My eldest daughter and my dad's wife cooked up a visit for all of my clan to meet in Abilene at the farm where I was raised. This is not a small feat. My clan consists of 3 kids, 3 kids-in-law, 4 grandkids and my bride. It can seem like a traveling circus. There is plenty of room at the old place, my youngest daughter spearheaded the food planning, and we were off to the races.
It was a weekend in which I got to enjoy all the people that mean the most to me. As we stood around the dinner table at lunch on Sunday, all holding hands while my dad prayed, it occurred to me that this is the group that I spend most of MY time praying over. This band of 14 covers 4 generations, various life situations, and garners most of the sense of accomplishment that I have in my life.
The really nice thing is that I got to spend some real time with each of my grandkids, specifically getting to bind us closer with each moment.
Eli and I both brought our golf clubs. We play a short par-3 course (however, we seem to only play 8 holes due to an attention span issue) We do not keep score, but we do a lot of negotiating during the round. I have a standing deal with him, if he hits onto the green on his first shot from the tee, I pay him a dollar. The negotiating comes in when he hits it close..not on. So I added a variation. If he one-putts, then he earns another dollar. As soon as we struck that deal he rolled one in from 10' away. Really? Where was the hockey like action from the previous 6 holes?!? Apparently sandbagging is a naturally occurring tendency. But we got to spend a couple of hours just the two of us, walking, playing, laughing..it was the best medicine.
Phoebe coughed all through the night sleeping on her pallet at the foot of my bed. So around midnight I washed off her face and moved her up on the bed with me. Several times I woke up to her wriggling, but asleep. She is a live wire when awake, but she is the sweetest, snuggliest thing when asleep. So when we woke up, it was a very long conversation about Disney princesses, where she has vast knowledge and I have none, but the conversation was great fun.
Lincoln and I explored the barn and shed. We walked down to the edge of the field and looked at the creek. He explored and inspected everything. He is an old man in the way he walks and inspects things which cracks me up. He stands there, little chubby hands hooked in his pockets, head tilted forward just like an old man at a construction site. We walked and talked and explored.
Then I got to hold Isaac during church. We played and chewed on the bulletin, and he would just stare during the song service. Of particular interest was the "prayer card" in the seat back holder. After being chewed and slobbered on his mother took it away from us, not allowing us to put it back in the holder. What is that all about? I'm pretty sure it would dry before next Sunday. He did great in church, probably better than I.
But I spent the weekend trying to soak up time with my dad and the farm. The farm will soon pass from our family and it feels like some part of my family is passing from me. Dad can't handle the work load anymore and they need to move into town. So I spent some portion of every morning and evening looking out across the back fence remembering as many of the times spent there as possible. At the same time I was trying to soak up time with Dad. I wish his integrity and good humor came more naturally to me. Each moment I was wishing that I could reach out my hands and hold back time for just a little while, to hold my memories in place for a moment. But I know that time marches inexorably forward, ignoring my pleas, nudging me along against my will. I want to be able to set my pack to the ground at this moment in my journey, but it seems that there is no place to rest, no place to stop. There was a sense of trying to hold back a stream of water with only my hands..it simply washed over me and rushed on.
The clock keeps ticking. It makes me sad and grateful. Sad that the constant ticking means this world will change in unforgivable ways. Grateful for the memories that make me who I am. We are the sum of our decisions and memories. So I spent as much time with Dad as I could, laughing, kidding each other, just soaking it in. And I split time with my grandkids, imprinting on them memories that will be woven into the fabric of who they will become. Tick, tick ,tick...
Godspeed, the journey is a good one with an inevitable end. But, man, what memories that journey creates.
Don
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
What is Wrong with this Picture?!?
This past Sunday my bride and I decided to visit a church close by because our youngest daughter had expressed an interest due to the new, young pulpit guy they had just hired. We had visited there before and it was fine, but just not enough to compel us to be regular visitors. Both of us share the desire to see our kids/kids-in-law/grandkids connected in a meaningful way to a community of faith. So we decided to go with them and lend support.
