A Life of Gratitude

The Race to Venus

While driving the boys to school the other day, Elliott thrilled me with the following announcement: 

“Dad, I’ve entered a contest to see who can build the first rocket ship that will take you to Venus.”

“Take me to Venus,” I asked, somewhat concerned.

“No,” he said, laughing, “take me to Venus.”

“Well, if it’s a contest,” I asked, “what does the winner get?”

“Three and a half billion dollars,” he said in his best Warren Buffet voice.

I admit, for just the briefest of a second I wondered if his claim was true. I began taking inventory of everything I knew about building rockets, thinking if I could find a way to help him, maybe he’d share the prize.  Just as I concluded that I was as experienced at building rockets as I was at transplanting hearts, I discovered I wasn’t the only one whose mind went racing into outer space.

“Well, my rocket ship is already done,” piped up Ian, in his usual don’t forget the peanut gallery fashion.

“So if yours is done,” I asked, in my best Warren Buffet voice, “do you get the three and a half billion dollars?”

“No,” Elliott interjected, “you have to take the rocket ship to Venus before you can win.”  He had obviously memorized the rules.

“Well Ian, when are you going to take your rocket ship to Venus?” I asked with a voice filled with urgency.

“I can’t take it, I’m too young,” he said, sounding somewhat surprised that I didn’t know that. “I have to find someone else to take it.”

It did get me to wondering about the age requirements for interplanetary travel.  And what exactly does that driver’s license look like.  I mean really, would anyone between here and Venus even think about pulling Ian over?  Then, mysteriously, I found myself humming  the 1976 Carpenter’s tune: Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft.

Ian and Elliott–Come to Venus

By the time the two future space travelers had concluded that Elliott would drive Ian’s rocket ship and split the dough, I can only guess because Elliott is so much older and a better rocket ship driver than builder, we arrived at Kiddie Kingdom.  Sometime during the day, I imagine the second they were immersed in drawing Angry Birds and making hats out of paper plates, the rocket ship contest became a forgotten conversation.  For them, anyways.

I’m thinking the three and a half billion dollars just didn’t mean that much to either of them. 

Elliott wanted Katie to download a game on the ipad last weekend that cost money.  We’ve been limiting the game downloads to freebies, so Katie told Elliott to find a free one.  He was disappointed.  Katie then gave him another alternative.  She told him he could help organize the toys in the play room into individual tubs to earn a little money for a download.  He was very quiet to the offer.  Then after some thought, he said, like he had never requested anything more, “I’ll play with the free ones.”

I guess when you’re fine with free, three and a half billion dollars just isn’t appealing.  (Not said with my best Warren Buffet voice).

13 Years Later–The Quiet Little Ceremony is Officially Over

 

Thirteen years ago today Katie and I began our lives together.  We were married in a quiet little resort in the Virgin Islands.  I sometimes wonder if it might have been selfish of us to steal that moment for ourselves.  Maybe we owed it to our parents and friends and family to have a traditional wedding.  One where people were invited.  Maybe we robbed ourselves of precious memories that would have survived the stress and chaos of planning the big day and then walking down the aisle of a crowded church instead of saying our "I dos” on a balcony high above the warm breezes of the Atlantic Ocean.  On this day, our 13th anniversary, however, I had none of those thoughts, and I owe it all to my mother-in-law. 

This morning I received this email from her:

Just think back to where you were 13 years ago - been single for a few years doing your own thing, living in the woods with juvies, far enough away from immediate family to enjoy some privacy, free to go out some nights and act irresponsibly - and now - old married couple, no time to do a darn thing, living in center of the universe with...well the genius and the juvie, just feet away from immediate family and no privacy whatsoever, and too exhausted to even think of going out at night!  HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!

My mother-in-law has forever freed me of second guessing our matrimonial escape.  If I indeed ever have second thoughts again it will be to wonder why we didn’t start our married lives off with a month long sabbatical from the world instead of a week.  Because she’s right, I have to go back exactly thirteen years from today to recall my clearest memories of peace and quiet outside of my morning shower.  And even that is occasionally interrupted by the genius or the juvie pounding on the bathroom door to alert me of a family emergency – like one of them needs a refill on apple juice or the latest episode of Tom and Jerry Tales has ended and it’s time to fire up some Dora or Diego.

I believe God knew that we would one day have children and that by the time we had them raised I’d be well over 100 years old, which in most cases makes one ineligible for island escapes.  Maybe he decided to give me a taste of retirement at the beginning of our marriage when in his perfect knowledge he realized it would be my only taste.  I guess that makes me unretired.

If so, I’m glad I am.  There is plenty of excitement to make it worth my while.

