I am sitting at my dining room table. This is unusual because I usually sit in the living room in a super-soft and cozy reclining chair that was given to me. I’m here because we have a fish tank in here, so I’m facing that direction watching the colors of the light fade into one other, wanting to write this post but having NO IDEA what to write. Incidentally, there aren’t any fish in this tank. Just 2 snails.
Staring at the tank, through the water, I can see a 4×6 index card I have on my mirror. I have 2. 1 has a quote from a Mark Steele book, Half-Life/Die Already I think: “I don’t know what’s coming. But I know it will not be too much.” The one I’m interested in today has a Bible verse, Nehemiah 4:14 (I mistakenly wrote 5:14): “Remember the LORD, who is great and awesome, and fight for your friends, your family, and your homes.” On my mind this morning – and last night as I lay awake, unable to sleep – is the fight I had with my boys and it’s consequences.
I don’t care what the fight was about, to tell you the truth, except to remember that they lost their video games for 2 days (!!??!!) and to follow through on that ban.
What happened afterwards is what I care about. I live my life in such a way that, if you and I have a disagreement, no matter how heated it may get, when it’s over, it’s over. You see, when I was growing up, I had a dad who would withhold himself from me in anger and/or disappointment. There would be days and weeks where he would silently ignore me until he didn’t, and then we could go back to normal. It was crushing and never failed to thoroughly break my heart. So, in all of my other relationships, I promised that we would never so carelessly waste precious moments like that. Early in our marriage, Angel and I would argue and she would attempt to escape to…well, who knows why she would try to escape? Possibly to stop the escalating tension and gather thoughts, a count-to-10 situation. But what I do know is that those attempts would be unsuccessful. Because my dad did this kind of thing and we are waaaaay too important to miss. We are such valuable gifts. He was, too, (especially to me), but I didn’t have a say then. Now I do. So we would fight and then the fights would be over and we could hold each other’s hands and give each other smooches again.
Yesterday, the boys got in trouble and, minutes later, I wanted to show something to Samuel. Whatever it was was cool and interesting, I’m sure, but that something was also to display that we were still in love. It has recently been pointed out to me that I stand in certain places and move in certain ways as to initiate physical contact. Probably, that’s true. AND HE MOVED AWAY FROM ME, just an inch or 2, just enough so we were not touching.
He was mad or sulking or whatever and wanted to wound me, and he did. But at what cost? I’ve been teaching one thing their whole lives; that we do not withhold ourselves from others to manipulate or control. Well, 2 things; that we can argue and that’s ok – our love is unconditional.
Now, I’m mad and sulking and whatever. Mostly sad. I’ve failed as a parent blah blah blah. That my dad is gone and I miss him like crazy, and now my boys and I are going to miss each other forever. You know how these thoughts pile up, like a terrible avalanche of sadness and loss.
And here’s Nehemiah. What does it mean to fight for my friends, my family, and my home? Sigh. I guess it means to take my tears and wounded-ness and plow through his rebellion. Because he’s 14 and I’m right – this is not always the case, but in this one, it FOR SURE is. We are waaaaay too important, and some things are worth fighting for. I may have to chase him around like I did (and sometimes do) with my wife, but this story is going to end with big bear hugs and a tidal wave of smooches on his cheeks that he only pretends to hate.
I didn’t know what it meant to fight for my dad and those sweet moments that were gone too soon, but maybe in fighting for these, now, we are all fighting to reclaim those, too.
I write so many posts on sports because I grew up on a steady diet of sports, and often the things we eat when we are young remain integral to our lives. Teams, players, won-loss records, ERA, batting average, and second-guessing were often the only way my dad and I could relate and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t absolutely LOVE it. One year in the NFL playoffs, after I was out of the house and married to my Angel, Peyton Manning had a first half that was unbelievable, something like 5 straight TD drives, where he looked like a space alien brought here to play football. I was alone in my living room and called my dad. Just a father and son loving Peyton Manning together…
So, I love sports. Maybe I really just love my dad and the 2 have gotten mixed up over a lifetime into where I can’t tell the difference, and now he’s gone but sports are here and that’s going to have to be good enough.
Anyway. I can also see now that sports are primarily windows and illustrations – instead of ERA and batting average, I care far more about character, drive, and the human condition, perfectly displayed and refined on the practice field, bench, and weight room.
Both of my boys play basketball, and some days come home very frustrated and very angry. I understand this. There are some other boys on the team that, well…
Adolescence is marked by fear and insecurity, right? We are awkward and riddled with anxiety and acne, growing into the people we will become – but we’re scared to death that those people we’re becoming are somehow not enough. Of what? Whatever, we just live our lives wondering if we measure up. This leads kids to fight and claw and try to annihilate the ones standing nearby in a fruitless quest to appear better in proximity.
The most arrogant, condescending and nasty of us, it’s easy to see, are the ones who are most viciously ruled by this inadequacy. In schools, playgrounds, fields and courts – then later workplaces, offices, and conference rooms – this behavior is totally predictable.
I understand this, too.
I know what it is to wake up in fear, wondering if today will be the day I am exposed, that they ‘find out’ (whoever ‘they’ are and whatever they ‘find out.’) Faced with fear, we fight. We rip and claw at others to prove our dominance.
We sit and talk about these other boys, they vent and I listen.
I know these boys they talk about and the weight under which they are struggling that threatens every second to squish them. I want to hug these kids, hold them and tell them they are ok, that they are enough. I also know they won’t listen, will probably alienate everyone around them until they are alone and hollow, exhausted from the constant image-creating. I know how hard it is to see through the too-small eyeholes in the masks we wear.
When I was young, I wanted them to get what they deserve. I wanted to give them what they deserve. Now, I still do, but the thing they deserve has changed. I don’t want them fed knuckle sandwiches anymore (though I always fear that’s where this is headed), I want them loved, unconditionally and beyond reason, for no other reason than that they too are children of the King.
I think this is what Jesus meant when He said to love our enemies, the ones that are hardest to love, the ones that make it their business to make others feel sall and embarrassed and worthless, the ones who pretend, the ones who bully our kids at school.
This impossible-sounding command is only possible if we can see them as they actually are, without their carefully curated disguises, as frightened children.
I want my boys to have these eyes that can see. I want to have these eyes that can see, too.
Now that we’re here, I also want those boys to have the eyes to see themselves as they are, as He does. We are walking this path together, and if Jesus is to be believed (and I truly believe He is), this kind of overwhelming love will drive out the fear and we can all begin the healing. Let’s imagine that, just for a second, for a day, forever…
I braved another yoga class last week, so I’m going to write about this one, too.
My sister turns 50 (!!??!! How is that even possible??!!) tomorrow, and last Saturday my brother-in-law planned a surprise party for her. I volunteered to play the role of diversion, tasked with keeping her away for the day. As it happened, in the middle of our day of distraction, she had already scheduled a super-special yoga class at 4 that I was able to take with her. This was not at all an ordinary yoga class, though.
My sister has a great friend – this is no surprise, my sister is a great friend – named Erin, who had taken a long yoga teachers class and this particular class was a sort-of final exam. So, taking this class was her fellow students, her husband, father, best buddy/my sister, and me. We had met a few times, enough to know how terrific she is, but certainly not enough to be in the elite company into which I had been so graciously welcomed.
Now, I am not nearly bendy enough to qualify as a yoga person, but as previously detailed, I am a ‘Try Hard.” I always attempt to contort myself into these ridiculous positions, feeling my poor muscles who have never done anything to deserve this torture scream as they threaten to tear. Erin led us, giving us names of moves (downward dog, child’s pose, etc.), inspiration, and encouragement as I tried to keep from crying out loud. It was in the Lizard that I could no longer remain composed, and finally laughed out loud. The others giggled along, knowing it was me and that I was hopelessly over my skis.