The visit was fine. Not extraordinary. But good enough. We were greeted warmly, we knew some of the folks, and because we are longtime veterans of the church scene, we knew where to go for coffee, knew how to find the nursery, knew what to expect in the assembly. There was not much they couldn't come up with that we hadn't seen.
Our grandson was parked in the nursery and no sooner had he been handed across the counter than his lower lip was stuck out, and before we were out of earshot we could hear him complaining to all that he was not happy with this arrangement. The over/under on how long he would last was somewhere in the 10 minute range. The service started with the singing, then the prayers, then the sermon. About 3 minutes into the sermon the nursery attendant came looking for our daughter to come get Lincoln who was still screaming. So Carrie went out and got him, brought into the assembly with us, then the three adults spent the next 30 minutes trying to keep him occupied, happy, and quiet. We were moderately successful. When we got back in the car the frustration was evident in my daughter. She felt like she had spent an hour trying to calm a toddler in a roomful of people who she assumed were exasperated with her and her rambunctious kid. It broke my heart that church had frustrated her rather than restored her.
Here is the situation as I see it. We are asking a generation that is only tenuously connected to "church" to come at a specific time, with well-mannered kids, and sit quietly while we run through the rites of the Sunday morning assembly. These young parents are looking at this set up and are opting out. Why put your kid, your spouse, and yourself through this every Sunday? To be honest, I felt like all three of us had been wrestling alligators when this was over. Tired, stepped on, apologetic, and hungry are not the emotions that church should engender. So what is wrong with this picture? We tried to tell my daughter that we went through the same thing, that missing some or all of the assembly time was part of the deal until the kids were old enough to weather the separation. I could tell she wasn't sure if she could handle that.
Here is my take on what we should do. If we insist on the assembly being over an hour, we need to do away with the nursery and allow the little ones to come into the assembly and make as much noise as they want. This would have the dual effect of allowing us grey-heads to help corral the kids on our row, in a kind, grandparenty way. It would also have a much needed impact on all ego-centric preachers to get to the point, make it, and get the heck to the end of the sermon. Sermons should be capped at 15 minutes, if you can't do it in that time frame, go back and spend more time on being succinct, less time on hearing your own prattle. Keeping our babies in the assembly would also be an affirmation that we are "family" and not "church." Crying babies are the sound of a healthy community. If all you hear is the wheezing of us geezers, then the community is dead already.
Here's an idea. What if we all just gathered, sang whatever songs were on some one's heart. Prayed with and for each other. Let anyone who has a SHORT message stand up and speak the voice of God into our ears, then when the kids got too rowdy, we call it a day. I think I read this somewhere. We better do something or we are placing our communities of faith on a path of extinction. We need the young families to feel welcome, to feel at home, and to feel that they matter rather than feeling that they are a bother.
Godspeed out there to all the young moms and dads who are trying to do the right thing. We can make this work, don't give up on us just yet.
Don
The visit was fine. Not extraordinary. But good enough. We were greeted warmly, we knew some of the folks, and because we are longtime veterans of the church scene, we knew where to go for coffee, knew how to find the nursery, knew what to expect in the assembly. There was not much they couldn't come up with that we hadn't seen.
Our grandson was parked in the nursery and no sooner had he been handed across the counter than his lower lip was stuck out, and before we were out of earshot we could hear him complaining to all that he was not happy with this arrangement. The over/under on how long he would last was somewhere in the 10 minute range. The service started with the singing, then the prayers, then the sermon. About 3 minutes into the sermon the nursery attendant came looking for our daughter to come get Lincoln who was still screaming. So Carrie went out and got him, brought into the assembly with us, then the three adults spent the next 30 minutes trying to keep him occupied, happy, and quiet. We were moderately successful. When we got back in the car the frustration was evident in my daughter. She felt like she had spent an hour trying to calm a toddler in a roomful of people who she assumed were exasperated with her and her rambunctious kid. It broke my heart that church had frustrated her rather than restored her.