Like last week when I woke up and saw a possum trolling along the fence in our back yard.  I yelled for Elliott to come take a look at it.  We stood together and stared at it as it looked far more interested in finding a permanent bed than an immediate escape.  When he finally drifted out of view behind our shed, I thought the show was over.

Then Ian got out of bed. Elliott told him all about our friend.  Ian, of course, wanted to go see him.  I told him the possum was probably long gone.  Elliott asked me what would happen if they went out looking for him and found him.  Would he bite them.  I explained that possums are far more likely to play possum – act like they’re dead – than to come after anyone.  That’s their protection.  And that, surely, was the end of the possum story.

A half hour later it was time to go to school.  I yelled for the boys and received no response.  I went through the house looking for them, but there was no sign of boys.  Then it hit me where they had to be.  I walked out onto the back porch and looked out into the yard.  There they were.  Elliott bent down looking under the shed, Ian beside him trying to lift up the kayak sitting next to them. 

“What are you guys doing?” I shouted

“We’re trying to make the possum play dead.”  Elliott answered.

We were on our way to school when Elliott asked me if I knew how he knew the possum was by the shed.  I was still in shock that Elliott would go hunting for anything larger than a ladybug with Ian as his only protection.  “No, Elliott, I have no idea how you knew where he was.” I said.

“I saw possum poop by the edge of the shed.” he said. 

Ian, who had mysteriously shunned an opportunity to laugh uncontrollably at the word poop, just sat there with that Ian’s wheels are spinning look.  Then the wheels stopped.

“Daddy,” Ian said, “I know who left the possum poop by the shed.'”  He paused for a second, clearly to build suspense.  “The possum,” he shouted, with the enthusiasm of a detective who had just solved the world’s oldest mystery.

So yes, I’m out of retirement.  I enjoyed it while it lasted.  But even though the pace of life is much faster than it was that one week 13 years ago, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  And I found the perfect partner to bring to the show.

A Real Nature Movement

Katie recently started a local nature group.  Unfortunately, her first scheduled event was washed out this past Sunday by cold, heavy rains and gusty winds.  I’m sure her efforts are going to eventually help a lot of children and families spend time together outside.  There is growing evidence that children spending time in nature is both a prevention and a cure for many health and learning issues that face our young folks these days.

If you can’t attend the events, I encourage you to take a look at the website: http://going.snappages.com/

Or –

Follow GOING on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/GOINGNatureClub - where Katie shares some great ideas about how you and your family can enjoy nature, as well as some beautiful pictures.

I’m very proud of the work she has put into pursuing one of her passions in life.  I think the most vigorous pursuit of our passions often comes when we share them with those around us.

OK, that officially ends my shameless plug for my wife’s project.  I must now offer up a disclaimer: once you start a movement, you really have no idea where it might end up.

Ian has recently had a struggle that Elliott had when he was Ian’s age.  He has developed some sort of mental block against pooping on the potty.  I suppose I should use the universal bathroom code here and say he has a problem with going #2, especially since Ian came home last night and informed us one of the boys in his class said a bad word, and upon further questioning we discovered the bad word was “poop”.  I had to inform Ian that if “poop” is indeed a bad word, we owe it to the rest of the world to tattoo a big R on his forehead.

By now you’re thinking I’ve really lost my way with this post, but I assure you I know where I’m going with this. 

So I walk in the house the other day and Elliott greets me at the front door, “hello Cormorant bird,” he says. 

“What?”

“Hello Cormorant bird,” he said.

“No, I meant, what on earth is a Cormorant bird?”

“Don’t you remember, we saw one at the cabin?” he answered.

I do remember them talking about a Cormorant bird.  I guess they spend so much time talking about fictitious creatures, both from this planet and fictitious ones, that they store in their fictitious barns, that sometimes I have no idea if the animals they refer to are even real.  Apparently, the Cormorant bird is.  And I am one.  And here is what one looks like:

(http://www.birdingart.com/pages/gould/cormorant.html)

 

I had barely finished processing Elliott’s newfound ability to incorporate his love for nature into his love for calling his dad goofy names (this would be a good place to remember my comment about pursuing passions by sharing them with others), when I looked down the hall into the bathroom to this site:

 

If you’re wondering if that is Ian sitting on the toilet looking quite comfortable reading a bird identification book, wonder no more.  It is.  And if you’re wondering if I was more shocked to see Ian sitting on the toilet without screaming “it’s gonna hurt” or “I don’t have to go” than I was to see him flipping through the endless excitement of a categorized listing of North American birds, I don’t know.  I do know this, though, if the nature movement in our house has helped us master the bowel movement, I’m on board.  I’ll stock a book shelf in the boys’ bathroom with material that will make the local Audobon Society Library look anti-nature.  I’ll turn the sink into a bird bath and I’ll stock the tub with trout.  I’ll do anything to help Ian conquer his fear of poop (pardon my language).

