Category: A Family Man

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Halfway

I’m something like halfway. Today, the calendar flips to 40. There’s that moment in every good novel when you’re mid-through, the pages to the left as thick as the pages to the right. And you pause. You sigh deep for the story that won’t let you loose, resting to breathe in the words and characters and memories before you eagerly dive into the long second stretch. This is that moment in the story of my life.

I’m grateful for the place I find myself. I’m in love with the woman who owns my heart. I have two boys who are going to be good men in this world. I’ve learned what true friendship looks like. I even think I’m on my way to learning what I’m about – what I love (and what makes me roll my eyes), where I’m eager to give energy (and what I simply don’t have time for). I’ve learned more of the questions worth asking – and yes, a few answers to the questions I’ve long been asking. Added years brings fewer words but more tears, less BS but more fire. With age, you learn it’s ok to shrug and walk away. I’ve got plenty of time to putter, but no time to dink around with another man’s fight or another man’s dream. If you’re pushing ego, you’ve lost my interest. But if you’re dealing with life, I’m on your team.

And I’m hopeful for where I’m heading. I plan to walk slower and watch closer and get misty-eyed more often. I want to call friends for no reason and kiss Miska for every reason and make space for stories – because stories are the language able to carry the weight of our life. I want to be generous. I want to stop and chat with the trees more often. I want to drink more tea – on the balcony, at sunset, with Miska. I’ve found brotherhood with a few good men — I’ll be sticking with them. I want to craft words that are true to the way I see things, even if what I see is foggy or foolish. I want to keep telling Wyatt and Seth who they are. I want to be a lover.

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Dad with a G

I have a dad. Most likely, you do too. I have a good dad. I hope you can say the same.

When we have a good dad, we easily utter this familiar line to our prayer: Our Father who is in heaven… When your dad has been everything but good, however, that line can stop you cold.

I have two boys, and I hope to be a dad who helps, not hinders, their prayers. Most days, I don’t have a foggy clue what that means. When it comes to parenting, it’s mostly holding hands with your mate and praying for mercy. But one thing that comes with the “good dad” kit is this: generosity.

Generosity doesn’t mean giving your kids whatever they want. That’s a sure-fire way to raise a hellion who comes running into the room screaming bloody murder and demanding that all present dote on them like they were a little emperor (sorry, flashback). Rather, generosity means that we are open-hearted, that we are quick with mercy, that we see the best in our kids even when it’s oh-so hard to see (and it’s often oh-so hard to see).

Generosity also means we’re easy on ourselves. We’re going to screw-up. We’re going to loose our cool. We’re going to say that ridiculous thing all parents say – but is undeniably lame. But we also know that we’re surrounded in generous love, so we’re going to be okay. And the kids are going to be okay too. And we tell them so, we love them so.

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Travel Trailer Horror Show

piratejohnny

I had a unique childhood.

Everybody says that, I know. But really…

My dad was a traveling evangelist, and until the 6th grade, our home was a Kountry-Aire 5th wheel travel trailer. We spent 45 or so weeks on the road, crisscrossing the U.S. By the time I was 12, I’d seen most of North America, touched my toes in the water on both coasts and eaten breakfast at a Shoney’s (or Elias Brothers or Frisch’s, depending on the region of the country) in almost every state of this fair union of ours. Top that.

While there were many advantages to this lifestyle (see earlier comment about Shoney’s), my parents knew there was also a cost. We saw our friends rarely, and we didn’t have a house with a yard and a tree house. So, mom and dad went to great lengths to make sure we didn’t miss out any more than we had to. Add that to the fact that in our house, holidays (all holidays) were big. B.I.G. These were the formative years where I was taught to grab every reason to celebrate. I’m still a believer.

With this backdrop, we come to the Halloween of 1981. We were on a long stretch of interstate, and for hours my dad had been searching for a haunted house. I don’t recall whether or not I had asked for a haunted house – but it was halloween, blast it, and we were going to get the bejeezers scared out of us. The afternoon drug into the evening, and the hours and the miles ticked away with no haunted house or spooky mineshaft or crazy Zombie corn maze to be found.

It was past ten, and my dad pulled into a dark Kmart parking lot (I know, Kmarts are scary – but it gets worse). My folks told my sister Vonda and me to stay in the truck while they went to work. My dad must have gone to the dumpster to pull out cardboard boxes. Fifteen minutes later, a screechy, spooky voice (my mom) insisted we enter the trailer. We had to crawl on hands and knees through the Mine Shaft of Horrors pieced together by cardboard scraps. Lights flashed as my parents howled and screamed and boomed. They hit the boxes and made clanging noises. It was terrifying. And I loved every minute of it.

There are things a parent does for the sheer fact of love. Some of those thing are crazy little moments like pulling cardboard boxes out of a dumpster and screaming your head off so your boy and your girl can pee in their pants and have a good halloween.

Well, mom and dad, it matters. Thank you.

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Moral Quandary of Legos

After the boys left for school Monday morning, I came downstairs to this gruesome scene. Wyatt and Seth had a little Lego cum Star Wars battle on the kitchen counter. Apparently this crew means business. I mean, the Stormtrooper I understand. But the dolphin?

Right now, I’m taking a course at the University of Virginia on the Just War Tradition. This scene now raises a whole new host of questions for me.

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Words from a Son

Seth turns eight this week. What? I’m pretty sure it was only this past summer that Seth was sneaking out of the house, leaving a trail of shirt and training underpants so he could dance in the front yard sprinkler, not a stitch of clothes to be found on the young buck. That was more like five years ago, I guess. Seth is still dancing. However, he usually keeps his clothes on. Usually.

