" When the Son Feels Warm Again"

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I remember it well.

A few years ago I was headed to the lake with my oldest son on an especially warm day late in March.  He was five years old at the time.  We talked of many things, but our conversation soon turned to the upcoming Easter holiday. 

I was recounting the story of Christ's triumphant entry to Jerusalem and the subsequent events that culminated in his barbaric death on the Roman cross.  He seemed especially stunned by the soldiers who taunted Jesus and the one who finally pierced his side. Suddenly, he spoke the words I remember to this day.

"Daddy, when I get to heaven I'm going to hit those soldiers on the head." 

"Why?" I responded.

"Because Jesus is my friend."

We hadn't yet discussed the finer points of the Christian faith, which might account for those soldiers not being in heaven with him. Nor, had we ever really approached the subject of turning the other cheek.

It was simply an honest reaction from an innocent child, and it strikes me nearly as much now as it did back then. I remember telling Lisa I wished I felt like Luke, but for some reason it never occurred to me. The soldiers' cruelty really angered him.  Jesus was his friend.

 I'm not sure I could say same.

One reason I write so much about kids is because the birth of my own did prompt a spiritual awakening of sorts inside of me.  I think God made us that way.  There's just something miraculous, in my opinion, about experiencing firsthand, children birthed from the union of husband and wife.  I remember how this new responsibility softened my heart and heightened my sensitivity.

Time has a way of changing things, though.  The brilliant incandescence of that time has faded some.  Selfishness is creeping back in.  My spiritual intensity just isn't the same.  I can still preach and pontificate with the best of them, but living out that faith when the microphones go dead is an entirely different story.  I know all the right things to say and do. I want to feel like doing them, though.

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History is certain of a man named Jesus who lived, preached and died  two thousand years ago.  That is incontrovertible by any standard.  The hinge of our faith, however, is the empty tomb three days later.  It proves his connection to the God who made us all.  The absence of this emptiness proves the insane belief of a mortal man.

It's so easy for a child to believe.  Why does it sometimes seem so impossible to me? 

The Easter season is a time of renewal and rebirth. The sun feels warm again. During this time, all of nature bears witness to a great gardner who planted a magnificent field.  It's a time to sow seeds which will produce a great harvest.  It's time for me to live what I preach.

I need to get back to basics.  Jesus made clear the few options available when it came to children.  Become like one again and reap a great reward.  Ignore the challenge and a future of less certainty waits.  I need to rekindle a sensitive heart wounded by the Savior's pain.  I need to believe like my son. The real truth is, recalling how I felt at the birth of my children may be the only thing driving my quest for another revival anyway.

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I need to know Jesus is true. I need to know time hasn't separated us. 

Mostly, this Easter, I need to know He is still my friend.

Throwing Out the First Pitch..

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I didn't know what to do.  He missed school for two straight days, but Tylenol was still controlling his fever and his head didn't hurt too bad. At least, that's what the adrenaline was telling him.

I knew he wanted it, and I remembered feeling the same way many years ago.  But, he was sick, and I was his father. For someone who prides himself on an acute ability to pick from many options the best course (whether I follow it or not), I experienced angst over this one.  In the end, the deliberation was short.  I made the decision.

Let him play.

The cool air had settled in by the 7:00 p.m. starting time, and the darkness would soon follow.  I was still at work, but I had talked with him several times during the day and our conversations revealed an excited child with nerves busting at the seams. 

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Young boys throw many strikes and hit long homeruns for the audience of one.  Playing under the lights, amongst a volatile crowd, however, is  another challenge unto itself.  Effectively dealing with it separates the men from the boys.

I arrived shortly after the start in the top half of the first inning to see him proudly defending the infield from third base.  I stood behind the backstop.  He noticed me and shot a wry smile my way, but then quickly glanced down, picking an imaginary rock from the dirt to disguise his expression from others who might notice--not too cool for a ball player to replace his game face with a kind gesture at good old dad. 

I didn't hold it against him.  I knew exactly how he felt. 