From Incubator to Kindergarten–How Does That Happen?

 

 

Some of you are looking at the picture above and you’re about to scream “honey, I think he shrunk his kid”.  Don’t scream.  It’s an old fishing picture of me and Elliott.  It was taken almost 3 years before yesterday, the day I registered him for kindergarten. 

I’m sure you’re thinking I picked out this picture during a trip down memory lane – a coming to grips journey with the idea that our little boy has outgrown bottles and diapers and naps and all things “pre-” school.  I suppose if there’s anything that says your baby is no longer a baby it’s signing school registration paperwork, forging a relationship and hopefully a very shared interest in the baby’s afterlife.  I can understand if this is an emotional experience for parents.  Maybe sad.  Certainly reflective.  I’ve got to say, though, I felt neither.

Now it’s not like I felt nothing.  But after spending the first day of Elliott’s life wondering if he would ever be a life, and then the next week sticking my hand into a glass cage and rubbing his little head and chest through the assortment of wires that were attached to him, I’ve come to equally celebrate all milestones in his life.  From the little ones like the first time he passed gas and realized his body had the ability to make some pretty cool sounds, to the bigger ones (although to me that first fart was pretty big) like his first steps and his first words and the first night he slept without a rope tied to his doorknob to make sure he didn’t get up in the night.  I don’t begrudge one moment gone by.  I find it pretty cool, really, that a baby staring through an incubator can nearly 6 years later walk through the doors of an elementary school and recite his ABCs and count to 100. 

I am also reminded that I didn’t want to be a father.  Or should I say, being a father wasn’t in the plan I had developed for my life.  I loved kids, but kids require a lot of time and I had some terribly important things going on in my life pre-fatherhood. (although for the life of me I can’t remember what they were, now).  Then along came Katie with her declaration that God wanted us to be parents.  And then along came Elliott.

My look back yesterday, and my look at this picture, wasn’t a reflection, but more an acknowledgement that God really does have a plan for our life.  And even when we spend fruitless hours and days and weeks and even decades tinkering with a plan of our own, only to realize we’re dizzied by the circular path we’ve created for ourselves, God is still patiently waiting to hand us the directions for a new plan.  Yesterday I could help but give thanks for such an awesome plan – an awesome Planner.

When I looked at this picture last night, I couldn’t help but notice Elliott trailing a few steps behind.  Watching his daddy’s every move.  Proud as can be to be carrying part of the gear.  But yesterday as we headed into Henry Clay Elementary School, Elliott led the way.  Just a few steps ahead.  And his dad couldn’t have been prouder to be following him, carrying the paperwork.

Looking For God

I have been reminded over the last few weeks that life isn’t fair. It’s easy to forget that sometimes, especially when you have two healthy boys, a beautiful and supportive wife, and you’ve just started a new job that you absolutely love.  In the good times, we too often allow ourselves to believe we are the creators of our own blessings and that we somehow control how fast and plentiful they flow.  But we don’t.

A couple of weeks ago I started my morning catching up with all of my Facebook friends.  I came across a post from a friend, Skip, who I hadn’t heard much from in a while.  His post simply stated that he missed his son.  I had picked up from a post that previous weekend that his son was home from college, so I assumed he had returned and Skip was missing him.  I thought that was pretty cool of a dad to post that.  But as I read on, I discovered it was more than that.  His son had died in a motorcycle crash two nights before.  More than missing his son, Skip was grieving his passing.

I met Skip nearly twenty years ago when he hired me to work as a counselor at Eckerd Youth Alternatives.  I had only been there a little over a month when I found myself out on a river in South Carolina with Skip, two other counselors, and 10 of the roughest boys I had ever met at that point in my life. 

There is one particular incident that always sticks out in my mind about that trip, and really, it’s the first thing that comes to mind when I think of Skip.  There was a young man having a particularly hard day, which wasn’t uncommon.  But sometimes these bad days led to kids doing things that put those around them in danger, and they had to be physically restrained.  This young man got to that point, and Skip restrained him.  I don’t remember much about the actual restraint.  But as clearly as I remember anything, I remember that incident when it was over.  I remember that young man breaking down and talking about life without a father.  I remember that boy’s tears.  And I remember Skip’s tears as he held that boy and the two of them stood crying together in front of the rest of us, Skip assuring this young man that life was going to be OK. 

It was on that trip and over the years that followed that Skip helped me find a calling in life.  He helped me discover a passion.  I think if we’re lucky, our upbringing and our experiences and our own personal struggles all come together at some point and we can only hope someone is standing there to make sense of it all.  I was lucky to find Skip standing there for me.

