it’s all poetry

Yesterday was a hard day.  I came home from my morning gab session with the boys from Starbucks terribly inspired and wanting to take over the world.  Renee suggested we needed a work day.  I thought we needed a road trip with burgers and fries and friends, not necessarily in that order.

We had a work day.  I mourned the loss and pouted as I spent my energy and worked out my grief cleaning showers, clearing drains, replacing plumbing, cleaning up the lawn.  I took a break for church, then came home and renewed my efforts on the drain.

At midnight, I was lying on the floor in a pile of rubble in the bathroom falling asleep with my head leaning on the shower door.  I called it a work day, cleaned up the mess, and went to bed.

This morning I jumped at it again.  Renee was inspired to play today, but I was committed and intended to prove my mettle.  She asked me what my plans were.  I retorted, “according to my wife, the gutters need to cleaned.”

Katie, our oldest daughter, and soon-to-be 18-year-old, high-school senior, left this morning for a 2-week stint at a Summit Ministries leadership development camp in Manitou Springs.  I’m trying to trust that God will do amazing things, while struggling to figure out how my little girl will manage to travel the 140 miles through two major cities without me.

The gutters got cleaned.  Then I attacked the drain again.  Forty-five minutes of snaking through hair and black sludge in the cramped crawl space, and the drain was still clogged . . . but then, after 2 minutes of staring at a sink full of water with tortured facial spasms and clenched teeth, it sputtered, bubbled and flushed.  I ran the water forever, just to be sure I wasn’t overconfident.  Drainage.  Yes!

I cancelled my run and had a shower.  Renee went to the store.  We mixed up a mexican fiesta to make your tongue slap your brains out, and had some friends over to enjoy the cleaned up lawn and the breeze on the backyard deck.  Thank God for that giant cottonwood tree, and the cool breezes under the barking-but-not-biting thunder clouds of Spring.

Due at my mother’s at 5:00 for swimming and dinner, we cleared the tables, packed our changes of clothes and headed out at 5:30.  As I was preparing to leave for activities demanding more energy than I could muster, and hunted for my swimsuit while everyone waited impatiently in the bus, the following text-message thread began.

KJ is Katie’s pastor at our church, the sponsor of her time at Summit, and one of my closest-ever friends.  I love him dearly, yet in the past year we’ve been able to enjoy only sparse face-time, including a 4-day elk-hunting/camping trip last fall.

KJ:  Are you driving katie down today

me:  No.  She drove.  Tim went with her.

KJ:  Yeah that’s cool.  I miss ya . . . what’s up

me:  Miss you too.  Over to my mom’s for dinner and swimming.  End of revolution.  How is that feeling?

KJ:  It feels like a good ending

me:  And beginning?

KJ:  Yepp I just think we need to exhale

me:  Amen.

KJ:  I’m going scouting for elk this weekend in carbondale

me:  Looking for happy thoughts and pixie dust.

KJ:  Sweet jesus

[At this point, Renee has asked me who it is I'm texting, and as we walk beside each other into my mother's apartment, I tell her it's KJ, and after reading that last note, I chuckle to her, and say, "Oh God, I love that guy."]

me:  Sweet sweet Jesus!

KJ:  I’ve been loving philippians man

me:  Which piece?

KJ:  We have been working on the first chapter this whole month in the current and I’ve learned a ton.  I think it will take us the summer to finish it

me:  Mmmmm.  I love that.  Poetry.

KJ:  I love papa johns pizza

me:  Mmmmm.  Poetry

KJ:  You’ll have to point out that poetry to me cause it looks pretty straight up to me and I’m all about poetry

me:  It’s all poetry to me.

KJ:  No dale pizza.  Come on super joe

KJ:  You are poetry

me:  I know you are, but what am I?

KJ:  Daylight is coming

me:  Sail to the east.

[Katie interrupts our thread, here.]

Katie:  Hey.  We made it.  We are having dinner right now.  We traded off on driving, but I managed to merge onto the highway ok.  This place is interesting.  We are kinda going through shock and warming up at the moment.  Its good.  I’m excited to see what will happen.

me:  Sweet.  Thanks for the update.  That’s a relief.  3 days to warm up I think.  Keep your heart open.  Jesus is lurking there somewhere.  Take a little risk to find him.  Love you!

KJ:  That remedy song called daylight is like my fave right now

me:  I’ve heard.  Hannah mentioned the conga line.

KJ:  Yeah it was the best thing ever

me:  I’ll ask hannah to play it for me.

KJ:  Yeah its mainly piano driven

KJ:  Do you think people can fly?

[An hour break, here, while the kids try to drown me, and I try to keep them from drowning in the pool.]

me:  Sorry.  Swimming.  Fly metaphorically?

[45 minutes for KJ to come back to me]

KJ:  Nope physically

me:  Yes.  But only for a few milliseconds at a time.

KJ:  I think people can fly like maybe

me:  ?

You might think that’s just a regular old weekend, and a regular old conversation, maybe even just “straight up” stuff, but it’s all poetry to me.

