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This is one of those contemplative, introspective, searching-for-inspiration and wondering-who-I-am, kind of days. So, I’m not writing, but exposing a bit of vulnerability. Please forgive my indulgence.
The words to my favorite song, Drunkard’s Prayer, by Over the Rhine, are bouncing around inside me today:
You’re my water, you’re my wine, you’re my whiskey from time to time. You’re the hunger on my bones, all the nights I sleep alone.
Sweet intoxication, when your words wash over me. Whether or not your lips move, you speak to me.
Like an ocean without waves, you’re the movement that I crave. And in that motion, I long to drown, and be lost, not to be found.
You’re my water, you’re my wine, you’re my whiskey from time to time.
My ongoing prayer:
Lord, if you don’t satisfy, I won’t be satisfied! Everything I can obtain or generate without you, everything I can gain and preserve is filthy and corrupt, full of worms and passing away. It can’t and won’t be sustained. Everything built on this foundation will be tried by the fire of your life and consumed unless it’s pure. You, only, have the words, the gift, the fruit of life. You alone are worthy. You are altogether lovely and all that is lovely. You are more than enough for me. I desire to delight in you at the full expense of all else.
Cold Mountain, a movie from 2003 starring Jude Law, Nicole Kidman, and Renee Zellweger ranks near the top of my list of all-time favorites. The story is deeply compelling, the writing is terrific (I got the book for Christmas this year), the acting is excellent, and many of the lines cut straight to my heart. I’ll probably make reference to many of them in future posts.
The official description of the movie goes like this: “At the dawn of the Civil War, the men of Cold Mountain, North Carolina, rush to join the Confederate army. Ada (Kidman) has vowed to wait for Inman (Law), but as the war drags on and letters go unanswered, she must find the will to survive. At war’s end, hearts will be dashed, dreams fulfilled, and the strength of the human spirit tested . . . but not broken.”
(Please note: The movie is rated R for war violence and some sexuality, but it can be family-friendly, at least for older kids, IF you watch it with a Clearplay filter, as we do. You should check it out. We love ours!)
(By the way, Kidman’s character, Ada, had a lot to do with our latest name selection.)
Renee Zellweger plays Ruby Thewes, a hardened but resourceful mountain girl with a deep drawl and all the attitude to go with it, who shows up in Cold Mountain near the middle of the war, when Ada, a preacher’s daughter with city-girl skills, is destitute and the farm has fallen apart. Ruby quickly begins to pull the farm back together with hard labor, quick wit and a sharp tongue, as both women make sacrifices for survival.
Near the end of the film, the women learn that Ruby’s father and another friend have been shot in the mountains near their home by the Home Guard because they had deserted the Conferederate army. Ruby and her father have had a strained, but recently restored, relationship and his death brings her anger to the surface. As Ruby and Ada prepare to make the 5-hour trek into the snow-covered mountains to retrieve the bodies, they have a heated and emotional dialogue in which Ruby angrily vents:
Every piece of this is man’s bull@#$%! They call this war a cloud over the land, but they made the weather, and then they stand in the rain and say, “@&%#! It’s rainin’!”
I love that line – one of many delivered by Ruby that I love. It speaks to me on several different levels, but mainly right on the surface.
I’m thoroughly disgusted by our ability to foul up our lives and those around us and then complain about the misery to which we’ve been subjected. Small to great, every trouble known to man is primarily the outcome of our own mistakes. Even when good decisions have unanticipated negative side-effects, we seem to focus on the negative, decrying our inconvenience and discomfort and looking for someone to blame or fix it for us, as if we’ve been entitled to life on easy street.
Being honest about our difficulties and vulnerable with our trials is not the issue in question. The issue is our response to the difficulties. First of all, being honest about my feelings doesn’t inherently justify the feelings. I can be wrong and honest at the same time. Furthermore, if my intent in sharing my pain is to find support, that’s fabulous, but if my intent is to find someone to blame or defend my right to have my situation corrected, it would seem misguided. A sense of responsibility, of ownership, of unity in struggle seems necessary.
Imagine, for example, what it would be like for me to maintain the perspective that my life is terrible and difficult from the hardship of having so many kids. Yes, I know I could have prevented this! Yes, I know what causes this! Yes, there are difficult days and moments I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into, but I must remember that I did get myself into this. I’m grateful for my family and for a wife who helps me maintain the right perspective. The value of life, in the way we’re called to live it, far exceeds any hardship.