That’s why I wondered when I heard the news about Skip’s son: why God?  I spent several days processing the meaning of life – again.  I was reminded that in the good times, I really give God way too little credit, and in the bad times equally too much blame.  The truth is, though, the world is full of evil and pain.  Whether we give God all of the credit or all of the blame for them – neither are going away, which is exactly why it is in times like these that I feel God strongest and I see the proof of his existence the clearest.

I know there are unbelievers who like to use the tragedy of a wonderful man losing a son he dearly loves as evidence that there is no God, and if there is one, he is a cruel and heartless one.  But to me,  I’ve wondered how on earth I would possibly get through the type of tragedy Skip is dealing with.  And my answer is this: outside of the presence of God in my life, who came to this earth to be crucified so that I might have hope, that I might have a way of dealing with the inevitable tragedies and evil of this world, and outside of his promise that all of our loss in this world is gain in his – it would be impossible. 

I’m praying for you Skip.  I often think of the song below when I wonder where God is in my hours of struggle.  It is very appropriate this day.

YOU WERE ON THE CROSS - YOUTUBE

A Barn Filled With Skittles and a Granddaughter

The mother of one of Ian’s friends called Katie and left a message the other night.  We had just finished eating dinner when Katie began to listen to what turned out to be a rather long message.  She had been listening without much emotion for a couple of minutes when she suddenly burst into laughter.  She immediately took the phone away from her ear and began to punch away at the keys and lifted the phone back to her ear.  It was the same thing.  A lengthy period of silence followed by an outburst of laughter and tears.  When she was done laughing, and before she offered any explanation of the call that now had me very curious, she turned to Ian.  I somehow knew this was going to be good.

“Ian,” she said, “Charlie’s mom just called and she said you told Charlie that you have a barn that’s full of Skittles.”

“I do,” he said.  “They’re in the barn at my farm.”  He said this as certain as a farmer at the local coffee shop talks about his sheep or cattle or horses.  But this was three year old Ian.  He owns a plastic barn with battery operated plastic animals that baa and moo and neigh when you press the right button.  The closest thing he has to a farm is the living room after he’s drug in a shoe full of dirt after playing outside. But Ian and Elliott have always had imaginations that are often centered around a make believe farm that they can describe every detail of – including the Skittles – with the exception of just how one might get there.

Skittles wouldn’t be the most surprising find in the barn last week.

We were driving to our friends’ house for dinner Saturday night when we drove past the boys’ school.  For some reason seeing the school made Elliott think of Ms. Kathy, the school director.  “Ms. Kathy has a baby,” Elliott said.

“You’re right,” Katie said, “She has a new little granddaughter.”  There was a quiet and all indications were that that conversation was over.  But it wasn’t.  Someone else had a line to add to it.

“I have a granddaughter at my farm,” added Ian.

I hope she likes Skittles, I thought.

The crazy things they say weren’t over yet.

We were driving home from Church Sunday when the subject once again turned to babies.  I can’t recall how. I do know it wasn’t a suggestion that we rescue Ian’s granddaughter from his farm.  But somehow we began to talk about babies.

“Ian was really messy when he was born,” said Elliott.

Katie and I looked at each other, wondering where that came from.  “You weren’t around when Ian was born, Elliott, how do you know he was messy,” asked Katie.

This is an example of Katie being much braver than I.  As curious as I was to know what Elliott was talking about, I wasn’t curious enough to follow this conversation into the dark and uncomfortable areas it showed every possibility of visiting.  But she couldn’t help herself, and Elliott obliged with an answer.

“I know he was messy because he was in your belly and all of that food kept dropping down on him.” 

This is one of many reasons kids should not be able to speak, not a word, while in a moving vehicle.  I nearly ran off the road with the image in my head of little Ian looking for cover as Katie dropped oatmeal and pizza and quarter pounders with cheese down on his unprotected head.

Katie went on to explain that Ian stayed in a different room of the stomach than the food did, once again demonstrating her bravery.  I’m afraid I would have simply told him that the nurses were quick to clean the food off of him.

I am reminded today, on the one year anniversary of my good friend losing her husband, that these moments with our families are treasures.  I am reminded that a second of worry about yesterday or tomorrow or about what I do or don’t have is a second robbed of the enjoyment and the overwhelming sense of gratitude I have for Ian and Elliott and their awesome mama.  My prayers are with you today Rachel.