Point made, KJ.  Thanks.  I love you, man.

the Dad he needs me to be

At first, I thought it was just about Ben.

It struck me one day as I contemplated him and our latest interaction that I’m not really sure I can be the Dad he needs me to be.

Don’t get me wrong, I believe I understand the significance of a father’s investment in his children, and in many ways, I feel like I do a decent job of investing well.  At least, that is, I know there’s a need to invest, and I try.  These are minimum requirements; low standards.

In other words, I think I’m a decent Dad.

That’s significant because this is not one of those “I’m a terrible father” posts which are mostly a solicitation for reassuring comments.  I mean, I like reassuring comments as much as the next guy, but that’s not what I’m digging for here.  Although, reassure all you want, if you feel the need.

Ben is unique.  He draws from me.  He is 11 years old, our fourth child, and our second boy.

I can feel his need for me pulling on me in various ways and means.  When I’m doing anything around the house – cooking, repairing, watching, relaxing, anything but cleaning – he’s right there with me. 

When I remodeled our upstairs bathroom, he and I were the only members of this large household still awake and scraping wallpaper after midnight.  When I built shelves for Will, Ben was the one running the drill and running to get tools.  When I made homemade donuts, Ben helped make the dough and frosted them.  When he’s away from home, I take the day off.

It’s more than any of that, though.

Ben pulls on me – emotionally.  He has a severely tender heart, and though he tries to be strong, he really can’t hide his feelings.

There is this look I catch in his eyes sometimes when he looks at me.  It’s like he sees right through me.  It’s like he knows me, and he knows my squirmy insides, yet he remains hopeful I’ll overachieve.

Sometimes, out of nowhere, I find him leaning against me; sitting in my lap as I talk around him to friends at Starbucks, or holding my hand as we walk through a store.

He’s gracious and forgiving, but when I really disappoint him – like the time he wanted to make candles with a mold, and I stupidly pulled the wick out of the first one while trying to extract it from the mold – he says “it’s okay,” as tears fill his eyes, and I love him for trying to be strong.  (I got defensive and mad.  The next day, he repaired the one wickless candle and made 6 others on his own that were perfect.)

Stuff like that happens more often than I want to admit.  I’ll conclude some session of requests to build something or go somewhere or play some game with “I’m sorry, Son, I just can’t do it right now.” Or, I’ll respond with anger or a sharp tongue to something deserving a softer touch, and Ben will grin, with eyes full of water, and say “It’s okay.  I’m sorry.”

Why do I have to have a son like this?  I’m confident, especially in my melancholy and overwhelmed moments, that I cannot consistently be a father at the level he demands.  Is it fair that I have to be reminded of my weaknesses like this?

As I contemplate such matters, it strikes me further that it’s not really about Ben – at least not only Ben.  In fact, all of my children need me in the same ways - or at least to the same degrees, at the same levels.

But, most of them are just better at hiding their needs.  They cope in my absence, and they let me off the hook.  They don’t have the same issues with transparency that Ben has.  They are better with lower expectations.  They are more often gracious enough to not ask or expect, and they have skills at hiding their emotions that Ben has not mastered.

Ben is gracious, but I look in his eyes and easily recognize the grace I require from him.  The other kids seem to be more subtle:  I can consume their grace without knowing I do so.

This is dangerous for me.  To consume grace without recognition is dangerous, especially with children.

God offers us the luxury of a grace that can abound beyond our ability to consume it.  We can take advantage of that without recognition, and he, amazingly enough, just keeps on giving.

My children are gifted at absorbing my inadequacies with youthful hopefulness.  They offer grace that overwhelms me at times.  How can they be so nice?

If I continue to rely on that grace, though, especially without recognition, they will, as children of God, yet prone to their own human weaknesses, give up on me.  They will let me off the hook, and let themselves off the hook, and leave me behind to have their needs met elsewhere.  That is dangerous.

I rely on their grace, and the grace of my friends and acquaintances, in ways that are a shadow of my reliance upon God’s grace, and grace is amazing in how it affords our self-indulgence.  I’m glad, though, that I have a Ben in my life.  I’m glad God has given me at least one who, though he tries, can’t easily hide his need and expectations for me, nor his disappointment.

I’m grateful for Ben.  I need him, too.

Oh God!  I love that boy.

a far country

I think Will was ten when I gave him the book, What is the What? by Dave Eggers for a birthday present, along with a few other books. Secretly, of course, I wanted to read that book, and that was at least a small part of my inspiration for getting it for Will.

Will loves books and relishes the idea of book shelves full of thick, classic books.  He starts more books than he finishes, though, and many  books get returned to the library or lost in the shelves without ever being opened.

Thinking back now, I’m confident he was far too young, at only ten, for exposure to the ideas in the book What is the What?, so I’m thankful he must have picked up on that, as evidenced by the fact that the book has sat virtually still, though displayed prominently, on his shelves since that time.  I didn’t pick it up either, having never found the inspiration to choose it over other titles from my own constantly growing stack of unread books.

