A Life of Gratitude

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.

It Might Do Us All Some Good To Get "Tebowed"

I don’t have the NFL Sunday Ticket, which means I’ve seen very little of what has become known as the “Tim Tebow” story.  This past Sunday as I was flipping through the ESPN family searching for highlights of Tebow and the Broncos latest miracle win against Chicago, I stumbled across something much better than a Tebow highlight: a Tebow post-game press conference.

Tebow opened his conference by saying "I guess, first and foremost I'd like to thank my Lord and savior, Jesus Christ.”  With those words, the stampede was on.  An entire section of his audience raced off in a frantic search for their Facebooks and Twitters and Blogs and Phones and Bullhorns and anything they could find to warn the rest of us that the crazy quarterback from Denver was shoving Jesus down our throats again.  I wish they had come back.  I have a couple of things to share with them.

First, it has become apparent that Tebow is going to find a way to thank his Lord and savior, Jesus Christ every opportunity he gets. He seems unashamed at having us look in while he shares his gratitude, so if you feel a shoving sensation in your throat, I’d turn the channel.

Second, be grateful you didn’t stick around.  After you left, he quit talking about Jesus and started acting like him.

After thanking Jesus, Tebow went on to say “and after that I just want to thank my teammates and coaches. You know, I just want to thank Coach Fox and the coaches for giving me the opportunity and believing in me for the entire game and for the defense for keeping us in it and our receivers and our offensive line, who at the end of the game made me look a lot better than I really am." 

Uhm, Tim, you’re doing this press conference thing all wrong.  This is where you were supposed to tell us how YOU saved the day.  You just wasted a lot of copy space by talking about everyone but yourself.

Then one of the reporters got to the heart of the matter. 

It wasn't going well at all for you up until that last period. How are you able to kind of put that completely out of your mind, because you guys were moving the ball and your stats, I don't remember, were 3 of 17 or something like that?

OK Timbo, you’re going to have to defend yourself here.  The guy wants to know how you put it out of your mind that you were a complete disaster most of the game.  As awful as you are, how do you keep your head in the game?

"I don't think we necessarily get focused on the stats or what's happened in the past. Obviously, that can be frustrating. We had opportunities early and we didn't take advantage of them, so that kind of put us in a position where we were behind, which was disappointing.

"But guys kept encouraging one another, defense kept encouraging offense; the offense encouraging special teams. Just try to keep believing until the very end. It wasn't looking very good, but guys kept, shoot, encouraging me, at all times, believing in me, and we kept believing, and I think that's special when you have a team that believes and a team that's going to continually fight for 60 minutes, even though it's not looking good and even though it might be frustrating.

"We might have had opportunities and missed them, but we kept fighting and kept going, and the defense played phenomenal and came up with a bunch of huge stops, and we were finally able to get a drive there and score — a bunch of guys stepped up on that drive; the offensive line protected great, and D.T. stepped up on that drive; and Jeremiah and Lance and Deck, and a bunch of guys really stepped up, and we were able to get the ball back and find a way to go down there and.

"Shoot, it's kind of like a blur, I don't even remember everything that happened — but you can't say enough about Prater and how clutch he is and how much he means to our team. He's a great guy and a great person and a great player, and I'm proud that he's on our team."

Oh, Tim, where do I start?  Not focused on the stats.  Are you kidding me?  We’ve got post-season awards to think about.  And this isn’t your last contract, you know.  How are we going to beef up your millions with numbers like yours?  And this nonsense about guys encouraging each other.  Tim, you’re not on the mission field anymore.  This is the NFL.  We don’t run around encouraging and believing and fighting for one another. 

Then there was this exchange:

Tim, was there a wrinkle that the Bears gave you that you had a little trouble figuring out?

"No sir, not really. I just think that we had some opportunities. You've got to give them credit, they are a very good defense. They came up with a bunch of big plays. Those two guys in the middle are pretty good. Brian Urlacher​ and Lance Briggs​ are pretty good, and it's fun to get to go against them.

