Wednesday afternoon, after a few days of bathroom-painting and other housecleaning chores, our family took a break to bring some older winter coats and other gently used clothes to the Christian mission thrift store in Prairie Village, Blessings Abound. Luckily, we came home with fewer things than we walked in with!
Then, after stopping at Costco—and getting cheap pizza for the kids and $1.50 polish & soda combo for the dad—we realized Laura didn’t have her hat, and decided she should drive back to the thrift store to look for it. We killed two birds with one stone, though, by having her drop me and the boys off at the 95th Street Oak Park library branch, and the three of us spent the next half-hour looking for books, audiobooks, and, yes, a couple of juvenile DVD movies for the boys (Sadly, they weren’t interested in my suggestion of the clearly college-scholarship-producing video Life Lessons from Global Geography).
So when Laura came back for us, we filed out of the library with almost a dozen items—in 3-4 different formats. And on the way home, we even got treated to Eli reading to us from one of the books, which hasn’t often left his hands since.
As our GodSightings™ Read-through-the-Bible program begins today, I’ve been thanking God for the serendipity that His Spirit breathes into our lives when we walk trustingly into His word, open to whatever He has to show us. This book you and I call the Bible is really a library—a collection of very lovingly, prayerfully, and spirit-written books compiled by scores of writers over thousands of years, then recopied, transmitted and translated for hundreds and thousands more! Each book of Scripture has not only an earthly history, some of which we know better than others, but a decidedly divine origin, too. God used human writers to craft His Word to His world, and through them He put His very heart into it, too, telling us a lot about Himself and the kind of relationship with us He longs to have.
In the beginning God created heavens and the earth.
That’s the first verse in the first book in our portably library from God. And, wow, what a start! From that first Big Bang (or, as a Christian particle physicist I once knew called it, the Big Breath) on forward, God’s Word to us has been a marvelous gift—giving us the richest stories, the deepest insights, the most lasting truths, and the most meaningful invitation to life the world could ever imagine, Jesus Christ!
Don’t miss the chance this year to walk into God’s library—and plan to stay the whole year. You can even add to the shelves of the saints by journaling your own response to what you find there. The shelves open tomorrow!
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Sabbaths and Snowdays
Like in many families, our kids pray for snow days. Not for the icy roads, lost wages, and upset childcare schedules that come with them, of course, but for the simple, surprising way that God seems to send a sudden Sabbath with cold or snow.
As delighted as my boys are this morning with the DeSoto School District Snow Day (and it’s not 100% glee, since there’s actually hardly any snow to play in), it’s frankly a pain for us grown-ups, I’m sure, for many parents. We have to work (well, Laura’s home sick today—but I do!). We have to shuffle schedules. We have to figure out childcare, etc.
At least twice in Kaw Prairie’s brief five years, big church events have been sabotaged by snowstorms (though whether they were official Snow Days from school I can’t recall)—one was an Alpha Bible Series barbeque banquet and the other was an Italian Fest of some sort. In both cases, the food was already paid for, the decorations were already up, so we went ahead with the event—and the few hearty souls who trudged through the bad weather took home pounds of uneaten goodies, and probably put some on their waistlines, too.
But there are no banquet leftovers for me today. Just a full day of work, a wife at home sick, and two unreasonably happy boys whom I guarantee won’t seize the moment to get ahead in their homework. So, thanks for the snow day—but no thanks!
And I wonder whether God’s regular Sabbaths are like that for us sometimes. How often do we complain or mutter on Sunday—the Christ-follower’s Sabbath for worship, service, rest, family, and recuperation? Instead of being thrilled that our busy lives are being divinely interrupted for us to learn something surprising and experience something holy, we’re annoyed that God wants our time to match His plans for us, not ours!
Now, I’m not implying we Kaw Prairiers are a grumpy bunch—not at all! In fact, we are joyful and generous. On Shoesapalooza Shoe-Collection Sunday two weeks ago, we offered almost exactly 1,000 pairs of shoes to needy adults and children around the world (and nearly every one of them were in good-to-great condition—truly unblemished sacrifices!). This week we’re a major part of the Metro Lutheran Ministries Christmas Store for Families in Need in KCMO. And as our financial pledging to the ministry fund came to a close last week, scores of Kaw Prairie families generously responded there, too—raising our budget expectations for the year 25%, and many tithing to Christ’s work for the first time! So no, we’re not slackers with our treasure.
