Time Off

These past few days have been such a blessing. This year has been marked with getting on and off airplanes, meetings with customers, training reps in the new world order, going, going, going. Last Friday afternoon, I unpacked my business laptop, turned off my business phone, plugged it in, and have (mostly) ignored the inclination to check it all see what is going on. I have taken "time off" for what will end up being 10 days. And I am loving it.

Here are a few things I have discovered:

I don't really sleep enough. My body has gotten used to caching sleep in 4 hour segments. To illustrate this, I am posting a blog at 6AM, I have been up since 4AM, I woke up twice from 10PM to 4AM. Twice during this time off my bride made me take a nap. Both ended up being two hour, dead-to-the-world, waking up disoriented, type of naps. They were also incredibly refreshing. I probably can't change my sleep patterns, but recognizing the need is something. Right? I also have found the fun in staying up a bit and then crawling back into bed to snuggle for a little bit. No flights to catch, no conference calls, no agenda. Simply crawl back in and try not to wake my bride who is, by the way, a champion sleeper.

Then we get into those silly meandering conversations that two life partners of almost 40 years get into. We were just waking up and each mentioned that we both had weird dreams. We were laughing about it being the paint and glue fumes from having our master bath redone over the previous couple of days. I said, "Well, don't touch the pretty blue flower on the stove." She had no idea what I was talking about. Then trying to describe the anti-drug film in health from 7th or 8th grade, only confused her more. For the next couple of days I tried to find someone else who had seen the film about the effects of doing drugs and received only blank looks for my explanation. Apparently all the other school systems were running sex-ed films trying to keep their young girls from getting pregnant. Don F, John W, and I had to try and figure all that sex stuff out on our own while camping as 16 year olds...as the line from Dumb and Dumber..we were way off. Somewhere along the line, though, we figured it out, since we are all leading a pack of kids, grandkids, and three very patient and understanding, and possibly a bit bewildered wives.

I am a sentimental old fool.  I am replacing my old worn-out 2000 Ford Ranger, the survivor of a deer attack (see blog from a couple of years ago) , a daughter's stint in college, and the effects of 256,000 miles. Like all of us, her paint is coming off, the electrical system doesn't work very well, and she clunks and clanks and moans and groans as the miles pile up. We need something dependable, and Miss Rojo is no longer that. So it is with bitter-sweetness that I look at the shiny new trucks and try to find a worthy replacement. Sigh.

Godspeed to all the folks out there who have some time off to reflect, to rest, to refresh during these days. It is 6:30, I think I will sneak back in and snuggle a bit. 
Don

The Altar of Security

This post has been percolating in my mind since last week when a first grade class in a quiet elementary school became the killing fields for a sick and sad young man. Like the rest of the nation my questions centered around why, and what could be done to prevent, what went wrong, who missed the clues? Tragedy of this magnitude is simply hard to fathom. I can't imagine what the parents, grandparents, friends and community are going through. The snapshots of parents receiving the crushing news about their precious babies will be forever etched in my mind. Anxiety replaced by news that will change the shape of their world and their hearts forever, the images will not go away, ever.

The stories of courageous educators shielding their young charges hits home with me. Both of my daughters are educators, my bride is a 20 year veteran in the library at our local elementary. I have no problem envisioning all my girls stepping into the breach, unarmed, except for the warrior spirit they each carry. There is no doubt in my mind that they would act exactly as the brave ladies from last week, sacrificing their own lives to save a few. I have no doubt at all, and it makes me proud and sick at heart all at the same time.

What I haven't been able to stomach in the days since the shooting is the political agendas from both the professional politicians and the pompous talking heads. All are trying to frame the event to their advantage. Some are saying it is a gun issue, others are claiming it is a mental health issue, school security, law enforcement, the list goes on and on. It is never ending the ability of ego-centric people to bend world events to their view. I can't listen to them anymore.

The real issue is that this world is a battleground. It is Evil against Good. There are no rules, there are no DMZs, everyone is engaged in the battle. But in America we have selected a philosophy that we hope will take us out of the battle. We have decided that we can do anything to anybody in the name of security. We worship at the altar of Security.

This philosophy invades every fiber of our society. My work takes me all over the country. I will fly over 100 segments this year. Several times a week I have to strip off my shoes, my belt, empty my pockets, put all liquids in a bag, take my laptop out, to go through "security". On the occasion when I can use TSA Pre-Check, it only reminds me that most of the time I can't. But the reality is that TSA hopes and I hope that someone hasn't found a way to blow a hole in the plane at 30,000 feet. The reason this is so important is not that the 150 souls or so on board are precious, but that the news account would shake the "security" of the economy of one of our largest industries.
All we need to do make us all safe is to take away all the guns, all the drinking alcohol, drugs, bad drivers, slick roads, find a cure to all terminal illnesses, get rid of heart disease, cancer, and saturated fats and then we can all sleep well at night. It can't be done. Because then people would worry themselves to death because they are worried about retirement, we won't have enough social "security" to see all the way to the end. Preachers have focused for decades on "salvation", why? because it is our security blanket in the great uncounting beyond.

We as a society cannot build enough walls, enough safe guards, enough rules, enough regulations to guard us against the Evil that lurks. As sad as it is to see precious little ones die before they have had a chance to live, it is not something this battle we call life will allow.

And I'm not sure we should want to. Have we traded one fear for another when our schools are barred, guarded by military, and locked down? Have we traded risk for imprisonment? I am reminded of a story of a wealthy man who had an only son. He kept this son confined to their estate, with any luxury the son needed. On his 18th birthday the father allowed the son to go free into society. The excitement killed the boy.

My heart breaks for the parents of those kids, for the spouses and kids of those educators, but it reminds me that the battle rages on, and it reminds me that another father took the risky road and sent his son, not to live securely, but to die. The first battle cry in the war was a baby's whimper from a manger. The Evil One has never forgotten or forgiven that defeat.

Godspeed to all the risk-takers, the ones who fight the battle, who stand in the way and will not allow Evil to win the day. The battle rages, take heart, it is okay to cry, but through the tears Good must fight on.
Don

Never Again

This past Thanksgiving was an avalanche of blessings. All my kids and grand kids around. Watching Eli become the idol of his younger boy cousins. Enjoying all the bows and bloomers and cuddles of my granddaughters. Bumping elbows with everyone in the kitchen. Getting to talk to my dad for a couple of days, instead of on all too brief phone visits. Going to bed tired and sore and full of contentment. This was certainly one of the Thanksgivings for the record books.

But this one is gone. Never to be lived again. We have pictures and we have stories to tell, we have the memories that will reside inside to be awakened at the least expected moment. But this moment will never be relived. It is likely that this group will never be reconvened in just this assortment again, with the ages of everyone locked in place, with the life circumstances putting thoughts in our heads or actions in our hands. The moment is gone like small puff of smoke on a breezy day.

I don't know why this has stuck with me all week. This is a truth that is ancient and new. I guess part of it is the reminder that this life is certainly a journey, short for some, longer for others, but a one-way journey. It is not a journey where we can retrace our steps. We can't move back down the path we have already traversed. I know there are moments when I would like nothing better than to camp at a certain point in my life, but the flow of life itself pulls me ever onward.

This journey is usually uphill. It has resting places with stunning views and reflection on the effort it took to get to that spot, but the journey is not finished. Watching my dad struggle at 90 with names and a hip that bothers him, it struck me that the journey also gets a steep at the end. Perhaps for him it is simply all the steps along the way that makes it hard to remember them all. On my journey it is holding two little girls Lola and Abby who have just begun their journey. They are riding on others shoulders right now, carried along until they can walk the journey themselves. While the grade seems mild for now, it will steepen as they get older.

So the backpack gets dusted off, the laces on the boots tightened a bit. Glancing around to make sure everyone is on their feet and moving out. But this was a nice rest stop, a place of jokes and caring and service and hugs. Perhaps the hugs were the best.

Godspeed to all the travelers, hope you enjoyed your moment of rest.
Don

Thanks

Facebook these days is full of folks listing, day by day the things they are thankful for. I appreicate the thought and discernment that goes into that effort. I feel that it is right and appropriate to pause every once in a while and lift a small prayer of thanks for all the ways we are blessed.

From my perspective there are simply too many things to list in a day or month or year. The end result is that I am happy with my life. I wonder how many people can say that? If given the opporutnity, or said a better way, if nothing else changes would this be enough? Would it be enough relationships? enough money? enough health? enough work? enough significance? Would it be enough. And after I go through the inventory my heart goes back to being a happy and satisfied heart. Yes, it would be enough.

But as we know, all things change. Change is the great unchanging. Health will fail, money will be spent, people we love and hold dear will depart, work will dissapooint, significance will fade. Will it be enough then? Can we look around the inventory of our lives and realize that the stockshelves of our satisfaction will slowly empty? What do we have then to be thankful for?

My observation over the past several years has been that old people fall into two major groups. The first group is like my dad. He is active and funny, he is honest and helpful, he is maddeningly short on details about events around him, he is fun to be around. I would say that while most of his life is growing distant in the rearview mirror, he carries great memories and fond thoughts about his life. I sense that he has few regrets. He has taught me to look forward, sometimes I forget and am mired in the past wrongs and hurts. But he has taught me the value of finding hope in the future. There is no one that I know that does not like being around him.
The other group tends to be cranky. I catch myself falling into this group occasionally. I find these folks tend to crane their necks from the driver-side windows to keep old grievances in view, old pains that will not heal, old grudges that can't be released. They look for new grievances to make the old ones strong. They spend their lives in combat with all things and people around them. It is tiring to watch, and as my bride will probably attest, it is tiring to live with. They simply do not have a generosity of spirit that will allow them to be content.