First, Tim, this is the media.  They are predators.  Knock off the “sir” stuff.  I’m not sure where you got this whole respect everybody philosophy from, but save the respect for the people who truly deserve it.  That goes for the opposing team as well.  This media goon gave you a chance to blame the other team for coming up with a complicated scheme that made it impossible for you to function, and you go out of your way to point out how great the Bears’ players are.  Tim, when you get in front of that camera, it would help if you remember this one, simple philosophy.  It is all about YOU, Tim, all about YOU. 

Then the following exchanges:

Saying that, was there ever one time in the fourth quarter where you thought you were going to lose the football game?

"At certain times in the game where I was very frustrated and disappointed. Obviously, I thought we had opportunities — we had opportunities for the lead — so it was disappointing we were down 10-0. But great things are only possible if you're under very tough circumstances. That was a great comeback for this team, and it was led by our defense and coaches and a team that constantly believes."

Last week you laughed at me when I said you guys thrive in these situations. You clearly played better again today when it was the toughest situation to be in.

"I think my teammates make me look a lot better than I am. They really stepped up and came up with some huge plays, and I'm so proud of them. And the way D.T. stepped up on that last drive. You know, just good for him. I'm very proud of those guys.

"I think that is a character quality of a good team. When it is clutch and you need competitive greatness, you have to step up and you have to make those plays. If you're able to do it when it really matters, usually you can find a way. We've just got to get better at doing it for four quarters."

Were you frustrated by some of the dropped passes?

"I've just got to do a better job and just improve with accuracy and put it on my receivers more. They come up with a bunch of big plays, so I was just proud of their effort."

Regarding Tebow Time, do you think the clock needs to be readjusted a little bit? When you look at it, each game keeps coming down to the end and when you look at the first 3 ½ quarters statistically it's not pretty. How do you get this so you can do this a little earlier?

"I don't think it's 'Tebow Time'; I just think it's 'Bronco Time,' and the team steps up as a team. We play for one another and continue to trust one another, and I think that makes all the difference in the world."

Ok Tim, you’re on your own from here.  I mean, you’re taking this Jesus thing too far.  I think it’s a nice touch to thank him and all when the cameras are on, but you’ve got to turn the Jesus routine off when the thank yous are all delivered.  I mean as a bible thumping quarterback you should know better than anyone what Jesus said about those who follow him.  They are going to be persecuted.  And I know he said you should rejoice and that your reward in heaven will be great when they persecute you in his name, but Tim, this is the NFL.  You need to think big picture.  You need to think about TIM, not Jesus.

The reporter then asked a great closing question:

 How does the story end, Tim?

"That depends who's writing it.

"I think this has just been a great season, and I'm proud to be on a team with a bunch of guys who are high-character, coaches that are high-character, and however it ends I know I'm that I'm going to proud of all those guys and proud of the effort we put forth."

Amen Tim, Amen.

Read more: Transcript of Tim Tebow's post-game press conference - The Denver Post http://www.denverpost.com/commented/ci_19527588?source=commented-#ixzz1gPd1zevh

Here Comes Christmas

The holidays and an endless list of other obligations have made life busy lately and curtailed my writing time.  So it feels good to be starting this update.  I’m doing it on a borrowed computer, which feels odd.  Our laptop is in the shop for repairs, if indeed it survived the experiment and can be repaired.

What experiment, you ask.  Well, thank you for asking.  Katie and Ian worked together to determine if a laptop computer continues to function at normal levels after consuming a small glass of wine.  And yes, the subject of the experiment was the computer, not the operator. 

The experiment began with Little Ian bouncing a ball around the kitchen.  It wasn’t an ordinary ball, but one of those oversize rubber balls that some people do sit-ups on.  I’m not sure what people use it for in our house when Ian isn’t bouncing it around the kitchen like Michael Jordan, but it isn’t sit-ups.  Ian dribbled the ball ever closer to Katie, who was sitting at the kitchen table using the laptop to work on something, with a small glass of wine sitting nearby.  I heard Katie caution Ian a couple of times to be careful.  I wasn’t too concerned.  How much damage could a small boy do bouncing something not much larger than the planet earth in a confined area?

“Ian!”

The shout filled the air in imperfect harmony with the sound of wine glass and Hewlett-Packard crashing together.   As if she was responding to the crack of a starter’s pistol in a 100 yard dash, Katie raced across the kitchen grabbing as many paper towels as she could carry back to the wine-soaked keyboard. 

Ian stood staring.  The big bouncing ball lay still beside him.  I wondered very quietly to myself what might be added to this story if Ian suddenly grabbed the ball and started doing sit-ups.

The Best Buy Geek Squad is performing field sobriety tests, and we’ll hopefully know very soon if our version of the Big Bang was fatal – to the computer, not Ian.

We record most of the boys’ television programming.  It makes it easier for us to control what they are watching.  It has had a downside, though.  Every time a commercial comes on, one of the boys is yelling for me or Katie to come fast forward through the commercials.

Last weekend I had put on Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer for them.  I was in another room doing something when I realized a half hour had passed and I hadn’t heard a single scream for fast forwarding.  Curious, I went to check on them.  I arrived in time to see a commercial with a young boy wielding a large, plastic machine gun that was spraying nurf-like bullets around a room in his nowhere to be found family’s house.  I grabbed the remote and fast forwarded to Rudolph.  As the show started back up, Ian looked up at me and said, “Daddy, we want one of those.”

It’s true.  Our boys have become commercialized.  They have learned those magical two words that ignite the Christmas spirit in children: “I want.”

I don’t worry about it too much.  I was a commercialized child.  I wanted and I got.  As time goes on, though, I can’t remember much of anything I got, but the memories of family gatherings and holiday traditions grow stronger each year.  As I watched Ian smile with excitement hanging ornaments on the tree, and as I hear his demand each morning to fire up the lights that wrap between those ornaments, I am hopeful our boys too are having memories created that will one day stand out above anything they “got.”

The commercialization isn’t completely worry-free, though.  I can’t help but wonder if Ian can bring down Hewlett-Packard with an exercise ball, what on earth will he do with a machine gun?

IAN GETTING READY FOR THE TOWN OF ASHLAND HOLIDAY PARADE.

 

MAYBE NEXT YEAR HE'LL BE ONE OF THE CLOWNS

ELLIOTT AND GG DECORATING COOKIES AT AUNT KARA'S HOUSE OVER THANKSGIVING

COUSIN LUKE AND IAN HAD A LITTLE WILDER TIME DECORATING

The Penn State Story - It Really Is All About Football

Our social media has developed an infrastructure that allows the push of a button to send news and not-so-news racing across wires, cables and fibers into the lives of an entire world.  As in the case of the Penn State University (PSU) story, that news can sometimes force many of those lives to share an instant sickness.

When the story first reached me, I thought it was another story about an adult that should be trusted preying on an innocent child that should be able to safely follow their instinct to trust.  I worked many years with underprivileged kids, so from that angle, this was a familiar story.  Jerry Sandusky just gave us another name and face to put with the stories of those who abuse thousands of kids in our country’s homes, schools and communities each and every day.  As a father of two young boys, this story was a reminder, not enlightenment.

As the story unfolded, though, what did become news to me is the number of people who knew about the abuse, but did nothing to protect the kids.  As many abused children as I have worked with, I have worked with far more adults who would trample you on their way to saving those children and bringing justice to the abuser.  True, many of those adults were trained to deal with abuse cases, but it always appeared to me their passion for protecting those kids came from the same passion this father has for protecting his children at all cost.

I didn’t spend much time trying to understand how Jerry Sandusky could do the heinous things to little boys he is alleged to have done.  I learned long ago that there are adults in the world like Jerry Sandusky who have an illness that I can no more understand than cancer or aids.  We find their sickness more disturbing because they seemingly volunteer for the illness, and their symptoms play out in the destruction of children’s lives instead of their own.

I did find myself, though, trying to understand those who were presumably not sick.  The ones who at some level knew that children were in danger and did too little to stop it.

How does a young graduate assistant come upon this scene and not bring a sudden end to a young child’s nightmare.  If only a temporary end.  How does he tell his dad and then his boss about what he had seen, and then move on with life as if he had placed a check inside a box on a to-do list?    

