sappy, pathetic, old-man emotions

I’ve always been a moody, emotional person, but lately I don’t have much of a handle on the control or the causes for my moodiness. My wife responds graciously –  much more so than I can offer to her when she is in the throes of hormone-induced mood swings.

Whatever, though.  This seems pathetic and silly, but it’s all I’ve got:

Today, while trying to discern where I’m at and why I feel the way I do, song lyrics from the 70’s came to mind – sappy, pathetic, romantic song lyrics that are entirely inappropriate for a middle-aged man to share, especially weird when shifted to a spiritual context.

Anyway, I had to google the lyrics to get the full chorus. Turns out Dan Hill won a grammy for this in ‘78, although Rod Stewart had a decent cover later which you might remember.  I was 11 in 1978, and I actually remember the original version.

I’m pretty sure Dan wasn’t thinking of Jesus when he wrote it.  I am, but I’m not saying that’s right.  I’m just saying that’s the way it is today.  Maybe the honesty’s too much?

And sometimes when we touch
The honesty’s too much
And I have to close my eyes and hide
I wanna hold you til I die
Til we both break down and cry
I wanna hold you til the fear in me subsides

(Sometimes When We Touch – by Dan Hill)

irony

If we had fewer children, we could have a bigger house.

from all sides, hem me in

“I know where I’m bound.  I know where I’m chained.  I know where I’m left alone.  I know no hunger.  I feel no pain.  But tonight, I want to go home.  So stay with me now and then.  From all sides, hem me in.  Sing me a song, so I can close my eyes.”  Now and Then, from Gypsy Flat Road by Sandra McCracken

Ethan will be five in March.  I don’t think he realizes the beauty of the spot he’s in at the moment, and that, in turn, is part of the beauty.

Ethan’s only regular chore is to carry the dirty laundry down to the laundry room each day.  Even at that, it’s a pretty good gig.  There’s no real deadline, except when Mom yells for the second or third time, “Ethan, I need the dirty clothes down here!”  So, he really doesn’t have to make plans or keep a schedule.  He just waits for Mom to say, “Go!”

He wakes up every morning with undefined days.  Boundaries are limited to nebulous ideas floating in the back of his mind, mostly related to the limits of our yard or close neighbors’ yards, and the certainty that someone from his family will be nearby all of the time.  He’s never even really had to consider those things as limitations.  He likes them that way.

In other words, Ethan’s boundaries, at least in his mind, are no big stinkin’ deal.  He can spend his days as whims dictate, potentially being, or becoming, anything he can imagine.  The world is wide open for Ethan every day:  superhero, fireman, giant, hobbit, or giraffe are all possibilities.  That is, until I say something like, “Go get ready for bed!”

Pity, such freedom is wasted on those too young to recognize its value.

Somewhere between there and here, boundaries became normal.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m aware of the common human pep rally cries about being whatever we want, and never being too old to take over the world, and flying higher than eagles, and such tripe proffered daily by eternal optimists, and quite frankly, I believe in that stuff.

Let’s be honest, though.  At my age and in my circumstances – married with 10 children, a mortgage, and comfy middle-class life – predictability is rampant.  All my pathways have deep ruts.

I can accept that, most days, as just the way life is going to be.  Even in a mid-life crisis, I’m not dumb enough to think I could survive, much less thrive, in entirely unfamiliar territory.

Recently, though, I’ve been perceiving another message – a theme – in my conversations and thoughts:  The most critical boundaries are self-imposed and life circumstances are more often symptoms than root causes.

In other words, to get to the rapidly dulling point, God alone is the legitimate keeper of my days.   If I set the boundaries of life – circumstantial, emotional, relational, spiritual – on my own, I’ve usurped his authority.

I ought to be able to keep every day, every event, every decision, every moment’s content subject to his “whim”.  If I’m merely dealing God into the game with a deck that’s a few cards short, I’m selling life short.  Life’s too short.

Filters, fears, boundaries, preconceived notions, self-imposed expectations and standards – these are an affront to God’s authority in our lives.  These things are us telling him what’s acceptable.

I want him to hem me in.  From all sides, I want God, and him alone, to hem me in, to set my boundaries, my expectations, my path.  If I’m hemmed in by anything other than God, and his desires, I’ve become cozy with a less than abundant life.  If I’m hemmed in by him alone, the boundaries are trails and guardrails leading me to the freedom of abundant life.

Don’t get me wrong, of course, I’m going to work in the morning.  I’ve already set my alarm clock, picked my outfit, and planned my task list for the day.  I’m not suggesting I can live like I’m going-on-five again.

I’m suggesting, I can live like I’m going-on-whatever-God-wants-me-to-go-on again.  I can live with a heart that’s free from my own little world and open to God’s own giant, infinite universe.  I can wake up in the morning with a life full of possibilities, limited only by whatever is possible . . . and nothing is impossible with God.

It’s not about a career change or a new relationship or a new car or a new house, and probably not about anything old, either.  It’s about wanting “to go home”, where home is truly defined only by the location, design and furnishings God has imagined for our lives.

