In His Shoes

A few weeks ago I took our kids to see a few of our neighbors run in their first cross country race.  It was no small event either!  There were more than 2,200 runners between the men's and women's High School varsity teams, jv teams and the middle school teams.  Our neighbors and friends, Shawn and James, are 5th graders.  They are on the middle school team because at their school they don't get enough interest in cross country to fill out a team with 6th, 7th, and 8th graders.  So, in their desperation they open it up to 5th graders too.  Shawn and James were among the youngest runners at the event.  Though that made for some increased nerves, it didn't dampen their excitement!  At shortly after 1 pm, after all the older runners had run their races, it was finally their turn.  The starting line was 80 yards wide and runners were lined up shoulder to shoulder, 6 and 7 runners deep.  There were hundreds of spectators lined up all along the quarter mile corridor that marked the first part of the race.  The starter stood in the middle of the field.  The sun reflected off of his gun as he raised it.  It went off with a pop and the throng of runners raced out of the gates.  It was hard to see through the masses, but we were able to catch a glimpse of James and Shawn running side by side down the opening stretch.  James' eyes were focused in front of him, his face rather flat with concentration.  Shawn was looking around, taking it all in.  You could see wonder on his face as he listened to the crowd and felt the energy of the runners all around him.  We yelled for them as they passed, though I'm sure our voices were lost in the cheers of a hundred others.  Nevertheless, we yelled their names and allowed ourselves to get carried away in the excitement of the moment.  The moment we had been standing around waiting for had finally arrived and even as a fan we felt the adrenaline of it all.  We cheered and gestured, leaning in.  The race had begun!

 James and his family live across the street from us.  His family is a lot like ours, they are white, educated, middle income, a stable two parent home that is not without struggle, but also fully benefiting from the privileges that each of those categories afford them.  Shawn occupies a different world completely, even though he lives only a block a way... or rather he did live a block away.  A few months ago he got off the school bus with his younger brother to see all of their possession piled on the curb.  He and his brother sorted through a few things, grabbing what they could carry and then set out in search of their mother.  They ended up staying for the next several nights at a "friend's" house... though they didn't remember his name and their mom was staying somewhere else.  This wasn't the first time they had been evicted, and it likely won't be the last.  Just another day, even if it was Shawn's 10th birthday.

As James and Shawn moved out of view I grabbed the hands of our boys (Niyah was in a child backpack on my back, cheering just as boisterously if not more than the rest of us, clapping and yelling "running!  running!")  We held hands to try to stay together as we moved to another point on the course where we hoped to catch a glimpse of our runners again and continue to cheer them on.  It was a bit tricky to navigate through paths in the tall brush and through the crowd of others who were doing the same to cheer on their runners.  We made it to the next spot on the course with a few moments to spare.  We found a place that was less congested and scooted ourselves as close to the course as we dare without getting in the way of the runners.  The pack of runners had thinned enough that they now were just spread across a path about 10 yards wide.  It was congested but we were close enough to them that we hoped to get a good view of them and give them a boost with our encouragement.  Runners filed passed.  There was James!  We yelled and cheered!  "You are looking great James!"  "Keep it up!"  Not far behind him came Shawn.  "Go Shawn!"  "You've got this!"  "You are doing great."  Once they had passed we grabbed hands again and hurried off to our next spot.

Shawn and his 8 year old little brother now live in another neighborhood.  I'm not sure exactly where, but they still make it back to our neighborhood regularly.  You see, they have found a home with James and his family.  Shawn celebrated his 10th birthday at their house, the only birthday celebration he had.  Shawn is always full of questions when he is there, curious about the dynamics of life that is foreign to him?  "Where do you work?"  "When do you get home?"  "Do you get to stay in this house?"  "How did you get two cars?"  "You get to go to the pool because you work at that school?  Would you still get to go if you didn't work there anymore?"  "You have a bedtime, why?"  Shawn and his little brother don't have a bed time.  They stay with mom quite a bit of the time, but sometimes they live with an older brothers... unless the police come for them again and they have to go to jail... like they did two nights ago.

There was a lot more room to stand along the course on the far side, but now James and Shawn had passed and we had to wait for a break in the runners to get across and run to the next point.  We finally made it across.  We hustled again through the tall grass, across the field that was the opening stretch of the race and to a lane just on the other side where the runners were now passing.  It was a bit tricky running with Niyah (almost 2) in a backpack, Tate (almost 5) holding one hand, and Kai (7) who wants to run ahead with James and Shawn's younger brothers who are here watching the race too.  I'm trying not to lose sight of Kai and encouraging Tate to hustle... and stop dangling on my arm and wanting me to carry/swing him as we go!  "I can't carry you!  Use your feet and run!"  Niyah bounces vigorously in the backpack "Running!  Running!" she continues to squeal and clap.

We get to the next point in the course just in time to see James run by, though we are several spectators deep and don't really get to see or cheer for him much.  As a few of the spectators move to another point after already cheering their runners on we find a spot to slide in and are again right next to the course.  Here comes Shawn.  He is clearly tiring, but we yell for him and he sees us.  He hears us and picks up the pace enough to pass someone in front of him.  We turn to run to the next spot, the spot along the home stretch just before the finish.

Earlier in the day we saw James' mother.  She was still reeling from a frantic morning.  Shawn had not come over to the house at the agreed time in order to make it to the school and join the team when they left for the race.  James' mom had called the numbers she had, driven to several known relatives where he stays sometimes.  She eventually found him.  "Where have you been?!!  We've got to get you to the school!"  Shawn's reply, "I forgot."  He hadn't really forgotten.  He was so eager to tell me about the race the night before when I saw him playing at the park behind our house.  His reminder was why we were here to watch.  He is on the team because James is, and James' parents often invite he and his little brother to join them in the things they are doing.  It was a little bit of trouble tracking down Shawn's mom to get her to sign the waver so he could participate on the team, but now that he has permission James' parents help make sure he has what he needs and gets to where he needs to go.  This morning Shawn got up and couldn't find his uniform.  He didn't know what to do.  He didn't have anyone around who was there to help him find it.  He was embarrassed and feeling alone.  He didn't know what to do, so he just decided not to show up.  When James' mom eventually found him she whisked him off to the course where the rest of the team had already gathered.  She talked to the coach and did the necessary running to get him an extra uniform.  He now was wearing the team jersey... along with the shorts he had been wearing for at least the last three days and the weary looking high tops with ragged laces.  Yes, he was running a cross country race in worn out basketball shoes!

As we waited on the home stretch I listened to some of the others cheering near me!  "Pass that guy in front of you!  You got him!  He's afraid!"  "Run, Run!  You can make the top 20 if you kick it in!"  Neither James nor Shawn were in the top 20 or the top 100 for that matter.  James ended up finishing 102nd and Shawn somewhere around 150 out of more than 250 runners.  Not bad for two kids running in their first meet, competing against a field comprised of kids 1, 2 or 3 years older than them.  While writing this I had to look back at a text to remember what places they had finished.  That is a number that already faded from my memory.  What will not fade from my memory is the enduring image of the way the race ended.

