It must be an old childhood secret, passed on from one child to the next for centuries.  I did the same thing when I was your age, so what you were trying to do was easy to recognize.

You’re riding home, strapped in to your car seat like an astronaut, talking and laughing, and fighting and kicking the back of your Mom’s seat.And then we turn off of the main road on to a side road that leads to our driveway.

Suddenly….it’s quiet.

As I look back to investigate the silence, I can see you with your eyes closed…..opening slightly to see if we are close to home yet, and then closing again….I can see the whole thing. As we pull in to the driveway, you even slump over in your seat for dramatic effect.  You’ve learned that if you appear to be asleep, I will gently unbuckle you, and softly pull your limp body from the car and carry you inside.

So while we are placing our secrets on the table….let me tell you mine.

The truth is, I would carry you anyway.

As much as I want you to walk, and as often as I fight your advances to be held, what I’ve realized is that one of the many passing pleasures in my life as a Father is to carry you in my arms. Few things can compete with having your little legs wrapped around my body, your tiny hands around my neck, your head on my shoulder and your heart beating against mine. I’m only a Dad, taunted by faults and insecurities and feeling grossly inadequate for the task I’ve been given….but I can carry you, if only for a short time.

For I know this cannot last….I know that in time….given your growth pattern and my aging back (not to mention the odd looks from your friends) my days of carrying you will come to an end.  But I cannot  promise that the desire to carry you will ever go away — through breakups and disappointments; in heartache and loss and downsizing. I have no doubt there will be many times in a life such as this, where I will want so badly to keep you safe and protect you from all that I know living can sometimes mean.

In those moments, I know I must trust you to the care of another Father, the one who spoke you in to existence, placed you in my arms, and promises to never leave you.  I pray that I would live my life as a Father in such a way that the transition from my arms to His is both obvious and slightly familiar.

But on this Father’s Day, please know that for as long as I can, and as long as you’ll let me….I will carry you….even if you are only pretending to sleep.

Love,

Your Dad.

[An elderly man walks on stage with a cane in hand. He is in his living room. He sets his cap on a stand, drops his cane in the holder by the door, and shuffles to the tweed couch with a crocheted afghan draped across the back.  He slowly bends over, and feeling for the landing below, gently lowers his frame down on the couch.]

[he stares off into the distance as though looking back through time....and then finally, slowly begins to speak in careful, thoughtful tones.]  I remember when we took our firstborn Son to church on mother’s day 35 years ago.  Oh my wife and I had been trying for 20 years to be obedient to the Lord’s command to “go forth and multiply”….but it seems like God thought it might be more interesting to wait until we reached our 40′s to become parents.

Which wasn’t necessarily a bad idea….by the time you reach your 40′s some things just aren’t as big a deal as they would’ve been in your 20′s or 30′s….you’re not as interested in impressing others with your parenting skills and you start to be thankful for what really matters to a new parent in their 40′s, namely, that being a new parent in your 40′s has not killed you yet.

Our first Mother’s Day at church came when our son, Michael, was 2 years old. Now due to an unfortunate baking  accident, my wife was wearing a wig at the time.  We were sitting in the middle of the crowded church listening to the Minister talk about Mothers and about how “HELL IS REAL!”  It seems it did not matter what the sermon was on any given Sunday, he could always bring it back to the fact that, “hell is real!”

This Mother’s day he was talking about the story of the birth of Moses. How Pharaoh had condemned all of the Hebrew males to be killed to reduce their numbers. Jochebed gave birth to Moses and hid him for three months to try to protect her boy from the world around him – a world that didn’t care a lick about him. To everyone else he was nothing but a slave child….but to Jochebed….he was her boy.

Well as the story goes, she realizes she can no longer hide Moses, but she wasn’t done protecting him either.  So she made a basket, put her son inside, and took that basket to the river….and gently let it go.  The basket floated slowly from the river bank, spinning as it gradually picked up speed….and then disappeared round the bend.  And Moses’ Mother experienced what I reckon every Mother goes through when you’ve done all you can do to protect your child, and yet there comes a time when you simply must let them go….and trust that God is somehow in the middle of it all.

Well the preacher went on talking like this and our boy was getting restless.  You see we didn’t have a nursery back then….kids were expected to be in church and listen no matter how old they were….So that they would also learn that “hell is real” I suppose. Well our boy was not going to sit still any longer. He climbed on to my wife’s lap and started pulling on her necklace, he then moved to her dangling ear rings, and tried to grab for her eyebrows.