I am not a victim. We are not victims. Yes, of course, many things happen, positive and negative which are outside our control. But, we always control our responses! Too often, it seems, our tendency is to respond with blame and self-pity, with complaints and attitudes of entitlement.
God help us. Help us to stand in the rain of the messes we’ve created and recognize that our responses and next steps determine the impact of the storm, and complaints about the rain will not lead to shelter.
Sometimes people are curious about what our days are like with such a large family. The following is a sample of a typical Saturday from my perspective – I don’t know exactly what Renee did all day – with the added excitement of a birthday (we have at least one family birthday in each month except April and October, and yes, we hope to fill those soon):
5:23 – I stumble out of bed after snoozing 4 times, kiss Renee, and head to the bathroom to make myself as beautiful as possible in 10 minutes or less.
5:32 (5:42) – On my way to wake Ben for his turn at Starbucks, which he’s especially excited about for his 10th birthday, I realize the clock I’ve been looking at has stopped and it’s actually 5:42. ”Get up, Ben! Hurry! We’re late!”
5:45 – Out the door, after another goodbye kiss for Renee, and Ayda, as well, who has decided it’s a good time for she and her mother to get up and get started for the day.
5:48 – Ben and I stop in front of our friends’ house to pick up Mia. She has to be at her job in the bakery at Wal-Mart by 6:00, but their family car died a few weeks ago, so friends have been happily volunteering to get them where they need to be until a replacement can be found.
5:58 – The usual from McDonald’s drive-thru and Karen, our friend in the window.
6:09 – It’s good to see Jim waiting for us at Starbucks, and Luke and Melanie behind the counter. I decided to try a french press brew for the first time, then David had to copy me. Tony showed up late again, but by 6:30, we were on track with some great conversations about the culinary delights that are sausage mcmuffins, the incarnation of Jesus, the subtle spiritual dimensions that surround us and affect our lives, the pre-fall human nature vs. the redeemed human nature, and whether Jesus could still walk on water after the resurrection when he had holes in his feet.
8:35 – Off to Bittersweet park, where Ben waits eagerly in the car for me and counts my laps as I run around the path. 4 laps = 4.8 miles and lots of pain for an old man.
9:29 – Safeway stop to get bacon. Renee calls to say our friend, Aaron, is already at the house starting the biscuits and gravy for Ben’s breakfast, and to remind me that I need to hurry home.
9:50 – Back at home, and after a quick shower, I try to help Aaron and protect him from the swarm of children trying to “help” fry sausage and bacon, and stir the dough for biscuits. A total of 19 people with our family and two others, spends the next couple of hours cooking, eating, talking and herding children. Breakfast included 2 pounds of bacon, 2 pounds of sausage, 12 fried eggs, 15 scrambled eggs, about 4 dozen biscuits, 2 gallons of juice, muffins, crumb cake and a pot of coffee.
11:45 – Renee and I are leaving as our guests do, and going our separate ways. Renee’s headed to a friend’s son’s birthday party with our 5 smallest kids, while I take Ben and his brothers, Will and Noah, and pick up 4 other boys from 3 homes for an afternoon of birthday celebrating.
12:30 - 7 cold and wet boys strapped into rented skates go sliding, falling, skidding, skating, and laughing around the ice rink. On Renee’s orders, I’m the photographer for the day, which gives me a great excuse to stay off the ice. Charis, Renee’s younger sister, meets us at the rink to deliver a gift for Ben and visit.
1:30 – Packing 7 boys back into the van for a trip across town to drop Will at a friend’s house for another birthday party.
2:15 – Pizza slices and blue raspberry Icees to wash them down – a birthday meal fit for kings - served with smiles from our friend Amanda at the food court in the mall.
3:00 - 1 adult and 6 children for the matinee of Alvin and the Chipmunks. No popcorn or candy! Don’t even think about it! (Yes, the movie was fun – I actually laughed out loud several times – and those chipmunks are cute! Awwww!)
5:05 – Ben opens gifts as we drive around dropping off friends. We offer a rousing, noisy, completely off-tune rendition of “Happy Birthday” then discuss the reasons why we didn’t get to have birthday cake.
