The Song Unwritten...

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It isn't easy telling the world your secrets. Here's one of mine: I've always wanted to write and sing beautiful music. But, if the walls in my shower could speak, they would present a sad tale of love unrequited. I've always envied those with exquisite voices who translate emotions into words and those words into sound. For my part, I sing one note beautifully. Unfortunately though, I'm told the musical scale has more than just the one I can occasionally hit.

My daughter is particularly aware of my love for music. Whenever we're alone together in the car I never miss an opportunity to sing along with the radio. For some reason, she is able to generate within me a vocal vulnerability that otherwise rarely rears its head. Even though she pats my leg and patronizes me with "you sound grrrrrreat," dad, I know I don't and keep singing nonetheless. We usually listen to Christian music so I rationalize my inadequacies as a subliminal endorsement for their lofty values.

I think I've even bargained with God at some point that I would offer him the most prodigious praise if somehow miraculously endowed with musical gifting. Either he's not listening or his plans are much different. Perhaps, like most things in life, it's a test. Withhold from me the one avenue through which I could most easily impact others for good and force me to search for other roads slightly more obscured. I suppose the true test of faith is sometimes better defined by the yards we walk in heavy boots on a snowy plain, than the many miles we easily traverse barefoot on a sandy beach.

It still hurts, though- hearing the ethereal sounds of brilliant artists, wanting to express my heart's story in those same melodic verses, and knowing all the while the harsh reality of an impossible dream that never was and will likely never be.

As I'm getting older God is changing me some. I'm coming to realize all have useful gifts even if some are less apparent than others. I guess it's supposed to be that way, but sometimes it's an especially hard pill to swallow for someone who never knew he was sick.

For now, I'll try hard to be content knowing that his ways are rarely our own, and often the greatest anthems rise from those who never even sing at all...

Psalms 92:4-5
4 For you make me glad by your deeds, O Lord; I sing for joy at the works of your hands. 5 How great are your works, O Lord, how profound your thoughts!

Deja Vu All Over Again...

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I remember it well. The women would hastily vacate the den for more tranquil accommodations fully aware of the tumult soon coming. The men and boys shuffled in directly assuming their places around the television. It wasn’t an HD or LCD, or plasma. It didn’t even have a flat screen. It was just a plain Zenith picture box and soon its tubes would be transmitting the long awaited images of Alabama football. Some of the more youthful and sensitive cousins were sure to sit near the doors to expedite their exodus in the event of an escalating fracas inside. For those families living in the pine forests of northwest Alabama it was much more than just a football game. The pride of a whole state depended upon that Saturday afternoon victory. The self-esteem of a few million hung precariously in the balance and such tension generated great anxiety. Butterflies bounced aggressively off of my own abdominal walls. I was sure to be very occasionally seen and never heard at all.

I watched patriarchs of my family, including my own father, groan, gasp, and cheer along with the ebbs and tides (pun intended) of the gridiron action. Some occasionally unleashed a torrent of spicy language ill-suited for mixed company and the more youthful ears amongst our throng. Well, at least the women didn’t hear the vocal outbursts. My own father preferred couch bashing to the more verbally offensive stress relievers adopted by my uncles. I always wondered why a college football game generated such consternation and anger. Why did they get so worked up and abuse the furniture?

After Bear Bryant (famous Alabama coach/God to the sacrilegious) died, my interest subsided a bit. Coaches came and went trying to follow the winning footsteps of the craggy faced legend. Gene Stallings finally captained the team to another national title in 1992 reclaiming some of that past glory and mystique. Until recently, I certainly wouldn’t rearrange my schedule to include watching a Saturday game. But, after a 12-2 season last year and an undefeated start this year, I’m starting to look with heightened anticipation at their schedule and trying my best not to miss a game if possible which is difficult considering we don’t have cable at home. I have discovered ESPN 360 which gives us the chance to catch streaming coverage on the computer and my father is just a few miles away with Comcast’s offerings at his house.

My boys have noticed a curious thing during recent games we’ve watched together, though. According to them, Alabama miscues have caused me to mumble under my breath and lash out aggressively against the ottoman and sectional in our den. I’ve heard vague reports too of flying pillows and other misplaced articles in our family room while watching them play. I am hesitant to take responsibility for such actions because I don’t remember committing the offenses. I suppose they must be subconsciously directed responses from years of poor socialization which I am rendered impotent in controlling. I think those nurture people are onto something.