As we stood along the home stretch James eventually came into view.  He was running strong.  By strong I mean his pace was good and he was pushing through to the finish.  I clarify that because of how starkly his 10 year old thin frame compared to so many of the runners with whom he was running.  Some obviously had been running and had a defined runners stride and the muscle definition that showed they had been prepared for this.  Some of the other runners were easily a foot taller than James.  He seemed small and somewhat frail in contrast, yet he was out there competing well.  He too had been prepared for this race.  His dad was a runner and was able to offer some additional coaching and tips before the race.  His parents had bought him good running shoes and shorts designed for running.  Though this was his first cross country race, he had competed a few months earlier in the Indianapolis half marathon (for the second year in a row!) and had finished among the best in his age group.  He had inherited running as it were.  He was a runner by family of origin and by the privileges that come with being a part of his family.  He was running well and we cheered, bursting with pride to see him growing into a family legacy that preceded him and yet is distinctly unique to him all at once.

After James passed we began peering through the clusters of runners trying to see Shawn.  After several moments he came into view and we began cheering him on.  He had never run a race this long before, and after 1.7 miles of a 1.8 mile race he was clearly dragging.  His high tops were loose and heavy as he trudged toward the finish.  And then he got close enough to hear us.  He heard his name and something changed!  A huge smile spread across his face, his feet became lighter, his upper body straightened, his stride quickened and he found something inside that he didn't know was there.  He began passing runners left and right, weaving somewhat wildly in and out as he pressed toward the finish.  He leaned across the finish line and finally allowed himself to slow down.  He was exhausted, but you couldn't tell that from his smile.

Shawn wasn't meant to run this race.  Though he has some great natural athleticism, that athleticism must often yield to his circumstances.  Unstable housing, food insecurity, transcience, incarceration, neglect... the violence of poverty stands as an unimaginable barrier.  Shawn doesn't have the comforts that come in the form of books being read regularly to him as a child, parents who are able to see talents or interests and pay for opportunities to be a part of teams or clubs or camps or lessons that develop those gifts.  He does not have a consistent bed time, certainty about where, when and from whom the next meal will come.  The legal system is not favorably inclined toward his family.  Their connections and experiences are not the kind that open up job opportunities in positions that offer a living wage or something well beyond that.  Reliable transportation means walking.  He doesn't know who to turn to when he can't find his cross country uniform.  Shawn wasn't meant to run in this race, but he ran!  He ran well!

This is a story about the contrast between two runners from different worlds, and it is more than that.  It is a story that highlights privilege and disadvantage, and it is more than that.  This is a story about how friendship across socioeconomic boundaries can close opportunity gaps, and it is more than that.  This is a story about what is already inside of people like Shawn.  Buried deep beneath any number of adversities and histories lies something more that waits to be called forth.  It waits for someone to cheer or shout, to know your name and believe in you.... it waits for someone to come find you when you have lost something, and are ashamed, and decide not to show up.  It waits in you.  It waits in me.  It waits!

Draw Me

You have seen me in my shame,

the shame that is my pride running wild,

that is my folly and unlove,

that is my weary misstep.  

Yet you love me.

I believe,

because you know these foibles, foolishness and face plants and yet you extend to me the most tender and lavish kind of love

and because 0f that I believe.

A love that sees me and draws me in,

into the fullness of your embrace,

the fullness of you that is so much more than me.  

I am enveloped, held, loved with a love that is not about my mistakes or my best moments,

A love that is so much richer, deeper, longer, yet no less for me.  

I am drawn, held in the stabilizing yet expansive heart of your deep desire, of love, of sorrow, of delight and of strength.

I hear you say “You are mine, and I am yours.”  

How can it be?

You have given me yourself and have invited me to call you mine?  

Mystery beyond the bounds of my imagination.

I don’t understand.  

No conceiving can encircle this love that surpasses, on it goes, yet so intimately and boundlessly mine.  

When I embrace it there is noting I can do with it but let it overwhelm me,
Filling me beyond my capacity to hold, overflow it must.  

Love that sets me to loving.  

Love that sets me to dancing, delighting, creating, whaling, grieving, longing.  

Love that is life, the very warmth of your breath alive in me.  

Drawing me in.

I am yours and you are mine.   

Light

It is right here in front of me again,
My folly and weakness on display as much as it has ever been.

It seems there is no end to my self-deception,
My false trappings I love, they coddle me from the truth of my vulnerability ... or so I think.

But here I am, in one of those moments where I am exposed,
Seeing as clearly as ever my beloved and chosen deceptions for what they are.

What will I do with it?
Will I be quick to try to rebuild the facade?
Will I refuse the invitation to life more vulnerable, more clear eyed?

or Will I step into the light that exposes me,
Out of the shadows, the familiar corners where I have been at home with my hiding.

I want what the light offers, free and true,
but fear has its grip on me.

How can I endure the onslaught of this piercing light, when a moment under its beam has completely sapped me?

Sapped and free, how can they go together?
No strength of my own and no burden to bear, does it work?

My doubt does more than give me pause,
it makes my feet itch to run...

and yet there is a strange appeal to the warmth of this light.

I have compensated for the dreary of my corner by putting on protective layers,
it is the life familiar to me...

interrupted in moments like this when there is no denying that the layers are sudo, warmth contrived;
synthetic warmth that allows me to exist, just exist
while the light beckons me to LIVE.

Do I have a choice?
Clearly I do as time and again I have inched back form the light into my corner,
layering again with clothing that I can see now is to my shame and not a protection from it.

Here I am,
Strangely warmed, tenderly wooed... I want to live,
but finding it again to be so counterintuitive to my modus operandi I must let go,
let die the life making of my own attempts

Devastated, undone, weary ... here i am.

You who are light, love, life
Too long I have lurked at the edges, convinced of my satisfaction with the indirect light...
making life in the shadows where I can add my own vestiges.

Here at the center I want to let go,
my pattern is one of retreat,
Will you still love me with abandon, I who am abandoner?

I am too fickle to offer you forever,
all I have to give is the me of this moment,
trusting that there is something about your light that can anchor my soul, still my wondering feet and eyes.

I want to be yours wholly, here in the light,
That you love me here in my most intimate created form, my nakedness

I am yours... and I hear you say you are mine.

Here... now... I am still.... you are.

Dad, will you?

... read with me, play swords with me, draw with me, play legos with me, get me juice, hold me until I can fall asleep, .......pay attention to me!