5:25 – Home for a few minutes where Renee reminds me that I have 20 minutes before I have to pick up 2 nephews and a niece and get them, along with 6 of our children and another nephew who is already with us, to church by 6:00. Renee’s picking up Will at 6:00 then meeting me at church with the rest of our kids. We have several minutes of tense discussion, narrowly avoiding an argument over the schedule and miscommunication, with our weary bodies playing a major role. Although I did manage to make Renee cry, again, a kiss and a hug before I left put the world back together and assured us both everything would be fine.
6:10 – With everybody but Ethan, our 3-year-old who would rather be with Dad, in their classes, and a cup of coffee in hand, we get to my favorite part of the day: a quiet hour and fifteen minutes in the back row of the church with good preaching, and doodles of tigers and lions.
7:05 – Renee joins us in the back row with Will, Ayda, and Meghan, who I gladly get to hold for the worship and singing. She claps and sings along in her own language.
7:30 – Renee and I go our separate ways again through the church to retrieve kids from their classes and visit with friends. As usual, we’re the last to leave, except for Jim - the same Starbucks Jim – who gets to lock the doors and spend a couple of hours getting the building ready for the following morning. Renee and I just figure that whoever is left in the building by that time must be ours, so we load them up and take them home.
8:30 – Renee takes 9 kids in the big bus, drops off 6 at our sister-in-law’s house for a sleepover. I take 4 kids and head for the barn. (By the way, if you’re counting, that’s nine of ours, and four cousins, and Katie, our oldest, was away with her youth group for the weekend. Yes, we count frequently. Yes, it’s hard.)
8:45 – Parked in front of our house, I yell at Ben, the birthday boy, because he isn’t being as diligent as I want him to be in trying to find Meghan’s socks, which I presume, as usual, she has just removed and thrown on the floor. Ben cries and tries harder. Then, I realize Meghan must not have been wearing socks. Outside the car, I give a weak apology to Ben, along with more lecture. He cries more and tries to understand. My heart finally takes over for my tired brain, and I give Ben a hug and real apology.
9:20 – Renee is home with the remainder of the bus load. PB&J and turkey sandwiches are dinner for whoever has a stomach while Ben finishes opening his gifts and lays them out for me to see.
10:10 - 7 kids brushed, washed, and changed for bed. Renee and I spend a few minutes “alone” with Meghan and Ayda, while watching part of a movie and having a late snack/dinner.
10:45 – I’m tucked into bed with Meghan snoozing next to me, and I fall asleep while trying to listen to Renee talk about the day, as she simultaneously tries to negotiate with Ayda regarding a reasonable night’s sleep.
1:00am - Renee and Ayda finally reach a sleepy agreement, but I’m entirely unaware.
As I waited for my pizza slice and gyro, to go, I casually flipped through the pages of a local newspaper that was laying on the bar. When I reached the last couple of pages, I scanned the want ads, always on the look out for that perfect job. That’s when I noticed the personal ad:
“Older white male, married but lonely, seeks attractive female companion, any age, race or marital status.”
My first thought was, “Ewww. That’s kinda yucky.” That thought was quickly followed by a series of questions: How old is he? What’s his definition of attractive? If he’s married, why is he lonely? Does his wife know about this? If the attractive female is married, why would she respond?
I took my slice and my gyro and walked to the coffee shop around the corner, and as I walked, I pondered those questions further and imagined the people involved in that story. As I did so, I realized that although the situation is definitely yucky, it’s probably more common than I’d like to think. In fact, the people behind those words could be people I know. Lots of people are lonely and, as pitiful as it may sound in a seedy ad in a second-rate paper, lots of lonely people are married.
Renee and I have married friends whose relationships with their spouses are not healthy. I admire their tenacity and commitment, especially in an environment that breeds dissension and divorce as easily as pizza slices. But I regret the tragedy of the fruitless relationships. Every situation is different, and it’s difficult to understand the depth of the circumstances that lead to such a condition, but I think I’d choose the battle over surrendering to mutual isolation. Maybe that’s idealistic but it satisfies my imagination.
In any case, as I reflect on my own marriage, in light of a random personal ad, I’m grateful. Renee has
been my best friend for over 20 years. I’d rather spend my time with her than anyone or anything else. We’ve always wondered if we’ll ever run out of things to talk about. It hasn’t happened yet. Having a bunch of kids helps with that. We have bad days but never lonely days, and I always have the confidence that if the world falls in on me tomorrow, as long as I can breathe, I can go home and find comfort and companionship.