Now if my parenting skills were keener back then I would’ve taken the boy from her, but right about the time I though of it, our son’s little hands moved up my wife’s face until he came to her hair.  He yanked that wig as hard as he could and pulled the side of it clean round to the front and over her face.  My wife started to flail around as though she were drowning. She tossed our son at me as she got her head together.  You could hear gasps and giggles rising all around us.  It was about this time when the preacher cried out from the pulpit, “and make no mistake about it my friends, hell is real!” Through grated teeth my wife whispered sharply at me, “you don’t have to tell me hell is real….I just experienced it!”  ”Honey, I’m sure no one noticed” I whispered back.  ”Why didn’t you just hand him to me if you couldn’t control him?”

Needless to say it was not the most uplifting Mother’s Day service….we left quietly….my wife put that wig away and never wore it again.  But make no mistake about it, Mother’s are the protectors of the family. Seems my wife would go through any pain, put up with any discomfort, rejection, and sorrow, just as long as our son didn’t have to. Sometimes I think the title, “Mother” is given out a little too easy these days, but my wife….she earned it.

Course there came a time when we had to let Michael go, not because we wanted to mind you, but because he insisted, and an 18-year-old can wear you down….but my wife….she never stopped watching….even if it was from the sidelines. And our boy, well he went off and lost his head as far as we were concerned. Did all the things you don’t speak about in public places.  I can’t tell you how many times I would pass by our bedroom and hear the muffled cries of my wife praying for the our Son, praying that he would be protected, that he would remember how much he was loved, and that he would realize he could always come home….still trying to protect him, as she watched him spin around, pick up speed, and disappear around the bend, into a world that didn’t care whether he lived or died. You see to everyone else our son was just another man lost in the world….but to us he was our boy.

She’s been gone for 10 years now….my wife….and each Mother’s day I like to gather with friends and family to honor her memory and tell the story of her life. My son picks me up so I can go with him to church and I….[The ringing of a rotary phone interrupts him and he reaches to answer]….Hello?….oh morning Michael….yes I’m ready….just waiting for you….well that sounds nice….I hope we can get a table….course we could if you would keep your preaching short this year like I told ya….I can’t help it I get as restless as a child anymore….ok….I’ll be on the porch watching for you…[Places the phone back down on the receiver]….Guess I better get out there….Happy Mother’s Day.

It was turning out to be such a good morning….and that’s when I heard the commercial.   

“Hey guys, do you know your testosterone level?….well you should.”  Testosterone level? Of course I don’t know my testosterone level.  She sounded shocked that I didn’t have an answer for her, and she was helpful enough to explain to me that the best years of my life most likely occurred when I was just 19.

I’m sorry… what now?….19??  The only thing I remember about being 19 is that I’m glad I am no longer 19.  Now I’m being told that the pinnacle of my life happened 17 years ago?  She continued in sultry tones to tell me that falling testosterone levels are making me slow, tired, forgetful, lifeless, boring, and less appealing to my wife. “It’s not my testosterone levels” I shouted at her, “My wife and I have 3 children under the age of 8!?!” Didn’t she understand this?  She refused to listen, and continued to inform me that without her supplement, I could look forward to years of sharp decline ending in my 40′s, where I would be found lying in my pajamas on a recliner, wearing a ball cap, Isotoner slippers, with an afghan draped over me as I watched the morning business reports.

I pulled my hand back inside, closed the window, and stared in to the distance. Suddenly I felt tired. I caught my reflection in the rear view mirror and notice a hearty swath of grey hair growing up around the fence row of my forehead.

I let out a long sigh as I entered the supermarket to pick up some items for my wife.  I walked up to the self-checkout  and set down some pull-ups, Clorox wipes, a gallon of milk, and a bag with 2 donuts inside.  (might as well go out eating something I love).  Next to me this young guy sets down a 6 pack of Red Bull and a pack of Hostess donuts.  “I was once like you” I whispered to him….”Before the decline”….”You’ll see”….

I searched the code wheel for the appropriate numbers to punch in to the machine. It rang up for a dozen donuts. I tried to go back but hit the spanish button instead. As the machine was explaining what to do next in a language I didn’t understand, I tried to punch in a different code. That’s when the alarm went off, flashing lights spun overhead, and the computer said, “Attendant has been notified to assist you.”  On the screen there was actually a picture of the “attendant” who stared at me with a sympathetic smile, as if to say, “hey, it’s okay buddy, this is a big, scary, complicated machine and with your testosterone levels decreasing, it’s no wonder you had so much trouble.”

Every day we are ambushed by a marketing machine designed to make us feel inadequate so as to sell us the answer in the form of a pill, a diet plan, designer label, newest self-help book, gold portfolio, and full body detox programs.  The whole system is designed to tell us we are not happy, not who we should be, but we still have a chance if only….And we fall for it, we make the payments, we buy the products and we wear the clothes.  We chase that which another human being has labeled as “ideal” and we subtly teach our children to do the same. In the absence of finding ultimate value and worth, we gladly chase cheap imitations of significance.

After “Testosterone Girl” and her commercial came on yet again, I turned the radio off, opened the car window and stuck my hand out into the cool spring air. I pulled into our drive way and opened the door to the house, “Honey, your man is home.” I declared with a Tarzan sort of swagger. My wife looked at me confused, “You ok?” “Oh I’d say I’m doing pretty good, numerically, I’m probably above average compared to other men my age” I bragged as I pulled her in for a hug.

“Oh hey I got you something today” she says. “Oh, what is it?” I said.

“Well I found these house slippers on sale today, and I know you don’t normally wear that sort of thing, but they are SO soft….I put them by your recliner if you want to try them on”.

From the time you were born, you have always had so much to say.  Each morning, before the first bite of syrup-soaked waffle brushes your lips, you have already burned through a small book of observations, comments, songs, questions, random thoughts and unusual mouth sounds.  Each night you spend your last moments, using any unspent words from the day to reject the advances of sleep.

The daylight between those two moments find your brother and I staring at each other in confused disbelief as your mind rotates from one line of thinking to another without missing a beat…. while your Mother just smiles at you like a woman who is on the inside of a secret.

Lately, you have been learning a lot about Jesus, His death on the cross and His resurrection.  You have been talking all about it:

“Daddy, did you know that Jesus died on the cross for our sins??”

 “Three days later he just rose again from the tomb!”

 “Jesus took all of our sin and POOF, they’re gone daddy!”

 “When Jesus died on the cross he broke our sins and we are free!”

 “Can you believe that Jesus died on the cross?”

 “No matter what we do, God still loves us.”

You’re voice is so animated; your eyes are wide and wild. You speak with a smile as you repeat this surprise over and over to anyone and everyone who will listen.  You talk about Jesus as though He is the greatest person who has ever lived, as though the cross and empty tomb was the greatest event in all of history.  When I hear you tell the story, I actually believe it is good news.

As people get older, they don’t talk about Jesus…. at least not like you talk about Him.  You speak so matter-of-fact about Him, you seem genuinely surprised at this unexpected gift, and you assume that others want to hear this amazing story.  But we grown-ups tend to talk about the cross in muted tones and in “appropriate” places.  We know that the answer is Jesus, we just aren’t as amazed as we used to be.

I don’t know why we don’t talk more about Jesus.  I suppose you talk about someone to the extent that you have let him in to your life and allowed him to reshape who you are.  I know for me, the moment my life intersected with your Mother’s, it has never been the same. Then we had, Evan, and a few years later you came along.  Then the surprise that is, Malina, happened and now I find myself forever changed. I don’t know a life that is outside of the one shaped by my family and I welcome any opportunity to talk about you guys to anyone who will listen.

Your brother and I might be tempted to say you talk too much right now. But in your impressive display of words are cradled the very depth and length and width and height of God’s love.  The reason you seem so surprised and amazed and filled with Joy is because the good news of, Jesus, is surprising and amazing and the source of lasting joy.

May you always see the wonder that is Jesus, and never stop talking about Him.

Love,

Your Dad.

“By the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace to me was not without effect.” Apostle Paul

Our Chevy Malibu galloped up Interstate 65 through Indiana as the landscape rolled out into flat, open spaces. The hills faded away, leaving us with crops and fields and rows and barns. We were pressing toward the prize of this 14-hour trip – home, to Illinois, to my home. I was told my home was unfixable now – that years of neglect had left professionals with nothing to work with and it was time to find another home; I knew that to be impossible.

I had memorized every square inch of that house; I knew it’s story, it’s strengths and it’s weaknesses. I even knew the places that needed repair and reinforcements. This was not the sort of thing you paid much attention to as a child, but in retrospect you can see the signs of dysfunction just below the surface – a crack here, some mold there, left without attention anything is liable to decay and brokenness. But I could fix it, I just needed to walk around the old neighborhood, stand on the porch for a while, then I could see what needed to be fixed, explain what to do next, and save this house – save our house.

The next morning I slipped out of bed, meandered around my children asleep in piles of blankets on the floor, and drove off in my car alone.

I made my way toward Bel- Aire Subdivision – turning left on Kathy drive, right on Ardith, and then another left on to Anita. I decided to park down at the end of the street and double back to the house. I stepped out of the car and in to the cold, damp, heavy morning air. Before me an intrusive strip mall complete with nail salon and a dollar store, disfigured the field that played host to so many afternoon ball games. I walked the sidewalks, now broken by extreme temperatures, bleeding out weeds and dandelions. Houses looked small and lifeless; fences bowed; what once was the neighborhood you wanted to live in now became the neighborhood you drove through, to get to the neighborhood you wanted to live in.

