Tag / Fatherhood

by Michael

I Didn’t Realize He Was Leaving

On Wednesday evening, December 26, I was sitting next to Dawn and in front of Bryce in the B concourse of Midway airport.  We had successfully pressed through the security checkpoint, rearranged our clothes and shoes, and walked to our gate to wait for an hour before boarding a plane.  Bryce was eyeing some passenger’s ice cream, whispering to me about wanting some.  I told him to wait, to let me get settled.  I told him I had just sat down.  I told him to stop looking at the woman’s ice cream like that because he was scaring me and probably scaring her.

We were heading to Charlotte, North Carolina ultimately to complete our annual time with Grammie Joseph.  It would be a week where we would see the Gant museum, walk through the botanical gardens in Belmont, eat at Captain Steve’s, talk a lot, catch up, do nothing.  My aunt, Lynnie, called me while we were waiting to board.  I have a rule when certain people call my phone: I always answer.  I do not observe this rule for most people.  I’m a pastor so I cannot.  I meet with people and they say things to me, and when they say these things, it makes a lot of sense for me to stop the rest of the world as those people present their worlds to me.  So I’m “present” with them as they talk.  I ignore the phone.  I don’t hear rings in those moments.  But I make exceptions.  When my aunt calls, because my father has been in the nursing home in her city, I take her call, even if I need to ask if I can call right back.

As she always does, she asked me how I was.  There was static in the line.  Perhaps it wasn’t static.  Do cell towers allow for static?  It was choppy.  Whatever the interference, I couldn’t quite hear her clearly.  Some voice was droning about a passenger whose flight was leaving or some gate change.  There was Bryce switching to his mother and asking her for ice cream.  He’s been doing that more and more: shifting to her when I don’t answer the way he thinks I should.

Aunt Lynnie asked if I had gotten her message.  I pulled my phone from my ear and looked at it as if to ask it if it had rung without my hearing it.  Perhaps it sang while we were in the cab with the preacher cab driver who I talked theology with on the way to the airport.  “No,” I told her, “I didn’t.”  Then I thought—as she let out a long “Well,”—perhaps she called the house.  I heard her “Welling” and I had a flash of some indication of what was to come.  It was something spiritual, like and unlike the Welling in the black church, when people sometimes rock while they hear the preacher.  They say “Well” as they listen, and something about the “Well” makes what they hear stick.  My aunt’s well was different; she was stalling just for a moment, and auntie, in my experience, didn’t stall.  She breathed and she said it, quickly and clearly, without interference from cell towers or airport clutter.  My dad had passed an hour or so before that moment.

They were just arriving to the nursing home; the snow had prevented them from getting there sooner.  I knew Little Rock didn’t get snow.  I imagined my three Little Rock aunts, wrapped in coats, looking as lovely as always, dressed in care and concern and love and something familiar.  They were there, three of my father’s sisters, a group of faithful friends to him, and he was dead.  I asked her to repeat herself.  Actually, I said, “What?” I had heard her, but something in me got very cliche in that moment.  Or something in me needed to hear again.  Dawn heard me and she knew.  She had been down a path like this one when her father was snatched over six months after his stroke two years ago.  I felt Dawn turn to me.  I saw her take Bryce by the hand.  I was really surprised at that simple sentence from my aunt.  I wanted to turn to Dawn; I wanted to turn away.

I had just seen him.  This was my first thought: I had just seen him.  One week ago at the hospital in Searcy.  He hugged me twice.  I held him, walked with him.  I showed him pictures, something, I realize now, I did often on my trips to see him.  My second thought was: I just talked to him.  It was on Christmas Eve, two days before.  His voice was bright, brighter than usual even.  he talked to Bryce, asked about Dawn.  I thought he was getting better.  I didn’t realize he was leaving.

by Michael

Bonding With Your Child

I saw this post and thought to share the high points; it’s a quick reminder about the mutual benefits of fathers developing bonds with their children.  Here’s a summary with two sentences from the original post:

Get skin-to-skin.  The baby is happiest when connecting skin-to-skin with mama or papa. His temperature, heart, and breathing rates will be more consistent, and his blood sugar more stable.

Play games.  Make silly faces, play peek-a-boo, sing songs, for your baby. Set aside regular time for baby, whether it’s after work or in the morning, appoint a special time that’s just for you and the little one, so as the baby grows, this special bonding time becomes part of the daily routine.

Have glow time.  It’s all about taking personal time to lavish yourself and shine! While mama is taking some alone time to shine and do what she loves, you can have glow time with your baby.

Take charge.  Mama may like things done a certain way and may even school you on how to handle certain tasks when it comes to baby like- how to warm a bottle, change a diaper, comfort your baby, etc. But you will develop your own way of doing these things.

Slay your lists.  Men like to “fix” things and get things done, be productive, etc. When you are able to satisfy her needs and help reduce her stress load by checking off some of her to-do-list she will be thrilled- and when mama is happy everyone is happy.

Keep it movin’.  Whether you’re doing baby bench presses with your infant, baby yoga, or daddy dance party getting your baby to giggle while you’re moving him around is great. Movement also helps increase the baby’s muscle tone, and trains the baby’s proprioceptors- his sense of self in relation to space.

Find a papa posse.  Having a sense of community and knowing that you are not alone is key. Being a new father can be an isolating experience but certainly doesn’t have to be.

Read the full point by going here.

by Michael

Choosing To Be A Dad

I think a lot about work/life balance these days.  How to balance career and family and how much my level of effort at work balances my level of effort at home.

We just finished a release at work and while the high fives were going around, I left. I walked out of the building at a few minutes after five. I had worked hard these past few months to get the release out the door, I was proud of my effort, but I only wanted to see my daughter.  Walking out of that building, I felt an immense sense of accomplishment and pride in what I had done there.  Walking into my apartment at 5:45 on a Friday and being greeted with “Daddy’s home” I forgot it all.

Why is it so hard to leave work at work?  I know that my family needs me more than my job does.  I know that a few extra minutes at home could mean the difference between being there for and missing a First. And yet there is a struggle.  Is it the immediacy of the problems at work?  Is it the sense of accomplishment or a swelling ego that causes me to work beyond what is required? Is it because my parents taught me how to work hard and I’m just applying life lessons?

I think it’s actually a lot simpler than that, for me at least.  The reality of the situation is that I’m good at my job and doing well makes me happy.  When I’m at home, I’m not as good.  I’m more necessary but less effective. I’m more likely to get pooped on than to save the day with a solution.  I’m more likely to miss a cue for hunger than see through the noise for that one necessary thing.  Being home is harder than being at work and I think that I, as a dad, need to admit that to myself and to my wife.

The hallmark of my next step of maturation will be to be present in situations that are difficult and to go there, even when more comfort lies elsewhere.  It’s not about work/life balance.  It’s about choosing to be a dad with a job instead of an employee with two roommates.

by Michael

Events That Require Attention

My spiritual director told me, among many other precious things, that there are some events in life that require our attention.  She said that those events don’t necessarily care when they get attention just as long as they get what they deserve.  They interrupt us, sometimes an inconvenient times.  They vie for a spot in our field of vision.

We were discussing my father’s health and my recent visits to see him.  She had mentioned that her mother was ill for years before she died and that she too had some dementia.  Then, she said the most appropriate thing.  These things are in our peripheral vision.  They’re always present, though not always in front of us.  Whatever we do, they are present, waiting, and, often, off to the sides of our lives.

There are other things to pay attention to.  There is the work of ministry, work that seems to flow against common boundaries.  There is the immediate family, in my case a rambunctious two-year old and a wife who studies part-time in grad school.  There is the rest of me.

And the normal events trade places with the peripheral ones, and the pieces of my life dance around until I see what I need to see.  There are moments when what we’ve been changes because of who’s around us.  There are similar moments when we change because who isn’t.

And the event of my father’s health.  The series of moments I’m holding regarding what can only be seen as tentative progress and expected deterioration.  These moments are changing me.

