A Gift in the Sand

I know, it’s been awhile…

This blog has been virtually dead for months, with not a single new word written since before Christmas. I’d like to say I’ve been so busy I haven’t had the chance to write, but that’s only partly true. While I have been busy, I haven’t been so busy that I couldn’t take a few minutes to post something here. I just kept not-doing it.

As more time went by, I found it harder and harder to get started, for it seemed like some acknowledgment of my absence would be in order before anything else, and I just didn’t know where to start.

I didn’t lack subject matter – I had several topics to write on. I didn’t lack motivation – several times I earnestly made stretch goals to get a post done by a certain date. But despite this, nothing got written.

What I lacked was inspiration. I got it today. Read On

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In A Father’s Care

He came into the world, and everything changed.

I became a father eleven years ago. My experience as a dad is no more profound or special or remarkable than any other man’s experience as a dad. And yet, I suspect every man’s experience as a dad is special and remarkable. Becoming a father is an opportunity to see the world anew, through the eyes of the baby that changes a man into a dad.

From the minute I saw him, I knew that I would die before I let him meet harm. That is what I said to myself – that I would die before I let anything happen to my beautiful baby boy. It was love at first sight — but like the infant I held in my arms, I had no idea what that love would come to look like as the years went by.

I had no idea how to be a dad. I had a father, but I did not have a dad. My father did not spend any time with me as a child, did not teach me any life lessons, did not show me what it was to be a man, let alone a parent.  So when I had a child of my own, I was winging it from day one.

I was terrified. The first night home from the hospital, his mother and I took turns sleeping, so one of us could hover over his bassinet and make sure he didn’t stop breathing — because all the parenting books we’d read filled our heads with horror stories of babies suffocating under blankets or pillows or cats that climbed onto the baby’s chest to steal their breath away in some evil feline plot to gain dominance over man. (never mind the fact that we didn’t have a cat.) We slept with his bassinet right next to our bed. We also had a baby monitor in his bassinet next to his head, and the receiver in between our pillows so we could hear him — three feet away.

Like I said — terrified.

As the years went by, I sought to ensure his health and safety as any good parent would. I was hyper-vigilant in making sure he was looked after, he was comfortable, he was never neglected or left unattended. I made sure I told him he was loved at every available opportunity, and I demonstrated that love with physical affection and tenderness that I never received from my own father. I was bound and determined to be the Best Dad Ever, and keep him from harm.

And in that lofty, noble goal was my supreme error.

I spent countless hours worrying about his welfare, his feelings, his future. The older he got, the more I saw myself in him — and I saw him repeating some of the behavior that was shown not to work for me when I was a kid. I wanted to help him avoid the mistakes I made, and when he was resistant to my “help”, I worried more.

When the divorce came, I was wrapped in fear of what would become of my children. I was certain they would end up “broken” because their home was broken, and I would lie awake at night grieving the loss of the happy future that I was sure was lost to them.

And when a new man was brought in to their mother’s home almost immediately after I moved out, I just knew that my role as their father would be usurped and the bond that I had forged with them would be lost. I did not know what it was like to have a bond with a father, so I did not know how strong that bond can really be.

“Have a little faith in your kids,” my friend Rich suggested one night as I tearfully shared my fear about the new living situation we were in. “You’re the only Dad they will ever have. No one else gets to fill that role for them. Don’t you think they know that?”

I sighed reluctantly and believed it, but as the days went by, I still ached and worried about them. I would lie awake at night, unable to sleep, missing my kids and in deep despair over the path their lives were now taking. I spent weeks dwelling in despair, frozen in fear. I did not know what to do.

One day my son told me that he felt that his mother’s boyfriend seemed to be giving him messages that he needed to change. My son indicated that this man was of the opinion that he wasn’t okay the way he was. I was livid, and I plunged into even deeper despair over the fate of my son. I knew I was powerless over what went on in his mother’s house, and I knew that if I confronted the situation directly it would likely end up in a restraining order (or worse, a prison sentence) — and that would mean I’d see my kids even less than I already did.

I shared about this in a support group one day, and was really only intending to unload my burden because I had grown weary from carrying it around. It was difficult to speak with the giant lump in my throat that threatened to break into a sob, but I finally got it out. I felt a little better at having given voice to my fear, but I was no closer to knowing what to do about it.

And then a woman spoke. I did not know this woman. I had never spoken with her before.  But she delivered a message to me that day that I desperately needed to hear.

She said, “When I have a loved one in my life that is going through a tough time, and I find myself unable to bear the fear or sadness that I feel for them, I put them in The God Room.”

I looked at her, surprised, for I had never heard this phrase before. This was something new to me. She continued to speak, and while she spoke in the group, she looked at me as she talked. She delivered this message directly to me.

“When I’m in fear for someone I love, I close my eyes. I visualize myself walking with that person, holding their hand, smiling and telling them what they mean to me – telling them what I want for them, sharing my hopes for them. And as we walk, we come to a door. We stop before the door, and I turn to my loved one and I tell them, ‘I love you so, so much.’  And then I turn to the door.”

As the woman shared this visualization, I could see it clearly in my mind. I was mesmerized. She continued.

“I see myself turn the doorknob, and I can feel it is pleasantly warm. And when I push open the door, we are bathed in light. The door opens into a room that is filled with the purest, brightest, whitest light imaginable. It is warm and feels safe and comfortable. The light fills me with a sense of peace, and grace. And I visualize myself turning back to my loved one, hugging them tightly, and I kiss them. Then I usher them in to this room filled with the bright, peaceful, warm light. And then I close the door.”

She paused for a moment, and then said, “I put them in The God Room. I do this because they are in God’s hands, not mine. I can love them, and I can support them, but I have to let go of my will for them and let God’s will be done.”

She looked at me one last time and said, “Put your kids in The God Room. They’re gonna be okay.”

That woman gave me a great gift that day. She reminded me that, while I love my kids fiercely and unconditionally, I am only their Dad. I am not their God.

Today, when I feel that fear over my children’s well-being, I remind myself of what my role in their life really is: I get to love them, I get to model behavior for them, I get to demonstrate what works, I get to support them in their own learning, on their own life paths. And I get to play with them, giggle with them, sing songs with them, and be silly with them.

But I can’t shield them from all harm, all sadness, all heartbreak. And really, why would I want to? For shielding them from that is interfering with their life experience. My job is to help them grow up to be good people in the world, and part of that is helping them to deal with adversity. God is in charge of the rest.

My son is eleven, and adolescence is approaching. We are seeing the signs already – the moodiness, the frustration, and impatient and intolerant attitude that surfaces now and then. He is experiencing his challenges – some of the very same challenges I experienced at his age. I remind myself that my experience is not his experience. He will experience this in his own way. I get to support him in his growth, help him up when he falls, and love him through all of it.

He is in The God Room.

Encountering God at the Gas Station

Happy Memorial Day. Yesterday I had a chance encounter with a veteran. And God.

Yesterday I pulled in to a gas station, silently remarking to myself how strange it is to be grateful to find gas for $3.95 a gallon. I pulled up to a pump and immediately noticed that my gas tank was going to be several feet away from the fuel hose because the person parked at the next pump had pulled his vehicle forward so far it was essentially taking up two spaces.

I felt a moment of annoyance and thought of pulling around to another pump, but all appeared to be occupied. I sighed, mildly frustrated, and recognized that the annoyance and frustration were signs that I was in my “controlling and managing” mode, and so I tried to let it go and just eased forward as far as I could. I cut the engine.

After I started pumping my oh-so-cheap gas, I had a thought to wash my windshield. The day before I noticed it was rather filthy and tried cleaning it with the car’s washers, but the wipers weren’t strong enough to completely remove some of the larger bits of smashed bug that dotted the glass. These would only be erased by some serious manual scrubbing.

I thought about how you used to be able to get actual cleaning solution in the water to wash your windshield at service stations, but nowadays it seems gas stations will only supply a receptacle of dirty water, and I again recognized the lack of serenity in my thinking. I let forth another sigh, and mentally said a quick prayer for acceptance and courage and wisdom.

I received all three instantly.

 When I turned to retrieve the squeegee, I saw that it was already being retrieved by a man. A very old man. The man whose car was parked in two spaces was now taking the tool I needed to clean my windshield. But instead of annoyance, I felt curious. I watched him.

He walked with a cane, slowly and with great effort, and he leaned upon it as he bent down to retrieve the long handled squeegee. He wore baggy shorts that billowed around his skinny legs, and what appeared to be wool socks with sandals on his feet.

It took him a few moments to get the squeegee out of the water and return to a standing position. His hair was white and his skin was covered in liver spots, the badges of old age. It seemed to take him forever to move from the water receptacle to his car, the water from the sponge-side of the squeegee dripping down onto the pavement, some of it splashing on his sandaled feet. All the while, he leaned heavily on his cane. This was a difficult task for him.

Without really thinking what I was doing, I walked over to him, giving him a wide berth so that I did not startle him by sneaking up directly behind him.

“Sir?” I called as I approached. He did not hear me, and so I moved a little closer and called louder, “Sir? Can I help you with that?”

He was taking the squeegee to the hood of his car instead of the windshield, rubbing it against the surface slowly, awkwardly. He heard me and turned to look at me, his face a mask that I could not read. “What?” he said, in a voice that did not sound as old as he looked.

I gave him a friendly smile and said, “Can I wash that for you, sir?”

