What did I just step in?

The number of times in the last week I’ve contacted nauseating bodily fluids has arrived at a non-comical level. You know, it’s cute a few times. Then after a while you laugh because it’s happened so often. Then it exceeds the humorous and borders on the ridiculous. Based on last week’s post, you know the weekend that was. Well it continued.


After we thought all was good, we loaded up in the car to get our Christmas tree. Ten minutes later, our firstborn was puking in the car’s trash can. (Yes we have a trash can in our car.) Great. Anyone else?

The next morning the mama wasn’t feeling well and had a bad day. Fortunately, she didn’t take any car trips which seem to cause the upchucking. Well I guess just the boys survived.

Errrr. Hold that. 72 hours later dad takes the three kids to the movies while mom’s at work. We get all the way to the credits when Jr. cries out in pain, “MY TUMMY REALLY, REALLY HURTS!” Really? GO! GO! GO! Both girls run for the exit. I pick up the little man and sprint for the parking lot. The poor guy is in serious pain. Fortunately no vomit. Unfortunately his virus manifested in another way. And for 48 hours, culminating in the foulest nighttime wake-up smell ever I’ve had many more opportunities to clean floors, toilets, carpet, you name it.
Of course last night’s pinnacle incident occurred 45 minutes after I had stupidly declared “Ahhh. The peace.” I should’ve known better. That Sunday night after the movie incident, and a day of cleaning cat and dog messes of various sorts the house was finally peaceful. I headed to the tv to watch the last quarter of Sunday Night Football. Two steps from the couch of solitude with diet coke & popcorn in hand…I stepped in it.
I didn’t even know which animal had done it. There’s evidence to convict either if not both. For 20 minutes I fumed and cursed the existence of animals and the presence of sin in the world. This morning I read from Isaiah 11 about the time when the “wolf will live with the lamb” and “the infant playing near the hole of the cobra.” Certainly at some point the insanity ends. I really hope this includes cleaning up the messes of those animals and any pets I may have.
But I keep telling myself that other people are having worse days and I know it’s true. It could be worse. I realize that for the unforeseen future I will be cleaning, wiping, scooping, and rinsing. But that this is part of the privilege of parenting. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Thank you, God, for this day. Its highs and lows. The sun that rose and actually appeared in Seattle. For that full moon last night and your faithful presence as I clean, wipe, rinse, etc.

41 - The Wildest Birthday of them All

Do you remember your 41st birthday? No, not 40 or 30 or 21. 41. I remember mine. It was last week. Betcha I remember it for decades to come too! You’re probably thinking. Hmmm, is 41 a magical Fraser birthday?  Do they do something weird in the Northwest for 41?  Nope.


My sweet wife booked a condo for the family near the ocean last weekend. A great way for the family to celebrate. Day one went great. We all drove up to Bellingham (very close to Canada) after another great Portage Bay Breakfast in Seattle (another entry someday). We explored Bellingham and Birch Bay (a tiny town even closer to the Canadian border), ate some more, and swam in the heated pool.

At 4pm on day two, Jana wakes up from a nap to the sound of a sheriff on a bullhorn. I was watching football so I hadn’t heard a thing. The sheriffs were calling for a man to come out of his condo – a mere 15 yards from ours. After an hour we decided to make the trek back to Bellingham for dinner. The three patrol cars were still there as were the sheriffs. We brought a couple extra items just in case, but were hopeful that whatever delinquent was being coaxed from his apartment would behave and walk downstairs.

As we left the condo, the kids kept asking what was happening. “The police came to arrest the man for not eating his vegetables” we told them. One rolled her eyes, one’s eyes lit up, and one’s eyes were glossed over (he didn’t understand my humor). But we were concerned enough to know that we may not be spending the night in our nice little getaway.

After departing the Olive Garden, child number two began coughing that distinctive cough. There really is no way to descibe it.  You just know it.  The one where you don’t have a cough but something else is seriously wrong. Then she made those moans in the car and began crying. Only one thing was the result – vomit! She’s never puked before, so it was a new experience for all. (Her older sister and all of our pets barf all the time, however.)