The dream he shares with many nine year old boys, however, is standing on the white rubber of a dirt hill and pitching for his team.  I had prepared him for the possibility of that not happening very soon.  Older, stronger boys with more developed skills waited ahead of him. I told him he needed to be content wherever he played and help the team the best he could.

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Well, my “not too soon” speech turned into the third inning with one out and bases loaded. The call came. The coach made the change.

At first, Luke was startled, not quite sure the coach had even called his name. When he finally realized what was going on that wry smile appeared again, but he had a harder time trying to wipe it away. He jogged from his place in the field and ascended the mound.  This was the first time he had ever thrown a pitch from a real mound in a real game. 

I was proud of him.

Nevertheless, it was an inauspicious start.  He walked the first two but settled down to strike out the next two and retire the side.  He didn't do particularly well at the plate either and ultimately our team lost.  But, it hardly dampened his enthusiasm, and I was the fortunate recipient of the play by play all the way home and for thirty minutes thereafter.  I don't think they need to start clearing a space in Cooperstown yet for my boy, but what's wrong with dreaming a little dream? I mean you're only young once, right?

It's funny how history repeats itself.  I perfected the craft of detailed recall on the baseball field many years ago and was always able to find the most circuitous route in reaching the end of a short story. 

Oh, what I put my own dad through!     

Suddenly, a curious thought occurred to me through this whole experience.  Maybe I'm good at noticing the best paths now because I had so much experience from my youth picking the wrong ones. 

Luke is like me in so many ways. 

I sure hope this isn't one of them...

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Proverbs 4:10-11 NIV
10 Listen, my son, accept what I say, and the years of your life will be many. 11 I guide you in the way of wisdom and lead you along straight paths.

In Sickness and in Health...

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My gym bag was neatly packed and sitting beside the bed.  As it turned out, I wouldn't need it. 

The alarm clock pronounced itself at 5:30 a.m. on the nose.  I rolled over in the dark and reached toward the direction of the offensive sound to stop its attack.  I didn't need to leave until 6:30 to make it to the gym for a quick run and then get to work on time.  Lisa began to stir a bit. 

"Are you going to the gym?" she asked.

"I would like to since I haven't been in three days, but I guess it depends on how Luke feels," I said.

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My oldest son, Luke, went to bed the evening before complaining he didn't feel well with similar symptoms as his younger brother who missed three days of school the week before.  It's hard to tell with him, though.  He's an accomplished and convincing thespian in the role of sick child wanting attention and a day off from his studies.  Probably Oscar material, that kid. 

I knew if he really were sick, he would need to go to my parent's house to spend the day while my wife took the others to school.  This contingency would mean no exercise for me.  I could feel my waistline continuing its relentless expansion second by second.  I resisted the urge to quietly enter his room, jostle him awake briefly, and return to my wife with the story of how he seemed fine and how I should safely be on my way.  I can't say I haven't tried it before, however.

I quickly ate a banana and brushed my teeth.  Finally, I went into his room about 6:20 to begin the investigation.  He was already awake.

"Bad sign," I thought to myself.  I asked him anyway. "Luke, are you awake?"  His response would serve as the first piece of evidence. 

"Yes," he coughed through nasal congestion and what sounded like a raw, scratchy throat. 

"How do you feel?" I continued.

"Not too good, Daddy, not too good," he said shifting his eyes my way,  but carefully avoiding any quick movements with his head.

Repetition was bad sign too.  I felt his cheeks and forehead.  They confirmed my fears. 

"Where do you feel bad, son?" I asked.

"All over," he halfway choked out in response.  And so, I decided on the nuclear option.

"You know you'll miss your baseball game tomorrow night if you're sick, right?  I hoped thrusting the potential loss of a game smack dab in front of him would serve as the magic elixir hastening a speedy recovery.  It was cruel.  It was unnecessary.  It didn't work. Tears began to fall.

"He really is sick," I thought to myself.  I felt a twinge of regret, but sympathy never has been one of my gifts.

"Well, go on and get dressed, brush your teeth and then lay back down until we're ready to go.  I'll take you to your grandmother's for the day."

