you will have trouble

Jesus says, “I have overcome the world,” and then a few days later they kill him.

Does that strike anyone besides me as slightly ironic? I mean, of course, a few days after they killed him, he rose from the dead and achieved an unprecedented spiritual victory, but he had to die to get there.

What’s more ironic is that just before he says, “I have overcome the world,” he has this to say: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart!” That’s irony.

First of all, the idea that the disciples (and all the rest of us) would have trouble seems fairly obvious. That statement would never qualify Jesus as a prophet. We all know, all too well, that trouble is everywhere.

Second, Jesus wants us to be encouraged by the idea that he has overcome the world. He even says it in the past tense.

If he has overcome the world, how does that apply to us and our trouble? Moreover, if he has overcome the world, and then the world kills him anyway, in spite of the fact the world’s already been overcome, how is that supposed to comfort me? Pardon me, but at first glance, I’ll take my trouble, if that’s the alternative.

“Take heart,” he says! That’s enough to make you go “hmmm”, or chuckle a bit, isn’t it?

If I were the disciples, hearing that pep talk, I’d be thinking Jesus was about to lay out the map to easy street. I’d be sure he was going to show me the way to overcome just like he had, and I’d be a little excited about the possibilities.

But, after a few days, when I saw the way he was going about his overcoming business, I’d be a little disappointed with the methods. Looks to me like he was getting out of the frying pan and into the fire, and I’d be a little disenchanted with my discipleship commitment.

Everything about Jesus is dripping with irony. It’s contradictory – at least at face value. It’s the quintessential paradox.

This is truly ingenious if you think about it.

The truth is he really was laying out the methods for getting over and through our troubles. He was making an intentional effort to lead the disciples to the bottom, knowing that getting to the bottom was the only way for them to ever really see the top. I mean, resurrection is only possible for the dead.

But, I don’t think the message is only that we need to “die to ourselves,” as the common Christian saying goes – meaning that we should give up what we want to do, and do what he wants us to do. That’s a nice sentiment, and a necessary lesson, but I think there was more to it.

I think he was telling us that we should be encouraged, in spite of our trouble, because he had overcome the world. In other words, the way out of my trouble is only found through the victory he has accomplished over the ultimate trouble.

My own crucifixion, or death to my selfish desires, can’t add anything to what he’s already done. However, my devotion to him – his death and resurrection – with all of the temporary trouble that brings, is most assuredly the only way out of trouble.

Either Jesus was a little delusional, falsely believing he was all that and a bag of chips – faster than a speeding bullet and such – or he was absolutely, brilliantly saving us from our trouble. I’m betting on the latter.

dreams and visions

Have you ever wondered why God gave Joseph dreams and visions – of his brothers and parents coming to depend on him for their survival – when he was only a teenager?

I have.

I wonder if God is sadistic sometimes. I mean, giving a naive and irresponsible teenager those kinds of revelations, knowing that he would just run his mouth about it without considering the potential consequences seems a bit torturous.

God could have avoided excess confusion by just letting the bad stuff happen – the pit, the false death story, the slavery, the fall from favor, the dungeon, the years of sheer misery – without having added insult to injury by giving the kid grand ideas of great success and purpose in advance.

Of course, I don’t really believe God is sadistic, but I do believe God uses our weaknesses (and strengths) to accomplish his plans through us, and that is sometimes painful, and always confusing, for us.

Have you ever wondered why the dream and vision that makes your heart sing seems so elusive? Don’t be coy, or falsely modest: You know what I’m talkin’ about. There’s some dream or idea inside you that makes your heart get all twitterpated, even though the exact definition of the thing seems to consistently escape your grasp.

Why does God put that stuff in you, then dangle it just outside your grasp?

Reminds me of the dog races we used to enjoy during my college years. The rabbit always runs faster, but just ahead of the dogs. Still, every time the gates open, the dogs can’t help but chase the rabbit with all they’ve got.

Truth is, that longing in your heart is simultaneously sickening and absolutely inspiring. Most days, I think it’s what keeps me willing to breathe. In my bones, there is some intrinsic, genetic, dreamy notion that my efforts, though frequently futile, are valuable in ways I may never see, much less understand.

One of my favorite quotes from C.S. Lewis goes something like this: “The greatest havings in life are the wantings.”

