Being a Father

I spoke to an acquaintance yesterday about the child we are adopting.  This acquaintance is about my age, single, works where I do with a parallel job so he makes a little more than I do.  But while he has himself to support, I support my wife and three kids.  He was appalled that we would think to adopt another.  He couldn't see how I supported my present family, much less go through an adoption with its accompanying costs and future support needs, on my salary.
  We talked about our students, too.  I spoke of a particular student who had been absent a lot, how I had asked about her sickness.  The curious thing my acquaintance said was, "Well, your idea of a father must be very different from mine."  He went on to describe how his father would lay down the law and you did as you were told.  I explained that while my father had some similarities to that concept, I felt that I owed my children and my students something a little different.  No one would even begin to think that I went easy on my kids (by birth or by occupation).  I have earned the reputation for being a demanding and exacting teacher.  But I also hope that my kids see the other side too, where I am there to support and encourage them to be the best God made them to be.  I think they do, most of the time.  Except for those who call me evil.
  And yet, I think I fail most of the time.  Perhaps I take myself too seriously, or think too much of my place in their lives.  Unfourtunately, no one really knows how I am doing, including myself, until we see the result.  I always say I am more interested in where my kids end up (10, 20 years down the road) than how they do tomorrow.  God lays such convoluted paths for us that no one really knows where they will be.  As Jesus said, "Do not worry about tomorrow.  Today has enough trouble of its own."
   So why do I think I fail?  Well, according to short-term results, and some long-term.  My own children are focused in the wrong direction, talking more about Tolkien, Harry Potter, and Greek mythology than the true Lord and Saviour they have pledged to.  They whine and complain and bicker more than any children I know.  And as a leader, I fail my wife.  She has trouble being satisfied with what she has and hungers for better.  This is not the family of a man guided and dedicated to God.
  And yet...David was a man after God's own heart, and his family was in shambles.  He wrote psalms we still sing, solidified a nation, killed a giant, all through his dedication to God.  He also stole sacred bread from the temple, murdered Uriah, and married his mistress Bathsheba.  And yet...a man after God's own heart.
  When my daughter was very young, I would kneel by her bedside and pray.  As a young father, it was very apparent that my daughter would make her own choices, and while I could affect those the choices were hers to make.  To obey or fight.  To love or strike.  To plug her ears or to listen.  To be humble or proud.  As a teacher and older father, nothing has changed.  The choices of good and evil still lie before my children and I can only influence their choices.  I can do no more.
  Maybe that is what made David a man of God.  Not that he did what was right (apparently), but that his heart was in God's hand.  And when he sinned, he expected judgement and accepted it.  He recognized God for who he is and did not fight him.
  Lord, grant me patience and a desire for your heart.  Father, teach me to be hopeful as you are for us, never failing in my love for my children.  Holy Spirit, work in the lives of my dear ones.  Work your miracles that we may meet in the sky and finally be at peace.

A dying art

    When I was younger, in the days when the only form of internet was DARPANet, you contacted people with letters (by hand even!) and occasional phone calls.  Even those phone calls were a rare thing between countries; between states and cities was just expensive enough to be worth careful consideration before engaging in. This lead to constant communication with a choice few, as it took time to write and send a letter, and even more time (on the order of a few days to weeks) for the letter to reach its destination.
    With the knowledge that what you write today would not be read for a while yet, you made sure that each line and word carried the appropriate meaning.  Plus, you were writing which meant that you had to think and consider what you wrote before you wrote it.  Writing letters was considered an art form that took in-school training to do well.
    My, how things have changed. With the advent of e-mail, instant messaging, Facebook, and the like, communication is instant and always within reach.  It now takes considerable and purposeful effort to be out-of-touch.  You can keep up with the minutiae of people's lives, even people you knew for a year of middle school 25 years ago and have never spoken to since!  So much information: what songs they like, what pictures they post, what chickens have hatched an egg, where they are having dinner and with whom...

  And yet I have to ask: of what good is this?  In the days of letter writing, the words held so much meaning as they were all that was had.  If someone wrote you a letter, it was an act of will to have written it.  Now we are so inundated with information that words are cheap, just as much as information.  We yell personal comments across the crowded Face-net where everyone can see and weigh in their opinions, when all we really wanted was to tell our friend we missed their smile.

