You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October, 2008.
Just so you know, I love you people.
Thanks for reading, listening, commenting, caring.
You’re good people and you make me happy.
My friend has type one diabetes. Several years ago, his body just stopped producing insulin. Without insulin, he can’t effectively process blood sugar and things don’t work right. As a result, he has a much greater risk of heart disease and lots of other life-threatening illnesses, not to mention the constant measuring and maintainance work required to keep the insulin-sugar balance on a short leash.
My body produces insulin in exactly the right quantities at exactly the right times, but I’m entirely oblivious to the whole process.
My friend has cystic fibrosis. His lungs are prone to infection and every 6 weeks or so, he has to spend a couple of weeks in the hospital getting a “tune up” of IV antibiotics to clear out the gunk so he can breathe better. On the other hand, he gets to enjoy a regular diet of high-calorie junk because his body doesn’t produce the enzymes to digest food effectively, so he never really gets enough calories.
My lungs burn when I run hard, and if I eat 8000 calories a day, I’ll eventually weigh 8000 pounds.
My friend has to take medication to keep her mental chemistry in balance, but it’s like a constant experiment to find the right cocktail of medicines to stay within the “normal” range and minimize side effects. She has a hard time figuring out whether the way she feels is real or the result of the medication.
I’m moody and generally confused about life and related topics.
My friend with a ticking biological clock is a single, bright, attractive, intelligent, successful, independent, spiritually-gifted woman who longs deeply to be married and have children. Single men are too thick, cowardly, and self-centered to realize they’re thick, cowardly, and self-centered.
I’m not a single man, so none of those things apply to me, right? I’m married to the most amazing woman and have the gift of 10 happy, healthy, beautiful children who daily consume every spare drop of energy I can muster.
It’s absurd, isn’t it? Somebody should slap me for comparing my silly and petty and trite and dramatic ailments to these others.
Words fail to give adequate exclamation to the things I take for granted.
Nonethewhatsoevermore (yes, I made that up), these friends care about me and worry about me and ask how I’m doing. They live full lives with hard work, high hopes, strong faith, loving and serving their families and others. They represent a small sample of the evidence of the right stuff being resident among us.
I get sad because I’m sick and tired of being sick and tried, and life is hard. Our dryer doesn’t work unless you lift the top off and give the tub a strong push to the right within a few seconds of hitting the start button. Our finances are ugly. Our house needs work. We have great health, dental, vision and life insurance, but we’re generally healthy.
Then, Jesus has to go and say things like, “take no thought for what you will eat, or what you will drink, or what you will wear, for your heavenly father knows you have need of all these things.”
So, what about my dirty carpet, or the leaves laying all over my lawn, or the kitchen cabinets, and the broken sprinklers, and the car leaking transmission fluid, and the election, and the dryer – the stinking dryer, for crying out loud? Can I - should I - take thought for those?
Sheesh! I’m the dumbest. Words fail to adequately exclaim my royal dumbness.
Thank God for good friends who will come to my aid.
After the marathon, we gradually, painfully, made it over to Nathan’s apartment for showers and fun. Nathan is a good friend who recently relocated from Grand Junction to the dowtown Denver area.
We crammed into his tiny space with a portion of my family and David & Angie’s family. I lay on the floor, trying to find a position that would keep my back from cramping and gandered at Nathan’s paintings.
Just before I got in the shower, I sent Ben back out to the car to get my flip-flops – after 4 hours of running, I wasn’t interested in tying my feet into anything.
After showering, I found a comfortable chair and looked for Ben, but he wasn’t in the room. I asked about him, but didn’t get a solid response from anyone before getting distracted by the room full of people to other topics.
A few minutes later, Ben showed up, after someone went out into the hallway and realized he was waiting outside the front door of the building. Apparently, the outside door had locked behind him, and he didn’t know how to use the intercom to call us and let us know.
(By the way, as I read over this, I realize that this is further evidence that we’re not perfect parents, and I feel pretty vulnerable sharing this with you. You can’t be more offended at my irresponsibility than I am, but I hope you’ll forgive me.)
As he sat on the floor of the tiny studio and explained that he was locked out, he began to cry. Ben has a tender heart and cries easily, but not in a whiny way, usually. He cries over legitimate things – things that grown men should cry about, if only they had the nerve of a 10-year-old boy. Recently, I told him that I am glad to see this trait in him, and I hope he never loses it.
My heart broke. Renee’s heart broke. I asked Ben to come sit in my lap. I hugged him and told him I was sorry, and I asked if he had been scared. He said yes.
This is a terrible thing for a father to hear. I hate for my children to be afraid. Fear, unmitigated, eats the courage off the heart of a youngster and once it’s gone, like teflon scraped off a frying pan, it’s nearly impossible to recover without miraculous intervention.
I hugged him tighter and promised that I’d do everything I can to be sure it never happens again, and that I would never forget him or leave him, at least not for long. I’m not sure I can keep those promises, but it felt right to make them, trusting he’ll see my heart is often bigger than my ability.
When we left Nathan’s apartment, Noah and Ben rode with me on our route to the restaurant. Noah sat up front and Ben in the back, to my right.
While we drove, I slid my arm behind Noah’s seat and grabbed Ben’s hand. I held it for a long time, and as I did, I was reminded of my father’s hands.
It probably seems strange, but I can still feel my father’s hands almost 14 years after he died. I know what they feel like, and if I think about them, I can actually sense his skin against the skin of my own hands.
Papa Pratt was an old man all of my life – he was 65 when I was born – but we had a good relationship and he was always affectionate (leaving my mother to be the disciplinarian). So, we held hands frequently.
When I was young, he held my hands to protect me, or to keep me from getting away in a crowd. As we grew older, our roles switched. I held his hands to help him step up the curb, or get out of the car, or just lead him to his seat.
The skin of Papa’s hands were spotted. The age spots made dark brown patches all over his hands and forearms, and the places without spots had become translucent, almost paper-thin, with the veins visible beneath.
His skin had also lost almost all of its elasticity by the time he died at 94, so that I could pinch a fold of skin on his hand between my fingers and it would just stay there, as if I had folded a piece of paper, until I smoothed it back down.
His fingers were bigger than mine are now – not longer, but thicker – and the nails were long and thick. He used to clean his nails with his pocket knife, the same pocket knife my son, Will, uses now to carve sticks into toys.
Thoughts of Papa’s hands still comfort me. Especially when I remember his gestures as he stood at the front of a congregation singing and preaching. His hands mean a lot to me. They still quiet my fear.
As I held Ben’s hands last Sunday, with my arm stretched behind the seat, I wondered what Ben will remember of my hands when he has his own children.
I hope he’ll remember the blemishes and imperfections, along with comfort and courage, discipline and love.
negative
Just so you know, I haven’t quit, and I haven’t picked up a bad attitude.
I’m just a little verklempt, which apparently is Yiddish for “overcome with emotion”, and exhausted, and confused, but let’s just say verklempt because that’s more fun.
I hunted and camped with KJ. We saw amazing things and loved the experience, but we didn’t get the elk and Erik couldn’t find us. That’s a good, long story, just waiting to be told.
Renee went on a scrapbooking retreat for 5 days and just came home to a mountain of laundry and a boat-load of whacked-out children this afternoon.
I ran my fourth marathon on Sunday morning and got beat by a girl – my sister-in-law, Angie, who makes me really proud, in a good way (and a bunch of other girls and other people who we don’t need to talk about).
I need to write to you about how marathons make me an emotional wreck – verklempt even – like a girl. I also need to tell you about my father’s hands, and how Ben’s hands reminded me of them. I also need to tell you about several other things that make my heart beat, and how I’m all confused and frustrated and scared – like a girl. (If you’re a girl, please don’t be offended at that. I really admire you and aspire to be like you in several ways.)
I’ve also been in budget mode at work which is just sick and dumb and a giant pain in my left ear lobe.
Speaking of ear lobes, I also had an ear infection that caused my right ear-drum to rupture a couple of weeks ago. Just 3 days ago it stopped leaking goopy yellow stuff and I think the hearing is coming back, too, so I don’t feel like my head is in a bucket now. Let him who has an ear to hear . . .
Tomorrow, I’ll attend an introductory conference at our church on a new spiritual transformation tool. I’m hoping it’s transformative, which probably isn’t even a real word.
But tonight, I’m verklempt, and exhausted and lost, but let’s just say verklempt, because that’s more fun.
I’m camping and hunting elk for 6 days and 5 nights with KJ and Erik starting tomorrow morning, somewhere in the backcountry of the Rocky Mountains in the Colorado State Forest.