I definitely don’t understand the method, but I think all of us know there’s value in the frustration. God forbid we should pack up our dreams and visions in mothballs, choosing to be led around by hopelessness and cynicism. Somewhere, in the corners of all our souls, pots boiling with disdain for apathy generate enough steam to make our wheels keep turning.

Joseph must have had horrid days. Waking up in the dungeon, day after day, after living the high life, at the top of the heap, only to repeatedly crash hard against the darkest days of despair, had to be a tough row to hoe. He must have kicked himself, repeatedly, for believing in the possibility of visions of better days.

Yet, he also must have maintained some solid trust in the promise of dreams coming true. He always seemed to pipe up with good attitude and rosy cheeks, making positive impressions with folks along the way.

Trusting the God-ordained vision for our lives is critical to survival. The vision may never take shape the way we’ve imagined it would, but if it’s really God’s business, failure is inconceivable.

Seems naive and cliche, doesn’t it? I know. Maybe that’s why God created Joseph and saved his story for us, though: to help us believe. Maybe.

simplify

I’m at a loss, today.  I want to write to tell you about all of the stirrings in my conflicted soul but I can’t seem to find the vehicle to carry the ideas.  So, I’m wondering if it’s possible to park the vehicle and walk – just me and my ideas in shoe-leather.

I’m stuck in the cycle of trying to simplify my faith and its expression, but the process keeps leading to complexity.

I’ve been trying to find simple ways to live the way Jesus wants me to live.  That alone is difficult.  Have you ever tried to summarize the directives of Jesus?  The most common way is to go to the two commandments Jesus cited when he was asked which were most important:

1.  Love the Lord, your God, with all of your heart, soul, mind, and strength.

2.  Love your neighbor as yourself.

We know these statements carry the essence of our faith.  The issue is not accepting that idea, it’s applying these things to our lives.

We’re given a check list with only two items which can ensure we’re on the right track in life, and I’m still stymied.  Living these things out is more complicated than it seems.  You can walk into any Christian bookstore and tell by the thousands of books published to help us with this, that we’re having a difficult time applying the basics.

I’m inspired to put myself into the fray, serving and helping, and engaging people in their lives, but that’s a complex business.  Faced with that complexity, I recoil and become inspired to simplify and just love Jesus and seek him with the fervency he deserves, but as I attempt that, I’m confronted by Jesus himself, the most beautiful and most complex of characters, challenging me into utter discomfort.

Loving and seeking Jesus compels me to engage in the world with love and service, refusing to allow me to become inactive.  Engaging the lives around me subjects me to humiliation and complexity that I can’t navigate, filling me with a strong desire to just quit, wondering if anything I believe is real.  This cycle is a killer.

I’m certain that to break the cycle, I have to lean more on Jesus, and lower my expectations – not of what he can do, but what I must do.

My awareness of global issues and the complexity of human relationships overwhelms my thoughts.  I can’t fix these things, and that – especially as a male – is so frustrating.

Recently, I’ve been confronted by good but challenging ideas about Iraq, poverty, AIDS, fair trade, clean water needs, child abuse, marital discord, disease and death, finances, loneliness, being human, and the right ways to live a Christian life.

Let me say for the record:  my opinions on these things are fairly worthless.  I can’t adequately address or fix one example, much less the worldwide affliction.

What can I do?  Is it too cliche to just respond with:  Love?  I can grieve with the brokenness of everything, and love.  I can love Jesus – not very well, but some – and I can love others, even if that just means I grieve with them or dance with them.

Is it possible that anything more is a bonus, and to expect it is to expect what comes only from divine intervention?  Is it acceptable to look at anything else as truly miraculous?

If so, then I want to  be passionate about Jesus, and expect him to do the rest – the miraculous.  I haven’t been able to generate one good miracle that I can recall.  Just loving anyone or anything is difficulty enough to fill most days.

I want to say things like “I don’t know” and “I’m sorry” more often.  I want to speak out only when I’m compelled and offer advice only when it’s invited, apologizing as I do so for the chance I may not say it well, and it may be wrong even if said best.

I want to love, and I may be able to pull that off.  Maybe.  If I can do it without arrogancy, I’d even like to love well.  That will take practice and sacrifice, but I’ll try to keep my expecations in check.

sunshine

Yesterday afternoon, as I drove toward Denver with 4 of my children, the clouds were busy closing the shades on the sun in their typical-for-Colorado attempt to end the day early.

