Goodbye Old House

It's hard to fathom, but we are about to say goodbye to our old house. It sold and now we're beginning the escrow process. I remember when we bought it 11 years ago. The family we bought it from told us we'd bring home our babies into that house - we did. Child #1 and child #3 knew it as their first home. We recall walking through the doors 30 minutes after leaving the hospital thinking, "Now what do we do?" After a five month wait we finally brought our third child home. A place he'd never known before - welcome home, orphaned one.

We went trick-or-treating in that neighborhood. Teenagers tp’d the house and lots of them hung out with us for pizza parties and movie nights. We spent countless hours there with great neighbors. We played basketball with the neighbor kids who too quickly grew up. We celebrated the 4th of July with barbecues and legal fireworks – at least that’s what Geoff said.

We fixed up that house from head to toe: laminate flooring, interior paint, carpet, baby rooms, a “Dora” room, new faucets, and a porch swing. And of course the masterpiece – the back patio: a shade structure and gorgeous slate tile thanks to Dad and Uncle Ed. We even had those misters to cool us down in the hot summers while we ate Jana’s famous tri-tip and ribs.

There were many Christmases we put up lights there and the one when we came home to find lights already up. Finally there were the two times we moved away. The first, never knowing if we were coming back. The second, knowing we wouldn’t.

There are people who live in the same home most of their lives. I envy them somewhat. They won’t have stories of adventure in exotic suburbs like me, but they can trace the height of their kids from birth on the kitchen’s door jamb. Soon we’ll be off, spending a small fortune on an unfamiliar house in our new town to accommodate our growing family. I hope the memories are just as good. Goodbye, old house.

Dining Disaster

A Memorial Day to remember - for the wrong reasons. You've probably had one of these. One of my first posts last year relayed a shopping disaster at Costco.

Jana had to work last night so I decided to drive the kids in to Seattle - about 35 minutes away. The website told me, "The best Chicago-style pizza in Seattle." How could I turn that down?

After the long drive, we found a parking space (a miracle in itself) and walked across to pizza perfection. What happened next? You guessed it - CLOSED ON MONDAYS. Of Course it was. So we walked a couple of blocks and found a cool looking Greek restaurant. Mmmmmmmm. The three little people and I were seated at the centrally located table with about 30 other people within food-throwing distance. So we sat and I hoped for the best. You know when a restaurant is deadly silent that you can be in trouble. Even at conversational levels, we're at 50-60 decibels. We ordered quickly and the water arrived in an unbreakable coffee cup. Disaster avoided so far. Soon, though, menus were being thrown to the ground - just because they could be. Seven or eight near drink dropping episodes were thwarted - I felt on top of my defensive game. But then it happened.

Dad got his food first. Soup. Kids hardly even like soup. But the near two year old, expressing his full "two-ness," wanted it. I kindly offered a bite with his own fork. Scream. I put the fork down enabling him to be in control by putting it in his own mouth. Scream. I put a few scoops on his own plate. Scream. Nothing short of handing over my soup cup with my spoon would satisfy. The screming continued. I put my hand over his mouth to muffle the exhaling yells. Lifting at the appropriate time for oxygen intake.

I tried the distraction move: walking to another part of the resaurant. Scream. Hit. Actually snotty, drooling face screams. My hand was moistly filled with said mucus, yet I still covered the screams. We returned to the table. The rest of our food arrived. The two year old got his own plate. Scream. Hit. At this point I had worked up a good sweat. We had walked quite a bit and I was wearing a sweatshirt. The restaurant was not greatly ventilated, but why would you need an infusion of cold air in Seattle?

I admitted defeat...at least to my idea of dining out without a second adult to help. I asked for our freshly presented food to go. Scream. Our waitress was awesome. She had helped the girls cut their food when I was walking with the toddler. She later rushed from the kitchen with "to go" containers and we were whisked out of the restaurant quickly. End screams. The two older sibling were great as well. They were patient, obedient, and flexible.

As we walked towards the car. He was silent. And I was deflated. I only had 3 sips of my $2.50 diet coke. I hadn't been able to sit and enjoy a cool ethnic hangout in a cool urban neighborhood. My almost two year old seemed momentarily possessed and quickly returned to normal. Within seconds of getting strapped into the car seat he was chirping for joy, laughing at his sisters, enjoying the ride back home. I did the silent parent thing for about 20 minutes. The "what the heck just happened" introspection. I consoled myself with a $1.00 McDonald's drive-thru (of course) diet coke and reminded myself - it's just a phase. And promised myself never to go to a restaurant with my children until 2025!