I’ve never been the sporadic type.  I’ve never been impulsive.  I’m comfortable with slower rhythms, with taking care, with intention.  But the slow movement in front of me, and in front of my father, scratches at who I am.  And I’m left with a deepening knowing that, sometimes, attending to the needed things is dreadful.

by Michael

Gerald Liu’s Fathers Know Best Interview #8

FF: Describe your family. 

Zoe, Vivian, and Gerald Liu

GL:  The family is made up of my wife Vivian and I (both 33 y.o. married almost 7 years), daughter Zoe (10 1/2 months), and our soft-coated wheaten terrier Colbie (4 years or is that 28 in dog years?).

FF: How has fatherhood changed you?

GL:  I think fatherhood has enhanced my interpretation of joy.  Through the challenging early goings of being new parents (with my wife Vivian BY FAR doing the most heavy lifting!) I think we grew to appreciate the small victories like when she first cooed, giggled, or slept through the night.  Even just returning home from after a long work day and seeing my daughter’s face or just dancing with her in the living room bring me the most satisfaction and joy.  I think it also helped me to have a higher appreciation for my own mom and dad and has given me a new viewpoint of the immense love of God.  I sometimes find myself pondering how my love for Zoe is completely eclipsed by God’s mighty love for me and that truth blows me away every time.

FF: What mistakes have you made as a dad? Name at least one and talk about what it meant to you.

GL:  Over protectiveness is one of my many mistakes.  I guess another result of fatherhood for me is an increased sense of fear for my daughter’s well being.  There have been situations where in my anxiety and panic I have spoken a bit harsh or unfairly to Vivian.  For instance if I thought a piece of food was too big for Zoe to swallow, I would in a panicked-tone question Vivian why she would give that to her (clearly it probably wasn’t too big.  I’m just a freak!).  I’m trying to get better, thanks for being patient Viv!  I think another mistake would be to take better care of my wife Vivian.  I think I some arguments we’ve had stemmed from communication or just the lack of simply asking Viv on how I can help.

FF: What’s the most helpful advice you heard when you were becoming a father or advice you’ve gained since you’ve been a father? 

GL:  I think people gave us a healthy fear of anticipating the challenges in the first few months.  I think that helped us prepare for the nightly feedings and sleepless nights.  A realization for me was understanding the statement “they grow up so fast!”.  Zoe’s only 10 1/2 months and everyday it seems like she has learned to do something new or something about her has changed (i.e. teeth).  So advice I give now to parents is “Don’t blink or you will miss something!!”.

FF: How do you attend to your relationship with your wife outside of your being parents, and has parenting changed your marriage?

GL:  People told us how important “date-nights” are for parents and we try to set aside time to connect and concentrate on our relationship.  When there is time we try to do things together like workout in the house, take walks, or watch a favorite show.  I definitely think our relationship has changed as a result of being parents.  I think we both cherish the time we have alone and are more communicative.

FF: What are some of the things you’ve struggled with as a relatively new father?  What are some of the things that have given you the most joy?

GL:  I think adjusting to new routines as a result of fatherly responsibilities is a general struggle.  Also another big struggle is balancing my friendships.  I think it takes much more planning and intentionality to get together with friends and its hard at times to relate to friends that live generally care-free lives.  The most joy I experience is in small things as I mentioned before.  When Zoe learns how to wave, or clap, or just laughs and giggles it makes me proud and happy.

FF: Would you be willing to talk about how your faith has been shaped or changed in the process of you and Vivian becoming parents?

GL:  There were some really dark times for us as we struggled for a number of years with our inability to conceive.  As couples around us became pregnant and other families grew, we often times felt envious, isolated, and alone in our struggles.  It was a load to bear and our focus and anxiety on conceiving became an unhealthy obsession that damaged our faith.  It was only after we begun to share our difficulties with others that we realized our situation was not uncommon and as we reached out to others for support we felt the “body of Christ” and its loving embrace for us in our time of need.