Lost in the memories of a former life, picturing friends, remembering adventures, recalling neighbors long since departed, I stumbled upon 136 Anita Drive. I stopped frozen to the pavement, afraid to move any closer. This used to be the home I knew, but what stood before me was only a house – sagging and strained under the pressures of life. The grass and weeds conspired to take it over. The shutters hung loose and the roof had long since peeled its protective skin. The thoughts and questions in my head mixed with the cry of my heart and spilled out of my mouth. “With a little work this could’ve been saved” I informed God. “Why did no one fight for this house – it was worth fighting for!” Tears patiently repelled down the grooves of my face and on to my t-shirt. I knelt down to feel the grass one last time. I climbed the steps to the front porch and sat for a moment, fearing I was the last one to say goodbye, to walk away and to move on.

The cool wind picked up again, nudging me from my grief, and reminding me that my children would be awake soon. So I stepped down from the porch, followed the path of the sidewalk onto the driveway, where another sidewalk was waiting to show me the way back to my car, the way to move forward.

Arriving at the room, I kissed my children on the forehead and pulled the blankets back up over their tiny bodies. I slipped back under the covers, slid over to my wife’s side, wrapped my cold arm around her warm body, and held her close. She stirred briefly; I kissed her gently on the temple and whispered, “it’s worth fighting for” then slowly drifted off to sleep.

It happened again the other day. I was at home after a full day of work. We were in the basement playing and you (Evan) started calling my name. I had no idea that you had called my name several times earlier and finally gave up. But you really wanted me to play so you tried again. I wish I could say I heard you the first time, or the second, or the third. It wasn’t until you yelled my name that I looked up from my phone.

I was in the room but nowhere near any of you.  I was around but not fully present. In that moment I surrendered and allowed myself to be controlled by a device I carry in my back pocket.

Your face was a mixture of frustration and confusion, wondering what I was reading that was more important than the Lego Ninjago you were trying to assemble and needed help with.  It wasn’t until I saw your face that I wondered the same thing.

The technology I have in my life right now is amazing. The technology you will have when you are my age is hard to imagine. I am saying all of this to you three because I believe that for your generation, one of the greatest challenges to following Jesus, living in community with others and engaging the world will be to be fully present  – to God, to one another, and to others you will encounter in your life.

The more technology develops the more it seems to implant itself in the fabric of daily life. This is not a bad thing, but it should come with a warning….be present, engage people fully, quiet yourself before God. Nothing will be more important than being completely in the moment, lost in a conversation or an experience or great beauty….without distraction.

When it comes to responding to you or responding to the flashing green light on my hand-held device….may you never have to wonder who will win.

Love,

Your Dad.

As soon as the first bite of food hits my lips, my daughter taps me on the leg and whispers in my ear, “Daddy, I have to go to the bathroom.” The timing of that statement every single night at dinner is beyond coincidence. I smile at her as if to say, “Of course you do honey.”

I push back from the table, grab her little hand, and we walk to the front of the restaurant. As the door opens to the bathroom, we are flooded with sights and sounds that must all be pointed out AND commented on by my very observant child.  There is paper on the floor and a bulb is blinking; the music is loud, it’s freezing in there, and it smells like fruit. “Which door should we go in?” she asks. “How about this one?” I answer. “No, let’s go in the big door” she replies. “Okay, honey, just go in” I said. “No, I want you to go in with me.” I stand inside the stall door as she prepares to sit down.

With her elbows on her knees and her hands on her chin, she begins to carry on a very LOUD conversation, sometimes with me and sometimes with herself, her tiny high-pitched voice bouncing around the room. Someone else enters the room and she says, “who is that Daddy?” I look at her with bulging eyes and quickly shake my head back and forth. “What?” she asks. “Nothing” I whisper.

She doesn’t understand….partly because she is three, and partly because she is a female.  You see ladies, men have a very long and technical list of rules to follow upon entering a bathroom.  I know it doesn’t make sense and it may even seem petty and immature….I didn’t make the rules, I just follow them. My daughter was breaking rule #1: You do not talk! This is followed very closely by the other rules: You don’t look around, you don’t make eye contact, you don’t stand particularly close to anyone else in the bathroom. When you enter the stall, you enter a guarded space, a quiet space; you certainly NEVER carry on a conversation with the person sitting in the stall next to you!

The gentleman enters the stall beside us, and I see my daughter staring at his shoes. I raise my finger in the shhhhh position, but it is too late. “Who is that?” she asks. “I don’t know honey, are you done?” “I like his shoes” she says loudly. “Okay, are you done?” But she is not done, and she won’t be done for another 10 minutes.  Someone else enters the bathroom and pulls on the handle to the door of our stall. Adeline, looks up with her mouth open, I reach out and put my hand over it. She pushes my hand away and yells, “Who’s there?”

I am dying inside.

“Be right out” I said. “I’m going poo poo” she informs him. At that point, having followed my brave daughter into the unknown world of talking in the bathroom, I start to laugh uncontrollably.  ”I’m done” she says with a smile. “Oh thank you” I reply.

We wash our hands and head back to the table, exhausted.  As soon as we get back to our seats my Son says, “I have to go to the bathroom too!”.  Before my Wife can even respond I shout, “I’ll take him!”

We walk back up to the bathroom….in silence….the way God made us.

It’s more than just a creepy mustache….

Time to get started!

You’re telling me that there is an entire afternoon that is recognized by practically everyone in North America? An afternoon in which it is acceptable, nay expected that you will leave your house and walk all over the neighborhood? A night where not only will your neighbors be outside to talk to you, but you are allowed to knock on their door and talk to them with your entire family?

BUT WAIT THERE’S MORE!

Not only are you expected to walk to your neighbor’s house with your family and knock on their door….BUT THEY GIVE YOU CANDY FOR DOING IT!!!

Unbelievable….why have churches been running from this day??? Why have we been working so hard to create alternatives while our neighbors roll out the welcome mats for our arrival?

Isn’t it ironic that the holiday labeled by many Christians to be “ungodly” is the very same holiday that puts us closer in line with the mission of God — to move out from our homes into our neighborhoods, loving and serving and building relationships with others.

I know one thing: I go knocking on people’s doors on November 1 and I get curious eyes looking through the blinds to see who is knocking. But one day earlier, I am greeted with smiles and conversation….and candy!

Halloween was made for the Church….We can NOT miss this opportunity (….and did I mention candy?)

I am not actually talking about who I am voting for in this blog, but I am curious….

I’m curious about the gut responses of those who would read a title like that.  I’m also curious about how many people simply read the title and refused to read further.

Sure, I could have used “I’m voting for Romney” all the same; but let’s face it, such a statement, in our geographical context, would not have received the same thoughts and reactions.

This is what I know: Come Sunday, November 11, you will find yourself sitting in a row with someone at your church, who voted for a different candidate than you.  You will worship, proclaim “Christ is risen”, share the cup of communion, or serve beside someone who has given their life to Jesus, received the promise of the Holy Spirit, and STILL voted for the other guy.

Could it be, that the greatest challenge for the body of Christ, and thus the greatest opportunity for the display of love and unity that comes with corporate surrender to Jesus, will not be Tuesday….but rather Sunday morning.

I pray we will not participate in a new form of segregation — not based on the color of skin, or one’s heritage, or one’s financial makeup….but rather one’s vote in the booth.

So be involved, study all that you can, vote for your candidate….and then be prepared to love   the winners AND the losers.

I became convinced of it just a few weeks ago when I attempted to take a classic bible story (David and Bathsheba) and retell it from a perspective that explores the relational, emotional, and situational connections we often leave out of such an ancient story.                        (you can read that story in three parts by starting here.)

I am amazed at how we can take stories from Scripture, stories of life and death and hope and loss; stories of despair and betrayal, and joy and love and pain; we can hold such delicate human stories in our hands, and suck out every ounce of life, passion, surprise, and good news.

If the bible is a dead book….it’s because we have done our best to kill it.

Maybe this is because we approach the scripture the only way we know how to approach it, the only way we’ve been trained after years and years of learning….as a textbook.  We scour its pages, searching to find the right answer to the questions being asked, looking for quotes, or trivia, or verses under 140 characters.  This is informational reading, and in this way of approaching the bible we cover vast tracts of biblical territory, skipping past stories we’ve heard before, searching within the stories for their moral principles.  This is not a “bad way” to read the bible, but it is not the only way.

There is another way. A way in which we approach the living God as we sit with the words and stories that point us to Him.  A way in which we spend enough time in one story, that we truly begin exploring the human component, the complexity of relationships, and the failures of a broken humanity held up by the Grace of God. This is transformational reading, where as we create the space in which to find ourselves within the story, we are shaped by the same Spirit who inspired such stories to be written down.

This takes time….time that we don’t have within the schedules we keep. Time we feel better served using on updates and reality TV, and even blogs.

I’ve included just one clip from a concert he gave the year that he died….hard to believe his death happened 15 years ago today.

If you’ve never listened much to Rich Mullins, I would give him a try — I consider him one of the most gifted song writers to come out of Christian music.

Carrying Death in His Hands.