Hannah noticed the dimming light coming through a crack in the clouds and asked if that was the sun.  Apparently, the light looked unique for that moment and she wasn’t sure if she was seeing a reflection or some other phenomenon.  It was the sun, though, peaking through with determination, while the walls closed in on it.

When I nodded in response to her question, she said something like, “Wow!  That’s a pretty weak sun.”  I pushed away several smart remarks floating through my mind like clouds, but kept my mouth shut and just considered the idea of a weak sun.

The sun is always shining.  We talk about sunrise as the sun coming up, and the sunset in the opposite way, but we all know that the sun doesn’t move.  It just sits there at the center of our solar system, burning, shining, and doing what a good sun does.

This is one of those perspective things.  Are we only seeing things anchored by our own lives, or are we capable of observing a bigger picture?

Hannah was wrong, the sun wasn’t weak.  The sun was doing its normal thing, as strong as ever.  At that moment, the clouds drifting around a few thousand feet from our faces, and puny in comparison to the sun, were in just the right position to block our view of the sun, only because the sun is so much farther away.

I was reminded of the times I’ve been in a plane on a stormy day, and the wonder I’ve experienced as we climbed through the clouds and found blue skies and a vibrant, powerful sun shining at full strength unaffected by the turmoil below.  It’s amazing how getting just a few miles closer to the sun can change your perspective.

Even when the darkness of night falls wherever you are, the sun is still doing its thing for everyone making hay on the far side of this globe.

Remember Eeyore?  That poor little gray donkey with the floppy ears from the Winnie the Pooh stories always has a rain cloud floating above his head.  Somedays I’m like that.  Somedays, I can’t see the sun even though the only place in the entire 100-acre-wood that it’s not visible is in the two square feet where I’m standing.

The sun is always shining.  Maybe I can’t see it, or maybe I refuse to see it, but it’s always shining.

the game of life

Today I’m frustrated by the game of life.  There are far too many limitations.

You pick a little car, decide if you’re going to wait out a turn at college, pull a career card from the deck, spin the wheel, pick up a little plastic kid or two and hope you choose the fork in the road that keeps everybody healthy, gets you a bonus, and leads to the safety of retirement the fastest.

That’s not life.  That’s planning for death.  That’s the shallow arc of a cannonball in flight.  It rises with a flame only briefly before it gets sucked down to earth with a crushing impact.  That’s not flying; that’s falling with style.

There’s no such thing as gravity.  The earth sucks.

I keep looking for an opportunity to get off track, to make my own road to nowhere.  It’s bumpy and precarious off the track, and the safety of the rules and insurance gets left behind, only to heckle you later when you realize you could have used a little help.

I want to push the boundaries of this board of life upon which my game has been defined.  I want to get off the track and explore the road, or wilderness, less traveled.  I want to cover every inch of the board, rather than build my little fortress of defense in the center, hoping the moat is big enough to keep the dragons away.  I want to build and explore at the extreme edges of the territory that’s been made available.

It’s dangerous out on the fringe, though.  Days like today, I spend a lot of time kicking myself in the teeth as penance for the deficiences in my life.  I’ve spent too much money, wasted too much time, stretched myself too far, expected too much.  I’ve committed to more than I can keep.

I want to retreat from all of it; get it back in control.  I want to get my little plastic family back into our little plastic car, take inventory of our cards and cash, and spin the wheel with determination rather than flippancy.  I want to pout.

Maybe I’ll take a month off from all my commitments except the bare-bottom basics.  I’ll hide on the floor in the kids’ room and play Go-Fish, and chess and build Lego castles and watch Spiderman seventeen times, leaving popcorn kernels strewn about the room.

Maybe I’ll pay the bills and organize the book room.  I’ll develop a budget and follow it.  I’ll fix the towel rack and the garage door and replace that shower stall, and save for retirement.  I’ll teach a kid to read, and another to borrow from the tens column when they need it for subtraction. For a few days, I’ll try to stay on track.

There will never be enough money, and I’m over my head in debt to time.  I’ll do my best to live in the limits, I guess, but I’m not sure I can keep that promise.

The guy who made the game keeps shaking the board and getting everything out of whack.  As I hang on to the edge by my fingertips and feel the weariness coming, I start second-guessing the wisdom of my wanderings to distant shores.  I wish he would only intervene on my terms, when it’s convenient for me.

rhetoric

As I’ve watched bits and pieces of the political news regarding the presidential campaign from my constantly-moving-but-going-nowhere perch on the treadmill at my gym this winter, I’ve been intrigued by several aspects of this historic race; most of all, the way it reflects common aspects of our culture.

