t even notice that the ice below my feet had stopped crunching. I was now standing on a fairly solid sheet of ice. I hoisted the branch even further above my head and in a moment of sheer power and majesty I hurled the large piece of wood into the creek bed below. I felt a sense of exhilaration flow through my veins having just completed one of the most masculine things I had done in a while. I could almost hear my neighbors cheering as they watched me from their windows. But then I felt something strange.

The momentum of throwing the branch pulled me every so slightly toward the creek. Now, normally this would have been no big deal since I can rely on my cat-like reflexes to regain my stability. But I was standing on ice. I felt my entire body sliding forward over the edge of the bank. I looked at the icy creek below and I knew I didn’t want to end up down stream with the beaver, so I did what any man would do given the circumstances. I flopped onto my belly in desperation. The problem was that I was already on my way down the side of the bank and I was still on a sheet of ice. Gravity can be an awful thing.

I’m not quite sure what I did to stop myself from sliding down into the creek. Really, it is all kind of a blur. I’m pretty sure that the next few moments included me flailing my body in every conceivable direction while offering shrieks of horror and uncontrollable fear. Slowly, I began to work my way up to level ground. I pounded my elbows into the ground beyond the ice and tried to wiggle my body in ways I previously thought impossible. Eventually, I had done it. I was safe on level ground again.

I stood up, wiped the tears from my eyes, and straightened out my jacket as best I could. I quickly looked around at my neighbors’ windows. My only hope was that they had watched my macho exhibition of branch throwing and walked away impressed without seeing the horrific events that followed. I didn’t see anyone in the windows and I concluded that no one had seen what happened. I had dodged a bullet and I would live to tell the story. Better yet, there were no eyewitnesses so it could be as majestic and adventurous as my imagination would allow. I began walking toward the house already concocting a story that involved heroism and bravery, when, all of a sudden, I heard something horrible.

My neighbor is a young single man who grew up on a farm, mows the lawn proudly displaying his chiseled body, and has a house full of hunting trophies. I try to impress him whenever possible. But as I was walking back to my house I heard the familiar creak of his back door opening. I was just beyond his door so I stopped dead in my tracks hoping my black coat would somehow blend into the snowy terrain. He popped his head out and said, “Tristan?”. “Yeah”, I replied with as deep and booming a voice I could manage. “I just wanted you to know, I saw all that.”

I walked through the snow and came to the front door. I went inside and peeled off the many layers of winter clothing. I poured myself a cup of hot chocolate and I told my wife we were moving.

A Man Found A Treasure In A Field...

When I was a kid my brothers and I and a friend were hiking in some woods when we came upon something really wild. It was an old abandoned house. The windows and doors were long since busted out and the roof had numerous holes in it. The people had left all of their stuff inside, but the weather and years had ruined most of it. We went inside and found all kinds of things scattered around. Obviously we weren't the first people to discover this place. As we rummaged through dresser drawers and closets we came across old papers and clothes. The best we could tell, the last time the house was occupied was somewhere around the 1920's. We found a few old crumbled newspapers from 1923. This was the coolest thing we had ever found. We immediately began wondering whose house this was and what had lead them to leave everything behind. I suggested that the people had been murdered and their bodies were probably outside somewhere. Just after I said that, an animal of some sort ran by outside. I screamed like a woman and ran to the closet holding my little brother in front of me like a shield. I thought this was the wisest course of action given the possible circumstances. When we figured out it was just an animal I tried to dry my pants off and continued looking through all the stuff. As it began to get dark outside we decided to head home. We grabbed some of the old newspapers and strutted through the woods beaming with pure joy. We had found a hidden treasure trove of old things that we were sure we could sell for a bajillion dollars. We were going to be rich and all because some people had been murdered outside their home back in the 1920s, it was great. When we got home we excitedly showed our booty (quit laughing, that means treasure) to our parents. They thought it was neat but informed us that we probably wouldn't get any money for the stuff. It was mostly just old junk. In a flash, our treasure was gone. All the dreams, all the hopes. We had spent thousands of seconds preparing for our new life of wealth and now we were doomed to the destitute life of middle class Americans. It was all so cruel. We were pretty distraught that we weren't going to be able to buy ourselves all sorts of action figures and candy, but eventually we were able to move on by watching some A-Team and drowning our sorrows in multiple packets of Sixlets. The next time we went to the old house we decided to throw rocks at it and see what we could break.

Thank God for the Ordinary

A funny thing happened the other night. As my wife and I were sitting in our family room, our two-year-old son made his way upstairs to his bedroom. After a few minutes I decided to check on him. I snuck up the stairs as quietly as I could and positioned myself on the top stair so that I could see my son, but he couldn’t detect my presence.