And finally, I hope everyone got to see the two very coolest moments of this NCAA tournament.  And no, my obsessive UNC fan friends, one of them was not Duke getting beat by Lehigh.  The first was just prior to the tournament when Bob Knight, the often volatile and seemingly cold coach of Indiana University, and later Texas Tech, found out while on air of a basketball game he was covering that his son, Pat, had just led his Lamar team into the NCAA tournament.  The chair throwing and I’ve-adopted-cursing-as-a-second-language Bob Knight had tears in his eyes and his voice quivered as he declared that news was his happiest basketball moment of his 50 years in the sport.  Then this past weekend, Clark Kellogg was announcing a game when he found out his son, who plays for Ohio University, had just helped his team into the sweet 16 round of the tournament.  He lost all sense of the game he was calling as he was overcome with joy.  A very visible joy. 

I could relate.  But more, I was thankful to see that feeling never goes away.  That even when our kids have moved out of their barns filled with skittles and granddaughters, they can still bring us such joy.

School Picture March 2012

Living the Decaffeinated Life

A couple of weeks ago Katie and I escaped to a cabin in the mountains on the western side of the state.  Anyone who has children under the age of five, or I suppose anyone who has children at all, can relate to the need for escape.  It was really the perfect weekend to get away.  It was a calm before the storm for both of us.  The busy testing season was about to begin for Katie in her job with the schools, and I was about to begin my new job coordinating a grant for a local prevention coalition.  The drive across Virginia proved to be more calm before the storm than we expected.  Under beautiful blue skies, the weatherman on the radio was calling for up to 8 inches of snow the following day where we were headed.  I began to dream of being snowed in for an extended escape.  Nothing drastic, mind you - a few weeks - or maybe a month – tops.  Just a small reprieve from wrestling matches over Legos and dinner conversations limited to the happenings in the lives of the Mario Brothers.   I would discover later that grandma and grandpa, who were keeping the boys for the weekend, began cursing my dreams the moment they started dancing in my head.

When we arrived at our cabin, I knew we had picked a perfect place to relax:

We settled in.  The Shenandoah River was 50 yards behind our cabin. The Mountains jumped above the fields in front of it.  Perfect.  It’s the kind of serenity that can get you to thinking deeply about life.  The kind of place where you can hear God’s voice so clearly.  I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say.  So as we enjoyed each other and had uninterrupted conversations, and watched the skies for signs of the first flakes, I listened.

What I heard first was that very quiet curse from grandma and grandpa.  It came in the complete absence of snow.  Not a single flake.  So much for our blame-it-on-mother-nature extended stay.  Oh, the snow arrived - everywhere else.  In fact grandma and grandpa played in several inches of snow with the boys back home in central Virginia.  To add insult to injury, five minutes into our drive back home the ground was covered with a fresh, white blanket.  Our consolation was that, other than that first five minutes of our drive home, the view was gorgeous.

And oh yes, the voice from God.  It ended up coming from an author, Don Miller.  I was catching up on his blog while I was there and discovered that he had quit drinking coffee.  Of all of his posts I have no idea why I became fixated on that one.  I suppose because I found it hard to believe someone I liked would quit drinking coffee.  I wondered if I would ever be able to like him again after I had discovered that he was capable of such insanity.  I actually felt angry.   I googled “why on earth would someone quit drinking coffee?” And Google, clearly unaware that I was being sarcastic, answered me:

• Increasing hypertension risks
• keeps the liver busy from filtering other toxins
• tooth decay
• weakened bones
• addiction/dependence
• causes anxiety
• a cycle of hyperactivity and/or inability to focus, followed by a subsequent "crash"
• disrupted sleep habits
• may interfere with weight loss and has been linked to hypoglycemia
• buying coffee products may fund inhumane labor overseas
• financial costs to support caffeine purchases
• has been linked to affecting learning behavior (unknown if positive or negative yet)
• caffeine dehydrates your body and can make you gain weight
• a desire for a healthier pregnancy

When I read that final bullet I felt my anger was justified.  I mean, Don, really, what is the likelihood you’ll get pregnant.  But several of the other 13 bullets just kept speaking to me.  I suppose now is a good time to confess that my own coffee habit consisted of 8 to 12 cups of coffee a day for the past 20 years, which made me start wondering about my high blood pressure and my afternoon crashes.  I also began to wonder if my pride in my ability to go nights on end without sleep was actually an inability to sleep at all – an inability driven by coffee.  I emailed my friend, Mike, who had introduced me to Miller’s books and lectures.  I told him that Don Miller had quit drinking coffee and that I thought I should as well.  He said, “Keith, on some things Don Miller is an idiot.”

Something told me he wasn’t an idiot, so I gave up coffee.  Cold turkey.  And for 4 days I walked around running my hands over my head searching for the vice that was surely clamped against it, threatening to squeeze my brains and my caffeine weakened bones right out my ears.  I took aspirin and drank water and googled “how stinkin long do caffeine withdrawal headaches last?”  And the answer was about 4 days.  And sure enough on the 5th day the headache went away.  And now, on the 13th day, I think Don Miller is my hero.  I have more energy than I ever had after any 12th cup of coffee.  Maybe because I sleep several hours a night.  I don’t know.  But I am thankful I heard the voice.