Back in the Saddle Again

It’s hard to believe, but I hadn’t played golf in a year. The dry spell ended last Friday. Finally, there were no more excuses not to play anymore. Income? Check. Free time? Check. Good weather? Check.

With more than a spousal blessing (“Get out of here and go play!”), I headed for the Links for the first time this side of the Rocky Mountains in a long time. I remember that last round fairly well. I didn’t know a soul, yet met a great guy named Kurt who was very encouraging. It must’ve been about 148 degrees that day, but it was a humid heat. I didn’t play particularly well, but it was a great escape for about four hours.

This time I played for another four hours, but I didn’t go alone. I played with friend and colleague, Amy, and with another “new guy” – George. On a rare 72 degree Washington spring afternoon (read: heat wave), we headed a few miles east to a beautiful course with a spectacular backdrop. The rivers running through the tree-lined course were dwarfed by the beautiful jagged-peaked mountains practically within arm’s reach.

I began my round with a blistering line drive at a 45 degree angle away from the tee box – but still in bounds. A sky-high approach shot landed within feet of the pin – a shot, unfortunately, not to be repeated all day. For 18 long holes, I walked, swung irons, searched for lost balls, and hit trees (once nearly decapitating myself). The best part of the day? Conversation. Walking in nature. The smell of fresh cut grass. The pinging sounds in the sweet spot of the driver every ninth or tenth shot that deceivingly prods you to play 18 again because “you’ve got potential.” The cynics will tell you the sport is named golf because all the other four-letter words have been taken. But even in the hurricane that is my current golf game, there’s a comfort, a familiarity, a joy that I find that for a few hours makes me enjoy the simple things in life.

What are your hobbies or simple pleasures that would be difficult to replace? How do they connect you to what is good in life? “Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of Heavenly lights.” Is golf one of those gifts? It could be eternally debated, but last Friday it was for me.

Growing Up Fast

Two big events last week. The first made me realize that I’m getting older at a rapid pace. The second helped me process it. (All those older than me are now saying, “You think YOU’RE old.” And those younger than me are saying, “You ARE old!”) Aside from finding old friends on Facebook and thinking, “They look old” and telling my 20-something friend about bands I used to love and hearing the response, “Who’s that?” last week I began coming to grips with a big birthday coming up later this year.

Event 1 – The Wedding. It was my gigantic privilege to officiate a wedding for a kid – scratch that – woman who was a 6th grader when I first met her and her husband. I was her youth pastor. She married a great guy at a very cool outdoor wedding (next to a river). The groomsmen and bridesmaids all had baby faces and were reminiscing about high school (from which they graduated a couple of years ago). I felt too old to dance and was relieved not to be invited to the groomsman’s brief bachelor party so that I could go to sleep earlier! To top it off, it just so happened that two of the three flower girls from my own wedding were in attendance – and one of them brought her husband.

Event 2 – The Retreat. I took a pastoral excellence class for five days immediately after the wedding – part of my ordination process. It was a week that provided personal and interpersonal growth. I met many new colleagues and made some friends. I heard their stories and the bumpy roads that led them into ministry. Simultaneously I delved into personality tests and explored any potential red flags that would hinder my work – basically, how screwed up am I? It was an opportunity to explore the past and to reevaluate the road I’ve taken to get to mile marker 39 (as in my age).

Everyday I spent over two hours commuting to and fro this class. Much time was allotted for thinking, regretting, and thanking. I met with a therapist and a spiritual director through which I was largely encouraged and given a green light to continue on this path. Whatever bumps and bruises I’ve accumulated over the years are equally considered lessons to learn from. These experiences have yielded a certain authority. Though some of my friends in ministry have been performing weddings since their early 20s, this was the first time I got to do so alone. I felt like I had come of age and that my experience was paying off.

Though returning to my desk this week has resulted into more speed bumps, there is a confidence I carry that I’ve never before owned. The personality tests revealed that I want nothing more than for everybody to “just get along.” And if I sniff conflict I want to duck and cover. But last week helped change all that. I’ve got a resource of colleagues to vent to and inquire of. I’ve got many people depending on my expertise and pastoral care. I’ve got two couples whom were married under my watch and both are still married! I’ve got the power of God on my side. (Heck, Jesus was perfect – and he ended up on a cross!) And I’ve got many years of wisdom – with a birthdate that can back up that claim!