So what am I thankful for? For all of it. A bride who sends me texts when I'm on the road and simply says, "I love you" A thread of hope and future tied to the one person who knows me and loves me best. For kids and kids-in-law and grandkids who make my day as rich as the wealthiest shiek. Who call me Dad, Grandaddy, and "Old Man" and all the names that tells me they love me. For my work, which was absent for so long. For my love of words and what they mean. For my passion about all the things that matter. For my God, who has never been absent, and who sends me notes of love when I least expect it or deserve it. I am thankful for all the pain and hurt and disapointment that this life has handed me because it makes me realize that the deepest joy is birthed from the deepest trauma. I am thankful that God has allowed me to gain some level of discernment, of wisdom about the world and His ways.

Godspeed, it is world of surprises, perhaps the greatest of which is the surprise of contentment in my life. I like this spot on the journey, but trail leads on. We hitch up our packs, help each up, and journey on. I'm thankful for that as well.
Don

When the Oceans Rise..

Yesterday was a typical get-on-the-plane-strap-in-get-my-kindle-out sort of start to the trip. Headed to Miami for a trade show that no one wants to go to or really feels is necessary. But the job requires my presence and like the good soldier I am, I packed up and flew to Miami.

It was a completely full flight. I was towards the back of the plane in 22C and simply trying to get comfortable. The pilot came on and told us that the flight had been delayed because the plane (they call it equipment) originally scheduled had been diverted to another trip. The one we were on had come in from Puerto Rico and had to cleaned and cleared by "security".  I checked the little seat pouch In front of me for a packet of drugs but only found magazines. The pilot said he would further explain the delay once we were airborne. Okay, that bothered me a little. I'm reminded of my oldest daughter's wedding dress buying trip where my impression was that she and her mother and her college friends would pick out a selection, then  I would go and help in the final decision. My bride called me later in the afternoon and said, "Guess what we did today!" Voice full of excitement. "What did you do today?"..."We bought a wedding dress!" Really. "How much was it?" Long silence. "Why don't we talk about it when I get home?" Hmmm. "Why don't we talk about it now?" I felt this conversation should have happened with the pilot. Why don't we talk about it before this big, shiny, flying machine takes to the skies?

So off we went from Dallas to Miami. Somewhere over Louisiana the pilot told us that the water was contaminated on the plane and had to drained and plugged up, the toilets would not work. I decided to drink my bottled water, thank you very much. Then he proceeded to tell that as we cleared the airspace over New Orleans and headed out over the gulf, we might experience some mild to moderate "chop"  I'm used to this. I fly over 100,000 miles a year. A little chop is no big deal, even more serious chop I can handle. Sure enough, we hit some chop, I opened the shade over the window and realized there was no land in sight.

For the first time that I can remember I freaked a little. For some reason I (apparently) have a deep-seated dread of an airplane falling out of the sky into the ocean. Over land, no problem, over water, problem. It made me so uneasy I couldn't sit still. So I got as if to go to the toilet that doesn't work and kind of strolled the aisle. Moderate chop and high anxiety (get it? 36,000 ft..high anxiety) resulted in sweaty palms, nervous stomach, and not being able to sit still.

So I did the only thing I knew to do..pray and try to think about anything else. Here is where I wonder about God's sense of humor. The first words that popped into my head were the song's lyrics,
When the oceans rise and thunders roar,
I will follow you above the storm
Father you are over all the flood..

Why wouldn't He put Peace, Perfect Peace into my head? I think he does that to us who are functional skeptics. Very funny. I get it. Now get us back over terra firma before I lose my lunch.

The end of the story is that we landed safe and sound. I considered having a serious conversation with the pilot on my way out, but was afraid they would hold me over and make me fly back with them.

Anyway, all's well that ends well.

Godspeed to all the nervous fliers out there. Okay, now I get it.
Don

Too Long for FB, Not Enough For Blog

Clearing out the little thoughts and such, sort of a spring cleaning of the opinion closet.

It seems we are surrounded with useless inventions and ideas that need to be closed down forever.
Neck ties. Really? Who thought of this? Yet when I travel there is always a bevy of executroids wearing them. They seem to be stamped out of the same mold, earnest expression, constant I-phone checking, dark suits, gathering in little clumps of self-importance. I am always thinking that the only real difference is the color and pattern of the tie. Maybe that is why they exist, so we can tell them apart.
As my bride tells me, when the pantyhose craze hit, it was "one-size-fits-all" or as my sweet bride lamented, "one-size-fits-no-body" Of course pantyhose is now falling the way of the necktie, no one wears them much anymore. This is an idea that should have gone by the wayside years ago.
Sporks, as in a spoon that has little, tiny, useless tines. They look like the silly arms on the T-rex. Can't hold soup, can't pick up mac-n-cheese. What are they good for? Frustrating anyone who tries to use them.
Indestructible, plastic packaging that would withstand a nuclear blast. Short of the jaws of life and chainsaw, almost impossible to get the ear buds for the I-phone out of the packaging. There will be entire race of people in the future with no fingers and a pile of mangled electronic gear packaging, crumpled and twisted, but unopened, sitting in the middle of their living rooms wailing into the night. Perhaps this is hell, having something you need and want and can see, but can't get it out of the kevlar packaging.
Fine print.....'nuff said.

On another topic. Cosmic Jokes.
Yesterday I flew from DFW to Detroit, then on to Providence, RI. On the segment from Detroit to Providence, there was a business man who caught my attention because he was so rude. He went to the desk several times to ask about the flight, he huffed and puffed, he stationed himself close to the lanes for boarding so he would be first. I think if he could have shoved the wheelchair folks aside, he would have. You get the picture. Anyway, we all had to gate-check our rollerboards because the plane was too small for them to fit in the overhead. Naturally at the other end we all had to line up and wait for our rollerboards to be carried up the steps and hand delivered to each of us. Of course Mr. I-Am-More-Important-Than-All-of-You had to stand closest to the door, facing all the rest of us as we all waited for our bags. I'm standing probably 10-12 feet away when I noticed that every time he moved it was obvious that he was not all zipped up and squared away. Pretty sure he was wearing tidy whities.  I almost laughed out loud. I'm pretty sure that I was not hiding my smirk very well.
But now I had a moral dilemma. Tell him? or let him find it later and wonder how long he had been letting the breeze blow? Cosmic humor or Cosmic justice? Kindness or my natural ability to see all things in a somewhat skewed, but sometimes selfish light? Honesty demands that I report a personal compromise. As he strode up the jetway, his rollerboard trailing behind, I waited until he was about 5 feet from me and said in a clear, non-hushed voice, "Hey chief, you are unzipped." Nodding to his pants. Resulting in a fumbling, swerving, briefcase dropping fit of getting zipped. I thought the lady in front of me was going to have a stroke she was trying so hard not to laugh. Everyone else I could see kept their eyes trained elsewhere, and their faces faces trying not to adopt my smirk. Truthfully, I think the personal compromise may have landed a little closer to Justice side than the Kindness side..I am not perfect.

Godpseed out there, hopefully all the new inventions will be useful...maybe an automatic zipper, wonder what the product liability would be for that idea?
Don

Mum's the Word

Not too long ago, we were at my son's house having a discussion on what I don't remember, when my daughter-in-law turned to me and said, "You have gotten quieter the older you get." This stopped me. If she had said I had gotten older, or fatter, or grayer, or more wrinkly, I would have laughed and said, "You're right." But quieter?

You have to understand that when I am with my son and his bride and my bride, I am the lone extrovert in a forest of introverts. There have been many times that I have gladly carried the role of discussion energizer, keeping it moving. I have my suspicions that their son may be in my camp, but time will tell.

But quieter. I'm not sure what this means. Not at all sure it is a good thing or a bad thing. Wonder where it came from?

Perhaps it is the Spiritual Disciplines over the past 10 years or so. Two of the primary "internal" disciplines is silence and solitude. It allows the mind to empty while being open to spiritual thought. In other words, it allows the  mind to wander down the paths that God has forged, instead of trying to navigate the journey from our perspective. These disciplines lead to revelation, both self and spiritual. But the art of being silent is one that is earned, and not easily our  society. Just a day or so ago, with some dear friends we were talking about the boredom of running. It occurred to me that as I run, once I get past the discomfort of muscles and breathing, my body simply falls into a rhythm, but my mind explores thoughts and truths and questions. I could only describe it as "thinking about stuff" But it is a silence that I cherish, earned from several years of practicing this particular discipline. Could this be why I am quieter?

Or it could be that some of the recent year's experiences have dampened my enthusiasm for involvement. Disillusioned about a few of the things that have always been mainstays in my life. The breach of loyalty with organized religion, but the deep commitment I made to serve, only to be harmed by the very people who were supposed to be my advocates. The loss of career and work that sustains and gives me joy for almost two years. The understanding even now that loyalty to people-designed organizations is an iffy prospect at best. Could this have wounded me deeper than I thought?

Maybe it is the realization that this world keeps turning and one day, sooner than when I started, it will turn without me. Will the lessons I tried to teach, the loved ones I tried to help, the family I tried to raise, will they be okay? Will they be able to deal with the world as it spins in new directions? Has this made me a little more aware and thus made me more contemplative? Perhaps.

What if it is as simple as I have run out of things to say? My advice is either accepted or ignored, my opinion has worth to the hearer, or it doesn't. It is possible that I have hit a moment on this journey when I simply want to experience the ride without all the fanfare. Can't I take a moment with a few friends and my family and enjoy the quietness of being in a good moment and time? Would that be okay?