I left his room perturbed and irritated.  I kept thinking about how his brother's sickness had rearranged our schedules all of last week and how this one was beginning the same. 

The others finally departed for school, leaving me and Luke there alone together.  We spoke few words between us until it was time to go.  He sighed and moaned the whole way to the door, slowly sliding his feet as if his shoes were heavy bricks.

"Luke, you need to get moving, son," I barked.  "I need to get you to momma's and then to work on time," I continued.  He offered nothing in response, but kept walking. 

He sat up front beside me in the car, which I'm sure violated one of those seat belt, air-bag, cell-phone laws, but it was the only way he could recline and get some relief.  I rolled the dice and took my chances.

Tension filled the car's atmosphere.  I kept thinking about losing my workout time and the calories quietly converting themselves to heinous fat globules destined for my mid-section.  I'm not sure what he was thinking.  I turned the music up just enough to hear the words and melody, but not enough to offend his sickness induced, sensitive ear drums. 

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He sat there quietly, searching for something and I knew it.  He was looking for the gentleness of a lost feather, softly landing.  I gave him the thud of the dead bird it came from.  That gentleness was what he needed from me. He wanted the touch, the look, the gentle tone of sincere words sweetly spoken. 

It escaped me. I resisted. Something was holding me back.  I wouldn't give him what he wanted because there was too much of me to get through.  Why was it so hard to dispense?  This child, most like his father, proved the hardest for me to gently love. 

Then, I heard the words.  The words to the song barely audible in the background stuck me hard.  "Who am I, that you might know me my King?" 

I awkwardly reached for his leg, nearly missing it completely.  "How are you feeling now?"  I asked.  His leg was too far, so I rubbed his shoulder instead.  He seemed almost startled. 

"About the same," he responded. 

"Maybe you'll be good enough to play tomorrow night," I said.  "You've got a couple of days to get better."  The corner of his lipped moved up ever so slightly. 

"You think so, Daddy?"

"I hope so, son.  I really hope so."  It wasn't much, but it was all I was willing to give.

I dropped him off and left for work.  I replayed that same song the whole way there.  I tried saying a prayer, but the words just didn't come out right.  I wanted forgiveness.  I wanted mercy.  From my Heavenly Father, I asked for the same gentleness I had earlier refused to give my own son. 

I sure hope God was listening better than me.




Philippians 4:5 NIV
Let your gentleness be evident to all... 


Colossians 3:12 NIV
Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience.
 
P.S.-When I talked with my wife this evening she told me Luke mentioned that I had employed the nuclear option.  He told her he knew I was trying to get him to go to school and figure out how sick he really was....guess the apple has fallen painfully close to the tree.

The Space Between- searching for faithfulness fast forward...

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I stumbled up the aisle with her.  My thoughts were lost in a cacophony of surreal confusion. It was hot; the white shirt beneath the tuxedo tugging at my chafed neck. I wondered if she felt my damp hands clasped tightly to her own. Suddenly, we stood before the altar, having reached a destination whose path I couldn't accurately recall.

"Who offers this woman in marriage today?" 

The jolt was fierce. At once, those twenty five years of a different kind of togetherness stopped dead in their tracks.

"This is it," I thought. "This is the end of the one thing I always wanted before I even knew it."

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This young woman standing beside me was our first child-- the little baby crying behind that nursery glass so many years ago, searching to make sense of a new and frightening world. This young woman beside me was the little baby with the captivating smile and tiny toes we took home from the hospital to start our new life together. 

This young woman was the daughter I had to protect from boys who could never love her as much as me.

Until this day, she loved me more than any other man.

Or at least, that's what I hoped.

Now, I had to give it all away?

The space between us had grown different, more distant in recent years, especially since this new man’s arrival. I knew this day was coming. I knew things would have to change, but how could I hold her one second and then give her away so abruptly to a virtual stranger? What kind of God could have devised so seemingly cruel plans?

She nudged me slightly.

"Her Mother and I," strained coarsely through my lip spasms.