For people who have that, I pray they’ll realize the value of it and be grateful. For people who are married and lonely, I pray they’ll choose to fight to make what they have all it can be, rather than giving up on it silently or looking for it elsewhere. For people who aren’t married, but long to be, I pray they’ll hold high expectations, and that their longings will be satisfied with love even more abundant and even more true than those high expectations.
A few months ago, I left an early-morning conversation with a friend, and my mind was filled with dreams and visions of exciting ideas and how they might become reality. As I mulled the possibilities, the phrase “reckless endangerment” stepped forward in my mind and stood there in the forefront at attention as if it were volunteering for inspection.
Without thinking about the phrase in detail before, I had always had an impression of the word reckless as if it were affiliated with the word wreck, but with a closer look that really didn’t make sense at all. As I considered it more closely that dreamy morning, I realized it was a different word entirely. It finally hit me that the word reckless must be related to the word reckon, so it has to be related to thought.
In that case, the word reckless is synonymous with thoughtless. I like that. While that idea has all kinds of negative connotations, I was still smiling because I was thinking of it like a challenge. I’m a bit impulsive and stubborn, so when I start to hear voices tell me that I can’t do something, I get resistant. I’m not necessarily recommending that outlook, but there are many of us that carry that genetic profile. (You know who you are.)
As I grappled with this new revelation, and its efforts toward condemning my dreams another thought struck me, reminding me of the radical words of Jesus in Matthew 6:25 from my old King James Version studies:
“Take no thought your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment.”
You’ve got to love that good old King James! The connection was complete. I had an endorsement – and from Jesus, nonetheless! Here was Jesus telling me to take no thought for some very important things. Add a family of 10 children and loads of responsibilities to the equation and that advice has to be reckless endangerment.
Most other translations substitute “do not worry”, or “do not be anxious” for that “take no thought” phrase, and that really makes it even better.
Jesus is actually promoting a lifestyle that is so radical its almost beyond comprehension. He’s saying don’t worry about food, clothing or shelter. Last time I checked, those were considered the basic necessities of life! How could he possibly justify that kind of reckless counsel?
In one sense, this sounds easy, I guess. Truth be told, most of us in middle-class America seldom concern ourselves with these basic needs. I can’t recall the last time I wondered if water would be available for my family, and if we’re hungry, we just eat. The kitchen is stocked, but if we’re running low there are at least six grocery stores and a hundred restaurants minutes away from our front door, and our closets and dressers are bulging with clothes we hardly wear.
In fact, I’m more worried about getting a new pair of sunglasses, or the cost of refinishing the downstairs bathroom, and the birthday gifts my kids would love, and especially the new car I’ve had my eyes on. My ability to relate to the words of Jesus is skewed. I can easily check off that verse and say, “Got that one! What’s next?”
Really, though, I’m only a few steps on a slippery slope from that kind of desperation. Furthermore, I read Jesus’ words and almost feel an enticement to the kind of life that is filled with that kind of desperation. How much more driven toward God would I become if I didn’t have everything that meets my basic needs at my finger tips? Ultimately, I guess that’s what is so appealing to me: Being driven to God. I want to need him more than I do now, but I have to admit I’d rather not have to be hungry to get the motivation.
Jesus went on, in that sermon from Matthew 6, to justify his reckless counsel. In verses 32 and 33, he says: “. . . your heavenly Father knows you have need of all these things. But seek first the kingdom of God, and his righteousnes; and all these things will be added to you.”
Sounds like a great deal. I wonder, though, if we’ve used these words to justify adding things to ourselves, rather than living the way Jesus intends. Obviously, Jesus is not telling us to walk away from our responsibilities and truly be thoughtless. But he definitely is saying we need to stop spending our time shoring up our own support systems and adding bricks to our fortresses and jewels to our crafty crowns. We need to be dangerously involved in his agenda, and trust him to watch our backs for the basic necessities.
After considering these things for a while, even my dreams and big ideas seemed less important. I certainly couldn’t justify worrying about them. I did find some motivation toward more important things, though. I decided to try to pursue the kind of reckless endangerment that was qualified by seeking God first. The dictionary says reckless actions are those that disregard consequences. I’m going to try to disregard consequences more often, at least those that are only damaging to my own little kingdom.
Who knows? Maybe Jesus really meant it. Maybe he will take care of the other things. I guess there’s only one way to find out.