Here is the situation as I see it. We are asking a generation that is only tenuously connected to "church" to come at a specific time, with well-mannered kids, and sit quietly while we run through the rites of the Sunday morning assembly. These young parents are looking at this set up and are opting out. Why put your kid, your spouse, and yourself through this every Sunday? To be honest, I felt like all three of us had been wrestling alligators when this was over. Tired, stepped on, apologetic, and hungry are not the emotions that church should engender. So what is wrong with this picture? We tried to tell my daughter that we went through the same thing, that missing some or all of the assembly time was part of the deal until the kids were old enough to weather the separation. I could tell she wasn't sure if she could handle that.
Here is my take on what we should do. If we insist on the assembly being over an hour, we need to do away with the nursery and allow the little ones to come into the assembly and make as much noise as they want. This would have the dual effect of allowing us grey-heads to help corral the kids on our row, in a kind, grandparenty way. It would also have a much needed impact on all ego-centric preachers to get to the point, make it, and get the heck to the end of the sermon. Sermons should be capped at 15 minutes, if you can't do it in that time frame, go back and spend more time on being succinct, less time on hearing your own prattle. Keeping our babies in the assembly would also be an affirmation that we are "family" and not "church." Crying babies are the sound of a healthy community. If all you hear is the wheezing of us geezers, then the community is dead already.
Here's an idea. What if we all just gathered, sang whatever songs were on some one's heart. Prayed with and for each other. Let anyone who has a SHORT message stand up and speak the voice of God into our ears, then when the kids got too rowdy, we call it a day. I think I read this somewhere. We better do something or we are placing our communities of faith on a path of extinction. We need the young families to feel welcome, to feel at home, and to feel that they matter rather than feeling that they are a bother.
Godspeed out there to all the young moms and dads who are trying to do the right thing. We can make this work, don't give up on us just yet.
Don
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Wrong Room
There are two types of hotel rooms that I find creepy to stay in by myself. Since my career over the past six years or so has involved a lot of travel, it has become something of a pet peeve when I receive one of these two types of rooms. Normally if I am in the hotel for one night, it doesn't bother me what room I stay in. As a friend of mine says, "I can hold a bear's head in a snuff box that long" Translation: I can do almost anything for a short period of time. But the nights spent in these rooms tend to depress me for highly diverse reasons.
The first style of room that happens the most frequently is the "handicapped" room. Handbars on the tub and shower, extra room next to the toilet, lower sink levels for wheelchair guests, couches and chairs removed for easier access to the bed and desk all make for a depressing stay. In my opinion, all the hotels need rooms like these. Folks with disabilities should be able to travel and tour and not be inconvenienced by poorly designed rooms. With that said, it depresses me to stay in them. I bump my elbows on the handrails in the shower, I sit on the bed and not at the desk. It is a constant reminder that there are folks who live in this world that live this as "normal". My eldest daughter while taking Gleevac for her cancer maintenance would understand better than I reframing your world to a new "normal." But I struggle when this normal is overlayed onto my normal. I guess I'm trying to say it isn't normal.
Monday night I was given a room in Grand Rapids which was twice the normal size of a standard hotel room...with a huge whirlpool tub in the corner..with two walls of mirrors surrounding the tub and reflecting on the bed, next to the tub. Nice room, but all I wanted to do was sleep there, do a little work, and go to my appointment. The room was obviously designed for a couple on a get away weekend. But the other half of my couple was 1200 miles away, too long a reach for even me. So every move I made was reflected in those mirrors. The only way to get away from them was to sit at the built in desk unit across the room nearer the TV. It only accentuated the fact that my bride was at home and I was not. Narcissism run aground. Just as an aside note, my working out is not having as much effect as I had hoped. Maybe mirrors add 15 pounds.