These are a few of the regular requests that shape fatherhood in this season.
They are sometimes direct, and always with feeling.
The form these questions take is not always as direct.  I often miss the request for attention, affection, comfort, consistency when it is concealed in some negative emotion.  When it is veiled in anger, accusation, aggression  I can lose my way.  I can get lost in the tangles of some behavior, a behavior that is trying to magnify the urgency of their plea.  And I don't make it through the brambles.

Wow, do I get irritated when a thorn jabs me!  It can be as if the whole of my perceptive powers are reduced to yanking out and crushing that brier.  In such moments I believe that if I can ensure that barb is snuffed out forever I have conquered the day and am making life better.  I have done my fatherly duty with strength!  My son or daughter will be better for it!  Or will they?

Will I?

Will you ... see me through the brambles, will you reach me through the stickers, will you stay with me when you are pricked for the thousandth time by my aggression, sassiness, defiance, disrespect.  Will you be patient as you pick the hundred stickers out of your socks?  Will you see me?

It will take my will... and so much more!  But I will!  You are worth reaching through the brambles for!  You are worth the scratch and infections, the irritations and working through the me that gets in the way.


Dad, I am not in the thicket... though I may have had something to do with it being there.  I'm not in there!  And that is why it is so hard to hear you when you speak to me from there.  I'm beyond it.  Come find me.  I'm waiting.  Come find me, will you dad?




- written in the spring of 2016

All I want for Christmas: a night in the Garage

One of the things that has come with being a parent is being more regularly confronted by the questions of desire.  Not only do Melissa and I ask ourselves what do we desire to instill in/give our kids, but we often discuss what it is our kids want and how we ought to navigate those interests.  We have talked about the kinds of character traits we want to instill in our kids, and out of that grew a list of family values that we crafted over the course of a few month.  Another thing that has come out of the questions about desire are decisions to adjust our schedule and finances to give Kai a chance to take drum and violin lessons and enrolling Tate in gymnastics.  We have had to navigate requests for watching movies, sweets, time with friends, new toys, etc.  We are constantly navigating desires, ours and theirs.

During Advent one of the questions that came up for us was what practices or traditions might we consider that will continue to draw our attention to the narrative of Jesus' birth.  We have in the past had birthday cake for Jesus.  We have reenacted the Christmas story by dressing up as different characters and reciting some lines.  We attend a Christmas Eve service and read the Christmas story.  Those have all been meaningful and helpful ways to turn our attention toward the biblical narrative, but it always seems worth it to ask again.  If our desire is that Kai, Tate and Niyah continue to grow to know Christ, how can we open the way for their eyes and heart to be drawn into this central story of his coming to earth?

As is the pattern for me, when Melissa poses such a question, I consider it an invitation to brain storming.  So I started throwing out ideas.  I figure that it usually takes some bad ideas to get to the good ones so I don't hold back on even some of the more harebrained things that cross my mind.  One of the first ideas I spouted was to spend the night as a family in the garage, the nearest thing we city dwellers have to a stable.  I was surprised when instead of remaining silent so I could move on to the next idea Melissa said, "Okay, lets do it!  But I'm volunteering to stay inside with Niyah (our 4 month old)!"  I paused for a moment to consider what I had suggested.  The weather was to be relatively mild, so if there was any year for a trial run on a potential family tradition, this was the year!  We began making plans.

We decided just Kai (5), Chloe (our golden retriever) and I would stay the night outside.  We considered including Tate (3) too, but then we remembered how our first family camping trip went this past summer.  We thought July heat or Melissa being 7.5 months pregnant might be the biggest obstacles to our first family tent camping adventure, but quickly discovered Tate's free and energetic spirit overshadowed both.  Among other memorable moments was our efforts at convincing him to settle down and sleep.  All the excitement of such an adventure created so much enthusiasm in him that he continued to get out of his sleeping bag to give everyone one more hug and tell them good night "one more time."  It was cute and all, but by 10:30 we were done with being pounced on for one more hug and wanted sleep.  So, having eliminated less humane options for forcing him to hold still we decided that he and I would go sleep in the car.... where he could be strapped into his car seat!  That memory sealed our decision that Tate would get a pass on this year's Christmas night in the garage.   

When we told Kai he seemed to not think too much of it.  A day or two before Christmas he asked if we were still going to do it.  Other than that he didn't show much of what he thought about it, which for Kai is a bit unusual.

As Melissa and I thought more about it, we decided we would add the element of stopping by other "inns" around the neighborhood.  We called some neighbors who we knew would be home for Christmas and told them what we were up to.  We asked if they would mind playing along and turning us away.  Some seemed just fine with their role, while others were more reluctant to tell us they had no room.  One friend even offered to drop us off a little farther from home to help us feel the strain of a long journey a little more.  A kind offer, but we declined. :)

During the Christmas eve service Kai asked a few more times if we were really going to sleep in the garage.  He seemed to be getting excited about it.  By the time we got home he was eager to pack his bag.  He loaded up a stuffed animal lizard, snacks, his blankie, a few books, filled his water bottle, put on his pajamas and coat and declared himself ready for our "long journey."  We read the Christmas story with the rest of the family and then set out.

We walked the neighborhood a little, getting into our roles.  I role played with Kai a conversation that would happen at our stops.  I wanted him to be an active participant, so he practiced laying out our situation and asking for a warm place to stay.  When he was ready we stopped at our first house.  The neighbors came to the door, their kids were already in pajamas.  Kai explained our predicament and laid out our request.  They were kind but said they had no room.  They  expressed their hope that we might find room elsewhere before closing the door.

At the second stop we were invited in momentarily by one of the family members who hadn't been informed of her role, only to be interrupted and turned away by someone more in the know.  As we turned to leave they did offer a suggestion as to where else we might try, though that was the place we had just come from.

At our third stop no one answered.  "Maybe they stopped answering because they are full already," Kai suggested.

As we walked down the block to our next stop Kai asked what we would do if we didn't find a place.  He was concerned and talked about being tired from the long journey.  I didn't have any more of an answer for him than that we would keep trying.

At our next stop we heard a similar message.  There was no room here either.  We asked if they knew of anything, were there any other options for lodging, even if it was for just a night.  The inn keeper seemed to see the weariness and desperation in us and paused.  She then suggested that we might stay in her stable if we had no other options.  Kai looked at me briefly with eyes wide before turning back to say,  "Yeah, we don't mind!  We'll stay in your stable."  As we walked around the house to meet the inn keeper at the stable Kai couldn't stop expressing his eagerness and relief that we had found a place.