I watched as he meticulously stacked colored blocks on top of each other as if he was building a masterpiece. He moved the red block just slightly to the left, then stepped back and placed his hands on his hips with a look that exuded the kind of pride a great artist might have for his sculpture.

Smiling, he turned around and ran to the other side of the room with reckless abandon. Once there, he didn’t stop as much as he fell, flinging his legs toward the ground in a way that produced the crashing sound that has become all-too-familiar in our home. Fortunately, his body is made out of some sort of rubber substance that doesn’t perceive such a fall as painful.

Once on the ground, he turned his head and reached for the nearest book. It happened to be one of his favorites. He quickly opened the book and began “reading” out loud. To the casual observer his “reading” would have sounded a lot like gibberish, but to a proud parent it sounded like a brilliant dissertation. He flipped the page and his reading/gibberish became even more pronounced. The inflection in his voice left no doubt that he knew exactly what he was trying to say even if that didn’t necessarily translate into intelligible words.

Just then, I became aware that my wife had quietly snuck up beside me, and was laying on the stairs staring with me into his room. I looked over at her and we both smiled. We smiled at the nonsense that was coming out of our son’s mouth. We smiled at how silly we probably looked lying on the stairs spying on our son. And we smiled at how it took a goofy little moment like that to remind us how blessed we are.

It occurred to me that I will certainly be proud when my child, Lord-willing, accomplishes lifetime achievements such as learning to drive and graduating from high school. My wife and I will probably exchange that same smile during those moments as well. But I pray that I’ll never forget how proud I was to be a parent during the “not-so-spectacular” times. Sometimes it takes sneaking up the stairs to remind you of that.

The Gift That Keeps On Giving (me an ulcer)

So there I was standing outside Adventureland, which is Iowa’s idea of an amusement park. I wasn’t particularly excited about being there since I had already passed my amusement park phase about 12 years earlier and from that point on it just meant expensive food, ever-tighter rollercoaster straps, standing in excruciatingly long lines listening to as many conversations as I could (which I do compulsively), and trying not to notice the young couple in front of me who obviously don’t understand that there is a certain “social awkwardness” that goes along with sticking your tongues down each others’ throats in a public setting. Nevertheless, I had decided to sacrifice personal well-being in order to treat a few of my high school students to a day of “amusement”.

I had purchased several tickets beforehand through a man at our church who could get them at a discount. However, I had overestimated the number of people who were going on the trip so we ended up with a couple extra tickets. Now for any normal human being this wouldn’t constitute a problem, but in my world this was a crisis. We had arrived just as the park was opening, so there were a lot of people standing around waiting to buy their tickets and get their day started. As I looked out over the sea of these all-too-eager-to-vomit people I had an epiphany. I knew what I would do with the tickets. I told my wife my full-proof plan. The tickets were selling at the booth for something outrageous like $25 and your firstborn child. I told my wife rather matter-of-factly that I would offer the tickets to someone for only $10. This way they would get a discount of over half the regular price and we would end up with $20 in cash that would almost cover the cost of a bottle of water and one of those frozen lemon things once inside the golden gates. I felt pretty good about the fact that I came up with this idea even though I’m pretty sure anybody riding the Princess Wonderwhirl could’ve figured it out just as easily. But I was happy nonetheless. There was just one problem. The execution.

Now, I would expect that most people reading this would be thinking, “What’s the big deal? All you have to do is sell two tickets for half their price.” Right. Sounds easy enough doesn’t it. Well, it would be if it wasn’t for my neurosis. You see, if you haven’t noticed by now, I sometimes struggle with hmmmmm, how should I say this…being an idiot. I don’t always have the greatest first impressions on people. I find myself to be extremely awkward in otherwise normal situations. This may seem a bit odd since I am a youth pastor and that naturally engenders thoughts of car-salesmen-smiles and Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirts. But let me assure you that I am not that good of a youth pastor. I am generally very comfortable with people once I know them, but it is the whole “trust me you’ll like me later” thing that takes a while to get used to.

And this was my dilemma. I had to walk up to someone I had never met before and make an offer to buy my tickets. Needless to say, the sweaty palms kicked in once I realized my wife actually expected me to carry out my plan. But I had to approach this with the right mindset. I was going to do someone a favor. I was going to save them some money. Who wouldn’t be up for that? I scanned the audience looking for just the right person. I wasn’t looking for the family that would be the easiest to talk to or the nicest, I, being the stand-up guy that I am, was looking for the family that needed it the most. How did I determine this? Well, like anyone would really. Prejudice, stereotypes, and profiling.