I caught her glance as she noticed my swollen and glistening eyes revealing the onslaught of tears gaining momentum. I clumsily leaned over trying to find her cheek. She moved closer to me. My lips finally found it.

I had kissed her thousands of times before, but never like this. I knew we would kiss again, but never in the same way. I knew this kiss marked the end of a great collision in the intersection of our similar dreams. Soon, other dreams would replace those from her childhood. It felt like the last kiss of a father smitten by a little girl who pierced his heart on a hot August day from long ago. It felt like yesterday.

It really wasn't.

I didn't want it to end. I couldn't let go.

"Daddy," she finally said.

I knew what she meant. I couldn't stop the tears.

I hoped through those tears she could now trust how special she was to her imperfect father. I hoped those tears pushed her toward a new beginning with someone else. I hoped she knew it was okay with me for her to love him.  I hoped those tears bore witness to my authentic love she always craved but was sometimes afraid to believe.

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In her mind, I hoped those tears proved I loved her enough to give her away.

I hoped she felt it. I hoped she embraced the peculiar faithfulness palpable in their torrent. I hoped she would find the same with this new man.

But mostly, I hoped those tears washed true faithfulness into that curious space between us both...



Ephesians 5:31-33 (KJV)
31 For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall be joined unto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh. 32 This is a great mystery: but I speak concerning Christ and the church. 33 Nevertheless let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself; and the wife see that she reverence her husband

For more on faithfulness go to:  http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/03/faithfulness-blog-carnival/

Of Boats and Bags...and the Search for Faithfulness

I was aggravated.  The old boat sitting in my garage wasn't cooperating.  I was trying to rewire it and replace the switches that controlled the lights and pumps.  It was chilly too and the lighting wasn't the greatest.  The scrapes and traces of blood on my knuckles proved the extent of earlier struggles with the wire stripper and crimping tool. 

Then she came in.

My daughter, Mary, walked through the darkness of the front yard and driveway and up into the cramped space where I worked.  She hopped up onto the step of the trailer and hurled herself onto the back seat of the boat.  She carried a spiral notebook with colorful stripes on the cover which I quickly noticed was the journal she kept. 

"What are you doing, Daddy?" she asked.

 "Just making a mess," I said.  I never really looked up and now in retrospect I'm sure my response communicated little interest in furthering the conversation.  I didn't even ask her what she was doing.

She moved the process along.  "Guess what I'm doing?" she now asked. 

"What?" was my curt response.

 "Writing poetry," she said.

 "Oh, that's nice," I replied, still fuming at my mechanical failures with the wires.  I wanted to just finish up and get to a point where I could go inside.  "Shouldn't you be getting ready for bed?" I inquired, still keeping my head low and avoiding eye contact.

"Well, I wanted to come out and show you the poem I wrote.  It's about you," she pronounced.

Suddenly, she had my attention.  I immediately sensed the need to drop down on my knees and beg forgiveness from God above. 

"Can I read it to you?" she asked.  I carefully put down the twisted puzzle of wires and connectors in my hands and looked at her intently.  There in the quiet of our old, musty garage she bashfully read her piece.  She spoke the words quickly as if to hasten the end of a peculiar anxiety she felt about the vulnerability she was exposing to her father. It was sweet.

 "Read it again," I said.

"Oh, it's not that good."  

"Please, Mary," I begged.  Feigning reluctance, she read it again, only this time slower with subdued nervousness from having completed one performance.

When she finished she offered an odd proposition.  "You want to throw the football in here?" she asked.

"Sure," I said knowing what she really wanted was to feel a connection doing something she knew I liked.  She wanted attention. She wanted nothing more grand than time itself. She wanted to feel my faithfulness to her and know it was true.  We stood there for a few minutes in the crowded garage with little space for us to stand passing the small, rubber football between ourselves.

As we continued my thoughts wandered back to another little girl, younger than my own eleven year old.  I thought of a foster daughter unexpectedly placed in our home nearly a year earlier. I remembered her showing up at our door with nothing more than the clothes on her back and one solitary bag of things. 