The inn keeper opened the stable doors and we stepped inside, began to unload our bags and ready ourselves for the night.  We brushed our teeth, removed our shoes and jumped into the sleeping bags that had been left for us.  As we lay in the dark waiting to warm up we had a few details to get worked out.  Kai wanted to clarify exactly which of us was Mary!  He had claimed the role of Joseph, so I suggested I could be Mary.  He sat with that for a short moment and declared, "No, you can't be Mary.  Boys can't have babies.  How about Chloe be Mary and we can both be Joseph."  Originally Chloe's role was the only one that had been clearly defined.  She was going to be the donkey, but with our desperate need for a mother she was promoted from livestock to the mother of God!  As it would turn out, she played the role well.  She had a very restless night, getting up several times to change positions and without a word clearly declared her desire for the comforts of a more "normal" sleeping arrangement.

Though Kai often is asleep only moments after laying down, the excitement of the days events held off sleep a little longer on this eve.  "Joseph Number Two, aren't you glad we found a place?  I don't know what we would have done if we wouldn't have.  We would probably still be out there looking!"  "That inn keeper sure was kind."  "How long do you think we can stay?  Do you think we will be able to stay here tomorrow too, or will we have to find somewhere else to stay?"  "I'm sure glad we found this place!"

Before long he settled in and I listened as his breathing changed to the more relaxed rhythms of sleep.  Here we were in a cold, dark stable with a restless "donkey" turned Mary.  Though it was far earlier than I usually go to sleep I found it easy to settle in to rest.  It was a silent night, holy in its own way.  I drifted off to sleep.

Around 4 a.m. Kai woke with cold feet, so I snuck into the "inn" to get him some warm socks.  He crawled into my sleeping bag for the rest of the night and slept until shortly after 8.  I didn't sleep much once he joined me, but was at ease knowing that he was resting and that, at least for this night, he had enthusiastically embraced living life with Christ.  Our deepest desires for him were coming to life as we slept in the garage.

Waiting for Grace

Eleven years ago our hearts were fertile with hope.  Melissa and I had been married three years, just finished seminary together, and were ready to embrace the new adventure of becoming parents.  We were unprepared for the long and barren journey that lay ahead.

I remember the decent into the valley.  The dip in the path felt subtle, almost imperceptible, after the first month.  "Well, we must have been off on the timing.  That’s okay.  We have time."  Two, three, six, eleven months passed.  

Silly things, like the agreement we made with a good friend that we would have a baby as soon as he got married, became less silly.  He got married.  We weren't having a baby.  

Questions began to overshadow our dismissive "There is always next month."  The questions in the earlier months were hard but were still marked by hope.  "What do we need to do differently?"  "Are there some dietary changes of vitamins that might help?  Timing?  Temperature?”  

Twelve months had passed.  There was officially a name for people who had come this far: infertile.

There were ways in which the label was a relief.  It somehow legitimized our struggle.  It felt a bit like an unbiased spectator saying that our path was really hard.  We were having a hard time articulating to ourselves or others just how devastating it was to have our hope erode when the life we wanted to hold slipped from the womb.  "Infertile" gave us language to talk about our pain.

We resented the jokes people made: "I barely did much more than look at my wife and we got pregnant."  The path grew darker.

With the official diagnosis of infertility we could start seeking medical intervention.  After a battery of tests the medical experts concluded that there were some challenges, but none that should prevent us from conceiving.  Over the course of the next months we reluctantly yet desperately submitted ourselves to medical interventions that felt unnatural and invasive.  Maybe God was doing this to increase our trust and reinforce how miraculous is the creation of life.  How much more of this was necessary before God was convinced that we were appropriately grateful?  We confessed that our faith could use some refining, but this was beginning to feel more antagonistic than it was loving.

It seemed that we were too often the ones chosen when people wanted to confide the trauma of an accidental pregnancy.  We didn't have much sincere empathy to offer.  The path grew darker.     

We were lost.  We stopped going to baby showers or celebrating babies at all.  We could only feel the sting when yet another friend or family member announced their pregnancy.  Resentment and despair crowded out any visible markings of the trail of hope.  Prayer in that season was silent.... when we weren't laying bare our mistrust or accusing God of being harsh.  We were lost and a storm had moved in!

As we groped for anything that could hold us steady we began to realize that all the things that had at one time held us- hope, faith, trust, knowing we were loved- had at some point been lost or severely compromised along the way.  The walking sticks had been fractured, the compass lost, the fire starter kit soaked.

Our relationship was feeling the pressure as well.  As much as we tried to stay together in it, there were times when our sorrow and disappointment were aimed at each other.  After one such encounter I left the house to go for a walk.  I was so angry and hurt.  As I stormed through the neighborhood my message to God was terse.  "If this is what it means to be loved by you I don't want any part of it!"

I found myself in the neighborhood of a Catholic church that was connected with a school I had taught at a few years earlier.  I decided I would stop in and ask the priest, a man I respected and trusted, to defend God.  As I came in I was greeted warmly by some familiar office staff.  I was taken back by their genuine interest in how I was doing.  I felt cared for and missed by them in a way I hadn't expected, and I softened a bit... until I finally asked if Father Bob was available, only to find out that he was out of the office.  Of course he was!  That was completely consistent with our experience of God in this valley.  God was nowhere in sight when we were most desperate and alone.  The storm that had calmed a bit as I visited with the office staff was reinvigorated!  I closed the conversation as politely as I could manage and left.  

I nearly ran into him as I burst out the door.  There was Father Bob!  As we sat down in his office I jumped right in.  I was short on patience.  I came on strong and at one point had some internal sense that I should lay off a bit.  Father Bob was not who I was accusing here, it was God.  I dismissed the hesitation and blasted ahead.  I came to a stopping point and gave Father Bob a chance to offer a rebuttal.  He didn't.  I had made some harsh accusations against the God he was supposed to represent.  He made no defense.  I could tell he was moved, he sat in the chair and was clearly burdened by all I had said.  He could feel our sorrow, yet had no explanation.  This was not what I was looking for!  I couldn't help but to feel softened by his response, but there was enough venom in me to mount one more strike.  I tried again, hoping I could rile him and get him to defend God so I could crush his argument with the insurmountable pile of evidence that I was carrying.  Father Bob just listened and instead of standing against my evidence and giving me the opportunity to hurl it at him in an effort to crush him, he had moved over to stand with me underneath it.  He offered few words, only ones that let me know he was hurting with us.  If he was going to stand with us under this mound of evidence against God, I wanted him to be angrier.   The least he could do was to help me throw the rocks.  He did not.  We hugged before leaving and I walked past the others in the office on my way out.  They again affirmed how good it was to see me, how I was missed at the school.  They didn't know why I was there, but they extended their well wishes for Melissa and me.

As I walked across the church parking lot toward home I began to weep uncontrollably.  I had not been given the answer I wanted, but I had been given the thing my heart needed most.  God heard us!  God was weeping with us!  I wanted some promise that the thing we had exhausted ourselves hoping for was going to come to be.  We were given no such promise, but God was with us.  God had heard us.  We were not alone!

The darkness began to lift, even while we were still trudging through the valley.