During one Sunday (Check out the podcast on thenewcom.com from 11/21/2010 towards the end 45 min or so in) where Viv and I were probably feeling the least hopeful, Pastor Peter preached on Jonah and talked about “rival gods” and how anything that we tell ourselves we “must” have is our real God and idol.  As he was preaching, I could not help to think that even our “good” and “reasonable” desires to have children was keeping our selves away from God.  Our “idol” was in having a baby and I realized that my hope was in our future family and not Christ.  After the sermon, Peter asked for people to come up and pray.  Without talking to each other or hesitation, both Viv and I stood up, walked to the front, and were in tears.  That moment confirmed to Viv and I where our hearts and minds were and that we were going to try to be, from that point on, ok with whatever God had planned for us.  Child or no child.  We both wanted God without condition and with an undivided heart despite our circumstances.

Little did we know, God was about to give us miraculous news.  Three days later, right before thanksgiving we confirmed that we were expecting.  God has a funny sense of timing and I truly believe that our journey was meant to be a testimony of how even the “good” things we naturally desire have the ability to wrestle our hearts away from the God who loves and desires our undivided hearts.

Now when I think of God while holding my daughter I am reminded of our family’s journey and know that as much as I love Zoe that my ultimate source of my joy, love, and salvation is in my God.  I hope to teach my Zoe that truth one day.

FF: What surprises are there along the way for parents? What do you wish you were told to expect? 

GL:  I would say that the surprises are in the amount changes to your own life, personality, and character are so many that after being a parent you may never comprehend how life was before your baby.  I wish I was told to expect how much baby stuff costs!  Yowzas!

FF: What is one recent memory you made with your child?

GL:  Swimming with Zoe for the first time.  While on vacation in Florida I’ll never forget how Zoe loved being in the pool and her enormous smile as she splashed the water with her hands.

 

by Michael

Fathers Know Best #7

Please read other interviews here if you haven’t.  Thanks to Tim for participating.

FF: Describe your family.

TW:  I have a beautiful wife (Kristi) of almost 8 years. I have two wonderful children, Kayla and BJ. Kayla will be 4 and BJ is 2.

FF: How has fatherhood changed you?

TW: Fatherhood has given me a greater understanding of how God loves and disciplines His people. I love and care for my kids, even though they don’t always appreciate it. I still feed them and clean up their bodily waste, even when they protest cleaning up their toys. Fatherhood has given me a greater appreciation for and understanding of how my parents raised me.

FF: What mistakes have you made as a dad? Name at least one and talk about what it meant to you.

TW: Since my children are at home with mommy all day, they are always screaming for mommy. When I come home from work, I enjoy brief celebrity status, then all attention switches back to mommy. So, at times, it was easy to distance myself emotionally, given that they didn’t seem to need me for anything. They are young and that’s usually how it works, but I would sometimes allow the pain of that to become an excuse to just let Kristi bear the burden of meeting their needs, instead of taking initiative. This was a big mistake that I used to make. I have progressed beyond that, and even forced them to come talk to me about something. I’m pretty confident that many fathers deal with this same issue.

FF: What’s the most helpful advice you heard when you were becoming a father or advice you’ve gained since you’ve been a father?

TW: My dad always taught me how important it is for Kristi and I to be in agreement and to keep our love for each other strong. When children come into the picture, it’s easy to put all the focus on them and neglect each other.

FF: How do you attend to your relationship with your wife outside of your being parents, and has parenting changed your marriage?

TW: Kristi and I always try to maintain some sort of a date night, even if we are just at home. Now that we are living in the city, we have greater access to babysitters. This has allowed us to go out more frequently than ever. Of course, parenting has changed our marriage. It’s forced us to be more creative and intentional with our time together. It’s something that we always need to balance.

FF: What are some of the things you’ve struggled with as a father?  What are some of the things that have given you the most joy?

TW: As for struggles, I mentioned one earlier. That’s been the main one. It’s very discouraging when they choose to get attitudes and disobey. What gives me the most joy is to watch their personalities develop as they mimic what Kristi and I do and say. I love watching them as they play and converse with each other.

FF: Describe adding a second child to the household.  Does having two children feel differently than one?

TW: Adding a second child presented new excitement and new challenges. Having two feels very different because these are two little human beings with very different personalities, issues, joys, needs, etc. It’s definitely more work. They both require individual attention in different ways. Different things make them upset or frustrated. So as we teach them, they are also teaching us.