That single bag is usually how they appear.  Her stuff was in a simple white trash bag adding further insult.  The sum of her four year old life lay there in that solitary heap.  I've always hated the notion of  that one bag being the lone tether connecting a child to the broken past of innocence lost.  I wanted to burn everything in it and start over. 

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I thought about her though. I wondered what she was doing at the very moment in time we were passing a football back and forth.  I wondered what was happening in the home she came from where she now lived reunited with her real dad. 

I wondered if she was crying or hurting.  I wondered what was going on in her head...and in her heart.  I wondered about her future and if she shared the same prospects as my own daughter. 

I knew a few things they both shared, however. Both looked for attention.  Both searched for time and connections with those they loved. 

Mostly, both searched for faithfulness from the men they knew should love them  most.

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And standing there in the dimly lit garage of a late evening in March, I fought back tears wondering if either one had found it...





Psalms 116:6 NIRV

The LORD takes care of those who are as helpless as children. When I was in great need, he saved me.

 

Psalms 127:3 NIRV

Children are a gift from the Lord. They are a reward from him.

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For more about faithfulness go to:  http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/03/faithfulness-blog-carnival/

A Gun, For Goodness Sake...

He wasn't perfect, but he was a good man. Most of what I discovered about him came through old stories of others he knew.  I heard stories of a little boy forsaken by the family that should have cared the most, stories of a man hardened through years of demanding work, stories of the woman that changed him and their simple life together.   His name was Willard and he was my grandfather.

He finished third grade and the fields called.  Nine years old was young to start working even back then in the hot southern summers. He found a woman and God found him.  He bought a few acres of dirt and built a house.  He made it into their home.  It was his little piece of the dream and they filled it with three daughters. He made a living beating out pieces of coal from dark tunnels inside the earth.  Life was tough, but he was tougher.  He was a part time preacher.  He wrote poetry. He was a good man.

For most of my life I lived nearly seven hundred miles away from he and my grandmother. Visits were infrequent and short. So, I left Nashville the Wednesday before Thanksgiving my freshman year in college and headed south to spend my break.  Immediately after arriving, I could sense something weighed heavily on him.  He talked about how he loved hunting deer around the pine thickets of northwest Alabama. He told of the deer he shot earlier that year and bigger ones from long ago. And then, he asked me if I wanted to go out and do some shooting with his favorite deer rifle.  I obliged.

He gathered the gun and some shells and we went out under the carport, past the catfish pond and finally settled in the rutted mess of a garden from ages past.  He grabbed a gallon milk jug from the old barn and filled it with water.  The air was cool.  It was quiet and cloudy, the sun barely visible above the horizon. I shot the Belgian made Browning 30-06 first, free hand from fifty or so yards. My ears hurt.  I saw the dirt fly but nothing else.  My second shot was true. 

He didn't bother shooting after that, but instead began to talk.  He said he had just finished his will and wanted to leave one gun to each of his grandsons.  I was one of those five.  This gun I now held would be mine upon his death.  But then curiously, he decided not to wait, but to go ahead and give it away. He wanted me to enjoy it.  He wanted to make sure I had plenty of time to get some use out of it.  I wasn't much of a hunter, but he was and I knew it was hard for him to give up something so dear.  He loved that gun and it took a good man to give it away to the grandson he knew so little of.

We went inside and he pulled a piece of paper loose from a small notebook inside his desk.  In black ink he wrote a bill of sale for a single dollar I never paid.  On the bottom, he signed his name, Willard Ashmore.  It briefly occurred to me that I should mark this moment in time and so I did because he was a good man. 

 

I guess I wasn't much different than most eighteen year olds, though, who thought things would always stay the same. They didn't.  He got older.  And me too. But now, I wish I had saved that old piece of notebook paper crudely scrawled through the good intentions of the grandfather I barely knew.  I wish I could say it was neatly folded and perfectly preserved.  I wish I could open it every now and then and better recall that day so many years ago.

What I really wish, though, is that he were still around for my children to know, for me to know better, to know the extraordinary heart of this peculiar, preaching poet.