The crisp, spring air filled the room where Bathsheba slept, drawing her from that purgatory between fully dreaming and fully awake, where the lines between what is real and what is illusion are harder to find.

“Bathsheba!” Uriah’s voice echoed throughout the house. “Bathsheba?”  Bathsheba leaped from bed, and turned the corner to find her husband gathering his things and carelessly shoving them into his sack. “Uriah, what is it?” Bathsheba asked rhetorically.  Uriah turned and rushed toward her, clutching papers in his right hand. “I just left the palace, I was with my commander….I’m heading out….today….right now….

“What is that in your hand, Uriah?”

“My orders, for my commanders upon my return.”

David and Uriah by Rembrandt

“What do your orders say?” Bathsheba probed with subtle curiosity and growing fear.

“I….I don’t know….I haven’t read them….they….they are for my commander, Bathsheba.” Uriah said, his excitement dampened by his Wife’s confusing line of questioning.

“Bathsheba….I will carry these orders back with me to my men; I will fight for our King; and then I will return home to you and we will begin our family.” Bathsheba could only stare at him with pity. He placed his hands on each side of her face so as to catch the tears now on the downward slope of her check bones.

“But Uriah I….” “Not now” Uriah stopped her. “What till I return….I will be back soon.” He then turned to finish collecting his things.

A few hours later, two riders from the King’s palace arrived at the door to escort, Uriah, back to the battlefield.  Bathsheba stood in the door frame of their house as, Uriah, mounted his horse and secured his sack. He removed his helmet and turned to see, Bathsheba, one more time. She smiled and raised her hand. Uriah, sat motionless, staring at her as though he were mentally sketching every detail of her frame. He raised his hand to match hers, smiled, then quickly snapped the reigns and sped away with his escort.

In his hands he still held the orders from his King.  If only Uriah would’ve opened the letter and read his orders. just inside the fold were the words,

Uriah, battle, retreat, struck down, die.

Oh to carry death in your hands and be unaware of it.  As Bathsheba watched her husband disappear out of sight, she became a witness to the ravages of sin; the power that it wields to permeate all of life, to wound, to break, to steal, to kill, and to destroy.  By Winter, Bathsheba, would  give birth to her first child, a boy. She and her husband, King David, would also carry death in their hands, pleading for the life of their firstborn, as death once again takes what it does not deserve.

Weeks have passed since she said goodbye to Uriah, and Bathsheba makes her way to the rooftop, in the cool of the evening. As she sits in the bath, she recognizes the faint glow of torches, being carried by riders on horseback. As they move closer, she can make out two men from the King’s army, weaving through town and moving closer to her house. Bathsheba, steps out of the tub, dresses, and makes it down to the door in time to greet the two men. No words are exchanged. One of the soldiers pulls a letter from his saddle, walks over to Bathsheba, and places it softly in her hands. The two men mount their horses, turn quickly and gallop away, unaware of the tiny frame of what was once a wife, now collapsed by the doorway in a pile of sorrow.

Death in His Hands Part II.

The walls of their home danced with shadows as Uriah and Bathsheba sat by candle light and rehearsed the story of their individual lives until they moved in step once again.  Uriah, said very little about the fighting that had taken him away from, Bathsheba, many months ago.  Occasionally she would ask a question that moved closer to the memories of combat, to which, Uriah, would respond by questioning the King’s decision to call him home, away from his men, away from his duties.

David & Uriah by Rembrandt

Bathsheba, could also not bring herself to mention the unseen battle she was engaged in just a few months ago; a battle that led to her surrender, led away like a captive to the sinful desires of a King whose eyes fell on Bathsheba one day as he walked the balcony of his palace instead of the fields of war.  She recalls every detail of that night with a strange mix of fondness and regret. She remembers all of the moments along the way to her King’s bed when she could have stopped, whatever the cost, she could have stopped….why didn’t she stop?

As they continued to talk, Bathsheba felt the tension draining from her body. With each kiss, each touch, she was reintroduced to the man who years ago took her hand and brought her to his house.  The hour was late, and so she rose, took the hand of her husband, and led him to their bed. Uriah first walked willingly behind her, then stopped suddenly, as though he recognized the moment.  ”Bathsheba….I….can’t” he said quietly. “Tonight, as I sit by your side, my men, my brothers, are sleeping under the stars, burying the dead and preparing for another battle.” “How….how can I live with you in this house as though I were unaware?” Bathsheba stared into her husband’s eyes with great longing….but even greater admiration.  Uriah, leaned forward and kissed her on her forehead, lingering for just a moment to breathe in the fragrance that was unique to his wife. He then turned, moved toward his bag, and spread out a bed on the ground.