Finally, my eyes landed on the perfect family. I thought to myself, “These people have to be a low income family. Surely they would jump at an opportunity like this.” Now, let me assure you that my decision had nothing to do with race, but more to do with tattoos, a cut-off Iron Maiden t-shirt, missing teeth, and woman with a possible mullet. Does that justify my stereotyping? Probably not. Does it help you understand why I may come off as awkward sometimes? I would hope so.

Anyway, I decided that this was the family I was going to approach. But before I made any drastic moves I had to work up some courage. And by “working up some courage” I mean “not doing anything for a solid 5 minutes or so as everyone waited for me”. Finally, my wife asked me what was taking so long. I could see in her eyes that with every passing minute she was realizing that I was having one of “my moments”. She rolled her eyes and said something like, “Just be a man and go do it”. Ordinarily, this would hurt my pride enough to cause some action, but in this case the prospect of talking to Iron Maiden tattoo guy was enough for me to concede being called a girl. My wife had underestimated me. But then I noticed my wife’s look change from one of being annoyed and maybe even slightly humored to a look of disgust and impatience (which I have come to notice is a very thin line in our household). She decided to get nasty. She told me in no uncertain terms that if I didn’t talk to those people in the next 30 seconds that I wasn’t going get a funnel cake. Needless to say I made my way over to where they were standing.

I had to be cool. I had to be calm. I wanted to let these people in on the deal of a lifetime. But as I approached them I began to think about something. Was what I was about to do okay? I mean, legally. I thought that maybe Adventureland wasn’t going to be too happy about me selling underpriced tickets. I thought maybe someone was watching me. Again, I hope this kind of reasoning helps you understand some of my social difficulties. I glanced around to make sure no one was watching. I waited for the giant stuffed gopher shaking kids’ hands to make his way past us. I was surprised to find out it was a beaver. Once the mammal was out of normal hearing distance I made my move. I slowly slid in front of the man and gave him the toothiest smile I could. In a semi-whisper I said, “Have you bought your tickets?” “Excuse me” was his response. I stumbled, “I mean, um, do you already have your tickets? Because I have a deal for you.” I then explained to him the deal. I told him I had extra tickets and all he had to do was give me $20 dollars and the two tickets would be his. When I finished my less-than-polished presentation I waited for his response. I was waiting for a smile. I was waiting for a thank you. I was waiting for a hug. I was waiting for anything. I looked over at my wife and gave her a thumbs up. And that is when it happened. He looked at me and kind of wrinkled his brow and then he said, “No, I don’t think so.” “Excuse me” was my response. “No, I don’t want them.” I stood there oddly aware that I was still giving him the toothy smile. My mind raced. “Did he not hear the deal?” “Is he a millionaire that just wants to throw money away?” “Is he angry at the world?” And then I realized something. He didn’t trust me. He thought I was conning him. Even after the toothy smile. He didn’t think I was trustworthy.

I returned to the group waiting for me. I was dejected. I was beaten. I had put myself out there and I had been turned away by a cruel cruel world. “What happened?” they asked. I avoided all eye contact and mumbled something about him thinking I was a felon. I think people laughed. “Well, go ask someone else” my wife suggested. I shot her a glare that told her I was willing to go without a funnel cake. “Well then, just give them away. Tell someone you have free tickets for them.” she countered. I kept staring at my feet and said, “They’ll probably just think I’m going to rob their house while they’re at the park.” Finally, one of my high school students grabbed the tickets and said, “Here, I’ll do it.” I looked up and saw nothing but looks of disappointment. “No, give me the tickets. I will do it.” I said. “But you can come with me if you want.”

I walked up to a nice young couple pushing a stroller. “Hello, we’re with a church youth group and we bought too many tickets before we came so we have some extras and we would just like to give these to you.” They were surprised, but I assured them it was just a goodwill gesture. I quickly glanced around to make sure no large stuffed furry things were close by. I smiled at the couple as we left. They smiled at me back. I knew they were appreciative of everything I had done for them. I felt pretty good about myself. When I returned to the group my wife put her arm around mine, smiled, and said “Good job.” At first I thought she was being condescending, but when I looked at her I saw that she was proud of me. I smiled and walked through the golden gates. “First stop, funnel cakes.”

A Walk to Remember

As children we are born with certain innate gifts. Some of us seem to come out of the womb as good athletes. Others seem to be naturally gifted in the academic realm. Some have the ability to play music and keep a melodic rhythm. Others don’t. As a child I yearned to know what my gift was. I saw other kids around me enjoying their gifts as they excelled in the athletic and social worlds, and I yet I knew that my day would come. I knew that I would find my gift and it would change my world. And it happened in an instance. Before I knew it I was knee-deep in my gift enjoying all of its fruits. I was immersed in a world that, to me, was previously unknown. I was a master of a craft Ithe likes of which I had never experienced before. It was something I was born to do. It was something I had to do. It was the cakewalk.