But oftentimes we are, in contrast, tyrants with our time. Instead of praising God for being the provider of all our blessings and the redeemer of all our relationships, we might sometimes grumble that we have other, more important things that need doing Sunday morning or Monday night (OK, honestly, I don’t know very many KP-ers who grumble, but statistically, they gotta be out there! ☺) But maybe submitting our calendars to God’s serendipity is one of the blessings of these surprise Snow Days.
Now it’s 9:30am, and you know what? Laura’s still miserably sick and I’m still mightily busy, but the kids are actually playing together in the family room with the fire on and the TV off. Yup, it feels divine.
Job 376 “He directs the snow to fall on the earth
and tells the rain to pour down.
7 Then everyone stops working
so they can watch his power.
As delighted as my boys are this morning with the DeSoto School District Snow Day (and it’s not 100% glee, since there’s actually hardly any snow to play in), it’s frankly a pain for us grown-ups, I’m sure, for many parents. We have to work (well, Laura’s home sick today—but I do!). We have to shuffle schedules. We have to figure out childcare, etc.
At least twice in Kaw Prairie’s brief five years, big church events have been sabotaged by snowstorms (though whether they were official Snow Days from school I can’t recall)—one was an Alpha Bible Series barbeque banquet and the other was an Italian Fest of some sort. In both cases, the food was already paid for, the decorations were already up, so we went ahead with the event—and the few hearty souls who trudged through the bad weather took home pounds of uneaten goodies, and probably put some on their waistlines, too.
But there are no banquet leftovers for me today. Just a full day of work, a wife at home sick, and two unreasonably happy boys whom I guarantee won’t seize the moment to get ahead in their homework. So, thanks for the snow day—but no thanks!
And I wonder whether God’s regular Sabbaths are like that for us sometimes. How often do we complain or mutter on Sunday—the Christ-follower’s Sabbath for worship, service, rest, family, and recuperation? Instead of being thrilled that our busy lives are being divinely interrupted for us to learn something surprising and experience something holy, we’re annoyed that God wants our time to match His plans for us, not ours!
Now, I’m not implying we Kaw Prairiers are a grumpy bunch—not at all! In fact, we are joyful and generous. On Shoesapalooza Shoe-Collection Sunday two weeks ago, we offered almost exactly 1,000 pairs of shoes to needy adults and children around the world (and nearly every one of them were in good-to-great condition—truly unblemished sacrifices!). This week we’re a major part of the Metro Lutheran Ministries Christmas Store for Families in Need in KCMO. And as our financial pledging to the ministry fund came to a close last week, scores of Kaw Prairie families generously responded there, too—raising our budget expectations for the year 25%, and many tithing to Christ’s work for the first time! So no, we’re not slackers with our treasure.
But oftentimes we are, in contrast, tyrants with our time. Instead of praising God for being the provider of all our blessings and the redeemer of all our relationships, we might sometimes grumble that we have other, more important things that need doing Sunday morning or Monday night (OK, honestly, I don’t know very many KP-ers who grumble, but statistically, they gotta be out there! ☺) But maybe submitting our calendars to God’s serendipity is one of the blessings of these surprise Snow Days.
Now it’s 9:30am, and you know what? Laura’s still miserably sick and I’m still mightily busy, but the kids are actually playing together in the family room with the fire on and the TV off. Yup, it feels divine.
Job 376 “He directs the snow to fall on the earth
and tells the rain to pour down.
7 Then everyone stops working
so they can watch his power.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
O say can you pledge?
Nowadays folks seem to not want to sing the national anthem. When I was growing up, standing in a crowd and singing The Star Spangled Banner was both a bit scary (it was hard to sing and a bit socially awkward) and invigorating (it was awesome to feel thankful for, and proud of, my country). I’m sure most of the people singing next to me felt those same competing emotions. But I did it. And they did it. And we put sat back down (or cheered for the start of the game) with our collective identity as the free and the brave reinforced, and our sense of gratitude for our shared America deepened.