“I’m pregnant, Uriah” Bathsheba whispered as she watched her husband prepare for bed. “I’m pregnant with King David’s child….I’m….I’m so sorry”.  She could not speak the words any louder, just as she could not foresee the series of events that an evening with the King would set in to motion, and the devastating consequences for everyone involved….

Carrying Death in His Hands.

Uriah, stood in the doorway of his house….his bones ached from exhaustion, his mind tortured by images of battle, his senses taunted by the sights and smells, and familiarity of home.  He could see her by the open window, rays of afternoon sun flirting with her black hair that hung like curtains around her neck. Just the sight of her frame brought back memories of a life outside of war, and filled Uriah’s eyes with tears as the longing of his heart found expression on his face.

David & Uriah by Rembrandt

“Bathsheba” He whispered through parched lips.

Bathsheba’s hands froze in the dough she was kneading. She looked up but could not wrestle her body to face him. “Bathsheba?” Uriah spoke firmly this time, leaving no doubt she could hear him. She turned toward him, eyes pooling with tears; she wiped the remnants of dinner preparation on her gown as she bounded toward him. Uriah dropped the sack in his hand and ran to hold her. The force of his hug consumed her and sent them both stumbling across the room. He pulled back from their embrace to study her face again. Bathsheba’s eyes were a mixture of colors and textures; splashes of joy and hope; streaks of shame, shades of regret.

“What’s….what’s wrong Bathsheba?” Uriah asked, confused by the mixed greeting in her expression.

Bathsheba wrestled her face into submission, forcing the corners of her mouth to rise against their will until she presented him a smile. “it’s….it’s just been so long, and….I wasn’t expecting you….I have nothing ready, nothing prepared for….” Uriah placed his hands on each side of her face, and guided her lips toward his.  ”I’m home….with you….everything is….perfect”.

Uriah embraced her tightly. Bathsheba knew that everything was far from perfect. The child growing inside of her, was now a constant reminder of the double life she had entered into. As she held her husband, she could see the walls of the King’s Palace behind him, invading the open window of their house, dividing the couple joined in embrace, and conquering a love she once believed was as strong as death.

She needed to tell him….he needed to know the truth….

The Cosby Show Fish Funeral

My children’s fish, Shimmer, died the other day after spending approximately 13 days with our family….it was a rich, full life.

None of them seemed too upset by the whole thing. They were more intrigued with the manner in which we were going to dispose of him.  I can still see their three little heads peering over the edge of the toilet bowl, faces reflecting in the tranquil waters, waiting for me to empty the cup that held their new friend.

I asked the three of them if there were any final words they wanted to say about their fish….they said no. I asked if any of them would like to say a prayer….again they said no. Finally, one of the three spoke up and said….”just drop him in the toilet”.

So I did….shimmer circled rapidly and then disappeared.  Our three children marched out of the bathroom and picked up with the batman adventure this “funeral” had interrupted.

It’s hard for a parent to know how much to say about death to their children.  One big reason is that the term “death” in their world  does not (for our children) come burdened with the feelings of loss, hurt, pain, and sadness….not yet.  I know some day this must be a part of their life experience, as it is for all people of all ages.  But right now they seem as innocent as the garden before humanity’s awful choice gave us such words as “death”.

Ever since the “funeral” they have been asking more questions about getting older, and about death.  My wife and I are trying our best to speak clearly and honestly about the subject.  That is until the other night, when our six-year-old was lying in his bed and I was saying good night.  He was asking me why I have “white hairs” starting to appear on my head. I told him it was because I was getting older. You could almost see the connections taking place in his brain. His voice then got quiet, and weak, and he asked me, “when are you going to die?”

“oh….not for a long, long, long, time.”

My eyes started to well with tears.  It was true….well mostly….kind of…..In that moment I felt so small, having so much less control over life than I pretended to have.  My answer reflected my hope and prayer, but not necessarily the reality. I realized I am prepared to face the reality of death at any moment and in every aspect of my life, except when it comes to my children.

So I kissed his forehead, and gave him a big hug. He laughed about the stubble on my face scratching his cheek.  We said goodnight, and I left the room. Walking down the hall, I repeated the lyrics to an old song I had heard many times in the bible:

“Teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom.” Psalm 90: 12

That’s where I’m at….this is not a fixed post with a typical opening, stating of problem, and solution to problem. This is just the confession of a young parent, who realized something about my life from watching a Beta fish disappear into our toilet.

No need to say thank you….you being here says it all….enjoy!

Well it was hot….                                                                             

The church was packed, it was over one hundred degrees outside, and part of our decorating was obstructing the intake for the air conditioning units.  Not to mention the fact that we had unknowingly ordered winter tuxedos that appeared to be lined with the latest North Face warming technology.  Some assumed I was crying….they just couldn’t see the sweat rolling down my young face.  But through the sweat and the tears, I could easily see you as you walked toward me.