In the weeks and months after that we found the questions and sorrow to be no less present.  It was still so wearing to wonder this path, but "anger" and "alone" no longer devoured us.  Their eyes still peered out at us, threatening but never really having the chance for an all out attack, never sinking their claws into us they way it had previously.  It seems "anger" and "alone" have a harder time attacking a group, because that is who we walked with now.  God's tenderness with us had clarified our need to not be alone on this journey, and so we began to share more with our family and closest friends.  God had given us a fellowship of brothers and sisters who knew our story and walked with us.  They let us cry and cried with us.  They slowed down when we found ourselves weary.  By their presence they encouraged us to hope, but the truth is they were the ones who carried it for us most often.  They carried our sorrow too.  There was far more of that than we could stand up under, so they divided that among them and carried it too.

At one point along the way we stopped and asked our traveling mates to circle up with us, right there where we were.  We invited them all to our home to pray for us, for healing, for the longing of our hearts.  With these friends gathered around us it was one of their kids that was the first to break the silence.  We were led in prayer by a 9 year old.  Not only were our friends carrying this with us, but so too were their families... the children that God had given them, the evidence of God's blessing in their life that was still absent in ours... they too were hoping with us.  There was something about a child praying for our child that stirred us deeply.  He was bold, compassionate, hopeful and without hesitation... on our behalf.

The journey we shared with these friends eventually buoyed us enough that we entered into the adoption process.  Six years after we had started trying to have kids we got the call that a birth mother had chosen us and a few weeks later we became parents.  It was not in the way we expected, but our hearts could not have been fuller.  Once again it was more than we could bear on our own and so our traveling companions passed around our joy, multiplying it and celebrating with us.  They ran screaming with delight along the trail with us, skipped rocks on the river, jumped in puddles and generally scared the wildlife away with all the commotion in the midst of what was now a much brighter trail through the forest.   We named him Malakai, Messenger of God.  God's message to us was now enfleshed in a son we held in our arms.

It was confusing to be so full of gratitude and yet that didn't mean we were able to unload from our packs all the weight of our grief and longing to conceive.  Eventually, what seemed like a contradiction ultimately just became our reality.  We, together with our traveling mates carried joy and sorrow, gratitude and longing, fulfillment and hope yet unfulfilled.

Three years later, nine years after we started trying to have children, we adopted our second son.  His name is Tobias, God remembers.  Joy was again multiplied in our midst.  We danced, prayed, cheered and embraced again, so grateful that God was again giving us evidence that he is with us, hears us, remembers us.

We were delighted with the family God had given us.  We were full.  There remained alive in us some of the questions and wondering about conception.  Whether we had just become accustomed to carrying sorrow or whether it in fact got lighter I can't really say, but it was still with us.  We reconciled ourselves to the reality that this particular sorrow, the sorrow of not being able to conceive and bear a child might always be with us.  This was the path we were to walk... and it was familiar.  Our legs had been strengthened and we no longer felt the weariness we once had.  This was our journey.

On occasion, our church service ends with an invitation to renew our hope.  This last December the directness of that message was different.  It was the advent season and the service had centered around the wait of Zachariah and Elizabeth (sermon podcast).  An angel appeared to Zachariah and affirmed that they need not fear because God had heard their prayer (Lk 1:13).  Their prayer was ours.  They too were barren.  The clarity with which the sermon and the story spoke to our story was undeniable. 

 "What is it that you have been waiting a long time for and you still don't have?  ...What is it that you have wanted that has just taken the wind out of your sails?  So that you, like Zachariah, came to the place where you said 'you know what, maybe I misinterpreted that.  Maybe this is just the way it is going to be, this is as good as it gets.'  I'm telling you this morning, this is not as good as it gets.  There is a time in our lives where God will say 'I know what you want.  I have heard it.  I will give you the desires of your heart.'  In a moment I'm going to give you a chance to say it again.  I want you to say it again because I think some of us have just quit saying it.  We don't ask for it anymore.  It just taunts us."

He ended talking about hope being conceived when we hear God say to us that our prayers have been heard... though we may not have it for some time.  We reluctantly went forward, daring to hope.  What we did not yet know was that more than hope was conceived that week.

Weeks later we found out we were pregnant.  We could hardly believe it!  It had been 11 years since we started trying to conceive.  Now we had come to a portion of the trail completely unfamiliar and we didn't know how to respond... so we kept quiet.

Toward the end of one appointment late in the first trimester the nurse asked Melissa if we had told anyone.  We had not.  She encouraged us to tell, because whether or not our high risk pregnancy lasted we would need support.  Of course we would!  Why had we not thought of it like that.  That had been the way we had been journeying for so long, so why would we not let our journeying mates join us here too.  So we began to tell the story.

The joy, tears, wonder that we saw reflected in friends and family loosened something in us.  It was loosening the doubt and skepticism that this really could be for us.  Oddly, the thing for which we had waited so long was not easy for us to hold.  In fact it too was too much for us to hold.  And so again, our friends held it with us.  They passed it around and let loose the joy that was beyond our capacity.  In some cases they were less surprised than we, for in their bag they had been carrying a large portion of hope for us.  In every case their joy and wonder freed us to embrace that our path was changing.

Early on in our infertility Melissa started writing letters in her journal to a yet unknown little girl named Karis, which means grace.  It has been years since either of us have really spoken or written to her, feeling so distant from the kind of hope that would allow us such intimate communication.  Today, with the retelling of this story we mark the renewal of that journal. 

Dearest Karis,

You are a gift more overwhelming than you could ever know.  We, your parents, your brothers, and the many who have loved us and you along the way are so delighted in anticipation of your arrival.  May you know most intimately the God who hears us and who is with us.  Our dear daughter, our grace, you are here!  At long last, you are here!

The Winter of 1.25: A series of cries for help from a stay at home dad

When catching up on life with friends I often find myself responding to the question "How are the boys?"  We have a 4 year old (Kai) and a 1.25 year old (Tate).  I usually can find plenty to talk about for both boys if in fact the person asking is willing to indulge my stories.  After a particularly "full" day today I decided to tell the story through a little different method.  Here are a series of texts I sent to my wife.  They all are a way of telling how our youngest son "is doing."

------------------------------
I think there is nothing in our house that Tate can not get to and cause trouble.  His insatiable curiosity is exhausting!  Curtains, computers, electrical outlets, things hanging on the wall, anything in a drawer, on a shelf, under a lid, on a counter or table...  The last frontier for him will be opening doors, and I fear we will not be able to hold him off from that much longer.  My hope for surviving this stage with half our possessions in tact is fading! :(

Tate & I (Dec. 2013)

He is magnetically attracted to the fragile and the objects that, when in his hands, can cause maximum harm.  Who is this monster who has overtaken us?  I am constantly loosing ground in this effort to hold our home and my sanity together.  If my white flag had not been hidden, eaten or destroyed I'd be waiving it vigorously!