It seems to me that those of us who call ourselves Christians have a tendency to do things and say things which are inconsistent with the label and faith we’ve chosen. In the process, we’ve created significant and unnecessary confusion about the meaning of Christianity, and the character of the one upon whom our faith is based.
It’s interesting that, if the things we profess regarding the basics of our faith are true – the divinity and character of Jesus and the authority of the Bible – we have to acknowledge that we are intended to be representatives of Jesus, and that he expects his message to be delivered to everyone through our words and actions.
Frankly, we mess this up fairly often, and I think it’s done some damage to the good name of Jesus, not to mention the diminished credibility of those of us who wear the label. In fact, if you do a little research, you can easily find survey statistics indicating that people like Jesus, although they are confused about who he is and what he’s done. He’s made a good impression on history as an individual. The same surveys will also tell you that people generally do not think very highly of us Christians, or the churches we attend.
I could probably cite a volume of examples here from my own experience to confirm this point, but specific examples tend to become the focus of defensive efforts. If specific issues can be defended successfully, countless others stand in line behind them, and surely we would exhaust ourselves trying to defend them all.
Suffice it to say that we seem to be misguided – not all of us all of the time, but all of us at some time or another. Frequently, our own self-centered agendas and small-world perspectives distract us from the real value of our lives, both for the sake of Christ and those we have the potential to influence. We are likely to be selective about the scriptural principles we emphasize, accentuating those that highlight our strengths and ignoring those that would risk exposing weaknesses.
We expend enormous effort, and the money to support it, to expound on the ideas that are lofty, comforting, and self-exalting, while self-sacrifice, humility, and generosity are discussed as if they are necessary evils. We preach and apply Jesus’ words cautiously, seeking interpretive loopholes to free ourselves from the sharpest points. We often follow those expressions with simplistic answers to complex questions, sidestepping the counterpoints with boisterous calls for faith without questioning.
It’s funny to me that while I write these thoughts, I’m reluctant to continue, knowing that people will believe I’ve become a cynic. They’ll say that things are not so bad; that we’re not so bad; that I just need to get out from under whatever has me down. I’ll be bold enough to protest those voices I’m imagining by saying that I really think it’s probably worse than I’ve described, and I think that if we’re all honest we can be unanimous on this point. I’m not losing hope at all, and I don’t really believe I’m cynical, but I want to be objective and honest.
It will be interesting to see how Jesus overcomes our weaknesses, how he repairs any damage we’ve done or will do, and how he makes good on promises and commitments that often seem broken and forgotten. We can be sure he will.
I am a Christian. I love Jesus and desire to follow him well. I love Christians. I love people who don’t like, much less love, Jesus or Christians. I’m sorry for what we’ve done wrong in the name of Jesus. Yes, please consider this an apology and let me know if I can do anything to express that tangibly toward you. I have hope that Jesus will overcome and make things right, and I’m trying to commit myself to help him.
So far, we have eight middle children in our family. They say that in any family with three or more children, the middle children tend to get the least attention and that lack of attention has a peculiar effect on their personalities.
I don’t really know who “they” are, and I don’t really understand all of the implications of their research, but I do wonder what they might think of the little expirement we have going.
Noah is our fifth child and third boy, and in a family of ten children, you can’t get any closer to the middle than that. Noah is definitely unique, though, and I’m not sure whether that quality comes as a result of, or in spite of, being a middle child. Either way, I can assure you, he’s anything but mediocre and he gets plenty of attention.
Noah reminds me of that penguin in the movie Happy Feet who was dropped by his father when he was still in the egg and turned out to be a dancer with a terrible voice in a world full of singing penguins. I’m pretty sure Noah has never been dropped on his head, but who knows what Renee was eating while he was being formed.
About a year ago, the local AWANA club, a Bible study club for kids, which our children attended, had a talent show. The week before the talent show, I was picking up the kids after the club meeting and amidst the chaos of 100 kids trying to find their parents and get their coats and get to the right car, Noah was pestering me about signing up for the talent show. I asked, “what are you going to do?” With a giant smile on his face, he said, “I’m going to dance!”
More for the sake of just ending the conversation and getting out of there than anything else, I said, “Sure, Noah, whatever. Go ahead.” I didn’t realize until later what I had committed myself to.
Noah has never had a dance lesson in his life. He’s eight years old and tall for his age, skinny as a rail, and has as little coordination or natural rhythm as the typical eight-year-old.