I am not a politically-motivated person.  I watch the process with intrigue and objectivity, but seldom with any sense of activism.  I’ll confess, I’m a registered republican who has mostly voted with that party in past elections, but over the last several years I’ve become more comfortable with my moderate to liberal leanings on some issues, and I’d generally consider myself a moderate overall.

Earlier this week, I watched a portion of a speech by Barack Obama, speaking at a rally somewhere in Ohio.  I think Mr. Obama is a fascinating man who brings a definite buzz of excitement to this over-hyped political campaign.  There’s nothing overtly offensive about him, from my view, although I’m a bit concerned about the way his position on Iraq might play out.

I’m not picking on Mr. Obama, or his positions on the big issues either, but as I watched and listened to him, and reflected on other speeches I’ve heard from McCain and Clinton, the word rhetoric came to mind and got stuck in my craw.

I started thinking about how all of us, but especially politicians (and preachers), use rhetoric so effectively.  I’ve heard political candidates (and preachers) speak about very significant issues in nebulous terminology, being sure to hit the right phrases and points, to stir emotions and inflame concerns, all the while projecting themselves or their opinions as the answers to those issues.

I wondered, is Mr. Obama, or any other candidate for that matter, actually speaking with passion regarding issues that represent his heart and personal beliefs, or is he speaking persuasively regarding a position he’s taken on points that are merely, at least superficially, of particular interest to his audience?

In other words, if he were in the same race 50 years ago, would he be as excited about other issues because they had the focus of voters who had the power to get him elected?  What is Mr. Obama really passionate about, being president or addressing the healthcare dilemma?  Is he discussing the environment because that’s the purpose of his life, or because it’s an issue that has the attention of voters?

When I develop my resume, I try to hit the high points, use the right buzz words, and tailor the details for the job to which I’m applying.  Honestly, though, the things described in my resume, even after the best polishing, are merely a dim reflection of my passions and concerns, much less my view of my life’s purpose and value.  I’m merely attempting to relay the information that I believe will make me a successful candidate.

When presidential candidates make promises, or even engender a sense of vague anticipation, that they will be able to resolve complex problems, isn’t it a bit misleading, at least in the sense that they won’t be governing with unilateral power?

Do they really believe they can accomplish those things, and do they really care?  Or, are they just saying the right things, with as much ambiguity as can be accepted, to be a successful candidate?

When I ran for Student Council President in my senior year of high school, at the urging of members of the outgoing council, I coined a campaign slogan, “You won’t fail, if you vote for Dale.”  You know what was great about that?  It rhymed.  Otherwise, it was absolutely meaningless.  I got the job though.  My biggest accomplishment as President?  A student body trip to the movie theater!

Okay, forget about politics for a minute and let’s talk about you.  Do you live in a polished and acceptable persona developed for the intent of being successful in the environment of your life?  Do you live with conviction, reflecting the values that are most important to you without excuses and regret?

What type of candidate are you?  What are your true passions and concerns, and are they reflected in your words and actions?

My idea here is that we frequently talk about the most important principles of life as unattainable ideals, and substitute lesser concerns with ill-perceived value, for whatever audience we’re catering to at a given moment, for the sake of establishing ourselves and gaining stature.

Maybe that’s necessary in politics.  Maybe that’s why my political career ended in high school.

an oasis of memories

In the southeast corner of Arizona, only six miles west of the New Mexico border, you might be fortunate enough to happen upon a sleepy little desert town named Duncan, idling away its years along the banks of the Gila river.  I’ve been in 46 states and several foreign countries, but Duncan is one of my favorite places in the whole world.

I don’t remember the first time I was in Duncan.  My father used to go there before I was born to preach in a tiny little church with only 8 rows of short pews on each side of the center aisle.  The church was once pastored by a blind man I’ve known only as Brother Cooper who lived next door in a house made of rocks and surrounded by cactus.

In one of my mother’s photo albums, there’s a picture of me when I was less than two years old sitting bareback atop Brother Cooper’s horse, held in place by our friend, Valadee Crotts.

My favorite place in Duncan is a tiny oasis centered around the swing that hangs on the front porch of Margie and Valadee Crotts’ home.  Margie, better known as Granny, with Valadee as the work-horse, has created there, in the middle of that desert, a veritable Garden of Eden.

