The Heart of the Matter...

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I woke up about 5:30 this morning and rolled over on my side, carefully placing my left arm around my wife's waist.  She slept still, but seemed to almost subconsciously notice the pressure around her...to interpret my presence.

Her husband.  The man that should love her most.

Around 6:00 I went downstairs to the kitchen for some fruit and drink.  I checked my email and then came back upstairs to dress for a quick run.  The old wood floors cracked, popped and creaked in a way so acutely perceptible in the morning silence; so offensive to fresh ears.  I sat on the edge of the bed tying my shoelaces and wondering if the noise had stirred her awake.

It had.

"Are you going running?"

"Thought I would." 

Almost immediately she began talking about our upcoming plans for a weekend trip to Pennsylvania.  She talked of the children-their similarities...their oddities too.  We laughed for a couple of minutes, comfortable in the tranquility of a world mostly asleep.

I stood up.

"Oh, don't go.  Stay with me for awhile," she asked.

"I have to, honey.  I'm forty now.  Have to keep working, keep this body all firmed up for you."

She chuckled a little and soon my legs pounded in the humid air of the country roads around our house. Her words kept popping up in my head, though:

"Stay with me...don't go."

It occurred to me that I spend so much of my life running...running from so much...from relationships of the present, from opportunities of the future.  I mistakenly think chiseling out hard sinews from my flesh is the most direct way to her heart. 
The way to make her love me more.

Perhaps in some ways a noble idea, but likely not the way most excellent. Most of the time, it's ears content to listen without trying to solve every problem.  It's looking into her eyes with affection, reminiscent of the gaze she remembers from a different time; a time before we were married.  It's showing her she matters most.  It's confirming she's valuable...her ideas most noteworthy.  It's taking the time to notice her.

It's more in the humility of a gentle spirit than the strength of an enduring body. 

Time is so short.  Chances missed today, forever gone. 

And, inside an old farmhouse just down the road, my wife rolled over wanting something I couldn't give.

While I kept running...running away.

Maybe one day, before it's too late,  I'll get the anatomy right.

Not my bulging arms or toned legs.

But instead, the heart of the matter.

HER heart...                                                                                            images courtesy of photobucket.com   

It's How They Know...

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Figured I would put in my two cents worth today.

Much will be written and published over the weekend about fathers- the role of fathers, the importance of fathers, and Father's Day. I've been a father to three biological children for twelve years and I'll admit we've had some ups and downs...successes and failures.

I'll also be honest in saying I really want people to think I'm a good father (husband too). And, it's not just because I want people to think it. It's because I want to be more than just what my children need.

But, on occasions like this I always wonder about children who, for whatever reason, have never really known an earthly father...of real flesh and blood, bone of their bones. Sadly, children everywhere, in every corner of the earth, long for the one thing they may never find in this life: a real, living and breathing man who, despite his weaknesses, loves them as only a father can.

Little girls without fathers especially bothersome in my opinion.

So, in the interest of improving my fathering, I googled "how to show your children you love them." I briefly skimmed the pages full of articles and book references written by the most learned in our society. Strikingly absent was the one piece of advice I recall from long ago. I don't remember where I read it or who may have told me, but it remains indelibly etched in the annals of my memory:

If you want to show your kids you love them, then love their Mother.

Life is hard. Living without two loving parents is even harder. I can’t help but believe 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 didn't have to be that way.

Psychologists and sociologists may forever try to prove the irrelevance or expendability of fathers. They may say one mother or two mothers will do just fine. And, in fact, children from such situations may conquer great things. But the real truth-there's a hole inside us all nothing else can fill.

A hole that was made for daddy...for his love.

Children need that daddy in their life. They need to see him when they go to bed at night. They need to know he'll be there when they wake up the next morning. They need to see him praying with momma, holding her hand, kissing her gently on the cheek. They need to see him considering her more important than himself-others more important too.

They need to see him loving her.

In the end, it's the how we best teach our sons to be men after God's own heart and how we teach our daughters to find one. It's how they recognize the face of God himself.

Mostly, it helps them see better and believe beyond a doubt, in the loving Father who made us all...

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Psalms 68:5

A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God in his holy dwelling

It's Only a Number, Right?

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Yesterday it finally happened.

I turned forty years old. I was born in 1970 and while growing up I always thought about the year 2000 and the thirty year old mark. Thirty years old, though distant, still seemed possible as a child and teenager. When it came I didn't even think twice about it.

Forty? Too surreal to even consider back then. 4:17 p.m. on Sunday marked the official commencement of my middle age and I'll have to admit it bothered me some.

I don't feel much different--not a day over thirty nine anyway. Getting out of bed is hard, however. My left knee cries foul when I dare bend it. My back feels pretty decent until I try to bend over in the shower. Stabbing pains assault my hip when making quick moves to the left. I'm kind of stuck in this perpetual state of painful mobility with joints that don't play well together.

I know running is bad for them, but I just can't stop. Guess cantankerousness comes with age too.

I'm facing some follicle challenges as well. Much of the hair on my head has begun a mass migration to points south, including my nose, eyebrows, and a pesky patch of undergrowth infiltrating the right side of my back. What's left on my crown recently decided to change its once dark color for lighter hues of brown and gray. Still more pepper, but the salt is gaining momentum.

My sweet daughter, Mary, assuaged my age anxiety yesterday...or tried to anyway.

"Oh, dad, I'll always love you," she said.

I beamed while almost missing the final refrain.

"You don't look that old."

I had to drink half a bottle of Nyquil to calm my nerves after that one. Ok, not really...I didn't drink quite half. But, I did think a lot yesterday about getting older.

By most scientific standards I've eclipsed the half-way mark of my life expectancy. I thought about what I have and have not accomplished. I thought about the metamorphosis of my dreams.

Ambition consumed me while growing up. Playing major league baseball didn't quite work out, so I opted for high-powered lawyer instead. That lasted for awhile until I discovered you had to go to another school after college in order to practice the discipline.

No thanks.

I decided, instead, to jump right into the business world. That's where I would make my indelible mark. I married my high school sweetheart in the fall of 1992 and we began our life together in Nashville, TN. One year later she decided to come back home to Virginia with or without me.

Thankfully, I had just enough good sense then to get on board.

God saw fit to bless us with three children in the past twelve years. We've lived a charmed life...me, especially. We've faced a little fire and He's used it to refine some rough edges on me. Still not that smooth, but better than where I started.

Curious thing too. My dreams have changed some. The older I've gotten the more I long for times more simple. For quiet times-places far away from worldly noise. Money and conquest have lost most of their once brilliant luster.

Things are becoming less important. Relationships more so.

The older I'm getting the more I'm coming to understand God wants good gifts for me just as I want good gifts for my own children. I'm better understanding the evolution of what I thought were good gifts then and what I know them to be now. Mostly, I have a new clarity on life and my vapor that will quickly fade to some other dimension.

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I still have a lot of questions though...not too many answers. I still have some dreams left-projects unfinished.

Probably a few more fires too before I'm done...

or before He's finally done with me...


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Anyone for Yak Milk?

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What's wrong with America? 

If you've been to church services on any kind of regular basis lately, I'm sure you've probably heard this question posed by the powers that be.  I suppose it's worth asking, although sometimes I wonder if the answer isn't easier than we  make it. 

From Kennedy to Constantine to Tutankhamen, the problem with the world hasn't changed much.  The diagnosis is a rather simple one.

It's made up of people. 

But, recently I did notice something about our culture and its problems. Not sure if it's symptom, disease or a little of both, but it struck me enough to write about it. 

My kids often call me at work when they get home from school and ask me about my day.  Eventually, we get around to the real purpose in the call:  To find out if I'm coming home early enough for dinner.

They want me at that table.