Mostly, to know more of his goodness...

Goodness is the only investment that never fails.--Thoreau

2 Peter 1:4-5 NIV

Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires. 5 For this very reason, make every effort to add to your faith goodness...

Post Script:  The picture of the deer in the truck was taken in November of 1978 when I was eight years old.  Below the truck are two of the guns my grandfather gave away to his grandsons.  The one on the left in that picture is the 30-06 he gave me in 1988 which is also the same gun pictured with the notebook at the end. 

My sincere apologies to anyone bothered by the image of the deer. 

Jeff

For more go to: http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/03/goodness/

Dream a Little Dream...

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As if my nerves weren't bad enough, sweat rolled down my forearm and into my right hand making it even more difficult to grasp the baseball. I stepped back off the rubber and reached for the rosin bag behind the  mound.  I doused it on my palm and then again on the back of my hand and wrist.   I had pitched in big games before, but never one like this.

I went from the full wind-up now with bases loaded and the tying run just ninety feet away at third.  With two outs in the bottom of the ninth and two strikes on the powerful designated hitter standing in the box, all I needed was one more to win this final game of the World Series.  My stomach churned and for a moment I tasted again my lunchtime pasta as my head battled a bout of dizziness.  The stadium was blur of noise, lights, and flashing cameras. 

I struggled to regain my concentration.  Suddenly it returned as I focused on the sliver of black rubber outlining the white plate where I wanted the ball to pass.   I shook my head once in agreement with the catcher's low and away fastball signal.  What else could I possibly throw in this situation?  I began my methodical delivery channeling every ounce of energy I could into those two fingers wrapped around the cowhide.  What happened next is mostly lost in foggy haze.  All I remember was being beaten to the ground by my teammates in a crazed celebration.  In the chaos, someone's metal spike pressed the tip of my left index finger breaking the nail completely off and starting a small trickle of blood.

And then suddenly, I woke up from the dream.

My dream began early in life, around first grade or so.  Those young boys (and some girls) who love baseball share this same dream.  Nearly all have thrown that winning strike somewhere in a lonely bedroom deep in the dark of night.

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I chased the dream with great passion for a while.   Inspired by mother's counsel about the strength building qualities of drinking milk, I began massive dairy consumption in first grade.  I remember well retrieving the precious, almost secret liquid from the refrigerator and sometimes bypassing a glass, drinking straight from the jug in pursuit of a hardened and chiseled body.  Immediately upon downing the milk, I remember running down into the woods behind our house and attacking a young sapling with great vigor.  I continued this ritual for many months. I believed if I kept drinking and kept bending that tree down eventually it would snap.  I was convinced this strength would guarantee a future trip straight to the major leagues. 

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In two years that young tree bent nearly to the ground, but it never broke.  I played ball for a long time, but in all those years nothing produced the fervor that milk and tree generated way back then.  And, I never made it to the big leagues either.

My son Luke has recently begun his dream.  I've always told him he had potential, but upon discovering that he would pitch for his baseball team this spring, he suddenly found inspiration which seemed previously missing.  He came to me wanting to know what it would take to be really good-to be a major leaguer.  Too bad he's never come to me wanting to know what it would take to be a really good student.  Probably knows I wouldn't be much help in that department.

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"Well son, first you've got to get good grades because everybody knows baseball players are smart and pitchers especially," I began.  My wife and I didn't want to let an opportunity to judiciously apply good coercion pass by.  "Then," I continued, "you have to get stronger, eat good foods, and really develop your lungs and legs." 

Well, I should have kept my mouth shut.  Never at a loss for words, he has pushed the envelope even further with constant updates about how many pushups, sit ups, or dumbbell curls he has completed.  He is obsessed with his "six pack" as he calls it and insists on raising his shirt to anyone who will inspect his arms and torso.  He wants to drink protein shakes instead of milkshakes and I'm really glad none of his friends are old enough to deal steroids yet or who knows what might happen. The kid is bordering on obsession.  I have no other to blame but myself, though.

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I can taste the milk and feel the rough bark of that young sapling from thirty five years ago.  It's deja vu all over again.  He's turning into me. 