And you were beautiful….

It wasn’t just how you looked in the dress or the way you wore your hair up. You were beaming, from every look and each smile, you lit up the room that day….as you still do today.

We were so young….

I look at the pictures and I see a couple just out of college, with little knowledge about anything further than the moment we were enjoying. Before jobs and bills and ministry and moving it was just you and I surrounded by friends and family and in the presence of the One who brought us together.  Many years from now, we will again be together — just you and I. When that time comes, I want you to  know you will still be my bride and my best friend.

And so broke….

Some things never change. I remember coming back from our honeymoon and packing all of our belongings into the smallest Uhaul that was available….with room to spare.  Most of what we filled our first apartment with were still in boxes, having received them as wedding presents.  That first apartment would now fit in our basement.

But God has been so faithful….

What an amazing journey so far….so much more than I expected and far more than I deserve.  Marriage and then fatherhood is forever shaping and sharpening me into more than I ever would’ve become on my own.

And you’re still so beautiful….

You are so much more than that picture from our wedding day.  The passing of time, having children, and the changes of life do not make you inferior to that young girl in the photo….to me, they make me love you so much more.

Happy Anniversary.

Bryan

We gathered in an old (but vibrant) Methodist church as we did each evening to tell the story of Jesus in the community.

We started our time together in the same way, asking the same question, “how did you see God at work today?” Students began to share – some had stories, some observations, all focusing on the ways on which God was moving in their lives to reach others with the good news.  They spoke so lovingly of the children they had just met a few days ago, but whose faces and smiles they will not be able to shake from their memories

As we continued to share, it was as though Jesus of Nazareth carefully walked in to our meeting. Students continued to praise the goodness of God, but then our sharing took an unexpected turn.

Students began to confess sin….personal sin they had held on to for a long time. Some confessed ways they had wronged others in the group, asking for and finding forgiveness from each other.

I sat and watched as the Holy Spirit spoke and convicted and comforted and pointed us all to Jesus.  I laughed a little to myself as I realized that in that moment I could have easily slipped out of the room and the gathering would have continued. We were experiencing church, and yet there was no need for a “pastor”. Jesus was present, and everyone followed the lead of the Holy Spirit.  It was orderly, and beautiful, and convicting, and open, free from judgement and yet full of accountability and commitment.

There is no other way to describe the team in that moment, except to quote Philippians 2:2-4:

then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves.  Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others.

I am so grateful – my heart is full and I cannot wait to see what God has next for us in Richmond.

Please….join us!

Tuesday:

Team 1 went to serve at the Hospitality house while team 2 worked in the storehouse of the International Mission Board Refugee Ministry.  Such a great opportunity to learn more about these organizations and ministries serving the people of Richmond.

Tuesday afternoon we were back at our Bible clubs — learning the names of more children, singing songs, playing games, making crafts, learning memory verses and sharing stories from the bible.  The children here want what all children want — to know they are loved and accepted and matter. Melvin’s cooking has been great, and it is encouraging to hear about the different people from Cool Spring who have pitched in to help make this all happen.

Wednesday:

Both teams served at the Habitat for Humanity ReStore — prepping t-shirts to be given away at the Tomato Festival this Saturday, as well as tearing apart appliances in order to recycle the scrap metal….this was good therapy for our guys. At Habitat we learned that although Hanover County is one of the wealthiest counties, there are still approximately 200 families that do not have running water.

We were back at bible club with even more children — learning and sharing and trying  different roles that our students have never done before.  After dinner, we went back down to Hillside Court, to watch a group of dads who decided to form a pee wee football team — the Hillside Soldiers.  There we found a group of boys learning the game of football from a team of men willing to invest their time and talent to teach more than just the fundamentals of a game.

After that….well lets just say the Slurpee machine at the local 7-11 is in need of a re-supply.

Thursday:

Today Team 1 went to finish painting the office at the Stop Hunger Now Warehouse.  Team 2 took a turn at the Hospitality House — and parents they now know how to wash windows….so….you’re welcome.

The Parental Surprise:

This afternoon before we went to bible club, we surprised the students by bringing down one of their parents to serve alongside them. They were surprised, happy, shocked, confused, and very gracious. The parents did a great job jumping in and helping out. It is a rare opportunity to have students and parents serving side by side….it was good!

Tonight there was worship (thank you Savannah and Mallory) breakfast for supper, and a little down time to get some much-needed rest.

Today’s bible verse: The prayer of a righteous man (or woman) is powerful and effective….thank you all for praying.

Keep posting your comments.

Peace.