Godspeed, to all out there who hear the words from the song, "When its all been said and done" and can halt the journey for a moment, can quiet the noise of the heart, and can enjoy the quietness of the moment.
Don

Good and Evil...Not

Last night as I flipped from channel to channel vainly attempting to find anything apolitical, I finally rested on the RNC just as Chris Christie barged onto the stage. I found him intriguing in that he blusters "telling the truth" and presuming to "know" what is best for all of us. After rereading the last sentence it will seem I don't like the guy, not true. It is just that my nature of functional skepticism is in full alert when any politician speaks. He has an engaging style, blunt call outs for established leaders, and a down-to-earth sort of swing-for-the-fences attitude. But somewhere in my mind is the nagging doubt that he is an actor like all of them and has found a marketing style that promotes his brand in an effective way. See, I told you I was a skeptic.

But as I listened to him, and then to as much as my gag reflex could handle, the talking heads, it occurred to me that this is not a moment in our national history that is about right and wrong, or good or bad, progressive or traditional, black or white, number crunchers or word eaters. This moment is simply about two warring political ideologies, both of which will ultimately pass into history.

It is this last sentence that we, as Kingdom residents, need to remember. This is not our home. As Indiana Jones' father said in The Last Crusade, "We are pilgrims in a pagan land."  It disturbs me that far more believers are so deeply involved in this event and are not nearly as engaged in the spiritual community in which they live. It is easier to vilify than to engage in conversation. Evangelical right has become simply a voting block and not a voice of spiritual reason in this trumped up debate.

You want a word of prophecy? This, too, shall pass. Right leaning conservatives and left leaning liberals, and all in between will see this implode. It is man made and not built to last. Even on the historical stage of world events, the Great Experiment will come to an end. And you know what? The Kingdom will continue. We may pay higher taxes, or stand in lines longer, or go hungry every once in a while, or our babies may be born naked! But it will be okay. I have stopped worrying about the "future generations" except to spend a great amount of my disciplines praying for them. Not to escape the harshness of the battle between Righteousness and Evil, but that they will show themselves prepared and worthy. Just as we should be doing in our own time and place.

It is my hope at some point that the believers will be just as knowledgeable and articulate about their Father as they are about their politics. It is my hope that we can reason from our faith, not from our political clout, that we can in the amazing scope of our world give the other guy a break.

Godspeed out there. I think tonight I will try to find reruns of The Big Bang Theory or a documentary on sharks...talk about scary.
Don

Tolerances

Most of the hotels I stay in are the of the stripe that offer a continental breakfast. It is getting to the point that I can't remember where I'm staying because the breakfasts are all the same. Every one of them has a cereal counter, a small fridge with yogurt, milk, boiled eggs, and cream cheese. A station with bagels, English muffins, and a variety of danish-type pastries, and muffins. Recently they have all added the waffle maker. I don't know who the salesman is for the waffle maker, but I need on my team. They are everywhere.

Summer brings out the best variety of guests. Young families, with the kids chowing down on fruit loops, mom looking like she has been up all night, and dad looking like the office desk is already an appealing escape. Business men, like me, have taken to grabbing our bagel and retreating to the room. Old couples carrying on their bickering at full volume so we can all see what the "golden years" will look and sound like.

Yesterday I had wandered down to the breakfast area to snag my coffee and decided to toast a bagel, which needed cream cheese. I put the bagel in toaster and moved over the fridge to grab a round of cream cheese. A young mother had parked herself in front of the little fridge while helping her daughter doctor up the waffle. Patiently, I stood there thinking they would finish their business and move on down the counter. As my patience began to wane, an old women elbowed her way past the young mother and claimed in a very loud voice, " I've got to get more milk!" Pushing the young mother aside, opening the door and grabbing a carton of milk. I was a little stunned, but seeing the opportunity, I grabbed my cream cheese at the same time. It was at this moment that I caught a glimpse of the young mother. The look on her face said she had moved from being stunned to outraged. I smiled at her and said, "Thanks" and lifted my cream cheese to indicate that I had needed to get into the fridge as well.

As I munched my bagel in my room it occurred to me that the intolerance's we should focus on are the small ones. We can't diffuse the world's big intolerance's. I can't persuade you to be racially tolerant because I have a little stripe of that myself. Sexual orientation intolerance is eroding as the younger generation has decided it doesn't matter and they know full well they can outlast us. Political intolerance will give way to daily grind, it is hard to hold that grudge when the boss is demanding your attention. But the small intolerance's, my impatience with the young mother, the young mother's exasperation with the old woman, the old woman's lack of tolerance apparently for waiting one's turn, is the gist and grind of our day. It seems to me that if we can find a way to tolerate the inconsideration, the rudeness, thoughtlessness, inattention of others, then we have truly found tolerance.

It may be as simple as letting it go. To not be combative in all that we do. I have found in a couple instances in my life that if I simply don't think about it, it doesn't bother me quite so much. Sometimes it simply means reframing our view. I can look at another person and say, " I think he/she is mentally ill."  I would never mistreat or be intolerant of a mentally ill person. So in my head (due to my vast medical training) I can reframe my view and be much more tolerant about someone, who in the past had driven me nuts...wait, not nuts...umm driven me to distraction. I accomplished this a couple of years ago with organized church. I go, I sing, I pray, I fellowship. I don't interact on an organizational level. It has made me a bit more tolerant of all the tomfoolery that used to make me so angry.

Tolerance is the ability to reframe the person or situation in a way that gives us, you and me, peace of mind. It offloads the angst of the situation from our minds and hearts. It is the very simple act of giving the other person or group a break. We let it go.

Godspeed, the journey is ongoing, hopefully the pack is a little lighter.
Don

Spirit's Whispers

This past Sunday we sang the following. Those of us on the praise team  sometimes miss the emotion of the songs we sing due to concentration on the music and the timing. But every once in a while a song, lyrics and music, stick in my head. I realized a couple of years ago through my disciplines that this is one of the ways that the Spirit whispers into my heart. Music is simply the theology of our heart. So the Spirit slips in the message disguised as a beautiful song.

This song has been running non-stop in my head and heart. In particular the line "only what I have done for love's reward, will stand the test of time." Have I loved sincerely? Completely? Sacrificially? I hope so, I wanted to, I can with the rest of the time. Gone are the actions instigated by guilt, by power, by recognition. I want to spend the rest of my time simply helping, pursuing "love's reward" I believe at some point we hit the place where secret service is the greatest accomplishment we can make. He can decide the value of the service, I simply did it because I love Him...and them.

When it's all been said and done
There is just one thing that matters
Did I do my best to live for truth
Did I live my life for You
When it's all been said and done
All my treasures will mean nothing
Only what I've done for love's reward
Will stand the test of time

Lord Your mercy is so great
That You look beyond our weakness
And find purest gold in miry clay
Making sinners into saints

I will always sing Your praise
Here on earth and ever after
For You've shown me Heaven's my
True home

When it's all been said and done
You're my life when life is gone
Lord I'll live my life for You.


Godspeed, the song is both deep and simple. You're my life when life is gone.
Don

Dads and Daughters

Today I took a flight from Seattle to Dallas. I was going standby and at the airport earlier than I normally am. I made my way from the ticket counter to the looong security line. As I approached the entrance to the line, I had to side-step a young lady, a young man, and an older fella. As I slid by, I noticed the young lady was crying. Sobbing.Trying unsuccessfully to stop the tears that were rolling down her cheeks and dripping off her chin. The young man stood to one side, glancing around, I think trying to be invisible. Guys usually are embarrassed by this scene, he was looking for a way out. The older fella stood talking to the young lady and trying to comfort. All I could think of was that he was as inept at it as I am. So I side stepped the emotional goodbye and found myself in line.

Naturally, the young lady and young man fell into line right behind me. She had composed herself a little and was making small talk with the guy. I wasn't following the conversation, but their looks and demeanor and body language indicated to me that they were siblings, not a couple. We wound our way through the maze and on the final long stretch to the TSA folks, the  line wandered back by the people catching the final glimpses of their loved ones headed off to parts unknown. It also gave the daughter (my guess) and the dad one last chance to hug across the barrier and say a final goodbye. Which started the waterworks all over again.

I would like to say that my own travel challenges diverted my attention. But I kept trying to catch a glimpse of the young lady going through security. What had prompted all the sorrow? It took all of my will power to not reach out and touch the shoulder, to comfort, to tell her that her daddy's heart was breaking as well. My only hope was that he had done a good job of making her understand that he loved her and hoped only the best for her.

But it made me contemplate, AGAIN, my own struggles as a daddy to two young ladies. Had I given them enough strength and character to withstand the turbulence of their lives? Did I give them the template for how they should expect to be treated? Could they possibly understand how inadequate I felt most of the time of their raising? Would they ever know that if they have enormous gaps in their training it is my fault? Could they now forgive me my own failures as a daddy?

As I watched this other daddy struggle with tears and awkward attempts at comfort, I felt his pain. It may be the hardest thing on earth to watch your children suffer, to see the tears drop from their faces, to see the loss of innocence, to know that your best efforts were not enough to shield them from the merciless, implacable fate that seems to envelop our daughters.

Instead of simply throwing my backpack over my shoulder and setting out along the concourse with my roller bag, I walked and prayed. Prayed that this young ladie's sorrows would be replaced with joy, that whatever circumstances connived to separate her from her daddy would be thwarted and they would be reunited. I prayed that life would be kind to her, give her the chance to know love, and happiness, and contentment.

Then I realized I had been praying that prayer for 34 years. For whatever reason God gave me a tender heart towards all these young ladies. I have found, though, that a tender heart is poor protection against what this world can do to our children. It seems an unfair fight.