FF: What surprises are there along the way for parents? What do you wish you were told to expect?

TW: Children have extremely different personalities. It’s also interesting to see them do and say things that remind you of yourself, or other family members. I wish there was an entire book in the Bible or at least a few chapters that were completely dedicated to raising children and what to expect. When we experience the challenges of parenting, I jokingly say to Kristi, “The Bible doesn’t say anything about this.” I love the word of God, I just wish that God would have put a lot more content regarding the “spiritual gift of parenting.”

FF: What is one recent memory you made with your child?

TW: We are currently potty-training BJ. One moment, we are congratulating him on going pee pee in the toilet. The next moment, we are reminding him that we go pee pee in the toilet, just after he has an “uh oh” moment. Sometimes we’ll ask him if he needs to go pee pee, and he will say “no”. The next minute, what does he do? He pees in his underwear. It’s been a fun and challenging experience. We’ve only been at this for the past 2 weeks. I think he’s getting it, slowly but surely.

by Michael

Love of the Particular

Like his gentleness, his sense of craft was also out of step with the spirit of the times.  The world wanted work done quickly and cheaply.  The world wanted shortcuts.  The world wanted him to build houses of brick so soft that they would melt from watering the yard.  He was incapable of such work, so he was not rewarded as the world knows reward.  Yet he lived well, secure in the knowledge that he never built a house with a “hog in the wall” — that is, with one course more on one side of the house than the other.

There is a rock building back in the woods outside Mena, Arkansas, that my father and mother built.  Few people will ever see that building, though it is one of the most stunning rock jobs I have ever seen.  My father and mother could not have built it otherwise, for to do so would have offended my father’s sensibility.  To lay rock well you must see each rock individually, yet in relation to what may be the next rock to be laid.  To see each rock in this way requires a humility founded of the love of the particular.  This is the humility that characterized my father’s life.  And it was perhaps nowhere more apparent than when you walked with my father through the woods.

From Stanley Hauerwas’s, Hannah’s Child: A Theologian’s Memoir 

by Michael

My Son & Trayvon Martin

I posted this on my For Fathers blog, but the intersections between the mentioned events and my weak faith are undeniable.  I hope you can read where you should be prayerful for me and us…

Trayvon Martin, a 17-year old black child from Florida, was killed on February 26 by a 28-year old white man named George Zimmerman.  The killer has not been arrested, and a lot of people in and outside of Florida are calling for his arrest.  Many have spent days demanding, minimally, an investigation into Trayvon Martin’s death.  Almost as many are seeking some sensible understanding of the laws in Florida, and states like it, which allow for a gun-carrying questionable character like Zimmerman to follow a child with a pocket filled with skittles, harass him, and kill him.

At this point, the US Dept. of Justice has opened an investigation into the case.  The Martin family is struggling to find consolation and justice for their dead loved one.  Newspapers are reporting on how bright and cheerful and smart the young man was.

Bloggers and journalists are providing details about the killer’s background.  He likes calling the police to complain about black kids.  He said, the day he called 911 to complain about Trayvon Martin, that “they always get away.”  He was permitted to walk away after gunning down a child, with his 9 millimeter weapon.  He was not detained or arrested or charged.  Trayvon Martin is dead.  George Zimmerman is free.

My wife asked me if I was planning to blog about the situation.  I immediately said no.  It didn’t take two seconds to respond.  I didn’t want to think, much less write, about another kid getting killed.  I had heard about the case, seen it on television.  I tried to close my eyes to it because it was too much.

I didn’t want to think about Trayvon Martin or his family and how many tears they were shedding because their child was murdered by a guy who had hardly been questioned by the police after he was the last person to hear their child’s voice.  That murderer heard the child screaming, yelling for help that never came.

I didn’t want to think or write about how that long destructive history that doesn’t release people with skin like mine but that creeps and creeps and creeps until it opens up its big mouth and screams out loud because nothing and no amount of “coverage” can hide how hard it is to be black, to be a man, to be a father, to be a son.