How does a 75 year old coaching legend, with the wisdom of all his years of teaching and the love and affection for his own 5 children and 17 grandchildren to draw from, decide that once he had passed on what he had heard from the graduate assistant, the incident was over?  He treated it like a Nittany Lion football scrimmage – an obligation, but not really worth the effort of determining who won or lost.

The message proceeded to the AD and then the university President.  As if playing a sick version of the children’s telephone game, they all whispered into a cup attached to a string and trusted some version of the truth would come out on the other end.  Then they sat their cups down and walked away.  It now seems impossible to determine how many people were holding cups, or what kind of message they heard and relayed, or to whom.

One thing is for sure.  The police didn’t get a cup.  It’s hard to imagine, outside of an agreement between all of those who did get cups, how the police could have been left out? 

So why?  Why would highly educated and otherwise intelligent men decide it was necessary to keep the police out of it?  What could they find so worth protecting that children would be knowingly sacrificed and thrown into the den of a pedophile instead of alerting the one group of people who could save them? 

That answer is quite simple: college football.

Joe Paterno has spent what is nearly a decade since learning of this incident chasing the top spot on college football’s coaching victories list.  Last week, a week before his termination, he ascended to that spot.  He reached the pinnacle of college coaches when it comes to winning football games.

Then, there is Graham Spanier, PSU President, who also served as chairman of the Bowl Championship Series presidential oversight committee until his sudden termination from PSU.  He has long been an outspoken opponent of changing the BCS system that, coincidentally, pours millions of dollars into the major conference schools and schools - like PSU.

These two guys, and so many others associated with PSU, were bound together by the thread of prominence the school held in the world of college football.  If something, or some secret, were to cut that thread, they would instantly join Tiger Woods in a historic freefall from greatness.  And away they fall.

I am reminded of what I wrote about Tiger Woods when his troubles first became public.  We have no responsibility for what these folks do once they are at the top of the mountain, but we are responsible for building these mountains that allow common men to foolishly think they stand above others.

ESPN will pay 150 million dollars this January to telecast 5 BCS football games.  That’s 30 million dollars a game that will be split among a few elite conferences and teams – the Penn States, Ohio States, Miamis and Auburns of the world (many of you will recognize these teams as schools who have had major scandals rock their programs this year).  ESPN makes this investment on the rightful assumption that a majority of the 98 million homes they are in will have their televisions tuned to these football games.  Sponsors buy time based on the same assumption. 

Like the case is so many times, the mountain is money.  And we, the college football fans, build that mountain.

I am as big a college football fan as anyone.  I have helped build that mountain.  I don’t hold myself responsible for the behavior of anyone at PSU, but I do hold myself responsible for helping to create a monster that these guys decided was too big to fail.

I have made a decision that this college bowl season, I won’t be watching. Not one bowl game.  When the bowl season begins, my college football season will be over.

When I first considered this, I thought, wow, that would be hard, especially when it came to tuning out the bowl that invited my Fighting Irish.  Then I thought of Penn State, and the officials who, for at least a moment, considered life without football at the level they were accustomed to, and decided they couldn’t stand for that.  They ended up tuning into football and not the safety of little boys. 

I’m not sure what I’ll do with that short life without football.  I imagine I’ll spend that time looking after our boys.

We Have Unofficially Officially Survived the Terrible Twos

It’s official.  We have no more babies in the house.  Ian turned 3 today, and all of our terrible twos battles are now in the history books.  I survived.  I am a decorated veteran.  My medals consist of everything from puke and poop and paints and crayons to scars from bites that would make an alligator proud.  Granted, survival is relative, but my definition requires only that I have enough sanity left to write a blog post about the experience.

I’ve written before about the great handoff.  Elliott was just a month short of the terrible twos himself when Ian came along.  On November 3, 2008, the doctor handed Ian to Katie, Katie handed Elliott to me, and our assignments were in place for the foreseeable future. 