But now I look at my girls and I realize that they have fared far better than my expertise should warrant. They are a joy to my life in ways I can't quite describe. I'm sure both will tell you with a chuckle that sometimes my phone calls don't seem to have much point. In reality, all I wanted was to hear their voices and to tell them again that I love them.

Godspeed to the young lady flying out of Seattle, hoping all the best for you. Same to Jordan and Carrie and the newest daughter Sarah. Sometimes I just like to hear your voices.
Don

And I am Running!

Whenever I run, I feel like I look like Forest Gump running with the leg braces on. The only difference is that the leg braces never come flying off and I just churn away, making minimum progress. It is a highly inefficient and frustrating way for me to move from one place to another. (Although, I would like to point out that most runners end up at the starting spot..not much progress there) Cars and airplanes may be the greatest inventions ever, and pockets, and those little tubes in the toilet paper roll, and of course those great enamel juicers that you can do with one hand, and ratchets, and Velcro...but I digress.

My grandson ran in a 5K a month or so ago and encouraged me with his dedication. Of course this dedication was encouraged by his mother who had to threaten and cajole and beg and plead to keep him on track. But now he has the same parent strapping on shoes, along with my other daughter (only 4 months removed from the birth of her second child) and me. At the event, as we watched runners stagger by after the 1/2 marathon, my grandson said to me, " Grandaddy, will you run a 1/2 marathon with me?" Thankfully, the organizers won't let him run until he is 12, which means I get a 3 year reprieve. But in the spirit of getting ready, I have decided to run in a few 5K's to get ready.

My daughters are using a program called " From Couch to 5K"...I don't know what is wrong with their couches, there is nothing wrong with mine, particularly early in the morning. This ominous turn manifested itself in Amarillo a month ago when I was informed that I was in charge of keeping the babies while the women ran. This all seemed ironic to me because if they had been better at running maybe we wouldn't have had all these babies. Right? But like a tornado gathering dust in her skirts out the door they went, to return 35 minutes later, wind-blasted, and "glowing".

This morning I "street" ran for the first time in years. The extent of my exercise for the last several years is 30-40 minutes on an elliptical at a pretty good pace. It claims it to be 2.75 miles. Who knows? There are several reasons I like the gym workout. It is never raining, or foggy, or humid, or hot. I can watch TV while I sweat. There is no fear of a pitbull taking a chunk out of the back of my leg for breakfast. The texters rarely hit anyone in the gym, I guess it could happen, but it would take out the entire treadmill crowd first. Gyms are safer, cleaner, and better climate controlled.

But my baby girl wanted to run. So I ran. Not too many people in this world can get me back out on the concrete, but my girls can, and my grandkids, and any life threatening situation that might come up. I am not a runner. I am not built like a runner. You know, the slender, slightly hunched, bald guys. I am thick through the chest and legs. My ancestors were better at lifting things than running things down. But my girl needed the company, and I was concerned about her safety.

So off we went, Walk 5 minutes, run 5 minutes, walk 3, run 5, walk 3 run 5, walk 3. Not bad for the first time. Remembered why I hate the running thing. Knees and right hip are still sore, small of my back was sore for a bit. Wind and legs good, probably could run the entire time, but why increase the displeasure? Besides, I loved the visit with my daughter.

I read somewhere that a guy like me was explaining why he didn't run. He claimed it would cause a panic. You see some guys running with that well-balanced, earnest, jock expression and you know they are exercising. You see someone like me, you look behind me to see what is causing me to run. Then, seeing nothing, you pick up your stuff and decide, "What the heck, why take a chance? It could be nothing, but the guy is running." Then a few more people begin to hurry along and before long you have a stampede, wild-eyed people crushing everything and everyone in their path. I can't take the chance.

So I will run early with my daughters, maybe in a 5K or two, then if God decides to play a cosmic joke and leave me here until my grandson is 12, perhaps a 1/2 marathon..or as much as I can stand.

Godspeed to all the runners of the world. I will have to explain my theory of "finite energy" someday.
Don

Wandering Around

These are a few of the thoughts just sort of simmering in my head. No particular order of importance.

Why do we get such a thrill out of fireworks? I love the joy it brings to my grandkids, my kids, and my bride, but I really don't get it. It is pretty (for the girls), it has noisy booms (for the guys), it draws a crowd (for the cops), and it seems to be getting more and more of them each year. It is a exotic blend of lawn chairs, pickups, chiggers, beer, sweat, ants, and dirt. There is the obligatory flag-waving, the long lines to get out of the parking lot, or grass field, and the loud people who can't figure out the every-other-car deal. But I always come away from them being glad I went. Human nature is a funny  thing. Parades sort of fall into the same category for me.

I have been home for 5 days, don't go anywhere for another week. This has been a great moment. I love being home because the coffee is good, the company is better. My curmudgeoness comes out in that I like to sleep in my own bed, with my bride of all these years. Kids, being apart does not get easier the older you get, it gets much more difficult. You handle it better due to the maturity deal. It is nice being home.

Andy Griffith died. All my new (old) friends on Facebook are posting nostalgic posts about Mayberry, the flag, and America. They are also vilifying the sitting president. Does anyone not remember that Andy, good old, country personified Andy supported ObamaCare? In fact, it was his last acting gig, an ad to smooth the waters for the bill. Who said any of us had to be consistent?

Praying deep and worrying about my six grandkids. Eli, Phoebe, Lincoln, Isaac, Lola, and Abby. How I wish I could smooth the way for them. Give them something that will hold them solid when the world goes chaotic. My nature seems a little threadbare and worn to pass on to anyone. But it is all I have. My shield of faith has dents in it, both from battle and from me running into things. The belt of truth has notches carved through the years by taking it up and letting it out depending on the current whim of religious thought, my helmet of salvation doesn't fit just right, seems my head is either too big (my doing) or too small (world's doing) to ward off much anymore. So what can I leave these gifts of my life? The only thing I can leave is the worth of knowing the One who loves them more than I do. It is all that will carry them through.

Our democracy is messed up. No one wins anymore, we all lose. One vote doesn't even count as one vote. Electoral college makes the decision on who wins and loses. I think it is time for all of us to take a deep breath, step away from the fray, find something to laugh about. Did you hear the one about the farmer's daughter...? Andy would know the joke.

Well, glad to clear out the mind lint.

Godspeed, a purposeful blog is in the near future.
Don

She's Early and I'm Late

Fathers' Day ended up as a big event at our house. Abigail Lindsey Jolly arrived. Three weeks early. Surprising her momma and daddy and all the rest of us. It was a day if rushing around tyring to get all the folks in the right places. Abby's grandma from Minnesota flew in just in time. Big brother Isaac was shuttled from hospital to our house and back (but got to enjoy a bit of the "cousins camp" along the way) It was a whirlwind of logistics, hurrying, waiting, thinking through cars and carseats, and all the while silently praying that the delivery would be timely and safe. It wasn't until we crawled into bed on Sunday night that my bride reminded me it was Father's Day, and she was sorry I spent it rushing all over Dallas. I told her it was a great day, a trifecta day, I got to see all my grandchildren on the same day and all were safe and sound. What could be better?

It occurred to me in the midst of all this rush that there may have been some things I have not taught my son. He was holding up well, but had that shocked, slightly dazed, happy, concerned look on his face. I'm sure he feels that since he has a son, he knows the ropes, he knows what to expect. But as one who has two daughters and one son. Daughters are different, not better, different.

Sons become the little  shadow behind you for the chores. They want their own tools, they want to throw everything, they like hitting things, and they like to tag along on their daddy's heels. It is one of the most gratifying things in the world to have this responsibility. Of course, they go their own way eventually. There are differences, but the golden years of tee-ball and yard work and hunting are all memories and teaching moments that every daddy should enjoy.

Daughters on the other hand tend to intimidate us. We don't really understand the language, we don't understand the dress code (how in the world do moms know these things? I think there must be an underground handbook that dads don't get) and we sure don't understand the emotional landscape. But daughters capture us early. Somewhere in our house is a picture of me holding my oldest daughter Jordan. She is only few days old. The shot is me sitting on the couch, elbows on knees, holding this little girl out in front of me, staring at her in wonder. The expression is still there on my face, with her and her sister. We look on them with wonder. How can I protect? How can I insure their safety and happiness? It might have been a different look had I known what I know now. These little girls are much tougher than I would have imagined. Both of my girls have had to endure things I wish I could have prevented, but a daddy's ability to protect only goes so far and is usually nothing more than an uncharted heart and a lot  of tears.

So I'm hoping my son intuitively knows how to deal with this little girl who is going rewire his world. I'm hoping that he will understand that she will get her view of men by how she observes her daddy. This will put tremendous pressure on him to model the kind of man that might one day occupy her life. I'm hoping that he understands that the way he treats her momma will be the framework for how she will expect to be treated. It is a tall order and one that a lot of men stumble over. But he is a good man and will rise to the occasion, just like my sons-in-laws have done and continue to do.

I haven't gotten to hold Miss Abby, or tell her how much I love her. I hope to when I get home from this trip.

Godspeed, we have added another traveler to our journey and she is a doll.
Don

Learning the New Normal

Last week on Thursday I had another episode of A-fib. In retrospect I probably ignored a lot of the classic symptoms and plowed through my week, building to a panic-stricken run to the ER. And as usual, when I was describing recent activities, diet, sleep, and poor health symptoms, my bride went from concerned to annoyed that I had let it get this far. Let me say right here that she was correct, she should have been annoyed, this was risky behaviour that impacts her life as well as mine. As we sped to the ER, pain overwhelming, I was desperately hoping that I didn't lose consciousness, wondering to myself, "Is this it? Is this how it ends?" the only emotion I can remember is remorse over putting my bride through this. So, early in this post is an apology to my bride, my companion, the only true constant in my life, I am sorry.

With that said, there have been some changes made. There is a new normal.

First of all, there is a deep-seated realization that this is now a real possibility in my life. There aren't three strikes, there are only two. First occurrence is listed as a "lone event" A-fib. You have two episodes, even a year apart, and now it is "chronic A-fib" I think this criteria is a little narrow, but the medical establishment is a pretty tedious bunch. I don't get any mulligans.Apparently they impose both stroke and distance. Now every time I don't feel well I have to consider that this might be another onset. For the past 20+ years I have lived with the panic just below the surface that my eldest daughter will call and say the C is back. Now that panic has to be applied to my "condition" While this is not a panic to me, it is to my bride and I have to apply the same standards to myself. So below all the events of my life is this ugly little toad sitting in my garden, waiting to make an appearance at the least opportune moment. My life has taken on a new normal.

Secondly. Now I have to take a little pill every day. A teeny-tiny little pill. A minuscule reminder that this heart deal could pop up any moment. Every. Single. Day. I have been taking vitamins every day for years, so it shouldn't be a big deal. Right? But who knows what vitamins do anyway, except make you gag every once in a while. But this little, tiny pill speaks to me every morning, "Hey, moron, you ignore me and I will get even." Stupid pill. But I have taken it everyday since last Friday. I can do this. I owe it to my bride.

C. I love this joke...watch Home Alone. This normal now makes me analyze everything I do. When I work out, I can't get my heart rate over 120. Is this normal? Is this what it is supposed to be? Should I work harder? or back off? It is some help that almost none of the workout equipment in hotels monitors correctly, so I just turn on my inner listening device and rate how hard this exercise should be and how long. So far so good.
Now at 58 I am watching a little better what I eat. Over the past 10 years or so I have slowly cut out fried stuff and high fat, not health, they just made me feel poorly. Now I watch it more closely. One week in,  nothing white after 6PM...well, the Pinot Grigio, but that really doesn't count.
Sex...none of your business.

Some of us mature more slowly than others. Perhaps a lot of you have made these adjustments, but it is new to me. But I am going to adjust. I owe it to my bride and my three kids, my three in-law kids, my five (soon to be six) grand kids. I read somewhere a long time ago.."Live long enough to be a problem to your kids" I plan to.

Godspeed, how the journey is traveled has changed a little, but not the joy of it.
Don

Sons

Yesterday my son turned 32. This realization prompted me to stop and contemplate the last 32 years. I have long moved past the point where I look on him as a kid. He is a man, and a good one. It is with no small pride that I can say that.

Saturday I was treated a memory snapshot. He and his bride and 2-year-old son had come to our house to visit and eat dinner with us. There had been some health turmoil in my life and I simply didn't feel up to the drive to their house, but desperately wanted to see them, in particular that good-natured little boy. So as I  was cooking dinner (this is not a chore for me, but a relaxation) I glanced out the back window into the yard and saw my son sitting on a lawn chair, watching his son play on the slide. Both were laughing, enjoying the sunshine, the day, and the moment. It occurred to me that the cycle was continuing in a good and fulfilling way for me.

I remember calling home when I was a young father, having my son pick up the phone and bursting with enthusiasm, "DAD!" Then in those years when he was about 3 to 14, whatever I was doing he wanted to do. It was with very deep and secret pride that I had this little shadow on my heals. Our interests have diverged, but my sense of pride has not, and my sense that the imprinting was done properly. Now it is his turn. Even now when I get a chance to help with painting a room or hanging a ceiling fan, the 2-year-old wants a tool to "help." How can you not enjoy the moment? If the father is runner, the son wants to run, if he is a yard guy, the son wants to be a yard guy. This trailing of the father for these few short years is a precious and time honored teaching tradition.

So it is with some pride that I see a son, as a grown man, who is kind to his wife, who adores his son, who is responsible for his family in all things important, spiritual, emotional, and physical. Then I look at my sons-in-law and realize that I see the same marks of integrity with them. That my prayers through all those years for other fathers raising their sons have been answered. I see my 9-year-old grandson enjoying the backpacking and cycling and interest in family and friends that his daddy has. I see my almost 3-year-old grandson have the same intensity for work, and a very mischievous sense of humor that is patterned on his daddy's blueprint. My daughters chose well.

This gives me great hope for the future. These little boys will follow the paths of their fathers and their grandfathers. It is with great anticipation that I look down the road and see strong, healthy, balanced men follow in the paths of their fathers.

Happy Birthday to my son. I hope the legacy that I received from my father and passed on to you will be of value to your son and his sons and on and on.

Godspeed, our immortality is manifested in the integrity of our progeny. This is a very important task that we undertake. Happy 32, Ben.
Don

Well, This is New

Yesterday was one of my usual days. Dashing to airport at 4AM for a 6AM flight. A little different in that I was flying the worst airline in America..USAir. Got the airport a little before 5AM, got my boarding pass with little fuss, stood in line for TSA. After the obligatory comments by the TSA guy about my name, "Are you Jolly today?" Wow! I haven't heard that one!

Over the past several years I have developed a system for going through security. First of all, I only wear slip-on shoes. My 3-1-1 articles are in an outside pocket of my rollerboard. But I send my backpack through first, then my laptop, then the bin with my shoes/belt/wallet/cellphone/3-1-1 bag, then my rollerboard. Most of the airports are now using the body-scanner, rather than the metal-detector, so I keep my boarding pass in my hand, dutifully step into the scanner, raise my hands over my head and stand still from 3 seconds. If the TSA folks are getting their giggles by looking at us via the scanner, they aren't giggling much about my image. Let's just say they pass me through there pretty quick, no mulligans. Then when I get to the other side and grab my stuff, my laptop goes quickly into my backpack and slung out of the way over my shoulder, I stuff the 3-1-1 bag back into the outside pocket and set the rollerboard on the ground, then  shoes dropped on the floor so I can slip them on while putting on my belt, followed by slipping my wallet in my pocket, and snapping my cellphone to my belt. It took me longer to type this process than it does for me to actually accomplish the procedure. According to my youngest, I have become one of those impatient business travelers. I prefer to think that I simply have a system that works, so get out of my way while you fumble around for all your stuff.

Yesterday, however, something happened that completely disrupted my routine.

The power went out. TSA was completely shut down. I had exited the body-scanner. My four pieces of luggage and bins were stuck smack in the middle of the X-ray tube. I would say that I would normally be standing there, looking at my watch, making sure everyone knew that this was a huge problem. However, I don't wear a watch. So I stood there with only the 6 articles of clothes (Socks count as two) and no ID, no cellphone, no money, no credit cards, no nothing. I was stuck between two worlds, the outside world prior to security, and the 20' or so of being made secure, and the world where all have been cleared and are secure. I was a few feet away, yet stuck at the mercy of the TSA.

As I stood there, holding my pants up like a teenage hip-hop star, looking back down the tube for my various security blankets, a scenario popped into my head. What if I had to make my way with only what I had at that moment? My identity would have to be established. Could I convince the folks around me that my worth was wound up in who I was and not what I have (which was not much at the moment)? Whom could I trust? Who would trust me? Where would I go? How would I fend for myself? It was an insightful moment. I realized that the traits and habits and personal makeup would have to be enough, that my gifts and my foibles had all made through Security, but none of the crutches that I had come to rely on. I am me whether I have the little card from Texas to prove it or not. It was a moment of self-reflection that was long overdue.

They had to snake my stuff out of the X-ray tube with a long pole. Then a young man had to completely take my backpack and rollerboard apart for scanning on the machine looking for bomb residue. Each clothing article was carefully inspected. I remarked to the young man that he was lucky that I was outbound and everything was clean. Coming home would have been an entirely different story for both of us. He seemed to appreciate the import of the statement. He simply said, "No kidding." We both chuckled about it and I realized that this would be the way I would rebuild my identity, humor with human interaction. Sharing the events with a philosophy not bound up in "Why me?" but "Why not me?"

Finally I was allowed into the promised land and allowed to catch my flight, my stuff back in place, my clothes unpacked and repacked (hurriedly) my cellphone and link to the world by my side once again. But it made me look at my stuff a little differently. It is stuff, not me. The only way this could have been more revealing would have been a strip search in full view. Nakedness can be attained without taking your clothes off, it is the stripping away of all the supports and crutches we have devised to "clothe" us from the world.

Godspeed out there to the travelers on the journey. Every once in while we need to take an inventory without our stuff and see what we have.
Don

On The Go..

This past weekend marked the third weekend in a row that we had obligations beyond our house. Several weekends ago we went to OKC to support my grandson in his first 5K. Then we were in Amarillo for a baseball game, dance recital (different events for different grandkids, just to be clear, my grandson had the baseball game, my granddaughter had the dance recital)  Then this past weekend we were in Cleveland, TN for the wedding of some of our oldest friend's (tenure, not chronological) eldest daughter's wedding.

As it turned out, we were some of the few non-family members. It was lovely. 1888 house and grounds, reception in an old barn, ceremony under the huge magnolia trees, Japanese lanterns lit and drifting into the night sky. It was lovely.

The weekend was a time of travel and shopping. We landed in Knoxville, TN, got our little Nissan Vespa, loaded our suitcase and headed out. My bride was navigating with her I-pad, while I was trying to see the sights, get a feel for direction of travel, and visit.

We decided to take the 90 mile trip down back roads, instead of interstate. We lunched in Loudon, TN at Mark's Downtown Cafe. Apparently the place for all the locals. Sweet tea (only option) and sandwiches were good, the waitress was congenial. Then a little antique shopping across the street.

Then on the Tennessee Valley Winery. The view was spectacular across the Appalachians, the wine was average. We bought a bottle of sweet white for sipping at the hotel. With the recommendation from the lady at the winery we hit the Sweetwater Valley Farm for cheese and crackers. Huge dairy operation, but also set up for group events. The day was clear and sunny and we were having a great time criss-crossing I-75 looking at whatever the landscape and the journey provided.

Eventually we headed to the hotel.
Saturday we decided to hit a big antique mall which my bride went through very carefully. It was housed in an old textile, knitting mill. It is with great appreciation that the old building had been renovated and re purposed in this way. It was on the North Shore in Chattanooga, TN. We wandered around the area and had lunch at FoodWorks. This place was a gem. If you ever go there, try the Shrimp and Grits.

As I mentioned, that night we attended the wedding, it was a great to attend, watch, and not stress over any part of it. I have done my turn on that deal and I have great empathy for the parents of the bride.

Sunday morning we got up and went to the hotel where our friends had headquartered and had a very nice visit, catching up. These were the folks we found our way through early marriage with. They were broke and we were broke. We shared all we could, food and entertainment. Sorrows over loss, frustration over building our families. We have kept up through the years and have only gotten eccentric in mild ways.

It was good to get home, but we had a nice journey, a moment. I think it is good to revisit some of the special people from other eras in our lives. To remember the struggles and the bonds that are formed. These are good people. I'm glad we went.

Godspeed to the Hunters and the Hunter's kids. A new chapter for you guys.
Don

Emotional Journeys

This past week was a study in the roller-coaster of my attempts to observe and contemplate the complexities of our society. The week found me in downtown L.A. trying to smooth over a turf war among some of our more volitile cusomters and hand-holding the rep who is responsible for all this. While on the way to hotel after all the fireworks, I spied a highway sign indicating the exit to the "Museum of Tolerance". After making a few internal jokes about L.A. being the perrfect site for this museum, I decided to craft a humorous blog around this sign and the L.A. culture. Then on Saturday my bride and I got up early and drove to Oklahoma City to watch my 8-yr-old grandson and his daddy run in a 5K race. There were also 1/2 marathon and a marathon to go along with this. My grandson had been impacted by a young lady in the huddle group from church because she had been such a sweet spirit and had died in the last few months of cancer. There were over 50 people from their church who participated, but I think this was Eli's way of saying he still thought of her and missed her. The race was on Sunday at 6:30AM, so we had most of Saturday afternoon to tour the Alfred Murrah Memorial. At first my grandson was more into running around and being an 8-yr-old, but my bride took him in hand and in her quiet, impressive way took him around to all the different memorials within the context of the greater memorial and explained the horror and intolerance of this single act of hatred. I watched from a distance as my bride leaned close and almost whispered into his ear the impact of each stone, each name, each plaque. And from my distance I could see his eyes and body lean ever more intensely into her words and teaching. The Memorial is an impressive place. I find it hard to believe that almost 18 years have passed since the tragedy of that day. The babies who died in the daycare would be in college or just entering. There have been no skinned knees, no butterfly kisses, no first day of school, no driving lessons, no first romance, no first kiss, no graduation. In a blink and a flash, the hopes and dreams, unrealized expectations, the precious moments were all erased. Along with these were a couple of smaller plaques, one in particular of a husband and wife who died on the same floor of the building. In my minds eye I see them as having a chuckle together in the car before work, perhaps sharing a cup of coffee, maybe a quick have-a-good-day kiss before they unbuckled and strolled together into work. Maybe they weren't like that, maybe they had a quarrel, or simply rode to work in silence not knowing that the sand was down to the last few grains...and they were unaware. And the five plaques of the people who happened to be walking by the building, on their way to work when in a flash their world was gone, and the shpe of the world and the hearts of their loved ones gone with it. Was this their normal route to work? Or did they change their path to run by Starbucks or a quick errand and just got caught in the wrong place at the wrong time? Who knows? But as I walked and read and pondered, my mind kept coming back to the question of motive. Why kill all these innocent people? Why rob us all of the innocence that marked us before? We learn just a few short years later that indeed this hatred, this intolerance can be enacted on a much bigger stage. But this intersection of hatred and intolerance is only two of the streets. It is criss-crossed with courage and hope. As I stood there in the midst of that memorial, I could see poking above the walls the steeples of two churches. My cyncism took over for a few moments and I wondered, bitterly, where these communities of faith were, when the babies and grownups of the Murrah building needed them most? The very next morning I was sitting in the assembly hall of one of those churches, eating a free breakfst. It occurred to me that this little church, across from the memorial had given up their "worship" time to feed a bunch of people who came to remember the tragedy, to run for those who couldnt run for themselves. I heard the story of this little church acting as a clearing house of information for those who couldn't find their loved ones that tragic day. Of offering food and consolation where they could. It then came home that these little communities of faith can't change the events, or craft any big answers. They can only hug and cry and feed those who are so devastated that they can't think or respond because their world has been blown up by an intolerance and hatred that they never even knew existed. The Museum of Tolerance is an educational think tank, to use the atrocities of the Holocaust to teach an emerging society the lessons learned by the intentional acts of cruelty by a few men. Oklahoma City could add a few lines to that lesson. But the real teaching will be in the model of my bride, leaning close whispering the acknowledgement of the evil that exists, and the path to tolerance in the truths of a better way. The little church may have grave internal issues, but the willingness to feed and console and point to the hope of compassion is in their DNA. I wish my words here were better, but there is simply some things that impact us so deeply that we can't adequately express. My grandson wants to run next year. In four years he wants me to run the 1/2 marathon. I'll be 62, what better time to embrace the concept of tolerance as the only effective tool against hatred. If my knees can handle the strain I will do my best to fulfill his wishes. The future is in the hands of those who have heard the whispers of their Nena and compelled their grandaddy to act. Godspeed, we all have a race to run. I pray yours is downhill and downwind, but if not I pray you will run it anyway. Don

Not Funny! At All!

In the past few months my stuff, keys, wallet, pens, etc. have started hiding from me. When I go to pick them up from their normal places..they have moved. It has gotten mildly annoying.

Now my coffee mugs seem to have joined in the game. I have three coffee mugs that I use. My favorite has no clever printing or silly pictures. It is simple white mug (probably from Ikea) the opening is about the same size as the bottom, but the mug is bowed out in the center with a handle that is just the right size. The other two are mugs that have sayings or quotes on them that I like. Now, all of a sudden they have all conspired against me.

For the past week, I have done as I have always done. I fill up my bride's coffee mug with the right amount of creamer and take it to her just as she gets out of the shower. Then I go back to kitchen and fill my mug. Then I wonder around accomplishing various tasks. So occasionally I set my coffee down to make the bed, or check facebook, or watch a moment of news...then I can't find my mug. I look here and there. I go back into the bathroom, scan the counter, mutter "Nothing" to my bride's question, "What do you need?" Then I walk back into the kitchen, and there my mug sits, in the middle of the cooking island, looking innocent and wide-eyed. I know good and well that I looked there before. So the only possible explanation is that the mug hid, then leaped onto the island while I was at the other end of the house, making me think that it was there the entire time.

So the next day I change mugs..same thing. Only now I can hear the giggling when I'm not in the room. These mugs are cooking this up at night while in the cabinet. They think it is funny to exasperate the old man early in the morning. I don't think the coffee is in on it, the coffee is an innocent bystander. In fact, by the time the mug unhides itself, the coffee is pretty cool to the entire escapade. So I have to warm it up in the microwave and the whole event starts over again.

Why would these mugs do this? The only explanation I can come up with is that they are in the moment of life called "teenage" mugs. Foolish pranks to upset the old guy. Well, I have a surprise for them, it is called "garage sale" See how they like being used as pen holders or better yet spit cups for the red-necked clan. I think I will find me a nice Japanese mug, no handle, but very proper.

Godspeed to those out there with well-behaved mugs. Mine are a bunch of hooligans.
Don

The Best Day

My bride does not like surprises. Which is a little incongruous because she married me and I am nothing if not surprising. But we dated and were engaged for a couple of years before saying "I do" so it is all on her.

This day is not a surprise, but we had a surprise birthday party last weekend when all the kids and grandkids were in town. She made it clear to me again that she doesn't like surprises. But we pulled it off, and she ate the cake and opened the gifts like the good sport she always is.

But here are a few things that make me fall in love everyday with this birthday girl.

She is all about everyone else. Our home is a secondary location for Hobby Lobby, JoAnnes, and innumerable little craft and quilting stores. You see, she custom makes a new blanket for each new grandchild. FIVE at this point. ONE in process. These things are heirlooms, not just because they are priceless, but because they are high quality and treasured by every single grandchild. Even Eli, who is sneaking up on 9 years old, still snuggles in with his. His little sister, Phoebe, left hers at our house and I had to mail it back. These things are works of art. And my bride sits on the floor and cuts and assorts and rearranges and sews and stitches each and every one. She does not cut corners when it comes to her grandbabies.

But it doesn't stop there, when we are out shopping she will buy something and I quiz her on what it is for, "Jordan is looking for this" or "Carrie needs this." or "Sarah will look really good in this." Wait a minute, those people are off our payroll! but she shops and looks and buys and contemplates what she saw where and what everyone needs.

But wait. Just two nights ago, "What are you sewing now?" Answer: "So and so needs this prom dress and her mother wanted me to make it." Really? A prom dress? She has done curtains, hemmed dresses. The list goes on and on. She gets paid for the stuff she has to buy, but it is her way of saying to people, "I love you and don't mind doing this."

She has always scouted the edge of the crowd and befriended the "odd ones" She has always gone beyond what is expected to make others feel welcome.