A Savoring Pace

If you’ve ever watched a 10K or marathon, you can pick out the runners that look comfortable at the pace they’re running…and those who are about to toss their cookies. The discipline of running has taught me how to pace myself – to run at a strong, consistent pace for long periods of time. There are also moments in races for which energy must be saved – an upcoming hill or for sprinting the final 400 yards. The more you run, the more you know your capabilities and how much energy to exert to maximize your running efficiency.

In his book Rest in the Storm, author Kirk Jones introduces the concept of a “Savoring Pace.” Just like those runners who seem to be enjoying their pace, he urges us to monitor our pace of life. “The violence of overload and hurry…is a socially acceptable form of brutality.” In the name of progress many of us push the limits of what our bodies are designed for. We end up missing out on important conversations, our kids’ landmarks, and people in need. Is that really progress? He himself had to slowdown over 10 years ago. He adjusted his brutal schedule, implementing the art of saying, “No.” Since then he has been able to live at a savoring pace. He works hard; then he rests and plays. In slowing down, his quality of life has improved and he now savors the little things in life.

What is your pace? Are you on a treadmill without an off button? Do you look like the person in the marathon who’s running too fast, about to hit the proverbial wall? Or are you running the race talking with the runners next to you, waving to the fans, and picking up those who fall? The clock on the finish line may not be as low as you’d hoped, but don’t miss the enjoyment of the race itself and the opportunities it provides.

Big Voice, Small Audience

Have you ever heard of John M. Perkins? Probably not. At the least, I’d call him a prophet: announcing God’s desires to the people. He has been on the forefront of racial reconciliation and inner city development among other things. Today I had the last minute opportunity to hear him speak at a small church in Seattle.

He’s almost 80 years old, but a powerful speaker. He preaches the Gospel: God’s desire and plan to reconcile with humanity. And he speaks to the 21st century American. “How can we pray for another expensive car when 30,000 children die everyday across the world? We pray for our ‘cups to overflow’ but we’re carrying around cups larger than we need.”

“We have to civilize our leaders.” The politicians have lost touch. They’re in it for themselves. And we’re too afraid to give up our slice of the pie – even though others hardly have crumbs. How can we object to more taxes when 40 million people don’t have healthcare? Will we have to apologize to God for letting people die and spending our time accumulating? He is so passionate about the poor and marginalized, as evidenced in his tearfully closing.

After his talk I went to my car and took the 40 minute drive home. I couldn’t listen to the radio. I couldn’t fill my mind with anything else. He wants me to give away more of my money, to live less comfortably? He wants me to spend my life for others? No wonder the audience was so small. Anyone who hears that message probably isn’t going to return to his next speaking engagement, let alone bring their friends. Besides, the NFL draft is on tonight. I’ve got other things to think about.

Love the Celtics?

So Meris was watching basketball with me the other night – “Which team do you like, Dad?” It was the National Championship. I didn’t much care, but it was fun to watch the game. For a few years now our kids have tried to jump on the bandwagon of whatever team Dad’s watching. Five years ago I taught Meris to yell, “Touchdown!” while watching USC in the Rose Bowl. Last year it was, “Hook ‘em Horns” in Austin (of course not rooting too hard for the team that beat USC four years ago). This year you could hear my then 3 year old yell, “Go Theahawks!” That’s Seahawks for those of you who don’t have a child with a lisp.

Even this weekend we watched the Masters. “Who’s that?” That’s Phil. “Who’s that?” It’s Ernie (Els). “Who’s that?” It’s Tiger.

Rewinding to last week in the college basketball game. “Which team do you like?” Hmmm. Butler? I’ve never even heard of Butler. Duke? They always win. Oh, I don’t care. I don’t like either team. I just like to watch.

15 minutes later, my smug daughter comes downstairs with a 3 by 3 inch post it. I read the words she has written: “Jesus says like one another.” I glare at her. She thinks she’s a comedian. She can’t stop laughing. Do as I say, not as I do is a common parental excuse. I guess I have to like Butler and Duke. I guess as a Dodger fan (and a bandwagon Mariner fan) I have to like the Yankees. I guess I have to like…the (gulp) Celtics. Really? I don’t think so. I’ll take my chances here.