A few weeks ago, Will checked out the audio version of that book from the library, and I promptly borrowed it from him.  After some serious negotiating, I agreed to return the discs to him as I completed them, so we could “read” it together.

What is the What? is written by Dave Eggers, but the story is a fictional account of actual events in the life of Valentino Achak Deng, a Sudanese man who was relocated to the United States as part of a refugee resettlement program.  Valentino asked Dave Eggers to help him tell his story.

Valentino was a victim of the Sudanese Civil War which escalated in the late 1980’s and consequently led to the deaths and uprooting of many civilians in that country.  Valentino was one of what came to be known as the Lost Boys, thousands of boys and young men who were displaced during the conflict and forced to flee, on foot for hundreds of miles, to refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya.

As the boys traveled for months at a time, they were constantly bombarded, literally and figuratively, by dire, horrific circumstances and threats.  Thousands of families, and Lost Boys, were killed as they fled, and Eggers relates stories of Valentino having to bury many of his own friends, as he struggled himself to overcome incredible odds to stay alive.

After finally making his way to Kakuma, a United Nations refugee camp in Kenya, founded upon land provided only because it was so nearly uninhabitable that no one else wanted it, Valentino learned to thrive amidst the hardship and became somewhat of a community leader among the youth in the 80,000-plus population over the ten years he spent there.

Ultimately, he was fortunate enough, having been able to avoid military involvement in the Sudanese conflict, and any other delinquent activity, to be relocated to Atlanta, Georgia as part of one of several programs attempting to provide fresh starts for the Sudanese refugees.

The book relates, though, how the trouble in Valentino’s life was far from over, though he had imagined a fairy tale existence with education and prosperity in this new and complicated country.  As those of us who live here know, the United States has undeniable advantages and opportunities, but it is no Utopia.  Hardship abounds, and for some, it seems almost as certain as death and taxes.

I finished the last of the 17 discs on my way home from work a few days ago, after shedding a few tears through the sorrow and hope shared by Valentino and his biographer, and I was inspired to offer some heartfelt energy seeking the comfort of God’s lap.  I picked up a CD by Andrew Peterson, a long-time favorite songwriter and performing artist, and shoved the disc into the slot, after tucking away Valentino for the last time.

Andrew’s album is called The Far Country, and the sticker affixed to the jewel case carries the following quote from Andrew:  “These songs are representative of what God’s been teaching me over the last few years; that believing in and longing for Heaven affects every aspect of our lives here on earth.”

At first, I wasn’t certain that this music would suit my post-Valentino mood, but after listening a bit, I was convinced it was not only appropriate, but the best possible fit.  At the next convenient moment, I grabbed the jewel case again to check the order of the songs and when I opened the case, I found and read the quote included on the insert:

They did not receive the things promised, they only saw them and welcomed them from a distance.  And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth.  People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own.  If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return.  Instead, they were longing for a better country – a heavenly one.  Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God.  For he has prepared a city for them.  –Hebrews 11:13 – 16

In some sense, though it’s hard to consider it without seemingly belittling the very real and very ugly experiences of those who have suffered the literal tragedy of such physical circumstances, I suppose we are all spiritual refugees, fleeing the onslaught of perils and finding temporary shelter in makeshift lives.

But this is a far country.  This is not my home.  Along with Valentino, and all of you, I continue to look for a country of my own, having had opportunities to return to where I’ve been, but desiring something greater, desiring abundant life; longing for a better country.

I’m overwhelmed, constantly, by the disproportionate and overcoming love and hope offered by my heavenly Father.  He is not ashamed to be called our God.  He has prepared a city for us.  For me.  This poor, pathetic refugee.  I have a city.  God built it.  It’s a better country and my heart longs for it like nothing else, for God’s sake, and for all of us.  Oh God!

i haven’t quit

Just thought you should know:  I haven’t quit.

I mean, I have quit, temporarily, but not permanently.  And I wish the temporary quitting was over already.  Maybe this little post means it is.

At first, quitting temporarily is about needing a break and a bit of rebellion and a bit of gut-check as to whether I’m doing this (writing, not quitting) for the right reasons.

At second, quitting temporarily becomes about time and choices – get more sleep, get less crabby, spend more time with kids and wife, spend more time with other things that are piled up, or write.

At third, there are actually days I forget that I have ever written . . . but there are not many of those days.

At fourth, I crave writing - I spend several minutes staring at, and daydreaming about, the green-plaid-covered journal laying on the top of the Bible that sits by the lady in the row ahead of me in church.  I just want to hold it.  A journal with real pages and real ink is so much more romantically appealing than a monitor and a keyboard.

At last, words begin to look for places to escape from me, craving expression, regardless of value and means.  (Not to say that the actual value of the expression has ever been held in such high regard here at namesake.)

Now, I’m writing this little note to say that I haven’t quit writing, and I can’t quit writing.

Oh God, help me do this well, in the write right ways, at the write right times, for the write right reasons, with the write right words.

Oh Lord, please help me do this.

Oh Lord!