The Long Road...

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I entered the gym for the first time since having my hip replaced a few weeks earlier.  I changed quickly, went upstairs and found a bicycle to ride.  Just a short time ago, I would have hopped on a treadmill and run for thirty minutes or so during my lunch hour.

Not anymore.

From my elevated perch, I could see younger, virile men running on those same machines. I thought about wanting to join them, all the while recalling the words of my doctor who gave great warning against such.

I thought about how much I wanted to run with my daughter again- about cool, saturday morning winds kissing our cheeks and the lonely sounds of four feet plodding about grayish pavement-about those future memories now forever lost. I asked a greedy prayer for God's rescue from my current predicament.

And then I saw her.

She wore a purple blouse and black pants with wide, purple stripes down the sides.  Beads of sweat hung on her pasty, pitted looking face.  She dragged mangled, palsied legs behind her thickish frame and leaned heavily on the silvery braces hooked to her arms.

She looked straight ahead as she walked alone on the track.

Slim, tanned gym ladies dwarfed her short frame and turtleish pace.  They lapped her multiple times while I pedaled.  But still, she labored on.  Her knees cocked inward, nearly brushing each other as she moved.  Her feet twisted outward making the walk impossible but for those braces.

While watching her, suddenly I felt the urge to get off of that bike, drop to my knees and ask forgiveness from the Great Creator above for my carnal, self-pity.

I didn't.

Curiously too, I felt compelled to join her, to walk beside her on the seemingly long journey-to introduce myself and know her as a friend.  I wanted to be Jesus to her- to live out my faith in a real and tangible way.  I wanted to make sure she knew her true value as a child of our King.  I wanted to make sure loneliness hadn't consumed her.  I wanted to be a defender of the defenseless.

Instead, I resisted the prompting of His Spirit.

And then she was gone.

My mind drifted back to myself as I finished the ride.  I showered and rushed back to work.

But tonight I thought about her again. I wondered about her hard road.  I wondered how she had the courage to walk alone and how I lacked the courage to even ask her name.

I wondered about the vain pursuit of an aesthetic, irrelevant ideal and my best efforts to obscure the reality of time's relentless tide against my body.

And then it occurred to me.

Its long past time.

Time to loose my ankles from the mire of this selfish, indulgent swine pit.  Time to crawl back onto the narrow path,and run once more in the unending pursuit of that Royal Father.  Time to enter through the servant's door and find a place at His great table.

Time to make my life count for something,

to be his subject.

Mostly, time to be courageous,

and finally become

the son,

He saved me

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to be...

"Just Ride, Daddy"

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I mowed the grass for the first time this year.

My father-in-law had mowed for me while I recuperated from my recent hip problems.  Both of the little girls heard the clamoring of the mower and bounded out of the house, down the deck to the patio and stared.

I knew what they wanted.

I remembered my own children's fascination with the mower- something that apparently loses its once brilliant luster as they grow up.  Their unexpected interest immediately ushered in a wave of nostalgia from several years earlier with my kids.

I really miss those days.

They would take turns sitting on my lap and steering the monster while their mother looked on.  Looking on as only a mother can- wringing her hands over some some unexpected cyclone or unforeseen obstacle that might upset their precarious balance, and at which point, they would topple to the ground and be injured, or worse yet-run over by the machine.

Somehow we survived.

So now, here these two little ones, who came into our life less than a year earlier, stood desperate to get a turn.  I could see them, but the noise and distance made hearing them impossible and they knew it.  I cut the blades off and headed in their direction.

"What are you doing, girls?

"We want to ride, Daddy," said the younger.

"Well jump on, but you have to take turns."

The older stepped forward first.  I was relieved when no fight developed over the mowing order.

We rode for a while narrowly avoiding the metal overhang of the chicken coop, but not so fortunate with a large rock on the edge of last year's garden.  The shredding/launching of a well-disguised golf ball shocked her even more, and sparked a screaming plea for a quick return to the safety of the patio.

I obliged and retrieved the other girl.  Fortunately for the little one, all the other potential obstacles were past.  We had clear sailing.  She rode for about thirty minutes before we finally finished the yard.  Suddenly, she began to cry when I cut the engine off.