I hear the ominous music constantly playing in my head.  It foretells my destruction and the eminent doom of all that we once held dear.

....WAIT!  That music is not in my head.  That is Tate stomping on the piano keys with an accent provided by the crash of potted plants he is pulling off the piano lid!!!

I have come to celebrate the moments when things are only being damaged or made a mess of.  At least there is hope for some of those things to be recovered or repaired.  This is the calm in the midst of storms, the breath of fresh air in the turbulence of Tate's wake.

"Yes Tate, please continue to remove all the Tupperware from the Lazy Susan, the pans from below the stove and the pasta and cereal from the pantry.  Most of those things are hard to harm and can be put back away while you are sleeping... and if you spill what remains of the cereal after your last foray into the pantry, Chloe will be glad to help with clean up.  What are dogs for, really!"

And all this with a cute wrinkle nose smile & a contagious giggle.

Is it crazy to love and delight in this instrument of destruction?  He has taken a toll even on my mental capacities.  I am crazed in my delight and fear of this wonder!

Oh Spring, when will you rescue us?  We will love you by spending the entirety of our waking hours outside.  For you are far more able to withstand the fury.  You are built more heartily than this feeble structure we call home.

Did I mention that Kai is here too?  He happens to have some needs as well.

Did I mention that I have needs too?  Right now I'm most aware of the need for a nap... for all of us!

---------------------------------------

What was I doing texting while all this was going on you ask?  Well, lets just say it was my way of trying to take deep breaths and maintain some semblance of composure.  I was also hoping to find some empathy in my struggle. :)

New Again

A new year, an invitation to resolutions,

Change, Hope, Health, Prosperity, Wholeness, Intimacy,

yet this is not the first new year,

my track record leads me to question attempting resolution,

How will this year be different?

With each passing year I feel the weight,

More are depending on me now,

The years in front of me are one less,

those behind one more,

My hope is not just that my own eyes might be more at ease with my reflection,

I want good things for them, my wife, my sons, those who I work for & with,

I convince myself at times that it is the needs of my wife, kids, work that are the barriers,

that I am a captive to the momentary need,

that the unfinished is the obstacle to fulfillment of things hoped for,

is it?

The new year brings to the surface longing...

will I allow it to linger

to cause its discomfort

to reflect the incomplete and the untidy,

Sacred Interruption

Ambivalence, holding hope and cynicism.  That is how I regard new year's resolution.  I am aware of things I want a fresh start with, changes I would love to see take place in and around me, but my track record doesn't bolster my confidence that making new year's resolutions is a worthwhile practice.  Maybe my resolve is weaker than most.  I can't really think back on a new years resolution that produced the meaningful impact for which I hoped.  That could be poor memory too, or simply because the incomplete seems to draw my attention more than the complete.  The unresolved resolution is strongest in my memory.  I don't know another language, in spite of Rosetta Stone's best efforts.  I still eat sweets past 8 o'clock.  I don't read quality literature more now than I did in the past.  I still can't see my abs.  When I sit down to the piano it doesn't sound much different and guitar cords are still foreign to me.  The amount of space I give to solitude and reflection seems to be less, not more.  How easy it was to make that list!  I could go on.   

But maybe I should try another list.  There surely has been progress toward greater health, intimacy and wholeness in my life.  Our house is in better shape.  I don't mean we keep it picked up better, but that there have been some projects that have been completed.  We have a new roof on our garage and there is more paint and less wallpaper on the walls than there was a year ago.  

A lesson from Christmas... inturuption, with us.

Maybe my first resolution this year should be to exercise gratitude more.  There are surely many things that have progressed toward greater health, intimacy and wholeness in my life.   both because of my efforts and in spite of them.

I lack endurance when it comes to gratitude.  Maybe that is something I should resolve to change in the new year...maybe.  attentiveness to the incomplete and 

------------------ A New Year With Resolution

I don't often make new year's resolutions.  It is not that I don't think about them.  There are many things I would like to see change in and around me.  Those are things of which I am well aware.  If I'm honest, at least part of the reason is that I don't want to make public something for which I feel likely to fail.  It is just easier to try to blow off the whole tradition.

Yet there is something that nags at me.  There is something about new years resolutions that I can't dismiss completely.  I have tried to feed new year's resolutions to the skepticism I let run free out back, but something about it just can't be consumed.  My skepticism is healthy enough to devour the marketing of weight loss ploys and "you deserve" messaging that is an attempt to vale some corporate interest.  It really has no problem ingesting the "you can remake yourself" and "change can be made easy with...."  But what survives my skepticism is longing, longing for fresh starts, things made new, transformation.  From inside this thing we call new year's resolutions I hear something calling me, it won't go away, it is causing disruption, I can't quite stomach it, it is upsetting.

I dislike disruptions.  Maybe more than most, I find them irritating.  I can totally lose myself and any momentum I had when I am disrupted.  I lose my thoughts mid-sentence when interrupted.  I leave sentences half finished all over the place.  The reality of which has been reaffirmed to me since my three year old has taken to finishing my sentences when I do not.  When he did this I was first impressed and grateful for the assist in finding my way again, though now they are also a reminder of how easily I am derailed.  But it's not just sentences.  I'll be looking for a wrench and then asked whether I have seen an article in the paper and only return to looking for the tool when my son asks if I have adjusted his training wheels yet.  On my way to the bedroom to feed the dog I'll notice that there are shoes out of place and set to organizing them until the dog whines at me.  Often I'll just wander hoping for some prompt because I knew I was set on doing something before being distracted, I just can't figure out what it was.

New Year's resolutions are not so different from unfinished sentences, an unfed dog, or training wheels that still aren't adjusted.  The only major difference is that being a longer term effort means there are even more opportunities for disruptions to my efforts and fewer people prompting me to return to the task.   and the likeoften I get distracted, how easily derailed is my attention.  Don't ask me to grab the while I'm washing the dishes.  I can either wash dishes or grab the laundar

Backyard disruptions, like back country ones, seem to sneak up.  That don't announce themselves in the front yard, on the front porch, too the neighborhood.  They happen outside of public view.  Jesus's birth was one of those.  His was a backyard birth, in a back country town.  The very thing that 

Subtle disruptions

Not often what comes in the front door that catches us by surprise.  

The truth is I do long for the incomplete to be completed the partial to be made whole.  I feel the tension of the difference between what is and what can be.  

Change doesn't come easy and is usually not on my terms.

Disruption of with us.

marathon, marriage,

God with us

We have as much of God as we want

resolve to answer when my running partner calls, to run when he calls on the days where I ate too much or the weather isn't cooperating, when I have a sore calf I'd rather cater to than stretch, to get up for the morning run we agreed to in spite of the fact I stayed up late.  read the wedding vows my spouse gave to me, my wedding vows again, be disrupted by sickness, poorer and death and gratitude for health, richness and life     

Resolving

   results in greater consumption of some luxury.  for some reason tried to let my sketicism about the  consume

staying busy dreaming about rearranging the furniture ... what about the foundation.  Builder who is with you.