A 25 minute drive back to the…oh yeah, standoff. Oh, no. What if it’s still going on? Well. It was. Now the entire road was blocked off. What about my phone? Jana’s medicine? Fresh clothes for the puker? Oh well. Better than getting shot!

We said a quick prayer for the safety of the sheriffs and drove 25 minutes back to Bellingham to find a hotel. After checking in Mama headed for the room with three confused kids. Daddy put the towels and clothing with vomit onto the hood of the car to minimize the fermentation in the Toyota. I borrowed some Febreeze and wiped the seat down. Because it was 30 degrees outside, I knew everything would freeze – but who cares? At least it ain’t in the car!

Well, all was resolved in the morning. It's amazing what a solid four hours of sleep can do! Only one other puking wake-up and only a few hours of lost sleep. Apparently there had been a serious threat along with a gun. More sheriffs and patrol cars including an armored car. An arrest was made and no one was hurt. We showered, laundered, and cleaned. Then we drove two hours south in a smelly car (the Febreeze didn’t cover all sins) and arrived at home where we spent the next three hours REALLY washing the seat, showering, laundering, and cleaning.

Here’s to a very boring 42!

Jesus Didn't Eat Peanut Butter!

Did you know that? I found out yesterday. As my kids were helping clean out one of the Sunday school rooms, Elias’ brain began to process. He recognized his own classroom where he learns, pouts, screams, plays, throws down, etc. His memory was triggered and zestily approached me. “Dad. You know Jesus? He no peanut butter!” Translation: Jesus didn’t eat peanut butter.

Where did that come from? What kind of theology is that? Do I believe that?

Ummmm. Yes. Er. No. Wait. Yes.

I don’t believe Jesus ate peanut butter because I don’t think there were peanuts in that culture. There were nuts, but peanuts? Not sure. Didn’t take that class in seminary. But I’m pretty sure that was not the lesson communicated in our preschool Sunday school last week.

But now I’m concerned. Does my three year old believe Jesus was too good to eat peanut butter? That he condemned anyone who did?

He wouldn’t have done that. Not gonna guarantee it, but from what I read about Jesus in Scripture, he was a man of the people. He spent most of his time with the poor, the lonely, the outcasts, the underdog. Those people hypothetically would have eaten peanut butter. Had it been available. Because it’s pretty cheap…and easy to make…and all that.

Those Pharisees probably would have only eaten kosher cold cuts and fancy foods for lunch. Because they had more money and laws and that kind of stuff. Did the Pharisees consider peanuts unclean?

Hey this is becoming a pretty interesting argument with myself. I need to go back and read Leviticus again.

Anyway, lots of people come up with crazy ideas about Jesus. They say things he didn’t and inaccurately label him. Sometimes they read the Bible, but usually they just develop their theology based on Hollywood movies or the selective, condemning reports of local news stations looking for viewership.

So today’s post is just a friendly public service announcement encouraging you to read the Bible. It’s God’s word in your own hands with incredible news for you. If you need help or translation, don’t ask a three year old. Ask me or another friend who has a bit more experience. We’d love to help you uncover the God of the Universe who made himself incarnate – choosing to live in a fallen world, choosing to suffer, and choosing to hypothetically eat peanut butter with the poor. Because he loves you!!

And for the record I think Elias was reiterating our no peanut allergy policy at church. Just a guess though. Those three year olds are tough to figure out.

No Greater Fear

He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God. – Micah 6:8

Is there anything we fear worse than someone hurting our children? Last week the sports world collided with the real world when it was revealed that one of the assistant coaches for the football team at a prominent university had been inappropriately touching children.

I have a friend who a few years back attended a football game at Penn State University. He was fascinated how the community centered around football. The entire town, greatly isolated geographically, shuts down for games. The coach is (was) an icon. Joe Paterno is eighty four and until last week had been coaching for over sixty years at his institution – an institution centered around football. The proverbial tail wagging the dog.

As you may have noticed, sometimes people depart reality and cling to things of less import. We watch movies or listen to sports radio while much of the world struggles to find its next meal. At some point those things can become more significant. It dominates our time and consumes our thoughts. College presidents, corporate CEOs, musicians, athletes, and many others become consumed with pride, warping their worldviews and the rest of us go along for the ride.