At any time of year, you can sit on the front-porch swing, passing the time in the shade, and I promise you, the birds will be singing, and some form of flower, if not hundreds, will be blooming all around.  I believe nature comes to Granny’s front porch to find a haven from what ails it.

There’s an old iron swing set in the shade of the tree in the front yard, and a picnic table.  In the back, there’s a pecan tree which seems to never cease dropping its hard fruit for whoever may come along in need of a snack.

Granny keeps a rock garden there in the back, as well, garnished with rusting old antique hand tools, colored-glass artifacts, and grinding stones.  Occasionally, you may find a lamb or two at their mother’s side in the corrals at the far edge of the yard, and in the spring, a vegetable garden growing strong in defiance of the environment.

If you can stay over until breakfast in one of the many side rooms of the house, added over the years to accomodate a growing family and weary travelers, Valadee will be obliged, under Granny’s direction, to stir up some biscuits and fried eggs while you warm yourself by the woodstove in the front room.  Bibles on the shelves there by Granny’s chair are worn out from over use and dripping with years of immersion in fervent prayers. 

The front porch swing is the best, though.  Whether you have a few minutes, or several hours, you’ll be refreshed, as you sway back and forth, by a cool breeze blowing through the wind chimes and the sounds of the birds singing along.

Duncan’s cemetery rests in the rocky soil on the plateau to the south of town, overlooking the Gila river valley.  If you have a chance to drive up the hill, take the left turn into that hallowed ground and look around among the headstones for the name Arthur “Papa” Pratt, my father.

Papa, who would have been 107 on February 8th, was laid there in May 1995, on a day when the wind blew hard from the rush of the angels’ wings joining us to mourn.  The last time I saw Papa’s face was at the end of the center aisle in that little church with half of the casket lid propped open for our viewing.

As I cried my way through the last few chapters of Khaleid Hosseini’s brilliant novel, A Thousand Splendid Suns, last Saturday afternoon, I had an overwhelming longing for Duncan, and for Papa.  Were it not for Renee’s wisdom and a hundred other obligations, like miniature ropes across the chest of Gulliver, curtailing his travels, I would have packed up immediately and headed for that spot and the refuge of the memories, and cried myself into oblivion.

I’ll do that soon enough.  Meanwhile, I’ll find comfort in the memories, and the hugs of my babies, dreaming of a creaky front-porch swing and Papa’s headstone inscribed with these words: “God gave him great love.  He gave it to us.”

If you happen through Duncan before me, do yourself a favor:  Stop in to see Granny and Valadee . . .  and Papa.  And tell them I sent you.  You’ll be glad you did.

innkeepers

Steve served our breakfast this morning.  He’s an interesting fellow.  He and Jan have only been married for a year.  They each have 2 grown children and at least one other job, but 2 months ago, they became owners of a bed and breakfast.  They were looking for a place to host Steve’s musical events and Jan’s quilting workshops and have a little fun.  Almost by accident, they ended up as innkeepers.

Steve has a financial planning business, he plays the classical guitar, and he served our breakfast this morning.  It was some kind of southwestern egg casserole.  He wears big glasses and white sneakers and a zipper sweatshirt with nothing under it and chest hair sticking out of the top.  His teeth are crooked and discolored a bit, but he has a friendly smile and some skill at making small talk.

Last night, they must have had a bit too much wine – I’m judging by the 2 empty bottles on the table when we entered before 8:00pm.  They were still making a lot of noise at 10:45 with some other guests in the dining room, but we faded off to sleep without much concern, though I had considered going down there at one point to offer my fatherly “you-guys-are-living-on-the-edge” look.

I abducted Renee and Ayda after dinner last night, with the help of Katie and Hannah, and my mother, as co-conspirators.  We’re spending two nights in this little inn and hiding from the world.  Renee got flowers and her favorite chocolates – smoked sea-salt caramels – from Fran’s in Seattle (click here to enjoy).  I got a day off of work and a chance to read a book and talk to my wife without interruption.

I didn’t really like Steve at first – that smile made me suspicious of him - and Jan is very worried that Ayda will cry and bother the other guests, but they’re growing on me now.  How hard could it be to like a guy who plays the classical guitar and serves you breakfast?  He even remembered our names after one introduction.  I had to go and look at the business cards on the registration desk to find their names.

It’s a good lesson for me.  First impressions are ridiculous and should be ignored as frequently as possible.  They prevent us from the opportunity to develop friendships and to appreciate people for their character and unique beauty.