Today though, things are different. Sporting events, scouting events, social events—it’s usually all the same: somebody hits the “play” button on the public address system, and a crowd of patriotic Americans stand up, take off our caps, put our right hand over our chests, take a deep breath, and quietly exhale as somebody else sings to us about our country.
Most of us listen politely. And maybe also relieved we don’t have to contribute our voice to the effort. But my guess is that few of us get goosebumps like we do when we do the singing. And my observation is, some of us even check our email at the twilight’s last gleaming, or text our friends while the bomb are bursting in air. Pretty soon what could have been a powerful spiritual experience becomes a formulaic fun-delayer. My heart breaks, and I resolve to sing the next time (and sometimes, I actually do!)
This is the time of year when lots of churches do “pledging”—asking worshippers to make a written financial commitment to the ministry. Long-time Christians are familiar with the process—but a lot of us gripe about it. “Why should I have to tell anyone what I give?” we might mumble. Or, if we’re a bit more petulant, “I’ll give what I feel I should—not because I made a promise to do it!”
Every fall at my church, we challenge all our worshippers and members to join the church’s own anthem of pride and gratitude—and to make an annual financial pledge. We put aside the constant distractions, stand up for our faith, put our trust in God ahead of our doubts in life, and with thankful hearts and no small dose of family heroism, we make a financial pledge of allegiance to the Kingdom of God.
Like singing the national anthem, pledging a percentage of our income to the Kingdom of God is not a mandatory thing. And like the current fashion of not singing national anthems, it’s possible to attend a church for years and let other people do the risky things—and then just clap and cheer when the fun begins.
But I would dare say that people who deeply love their country generally want to sing the anthem. And if in a similar way, you deeply love your Lord and His body, the church, it makes spiritual and emotional sense to stand up and say so with your financial commitment, too.
Turning in a pledge card is not only a personal and family spiritual experience, but it’s a good-stewardship, high-compassion thing to do for our church financial planners, too! At Kaw Prairie, where people are casual are on the outside, I give thanks for all the folks who are so serious with their faith on the inside. And who are brave enough to stand up and sing out their thanks to God!
Today though, things are different. Sporting events, scouting events, social events—it’s usually all the same: somebody hits the “play” button on the public address system, and a crowd of patriotic Americans stand up, take off our caps, put our right hand over our chests, take a deep breath, and quietly exhale as somebody else sings to us about our country.
Most of us listen politely. And maybe also relieved we don’t have to contribute our voice to the effort. But my guess is that few of us get goosebumps like we do when we do the singing. And my observation is, some of us even check our email at the twilight’s last gleaming, or text our friends while the bomb are bursting in air. Pretty soon what could have been a powerful spiritual experience becomes a formulaic fun-delayer. My heart breaks, and I resolve to sing the next time (and sometimes, I actually do!)
This is the time of year when lots of churches do “pledging”—asking worshippers to make a written financial commitment to the ministry. Long-time Christians are familiar with the process—but a lot of us gripe about it. “Why should I have to tell anyone what I give?” we might mumble. Or, if we’re a bit more petulant, “I’ll give what I feel I should—not because I made a promise to do it!”
Every fall at my church, we challenge all our worshippers and members to join the church’s own anthem of pride and gratitude—and to make an annual financial pledge. We put aside the constant distractions, stand up for our faith, put our trust in God ahead of our doubts in life, and with thankful hearts and no small dose of family heroism, we make a financial pledge of allegiance to the Kingdom of God.
Like singing the national anthem, pledging a percentage of our income to the Kingdom of God is not a mandatory thing. And like the current fashion of not singing national anthems, it’s possible to attend a church for years and let other people do the risky things—and then just clap and cheer when the fun begins.
But I would dare say that people who deeply love their country generally want to sing the anthem. And if in a similar way, you deeply love your Lord and His body, the church, it makes spiritual and emotional sense to stand up and say so with your financial commitment, too.
Turning in a pledge card is not only a personal and family spiritual experience, but it’s a good-stewardship, high-compassion thing to do for our church financial planners, too! At Kaw Prairie, where people are casual are on the outside, I give thanks for all the folks who are so serious with their faith on the inside. And who are brave enough to stand up and sing out their thanks to God!