Many details are still to come, but I can make a general speculation. At some point, the diversion (football, popularity, pride, money) became more important than humanity. Football players, fans, parents, and kids all became pawns to the alleged goal: winning. Who knows what all was ignored? The coach once hailed as one who “won with honor,” forgot his conviction and now has no honor.

A wise man once told me that we always need to operate from a place of humility. At no time should we believe our own press. We need to find people that will surround us and will lovingly rip off the bandages and expose anything we may be hiding. It goes against our inclinations, but it’s essential. Everything is at stake: our faith, our honor, our kids.

Pray for humility and bandage removers in your life. Pray for the millions of kids and adults suffering from current and past abuse.

Spoiled Rotten

So as I continue to wrestle with money and the implications of living in a community of wealth, I again found myself the beneficiary of tremendous generosity.


I spent last week in California at a wonderful orientation class to my denomination’s vibrant heart for the world. The Evangelical Covenant Church is planting churches in communities that don’t resemble mine. I witnessed incredible people serving the poor, the marginalized, and communities of refugees and immigrants. 25% of the Covenant’s churches are now labeled “ethnic.” Whether first generation or fifth generation Americans (the U.S. ones), race still divides our nation and our churches. Many of my colleagues are opening their arms to heal these fissures.

After four powerful days of developing friendships and awakening myself to the possibilities of the Church, I rented a car and enjoyed a quick 48 hour vacation. I soon visited my cousin Cecily and her two beautiful kids who live near San Francisco. I headed south to meet up with the ever-faithful Jeff who pulled a few strings and landed us a tee time at one of the Pebble Beach golf courses. Yes. The Pebble Beach. Perhaps the mecca of golf so to speak. I guess I should more accurately say the community that has developed golf courses on God’s wonderfully created California coast.

We played for free. That’s right, I said free. It would have otherwise cost $375 – per person! So being cheap and a mediocre golfer, you know I would have never spent that kind of money on a round of golf.

The course was incredible. The views beyond belief. The conditions immaculate. (Yes, I would be willing to eat off of the fairway.) The customer service beyond imagination.

The ocean was bluer. The fairways greener. The greens firmer. The sand traps steeper – and challenging. Painfully, frustratingly awful – I mean challenging. The rough was rougher.

Though I was in the sand more than a kindergartener in a sandbox at recess, I was in awe. I took more photos than a proud parent of a newborn. I was spoiled rotten: completely undeserving of the extravagance and opportunity to play one of the world’s elite golf courses – especially with my abilities. If my final score were the temperature of any city in the country…that city would be Phoenix…in July.

Though this may not have been a God-ordained round of golf, there are definitely a few lessons to exegete. I think heaven may be a bit like an outing on 17 Mile Drive: a group of people undeserving, yet spoiled rotten. People ecstatic and in awe. Perfect conditions. People being allowed to enter with no possible way to pay that price themselves.

My prayer is that the whole world may have the experience of being spoiled rotten. That they would be made aware that utter poverty and racial division may be their fate, but that knowing God yields acceptance, hope, undeserving grace, and invitation to be in awe of the God who made the oceans.

Thanks Jeff. Thanks God.

Anniversary 16.2

It wasn’t a great anniversary. Well, compared to our typical fun anniversaries. Usually you would find us at a water park, beach, or lively restaurant. But this year’s was different. Being extremely ill on your anniversary ain’t no fun at all.
There’s much to be said for holding your spouse’s hand when she’s sicker than sick on your anniversary. It contrasts the euphoria of the wedding day, yet there is a deeper love sixteen years later that is more meaningful without the need for a fancy honeymoon.

That said, we got a raw deal for #16. So as we realized we’d have a chance to go away for 24 hours a few months after #16, we were excited to have a do-over. Call it 16.2. With only 24 hours, we decided a long distance getaway wasn’t in the cards, but just a day of peace, quiet, and carefree living would be great. We picked a hotel in downtown Seattle online – it’s called Vintage Park. It looked fancy, but wouldn’t completely break the bank.