"What's wrong," I asked?

"I just want to ride, Daddy"

"We're finished, there's no more to mow."

At once, I had the urge to crank the thing up and ride around some more, but we had places to go, appointments to keep.

Her sniffling slowly subsided as we walked back up to the house from the barn, but she made sure to ask if she could mow again.  I assured her she would be first in line next time.

The grass grows quick this time of year.

I began wondering what she liked so much about it.  We both sweated.  The engine roared, offending our eardrums.  The not so pleasant smells of gas and grass filled our noses. We bounced around on a hard seat.

I actually remember wishing at one point she were old enough to do it by herself.

But, maybe she just wanted to feel the warm sunshine against her skin, the cooling wind in her hair.  Maybe, she just wanted to feel normal for once, to be distracted from the conflicts of the present, to preoccupy her thoughts with something less anxious. Maybe she just wanted to think about the tranquility of the right here and right now.  Maybe she just wanted a brief reprieve from the burden of tomorrow's worries.

Maybe she just wanted some attention-to be inextricably linked to something, to someone...

And perhaps,

for just a single moment in time,

all she wanted was to hop on,

sit down,

lean back,

and

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ride....

Two Worlds Collide...

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The boys were playing with the little girls on the swing set as I finally arrived home from work.  It was my first full day back since surgery five weeks earlier.  Immediately Luke came in and wanted to throw the baseball, while Thomas asked for a quick ride to the bookstore.  I told the elder to grab my glove and hobbled to the backyard.

As I walked out, I assured Thomas we would make time for books later.

I noticed the girls clamoring for attention, but hardly spoke as I brushed past them.  We threw for a few minutes in the duskiness of a softening sun.  I went back to the house when my hip finally surrendered and the girls followed.  Entering the house, I implored Thomas to come downstairs if he wanted to go.  He complied.  The little ones also asked if they could come along too. Thomas and I left for the store.

Alone.

I meandered for a few minutes, while my youngest, biological child made a selection, and noticed something  Lisa might enjoy reading.  We left with both books.  As we entered our home, my wife sat at the kitchen table helping the older of the two girls (earlier left behind) with homework.  Proud of my unsolicited benevolence, I presented my gift to the mother of my children.

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At once, the older, little girl dropped her head, disguising tears with a mass of reddish hair. I bristled-the pouting offending my parental sensibilities.

"What's the problem?  There was no gentleness in my tone only impatience.  She had no answer.

It took me a second, but suddenly I realized she cried because I had nothing to give her.  My hands were empty, and as far as she could tell, my heart too-this child so acquainted with sorrow of many kinds, so unfamiliar with with the languages of love.

Almost begrudgingly, I sat down in the adjacent chair and dragged her onto my lap.  She hid her face still and buried her head into my chest.  The quiet sobs turned to a torrent of tears as I rubbed her hair and back.  We sat together for a moment and I eventually promised to take her and the younger sister to the bookstore the next evening.  All I asked is that she let me see her smile.

I wiped the moisture from her cheeks and tickled her sides.  She laughed cautiously, lifting her head slightly.  A crooked grin cut into her cheeks as I stood to go upstairs.  She stayed behind.

"Problem solved," I thought.

Later I heard Lisa summon me to the bedroom of the little girls. This young, new daughter asked for me. I walked in.

"Jeff, I want to show you my pictures."

I sat on the bed as she began to leaf through the small album and explain the few images linked to her troubled past. I had seen them all before. But now, she desperately tried to traverse the chasm between these two worlds-old and new. Her wounded heart struggled to make sense of divided loyalties, while a palpable tension filled the space between us. Finally, she placed the pictures on the nightstand and reached up to tickle me under my arms as I had done earlier.  We jostled about for a moment and then I tucked the sheets and kissed her forehead.

"Goodnight," I said, walking out of the door and to my own bedroom.  She was silent.

A few minutes later, she appeared next to me as I sat on my own bed. She hugged me firmly.

"Good night, Jeff," she whispered.

"Good night, sweetie."