There were days I was so busy trying to keep up with Elliott that I felt lucky to sneak a peek of mama and our new addition.  Over time, the peeks got longer, but more and more I was peeking in on a boy trying to become the world’s biggest mama’s boy.  On this, his third birthday, I can declare that is a mission accomplished.

There are days I am jealous of how Ian clings to his mama, just as I am sure Katie feels the same way as she watches Elliott trail close behind my every move.  Beyond the jealously, though, I love my unique relationship with Ian.  As much as I am his father, I feel many days I’ve been given the opportunity to become a huge fan of Ian.

The father in me has to cringe at the way Ian approaches life.  It is full steam ahead with little regard for safety or right or wrong or, well, for anything really.  Ian sees point A and point B. His life is nothing more than a game of connecting those two dots.  It doesn’t matter if the line is crooked or colored or if anyone else even sees it.  He just wants to connect those dots. 

The father in me, and if the truth be known, the Ian in me, knows as the birthdays mount he might not always connect the right dots.  He’ll begin to insist that A might need to connect to C or D or God forbid, Z.  There are going to be days he’s going to be distracted and tempted by all the other dots in the world before he finally connects the right ones.  And knowing Ian, he’ll end up convincing me that A should have been connected to Z all along.  Ian’s dad will be shaking his head.  Ian’s fan will want to put a life size poster of him on his wall.

I watched Ian and Elliott fun off ahead of Katie and me last night into the field where all the cars were parked for Elliott’s soccer game.  Elliott heard us yell stop and he did.  Ian heard us yell stop and I’m almost certain he accelerated.  I know he didn’t stop.  Elliott ran ahead to get in front of him to make sure he didn’t go any further.  Ian finally stopped,  just long enough to take an angry swipe at Elliott for getting in his way.  One of the subtle warnings Ian likes to give that you can’t hold him back.

You may be getting the picture that Ian has a brash personality.  I suppose in a way that is true.  But I have observed something about Ian that is an even greater part of his personality.  Ian spends so much time focused on where he is going in life, that he spends none of it judging the people he comes in contact with along the way.  To Ian, people, all people, seem to be the coolest part of the line that intersects whichever two points he chooses to connect.  He likes them all.  I suppose that’s why, in spite of my account of him, people frequently comment about what a sweet kid he is.

He gets that from spending so much time with his mama.

POINT A

POINT B

Every Life is a Story

I recently finished a book called A Million Miles In A Thousand Years – What I Learned While Editing My Life by Donald Miller.  It’s a great book that a few hundred words in a blog post could never do justice, but I need to share what I took away from his book.

If one paragraph in the book spoke louder to me than others, or maybe summarized the book best, it is the following:

You can call it God or a conscience, or you can dismiss it as that intuitive knowing we all have as human beings, as living storytellers; but there is a knowing I feel that guides me toward better stories, toward being a better character.  I believe there is a writer outside ourselves, plotting a better story for us, interacting with us, even, and whispering a better story into our consciousness. (A Million Miles In A Thousand Years – pg.86)

Miller pointed out how the movies we love have characters who take on challenges and win.  We admire how they change along the way.  How they become people that can do things they and we doubted they could. 

The story written in us wants us to become better characters as well.  It wants us to take on things we don’t think we can do, and to be changed by the process of trying to prove ourselves wrong.  The trouble is, even though most of us want to be those characters, we are more inclined to seek comfort than the challenges that will make us better characters in better stories.  The story we write for ourselves is often filled with less action than the one written for us.

I thought about my Aunt Mollie.  After spending all of her life in Ohio, she packed up an moved to Montana several years ago.  Some people move across town.  Some move from an apartment to a house.  She moved from Ohio to Montana.  

She started riding horses, not as primary form of transportation as one might think would be the case out there, but to do something new.  She met new friends.  She visited new places.  I can’t help but believe she’s written a new chapter with her life.

I thought about my own life.

I remember the day Katie came to me and said God had told her we should be parents.  We had decided before we got married that children weren’t going to be part of our story, so I was surprised to hear what she and God were discussing.  I asked her if by chance God had told her this in an email or a fax.  I wasn’t doubting her or God, but if the communication existed, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I read it.