So at noon last Thursday we said goodbye to the kids and grandparents…and made a run for it. The options were endless: where to eat, what to do, where to go? We had a great lunch at an “East Coast” deli then drove to the hotel. The valet opened the doors of our kidmobile littered with goldfish crackers, sippy cups, and used baby wipes. Oh no! I completely forgot about the tip! I scrounged through my wallet and all I had…a buck. Classy! He picked up our duffel bag from the trunk (yes I said duffel bag) and carried it to the lobby. Did I mention I had forgotten to zip up the duffel bag? Socks and sweatshirts were plainly visible.

We walked into the lobby. They told us about wine tasting at 5pm and dinner at 9 in the hotel’s upscale Italian restaurant. Then the gal smiled and said they had upgraded us to a nicer room. We were gracious as we turned for the elevator. The bellman asked us which floor and we said the eleventh. He looked like he swallowed a tack because he had seen the car we drove. Room 1103 – three rooms: bedroom, bathroom, and living room. No wait. It was more like a parlor. A tv near the bathtub, one in the bedroom, and one in the living… I mean parlor. Couches with soft pillows, chairs without armrests, and real blinds on the windows. I know – fancy stuff!

We walked downtown wandering into stores with breakable items and coffee houses with candles. We strolled for hours, not having to stop to pee every 15 minutes. When we returned to the hotel, there was a bottle of wine and chocolate on the coffee table. And the wine didn’t have a screw top!

The rest of the stay continued on like this. Our waitress bought our dessert for us. Everyone on staff was genuinely considerate or faked it really well. We reluctantly departed the hotel still a bit suspicious. Were we set up? Did someone pay extra for us? Did they feel really sorry for us? At the end we didn’t care. We took it as a gift – a small treat for the postponed anniversary part one. Thank you God for small gifts like this.

The Parking Lot Speaks Volumes

The parking lot speaks volumes. It’s a beautiful fall morning here in the PNW. The leaves of the trees are bright orange, red, and yellow. It’s incredible. I’m staring through a giant Starbucks window which shares the dimensions of a computer screen. Pretending it was a giant touch screen, I’d love to start erasing the cars and Chevron sign I see in the near distance. All I’d have left would be the rugged landscape of a 45 degree Washington fall day: hills, trees, smoky clouds, and a blanket of gray. But the gray is hardly noticeable because the green branches of the evergreens and the iridescent leaves shame that dull sky.

And if it shames the sky, what does it do to the objects of humankind’s desire? You know, cars. Pulling out that giant touch screen again, if you were to take away the incredible foliage and mountains in the background, you’d have a pretty impressive spectrum of colors from these vehicles as well. There are greens, reds, yellows, blacks, silvers, whites, maroons, champagnes, and clays. Probably not much different from any other parking lot in Anytown, USA.

Of course this ain’t Anytown, USA. Looking carefully I can only see one car that looks out of place – some kind of station wagon missing its left rear hubcap. In anytown USA, 90% of all the cars aren’t so high end. My own Camry looks like a beater compared to the rest. Doing the math, there have been hundreds of thousands spent on vehicles in just this tiny parking lot.

And we all know that the owners of these vehicles have two and three car garages with who knows what else parked in those other spaces. I know we do! My minivan cost more than my adoption (Though in the long run with the amount of food the little linebacker is eating there won’t be a comparison.). Yet here I stare in jealousy of the guy in the lifted Jeep and that bratty little 16 year old in a Lexus SUV. It is a hard day for me. Excuse me while I wipe away a tear…

OK I’m back. The parking lot speaks volumes. My beloved “Silver Bullet” sits there which transports my three precious ones at speeds approaching a rolling bowling ball. There’s not a piece of litter anywhere (Did you know how clean the Eastside is?), yet our world is in peril. The hungry, the exploited, the angry. If I just sit in this chair all day long, life will remain easy and the world will still be perfect – just the aroma of coffee, the hissing of milk steaming, beautiful leaves, shining electric cars. Not a person with nary a problem. It’s kind of a nice bubble to be in. Get me some headphones to drown out the couple arguing in the corner and I’m good.