Every year at our church we would have an ice-cream social. It was a big fund raising event aimed at families with small kids. Families would gather at the church for an evening filled with ring tosses, raffle prizes, free throw contests, and of course ice cream. But tucked away in the church’s kitchen was the grand jewel of all the games. Some say it was a game of chance. Others say that it took too long to reap any real benefits. But those people were misled. They didn’t have the gift that I did. A gift that allowed me to look beyond the seeming randomness of the game to the beauty that lay behind.

The first time I stumbled upon the cakewalk was an accident really. I was wandering around the ice cream social with a bowl of ice cream that was sorely lacking in chocolate syrup. I looked at my bowl of ice cream devoid of syrup and I said that it was not good. So I decided to go on the hunt looking for a worthy companion for my dessert, and I figured that the best place to look was the kitchen.

I walked into the kitchen unaware of the fanciful world I had just entered. I looked around and I saw kids walking in circles as music played. I saw parents watching their children with approval and pride. I saw the joy on the face of the kids. And then I saw the table. The table filled with every kind of cake imaginable. Big, small, round square. Red, yellow, black, and white, they were all precious in my sight. And then something magical happened. The music stopped and applause filled the room. One boy stood in the middle by himself as the crowd affirmed him. He then walked toward what I had come to see as “the table of delight” and I saw him point. He was pointing at one of the biggest cakes on the table. What was he doing? Why was he pointing? And then I saw an adult reach for the cake and hand it to the boy. What was this? What just happened? That boy had just gone from a nonentity to the king of the roost in a matter of seconds and the greatest thing was that he had a beautiful cake to show for it. For a plump little kid who craved the spotlight like myself, this was better than finding a vast treasure. This was so much more.

So I devoted myself to this game. I convinced myself that I would become the master. I watched and studied several games before I first attempted one myself. And when I first started I had to suffer through the “rookie mistakes” that any seasoned pro at one time had to endure. But eventually I found my niche. I learned how to become the teacher instead of the student. For obvious reasons, I cannot divulge all of my secrets here. It wouldn’t be fair. But I will explain the basics.
The key that I learned was endurance. You see, the cakewalk is a lot like musical chairs, only with much higher stakes. Many children get booted from the game and stand on the sidelines watching one of their comrades enjoy the all-too-sweet success of winning. At this sight, they become disheartened and decide to run off to the dunk tank or some other archaic game. But not me. I would not give up. If I lost I would stand there staring down my opponents. Looking over the other chubby boys that dreamed of winning the confection sweepstakes with a kind of competitive fury that surely sent chills through them. And when the game was over I would hand my ticket to the adult for another round, convinced that this time I would not walk away a loser. Eventually the adults would have to give in. They would see that I was not willing to give up. They would see that I was willing to push any the four-year-old little girls to the ground if they got in my way. And they knew they would have to submit to my perseverance. Sometimes the adults wouldn’t be so sympathetic and I would have to just buy my time, knowing that eventually it would be 8:00 p.m. and everyone would be leaving and the only two people left at the cakewalk were me and the kid in 3rd grade who looked like he was 29. The odds were undeniable.

And so my illustrious career began. For the next six years, like clockwork, I brought home my trophy. In that time, I brought home white cakes, chocolate cakes, yellow cakes, and my favorite, a cake that was made to look like a hamburger. Eventually, my parents realized that I would be bringing home a prize for all to see and taste and some years they would make a special place in the freezer so we could save the cake for a “special occasion”. This was the best because it meant that all year long the symbol of my accomplishment was only a freezer door away. If my brothers ever questioned my greatness I could just open the freezer door and they could behold my marvelous feats. Sure, they would win their share of trinkets and candy at the ice-cream social but nothing compared to the kinds of cakes I would bring home. Like I said, they were the kind of cakes we would save for a “special occasion”. In fact, they were so special that sometimes we wouldn’t eat them at all. They would just stay in the freezer until the next year when we would have to make room for the next cake.

Eventually, as all greats, I had to retire gracefully from the sport I once dominated. I was luckier than some in that I got to leave while I was still on top. I looked in shame as I saw some jr. high or high school students attempt to relive their youth by winning a cake for their family. I swore that would never happen to me. And so, I left the game that I loved forever. As any great prizefighter undoubtedly bares the scars from his years of fighting to signify his accomplishments my body is somewhat of a living testimony to those great six years. I would be lying if I told you I don’t miss it sometimes. But I know it’s for the best. I know that somewhere out there, there is a plump little kid who possesses the same kind of intestinal fortitude that it takes to be the next champion. My only hope is that he plays the game with the necessary amount of love and passion so that one day he can look back, as I do, and say, “The cake was sweet, but the memories are sweeter.”