Now, mix in with all this a willingness to mix it up with anyone who she feels is taking advantage. I know it keeps me on my toes. She is kind and tough, soft and unyielding, challenging and a respite, maddening and healing.

She is my bride, my heart, my soul. This would be one dim place indeed without her.

Happy Birthday, Bev. I love you. Always have..always will.

Godspeed to all those who were captured early in the love wars.
Don

The Pot of Gold

One of my current favorite quotes right now is "Children are the rainbow from God, grandchildren are the pot of gold" I have no idea who coined this quote, but I like it. As the scriptural take on the first part, God displayed the rainbow as a reminder to himself that he would never destroy his creation with floods again. When I contemplate my kids I reframe the promise by imagining that the rainbow of our kids is a promise that our lives, our dreams, our hopes, our significance will not be destroyed by the floods of pain and worry and set-backs we endure in this moment. God's promise holds true for him and for us.

Grandkids are the reward of a life spent raising our kids. Oh there were rewards from the kids, but those rewards were hard earned, and hard fought. We received very tough on-the-job training because these kids came with no instruction manual. Then, just to be funny, God sent us each one different than the last. So 80% of what you learned on the first one was useless with with the second and on and on.

These grandbabies certainly bring their own share of worry and concern. But because we are so much more settled in where we are, we can enjoy their development without the fear of scarring, the fear of failure. We get to hold them close and snuggle into their necks and laugh at their antics. The cares of raising them falls to the ones we have raised. It was with pleasure that I watched each of my kids and kids-in-law this last weekend spend most of their time instructing these little ones. As far as I could see none of the adult kids missed a single opportunity to teach. The lessons of sharing, of letting the other one finish with a toy, of correcting defiant behaviour, of encouraging kindness were all manifested at some point during the weekend.

Meanwhile, Grandaddy got to play 13 holes of golf with his eldest grandson and talk about his new hobby of running, he only won a $1 off of me for hitting the green from the tee box. Phoebe snuggled close on Sunday morning and we talked about her school and her art and dancing, the human warmth and heart warmth were treasures stacking up in my soul. Park and slides and throwing rocks are the stuff of Lincoln, and we did them all; his "no, Siddy (silly)" as fun to hear the 100th time as the first. The repetitions on the 3' slide in the backyard with Isaac as he would grin and stand at the steps, arms up, saying "Again?" OF COURSE again, who could refuse? And then Lola, who at three weeks really only has sleeping and eating and pooping down to an art, but to sit and wonder at the possibilities as I got to gaze into her face and wonder about the future. And though a while from now, watching my d-i-l expand as little Abbey grows, not yet seen, but loved already.

My rainbow has three vibrant colors that still mesmerize me. They are far beyond what I could have hoped far. They are funny with wickedly good humor. They care for all the others, not a prima donna in the bunch. Same with my kids-in-law, and expanded rainbow. Who would have guessed?

And the gold is pure and good and has made me a wealthy man. Wealth beyond my wildest dreams of avarice.

Godspeed, I hope you all find your pot of gold.
Don

Free Will

A philosophy professor I had a few years ago said, "Philosophy is a wonderful handmaiden, but a terrible taskmaster." Every time I read a book that deals with some facet of philosophy, I think of this quote. Mostly because philosophy gives me tired head. It circles around and around and asks different questions and pushes the boundaries of what I have always considered truth and makes me wonder if they are just snotty, know-it-alls or if I'm mentally handicapped in some way and just can't see it. With that said, about twice or thrice a year I pick up a book on philosophy and spend a time in intellectual flagellation. See, I'm even beginning to sound like them.

But a couple of days ago I started reading Free Will by Sam Harris. To sum up his view of free will, he believes it is a delusion we created to help us cope with our lack of control on the world around us. There, now you don't have to read the book. But I started it because most of the sections in the old book that give me greatest amount of angst is the collision between Divine providence and (you guessed it) Free Will. And you have to understand I have read a lot of material about all the major constructs of this argument from Determinism, Libertarianism, Compatibilism, Openness, Molinism and the list goes on. I even have a working knowledge of some of them.

So why put myself through this? There is only one reason. It makes me "think" better. It makes me show my answers. Philosophy makes us run through all the thought strings until they either circle back on themselves or they run out and aren't valid. I believe the lack of critical thought is one of the greatest weaknesses in the Christian world-view. We accept without question the doctrine and, consequently, look foolish to the rest of the world. I think it was Stalin who claimed that Christianity was the opiate of the masses. When we don't think critically, we illustrate his point.

So I will finish the book. I don't know if I chose to read it, or as the author claims it was my destiny, manufactured by my psycho-neurons and past experiences. Maybe my next post will be on the couple I saw at the Detroit airport yesterday where he was 6'4" and she was 4'11". Incongruity is all around us.

Godspeed, I still describe myself as a "functional skeptic" maybe it has to do with my reading material.
Don

5 and 2

But it isn't the scorecard. It is the piling up of blessings that prompts this blog. Yesterday we added our 5th grandchild and 2nd granddaughter. She came to us in fine shape, all parts intact and working. Her momma is now recovering and dealing with the physical pain of the procedure, and rejoicing in the knowledge that this little red-faced girl is healthy and sweet and finally here.

It was not until the evening that I got to hold her, watch her for a moment and finish the prayer that started several months ago. Praying that she would be healthy and sound, that the pregnancy would be uneventful (which it was until Monday when her momma fell walking into school, all was fine)

But the prayer went far beyond that. I have discovered that life tends to throw us hardballs that we sometimes can't duck. The constant companion of grandparents is worry, for parents it is guilt. Worry because we know what life can do to us, guilt because we did not prepare those gifted to us in the best way possible. But I have about decided that grandparent's greatest role is to provide perspective. The fierce fighter in the kid has great potential for wide ranging change because of the very things that drive his parents crazy. The gentle nature of others will be taken advantage of, but it is our only hope for a compassionate society. The song and dance of a little girl's heart will be broken, but it is only through her dancing and singing will we catch a glimpse of angels. And the little tyke who has such an inventive and infectious sense of humor will have to find a way to deal with the seriousness of life, but he will bring the healing power of laughter to all of us.

So what will this new life bring to us? Will she be serious, will she be thoughtful, will she be caring, will she bring comfort? I don't know. These blessings tend to create a life of their own. They tend to find their own way. It is up to us to provide a trail for them to follow.

And so I wonder about her. Will she ever love me as much as I love her at this very moment? The other four have created their own rooms in my heart. They all moved into my thoughts and prayers, they took the best places and have made the house of my heart a better place. The room for Lola is now being furnished. It will take months and years to finish the job. I pray that God grants me the longevity to meet the unknown ones that will be their mates. I don't care if they have to wheel me into the church for the last one, I would like to be there. But if I am not, I hope that whatever I have been able to pass on to them will be of value, will be treasured.

Lola came to us yesterday with her little red face, her thatch of black hair, and her fingers wrapped around our hearts. Captured again by someone whom I don't even know...yet.

Godspeed out there. As I mentioned in the culture's front porch called Facebook. Children are the rainbows of our lives, grandkids are the pot of gold.
Don

The Answer May be Behind Us

Yesterday I checked into a Hampton Inn somewhere west of St. Louis for a meeting this morning with a new(ish) customer. When I checked in, though late in the afternoon, I asked if they had any USA Todays left. They did not have today's edition but yesterday's. Since I hadn't read it, I took a copy and scanned through it while working on the laptop. I came across an article titled, "Millenials aren't amoral, adrift"

The article rightly points out that older generations tend to view younger generations with an enormous amount of skepticism. Everything they do is wrong and everything we do is right. The term "going to hell in hand basket" was a term used by my parent's generation to describe my group. The older I get, the more I tend to agree with them. But the younger generations do have two areas that diverge strongly from my parent's generation. The rejection of worldly religious/secular/political organizations, and the tolerance for lifestyles that do not easily fit into the conservative framework. My generation seems to be the "missing link" in this argument. Like a hybridization gone terribly wrong, my generation seems to encapsulate all that is wrong with generations on both sides. Alas, I digress.

In the article are various authors of note quoting either one side or the other, but the essence is that the generations behind us have a very different world-view than we do. While rejecting the authority of the organizations, they have a keen interest in social justice. They have discovered all too well that the organizations of the world today are far more interested in the health and vitality of the organization than the individuals who make up that organization. In this I agree with them. Church today is far more about marketing than maturing. Politics is about greed than governing. The common discourse is demonizing anyone who disagrees with your singular and insular point of view.

So what makes those of us over 45 cringe with the younger crowd? They make us uncomfortable with their ability to ignore the church politics while flinging themselves into secular volunteerism. Why? Because they see far less damage by the organization towards those being helped or the volunteers carrying out the mission than they do in "church". They believe in Jesus, pray daily, and find no issue with friends and family who embrace another lifestyle. This last one drives the old folks crazy. As it becomes more culturally acceptable to live an alternate lifestyle, we will have develop a language that will become inclusive, rather than exclusive. By the way, if "all good things come from heaven" how can we condemn a long-term, loving, sacrificial relationship between homosexuals? I have observed one for many years as one partner cared daily for her partner who had a massive stroke, FOR YEARS. I'm just saying that there are a lot of layers to this blanket condemnation we publish, yet our younger travelers seem to accept and love and embrace those with ease.

These younger generations can teach a thing or two about getting to the core essence of being engaged at an organic level, of accepting people for who and where they are, of focusing their energy on finding common ground instead of battle ground. I think I like these young folks a lot. Maybe I can dye my hair, lose a few, and sit on their back row and listen. You never know, I might learn something.