I got disrupted and never finished this blog.  Felt fitting.  Can you feel the message in the style and in the words.  I'll offer it as it is, or it may never be offered at all!  

While on our way to...

Kai and I were riding in the car a few days ago when he started talking about a mailbox that could talk.  I responded with a comment about how we can use our imagination for all kinds of fun things.  He said, "In my imagination I'm a hero!"
Me, "Oh really?  What kind of things do you do?"
Kai:  "I hold people who have ouchies."

What simplicity, what beauty, what compassion and connectedness.  We all could use a hero like that! :)

Lenten Confession

My eyes are open
I am unawake

I see the violence and miss the call
In little arms outstretched I see a load to carry

When will I awaken to the pain of the violent
the unattended longing of my defiant son

When?

When will I be able to sit with my own pain
and not just be satisfied with the the work I have already done

When will I stop patting myself on the back for giving up a vice
while seizing a replacement with the other hand

When will my eyes tire of the blur of this way of living
and instead choose a stillness that brings things into focus

When will I exchange restless insomnia
for a more ordered rest and rising

Lord, these ways are well entrenched in me
I need more than forgiveness in order to turn

How can I prepare the way?
How can I be open to the preparation?

I have scattered moments of alertness
draw them together

I have a desire to know and be known more deeply
draw these together

I have a place, a community a home where I feel belonging
draw these together

There are places in my heart that are soft receptive soil
sow generously there, even as you continue to til the hard and rocky places

I offer you my feeble gestures, intentions, hope.

For the First Time

When I held you for the first time I was unprepared for the swell
it rose silent and with force
it was hope rising
rising to paint a picture of a future
a future where I would stand with you as you grow into manhood
a future where you would know you are a delight
and where that delight would give strength to your ambition and clarity to your voice
that strength would be lived out in peace and conviction, with power
and with weakness

The swell begins with the tiny ripple that is this moment
a ripple that will grow as the moments drift by
what will I give you to grow the surge?
I will give you all of the best of me
the me that gives space to sitting with hard things
the me that engages hurt and disappointment
the me that calls for the celebration
I will give you the me that delights in your mother
I will give you the me that hurts and reconciles
that sees and hears
that loves and longs
I will give you all, all I am and will become

In this tiny moment I hold you safe in the fragility of your infancy
In this stillness of your newborn slumber
In the silence of this room
the surge begins with the tears that well in my eyes

And hope swells!

Why I Took Racism 101 and What I Learned

One of the "privileges" of being a white male is that I don't have to give a lot of thought to the issue of race.  I grew up in a relatively monocultural community and the relationships I had with people of color were occasional and without any real depth.  As a result, I was quite unaware of just how often I took advantage of my privilege of thoughtlessness.

That changed some when I went to graduate school outside of Chicago and had my first real friendships of depth with people of color.  I was moved and changed in those years, and though my compassion grew for the experiences of persons of color I remained largely ignorant.  I was aware that race and racism were not what I though they had been, but I couldn't articulate exactly what they were. I just knew that people I cared about had, and continued to, experience great pain as a result of a kind of racism that was overt to my eyes on occasion, but mostly was of a variety for which I had no vision.

The turning point came for me when, as a result of my wife and my infertility, we began to consider adoption as the means by which we would grow our family.  For a variety of reasons, both wounded and healthy, we decided to adopt transracially.  When we considered what it would mean to be the parents of a child of color we quickly realized that we were unprepared to engage issues of race so intimately.  We began to diligently, even obsessively, find ways to try to learn what we could about an experience foreign to our own.  Race and racism could no longer be social issues for which we had some sense of righteous indignation, it was about to be a part of us in ways we would never be able to let go.

So after seeking out an education on race and racism here are a few important things that have stuck with me from "The Modern Practice of the American Racialized Society 101."
1)  When whites talk about race and racism they frequently do so with other whites.  Often times they find plenty of validation for their presuppositions because they share the same set of lenses.  That doesn't mean what they agree upon is the most accurate vision of the reality of racism.
2)  Perpetuating systems of advantage/disadvantage based on race does not require malice or even the knowledge of ones participation.  (This is a foundation that is developed further in subsequent "courses.")
3)  Pretending that we can start from scratch right now, that there is no need to reexamine the history prior to the years of our own accountability or consider efforts at restorative justice, is like being in a baseball game where one team played by a different set of rules for seven innings.  The score is now 45-3 and the team in the lead thinks that the best solution is to just play out the final two innings under common rules.  (adaptation of an illustration by John Perkins)

So began the journey of eroding the footing on which I absolved myself of any complicity in the perpetuation of racism.  It was as if I found out I was a character in a story in which I didn't even know I was cast and then recognizing that it was time for me to play a more active roll in the direction of the still unfolding plot.  So I decided to find out more about my fellow characters and the backstory.  What I am learning from that search I will gladly continue to share.

In and Out

By the pleasure of my conceiver I have been born,

and that birth by means of pain.  

The pain remains,

continuing to usher me into life.  

A bludgeon on my back that I might breathe

life that is fleeting and abounding,

retched and glorious,

depraved and redeemed,

barren and fertile,

foreign and drawn back into familiar.

Drawn back through death

into the life of my conceiver, Love.

Pieces and Parts

These are the pieces of my tapestry,
the frayed threads with which my life is patched together.
They hold no beauty on their own,
they are the pieces of an unknowable story when held alone.
The story they will tell when pulled together is yet unseen,
mystery beyond the imaginings of the one who brings these scraps.
These tattered pieces, these incomplete parts
the images: loneliness, despair and uncertainty, fear.
To whom can I entrust them?
What can be made with this?

Father, Fathering, and Fragility

As the son of a man who was diagnosed with cancer this week and the father of a boy who is 19 months old I find myself sandwiched in fragility.  For dad, this will be his second bout with cancer.  This time he is 20 years older and also fighting genetic heart problems that have caused 2 heart attacks in the last 6 months.  His faithfulness to a morning exercise routine may be a significant part of why he is still with us.

Even though Kai has transitioned from a baby to a little boy, he certainly is still so fragile.  Falling into the small pool we have in the back yard and tumbling backwards down cement steps are just a few of the "heart skipping a beat" moments that have occurred in recent weeks.  He is such a busy guy, the picture of both vibrant life and certain injury.