I didn’t want to think or write about that place in my inner soul that keeps memories locked away in my heart.  Like the time a woman crossed the street when she saw me approaching her and like the shame I felt when I turned around after passing her only to see her cross back to the same street after I’d gotten beyond her and how downcast I felt because I was headed to a class in seminary where the story of my faith would remind me that I was called to love and serve people just like that woman who clutched her bag while passing a preacher on his way to being better.  If I were in Florida studying theology at that time; if I were in Florida carrying my briefcase with a Bible and a text on salvation-history and pastoral ministry; if I were in Florida with an essay on the elements of pastoral case most effective for families in today’s time, I could have lost my life.

I didn’t want to think about how similar Trayvon Martin is to the vision I have for my son.  He was a boy, enjoying life, getting good grades, collecting admiration from teachers; he was loved by his family, who over and over called the extremely deceptive police department when he had been missing for three days because his body was cooling on a medical examiner’s table and left like his parents didn’t want him when all they wanted was him.  That young child was so much like my child, the child in my imagination’s future.  He had a girl who liked him.  He ate candy.  He was wise in discerning when trouble showed up.  He called for help.

I didn’t want to believe one more time that a young child, approaching early adulthood, could be treated so terribly and that hatred and evil—whether because of racism or bigotry or power or other foolish sins—could continue to be so bold.  I didn’t want to think one more time that we had another example of criminal justice in the United States where the criminal was the only one who saw justice and when he saw it in the face of that sweet kid, he had to laugh in his blood-covered face.

I look at my son everyday.  I say things to him, things that I know don’t make sense to most people if they’re listening to my words.  Even Dawn laughs at the things I say.  And if I’m honest, there’s a strong dose of this current reality behind my instructions to my son.  His brain doesn’t get it when I’m just a bit too firm.  His brain doesn’t get that there is no difference between his father and the last black man who was walking down a street and mistaken for some other black guy.  Bryce’s mind doesn’t conceive that his daddy, the man who loves him, could be mistreated to the point of death for no other reason than he looked suspicious.  But my son’s father knows these things.  I know these things.  And I don’t want to think them, talk of them, or admit them.  The topics, taken together, form a gross compromise of morality and justice just to discuss them.  And yet I have to raise my son with these words in his ears.

I don’t want to look at my child, who is not even able to stand up at the toilet yet, and witness the closeness between his lovely face and the loveliness of another parent’s son in Florida.  The proximity between those two children is as long as a breath.  And I am aching with a lot of people about the assassination of promise and hope and joy in Trayvon Martin and in every other black loved one he has now joined on the other side of death.

In a strange way, I knew Trayvon Martin’s future.  In a strange way, I know the next son’s future.  Whether or not he is the image of the child who lives in my house, he will be my child.  And the worst fear in me these days is that I won’t be so gracious as the day I continued on to seminary class, that I won’t be loving when my next child, son or daughter, Florida or some other place, meets death in such a horrendous way.  After all, there is no difference between my son and Trayvon Martin.  And I don’t know if there is that much love in any world.

by Michael

My Adorable Son, An Idol

Because this fits with my themes on this blog as well as my other one, I’m posting it here too.

As a clergy person I lead people in worship.  That means that I spend time with people, and while I’m with them, I point them to God.  I facilitate people’s encounters with the Divine.  I don’t create the encounters.  I don’t create the people.  I sometimes simply nudge people in a direction, or turn them around, or push them to keep listening or seeing or waiting until they notice Who was there but was, somehow, unseen.  You might say that I do this for a living.  In other words, when I’m with a person, a pair, or a group I’m asking the unrelenting question, how can I help this person encounter God so they can live?

What often comes with this occupation is an abiding question: what enables me to encounter God?  The other day I was thinking about why I wasn’t sleeping.  I was turning over in bed, trying to convince myself that I shouldn’t envy my wife or my son.  I was listening to them slumber, Dawn right next to me, Bryce in the other room.  Both of them were whispering little dreams to themselves, hardly moving, content.  I was, as I said, turning and trying to flip away from the little anger in me that comes with occasional insomnia.