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Veterans Day Pride
When Americans travel abroad—especially when we leave the tour groups, resorts, and airports—the stereotype of the “ugly American” is often alive and well. Laura and I lived overseas twice during college and grad school—and we’d sometimes cringe to hear fellow Americans our age wearing college sweatshirts, talking 50% louder than everyone else on the subway or asking old shopkeepers and waiters demandingly, “Somebody here’s gotta speak English, right?”
Once when Laura & I were on an overnight train ride in Italy, two young women our age joined us in our train compartment. Within minutes they had stowed their backpacks and changed into nightshirts--right in front of us. (Honestly, Laura, I was looking out the window, not at the reflections in it!) Then they turned to us and began making conversation, asking in perky English where we were from.
“Chicago,” Laura & I said. “And where are you from?” I continued, trying to seem pleasant but not overly attentive after the whole shirt-changing thing.
“We’re from Sweden,” said one of them. Big surprise there, I thought: they’d just whipped off their clothes like kids coming in from a cold, wet snowball fight.
And then, betraying countless meetings with Americans, her young friend added, “That’s a country by the North Pole.”
Ouch. I winced appreciatively—tried not to cry, and said a silent prayer for our country’s future.
But that ugly/ignorant American-image wasn’t the only one we found alive and well.
There was a second, quite different viewpoint of Americans we found almost everywhere we went, especially among the older generations: a deeply grateful, almost admiring perspective on the American soldier. No matter what their politics, most every German, Frenchman, Spaniard, Italian, and Greek we talked to at some point in the conversation or relationship expressed a deep appreciation for the young men who had come from America to liberate Europe during WWII.
Those Europeans knew quite well that our soldiers (now mostly octogenarian veterans) had not just defended their own country, the United States (a valuable but not particularly unique calling across history), but through their sacrifice and the support of the nation behind them, they had literally saved civilization as we know it, one bloody, muddy, intrepid footstep at a time. And that image wasn’t just historical. No, the people of the US Armed Forces, Diplomatic Corps, and other agencies, whom we befriended while living in Frankfurt, Germany, were people with some of the highest character and Christian callings we’d ever met, and they reflected superbly on our country.
I’m proud to be a citizen of a nation that willingly makes sacrifices for others who are weak or in peril—and I thank the veterans who have made that pride in America so easy to feel. There may indeed still be lots of “ugly Americans” overseas (and probably even more who are just poorly educated), but thanks to our armed forces, there are exponentially more selfless, courageous, intelligent, and God-honoring ones, too.
Hopefully a few of them will hop a train up to Sweden on furlough before heading home, too. And try to get a window seat.
Once when Laura & I were on an overnight train ride in Italy, two young women our age joined us in our train compartment. Within minutes they had stowed their backpacks and changed into nightshirts--right in front of us. (Honestly, Laura, I was looking out the window, not at the reflections in it!) Then they turned to us and began making conversation, asking in perky English where we were from.
“Chicago,” Laura & I said. “And where are you from?” I continued, trying to seem pleasant but not overly attentive after the whole shirt-changing thing.
“We’re from Sweden,” said one of them. Big surprise there, I thought: they’d just whipped off their clothes like kids coming in from a cold, wet snowball fight.
And then, betraying countless meetings with Americans, her young friend added, “That’s a country by the North Pole.”
Ouch. I winced appreciatively—tried not to cry, and said a silent prayer for our country’s future.
But that ugly/ignorant American-image wasn’t the only one we found alive and well.
There was a second, quite different viewpoint of Americans we found almost everywhere we went, especially among the older generations: a deeply grateful, almost admiring perspective on the American soldier. No matter what their politics, most every German, Frenchman, Spaniard, Italian, and Greek we talked to at some point in the conversation or relationship expressed a deep appreciation for the young men who had come from America to liberate Europe during WWII.
Those Europeans knew quite well that our soldiers (now mostly octogenarian veterans) had not just defended their own country, the United States (a valuable but not particularly unique calling across history), but through their sacrifice and the support of the nation behind them, they had literally saved civilization as we know it, one bloody, muddy, intrepid footstep at a time. And that image wasn’t just historical. No, the people of the US Armed Forces, Diplomatic Corps, and other agencies, whom we befriended while living in Frankfurt, Germany, were people with some of the highest character and Christian callings we’d ever met, and they reflected superbly on our country.
I’m proud to be a citizen of a nation that willingly makes sacrifices for others who are weak or in peril—and I thank the veterans who have made that pride in America so easy to feel. There may indeed still be lots of “ugly Americans” overseas (and probably even more who are just poorly educated), but thanks to our armed forces, there are exponentially more selfless, courageous, intelligent, and God-honoring ones, too.
Hopefully a few of them will hop a train up to Sweden on furlough before heading home, too. And try to get a window seat.
5 When Jesus returned to Capernaum, a Roman officer[b] came and pleaded with him, 6 “Lord, my young servant[c] lies in bed, paralyzed and in terrible pain.”
7 Jesus said, “I will come and heal him.”
8 But the officer said, “Lord, I am not worthy to have you come into my home. Just say the word from where you are, and my servant will be healed. 9 I know this because I am under the authority of my superior officers, and I have authority over my soldiers. I only need to say, ‘Go,’ and they go, or ‘Come,’ and they come. And if I say to my slaves, ‘Do this,’ they do it.”
10 When Jesus heard this, he was amazed. Turning to those who were following him, he said, “I tell you the truth, I haven’t seen faith like this in all Israel! Matthew 8:5
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Me & the Prostitute's Mattress
I remember living on Chicago’s south side my first year out of college: bars on our windows, sirens all night, and when you went outside for a breath of fresh air, diesel fuel film coating the yellow and red autumn leaves blowing down the sidewalk.
It was an interesting mix of solitude and community, city apartment living was: Neighbors got to know each other not in frontyards and cul-de-sacs, but on wooden fire escapes out back. When your car was busted, you couldn’t’ find a Midas, so you paid the middle-age woman with a blowtorch and an engine lift a few alleys away to do her best to fix whatever was broken.
One of the most powerful memories I had of my first year in Hyde Park was helping a single-mom family replace a mattress in her daughter’s bedroom. Early one evening, I was taking out half-dozen pizza boxes from our 3-bachelor grad student household, and I saw a young woman struggling to haul out to the dumpster a battered twin-sized mattress. And as unfamiliar as I was with all the ways of the city, I was pretty sure from her provocative outfit and heavy makeup that she was dressed for an evening of prostitution.
I asked if she needed help, and she looked relieved. I moved to grab the mattress from her, but as I did I got a closer look: It was moving. Or rather, the maggots that covered it were moving.
Trying to not show my discomfort at having this bug-filled soggy mattress in my arms, I tried to make small talk. “So, you getting a new mattress?”
“Well, it’s not a new one, but it’s in better shape than this one. It’s for my daughter. My brother got another one and he's handin’ down.”
So she’s got family, I thought. Still pretty new to the city, it hadn’t occurred to me that women of the streets worked there for a reason.
“It’s nice of you to help,” she resumed. “Could I trouble you to help just a bit more, though? I don’t got help to get the new one up the stairs—my brother just left it down on the stoop.”
Ok, so now I’m gonna carry a mattress up the stairs to a prostitute’s apartment. Awkward. Plus, probably dangerous. (Note: this was before cellphones—no one to text for help!) But I felt the spirit moving me to accept: “Sure, I’d be happy to,” I said, after what was perhaps a noticeably long delay.
A few minutes later, I was standing in the door of a filthy, bug-riddled 2-bedroom unit, with two little boys watching MTV and a slightly older daughter wiggling and dancing with delight as I placed her uncle’s old mattress placed on her even older metal bedframe.
“This looks awesome,” I lied to her. “I bet you’ll sleep like a baby on this.”
“I aint’ no baby,” the little girl protested. “But it’ll be good for jumping!” she said with a gleam in her eye.
As I turned to leave, the mother said thank you. She had covered her too-revealing blouse with a jacket, and was looking at me seriously: “You see, I got a family,” trying to explain, I was sure, why the rest of her night would be spent away from them. I smiled weakly and I nodded, not knowing what to say.