The truth is marriage was pretty comfortable without kids.  It required little effort outside of deciding where we were going to go out to eat each night.  It additionally meant we actually had the money to do that.  Less than a month later, though, our dinner conversations turned to picking out baby names.

Once the reality sunk in that we were going to have a child, and after I put God on my wife’s do not call list, it occurred to me that I was never against having a child.  I was against upsetting the comfort of life without children.  Once in the middle of preparing for Elliott’s arrival, the story of having a child actually sounded exciting.  I was glad to be a character in that story. 

I must tell you, once Elliott came along, and then Ian, I discovered I was wrong about children upsetting the comfortable life.  No, children take comfort and they poop and pee on it and spit up on it and keep it running in circles until comfort is begging for life in prison without parole.  Children make locking yourself in the trunk of a Volkswagen Bug for a week sound comfortable.  I had no idea how comfortable the comfort was I resisted parting with.

And I suppose Miller would use that to explain why I call fatherhood the greatest story I have ever written with my life.  At the end of each day when I look at what our boys are becoming, and I acknowledge the role Katie and I have in shaping them, I am looking at a rewarding story.  But more importantly, at the end of the day when I look in the mirror and acknowledge the kind of father those boys are shaping, I am looking at a story I am excited to continue writing, no matter how challenging that might be.

Challenges like getting Ian to move beyond the smashed pumpkin today during his class trip to the pumpkin patch and continue our search for the Great Pumpkin.

 

Which we found, and that makes for a great ending to a great day and another great story.

The Apple Festival

We spent this past Saturday at an Apple Festival.  I didn’t know apples could bring about such festivity, but they can.

It didn’t take long to figure out why they decided to call it an Apple Festival.

They also had pumpkins.  Elliott said no one had been born big enough to carry this one, but an elephant could.  Thank God we didn’t bring an elephant along.

The boys had their first cup of cider – in a Pepsi cup?

For five bucks they got a pass to climb on as much straw and hay as they wanted.  I remember passing days away doing that for free.  Inflation.

Sometimes the top of a bale of straw is as close as a young boy gets to feeling like a king.

The only king Ian wanted to be was one sitting on a tractor.  So Ian did what Ian does when he wants to sit on a tractor.  He heads for the closest tractor.

 

Maybe he knew our hayride would have scenery like this.

Or that he’d be able to run and find his own hill to be king of.

It was a great family day for all of us.

Who to Blame - Wall Street or the M&Ms

I know most days you find this blog filled with stories in my life that get created by the goings on of my family.  Sometimes, though, I am moved by stories in the world that compel me to share my thoughts.  I know that others read them, but I also know that one day my boys will read these stories.  Beyond memories for them, I hope they will one day shape the way they look at others. 

I woke up this morning and had a few extra minutes, so I decided to do something I normally try to limit.  I watched some of the morning news.  After two reports, I realized why I so rarely tune in.  It is a very discouraging way to start the day.

There was one story, though, that caught my interest.  The protests on Wall Street.  I had heard bits and pieces over the last  week of the gathering in New York, but I hadn’t bothered to spend any real time understanding what exactly was going on there.  After some brief research, I discovered that the group really doesn’t have any goals in terms of outcomes, they are mainly expressing their anger and frustration with many of the issues facing our country today. 

Based on many of the signs they were carrying, it appears they picked Wall Street because they blame the rich for many of their issues.  Signs like “Capitalism is Evil” and “Less is more”.  Other demonstrators state they are protesting global warming and corporate greed.  Others sum up their protest by saying they are there protesting “the man”.

I can only assume this man they speak of is the same man many of my friends and family and the people I eavesdrop on in restaurants and coffee shops refer to as the “rich” man.  The same man that regular steals the show on Facebook and Twitter.  He is that 1% that has become the bullseye for many protestors these days.

I decided I wanted to know who this man is.  Who is this 1%.  What does he look like?  So I started with the Forbes list of the 400 wealthiest Americans.  I recognized many of them.  The front couple of pages of this list was born in Walmart, where I have spent some time. 

I read down the list.  I got beyond the Gates, the Kochs, the Waltons, the Buffets and the Facebook guy whose last name starts with a Z.  I didn’t stop until I got to number 20.  Forrest Mars.  And after him, two more members of the Mars family.  Now I was intrigued.  I was intrigued by the notion that some of the richest Americans got that way by selling candy.  I could hear Sammy Davis Jr. singing the Candy Man song, and I thought, yes, the candy man can.

When I was finished reading the story of the Mars family, whose path to rich started when their grandfather began cooking chocolates in his kitchen in the early 1900’s, I looked over at the two bags of M&Ms that I bought for the boys yesterday.  I wasn’t sure whether to feel pride for contributing to a family success story, or if I should return them for contributing to the rise of “the man”.

I dug a little deeper and found that this country spends almost 2 billion dollars a year on M&Ms and almost 9 billion dollars on candy in general.  Most of it goes to make the Mars family and the Hershey families richer.  Yes, the rich keep getting richer.  But to me, those are 9 billion reasons why I can’t join in this argument that somehow holds the rich accountable for, well, getting rich.

Maybe I don’t disagree so much with the argument that the rich are the problem.  Maybe I just disagree with how this country seems to define rich.  Because in a world that will lose 20,000 babies to starvation today, buying a bag of M&Ms for my kids would seem to qualify as the activity of a rich man.  But this is a country full of individuals who many days like to pretend we are the world.  We compare our meager 20 or 30 or 50 thousand dollar a year salaries to the Mars family and call a foul.

A couple hundred million of us look up in the air and protest the man.  We can do that comfortably within the boundaries of the United States.  But I need to tell you, several billion people outside of those boundaries look up at us, all red,white and blue of us, and collectively protest the man. 

The medium income in the United States is 50,000 dollars.  It is 1,700 dollars in Mexico.  Yet there are few bigger issues in this country right now than finding a way to absolutely make sure we are doing nothing, and I mean nothing, to have our money support people fleeing that country to ours.  A Republican candidate for the nomination to run for president recently declared that he was helping to finance the college educations of these immigrants in his state.  He said he felt moved to help kids who came to this country through no fault of their own.  That compassion, in all likelihood, cost him any chance of being president. 

I sometimes wonder if people think they somehow earned the right to be born an American.  It is the only thing that explains treating others like they somehow deserved being born in a country with a medium income of 1,700 dollars.  I think we deny responsibility to those others by buying into the belief that we are underprivileged.  It is easier sitting in the shoes that blame the man than wearing the man’s shoes.

Today I recalled the story in the bible about the rich young ruler:

Luke 18:18-23

[18] A certain ruler asked him, "Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?"

[19] "Why do you call me good?" Jesus answered. "No one is good -- except God alone. [20] You know the commandments: 'Do not commit adultery, do not murder, do not steal, do not give false testimony, honor your father and mother.'"

[21] "All these I have kept since I was a boy," he said.

[22] When Jesus heard this, he said to him, "You still lack one thing. Sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me."

[23] When he heard this, he became very sad, because he was a man of great wealth.

After I re-read that story, I thought about those M&Ms.  I thought about how hard it would be to sell them and deprive my boys of that luxury.  The thought made me sad.  And I realized that Jesus probably had an entirely different definition of the man.  A broader one.  One that extended well beyond Wall Street.

Say It Isn’t So…………..ccer!

We were pulling out of the driveway yesterday morning when the leprechaun on our Notre Dame flag caught my attention.  The flag waved in the wind and it almost looked like the mighty mascot of the Fighting Irish was waving goodbye to us.  I couldn’t help but get caught up in the moment and shout “Go Irish.”

“You’re yelling that because I have my Notre Dame shirt on aren’t you daddy?” Elliott asked.  He must have missed the leprechaun’s wave.

“Actually,” I said, “we all have our Notre Dame gear on.  You and Ian have your shirts; I have my hat.”

“But mama doesn’t have anything Notre Dame on,” observed Elliott.

I looked over at Katie and noticed Elliott was right.  Not a speck of blue or gold or green to be found.  No leprechauns or shamrocks.  Katie looked at me, her face an unspoken plea for help.  You could see her thinking about snatching the hat off of my head.  I couldn’t leave her hanging out there like that, on an island, a traitor to our Saturday afternoon sports passions. I decided to throw her a lifeline.

“Mama has her Notre Dame underwear on,” I said.  There was no way they would verify it, and my lovely wife would be freed from her current torment.

An instant before I heard the laughter explode like two car bombs in the back seat, I noticed this look on Katie’s face.  It was a look that seemed to ask: “What’s the matter with you, do you realize you just planted two car bombs in the back seat.  A car we’re in.  A car containing our children?”

I prayed the laughing would stop.  With Elliott, my prayer was answered.  Ian was listening to the devil on his other shoulder, or I’m sure Katie would argue, the one in the driver’s seat.  His laughter turned to giggle and his giggle to something I worried was eternal.  I could hear it continue all the way to daycare next week when his teacher would get him to finally stop, and then he would calmly say: “My mama is wearing Notre Dame underwear.”

I didn’t consider this before I made the underwear comment.  It is amazing the clarity of thought that comes when your life is at risk.

The panic all mine now, I worked to settle Ian.  It took a few minutes, but the laughter subsided.  I don’t know why, but something inside of me wouldn’t allow me to simply treasure the silence.  Leave bad enough alone.  I was curious, though, I had to ask.

“Ian, why was that so funny?”

“You’re silly, daddy, girls don’t wear underwear.”

I found some relief in that.  I felt it was now much more likely that Ian would tell his teachers and friends that his mama didn’t wear underwear.  A notion I didn’t provide.  I promise.  And at this point, I was finally willing to leave bad enough alone.  So I let the car grow quiet and wrote it off as a good laugh.  At least it was for most of us.

Elliott started soccer last week and had his first game yesterday.  My family and friends have found humor in this.  I guess I’ve spent many years setting up the big joke that is now squarely on me. 

On my most lighthearted days, I’ve questioned the inclusion of soccer on the master list of sports.  Badminton and curling and even cheerleading, I get, but soccer, that one I struggle with.  I guess I grew up throwing balls, so the mere notion that a sport forbids you from even picking the ball up seems backward.  Not to mention ties.  How can two teams play two hours in front of crowds that often exceed a hundred thousand people in some places around the world, only to have the game end in a 0-0 tie.  Then team and crowd alike celebrate like something wonderful just happened.

On my more serious days, I have probably suggested that no child of mine would ever play soccer.  OK, I did suggest it.  I might have even said once or twice that once my children learned the first 10 commandments, I would add an 11th.  Thou shall not play soccer. 

I guess I didn’t foresee how much Elliott likes kicking a ball.  As much, if not more, than he likes picking it up and throwing it and catching it.  I didn’t foresee the smile he gets when he moves the ball with his feet from one end of a field to another.  And no, that is not dribbling.  Kobe dribbles.  Soccer players move the ball with their feet from one end of a field to another.

The truth is, there are days I get caught up in Elliott and Ian’s athletic potential.  Shoot, I get caught up in their academic potential and their ability to sing and act and read.  If I admire it long enough, I can begin to give Katie and me credit (Although I’m never really tempted to credit Katie for their singing ability).

It was Elliott who squared me away on this thinking last week.  We were driving and Ian asked me when the rain was going to stop.  I was ready to begin giving him an answer filled with the knowledge I’ve gained as a weather nut.  I was going to dazzle him with meteorology.  Elliott cut me off, though. 

“It will stop raining when God wants it to Ian,” he said.

I was reminded that all of the boys’ talents and skills are gifts from God.  They reflect Him far more than me or Katie.  We are entrusted to help them discover those gifts, even if one happens to be soccer. 

As I watched Elliott run up and down the field Sunday, I was thankful to have a child who can run, because not all of them can.  I was thankful to be a parent cheering on the sideline of an athletic field and not at the side of a hospital bed, praying for the miracle that will open my child’s eyes.  And I was reminded how the silly debates of this world: soccer or tee-ball, fence or no fence, democrat or republican – they are all distractions from the many blessings that are without debate. 

The beginning of an era.