It has been good in some ways though, this obsession that is.  It's helped me better appreciate what my parents had to endure for so many years and what my wife must currently confront with me.  It's given Luke more purpose and it may provide some long term health benefits as well.

Mostly though, it's taught him how to dream.

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So to my children if you are listening: Remember time pushes us all.  And from the first moments we enter the world, we begin a steady processional to the grave and what lies beyond.  So, don't delay in the attempt to eclipse your current self and never spend one moment dreaming for tomorrow something you could be doing today.  Because potential is simply a soothing word used to describe the disappointment of dreams unreached and appointments forever unmet.

Proverbs 14:23 NIV

All hard work brings a profit, but mere talk leads only to poverty

Don't ask me to give you a hand...

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I'm about as handy as a snow blower in Guatemala.  Never have been much of a builder/fixer upper.  I acquired it honestly, though.  I come from a long line of construction ineptitude and from men who would rather pay someone to fix their problems than latch up a tool belt themselves. 

How could a boy with a full moustache at fourteen years old lack the necessary physiology for handiness? 

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I took industrial arts my first semester in eighth grade.  Evidently, I'm not very industrious.  This painful reality started to become rather obvious to the teacher/foreman/real man when he first commissioned the class to make pictorial drawings.  Most in the class expertly produced three dimensional sketches of various geometrical shapes using a pencil and some sort of protractor type contraption.  My paper ended up as mostly a gaping hole from constant eraser abrasions.  The rendering left could best be described as an abstract mess of cloudy, graphite splotches.  Imagine my pain when I learned this would serve as the template for constructing a wooden model.

"Why don't you just make me run naked through the cafeteria at lunch time," I thought.  That would certainly be less emasculating than baring my deficient construction capabilities to the real hunter/gatherers filling the desks beside me.

 "Uh, the home economics class is down the hall, cupcake," I could hear them saying.

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I lucked out in the end.  After seeing what I did to the paper, the instructor didn't want to give me a chance with his precious band saw and hardwoods.  He let me do some "filing" for him in the office while the others deposited sawdust all over the shop floor with their masterpieces.

So, of course, I married a woman who was accustomed to men in her life that made their living from building and repairing things. I mean, they just walk by a pile of wood that looks like junk to me and "ta da," a house appears.  Imagine her surprise when she married me.  My skills end at unscrewing a light bulb and even then I have to take the bulb to the store to make sure I get the right thing to replace it.  All that wattage and amperage and voltage talk gets my head turning in circles anyway. All I understand about electricity is that somehow it lights up that bulb and too much of it will kill you.  Isn't that what they made electricians for?  For most of our early years together I was able to discreetly disguise this secret from my wife.  But, having too much pride to admit you can't do it yourself and too little money to pay somebody else is a dangerous combination.  Eventually she found me out.

I remember one particular occasion before our first child was born when she wanted me to put the new crib together.  Talk about anxiety.  This wasn't just some romper room toy ultimately destined for the landfill.  A baby was going to sleep in the thing for crying out loud.  I took the day off to do it.  I still hadn't finished it when Lisa got home from school.

"What did you do today, honey,"  she asked.

"Uh...I've been working on the baby bed," I responded.

"ALL DAY," she inquired.

"Uh...uh...well, no..I mean, after I remodeled the kitchen, finished hanging drywall in the basement, and repaved the driveway I started on the crib," I thought to myself.  "Yes, ALL DAY,"  I finally was forced to admit.  Eventually, I completed the project with my inferior tools although I did hack out a few chunks of wood with the channel locks (I think they're called)while bashing a couple of the rails in frustration.

"Work smart, not hard," I was always told as if I knew what that meant.  Might as well be talking to the light bulb itself senor because I no comprende your ingles.

The truly sad thing in all of this is that I have two boys myself and at least one of them is as mechanically useless as me.  Sorry, Luke, it's not your fault. 

So to my children if you are listening (especially the boys):  You've started off life in a big hole, so you'd better grab the rope and get climbing...

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