I wish the Spirit had led me to offer some words of encouragement, consolation, Gospel, prophecy—or something. But it didn’t. But then again, maybe the Spirit had just led me there to learn.
This Sunday, Nov. 1, All Saints Day, the people of Kaw Prairie are being called by the Holy Spirit to go serve in the big city closest to us—-but quite far from where we spend our lives. Our job isn’t too lecture, preach, or even say much at all. It might be that God just wants us to learn something as we serve. I hope you’ll roll up your sleeves, grab your family, open your heart, and let the spirit lead you to somewhere wholly different, and differently holy.
It was an interesting mix of solitude and community, city apartment living was: Neighbors got to know each other not in frontyards and cul-de-sacs, but on wooden fire escapes out back. When your car was busted, you couldn’t’ find a Midas, so you paid the middle-age woman with a blowtorch and an engine lift a few alleys away to do her best to fix whatever was broken.
One of the most powerful memories I had of my first year in Hyde Park was helping a single-mom family replace a mattress in her daughter’s bedroom. Early one evening, I was taking out half-dozen pizza boxes from our 3-bachelor grad student household, and I saw a young woman struggling to haul out to the dumpster a battered twin-sized mattress. And as unfamiliar as I was with all the ways of the city, I was pretty sure from her provocative outfit and heavy makeup that she was dressed for an evening of prostitution.
I asked if she needed help, and she looked relieved. I moved to grab the mattress from her, but as I did I got a closer look: It was moving. Or rather, the maggots that covered it were moving.
Trying to not show my discomfort at having this bug-filled soggy mattress in my arms, I tried to make small talk. “So, you getting a new mattress?”
“Well, it’s not a new one, but it’s in better shape than this one. It’s for my daughter. My brother got another one and he's handin’ down.”
So she’s got family, I thought. Still pretty new to the city, it hadn’t occurred to me that women of the streets worked there for a reason.
“It’s nice of you to help,” she resumed. “Could I trouble you to help just a bit more, though? I don’t got help to get the new one up the stairs—my brother just left it down on the stoop.”
Ok, so now I’m gonna carry a mattress up the stairs to a prostitute’s apartment. Awkward. Plus, probably dangerous. (Note: this was before cellphones—no one to text for help!) But I felt the spirit moving me to accept: “Sure, I’d be happy to,” I said, after what was perhaps a noticeably long delay.
A few minutes later, I was standing in the door of a filthy, bug-riddled 2-bedroom unit, with two little boys watching MTV and a slightly older daughter wiggling and dancing with delight as I placed her uncle’s old mattress placed on her even older metal bedframe.
“This looks awesome,” I lied to her. “I bet you’ll sleep like a baby on this.”
“I aint’ no baby,” the little girl protested. “But it’ll be good for jumping!” she said with a gleam in her eye.
As I turned to leave, the mother said thank you. She had covered her too-revealing blouse with a jacket, and was looking at me seriously: “You see, I got a family,” trying to explain, I was sure, why the rest of her night would be spent away from them. I smiled weakly and I nodded, not knowing what to say.
I wish the Spirit had led me to offer some words of encouragement, consolation, Gospel, prophecy—or something. But it didn’t. But then again, maybe the Spirit had just led me there to learn.
This Sunday, Nov. 1, All Saints Day, the people of Kaw Prairie are being called by the Holy Spirit to go serve in the big city closest to us—-but quite far from where we spend our lives. Our job isn’t too lecture, preach, or even say much at all. It might be that God just wants us to learn something as we serve. I hope you’ll roll up your sleeves, grab your family, open your heart, and let the spirit lead you to somewhere wholly different, and differently holy.
John 8:7 They kept demanding an answer, so he stood up again and said, “All right, but let the one who has never sinned throw the first stone!” 8 Then he stooped down again and wrote in the dust. 9 When the accusers heard this, they slipped away one by one, beginning with the oldest, until only Jesus was left in the middle of the crowd with the woman. 10 Then Jesus stood up again and said to the woman, “Where are your accusers? Didn’t even one of them condemn you?”