And here I sit between them, the two men who pull on my heart the strongest.  I can't help but feel their fragility thrust upon me.  Certainly it has always been there, but this week I am much more aware of it.  I was playfully tossing Kai on the bed when my wife came to talk to me about the news of my father's cancer.  I was aware of the edges of the bed, the angle of the toss as not to hurt Kai's neck, and the grip on my father that can't keep him from his edge, whenever and wherever that may be.  My love for them both makes me deeply yearn for a relationship between them that will stretch on for years to come.  But will they know one another much longer?  Will dad be around to see Kai grow up?

I can't help but feel the fragileness in me too.  I lay out my hope, my desire, my longing before my heavenly father and am so aware of my own powerlessness, so afraid to be too real with my longings.  If I don't guard myself against the depth of my desire for more years, more relationship, am I leaving myself open to complete undoing and the undoing of my faith?  It feels like familiar territory.  The depths of my wife and my desire to conceive children feels similar and though we have been pleading  for our heavenly father to intervene our cry has gone unanswered.  Kai is so fully our delight, but that can not remove the pain of  barrenness or the tenderness of hope so long differed.  Hope and longing are so fragile in me.

I know the answers that a heady, secure, stable faith offers.  "God works it all out for your good."  "Do not be afraid."  "He will never leave or forsake you."  I believe those things are all true, though I defiantly resist them if they stand alone.  They are not the complete story.  It is also true that the story holds, "My God!  Why have you forsaken me?"  "Walk with me through the valley of the shadow of death."  "Where are you?  I'm surrounded and the forces that oppose me are having there way with me!"  It is all there together.  I find myself sandwiched here too.  Some days that sandwich feels like a vice squeezing me without mercy.  Other days it feels like being enfolded in the arms of a father who sees my sorrow and holds me near.  And there I live, fragilely in the midst of hope and dispair, strength and fear, resilience and concession.... my dad and my son.

Neighbor Love & Self Love

Had a conversation today that stuck with me.  Part of the reason it stuck was because of the convergence with a few books I have been reading.  In Henri Nouwen's book Spiritual Formation he offers a model of life with priority for solitude, then community, then ministry.  Shane Claiborne and Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove's book Becoming the Answer to Our Prayers also talks about the need for prayer and community as necessary to engaging the needs of the marginalized.  The conversation today included a reference to Jesus' summary of "all the law and prophets," Love the Lord with everything you are: heart, soul, mind and strength.  Secondly, but not separate from the first one, love your neighbor as yourself.  As if we can avoid loving others as we love ourselves.  We can't.  The framework for love we adopt for ourselves, like it or not is THE framework we have for love.  Highly self critical = highly critical of others, shame yourself = shame for others, grace for yourself = grace for others.

I won't deny the appeal of believing my framework for others is really different than my framework for myself.  I'd like to think I have tighter control on the rigidness with which I evaluate myself.  But honestly that rigidness is splattered all over the way I think about and see others.  I can't even spare the ones I love most.  I don't want to give the same "pep talks," I give myself to my wife or son.  Which leads me to an anecdote that makes me smile.  Yesterday Kai and I were getting ready to leave and I couldn't find my keys.  Under my breath I said, "Come on Andrew."  At 19 months old, Kai is a little parrot and wasn't far enough away to miss my mumbled exasperation.  "Come on Andrew," was really quite cute coming out of his mouth... even if it was repeated 20+ times on the way to meet Mel at her office.  At the time I was impressed that he had made the connection between Andrew and daddy.  In light of today's reflections I see it quite differently.  Yesterday's incident was really quite lighthearted, but the implications for the future are a bit more weighty.  Even if he is not there yet, it won't be long before he is perceptive enough to know that when he can't find his jacket or his shoes that I will be thinking "Come on Kai," and he may in fact have learned to say that to himself.  Disgust and shame are too heavy in that tone for me to wish him to carry it.... now or later.  How can I help but to love him only as I love myself?

Though this seems a simple example it holds something much bigger in scope and points to a beginning point which I must give my full attention.  If I want to love well, whether that be those dearest to me or a person I meet on the street, I must attend to loving myself.  I have a few ideas about how I can do that, but honestly I am not devoting the priority to it that I believe it deserves.  The practice of solitude and prayer in which I know all the more deeply who I am and whose I am seems like the foundation here.  Sure, getting proper sleep and exercise and keeping margin in my life are all there too, but it must begin with the attention to the voice of the one who calls me beloved.  That is where I find my true identity and the affirmation I need to love and be more gracious with me..... and eventually my neighbor too.

Clarity & Confusion

I suppose we all have moments when an experience in close proximity to a strongly contrasting one makes each the more vivid.  A warming day that feels of spring next to the bitter chill of more snow, ice and cold as winter refuses to relinquish; darkness then sudden bright light, squinting, blinking, groaning; tasty fumbling through sunflower seeds before the bitter gag of a rotten one.  I had one such moment recently, though it had to do with a different sense.

I read My Name is Asher Lev over our recent vacation.  I wouldn't describe myself as a voracious reader, especially of non-fiction, but I actually finished this book in less than a week.  That qualifies as voracious by my standards.  The evening I finished we were in a hotel.  After consuming the final few chapters I sat silently letting it digest.  I had wondered if I would continue at points throughout the book, somewhat dissatisfied by its pace, but having come to the end I found myself moved.  There was pain, long and drawn out.  There was wrestling with a conflict between gifts, purpose and tradition.  There was a family who shared faith, but it actually ended up driving them apart.  Love, jealousy, generosity, hope, dispair, pride and disappointment.  It was rich and real.  Real in its passing of time, real in its questions, real in its tension, real in its dividedness.  It was rich in the ways it portraid all of these with clarity and beauty.  I was moved.

After several moment I stood and walked across the room, still savoring the story.  A magazine on the desk caught my eye. "Can Porn Stars be Rock Stars?'  I won't deny the appeal of the title.  I flipped through a few pages and saw the subtitle of another article: "How to Make Big Money in the Music Industry and Look Like You aren't Even Trying."  I suddenly lost my appetite for any more.

Both reads had an appeal.  The one invited you to feel the reality of pain in a long journey, a good struggle really that very much included love and connection.  The other invited you to crave, to thirst for power, lust for more.  They both spoke to desire, to a commonly felt absence, but what they were offering as an antidote was very different.  The one encourages faithfulness and authenticity in spite of the reality that it will bring rejection along with intimate knowing.  The other offered the fantastical: excess, slack, admiration, eroticism.

The difficulty in being invited to pursue these ends is that they are contradictory.  You must choose.  Sure, you can sample each, but you can not simultaneously turn your life to chase fortune, philandering and the affection of the masses while also intentionally walking toward vulnerability, fidelity and intimacy.

Contrasting offers in such close proximity.  One offeres clarity for the deepest longing of our lives.  It offers sustainance along an arduous trail over the course of many seasons.  The other confusion, confounding our efforts at satisfaction and connection.  It offers empty calories in a superhighway chase that only drains your tank leaving more exhaustion and hunger.

The invitations persist.