At once she began to walk away

"Hey," I said, stopping her abruptly.

"What," she asked?

I felt the urge to say "I love you."  I think she wanted to hear it too, but my lips resisted.

"We've got a date at the bookstore tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah," and she was gone.

In the course of thirty minutes, the merry-go-round twirled completely about. Now, I could hear Lisa bathing and the distinct yet muted noise of a razor dragging atop her legs.  The other kids who normally invade our bedroom in the late evening were occupied elsewhere.  An eerie, mostly undisturbed quietness hung about the space around me.  And suddenly, I thought I should tell the story of this exact moment in time, because perhaps by doing so I might clearly distill some lesson from it all.

So, I opened up the keyboard,

and began

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to type...

Forget Me Not...

One thing that has always bothered me is the children who have come to our home with nothing more than the clothes on their back and a single, solitary trash bag containing the sum of their entire existence. It's almost as if that bag is a metaphor of their lives, of their value, of their place in our society-as if their feelings, hopes, and dreams are worthy of little esteem and nearly no consideration. Sometimes I think we might as well have painted a scarlet letter on that crude plastic.  

At times I've wanted to burn those bags, sever from the present such tangible reminders of a heinous past and uncertain future-to start again.  I've always resisted.  

I suppose we could posit some theological argument about the value of things, of possessions, of bags and how little they should matter to us "good Christians."  This, finer point of our faith however, is likely lost on a child so deeply constrained by the current predicament- this fearful and insecure child whose daily struggles are a constant reminder of how little he or she actually has to hold onto. 

It's surely not lost on them, this trash bag-especially the older ones.  They must notice "normal" children around them consuming the abundance of the wealthiest country in human history, while they themselves suffer the loss of relationships and things-while their life follows them around in something most just throw away.  Another type of bag, however seemingly trite, must surely be worth the small investment to assuage some anxiety of the least of our brothers and sisters- to offer a shred of that normalcy in a world otherwise turned upside down.  

James 1:27 gives us a perfect picture of what God wants our religion to be.  I'm not convinced it's only a suggestion or a "do it if you feel called to do it" kind of thing.  James tells the early Christians that perfect religion is taking care of widows and orphans and living holy lives.  I am now forty-one years old.  I was raised in a church that met three times a week.  I attended a Christian university that required daily Bible classes and daily chapel. I have been a faithful member of the Christian church for my adult life.  In all of those years, all of those sermons and classes, I cannot recall more than a casual mention of this verse-certainly no sermon ever preached on it.  It doesn't massage our ears. It's not particularly palatable to our discriminating religious tastes.  It's not comfortable.  But, He didn't save us to a life of comfort.  He didn't save us for one hour of entertainment on Sunday morning. 

 He saved us to serve.  

How can we as Christians preach so loudly (and rightly so, in my opinion) against on demand abortion, and then turn blindly away from the children who need us most?  Still can't answer that one.  

The greatest and most perfect man who ever lived (who by nature was God) did not desire to be God, but a servant. He had no place to even lay his head and ultimately humbled himself to a barbaric death for a carnal and sinful human race.  A benevolent Heavenly Father offered this perfect sacrifice upon His altar of love redeeming all generations.  He simply asks us to offer our bodies, our lives, our families as living sacrifices- to look beyond ourselves, beyond our own self-seeking desires and help the most vulnerable among us.  One day we will stand before him, giving account for our history on this earth. I don't want to come empty handed-no people fed, no thirsts quenched, no naked clothed, no lives changed...no children saved.  

It's no slight thing when one of history's wisest and wealthiest men ( a man who experienced everything this world offered) said in the end all things are meaningless except for serving God and keeping his commandments.  God's directive is clear.  He places a premium on what others ignore. He discounts appearances.  He asks us to swallow our pride, to take up our cross, to step out of the boat, to enter through His narrow gate.  

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Because in the end,

as Solomon wrote,

it's all that really matters

anyway...







Note:  these are some thoughts I shared recently in Staunton, VA as part of a foster care initiative in this area. Visit the 

http://www.theforgotteninitiative.org/ for more information.  Please consider helping if you can.  Thanks!