11 “No, Lord,” she said. And Jesus said, “Neither do I. Go and sin no more.”
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
I'm my own Grandpa
That pesky children’s American folk tune has stuck in my head years after our boys stopped enjoying it—and it came back to me late last night as I sat quietly on our weathered wood deck. I was grateful for the cool weather, and even more grateful that I’d grabbed a fleece jacket before stepping outside with my icewater to enjoy it.
It was one of those temperature points outdoors where you’re not so uncomfortable that you give up and go inside, but not so comfortable that you’re actually enjoying it, either. I pulled up the zipper all the way to my chin, crossed my arms— and wished I’d pulled something to drink out of the microwave instead of the refrigerator.
For a long time I sat completely still, listening to the distant traffic on Johnson Drive and the wind blowing the drying leaves on the trees around me, watching the low-ceiling of clouds pass quickly between me and the moon. I began to pray, as I do in the evening, thanking God for the day’s joys and blessings, asking for comfort and healings for those on my prayer list, and more. It had been a long time since I’d come outside for my prayertime, and I was happy to be spending it outside, whatever the weather.
A few minutes later, my mind wandered a bit and I had a flashback to my Grandpa Tony—the one-time Colorado cowboy, then a WWII merchant marine, then a southside Chicago furnace & boiler salesman. Both my grandfathers were men of few words (clearly, in my case, the grandmothers’ verbal genes were dominant!)—and I have this many-time memory of Tony sitting on a nylon-strapped folding lawn chair, black shoes on his well-manicured green lawn, smoking a cigar and gazing, it seemed, into empty space.
I could never figure out why he liked it so much: The quiet time. The stinky cigar. The absolute blank gaze in his eyes. It suddenly dawned on me last night: maybe Tony was praying, like I was now. Maybe he talked to God when he was absolutely still. (I knew from experience he worshipped in church without moving his lips, so maybe that was how he prayed, as well.)
On the other hand, Grandma talked quite a bit, so maybe he was just appreciating the peace and quiet.
So now, with Grandpa Tony fresh in my thoughts, I added him to my litany of thanks, as well.
But it made me reflect on how few times of quiet and prayer the average busy suburban dad life includes. I listen to audiobooks or Christian music in the car (and sometimes, to stay in tune with the real world, totally UN-Christian radio, too!). We have two loud boys at home, there’s 80’s rock music in the gym I go to, and the church is usually bustling with noise, too.
If your life –and your world—is like that, I’d invite you to step outside and pull a Grandpa Tony with me (sans stogie, though!): sit down outside, inhale the fall air, enjoy the quiet, and spend time with God. You’ll be glad you did---and so will He, even if you can’t tell it from His face.
It was one of those temperature points outdoors where you’re not so uncomfortable that you give up and go inside, but not so comfortable that you’re actually enjoying it, either. I pulled up the zipper all the way to my chin, crossed my arms— and wished I’d pulled something to drink out of the microwave instead of the refrigerator.
For a long time I sat completely still, listening to the distant traffic on Johnson Drive and the wind blowing the drying leaves on the trees around me, watching the low-ceiling of clouds pass quickly between me and the moon. I began to pray, as I do in the evening, thanking God for the day’s joys and blessings, asking for comfort and healings for those on my prayer list, and more. It had been a long time since I’d come outside for my prayertime, and I was happy to be spending it outside, whatever the weather.
A few minutes later, my mind wandered a bit and I had a flashback to my Grandpa Tony—the one-time Colorado cowboy, then a WWII merchant marine, then a southside Chicago furnace & boiler salesman. Both my grandfathers were men of few words (clearly, in my case, the grandmothers’ verbal genes were dominant!)—and I have this many-time memory of Tony sitting on a nylon-strapped folding lawn chair, black shoes on his well-manicured green lawn, smoking a cigar and gazing, it seemed, into empty space.
I could never figure out why he liked it so much: The quiet time. The stinky cigar. The absolute blank gaze in his eyes. It suddenly dawned on me last night: maybe Tony was praying, like I was now. Maybe he talked to God when he was absolutely still. (I knew from experience he worshipped in church without moving his lips, so maybe that was how he prayed, as well.)