So, after waxing eloquent about how to love my wife in the last 2 posts, I’m leaving her to fend for herself with all of these children for 6 days.
I haven’t been hunting since I was in high school, and then it was little stuff. I’m lucky I didn’t hurt myself.
I’m not actually hunting this time, or at least I won’t be carrying or firing a gun. I’m more like a pack mule, or a scout, or a faithful assistant.
It’s supposed to snow while we’re there. We’ll be cold and wet and weary. I hate getting out of a tent in the middle of the night to use the imaginary facilities.
Tonight, I worked until 9:30 to get the budget turned in before my trip. It’s been crazy for a few weeks. I asked Renee to let the kids stay up until I got home, so I could see them before I leave. I usually tuck them in and say their prayers and get water and start the Adventures in Odyssey CD, and sometimes I threaten them with dire consequences if they don’t be quiet and go to sleep.
So tonight, I’m standing there practically asleep on my feet between two bunk beds which are holding 5 kids, and they won’t stop hurling questions about camping and elk hunting at me. I know very little, really, about either of those subjects, but to them, I was the expert.
Noah wants an elk bladder. Ellie wants an elk butt. Ben wants an elk tooth or an eyeball.
I’m not bringing any of those things home. KJ might. Erik might. I might help them bring it home.
What I’m bringing home is a refreshed, but still weary, grateful attitude that comes from spending time with friends without phones or computers doing some heart-fulfilling, elements-overcoming adventuring.
While I’m gone, send me a note and let me know what adventures you’re undertaking this weekend. We’ll be like pen-pals. Maybe send a note to Renee, too. Since I’ll be gone, she’ll be needing a substitute cherisher.
Love you, too.
So, I’m standing in front of the mirror this morning at 6:00, swishing a toothbrush around in my mouth, and wondering whether or not I had written anything inappropriate, or offensive or just plain wrong, 5 hours earlier in that evoke her beauty post.
You just never know what can come out of an exhausted, caffeine-driven, midnight write such as that (or this).
My thoughts vaguely recalled something I had written about trying to do better. To quote myself, I said, “I’m not very good at loving her in the way that Jesus loves the church, but I’m really trying.”
My mind flashed immediately to the title of the book written by our pastor, Alan Kraft, and recently published: Good News for Those Trying Harder. Uh-oh.
I haven’t actually read the book yet – it was just released, for crying out loud – but having heard Alan’s words and heart from the pulpit for years, I’m pretty sure I can guess at the general angle he’s taking on this topic.
Let me cut to the chase, though, because I recognize that I am really trying to love my wife better, and somehow that seems okay, but I was prompted to examine just what it is I’m trying to do, and how I’m going about it.
The bottom line, as I see it, is this: The only way I’ll ever learn to love my wife in the way Jesus loves the church is to have a relationship with Jesus that reflects his love for me. The love of Jesus, in me and through me, will overcome my weaknesses and produce a righteous love for others in me.
How? I’m glad you asked.
This is the sticky part for us men. This will really put a ding in your machismo. Stick with me, though. This is good. Promise.
Go back to the stuff from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians to which I referred in yesterday’s post about loving your wives as Christ loved the church.
So, I’m part of the church, right? I mean the church can be defined in many ways, I suppose, but I’m going out on a limb for sake of this discussion and saying that however you slice it, I’m going to consider myself part of whatever that term describes.
If I’m part of the church, then Christ loves me like a wife, in the best possible way.
(I know. This will make your gender signals scream a bit, but it’s a good challenge.)
His love makes me whole, his words evoke my beauty, and everything he does and says is designed to bring the best out of me.
What is the direction to the wife? How should she respond to her husband? Not by trying harder, but by humbly submitting – not a submission to domination, but a submission to her husband’s desire to cherish her: “The husband provides leadership to his wife the way Christ does to his church, not by domineering but by cherishing.” (Eph. 5:23, MSG)
Men usually screw this up. We easily lose track of our own role, and point out our wives’ lack of willingness to be submissive. What a load of codswallop!
The instruction here is to the wife, not to the husband to enforce this or impose it upon his wife. The wife is called to respond to being cherished. If we’re shoving our expectations for good behavior upon our wives, that’s misguided, foolish, foul, egotistical domination. It’s just ugly!