Godspeed to you millenialists, we don't understand you, but we are beginning to trust your instincts.
Don

Showers are Parties

Showers are parties for the softer side of human-kind. Showers for the ugly side are a quick way to get clean without sitting down. I will freely admit that I do not understand the allure of the female affinity for this event (the party shower, not the cleaning shower).

Oh, I get the need and willingness to gather stuff for the coming nuptials or the impending baby arrival. I just don't get the fervor around making it a party. Now there is the nuance of having "themes" for these showers. Hmm, isn't a baby theme enough?

So for days and weeks ahead of the shower a group of women gather and plan the event. Like the "elder" women conferring on the young mother-to-be not only the essentials like strollers and diaper bags and baby clothes, but the constant transmittal of knowledge through legend.
"My second one carried a lot lower and that seemed to be a boy/girl thing"
"You will know when it is time to go to the hospital because..." (frankly I quit listening, it was becoming much too graphic for my comfort level)
"Oh they let you stay for 48 hours instead of 24, like when mine were born"
On and on the legend and lore of baby birthing is transmitted from one generation to the next.

And the planning of the shower is almost as intense as the development of the baby. What kind of food, where it should be, what decorations need to be rounded up, who to invite. My eldest daughter stated early that she couldn't help all that much leading up to the event, but she wanted to be in charge. Guys would balk at this concept, the ladies all seemed to think this was a great idea. Sometimes I just have to shrug my shoulders and realize that I will never get it.

Then the actual day of the event and I am informed that my strong back would be needed to haul decorations/cake plates/desserts/gifts to the location. My opinions/views/remarks were not welcome AT ALL. So, like the whipped husband and father I am, I loaded boxes and unloaded boxes standing in the living room like a big dumb farm animal holding the box until I was told specifically where to set it down. Thank goodness my eldest daughter was there, she can make a quick decisions and there is no one to disagree. After all they put in her in charge.

I will tell you that we men have no interest in this event. The quickest way to get a man to shake in his shoes is tell him it is a "couples shower." We would rather have a doctor's exam than to endure these things. The food is marginal (rarely any meat) the conversation is so estrogen-filled that we can't hear it (like a dog whistle, we know from the reactions that something is being said, we just can't hear it) and our tolerance for all things pink is pretty low.

We made through though. My youngest is having some really early signs of labor, my son-in-law is a little stunned by the entire thing (The first time around was a C-section) I think he prefers the schedule. Lola's room is ready, though awfully pink. We are locked and loaded..

Godspeed out there to all the guys who have or will go through this right of passage. We have all done it. We just don't understand it.
Don

Traveler, Not Tourist

I have come to a spot on the journey that seems like an odd spot for me. For those who follow this blog, or more importantly know me, know that I have a deep love for all things spiritual. It is the spiritual side of life that gives us depth and discernment, maturity and peace. This has not been an easy journey for me. My self-developed depiction of my life is functional skeptic. Which merely means that I find a way function, but have all kinds of doubts and questions and objections. Engineers ask questions of what and how, skeptics are constantly asking why.

But I have found a moment on the journey where I feel I am okay with all that. It seems that the spiritual journey and the religious journey have diverged on my path. The religious journey is the paved trail leading to all the tourist spots. These tourist spots dazzle and lure, but I have grown tired of them. It is like reaching for the cookie that is full of empty calories and burning my fingers one too many times. The pain is real, the calories are empty.

Instead, it seems that I have found a small footpath, overgrown with foliage, crisscrossing through climbs and descents. It is a bit more hazardous, it is not well marked. It seems to come with more pitfalls. But just recently, it feels that I have broken through the last of the underbrush and found myself panting and sweating from the exertion, but stunned by the view. The valley below and the rising hills across the valley hold my attention far longer and deeper than the bright lights of the tourist spot. I can let the backpack sink to the ground and I can find rest.

It seems that God would be pleased with this. I can't imagine that he intended me to be frustrated and marginalized in the organization we now call "church". It feels like He is whispering in my ear, "This is what I wanted you to see."
So I drink it in. I savor the moment. Because you see I still have journey left in my life. My old backpack and I have more miles to go. The path has not ended.

Godspeed, If you are behind me on the trail, hang in there, the view is spectacular. If you are one of the ones that help make the trail, thank you and keep moving, I will catch up with you later.
Don

My 58th Year

As some of you know, yesterday was my birthday. Like a few birthdays in the past it was in the middle of the week, so I was on the road...with one of my reps...in Arkansas. Not the ideal situation, but probably not the last. It was an okay day. We saw a couple of accounts, then drove an hour and half to Jonesboro, AR. It is fine to spend this kind of time with people you know and love, it is another matter when it is someone you just met, you have to be making an evaluation of how he does his job, and you have to fill in all the other time with small talk. He was not the most annoying person I have ever met, but after a few hours almost anyone will get a little tiresome. I'm sure he feels the same about me. But as a good friend of mine says, "I can hold a bear's head in a snuff box that long."

So we had my birthday dinner at a decent restaurant and called it an early night.
I spoke to all my kids throughout the day, got a birthday song from my two oldest grandkids, and a garbled wish from my third grandchild, got some really nice birthday wishes on Facebook (by the way, what is the proper etiquette? Should I respond to each one, or just do one and hope they see it..maybe I can post some photos, oh wait, probably not a good idea) and spoke to my bride before turning in for the day. The greatest wonder in my life is how many people seem to love me and I can't figure out why.

This morning I was having a nice cup of coffee in the hotel, reading USA Today, and just watching the other guests wander around in the breakfast area. Then I noticed a guy about my age gathering his breakfast and every time he turned his back to me I saw the size tag that manufacturers put on jeans and pants. You know the little adhesive strip that runs down the back of the pant. This guy probably shared some parallel to my life. He was (obviously) wearing new jeans, with casual dress shoes and a tucked in sport shirt. Now I have finally been coerced by my daughters and my bride to buy nice jeans and "younger" shirts to wear untucked. It drives me nuts, but the ladies in my life seem to like it. This guy has succumbed to part of the pressure with the new jeans, but is still tucking his shirt in. So here I sit, sort of snickering about him forgetting to take the tag off the new jeans and then defiantly tucking his shirt in. I wanted to tell him the defiance is futile, I know I've tried.

Then I realized this is my first day of my 58th year. Like the Chinese I have decided to name each year. This next one will be the year of KINDNESS. It is going to be my motto this year to give everyone a break. No more superiority, no more confrontations, no more combat. This is the year that will be full of peace and tranquility, of peace-making. The world will be a better place when I celebrate my birthday in 2013.

So I finished my coffee, enjoyed the internal snickering just a bit longer (it is a new imitative after all) then swung by his table and casually mentioned that he still had the size tag on his jeans. I never even slowed down. As I turned the corner I heard him say, "Thanks" At least it wasn't his zipper or something really embarrassing. I might of had to come up with a different banner for the year. By the way, I did see an airline pilot strolling through O'Hare last week with his fly open. Should've said something, but that was last year.

Godspeed to other travelers. Come travel with me, it will all be kindness for an entire year.
Don

Valentine's Day

There are all sorts of things I could say..all true. How great my bride is, how compassionate, how the years have been more than I could hope for, on and on and on.

Here is the very simple truth.
I love her more today than ever before. There is no consideration of a life without her.

Godspeed to all who had the great good fortune to find a life traveling companion.

Beverly, I love you so. Always have, always will.
Don

Bumpy Roads

As this journey continues I find that my role in the lives of those around me is changing. 8 years ago when my first grandson was born, it occurred to me that my generation was no longer the generation of focus. This focus now belonged to my kids. They are now the ones who have responsibility for more than one generation. They have primary responsibility for the generation behind them, they are responsible for shouldering the load for leadership in the world around them, and my generation has moved beyond both of those roles. We are now more mentors than management. Our time is largely over to make an impact on the world around us. You can argue with me all you want, but you know that deep down inside that I am speaking the truth. It does not mean that we no longer have value, or that our contributions are not worthwhile. It just means that the real responsibility lies in the generation behind us. And I am encouraged.

This past week has been another week of enlightenment about how the world is beginning to change around us. As I watch each of my kids and grandkids it occurs to me that they are just where we were at that age. They are all wrestling with career decisions, where to live, what to do, how to accomplish their life goals. They are all trying to find the balance of discipline with kids and guilt about shortcomings in their parenting. Somewhere in the past few years they have started to worry about their parents and what to do with the erosion of health and vitality.

So I worry that they worry. Yet, as I pause for a moment and look back along the trail I realize we faced career decisions. We made some bad choices, we made some huge mistakes raising the kids, we neglected the spiritual opportunities because we were so wrapped up in "today", we failed far more often than we succeeded. And we still came out on the other side. We were perhaps battered and beaten, scarred and bruised, but we came out the other side. And they will do the same. I just wish the pain was not so evident, that the uncertainty was not so overwhelming.

But maybe that is the way it is supposed to be. When I ask each of the kids what they remember about growing up, they remember the laughter, the crazy life of breakfasts on Saturday morning, the family vacations, the church events and the times when they fooled their parents (or thought they did). They rarely mention any of the numerous parenting mistakes, the fights over homework, curfew, or car keys.

How can that be? Because over all of this was a love for them that allowed them to grow, to make mistakes, to sustain a few bumps and bruises on their own. My bride and I tried to remember that the goal of discipline is always self discipline. And now as we watch them work their way through their own lives we can remain silent because we know they have the fundamentals. They will work it out. I just wish we could minimize the pain the little. But you know what? The pain is part of the joy, they cannot be separated.

So Godspeed to all the parents of young ones. You are doing fine, they will not remember the same things you will. They will remember the laughter, the joy, the meals, and the fun.

Don