On the other hand, Grandma talked quite a bit, so maybe he was just appreciating the peace and quiet.
So now, with Grandpa Tony fresh in my thoughts, I added him to my litany of thanks, as well.
But it made me reflect on how few times of quiet and prayer the average busy suburban dad life includes. I listen to audiobooks or Christian music in the car (and sometimes, to stay in tune with the real world, totally UN-Christian radio, too!). We have two loud boys at home, there’s 80’s rock music in the gym I go to, and the church is usually bustling with noise, too.
If your life –and your world—is like that, I’d invite you to step outside and pull a Grandpa Tony with me (sans stogie, though!): sit down outside, inhale the fall air, enjoy the quiet, and spend time with God. You’ll be glad you did---and so will He, even if you can’t tell it from His face.
12 And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper. 13 When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave. 1 Kings 19:12-13
Monday, September 14, 2009
My son's first football game
When I was growing up, I managed to stay away from the siren call of football. I daydreamed about being a good football player, but I wasn’t very fast, my pudgy fingers made throwing (and catching) a football difficult, and I didn’t like pain (receiving or inflicting it) well enough to try most other positions.
So when fall came around, I chose the path less-traveled (and less-tackled): I ran cross-country. The football players called us ‘birds’; we didn’t call them anything back. So, it was with a little trepidation—and a lot of admiration— that I went to see my son play his first football game last week. A decade of playful roughhousing around the house seems to have morphed in him into an appetite for blocking and tackling--and after every play he looked incredibly excited to have actually run into somebody! So I’m going to be watching closely this season, knowing he’s been coached well, he’s practiced hard, and he’s built more stoutly than I ever I was!
Now I’ve watched him play other sports, but none seem as ‘serious’ as football. Maybe it’s the mystique. Maybe it’s the pain-potential. Maybe it’s the baited breath all parents feel as they watch their kids climb out of a muddy pile of tacklers and tackled. And the seriousness of the game makes me to look at my parenting more seriously. I feel that a one-time child is growing into a soon-to-be young man, and it’s forcing me to ask myself things like, What (good) lessons have I not taught him yet? What (bad) lessons have I taught him all too well? I know I’m a casual on the outside kind of dad—but have I been faithful in being serious enough on the inside?
Obviously I’m a parent going through a stage. But the questions I’m asking—and the self-examination I’m going through anew—are common to anyone who sees time passing in their walk of faith: Am I taking my faithwalk seriously? What kind of role-modeling am I doing? Is my faithlife full contact—or just touch?
So when fall came around, I chose the path less-traveled (and less-tackled): I ran cross-country. The football players called us ‘birds’; we didn’t call them anything back. So, it was with a little trepidation—and a lot of admiration— that I went to see my son play his first football game last week. A decade of playful roughhousing around the house seems to have morphed in him into an appetite for blocking and tackling--and after every play he looked incredibly excited to have actually run into somebody! So I’m going to be watching closely this season, knowing he’s been coached well, he’s practiced hard, and he’s built more stoutly than I ever I was!
Now I’ve watched him play other sports, but none seem as ‘serious’ as football. Maybe it’s the mystique. Maybe it’s the pain-potential. Maybe it’s the baited breath all parents feel as they watch their kids climb out of a muddy pile of tacklers and tackled. And the seriousness of the game makes me to look at my parenting more seriously. I feel that a one-time child is growing into a soon-to-be young man, and it’s forcing me to ask myself things like, What (good) lessons have I not taught him yet? What (bad) lessons have I taught him all too well? I know I’m a casual on the outside kind of dad—but have I been faithful in being serious enough on the inside?
Obviously I’m a parent going through a stage. But the questions I’m asking—and the self-examination I’m going through anew—are common to anyone who sees time passing in their walk of faith: Am I taking my faithwalk seriously? What kind of role-modeling am I doing? Is my faithlife full contact—or just touch?
So we tell others about Christ, warning everyone and teaching everyone with all the wisdom God has given us. We want to present them to God, perfect[a] in their relationship to Christ. 29 That’s why I work and struggle so hard, depending on Christ’s mighty power that works within me. Colossians 1:28-29
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