Steve is an interesting character.  Maybe I’ll have an opportunity to hear him play that guitar sometime.  Maybe we’ll share a glass of wine – only one – and maybe we’ll talk about his first marriage and his children, and he can give me financial planning advice, and we’ll become friends and share laughter and maybe even talk about Jesus.  I’d like that.

For now, I’m just looking forward to breakfast again.

my valentine

Twenty-one years ago, in March of 1987, my junior year of college, I got a job at a Taco Bell in Greeley.  I was reluctant to accept the job, and was actually advised not to accept it by several friends, because the week before I had started another part-time job at the university housing department.

For reasons I’ve forgotten, but probably related to the fact that I was broke, I decided to take the job at Taco Bell and work both part-time jobs for as long as I could.

Either the week before or the week after, I’ve forgotten (but Renee would know), a 16-year-old junior from Greeley West High School, named Renee Dougherty, also started working at the same Taco Bell.

For nearly six months, Renee and I, along with our mutual friends shared that tiny space behind the counter of an old-fashioned Taco Bell, chopping olives and onions, shredding cheese and lettuce, stirring the beans and meat, and building Burrito Supremes with the perfect weight in under 45 seconds for a drive-thru order, and we seldom spoke to each other about anything personal.

Then, in August of 1987, Renee and I shared a shift, and with a gleam in her eye, she told me she had a question for me.  She was playing the messenger for Tonya, her best-friend, and our coworker.  Tonya wanted to go on a date with me.

I laughed at Renee.  She had to be kidding, I thought.  I was a senior in college by that time, and she and Tonya were only seniors in high school.  I had plans, dreams, a future outside of Greeley, and neither of those two little girls could be part of my horizon.

Renee was persistent, though, and by the end of that shift, I had agreed to Tonya’s request, but with one condition:  Renee would have to join us.  I thought that 3 would be a crowd and provide enough of a safety zone for me to check Tonya out without having to actually date her.  Renee agreed and the date was set.

We went to a movie, something starring Madonna, then to the park on a warm summer evening for a walk and a talk.  Somewhere in the darkness of that park that night, Tonya decided I was not the man for her . . . and Renee and I became best friends.

Though I continued to resist a romantic relationsip with Renee for another 6 months or so, we spent all of our spare time together – between our classes, my two jobs, and her job and paper route.  Before long, I couldn’t stand to spend a day without seeing her, and I started saying things like, “Who needs to sleep?  I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”  My college buddies thought I was crazy, but I didn’t care.  Gradually all of those relationships have faded to memories, but Renee is still here.

According to my plan, I left for California dreams in September 1988, and cried my eyes out listening to Renee’s tapes of Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith, as I drove with my car loaded with all of my earthly possessions to Los Angeles.

Within a matter of weeks – the number is still a point of dispute – I was telling Renee that I couldn’t live without her and she needed to come to California.  She said that wasn’t going to happen unless we were married.  It took me about 30 seconds to make that decision.

A few days ago, Renee said that she felt like I had been acting like other things were more important than her.  She confessed to having crazy hormone activity which was obviously affecting her judgement, and she wasn’t thinking rationally, but she felt that way, nonetheless.

Sometimes our schedules run side by side for several days but don’t really intersect.  Sometimes, I’m not as sensitive as I should be to the people who mean the most to me.  Sometimes, I’m a bona-fide jerk.

So let me clarify this issue, here, among many of the people who are important to me, and to whom I devote much of the time I spend away from my family:

Renee is only as important to me as the blood that courses through my heart and provides sustenance to every part of my body.  I can go a long time without thinking of how much it means to me, but in its absence, I would crumble into nothing.

If any of you, in the last 20 years or so, have ever thought of me with gratitude or admiration, or even thought I was a decent person with some positive traits, I want you to know that you owe that affection to Renee.  She has been the foundation of the man I am.  The shortcomings are my own, but anything positive is hers.

For me, Renee is the closest thing to Jesus in this world – not because she’s saintly, or perfect, or any sort of miracle-worker at all, but because she loves me without condition.  That love makes me certain I can handle whatever life brings to bear.

With all of my heart, I love you, Renee.

a terrible teenager

I’m worried that something’s wrong with Hannah.  She has shown signs of severe abnormality.  It’s ridiculous!  She reminds me of Jesus.  Maybe it’s because I’m praying for her so often.