We finished and she ended with the most beautiful act of love and grace. As we laid flat on our backs, exhausted (at least I was exhausted), she kneeled at our heads, touched and massaged our foreheads and temples with oil. It was an act both shocking and natural. I could have wept at its simple, yet overwhelming significance. There is absolutely nothing like an intentional touch to remind us that we are alive and that we are all in this, whatever this is, together. She shared a poem, namaste’ed, and the class was over.
The next day, we had our Sunday service outside at the park and the cool crisp air seems to affect Gisy in the best way. It was loud and passionate, charged with Divine electricity.
After intense worship experiences, sometimes called thin spaces, we are changed and nothing makes sense anymore. I know yoga and Christian spirituality are sometimes seen as incompatible, but maybe they don’t have to be.
Erin’s class & Gisy’s set of songs were celebrations of the spirit and the physical, sacred spaces to thank God for everything – for me, you, us, the sun, air, all of creation. And the communities of mutual respect and uplifting energy generously giving their attention and care to each other’s health and growth. If these characteristics don’t sound exactly like what it means to be The Church, well then I’m not clear on what The Church is. To me, every word and breath were affirmations of the healing, connecting, redemptive work of Jesus.
I said earlier that we are changed and nothing makes sense anymore. Maybe it feels that way because we are constantly fed a diet of divisiveness, individualism, separation and loneliness, and when we crash into something authentic, something True, what we have believed is revealed to be a lie, and we are understandably disoriented. So yes, maybe nothing makes sense, but at the very same time, maybe for the first time, our eyes are opened and we can finally see clearly.
Many of these posts are my way of saying thank you. This is no different. Thank you to Gisy. The Bridge. My 50 year old sister. The Planted Yogi Erin. My new friends in that class. And most of all, Thank You to the God Who made all of it and, with tremendous grace and love, gave it to us.
Tuesday I attended a funeral service for a man I had never met. He was 97 years old and had lived an active, full life – factors that tend to shift the familiar mix of grief and hope, sadness and relief, toward the celebratory. I was there because he was also the father of one of the finest women I have ever had the pleasure of calling a friend. She called him “Daddy” and loved him dearly. The effects of his illness and inevitable end settled on her face and shoulders, making the answer to the weekly question, “How is your dad?” redundant. We all knew, and each of us struggled with what exactly we were praying for. The impossible battle with the government agencies for aid/military benefits which everyone agreed he deserved but which no one could actually manage to procure weighed heavily. (I’ll just leave that there – I’ve been wrestling with what all to say about that, have written and erased words for far too long. Maybe that means it’s not my story to tell. What I will say is that it is often very difficult to find help for people who desperately need it. —— )
When I began to lead small groups in my previous church, I started to notice a too-rare occurrence was any reference to a father as hero or positive role model. Usually, a father provides an obstacle to healthy relationships, more often absent than engaged. One of the first questions I ask is “how was your relationship with your dad?” and the answers are depressingly similar. But my friend Cathy had a unicorn, those lovely, mythical creatures we have all heard of but haven’t really seen.
She (and her sisters) remained devoted to him, giving care and money and prayers and time and energy to him every day of his life. She loved him without limit, as he had loved her. (I know he must have had faults, as we all do, but those faults were buried deeply under all of the love and honor they shared.) Who she is is the ideal eulogy for a life well lived, and I wish I could’ve told him so.
I wish I could’ve thanked him while he was still here.
I love her dad, I love my dad, I love all dads. I used the word unicorn to describe those engaged, compassionate, generous, beautiful men in our midst, but that was a poor choice. Unicorns don’t exist. These men are everywhere, we just need to open our eyes to see and appreciate them for what they do and who they’re are. This funeral was inspiring and completely hopeful, (for what was possible when a man lives with purpose, wisdom, strength and a heart that loves passionately), as was his life.
My friend’s Daddy doesn’t make me want to be more like him, it’s much better than that. He makes me want to be more like me, more like the me I was created to be.
He wrote songs, and the service ended with all of us standing, singing his ‘Words for the Closing Chorus:’
May the Lord who reigns above
Bring to you His peace and love
Give us strength to carry on
Light to show us the way
Walking ever in His grace
Lift your eyes and see His face
And live in His love evermore