Anyway, tonight I am taking the boys to my father’s house to watch Alabama play South Carolina on ESPN. It’s a bit curious, however, that now he seems much more relaxed and even tempered during a game and evidently I am the one flipping out when things go bad. Funny, I always said I’d be different and promised I would never take a football game so seriously. Guess that’s another thing I haven’t come through on. I’m sure I’ll have some déjà vu tonight as I flail about his television. Lord, help me. I’ve turned into my father. Well, I suppose there are worse things.

I guess we’ve come full circle now and I’m becoming keenly aware that the more things change, the more they really just stay the same...P.S-Could somebody please pass the blood pressure medicine?...oh, wait, nevermind. I'm sure Dad will have some extra...

"Deception with Dad and the Book Unfair"

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It’s a well laid trap for the unsuspecting parent. Cunning officials advertise one special morning during the elementary school’s book fair as “doughnuts with dad” day. It’s like a wal-mart parking lot at 5:00 A.M. on black Friday with twenty-five dollar flat screen televisions for the first fifty customers. Thomas, Luke, and I arrived promptly at the scheduled 7:30 A.M. starting time to find the parking area already nearly full. “Great,” I thought, “the heartburn I’ll suffer all day from the sweet pastries and orange juice is bad enough. But, the stress induced by exiting the parking lot and getting to work on time is just too much.”

We made our way through the maze of men and settled at the end of the line half-way down the hallway. Students, anxious to enjoy their waiting danish, quickly stashed their book bags in a large heap outside the cafeteria. I’m quite sure the fire chief would have objected vehemently to the scholastic obstacle course they produced. Nevertheless, the line moved quickly and soon we were standing before the doughnut table. I knew my two boys would grab the too tempting éclairs. I exercised great restraint, however, by ignoring the chocolate delights and choosing instead a plain, frosted doughnut. I wish my wife could have been there to witness my most excellent display of will power. We sat with some friends from church, quickly gobbled up our breakfast fare, and then walked to the library for the real fun.

Little trinkets, plastic treasures, and an assortment of books filled the small resource room. Boys and girls dragged their fathers around like a sheep to the slaughter searching for the perfect present to satisfy their frenzied consumerism. Thomas immediately spotted a large, colorful hardback on a center table and I knew I was in trouble. The intimidating picture on the cover was a large, robotic alien looking creature that my younger son informed me was a “transformer.” “How about you transform your interests to the clearance section, wherever that might be,” I thought. I had the better sense to keep my mouth shut, however. As he nearly always does, my older son Luke waffled back and forth between several sports books finally settling on one with more pictures than words. Twenty one dollars later my heartburn was in its five alarm stage as I walked both boys to their classrooms.

As I left the school, I enjoyed a few moments pursuing my favorite pastime of people watching. I noticed a few kids arm in arm with ladies I assumed to be their mothers and few more roaming around alone. I thought for a little while about how those without fathers might feel on this special morning. I recalled the disappointment my own boys would suffer watching other kids shopping and eating excitedly with their dads if I hadn’t been there. Mostly, I wondered about kids who go home every night to a home with no father at all.

Life is hard. Living without two loving parents is even harder. I can’t help but believe that every child deserves the love of a mother and father and the confidence bred from knowing they love each other too. It’s ashamed when they don’t and I wish it wasn’t that way. Doughnuts with dad and the book fair didn’t last more than half an hour and it’s seemingly no grand thing. There aren’t a lot of great lessons or philosophies or teaching moments for diligent parents. You really don’t have to say a thing. There is, however, a great opportunity to breed security and self-esteem in a child by just showing up, eating a doughnut, buying a small book and proving beyond a doubt the man that should love them most really does.

I guess I should be more thankful than I am. I’d be lying if I said that I really looked forward to doughnuts with dad and the book fair. I wish I did. Maybe God can change me. I hope he does it soon, though, because my kids will be gone in the blink of an eye. And, on that day, I know I’ll suffer a different burning in my heart made infinitely more intense when recounting the time and opportunities forever lost.

Psalms 68:4-5
4 Sing to God, sing praise to his name, extol him who rides on the clouds-- his name is the Lord-- and rejoice before him. 5 A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling.