New Verse Of An Old Lullaby

By 8:30, on a typical Monday morning, I am in my office, in my squeaky brown dress shoes and pleated pants, evaluating the dilemmas and the deadlines of the week ahead. It’s not the low point in my week (for some reason, I dislike Tuesdays more than Mondays) but it’s about as far as you can get from quitting time on a Friday.

But not so this Monday morning; this one was different.

8:30 this Monday finds me at home, in jeans and a t-shirt, staring into the toothless grin of my 11 week-old daughter. Her chin glistens from the slobber she’s been able to manufacture since I first plucked her from her crib two minutes ago and her cheeks are so chubby that it must make holding her head up even more difficult.

Anyway, this Monday, and most of the next three weeks to follow, are going to be filled by such moments. After all, during that time I will be the “stay at home” Dad and primary caregiver for a rambunctious 3 year old and her baby sister (the aforementioned baby girl).

Despite my disdain of Monday and Tuesday mornings in the office, I am certainly appreciative of a job that allows me Mondays like this one too. With the wife headed off to her job for the first time in three months, I now step into the role of the paternal parent on maternity leave (sort of) to change diapers, fix bottles, cook lunch, wipe noses, dry tears, and do the laundry for this precious three-week stretch.

Monday morning starts well and things continue on that way through much of the day. There was that especially unpleasant diaper change for baby girl accompanied by the 3 year old’s comments that nearly ruin cheese dip for me (you do the math) but beyond that, most every out-of-the-ordinary task on day one is handled with ordinary ease.

I am grateful for that; grateful that it goes well but even more grateful that it goes at all. Just four short years ago, our little family of three appeared complete, although our prayers to expand that family had not ceased. The fact that, today, I am home with two of my three children may not mean much to you, but that statement – “two of my three” – was foreign to our lives for so many years.

Things change. At age 41 I am again snapping an infant carrier into the car, just as I did at age 26 and again at 37. I am singing a new verse of an old lullaby; one I first sang 14 years ago.

I hope when the 3 year old is 41 she will remember this time at home with Dad. I hope she will share the memories and tell the stories to the baby girl who, even though she won’t remember, may get to relive the time through her big sister’s stories and recollections.

So, day one of “just me and the girls” goes pretty well. No injuries, no extended crying, no delays, no dilemmas (except for that one diaper incident) and most of all, no regrets on my part for being right where I was today and where I will be tomorrow.

New Verse Of An Old Lullaby

By 8:30, on a typical Monday morning, I am in my office, in my squeaky brown dress shoes and pleated pants, evaluating the dilemmas and the deadlines of the week ahead. It’s not the low point in my week (for some reason, I dislike Tuesdays more than Mondays) but it’s about as far as you can get from quitting time on a Friday.

But not so this Monday morning; this one was different.

8:30 this Monday finds me at home, in jeans and a t-shirt, staring into the toothless grin of my 11 week-old daughter. Her chin glistens from the slobber she’s been able to manufacture since I first plucked her from her crib two minutes ago and her cheeks are so chubby that it must make holding her head up even more difficult.

Anyway, this Monday, and most of the next three weeks to follow, are going to be filled by such moments. After all, during that time I will be the “stay at home” Dad and primary caregiver for a rambunctious 3 year old and her baby sister (the aforementioned baby girl).

Despite my disdain of Monday and Tuesday mornings in the office, I am certainly appreciative of a job that allows me Mondays like this one too. With the wife headed off to her job for the first time in three months, I now step into the role of the paternal parent on maternity leave (sort of) to change diapers, fix bottles, cook lunch, wipe noses, dry tears, and do the laundry for this precious three-week stretch.

Monday morning starts well and things continue on that way through much of the day. There was that especially unpleasant diaper change for baby girl accompanied by the 3 year old’s comments that nearly ruin cheese dip for me (you do the math) but beyond that, most every out-of-the-ordinary task on day one is handled with ordinary ease.

I am grateful for that; grateful that it goes well but even more grateful that it goes at all. Just four short years ago, our little family of three appeared complete, although our prayers to expand that family had not ceased. The fact that, today, I am home with two of my three children may not mean much to you, but that statement – “two of my three” – was foreign to our lives for so many years.

Things change. At age 41 I am again snapping an infant carrier into the car, just as I did at age 26 and again at 37. I am singing a new verse of an old lullaby; one I first sang 14 years ago.

I hope when the 3 year old is 41 she will remember this time at home with Dad. I hope she will share the memories and tell the stories to the baby girl who, even though she won’t remember, may get to relive the time through her big sister’s stories and recollections.

So, day one of “just me and the girls” goes pretty well. No injuries, no extended crying, no delays, no dilemmas (except for that one diaper incident) and most of all, no regrets on my part for being right where I was today and where I will be tomorrow.

We Cant Last

We’ve been good, but we can’t last …

It’s been over 50 years since a trio of Chipmunks (that’s right, Chipmunks) made a lasting contribution to the culture of Christmas with a little song most of us know very well.

For sure, “The Chipmunk Song” has enjoyed lasting appeal since its release in the late fall of 1958. Multiple generations have had the opportunity to sing along with Alvin, Simon and Theodore while they decorated the tree; drove to Grandma’s or waded through wrapping paper on Christmas morning. Passing through the years -- from vinyl grooves to digital files -- the song retains all its charms, highlighted by Alvin’s passionate plea for a hula hoop. 

However, while that plea may have stolen the show, the song’s message is more about Christmas in the present than Christmas presents.  Sure, a hula hoop might be a nice reward, but Alvin and the boys were really seeking relief from their efforts to be good. “We’ve been good, but we can’t last” they confess.

Indeed, who can?

Right there, in the middle of this much-loved novelty song, we hear the echoes of humanity’s enduring plea ... the plea for relief from our own efforts at redemption.

A plea for mercy and grace.

This cry for relief pre-dates Christmas; born thousands of years earlier, during mankind’s futile efforts to find redemption under the Old Testament law. That law was a burden no man could bear and a standard no man could meet.  If being “good” depended on meeting that standard then, truly, goodness could not last.

But then, Christmas finally arrived.  

There was Jesus – Christmas in flesh and blood; bringing with Him redemption and salvation.  Mankind’s plea was answered by a Gift we did not deserve and grace flooded over our futile efforts to achieve “good.” By grace, through faith, we could last.

Many places in Scripture reference this wonderful news, including the Apostle Paul’s plain and simple words in Galatians 2:16: “Nevertheless knowing that a man is not justified by the works of the Law,” writes the Apostle, “but through faith in Christ Jesus.”

There is no more effort, no more law, no more worrying about the staying power of our goodness. In place of all that? Faith.

This year, when you hear Alvin and the boys renew their plea for Christmas’ quick arrival, you will find simple holiday joy in their words.  You will smile at the thought of a Chipmunk and a hula hoop and maybe even at the thought of your own childhood impatience once associated with the holiday.

However, my wish for you is that you will find your greatest joy in the realization that Christmas stays. The holiday celebration may come once a year, but the meaning of the season, the Savior, never leaves.  His Word tells us so.

Yes, for as long as The Chipmunk Song is played, Alvin will still want that hula hoop. However, for as long as eternity rolls – we can enjoy the gift of grace.  With that gift, we can indeed last.

I Heard It As I Drove By

I don’t really like the phrase “old home place” but I guess it’s the most appropriate way to describe it.

Anyway, I drove by the “old home place” earlier this week and it was easy to see that the colors of fall, which add a very special value to the property in October, are now gone. In their place, the browns of winter are already settling in. Although the leaves were still bright in the morning sun, they no longer displayed the array of colors that I now realize I took for granted during my youth, when I lived right in the middle of all that beauty each autumn.

It’s funny where you mind goes in instances like that. Driving by, I realized those were same winter browns that would be in place come late December. Thus the same winter browns I recognize from so many old Christmas morning photos taken in the front yard of that home place; photos of boys on new bikes or boys shooting new BB guns. Or perhaps, photos of boys doing both. On those mornings, the browns of winter were full of Christmas magic.

They say you can’t go home again and honestly, I’m not sure I really need to. So I did not stop at the empty house. However, I think its okay to brush up against the old home with a drive-by once in a great while.  Anymore frequently than that and I might take it all for granted again.

It’s also been said the sense of smell can trigger memories more strongly than any other sense. But on this morning, it was a sound, or at least the remembrance of a sound, that shuttled me back in time 30 years. It was the squealing of school bus brakes. That sound somehow filled my ears as I drove past the spot where Bus Number 5 used to stop on that old blacktop road (it wasn’t striped in those days).

For restless riders who spent waaaay too much time on a school bus in the afternoons, the squealing of school bus brakes was the sound of home. When that squeal happened in front of your house, boy oh boy, you knew you were mere minutes away from an after-school snack and another episode of Gilligan’s Island.

In our case the bus actually stopped around the corner from our house; sort of equal distance between the neighbor’s house and ours. But that was fine; back then we were thin enough to slip through the space between the end of our chain link fence and the first post of the barbed wire fence. Once through, it was every man for himself as we raced down the hill to the front door.

And what about that front yard we raced through? As I drove by it, I brushed up against another memory of those BB guns and the hollow, metallic thud sound made when a BB would strike a pop can. Somewhere in that yard, I thought, are thousands of BBs shot from dozens of different guns over the years. Buried there beneath the grass are the teeny tiny reminders of three boys who passed many an hour taking aim at Pepsi cans, perched on a flat rock out by the propane tank; each BB representing a brief moment from my happy childhood.

Of course, the memory of one sound leads to another. Also buried in that yard is one red aluminum arrow, used only once. Standing on the west end of the yard, I pulled back the bowstring and let the arrow fly towards the target on the east end. It skipped on the ground (so much for my archery skills) and was never to be seen again.  I remember the rattling sound as the arrow skipped into the leaves and the rocks. I hunted for what seemed like hours for that arrow but to this day, it still eludes me. (By the way, I never looked for a single BB :)

There are plenty of other sounds to recall; sounds that still hang over that yard. Sounds like a tennis ball hitting the side of the well house so that a 12-year old baseball player could dive for it on the rebound. Sounds of dogs barking all night (dozens of dogs over the years), sounds of the wind blowing through the trees in the backyard, sounds of me arguing with my brothers after a particularly heated game of wiffle ball, the sound of a basketball’s thud as it was dribbled on the dirt and rock driveway and the sounds of a thousand other moments spent somewhere between the front porch and road.

No, I didn’t stop at the old home place, but I sure heard it as I drove by.

Somewhere in the food chain...

I’ve come to realize that few lunchtime experiences are more humbling than standing at the fast food counter waiting for your number to be called.

There we were, about 7 of us, all gathered around the front of the popular eatery; cups of soda and receipts in hand; all hoping that the next tray of nachos, burgers, burritos or fries had our names on it. Deep down, all of us were secretly hoping our order would somehow leapfrog all the rest in that long chain of food preparation taking place just a few feet away.

“Number 198” the server says as she places the tray on the counter. And even though my number is “201” I still lean in to take a look, just to make sure those wrappers don’t bear too close a resemblance to my order. After all, orders do get confused sometimes.

“Excuse me,” says 198 as he weaves his way through the waiting crowd with the tray in one hand and 32 ounces of raspberry tea in the other; so all of us back up to give this suddenly-enviable food recipient plenty of room. He’s now like some kind of fast food royalty and we are humbled by his presence. After all, he’s crossed over and is no longer one of us. That blue tray is his ticket from the land of the waiting “have nots” into the realm of the dining “haves.” It’s a status the rest of us desperately hope to attain the next time a tray hits the counter.   

Of course, it’s an anxious, nervous couple of minutes. From the moment the order-taker says “don’t call us, will call you when it’s ready” to the moment you finally unwrap your own purchases like a kid on Christmas morning, you’re hanging in no-man’s land; in an anxious place of limbo like the dog who thought he heard the can opener but can’t quite smell the food yet.  

Why are we anxious? For starters, we’ve paid for food we’ve yet to receive. We’ve made a monetary commitment to the promise of a “Combo Number 7” but that promise is yet to be fulfilled. All we really have is a small piece of paper with a number on it and Mr. 198 as an example of what is to come. And we’re also anxious because this kind of thing doesn’t happen everywhere. After all, I fill my car with gas before the pump ever spits out my receipt; I already have my cart full of groceries before I ever enter the checkout line, and by the time I get my electric bill, it’s for kilowatts that I have already used. But when it comes to midday nourishment on the run, its pay now, eat a little bit later. Thus, we learn patient too. And isn’t it funny how patient goes hand in hand with humility?

No, this is by no means a knock on fast food. Really, this is not a knock on anything. Rather, it’s just an observation of one of those times in life we’ve all experienced before and will certainly experience again. And I don’t mean the fast food part; I mean the humbling part.

We Knew This Place

It was lunchtime in midtown Manhattan and our little band of first-time Big Apple visitors was looking for a bite. 

Guided by our Okie-outlook, we thought we could walk right into a delicatessen on 5^th Avenue
and get a seat. (Somehow we weren’t aware that there were more people on that one city block than ever packed the stands for the Salina versus Locust Grove football game).

Waiting in crowds seems to be a way of life in NYC. You wait to get in the door, then you wait to order and then you wait for a table. You wait for the restroom too. Then there’s the wait for the bus or the taxi cab and then the waiting in traffic. No wonder they call it the “city that never sleeps”; if you did fall asleep, you would probably lose your place in line.

Anyway, the idea of dining at a real New York deli quickly drowned in a boiling sea of people. So we kept walking, not really knowing where we were going but fortunately we had the Empire State Building as some sort of landmark. Walking just seemed to be a better approach than waiting. Eventually we were on the sidewalk right in front of the grand old building. I remember thinking “this is just about where King Kong came crashing down.”

The observation deck of city’s most famous skyscraper gets plenty of attention, but on this day we were more interested in the restaurant on the ground floor. But like I said, it was lunchtime in Manhattan. So, prompted by our Okie impatience, we kept walking.

Finally, we spotted a familiar restaurant sign; one that is easy to recognize whether you live along Lake Hudson or the Hudson River. It was an eatery and a menu we already knew well. And though it was also crowded (compared to its Tulsa counterparts), we decided to just go ahead and wait here. We were on familiar ground and after our long, fruitless walk, we decided this was a good place to be. We knew this place and that made all the difference.

Long story short, we didn’t get the NYC eatery experience that day. We didn’t gather in a booth at a real NYC pizzeria or try the Reuben at a real NYC deli, or even grab a hot dog from a street vendor. Instead, in the midst of so much unfamiliar territory, both impressed and pressed by our surroundings, we found something very familiar and recharged our proverbial batteries there.

So I guess the real NYC dining experience will have to wait until next time. But I did walk away from that episode realizing just how comforting it can be at times to find the familiar amidst so much unfamiliar territory.

I think that’s a pretty good life lesson too, whether you’re walking the streets of a strange city or just feel your life drifting into uncharted waters. There are some things; actually, there is some One, who never changes. And that One needs to be familiar to all of us.

When that happens, you can find comfort, and be filled, no matter where you go.

Hide and Seek

Ever tried to play Hide and Seek with a three-year old?

Boy oh boy, these kids have NO idea what they’re doing.

Example A: My second-born daughter (D2). She’s currently three-years old and absolutely loves to play what she think is hide and seek in the backyard.

Here’s how that works:

D2: “Daddy, let’s play Hide and Seek, okay?”

Me: Okay, go hide, I’ll count.

D2: (while running away) “Onaway, I’m going to hide.”

Me: “One, two, three”… and so on, until “TENHEREICOME!”

By this time, D2 is laying face down in the grass, about 10 feet from me, giggling uncontrollably. “Are you hiding somewhere?” I ask. “Yes!” she screams, as she looks up at me. “I’m hiding.”

So I walk over, touch her on the back, and say “Gotcha.” And just like that, a spirited round of the pre-school version of “Hide and Seek” comes to an end.

Funny, huh? Funny how no actual “hiding” takes place in this version; and funny too that, when the “hider” doesn’t do much, the “seeker” doesn’t have to do much either.  But in the three-year old version, none of that seems to defeat the purpose of the game. And in the purest sense of the word, this is a childish approach to Hide and Seek.

But as I watched D2 giggling face down in the grass the other night, I realized that many of us, as adults, still play a childish game of Hide and Seek. Like a three-year old in the confines of their own backyard, we actually think there is some place we can go that the Seeker can’t see us. Or in fact we just believe that if we hide our own eyes, we are somehow “out of sight, out of mind.”

Even King David tried to play this childish game with the Lord. At a time when he should have covered his own eyes, he didn’t. Soon enough, Bathsheba was in his home and he was looking for ways to hide it from Uriah and apparently, from God. There he was, out in the open before the Lord, with his eyes and heart turned away, thinking he was succeeding at this very serious game of Hide and Seek. Yet The Lord’s eyes were on David the whole time.

Perhaps our sins are not like David’s but our feeble attempts to hide from the Lord’s presence certainly can be. Perhaps we think, if we don’t look for Him, then He won’t see us. Perhaps we think – like a child with its face down in the grass – we can occupy ourselves with other things and He won’t notice. We know He’s out there, because we’ve communicated with Him before, but somehow, now, we think its best to look the other way, expecting that He will do the same. But He doesn’t. So in other words, the game we think we’re playing with the Lord really isn’t Hide and Seek at all. It’s more just “convince ourselves we’re hidden and hope He doesn’t seek.”

David came to this realization and recorded it for us in Psalms. “Where can I go from Your Spirit,” he asks the Lord in Psalm 139:7. He could sleep in Hell, he could fly away, he could drop into the sea, he could hide in the darkness but none of that would matter to God, David admits, because he cannot flee from God’s presence. What makes us think we are any better at Hide and Seek?  

It may be a fun game with the three-year-old; it’s no way to live a life.

“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child,” wrote Paul in 1 Corinthians 13:11. “When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.”

Hide and Seek belongs in the backyard. Not in your heart.

Daddy-hood in 3D

I was just getting ready to warm up for my midlife crisis when my wife gave me the news… child number three was on the way.

I remember when I use to tease her about something like that happening.

Of course, we were thrilled; thrilled, excited, happy and grateful to the Lord for yet another miracle.

But, we weren’t prepared. We quickly took inventory of our situation and realized that space-wise, baby stuff-wise, energy-wise, money-wise -- and did I mention, space-wise?-- we may be lacking a bit.  

However, as time wore on we eventually got our bearings back and, after the ultrasound confirmed there was just one, we really did celebrate.

Now, mind you, we didn’t celebrate like we did when we were first time parents. Not because we weren’t as happy (certainly we were) but more because we weren’t physically able. After all, I was 26 when D1 (daughter number 1) arrived; I will be 40 when D3 finally makes her appearance (that D3 designation is also based on ultrasound confirmation). And in between, the time and effort spent chasing and playing with D2 - the 3-year old who came along when I was 37 - has certainly contributed to my aging process. (In fact, it was probably a blessing in disguise the day the windstorm took our trampoline.)

Sure, to be totally honest, we would have done it differently if the Lord would have allowed it. If it had been up to us, and not up to Him, there wouldn’t be nearly 11 years separating D1 and D2. Rather, our children (all 3 of the D's) would probably be in double-digit ages by now, which means the living room wouldn’t currently look like a toy box explosion and there wouldn’t be a cabinet stockpiled with D3’s diapers, ready and waiting, in my garage.

But I am thankful that it didn’t happen the way we had planned. If it had, then, on a perfectly acceptable schedule -- laid out before us in black and white -- we would have stepped through life one phase at a time and stepped right past this "He works in mysterious ways moment". Instead of installing an infant seat in the car, I'd probably be installing a ceiling fan in the man cave. Instead of helping to decide baby names, I would be helping to decide what to do with the spare bedroom when D1 flies the nest. Instead of opening our doors to Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny in the coming years, we would simply be longing for the days when they used to come around. 

But in His plans, the nest is not going to be empty for a while; cookies and milk will still be on our Christmas Eve "to do" list and, hopefully, "Daddy's home!" will be a familiar sound for years to come.

Yes,  that midlife crisis stuff will have to wait because Daddy-hood, it seems, is just getting started. And, instead of our own plans, laid out in black and white before us, we're following the Lord’s plans, laid out before us in all the vivid colors that we could never have planned for on my own.

So what if we we're not prepared? We're ready. Ready to experience His plans..... in 3D.

Grandad's Pedometer

This was the early 1980s, maybe even the late 1970s, so all the digital gadgets we now take for granted weren’t around yet. Instead, Grandad had one of those pedometers that looked like a vehicle’s odometer. It made a steady clicking noise with each step he took. And in those days, just after his retirement from a 35 year career spent making tires at a BF Goodrich plant, he was racking up the miles on that pedometer.

I was 10, maybe 12. It was that very special time in my life, so long ago, when my grandfather was still taller, stronger and faster than I was. So I tagged along behind, trying to keep up, as we went through the gate past the barn, cut through the pasture behind his house, crawled through the barbed-wire fence and finally found ourselves on the old railroad bed. It was the height of summer, everything was green or blue and the only thing either one of us really had to do was live and breathe.

Even in those days, 30 years ago, that railroad bed was long removed from its days of service. There were neither ties nor rails to be found; only the gravel bed was left, but it was wide, smooth and inviting. It cut a long path through the countryside just south of Miami, Oklahoma, and just east of my grandparents’ property. It was the perfect place to put that pedometer through its paces.

So Grandad did. He moved fast in those days, so I moved faster than I was used to, just to keep up. I remember that he sang or whistled or hummed, or did a combination of all three (I am certain those who knew him best can still hear that sound). The soundtrack for that walk was Grandad’s song, the click of the pedometer and the crunch of our feet in the gravel.

Why this memory suddenly came to me on a cold and dreary winter day, I don’t know. After all, I was sitting in an office, surrounded by four mustard-colored walls, with a space heater at my feet, work piled on my desk and the weight of adulthood pressing down on me, when a long ago walk came to mind. Seconds before I was completing a routine work assignment and then suddenly, out of the blue, that memory showed up. It was fresh and clean and warm and clear and the passage of time had given it great value; perfecting it in my memory.

I remembered how we would walk south, until the railroad bed met the dirt road. Then we would follow the road back west, eventually turning north on the paved road, for just a few yards, until we were back home again. Looking back now, I know it wasn’t much of a hike distance-wise. At the time though, I felt like we had proven ourselves worthy to travel with Lewis and Clark.

In the fall of 1994, probably 15 years or so after that summer walk, my grandparents moved away from that place. By then, Grandad was the veteran of two hip replacements and one open-heart surgery. As a result, it was now a cane, not a pedometer that accompanied him on walks, short as they may be.

Looking back, I cannot say that I learned anything profound on that walk, or the many others I took with him in those early days of my life. Sure, I picked blackberries and threw rocks and maybe even found an occasional artifact or two, capable of holding a 10-year old’s attention. But I don’t remember asking him any probing life questions, and I don’t remember him offering any deep insight. Sure, some of that came in my later years, but not on that day, not on that walk. Instead, it was just my Grandad and I, the sound of our walk, and so much summer freedom and time that we could afford to waste it in large amounts.

But as I look back today, I realize that, instead of wasting it, we have preserved it. .

First Dispatch From The Man Loft

I am sitting in a lawn chair. Sweating… and typing on a 12-year old keyboard, attached to a 12 year old computer, perched on a 15-year old patio table. I’m upstairs, in my shop building.

In other words; I’m in the office of my man cave.

Man-cave. Actually, I am not crazy about that term. Aren't caves usually underground? Not mine. Mine is above the place where I store my tools and park my car when it’s hailing. And caves are supposed to be cool spots. My man cave is more of a sweat box.

Nonetheless. I love it. And shouldn’t I? I mean, come on.... I live in a home crawling with females. A wife, two daughters (AND one of those is a teen), and one more child, baby girl, on the way any day now. Even our horse is a female. Okay, I will admit our dog is a male, but you couldn’t tell it by the way we groom the little dandy.

So it’s really just me. I kill the bugs. I lift the heavy things. I truly wear the pants in the family. And, on Sunday afternoons like this one -- when its too hot to be outside -- I go upstairs, I hibernate, if only for an hour or two, in the "man loft" (yeah, lets go with that term instead).

But this is really not a piece on the trials and tribulations of daughter-dominated Daddyhood (not this time anyway). And it’s not a piece on the sanctity and necessity of the man space (that should go without saying, right?). This is really about me testing out this old computer, updating my blog and sweating off some of Sunday lunch in the process.

We learned this morning in Sunday School that the cell phones we all refuse to live without today have more than 100 times the computing power of the crafts that carried the Apollo astronauts into space.

Imagine that..... More than 100 TIMES. Way back when they went to the moon with less technology than most of us take into the toilet with us these days. Of course, I'm sure they would have preferred the technology of today, if available, but the fact that they orbited the earth without a sliding keyboard, MP3 player and a dedicated Facebook button is still pretty impressive in the 21st century.

What does that have to do with a sweaty Sunday afternoon, upstairs in the man loft? Honestly, I don't know. I guess it comes to mind because I am staring at a computer monitor that was out of date before George W. Bush went into office.

However, it's my computer monitor in my man loft. And since I can read what I'm typing (and hoping you will later too) I know it still works.

That's important in a man loft, where most things are surplused, hand-me-downs or categorized as too-worn-out-for-the-living-room. My grandmother's old couch, an old television that didn’t survive the digital conversion and a few other dusty items are right at home here. So am I.

But right now, I'm missing my girls a little bit (plus, no joke, it’s hot up here today).

A Winter Sunset Promises A Summer Day

A mid November sunset fades across the horizon, pulling color out of the day. As the last rays of oranges and pinks surrender to the twilight, only blue is left to paint the hills. Soon enough, it too will give way to black night.

Still, for a few short, calm moments, that cold blue dominates the landscape. As it coats the forests and the fields, the houses and the highways, it reminds us all that, not only is another day giving in but so is another season. It is all too clear that the brief and brilliant colors of fall have finally turned loose. As they go, the promise of a long winter’s nap – something so perfect and planned in the economy of nature – is even closer now than it was at sunrise.

Yet, while the cold blue of a November sunset tells of chilly days ahead, we can take solace in knowing the earth is merely sleeping. It rests beneath a winter’s blanket for now, so that it can warm us under summer skies later.

Yes indeed, summer comes back. It always has. It always does. And sparkling greens and warm blues and reds and oranges and yellows and busy bees and honeysuckle and smells and sounds come with it. All are well rested.

Surely every season testifies to the fact that, sometime, somewhere in our future, there will be a land of eternal light. There will be endless days of warmth where the four-leaf clovers practically find us and the colors of the landscape are all new -- special colors the Creator has reserved for “some glad morning” in the “Sweet Bye and Bye.”

Until then, He gives us sunsets … as well as sunrises. Until then, He gives us fall, winter, spring and yes, summer. Together, they all teach us about passing times and changing seasons; about life and death, warmth and cold, sunburns and frostbites; cold mornings and warm evenings. We experience it all in our lives and in nature itself. Everyday, at dawn and dusk, God tells us that, for everything, there is a season.

So, as a mid November sunset fades across the horizon, pulling color out of the day, it should also put a promise into our heart.

The promise of glory …
The promise of tomorrow …

Bubbles in the breeze...

In just an instant, there were bubbles everywhere.

With a little help from a battery-operated bubble-making machine, my two-year old was more than capable of filling the backyard with hundreds of those shiny, sudsy spheres.

Yet the bubbles – lighter than air and with absolutely nothing to hide – found no strength in numbers, especially in the face of a late April breeze. As soon as they were created, they were pushed by the gentle winds. Many collapsed under the pressure from this unseen source, disappearing as quickly as they had arrived.

Sure, a few bubbles overachieved, and rode the breeze, at least for a while. Some of those went as far as the oak tree by the propane tank, but most hit the side of the car or were simply driven to the ground. All they left behind was a soapy sheen on the rocks; the only remnant of their existence, and one that would soon evaporate in the sun and wind.

Yet, the little blonde-haired bubble-maker remained undaunted by the fragile state of the floating spheres. She continued to fill the backyard air with bubbles and giggles. In fact, I think her knowledge of the bubbles’ fragile state even heightened her desire to create them. Bubble after bubble, smile after smile, she proudly continued on, with wide eyes and happy feet.

From my perch in a nearby lawn chair, I couldn’t help but smile as I watched her manufacturing so much of her own joy, which seemed so easy for her to do. Soon, I tried to focus in on one small part of that joy – one bubble – from its creation to its demise, against the side of my car. In all, it “lived” (for lack of a better term) for about 15 seconds.

As I watched its fragile life pass before my very eyes, I was reminded of the words of Psalm 103: “The wind blows over it, and it is gone” writes the Psalmist in verse 16. “And its place remembers it no more.”

Stacked up against eternity, our earthly existence is like a bubble in the breeze. Yet, still, we ARE created. Our very existence is fashioned by a Creator who knows our frailty; a Creator who sees right through us; a Creator who made us to shine for His pleasure, and a Creator who finds great joy in His Creation. Again and again.

Let’s pray we find just as much joy, and value, in having been created.

The Mutt and Me

Our paths crossed early in the morning; in the middle of a shady spot on a side street. I was in my car, driving to work. He was on his four paws, sauntering across the road, headed who knows where.

For just a moment, it was easy to envy him. He was obviously setting his own pace and charting his own path. Most impressive though, he was oblivious to my presence.

On the other hand, I was running late and thus, neither my time nor my pace were really my own. As for MY path? Well, that was all too familiar. I had to steer around him, but otherwise, my car could have probably driven itself to the office.

But if there had been time, I might have stopped to pet that mutt. (And I use “mutt” in the most affectionate and accurate way possible. After all, mutts were the dogs of my youth.) If time had allowed, I might have parked the car, patted his head, pulled his ears, and engaged in a meaningful, though one-sided, conversation with a mutt, right there in the middle of a shady spot on a side street 

Unfortunately, what might have been yielded to what had to be, and we went our separate ways.

I spent that day in climate-controlled air, under artificial light. He probably spent the day in a cool, dark spot, under a porch somewhere.

Event mutts have it pretty good sometimes.