My caffeine-free life couldn’t have started a moment too soon.  Keeping up with Elliott and Ian these days is no task for the weary.  Elliott is getting ready to start his second year of baseball, and Ian is actually signed up for a 3 year old soccer league (after watching Elliott’s 4 and 5 year olds league play, I can hardly wait to see what happens when Ian and company take the field).

Little Ian is hardly little Ian any more.  He is going on play dates and getting invited to birthday parties.  I find myself holding him and hugging him a little longer and harder these days.  I know it’s any minute now that he’ll no longer be a baby, and if I can just be holding him when that moment passes, maybe I’ll be able to keep just a piece of it forever.  I’ve noticed Ian actually hugs me harder than usual lately, and I wonder if he isn’t trying to steal my moment.  That would, after all, be just like Ian.

 

Good Guys and Bad Guys

 

Our quiet little county has had its fair share of storms lately.  In the past six weeks we’ve seen two teenagers lose their lives in acts of violence, a father ran a hose from the exhaust of his truck into a bedroom where he was eventually found dead with his twin 3 year old daughters, and a local woman was stabbed to death by a man she had befriended.  All of these acts were unrelated except for the sadness they each brought to their family and friends and our community.  I guess they also shared a common thread in the reminder that, even in a quiet community, bad is present.

Through these events, I’ve come to realize why I often wish our boys would get stuck in time - why I daydream of them forever living in the land of pre-school and bedtimes stories and unending giggles that come from something as simple as tossing a stuffed angry bird around the living room.  That world has no bad guys outside of the ones they imagine and quickly vanish with the aid of superheroes that most of the time I’ve never heard of.  They live in a world where bad is a game.  It’s no more threatening than hide and seek or tossing a ball in the yard.  It’s a world where Santa and the Easter Bunny are real – and bad isn’t.  And what I wouldn’t give to keep them there.

Any hopes I had that they might live in that world forever were recently dashed.  I imagine I felt like God felt when Adam and Eve discovered evil in the garden of Eden and deprived us all of an endless age of innocence.  But we were headed to church last Sunday when Elliott asked us if bad guys were real.  When they shoot people do the people really die?  Would the bad guys come in the back yard when he’s back there playing?

I’m sure we told him a lot of the right things:  Yes, there are bad people - but not many.  Our neighborhood is safe; we even have a police officer for a neighbor.  God gives little kids parents so they will be protected.  We told him to scream if a stranger approaches him when we’re not around.  To run in the house if someone comes near him that he doesn’t know.  We told him all the things we thought might bring him some sense of security in his new world – the one that has real bad guys.  All the while I lamented the end of a dark secret.

There is a bright side to the story.  Either Ian didn’t catch on to the theme of the story Elliott was uncovering, or if he did, a world full of bad guys seemed more exciting than frightening to him.

When we had finished our conversation with Elliott, pretty close to the part where we told him to run inside if he encountered a bad guy and mom and dad would call the police, Ian suddenly seemed interested in the discussion.

“I’m not going to run inside,” he said.

“Why not,” I asked.

“Because I’m going to stay and help the policeman fight the bad guys.”

And that’s Ian.  Never one to conform.  Never one to back down from an opportunity to be on the opposite side of the fence of his brother.

Earlier this week we were playing ball on one of the college athletic fields near the train tracks.  When an Amtrak train came along, Katie told the boys that I would be taking one of those trains to a meeting I have to go to this week.  She was trying to get them excited about my trip.  Unfortunately, we hadn’t told them about it yet and Elliott didn’t respond well to the surprise.  He cried at the first word of the news.  He cried all the way home and long after we got there.  It took several cups of apple juice, a few trips around the track on his DS game and about a half an hour to pass before he finally seemed OK.

About that time, I was cooking dinner.  Ian was sitting at the kitchen table eating a snack, when he made his first comment about the news: “Daddy, I want you to go, that’s why I didn’t cry.”

In some Ian sort of way, I’m sure that wasn’t meant to hurt my feelings.  In fact, I’m sure it was more to point out that Elliott cried and he didn’t.  And it was Ian being Ian so my feelings were just fine.  But he had this smirk on his face that troubled me.  It was a look I recognized but couldn’t place at the time, but it would come to me later when I was watching TV.  That look appeared on our screen above the fireplace as a cruel reflection of the look in the kitchen.  If you watch below, it’s likely you won’t recognize it like I did, but you can at least get a taste of it.

 

 

Refrigerator Magic

I visit our refrigerator several hundred times a day.  There are times when I walk away with a snack or the makings of a meal, but most of the time I leave empty handed.  I sometimes wonder why opening the refrigerator door, if only for a quick peek inside, brings me so much comfort.  Maybe I’m subconsciously driven to confirm that no one has walked off with our last drop of apple juice.  If that makes me sound at all paranoid, please visit us sometime when I have to break the news to Elliott or Ian that the juice inventory has run dry and we no long have the only staple their diet has ever known.  For your own protection, pack an unopened gallon of Mott’s. 

I was in the middle of one of these trance-like refrigerator trips the other day when, upon my approach, I noticed for the first time the community of creatures and pictures and various other things that are living on our refrigerator door and the neighboring pantry.  How long they had been living there?  Please tell me they don’t drink apple juice.

Instead of diving into the refrigerator, I stayed outside, studying.  I was suddenly on a trip to an art gallery rather than fishing for the snack that would kill off my last living new year’s resolution. 

I decided to give the group individual attention.  I started with this creature:

I looked at this guy – or girl – and smiled.  I recalled Elliott bending over in the front yard a couple of weeks ago to pick up a lone piece of green yarn. When he looked at it and declared it was a piece of hair from his snowman, I didn’t pause for one single second to measure his words.  Elliott, after all, has visited or lived on or owned exotic islands and planets and entire solar systems for years now; the fact that in the course of his travels he has befriended - or created - a snowman with green hair is hardly noteworthy.

Looking at the picture, I was curious if Elliott planned that this rather athletic winter wonder would be sprawled out like a gymnast in the upcoming Summer Olympics, in which case they had better have plenty of mops on hand, or could it be that once he created the head and body, his options were limited by the size of the paper to having a very flexible friend - or a midget.  Either way, I’ll never look at Frosty the same again.

Now, this creation looked more like a real snowman – more frosty-like - to me.  But do I detect his eyes drifting affectionately sideways toward the green haired girl doing the splits next door?  Ian’s work, no doubt.

 

 

This creature validated that I do indeed attend the pantry in a trance.  How was it that this was the first time I was asking myself, “what in the furthest stretch of my children’s imagination is this?”  The complexity of the chaos made me believe that Elliott created it.  I began to consider a conversation we had with one of Elliott’s teachers who we bumped into during a date night last weekend.  She voiced a playful frustration that the school day is barely an hour old lately when Elliott has constructed a dozen paper airplanes and managed to stuff his backpack so full of them that little room remains to send home the more thoughtful and organized pieces the class creates.  I wondered if this was one of those thoughtful pieces, or was it possibly one of the paper airplanes after spending a day hanging on a hook in an impregnated backpack.

This picture, unlike the previous one, required no thought.  I recognized those little hands in an instant.  I briefly wished I had spent more of my holidays admiring this Ian wreath.  He’ll be four next Christmas.  His hands will be so much bigger.  So will the wreath.  What if he’s too old to make a wreath next year?  What if he’d rather make a paper airplane?

I found a manger scene on the refrigerator.  It only had one Jesus.  I found Ian’s name in the bottom left hand corner of the paper and wondered if he had learned the real Christmas story, the one about the birth of a single Savior, or did someone take the paper from him before he gently settled a second baby in Joseph’s open arms. 

I ended my tour for the day with Rudolph.  I hoped the crash wasn’t as violent as it looked– the one that rearranged Rudolph’s antlers until they resembled a game of pick up sticks.  Before I turned away, I noticed the big 5  at the top of the picture.  Elliott’s age.  I know Elliott, and that was no accident.

As you can tell, it wasn’t your normal trip to the refrigerator, at least not mine.  In fact, by the time I was done taking in the collection posted on the door, I never made it inside.  It’s amazing to think back to the pre-Elliott and Ian refrigerator.  One covered in coupons and bills.  Those days are gone, and after my tour, I’m glad they are.  Although some wild creations are now part of our kitchen décor, they bring something to the house, to life in general, that just can’t be found in a dollar-off coupon at the china buffet, or a reminder that I only have four days left to pay the electric bill.

And Finally, The Reindeer Games Have Ended

 

Katie put together a special birthday party for Elliott this year.  He’s a big fan of Rudolph and his friends and their ability to drag Santa around the globe in a single night.  I have to believe Elliott gets funny looks from his friends when he enters Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer into discussions about famous superheroes.  Superhero or not, the Rudolph party was a hit.  And once the reindeer games began in our house, they were very slow to end.

With each passing Christmas, Katie and I try a bit harder to help the boys understand that Jesus is the only Superhero in the Christmas story.  Some days I think we’re making great progress.  Other days I wonder.

We were riding home from church on Christmas Eve.  The boys were excited to show off some of their artwork from the birthday party they attended for Jesus while Katie and I were at the service.  Ian reached his little hand up to us from the back seat, anxiously waving his masterpiece.  I saw Katie look at it and promptly begin to smile and shake her head.  When I asked about her reaction, she held the picture up for me to see.

One look at the picture and I joined Katie in head shaking and smiling.  It wasn’t long before my whole body was shaking from laughter.  I glanced back at Ian, and he looked pleased.  Very pleased.  He was clearly more aware that he had made us laugh than he was of the implications his assignment had on the history of Christianity.  If you look closely, you too may notice and addition to the manger scene.

Some time later our drive home returned to a holiday season normal; Katie and I attempting to have a simple conversation over the raucous of Ian and Elliott singing and laughing while altering their favorite Christmas songs to include references to pooping or tooting or dirty underwear.  I have to admit, I appreciate the creative genius in the idea that on the sixth day of Christmas my true love would give to me six geese a tooting.  As such, I couldn’t help but laugh with them.  For at least a second it is worth the glare I got from Katie; one begging to know how she ended up a single mother raising three little boys alone.

I attempted to restore peace when I let the boys know that it was inappropriate for them to force their fascination with bodily functions on the sanctity and tradition of Christmas carols.  We should save that for regular songs. 

Katie’s glare continued.

OK. OK.  Boys, it’s really not of great character to find bodily functions fascinating. 

Peace returned.

The rest of our Christmas Eve went wonderful.  We let the boys open the gifts that Katie and I got them, if for no other reason than to make sure they knew Christmas morning that Santa had once again out-gifted mom and dad.

We got them stuffed animals that responded with excited commentary when you read certain lines in the books that came with them.  The boys loved it.  As I was reading and listening to Elliott’s raccoon proclaim “never fear, Watson is here,” I couldn’t help but wonder why our stuffed animals suddenly needed to talk.  I do love technology, but I wish some portions of childhood could be protected from it.  Watson doesn’t support my wishes.

After reading them their stories and listening to their new pets (Ian got an equally chatty dog named Jingle), we put the boys to bed.  To my surprise, there was no stirring.  Ian and Elliott had been full of anticipation of Santa’s arrival this year, so I expected a few extra post-bedtime potty breaks and drinks of water before they closed their eyes for the night.  But they both went right to sleep, and I’m almost certain Santa finished his work early at our house.

There is nothing like the excitement of two young boys staring under a tree and discovering that Santa came.  To see eyes paint the picture of a mind that believes a fat man other than the one who already lives in our house squeezed down the tiny pipe of our gas fireplace with a bag full of gifts is magical.  I know it won’t be long before Elliott’s hands will be reaching up that pipe with a tape measure, then wrapping the same tape around my waist, leading to the most puzzled look ever.  Until then, I will enjoy the magic.

After the boys had opened their gifts, we momentarily lost them.  Elliott was abducted by a DS3 gaming system; Ian rode into outer space on the wings of his new rocket.  I wondered if we would see them again.

Then Aunt Wendy came with her gifts.  Elliott was suddenly released by his captors; Ian re-entered the earth’s atmosphere.  They both tore into their gifts like they were the first ones of the day.  They opened their gifts, and for a moment, weren’t sure what they had.  But I knew what they had.  Each of them were holding in their hands their very own whoopie cushion.  Once I explained to them that these were oversized balloons that, when sat on, made a sound that sounded very much like a toot or a poot.  It was like video games and rockets became so yesterday in an instant.  They began running around the house blowing up their cushions and sitting on them.  Our Christmas kitchen sounded like the post game press conference at the World Chili Eating Championships.  Our talk the evening before about bodily functions was as history as the video game and rocket.  Oh how they love Aunt Wendy!

The boys and Katie were out of school the week after Christmas.  The reindeer games appeared to be ending, but there was one more game to be played.

My dear friend Rachel wanted to give us a gift this Christmas that I tried to talk her out of.  She threatened that if I didn’t cooperate with her in getting us this gift, we might have things show up at our door that we didn’t expect.  Dogs and cats and giraffes, she joked.  I didn’t take her too serious, which was a mistake.  You must take Rachel serious.  And if I had doubts, they ended when I came home from work one evening that week to find a very large stuffed addition to our family.  I have since started cooperating with her.

And so another Christmas has passed.  Left behind is another collection of memories and magic.  I have to honor Katie for creating so much of that magic for the boys.  Her endless energy and ideas and her own heart for magic in our kids’ lives adds so much to our holidays.  She is a blessing to all three boys.  Most important, she helps us all keep the Christ in Christmas.