  I think that so much instant communication cheapens the communication itself until it is no longer worth treasuring.  I see a day coming, that may already have come, when we prefer the mask of instant communication to personal contact.  When we hide behind words and opinions rather than facing people with carefully considered words of truth and love.  The Bible speaks of the quiet words of the wise in Ecclesiastes, and I think we are becoming so busy yelling out, "Pay attention to me!" that we no longer hear the quiet voices of wisdom.  Sit in silence.  Turn off the phone, the tablet, the computer, and talk to your family.  Spend time with your friends.  Savour your time together and remember it in quietude as the days pass.

The Inquisition

  When Jesus walked the earth, all those many years ago, he spoke with rich and poor, men and women, even little children, calling them all to himself.  He reached tenderly to the hearts and met the needs of so many with grace and piercing insight.  Yet he was a man without a home, with no place to lay his head.  He placed a good deal of emphasis on the good soil of a person's heart, for though he spoke to the hard-hearted many times, it is clear that for most it was "easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God."

  Riches and hard hearts go hand in hand in Jesus' teaching, indeed, throughout most of scripture.  There are the exceptions: David, Zacchaeus, Matthew, Solomon, and some others.  But for the most part it appears that riches have a hardening effect; it is like wealth sucks the moisture from the soul leaving it dry and hard.  So what about me?  I am rich, at least, when compared with so many around me.  I live in a nice apartment with plenty of food and toys.  I have air conditioning and my children go to a private school.  I have money saved up for retirement, a fair chunk.  Are these riches hardening me?

  Would I even know?  Does the ant trapped in amber know it will soon be forever encased while it struggles?  I fear that my eyes are not as open as I think.  My lord and master focused on the poor, those who know their need for a saviour, who have so little to hope for.  And yet here I am, focusing my time on the rich.  I have most of my life.  It is my calling, I say, for do they not also need a Saviour?  Surely, but success has been so scarce.

  In this time of enlightenment and free speech, I can speak of my Lord, his death and resurrection, without fear of retribution.  So then why is it such a rare speech on my lips?  Oh sure, I acknowledge his role in every facet of my life, to anyone who lends an ear, but....but....is that enough?

  In Cartagena, my family and friends were taken on a tour of the Governor's Residence, which shared walls with the residence of the Inquisition when it was in town, so many years ago.  This was an extension of the Spanish Inquisition of legend, those who tortured people so cruelly in the supposed attempt to exonerate their soul.  At that time, all it took was an accusation, based in truth or lie, to put them to the tongs.  A simple offense could place you in the rack if you did not amend it in time.

  The cost for speaking of Jesus as Lord as one you know personally, apart from the Church and its traditions, would certainly put you in danger of being purified.  Would I have spoken up then?  Would I have placed my family and myself at risk, simply to pledge myself to an unseen Lord?  I don't think so.  Then as now, I would have followed the prescribed method of speaking carefully and in the right times and places, of applying tact to my own beliefs.  I would have hidden the Light within me within my layers of amber as counseled.

  Am I any different now?  It is no longer the rack or the stocks but the derision and scoffing that threaten me with so many feathery strokes.  Watch me disappear and speak silent words, living in a dead hope of my own traditions and excuses.  See me keep my family healthy and well fed, provided for with so many powerless words.  Look to the future, where I raise children and support a wife that adapts to the world we live in.

My Saviour died for the world.  I hide for it.

Rain

Rain comes often to this country, usually in the afternoon.  Yesterday it rained 4-5 times just in our little neighbourhood.  I love the pitter-patter sound of rain on the roofs and streets, the sound of taxis and pedestrians splashing their way down the street.  It is a soothing sound ushering in the replenishment of moisture and reminder of the variations of nature.

Consider the rain.  A sprinkling is a brief bit of sky-spittle reminding us that water exists just beyond our grasp, but keeps us hoping.  A light rain cools our feet and softens our brows.  A good rain wets the ground and cools the air, washing dirt and grime where it wishes.  It is pleasant and pleasing to the soul.  Then there is a pelting, when it seems the drops strike the surface with an angry vengeance.  A storm comes with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder, knocking down leaves and keeping us huddled indoors.  The worse is gets, the more destructive it becomes, crushing houses and trees, reshaping hillsides and transplanting large vehicles with its floods.  In the worst times, the storm engulfed the entire world in its wrath.