So here is what occurred to me as I was flying home. How many of us journey through life living in the wrong rooms? Our culture tells us we are sick, or have a certain malady that if we add the bars or move the furniture we can develop a new normal. If we live with the idea that we are impaired in some way, then the props that the world imposes on us will feel like the life of normality. Or our culture tells us that constant reflection and larger rooms and the need for better and better are the way to go. When we finally see a true reflection we understand that the lifestyle of narcissism only accentuates our alone-ness. We seem to spend our lives living in the wrong rooms.
When I got home last night my bride gave me hug and a kiss and said, "The washer is leaking." Aww. Home. My place with the worldview that allows a little sickness, allows intimacy, allows me to see me and the ones I love with clarity and discernment. We need to learn to take our rooms with us, not accept the rooms that the world tries to force on us. God built our rooms long before we arrived. He knew just what to put in them and just what to leave out, it is only our attempts to "fix it up" that we end up messing it up.
By the way, I went back down to the front desk to see if the young lady wanted to put me in a normal room. Would you believe that the "couples" room she gave me was the cheapest in the place? Hmm. Could be another blog in there.
Godspeed, to live in our intended rooms is a life well-lived.
Don
The first style of room that happens the most frequently is the "handicapped" room. Handbars on the tub and shower, extra room next to the toilet, lower sink levels for wheelchair guests, couches and chairs removed for easier access to the bed and desk all make for a depressing stay. In my opinion, all the hotels need rooms like these. Folks with disabilities should be able to travel and tour and not be inconvenienced by poorly designed rooms. With that said, it depresses me to stay in them. I bump my elbows on the handrails in the shower, I sit on the bed and not at the desk. It is a constant reminder that there are folks who live in this world that live this as "normal". My eldest daughter while taking Gleevac for her cancer maintenance would understand better than I reframing your world to a new "normal." But I struggle when this normal is overlayed onto my normal. I guess I'm trying to say it isn't normal.
Monday night I was given a room in Grand Rapids which was twice the normal size of a standard hotel room...with a huge whirlpool tub in the corner..with two walls of mirrors surrounding the tub and reflecting on the bed, next to the tub. Nice room, but all I wanted to do was sleep there, do a little work, and go to my appointment. The room was obviously designed for a couple on a get away weekend. But the other half of my couple was 1200 miles away, too long a reach for even me. So every move I made was reflected in those mirrors. The only way to get away from them was to sit at the built in desk unit across the room nearer the TV. It only accentuated the fact that my bride was at home and I was not. Narcissism run aground. Just as an aside note, my working out is not having as much effect as I had hoped. Maybe mirrors add 15 pounds.
So here is what occurred to me as I was flying home. How many of us journey through life living in the wrong rooms? Our culture tells us we are sick, or have a certain malady that if we add the bars or move the furniture we can develop a new normal. If we live with the idea that we are impaired in some way, then the props that the world imposes on us will feel like the life of normality. Or our culture tells us that constant reflection and larger rooms and the need for better and better are the way to go. When we finally see a true reflection we understand that the lifestyle of narcissism only accentuates our alone-ness. We seem to spend our lives living in the wrong rooms.
When I got home last night my bride gave me hug and a kiss and said, "The washer is leaking." Aww. Home. My place with the worldview that allows a little sickness, allows intimacy, allows me to see me and the ones I love with clarity and discernment. We need to learn to take our rooms with us, not accept the rooms that the world tries to force on us. God built our rooms long before we arrived. He knew just what to put in them and just what to leave out, it is only our attempts to "fix it up" that we end up messing it up.
By the way, I went back down to the front desk to see if the young lady wanted to put me in a normal room. Would you believe that the "couples" room she gave me was the cheapest in the place? Hmm. Could be another blog in there.
Godspeed, to live in our intended rooms is a life well-lived.
Don
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