Seth is all heart. His motto is why have a little drama when you can have a lot? Unlike other not-to-be-named members of our family that I’m married to, I can never remember those Meyer’s-Briggs profiles or Enneagram dealies, but whichever ones describe the person who loves hard and plays hard and laughs hard and wants to dive headlong into every possibility of beauty, joy and delight – that’s Seth.

Sunday night, as I was putting Seth to bed, he said the words every dad hopes one day he might hear. Dad, Seth said, when I grow up, I want to be like you. I might not hear those words again, so I’m going to savor them.

It’s Seth’s birthday, but in truth Seth-style, he’s the one giving the gifts.

Seth and one of his 50bujillion hermit crabs

the resting place of one of the crabs that didn’t make it

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Autumn Joys

The crisp morning air teases, hints at what’s coming. We watch the colors come afire on Carter’s Mountain, signal that we best get ourselves up into the orchards for the Gala and the Fuji and the Red Delicious and the Golden Delicious and the HoneyCrisp and the (praise the Almighty!) CandyCrisp. Miska puts oranges and cinnamon simmering on the stove, drawing Colliers from the four corners of the house, curious.

Saturday pigskin. Winn’s Texas chili. Tossing the football with the boys. Fireplace. More reason to snuggle. The joys of autumn.
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She Said Yes

Fourteen years ago (yesterday), Miska said yes. I giggled my way through most of the ceremony, an annoying (and quite manly, I might add) nervous response. The first few minutes, Miska thought my giggles were endearing. Ten minutes later, not so much.

We had a morning wedding and couldn’t wait to get on the road. Off on our honeymoon. It’s been a long road from there to here. I’ve been surprised by some of the detours and cul-de-sacs. But I’m thankful for every mile, even the hard ones.

Fourteen years later, the moments I most crave are our Fridays together. Just the two of us, thanks to the City of Charlottesville’s generosity (via the public school system) in watching our boys. We walk. We talk. Some Fridays, we grab Naan bread from the local bakery. We may watch a movie or take a nap. The day is a prayer. I love those Friday sabbaths, and I love the evenings on our balcony, after the boys are in bed. Tea in hand, Carter Mountain in full view. Sunlight fades, and love blooms.

There isn’t a person in this world I love more. There isn’t a person on this wide globe I respect more or believe in more. This I’m certain of: if you don’t know her, you are missing out on one of God’s good and beautiful gifts.

Over these years, we’ve had several stretches where love was hard, not easy. We had to say yes again and again. I plan on speaking that simple, powerful word ’til death do us part.

 

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Waco

We just returned from Waco, Texas, the place I knew as home for so many years. I went by the house where I came of age, ran that same pavement I pounded so many times and caught up with one of my high school football coaches. I sweltered under that familiar Texas heat (in the 100’s). I saw old friends and, most importantly, our whole brood spent time with my mom and dad, sister, brother-in-law, my two delightful nieces – and my 91-year-old grandmother.

This is the kind of place that, you come to find, has become not only part of your memory but part of your being. You may leave a place, but a place like this never leaves you.

I see it with new eyes now. That theater on 25th street that was for so long merely an eyesore – now I wonder about the laughter those walls have heard, the back row make-out sessions those seats have endured, the stories those moth-eaten screens have offered. I wandered into neighborhoods I thought little of years ago. I think more of them now.

There’s that shopping center that offered the best arcade on our side of town, $10 for all-you-could-play video games. The arcade is long gone, but there’s still a snow cone stand on the edge of the parking lot.

Home may be where you find yourself, but the places that have made you send you off into the world with bits and pieces of home to take along. These places will always participate in whatever home means for us now.

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Watching

A few nights ago, Wyatt shared his latest ambition. “I’m going to be like Justin Bieber and make a singing video and put it on the internet and become famous.” We aim high in our house. I smiled and told him to start practicing. As I left his room, Wyatt added, “Hello, Youtube.”

Of course, Wyatt has already moved on to other visions. Last night, he described his future dream house with rooms for 1,000 cats, a cheetah and a machine that popped out any and every food imaginable, with the mere wave of a hand over a sensor. If I recall, there was even a go-cart track in this house somewhere.

My suspicion is that Wyatt will not go the way of Bieber and will most likely never herd 1,000 cats (mercy upon us). But he will sing a song. He will love creatures in this world. These places where his imagination wanders (wonders) offer clues to the contours of his heart. Wyatt enters fourth grade this year, and the conversations we’re having carry a new tone. He’s seeing things. He’s listening. He’s watching. I’m listening and watching too.

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Upon the Birthday of a Most Amazing Woman

Many waters cannot quench love, the wise Solomon said. But, oh how they try. The waters of disappointment and fatigue and loss. The swell of years and arguments and learning that the other is not all we might have imagined. 

The tides rise with kids and careers, homes and travels. And, of course, the tides recede with stretches of time where we’ve lost our bearings, where we feel like strangers and wonder if we’ll ever find our way back. In fact, I’m not sure if Solomon tells the whole story. I’ve seen more than a few marriages drown in a deluge. It’s a sorrowful sight – and when I encounter it, particularly with friends, it’s always a punch in the gut.

But I know a most amazing woman, one who has weathered many waves with me. And our love has not been quenched. Far, far from it. Today, I celebrate a woman I admire and adore with my whole heart. The world has been graced with her beauty for thirty-eight years now, and she has left the mark of love wherever she has wandered.

She loves intently, speaks solidly. She’s truly one of the most courageous people I know. She’s brave enough to own the power of her tears in a world where tears often invite scorn. She has the strength to say no and the grace to oh-so-often say yes. I’m thankful she said yes to me.

Happy birthday, amazing woman. Happy birthday, Miska.

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