  I love the rain in all its devices.  It reminds me that I am but a small force on a large planet.  It reminds me of God.  He is the quiet gentle whisper of promises of peace to come.  He is the one that cools our souls and gives us rest.  He cleanses us gently with soft warmth and love.  He judges with fire and heat, scourging our souls with pain and agony that we might turn to him and live.  If we still refuse, God wipes us away with a flick of his hand, leveling mountains of mankind's power and strength.

  My God, the Lord God, who is and has always been and forever will be, is calling me with letters of love, whispering to me of his kindness and gentleness, of his power and might.  Through the rain, he beckons to my soul.  I am refreshed.

A Little Bit of Goodness

I wonder why they are walking up the stairs.  It's funny to think that I can see them and they
don't know they are being observed.  I see they're wearing IDs...must be some type of
official establishment. Why does the building have such large and clear windows up the
entire stairwell?  I wonder...

...how they think that of me.  Why is it that they view my words

of comfort and hope as wisdom?  Anything useful I have to say is 

just what God speaks, what he has taught.  They don't know, I 

guess, of the things deep inside.  Of the past hurts and aches,

crimes and darkness.  They don't see my inmost being the way 

I do: the dark places occupied by selfish sins, greeds, and lusts.

If only they could see, they would no longer...

...scratch themselves.  Or worse.  What lewd acts do we perform when we think

no one is looking?  How often have people walked up those stairs and caught a 

second to smoke, to unzip and tuck in their shirt, or even exposed their secret

places to satisfy a dark and dirty desire?  And what I am watching for?  Am I

hoping to catch a glimpse of wanton privacy?  Or maybe I am just...

...watching for something special to emerge.  So many times I see 

the glimmers of possibility expose themselves for a moment.  Is

that not my task, not to be some freak wise man but rather to be 

the quiet cricket telling them , showing them of the beauty made 

in them by the Creator?  Perhaps that is what wisdom is: seeing 

the truth and speaking it when there is need.  It is not that I must

know their innermost secrets, but rather that I want to encourage

the brightness of their spirit and help them release their fears.

And I just hope they never misread it.  That is the constant fear,

is it not?  That confluence of fear and  darkness that dreads the 

possible-inevitable and hopes, prays, works to make it the

impossible.  But I cannot live in fear, and so I must do what is right,

for them, and continue to sacrifice the darkness to the Light...even

in my secret thoughts.  But even so, God will...

...make all things good.  How interesting.  I thought he stopped

to chat her up, but he was simply being courteous.  Why did he

move aside?  Does he always, for anyone, or is it just because it

was a woman coming up the stairs?  I have taken pride in myself, 

noticing the lack of air-conditioning due to the open windows, the

IDs and lack of doors in the stairwell.  But of what use is this pride?

Here I lie, watching people's lives as they walk up and down stairs.

And I am satisfied.  What will continue today is that one man's gesture

of respect, and since I do not know his whole life, only this brief instant,

I must take it for what it seems to be.  A little bit of goodness.  Oh

how many times do I get a glimpse and see the poverty of the soul!

And yet here, in this quietude of my bedroom watching the sonorous

steps across the way, was given the gift of someone's thoughtfulness.

It gives me hope.

Is that what sets me apart, God?  Is it that a little bit of kindness,

of goodness, shines into their lives?  And yet, like the young man

in the stairs, all the goodness that I have flows from the throne of your

grace.  Whether through parents, friends, or strangers, or directly, all

goodness flows from your throne.   Just as your grace does.

It is enough then.  May the small moments of my time in their lives be the same as that one gesture.  That while so many expect failure and darkness, as is typical of the world, may the light you give me shine through, exposing them to your Love and Tenderness.  And I am but a portal, a little bit of goodness reflecting your light in my life.  It is enough.

Good morning, world.

What I want to be when I grow up

When I was about 4 years old, my father was in the Air Force Reserves.  Once I was on the field when he jumped from an airplane, and I watched him parachute to the ground.  I turned to my mother and told her that, when I was older, "I'm gonna be a preacher, a teacher, and jump out of airplanes."  Just like my father.  I loved my father with child-like abandon then.