Christ does not treat us that way, and we ought not pretend that he’s instructing us to impose such nonsense on anyone else.
I really desire to be a good wife to Christ. (If being a man and a wife is disconcerting for you, go ahead and get over that. If you can’t, feel free to substitute “church” for “wife”.)
I want to let him cherish me. I want to submit to his advances upon me. I want to be open to him invading and overwhelming every area of my being. I want to allow him to bring out the best in me.
Picture, if you will, the woman who is so fearful of being seen as inadequate or incapable, or so fearful of losing her husband that she relentlessly tries, harder and harder, to please him, and to make him happy at all costs, just to maintain the pretense of love. That might be fun for the first few decades months, but eventually it gets old. She needs to chill out.
On the other hand, a wife who acts like a cactus – appealing from a distance, but prickly up close – is just as difficult to cherish. She needs to chill out.
I need to chill out. If I’m trying to do anything, I need to try to stop trying harder. I need to be loved well. I need to be naked and unashamed.
In light of such thoughts, the idea of evoking “her” beauty takes on a whole new world of meaning.
As I allow Christ to be my husband, I am transformed from a beastly husband, into a prince.
“I am my beloved’s and his desire is toward me.” (Song of Solomon 7:10, KJV)
Husbands, go all out in your love for your wives, exactly as Christ did for the church – a love marked by giving, not getting. Christ’s love makes the church whole. His words evoke her beauty. Everything he does and says is designed to bring the best out of her, dressing her in dazzling white silk, radiant with holiness. And that is how husbands ought to love their wives. (Ephesians 5:25-28, MSG)
As I always tell my daughters, “men are pigs, always remember that.”
In case there is any confusion on this point, especially among any of you distant observers of my family, let me state for the record that I’m seldom a husband worth holding up as an example.
I am selfish and arrogant much of the time, and moody and needy and whiny and weary. Did I mention moody? And irritable. And generally pathetic.
My observations of husbands, in general, tend to support my conclusion that men are pigs, bar none, but honestly, I don’t need other examples to confirm this hypothesis. My introspective, self-experiment has proven this to be true. Men are pigs. I know what dwells in me.
This is the beauty of this thing called marriage, though. I honestly don’t understand it very well, but I do recognize it and carry an overwhelming appreciation for its value.
The truth is that I love my wife. It’s hard to believe what an understatement that expression is. It’s like saying I love breathing.
I’m not very good at loving her in the way that Jesus loves the church, but I’m really trying.
I know. Most of you guys, and some of you girls, who know the scriptures and are thinking of the way women are instructed to be toward their husbands, want to cut me a break – you want to let me off the hook, saying, “yes, but she’s supposed to love you this way and that way, too, and we’re all just human anyway.”
Yes, of course. But tonight, I just want to talk about me (and us guys) without any excuses or diversions. It seems like if I can get it right, or even close to right, even some of the time . . . well, maybe I won’t have to worry about anyone else getting it right.
So here’s the deal, in this public forum, I’m hereby giving myself permission, and all of you men out there, as well, to love your wives. In fact, you might even consider this an exhortation, maybe even a bit of a challenge. You might want to take this so far as to say that I’m stepping up with my own shortcomings and getting in your face about yours.
Here’s the deal, men – here’s the big flippin’, hairy deal:
Love your wives. Go all out in your love, without concern for what you’ll get, rather what you’ll get to give. Your love makes your wife whole; it evokes the beauty that is already within her, bringing out the best. Your love sets her free.
I don’t want to be a coward. I don’t want to be worried about how foolish I might look to say the words my wife longs to hear, with meaning and passion. I don’t want to be afraid of seeming spineless or unmanly when I need to tell her that I’m sorry. I want to have the strength to say and do the things that will bring out her beauty. I want that for all of us.
Renee, I love you with all of my heart. When you are distant from me, I am half a man, all the more ashamed because I’ve imposed the distance between us. I’m sorry. I need you. Your love for me is the closest thing in this world to eternity, a testimony of abundant life. You are a gift of beauty and the assurance that good prevails. Your love is a tangible representation that God’s mercy is new every morning.
Even more importantly, you’re pretty, and the touch of your hand makes me get all twitterpated. And you make me laugh, and look forward to life. I’d rather do stuff with you than with anyone else. I like you the best.
I love you, Renee.
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