He looked at me and I could see by his face that he was tired. His blue eyes were milky and I briefly wondered about his vision and the fact that he was driving, yet he wore no glasses.  He did not smile back at me, but he did respond. “Can you wash this for me?” he said, more to himself than to me. “Can you wash this for me” he said again – more a statement than a question.

He sounded mad, and for a moment I wondered if I’d made a mistake in offering to help.

“Yes, I’d be happy to do that for–” I started, but he continued talking.

“I need the exercise,” he said to me. “My doctor says I need to exercise as much as possible. Every little bit helps, he says, so I need to exercise wherever I can”, he said.

I smiled, trying not to look as awkward as I felt. I glanced at his vehicle and noticed that the dash board was covered – and the backseat filled – with belongings. Personal care items, clothes, a blanket, medication, papers…

I had a strong suspicion that the man lived in this car.

I looked back at the man, and he was looking at me. “I hate to exercise,” he said to me.

I smiled again, and it felt genuine this time. “Well, I hate to exercise too,” I replied. “I’m with you on that one.”

He said, “My doctor tells me that I need to exercise to keep my strength, but the truth is, I just want to be done. I’m ninety-five and a V.A. outpatient, and my doctor tells me that I need to exercise but I’m tired.”

He looked back at his car and said again, “I’m tired. I just want to be done.”

I did not know how to respond to that. I glanced again at the interior of his car, then back at his weathered, tired, face with the milky eyes that still seemed to see me clearly, and wondered about this man’s life. I wondered if he had any family. I wondered if he had any friends. I wondered if he did, in fact, live in that car.

“I’ve got arthritis and my bones ache, and my leg is bum so its hard to get around,” he continued. “But I just keep going.” He turned back to look at me. “What else can I do, right?”

I glanced back at my own car, with my children in the back seat completely unaware of the encounter I was having, and felt an urge to climb back there and just hold them tight. I was suddenly very aware of how precious human connection is. As I stood before this tired man who had reached a point where he had seen enough, I felt a sense of overwhelming gratitude. In that moment, I realized that there is nothing in the universe I want more than the life I have and the people I hold in my heart. In that moment, I felt young and vibrant and full of love.

“But you asked if you could wash this for me,” the man went on, “and here I go on and on about myself. No, thank you for offering, but I can do this.” He looked me in the eye and gave me an appreciative nod, then turned back to his car.

I wanted to help this man, and heard a voice in my head say, “Help is what we ask for; service is what we render.” I reminded myself that I can not help anyone, but I can be of service to them, willingly and lovingly. I had offered to be of service to this man, and he declined. Still, I tried once more.

“Are you sure I can’t clean that for you, sir?” I asked, sensing the answer before I received it. “I would be happy to do it.”

He touched the squeegee to the hood of his vehicle and said without looking at me, “No, thank you, I’m just going to get this spot off the hood. Its a –” and he mumbled a few comments about whatever it was that he was cleaning off his car, which I could not hear or understand. Then he glanced back at me and said, “Thank you, though.”

I smiled at him one more time. “No problem. You have a good day, sir.”

He did not say anything further and turned back to his car. I walked back to my own car and returned the hose to the pump, collected my receipt, and got in my car.

As I drove away, it occurred to me what a gorgeously beautiful day it was, and I breathed deeply. I turned up the music for the kids and we sang. I looked out at the sun and the clouds and the trees and felt joy. I thought about my interaction with the man at the gas station and felt sadness. Mostly, I felt a deep appreciation for all of it. Everything.

Especially for my dirty windshield.

And Nothing But the Truth

Some random truths about me:

I think life is sweet, but it is significantly sweeter on Saturday mornings.

I have freckles all over my body and they help disguise the fact that my skin’s color approximates the underside of a carp.

Without music, my sense of joy would go from grape to raisin in less than 5 days, and from raisin to moldy speck of goo in less than 20.

Beautiful women simultaneously delight and terrify me.

I can press my palms to the floor without bending my knees.

I have a tendency to love my children more than myself.

While fixing my bike yesterday, I inadvertently sunburned the “coin slot” above the crack of my ass.

I would have no trouble consuming 10,000 calories a day, and the only thing preventing me from doing so is the knowledge that I would end up as one of those shut-ins who cannot get out of bed and has to wash himself with a rag on a stick.

At my most wrathful, the only thing that prevented me from committing murder is the awareness that I’m not smart enough to get away with it.

Clowns are fucking creepy, period. No that’s not an opinion.

I am not afraid to hug men in public.

I just wrote then deleted something and posted this sentence instead.

I like to watch.

I am a Lover, a Warrior, a Magician, a King.

I will skydive before I die. I hope the interval between the two events is years instead of seconds.

I can use automatic sprinklers to help explain my connection to God.

All my troubles stem from a sense of grandiose inferiority.

I will like you until you give me reason not to.