The dinner table may seem innocuous, and in fact, hum-drum.  For young kids, it's often a time to put away play things or stop adventures enjoyed in the back yard-for older kids, perhaps a time to stop the relatively new phenomenon of vast social correspondence.  But, I still think of all the great times we've had around the table- the mundane conversations that ultimately led to things more serious. 

The place where we most easily discover what it means to be a family.

I think about all the laughs too.  Just this week, Thomas recounted an experience at school while we shared dinner together.  When asked by a teacher about beverage suggestions for the upcoming end of year party, many students raised their hands and asked for varying sodas or juices.  Thomas waited until everyone finished and then raised his hand.  The whole room now sat quiet, waiting for his request.

"Yak milk," he said.

Okay, he's a little bit of a smarty pants.  He gets it honestly, though, from his um...um...well, his father.

"What did the teacher say," I asked.

"He said no because you had to be able to buy it in a can from the grocery store."

"Did he laugh?"

"No, he didn't think it was very funny.  I was being serious.  Yak milk has lots of vitamins and minerals."

I gave him a pass because we don't keep soda at our house and he doesn't really like it anyway.  We all laughed together and shared some good times helping to better acquaint ourselves with what it means to love and be loved in return.

I have a friend, not especially spiritual minded, who requires all of his children and their significant others to present a reading around the dinner table for all holidays and special occasions. I've always thought it was a neat idea worthy of unbridled plagarism for my crew. One day soon I may start that same tradition.   

Social scientists tell us because of society's busy schedules, family dinners together at home are becoming rare.  It's ashamed and I'm glad that we can make it work most days in our home because the world has enough fast food.  I think a little "slow" food may be in order.

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But, I still wonder what has happened to that table.  I wonder about opportunities forever lost in American kitchens. I wonder about children who may never know the beauty of sitting with their real family around a real table, and eating a meal with those that should love them most. I wonder about how the wealthiest, most well-housed people in all the world may, in some ways, be the poorest.

I wonder most about what happened to the place where we learned family.

And, in its absence,

how we'll ever really learn it again...

Asphalt Diaries...

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It's the phone call I dreaded. 

"Daddy, can we go to Haiti?'' The voice on the line asked. My oldest son, Luke, waited on the other end for an answer.  Our church planned a special, miracle Haiti offering for the upcoming services and had begun preparations for a week long, relief expedition to the broken country in August. 

This sparked the interest of my son and his other two siblings.  I gave him the typical, ambiguous response that really isn't so ambiguous.

"We'll see."

That was Saturday afternoon.  Before church on Sunday those words echoed in my head during an early morning run.  Haiti placed last on my to do list. I didn't want to go.

I hoped God had different plans for me and my family. I listened closely for His voice on that road. I wanted a different kind of revelation-a revelation to help better rationalize my complacency. I searched for something more convenient to me.

I had to find it.  I had to find some easier way.

The hill I fear most on my path approached at the two mile mark. Stabbing pains shot through my left knee while my right calf tightened unexpectedly.  I lacked my usual vigor.  My breaths quickly increased in frequency.  It's not the steepest ascent, but, what it lacks in pitch it easily eclipses in length.

I finally reached the summit. I looked east to the hazy mountains.  Freshly cut hay covered the ground below them, and in the distance smoke billowed from two stacks-their presence clear evidence of the curious revolution that ushered in my current prosperity. 

A country forever changed by the division of labor; a country so proficient at the production of things.

I thought hard about my past as I desended the incline.  I wondered about all the minutes, hours and days wasted in the empty pursuits of those things.  I wondered about all the money wasted.  I wondered about the clanging cymbal accompanying my selfish song for so many years.

I wondered about the heart of a child so wanting to do the right thing and a father who couldn't say the same.

I kept running, thinking, hurting.  I heard no quiet voice directing my path.  No grand revelation.

Only more questions.

Hoping for a glimpse of rivers that finally converge into one; to be washed in those waters. 

Praying for a day when this empty cup will be filled with something more real...



For more about emptiness go to :  http://www.bridgetchumbley.com/2010/05/emptiness-blog-carnival/