I was in shock. Noah kept laughing. He picked a song – Carry Me by Jars of Clay – practiced his moves a few times and never even flinched. Renee and I spent the week talking about whether we actually had to attend the talent show, but there was no reasonable escape to be found.
When the night came, our family nervously filled the back row of the church. We watched some of the other kids displaying their talents; playing the piano, the violin, even singing. Our son, Ben, was 9 at the time, and his talent was completing the Rubik’s cube in under three minutes, which was rather impressive, and a proud moment for me. When it was Noah’s turn, he marched boldly to the stage, took his place without hesitation, and waited for the music to start.
Then, Noah danced. Wow! He jumped and ducked and spinned and shook with no choreography, little rhythm and nothing remotely like a routine. All by himself on the stage in front of something like 60 of his childhood peers and a bunch of parents, for almost four minutes with the song of his choice blaring through the church, he danced his heart out.
I cringed. I flinched. I crouched in my pew. I blushed. I laughed out loud and rolled my eyes. And, I was overcome with pride. It was amazing!
There was applause and laughter and high-fives all around, and adults with red faces going, “Wow!”
A few months later, while visiting friends in Michigan, Noah perfromed the dance again by request. If you ask him, he’ll probably do it for you.
When I grow up, I want to be like Noah. You know that motivational saying that’s something about dancing like no one’s watching? I want to be like Noah and dance like everyone’s watching!
I pulled into the drive-thru lane at 5:57am on Saturday and answered the welcoming voice with “Ten Sausage McMuffins with Egg, please.” I knew we’d be short a couple of guys this morning, but the four regulars would be there. You never know how hungry they will be, and we always got a few extra McMuffins for our baristas.
The voice in the speaker responded with, “Are you the usual guy?”
“Yep, that’s me, the usual guy.”
“Okay. That’ll be $10.64 at the second window, please.”
They were a little faster than normal, so I didn’t have to go park and wait for them even though there were a couple of cars waiting behind me, but it was after 6:00 when I got the bag and pulled away.
So, I was late, as usual, pulling into the parking lot outside Starbucks at 6:08, and I was crushed to see there were no vehicles belonging to my friends waiting there for me.
Tony is always there when I get there, so I panicked a bit, assuming that since I hadn’t replied to his email from Friday afternoon, in which he said he was “in” but Jim, a recent newcomer, couldn’t make it, that maybe he had misunderstood my silence and changed his mind. I’m always disappointed when Tony can’t make it or if he has to leave early.
Tony is married and the father of 2 girls. As an artist, and the Director of Kid’s Konnection, the ministry to elementary-school-age kids in our church, Tony brings a great perspective to our conversations. He’s solid, thoughtful, very creative and has skill in boiling complex things down to the basic ingredients. He keeps us honest and from getting too philosophical and high-minded, while he sips his chai or any other drink that doesn’t taste much like coffee. I usually call him Friday night to confirm, but the email threw us off, so I was worried.
KJ should have been there by that time, too. I tried to recall whether we had confirmed he would be joining us, and although I had left a message the night before, I hadn’t heard back and couldn’t remember if he had made a commitment during breakfast the day before.
KJ is the fire of our conversations – by far, the most unique perspective and adventurous mind. He’s the reason I started this 6:00am, Saturday-morning tradition over three years ago, and for a long time it was just the two of us. KJ is married and has a baby boy. He’s the Director of High School Ministry at our church and one of my best friends ever, but we make a bit of an odd couple at first sight. I’m an old accountant with a tame goatee and short-buzzed, graying hair. KJ is a young man with a thick, red beard, lots of tattoos, some piercings, and shoulder-length dreadlocks. But KJ is as tender toward God as a man can be, he loves the kids in our church like nobody else, and we’re in the process of changing the world together.
So, I sat there in my car in the parking lot, looking back and forth over my shoulders for familiar traffic with a bag of hot Sausage McMuffins next to me, cooling by the minute. I didn’t want to go in by myself and have the other regular customers think I had been abandoned.
I had sent a text message to David the night before – something typically silly like, “You coffee?” He hadn’t replied, and I remembered that as we were leaving basketball Friday morning, he mentioned he was working late Friday night. Maybe he was recovering and decided to stay home.
David is one of my brothers-in-law. He’s also married and has two kids. Although David is the newest “regular” in our Saturday-morning events, he’s been coming around for over a year, and besides that, he’s known me longer than the other guys. David’s never afraid of a good discussion, and he keeps me honest about our family, and who I really am, but he has a deep, abiding respect for the Bible and loves us enough to acquiesce on a hot point when necessary to avoid an ego catastrophe. I love having him around, and I love him.
At 6:15, just as I was contemplating how my Saturday was going to be ruined by these no-shows, David drove in and parked next to me. I breathed a sigh of relief and sent a text message to KJ. A minute later, he replied, saying he needed a few more minutes – he had been out for a run, a newly discovered passion for him.
David and I went in with our McMuffins, and as we were chatting with our barista friends, Tony entered and walked up behind me. Things were looking up! He explained that he had a sick baby at home who needed extra attention before he could get out of the house.
By 6:30, the four of us, the core group among a cast of newcomers, occasional attenders, special guests, and familiar faces, were all around a table filling our bodies with hot food and drinks, and our minds with KJ’s stories of a new discovery: hot yoga – a one and a half hour session in 105-degree heat with a drill instructor for a class leader. It was going to be a good day after all!
I sat there thinking, as I looked around the table at these three familiar faces, how grateful I am for good friends and Saturdays at Starbucks with guy stories and God conversations.
If life is a gift, times like this with friends like these are a substantial part of what makes it worth opening. Thank God for my friends . . . and a good cup of coffee.
Some days I actually wish for some type of minor calamity to be inflicted upon my life so I would be forced to make radical decisions that would alter my life’s direction and be completely justified by the circumstances.
Now that’s a ridiculous confession. I love my wife, my kids, my friends, and most of my life’s other circumstances, but I’m a 41-year-old accountant who still wakes up on occasion with an aching desire for the life of William Wallace, or Frodo Baggins, or Rob Bell, or even my father, the lifelong preacher, and wondering if I missed a turn somewhere and, if so, whether it’s possible to ever get back on track. Then I wish, timidly, for a push from God, something that would force me to react, rather than think.
Don’t get me wrong, I would never dream of altering my family or putting them at risk, much less wishing for that. Actually, I pray frequently that I will be sensitive enough to God’s leading that he won’t have to shake my foundations – translation: family - to get my attention.
I don’t regret anything about family circumstances or desire any radical changes there. At most, I’d want more children, maybe some adopted, and there are days I desire a bigger house or a newer car. But the calamities of wishes and daydreams are reserved more for the way I occupy my days.
A good calamity could present an opportunity to make decisions that would otherwise appear foolish. As I’ve reasoned my way through those days, I’ve realized time and again that appearances are the crux of the matter preventing me from taking radical steps. If I made decisions and changes in my life that would seem to satisfy my dreams, everyone would think I had gone crazy. They might be right, but why would I care?
I used to say to my wife, “I wish they would just fire me, then I would be forced to change.” We could downsize, shed a few possessions, cut back on the status quo. I could take on a couple of lesser-paying, but interesting jobs for a while, go back to school or seminary, pick up some new skills, maybe start my own business or a church. I would say, “I had to do it. I didn’t have any other options,” and people would nod and agree and be sympathetic while assuring me it was the right thing to do.”
My career success, mediocre as it is, has hemmed me in and made me fat, lazy and wimpy. I’m not sure I’m hungry any more, willing to take risks and let go of concerns about meeting people’s expectations. I’m tired. Did I miss God?
Whine, whine, whine. Blah, blah, blah . . .
Finally, I get sick of my own nonsense. I call off the dreams of waiting to respond to someone else’s actions or ideas. I need to just get over that and grow a backbone. If radical decisions need to be made to get my life back in God’s direction, or to stay in God’s direction, or just to quiet my whining soul, I need to have the nerve to make them.
I am not, nor do I ever want to be the victim of circumstance. Either I’m following the voice of God, or I’m following my belly and all of its silly desires. Who needs calamities after all? I certainly don’t.
I’m going to do the right thing because it’s right, without concern for appearances or comfort. I’ll be an accountant until I die if that’s where I’ve been called, and I’ll be a good one. I’ll live as a covert radical in the midst of mediocrity. Making the most of every subtle opportunity God presents to have a little influence on lives and loving people like God intended, in small ways on small days.
Then, maybe, just maybe, if God quietly opens a door, or even offers one for the opening, presenting opportunities to change the world, I’ll step through, and laugh. I’ll laugh like James Earl Jones did as Terrence Mann in the Field of Dreams, as he stepped into the corn at the end of the movie, following the baseball players from heaven, just to see what’s out there. Maybe.
On a rare evening or Saturday morning, when I have the opportunity to sit in our living room for more than a few minutes and watch the chaos that is the Pratt household do its chaotic thing, I have come to appreciate the inevitable tapping on my leg from our daughter, Meghan, who is almost 2.
“Dad! Dad! Dad, Dad, Dad!” She works to get my attention stripped from 10 other voices, slapping my knee and getting gradually louder. “Dad, Dad, Dad,” she implores. 
“Yes, Meghan, what is it honey?” I finally respond as if I’ve been paying attention the whole time. “Hautch, hautch, hautch,” is her persistent plea, which requires translation to anyone but the family: “Watch,” is what she means. “Okay, Okay, I’m watching, Meghan, what do you want?” Once more, she replies, “hautch,” with her eyes growing and the grin on her face spreading to show tiny teeth.
Then she begins running. She actually does laps around the coffee table. Turning to me as she hits each corner to make sure I’m still “hautching,” and demanding my attention again if I get distracted. On a good day, a couple of siblings will join her, and they’ll all laugh, trying not to run into each other as they dodge the sofa and corners of the table and whatever else might be strewn across our living room floor. This can go on for a half an hour or more. My job is to play the spectator and cheer loudly. “Go Meghan, go Meghan. Run baby, run!” This is entertainment to die for.
Maybe we should be worried, or maybe she’s a marathon runner in the making, but I think I have an inkling as to how she became fascinated with running in circles. When Meghan was a few months old, and Renee would go out for a few hours in an evening, I learned quickly that all Meghan really wanted was her mother. Nothing else could provide real consolation for a nursing baby. So we would spend what seemed like hours on our way to find Mom.
First, we would search the house, going into each room and down each hallway, turning on the lights as we went. All the while, I’d be whispering in her ear “Momma’s not here right now, baby, but she’ll be here soon. Everything’s going to be alright. Shhhhh.”
Finally, we would end up in the living room, and I’d do some laps around the coffee table, while shushing in Meghan’s ear and whispering, “everything will be alright.” Lap after lap after lap, until finally Meghan would quiet down and begin to relax. If I stopped or sat down for even a minute, she would stiffen again and cry and beg for Renee. I became convinced that the motion, just laps around the table, brought the impression of progress. She thought we were on our way to find Mom, and as long as we were going to Mom, she could relax, knowing we’d arrive there soon and be happily reconciled.
One late night, after what seemed like hours of laps around the table, as the pain in my back became worse, I had one of those “aha” moments. I developed a theory that has affected the way I view life.
I started thinking of the hope I have seen on the faces of people in Mexico and Peru. It seems that in spite of the most dire, poverty-stricken circumstances there is a persistent hope which drives them through their daily regiments of chores and simple activities that are, by necessity, intently focused on just the basic needs for survival: obtaining food and water and maintaining homes made of mud or boxes and pallets.
Hope is pervasive. Every new morning brings the possibility of improvement, of progress, of the chance for love and redemption, or maybe of just breathing and living and enjoying the children at their feet, or maybe it’s a hope for something much bigger. I really believe that we all hope for something beyond ourselves, something we don’t quite understand, but are driven to by our humanity.
I wondered then, if maybe, just maybe, that need for hope, that requirement in our souls for progress toward the mostly subconscious desire for what will ultimately satisfy us, has something to do with the reasons God made the world turn. The sun rises and sets and we see time progress and we do laps around the center of the earth, and as we round the corner of a new day, we hope someone is watching, and that we’re really making progress. God whispers in our ears, “Shhhhhhh. Everything’s going to be alright.” We believe we’re going to find “Mom,” or whatever it is we believe will actually satisfy that deep desire. And we do another lap. Maybe things will be better tomorrow . . . just around the next corner.
If that theory has any truth to it at all, I hope that we’re persistent. I hope we don’t settle for the brief deception and fall asleep like Meghan did when she was younger. I hope we keep looking for “Dad’s” eyes around each corner, comforted and inspired by the fact he’s watching, and knowing that we’ll eventually get to the thing that truly satisfies rather than falling for temporary distractions along the way.
“Hautch, Dad, Hautch!”
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