  As I got older, things changed.  I began to resent and fear my father as the harsh disciplinarian who was strict and unfeeling.  At the same time, I wanted to please my father and be worthy of the praise he showered on me constantly.  I felt so unworthy of the praise, as I only did what made sense to me at the time.  I began to see my father as someone who didn't really see me, but just saw who he wanted me to be.  So I grew distant from my father and mistrusting.  Balanced in the same falsehood was the feeling that I had to measure up, somehow, to who he wanted me to be.  But being a teacher or a preacher were purposefully removed from my list, simply because that would be being like my father.

   It's funny the things you realize, when you are older.  How you were so very wrong.  Time has a way of humbling you, if you listen.

  As I got older, I realized that what I was good at was teaching, but I fought it because that would be just like my father.  It wasn't that I didn't want to be like him, but rather I had to ensure that I did not become a teacher TO be like him.  And now here am I today, deciding it is time for me to preach.

  I have wasted so much time listening to this world, and God has had to really twist my arm and show me great suffering to get my attention.  Will I listen this time?

  You see, if I had, just for a little while, given up my own selfish desires and feelings of inadequacy, I would have flourished under my father.  I was so busy fighting and being independent that I lost the chance to be molded.  What I would have been, or whether my father should have dealt differently, is a useless conversation.  This is the road I have walked, and I am grateful that God has had the patience to mold me and break my will down little by little.  And he is not yet done breaking me down...there is still work to be done on my heart.  I am still to focused inward to be of much good.

  I have to let go.  I have to release my desires and wants and be free to follow God.  Sacrifice all that I want for myself and live for the good of the people in this world.  People are dying without knowing Christ, without the chance to hear his calming voice in their lives.  I don't know how God wants to me work, but I know I can start with my precious students.  I ache to speak love and compassion into their lives, yet I must be as aggressive as a badger and as patient as an ant.  My preaching will not be from the pulpit, but the sharing of my heart and soul to people who need hope and love.  And yes, I have to think about you, and not me so much.

  So I am going to purposefully, tentatively, walk in my father's, my Father's, shoes, that I might be more like him.  I realize that a rejection of being like my earthly father made it harder to be like my Heavenly Father.  I am not ready to jump out of an airplane...yet..., but when I do, if I do, I will be proud to do it because I will be following in my father's footsteps  And by so doing, in my Father's footsteps as well.

It is time

The time has come.  I have wasted enough time, though I can feel and see God's hand at work in this time that has passed.  Perhaps it is merely TIME now, as opposed to a mistake.  Does not God fashion us in his Time, honing us to perfection in the right moment?
  My family is not falling apart, and yet it feels misshapen.  My wife is in the doldrums and I am blazing ahead, but...  I have lost the respect of my family, if I ever had it.  When I consider my own mother and father, and my siblings, I see that I do not want the respect of fear from my family, whether it be fear of disappointment or fear of retribution.  I want the respect that God desires of me.  I do not want the same amount or level as God; I am not so full of hubris.  But I want the same flavour.  Respect borne out of love, devotion, and appreciation for the position I have in my family.  But God earned his position through his love for us, by his creation and sacrifice and ever-lasting care.  So how am I to earn my family's respect now?
  The only guide I have, the best one, really, is the Saviour himself.  First, he sacrificed everything: his exalted position, his life, his time. He surrendered his entire being to God first, and through that surrender to his people. Second, by surrendering himself to his Father, he set the example for us, his beloved children, in how one is to live life.  This I must do.  This I will do.

  It is small and petty, and almost unworthy of mention, but I have surrendered my online gaming accounts to everything.  I do not have the time to devote to be any good at them, really, and what worth are they when I am dead and gone?  Who that I truly admire as men and women of God spend their time in such a pursuit?  So if I am to be respected, must I follow in their example.  It is TIME.

  Time to truly devote myself to God.  Time to spend time where the time God created is worth being spent.  Time to write, time to correspond, time to spend with people, time to invest in people.  Time to invest in my children, and in my wife, and in my community.  Time to be who I was made to be, and settle for nothing else.  How much TIME I have wasted... No, not wasted.  Although the slough of clay off a potter's wheel is unused and tossed out, it had to be there to remove in the first place.  It is simply time.

  I will be writing more often, pouring time into useful pursuits.  I hope it will be of use to you.