It’s not insomnia, I tell people.  I can actually sleep.  It’s just that I can’t sleep like abnormal people, on command.  I sleep in a different time zone.  I sleep later, but I do sleep.  I can’t sleep like my wife or my brother, both of whom will enter into sleep 13 seconds after pulling a sheet over themselves.  I look at them and I wonder why they aren’t more normal.  Why don’t they fall asleep?  Why must they jump into it?

When I am not asleep, my head dances.  It doesn’t throb or ache, but it dances to the music of a thousand thoughts.  I think about a congregant and it gives me reason, again, to pray.  I think about class and whether I should just get up and read in preparation.  I think about the novel I’m currently reading, Donna Freitas’s The Survival Kit, which I greatly enjoy, about the book of Maya Angelou’s poems I’m slowing reading and some snatch of words it left me.  I think about one of my heroes in ministry, how he’s aging.  I think about what I’ll cook tomorrow with that roasted chicken and whether I’ll cook the potatoes with onions and asparagus or just with the onions.

On the pre-dawn morning in question, I got to remembering when my son was crying a few days before.  He has a tactic—I’m convinced that’s what it is—where he’ll whine, which I despise because it is a pernicious method in undoing me, and while whining he calls for his mother.  He’ll do this in a tone that makes me contemplate how quickly I can climb down from our balcony and onto a neighbor’s despite our sixth floor setting.  His voice, which isn’t a voice as much as a dismal sound in the distance just like the fire truck that kept sounding all night long that night prior and that I counted screaming four times from 6:55 to 7:23AM, his voice drones as he calls.

That day, last week, he called her as was normal and then he started into my title.  Daddy.  Daddy.  And like a dripping drain it came until I turned looking for a clue because I had already started failing at my dogged resistance of the boy.  I am really good at keeping the rules of our parenting pact.  We don’t go into him after he’s in bed.  But that week was a strange week for a lot of reasons.  And we caved.  Dawn mostly did, but I did too.  I had come home late two evenings, rather than one, and he hadn’t seen me.  He missed me.  Dawn said this to me.  I said this to me.  Bryce’s whine said this to me.

After it all was done, days later, there I was listening to those damn birds that sang all night long because they, too, were confused about the weather outside and about whether birds should be awake and singing from 2:30 to 5:30AM.  I didn’t know they were keeping me company.  It took the congested sound of the delivery truck, gurgling below at 7:35AM, for me to remember that earlier, melodious birdsong.  I lay there thinking about the way my heart jumped when the boy called for me.  I didn’t move as quickly as I wanted to, but I did want to.

It got me thinking that my son was in a dangerous position, a position anyone loved by another can be placed in.  Bryce was a potential idol.  He was a potential reason for getting up and doing.  He could become, I thought while fighting for sleep, the reason why I did what I did.  That little toddler, full of nonsensical noise and play and fun, could turn me away from the One for whom I’m spending my life.  I know it’s a slip of movement.  It’s a crazed thought, one that I’d probably only come to when I hadn’t been taken my some real night dream instead.  But it stayed with me, that thought.  It was like all those birds and that heaving meat truck and those red blaring engines from the night and the morning.  It didn’t leave me.

by Michael

My Adorable Son, An Idol

As a clergy person I lead people in worship.  That means that I spend time with people, and while I’m with them, I point them to God.  I facilitate people’s encounters with the Divine.  I don’t create the encounters.  I don’t create the people.  I sometimes simply nudge people in a direction, or turn them around, or push them to keep listening or seeing or waiting until they notice Who was there but was, somehow, unseen.  You might say that I do this for a living.  In other words, when I’m with a person, a pair, or a group I’m asking the unrelenting question, how can I help this person encounter God so they can live?

What often comes with this occupation is an abiding question: what enables me to encounter God?  The other day I was thinking about why I wasn’t sleeping.  I was turning over in bed, trying to convince myself that I shouldn’t envy my wife or my son.  I was listening to them slumber, Dawn right next to me, Bryce in the other room.  Both of them were whispering little dreams to themselves, hardly moving, content.  I was, as I said, turning and trying to flip away from the little anger in me that comes with occasional insomnia.