Please, God, be my heart’s only limitation.  Sing me a song, so I can close my eyes.

a soul sabbath

Saturday:

• 4 hours with friends over coffee discussing life, authenticity, direction, wives
• flowers for Renee, milk for Meghan, donuts for everyone else
• 7 hours of road-tripping with 8 kids on the scenic route to Platteville, Fort Lupton, University Hospital (Skinner), downtown Denver, to give Renee half a day off
• church, worship, extended worship, friends

Sunday:

• sleep in late, wake up slow
• pile of kids on the bed
• fix a bike
• 10.5 mile run around Greeley with Ben as support crew aboard his recently fixed bike
• egg sandwiches, bacon, ramen noodles
• family around the table
• good coffee
• prep homemade cinnamon rolls
• one hour stretched on the sofa with kids piled on and music about a big God
• prep corned-beef brisket, baked beans, potato salad
• card tournament to see who gets first cinnamon roll
• I win
• family around the table
• did I mention homemade cinnamon rolls?
• cinnamon rolls to random neighbors
• chocolate and cookies from random neighbors
• good coffee
• spontaneous family meeting
• plans for the Pratt-family, west coast tour:  Summer 2009
• everyone pledges to fill the vacation funds shoebox
• Meghan standing on the coffee table singing a solo
• laughter
• bed-time prayers
• quiet

The best things in life are not destinations, but pathways, and seemingly random occurrences along the way.  The power of life is not in what we imagine it could be, but in what it really is.

Life is moments.  My heart breaks over moments.  My joy overflows over moments.  Few moments are planned, and none are truly controlled.  Yet, they come, continually, relentlessly, they come.

What can we do with them?  Long.  Yearn.  Desire.  Yet live.  We ought not let a moment be discarded without having every drop of life squeezed from it.  Yet there are so many of them, and surely they can’t all be meaningful.  Surely not.  Wasting a few of them is no great tragedy.  Is it?

Perhaps grace also restores the moments.  I’d like another shot at some of them.  I’d like to consider them more closely.  I’d like to squeeze a little harder.

old married romance strikes again

—– Forwarded Message —-
From: Renee Pratt <reneexxxx@yahoo.com>
To: Dale Pratt <papaxxxx@yahoo.com>
Sent: Friday, January 16, 2009 4:39:54 PM
Subject: Re: Kenny’s?

 

oops, I think you meant to send this to your girlfriend.  Your wife doesn’t own anything sexy.  Honest mistake. 

---

From: Dale Pratt <papaxxxx@yahoo.com>
To: Renee Pratt <reneexxxx@yahoo.com>
Sent: Friday, January 16, 2009 4:34:47 PM
Subject: Re: Kenny’s?

It’s a date.  I’ll pick you up at 6. Wear something sexy.

---

From: Renee Pratt <reneexxxx@yahoo.com>
To: Dale Pratt <papaxxxx@yahoo.com>
Sent: Friday, January 16, 2009 4:21:23 PM
Subject: Re: Kenny’s?

That sounds awesome.  Yes, Ben is already strategizing his Hamburger Helper meal.  He just went to Wal-mart with Katie.  Katie committed to babysitting for the Mins at 7, but Hannah is supposed to be here with Kalista.  If we aren’t gone all night, I am sure they would do it.  (Will is at the Refuge, too.)

---

From: Dale Pratt <papaxxxx@yahoo.com>
To: Renee Pratt <reneexxxx@yahoo.com>
Sent: Friday, January 16, 2009 4:14:12 PM
Subject: Kenny’s?

Can we ditch the kids for a little while?

desperation

Desperate people do desperate things, and yet Jesus offers this: Blessed are those who hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they will be filled.

Hungry people are desperate people. Thirsty people are desperate people.

What if righteousness in this case isn’t so much about behaving right all the time and more about being in the right space, i.e. being hungry and thirsty for righteous rest for our souls?

What if?

I mean, when my soul is truly disturbed, what I hunger for typically has little to do with the ability to behave well. Although, I do become frequently disillusioned by visions of grandeur in regard to maintaining control and keeping my self-imposed priorities straight.

Mostly, though, my disturbed, troubled soul goes looking for love, meaning, power, purpose, peace, relief. These things are fleeting, ethereal ideals amidst humanity, teasing us, haunting us, like the certainty of memories, sounds, sights and comforts of places to which we’ve never been.

Mostly, I’m desperate for invisible things – things that come from being in the right space, not a geographic or circumstantial space, but the space you’ll know is right only when you’ve arrived in it.

In my desperation, my perpetual desperation, I cry out with hunger and thirst for righteousness.

Have you seen the one whom my soul loves? If you do, please tell him I’m hungry.

He is my right space. He is my righteousness. When he appears, I am, and shall be, filled.

chunks of my flesh

2008 was my first year blogging, and now that it’s over, I’m a little sentimental.  I’ve read several blogs over the last few days that have offered top-10 lists and such of their best posts, and I’ve aspired to do something similar.

I’ve written exactly 100 entries to this blog in 2008, and I’ve just spent some time reviewing them, hoping to find 5 that I would suggest are the posts I’m most gratified to have written, i.e. “I’m glad I wrote this.”

Turns out, since they all became words after first being chunks of my flesh, I’m glad I’ve written all of them.  So, I’ve enlisted Renee to help.  Turns out, she doesn’t like some of the ones I really like and she’s warm and fuzzy about all the posts that are about our children.  That’s not so helpful.

Now it’s late.  We’re tired, and we have no inspiration for nostalgia about 2008.  Who cares anyway!

But, since we’re here . . . some of my best writing was earlier in the year . . . and later in the year.  Peruse at your leisure, but maybe check out these (more than 5, but particularly meaningful to me):

• everything’s going to be alright
• a quick bath
• my valentine
• an oasis of memories
• a secret
• molehills
• watering and mowing
• evoke her beauty
• hands
• foolish trust
• thankful

Thanks for reading!

P.S. If your favorite or most meaningful post is not listed above, as if you actually had one, please don’t be bothered.  I would have listed them all, but that might have been awkward.