Last Friday I was explaining to a friend at work that I would be out for a long lunch to celebrate Hannah’s 14th birthday with the family.  My coworker laughed at me and said, “Oh no!  A teenager!  Ahahahahahahahaha.”  I hated to have to be honest in response, it was so embarassing, but I had to reply, “No!  She’s great.  Really.”

“But she’s a teenager! Ahahahahaha.”

“I know . . . it’s so weird . . . She’s soooo much fun.  We love being around her . . . she’s great . . . really.”  My voice faded and my head hung low as I made the confession.

It’s time to be vulnerable with all of you now, my reading community and faithful friends.  It’s true:  We have a teenage daughter with whom we love to spend time.  She’s funny and sensitive, artistic and beautiful, and worst of all, she has a good attitude.  She politely laughs at our jokes and we absolutely crack up at hers.  She enjoys having conversations with us and she even agrees to babysit with her siblings without complaining much.  It’s pathetic.

We took the whole family out for a pizza lunch at a tiny place in Fort Collins on Friday and had a birthday celebration for Hannah.  We gave her a brand new guitar, attempting to foster a rebellious, rock-star attitude.  She played for all of us while the pizza cooked and we laughed and took pictures and celebrated the mess we were making.

Hannah’s a rock star in the making.  She has all of the right qualities:  a love for music and crazy hair.  She is insightful and curious.  She loves a good story and easily picks up on the subtleties in life; the contradictions and humor, the profound and the paradoxical.  I’m worried that she may actually understand the meaning of life but she’s scared to share it because she may be ostracized as some sort of 21st-century prophet.  It’s sad.

After church on Sunday, as the family left JB’s in 3 different vehicles, I knew Hannah wanted a road trip, so as Renee and a friend turned left to go home, and Katie headed to her next appointment, Hannah and I, and 7 other kids, turned right for destinations unknown.  We even took Ayda, but only by accident, since I didn’t realize until we’d driven a couple of miles that Renee had escaped without her.

Hannah’s like that – a road trip kind of girl.  For her last birthday, we took a bus-load of her friends to Boise City, Oklahoma.  Hannah wanted to go to Boise, Idaho, but I declined since it was a 12-hour drive each way.  So, we drew a 6-hour circle on the road atlas and found Boise City, Oklahoma at the outer edge.  Hannah said, “See!  It’s a sign from God!”  We covered a thousand miles and 23 truck stops in 6 states in 2 days.  It was the best road trip ever, and I have the pictures and witnesses to prove it.

A few weeks ago, Hannah called my cell phone from home at 6:30 on a Sunday night, after we had a crazy weekend of non-stop going, and were on our way home to cap it off.  She said, “Can we go for a drive?”  Knowing this was just a symptom of her abnormal teenage experience, I vehemently declined, “What?!  Are you crazy?!”  But by the time we arrived home, Renee had acquiesced to the idea, out of a guilty conscience for having afflicted Hannah with such a strange childhood.  The whole family loaded up, with another friend, as well, and headed off to Fort Collins to seek adventure.  It’s too painful to talk about the fun we had.

So, last Sunday, we ended up in Wiggins with music blaring, and countless children sleeping, after only one road-side potty break.  If you don’t know where Wiggins can be found, you’re in luck:  you’ll never need to go there.  We bought ice cream sandwiches and Fritos at the local grocery, mourned the impassable ice on the tiny skatepark, drove up and down the streets, striking fear in the hearts of the locals, and then headed for home to reconcile Ayda with her mother.  Hannah’s wanderlust had once again been satiated by miles of endless nothingness and her favorite music on the stereo.

On Monday, her actual birthday, in a rare, but hopeful, showing of normal teenage behavior, Hannah yelled something mean at her siblings and chased them from the family room after they tried her patience during some critical scene of some critical movie.  After Renee and I had debriefed the day, and I heard the wonderful news, I attempted to act like a normal parent to Hannah.  I yelled at her and rebuked her for the display and for having a rotten attitude.

It hurts for me to admit it, and I’m sure you’ll be shocked, but do you know how Hannah replied?  It’s terrible.  She said, “Sorry, Dad.  You’re right.  I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t have yelled at them.”  Can you feel my pain?  I’m a broken man.  I had hoped she was coming around to normalcy, and she had to go and blow it again.  I felt so bad, I had to apologize for yelling.

Happy Birthday, Hannah, you rock star!  We love you!