It’s not insomnia, I tell people.  I can actually sleep.  It’s just that I can’t sleep like abnormal people, on command.  I sleep in a different time zone.  I sleep later, but I do sleep.  I can’t sleep like my wife or my brother, both of whom will enter into sleep 13 seconds after pulling a sheet over themselves.  I look at them and I wonder why they aren’t more normal.  Why don’t they fall asleep?  Why must they jump into it?

When I am not asleep, my head dances.  It doesn’t throb or ache, but it dances to the music of a thousand thoughts.  I think about a congregant and it gives me reason, again, to pray.  I think about class and whether I should just get up and read in preparation.  I think about the novel I’m currently reading, Donna Freitas’s The Survival Kit, which I greatly enjoy, about the book of Maya Angelou’s poems I’m slowing reading and some snatch of words it left me.  I think about one of my heroes in ministry, how he’s aging.  I think about what I’ll cook tomorrow with that roasted chicken and whether I’ll cook the potatoes with onions and asparagus or just with the onions.

On the pre-dawn morning in question, I got to remembering when my son was crying a few days before.  He has a tactic—I’m convinced that’s what it is—where he’ll whine, which I despise because it is a pernicious method in undoing me, and while whining he calls for his mother.  He’ll do this in a tone that makes me contemplate how quickly I can climb down from our balcony and onto a neighbor’s despite our sixth floor setting.  His voice, which isn’t a voice as much as a dismal sound in the distance just like the fire truck that kept sounding all night long that night prior and that I counted screaming four times from 6:55 to 7:23AM, his voice drones as he calls.

That day, last week, he called her as was normal and then he started into my title.  Daddy.  Daddy.  And like a dripping drain it came until I turned looking for a clue because I had already started failing at my dogged resistance of the boy.  I am really good at keeping the rules of our parenting pact.  We don’t go into him after he’s in bed.  But that week was a strange week for a lot of reasons.  And we caved.  Dawn mostly did, but I did too.  I had come home late two evenings, rather than one, and he hadn’t seen me.  He missed me.  Dawn said this to me.  I said this to me.  Bryce’s whine said this to me.

After it all was done, days later, there I was listening to those damn birds that sang all night long because they, too, were confused about the weather outside and about whether birds should be awake and singing from 2:30 to 5:30AM.  I didn’t know they were keeping me company.  It took the congested sound of the delivery truck, gurgling below at 7:35AM, for me to remember that earlier, melodious birdsong.  I lay there thinking about the way my heart jumped when the boy called for me.  I didn’t move as quickly as I wanted to, but I did want to.

It got me thinking that my son was in a dangerous position, a position anyone loved by another can be placed in.  Bryce was a potential idol.  He was a potential reason for getting up and doing.  He could become, I thought while fighting for sleep, the reason why I did what I did.  That little toddler, full of nonsensical noise and play and fun, could turn me away from the One for whom I’m spending my life.  I know it’s a slip of movement.  It’s a crazed thought, one that I’d probably only come to when I hadn’t been taken my some real night dream instead.  But it stayed with me, that thought.  It was like all those birds and that heaving meat truck and those red blaring engines from the night and the morning.  It didn’t leave me.

by Michael

Fathers Know Best #6

FF: Describe your family.

JS: I like to think of my family as ‘typical,’ though I’m sure most people think the same of theirs, no matter how that looks. My wife, Annie, an educator in Chicago Public Schools, originally hails from Western Kentucky. We’ve been married 4 1/2 years now, and we live in the Ukrainian Village neighborhood of Chicago. I am a white boy from the Chicago suburbs (though I try my best to dispel such notions) who transplanted to the city about 5 years ago. I work from home as a freelance market research analyst. Back in July, we welcomed our daughter Lisa into the world. She is now 7 months old, and ready to tackle anything—a trait we like to encourage in her. We also have two cats: Leroy (aka “Fats”) and Bianca. They have been surprisingly good with the transition from being the ‘kitty-babies’ to simply being pets who don’t get the attention they were accustomed to. They also have a healthy sense of anxiety around Lisa—she likes to grab and pull their fur, and they like to run away from her before she gets the chance.

As funny as it is for me to say it, we’re one of those ‘crunchy’ families. We (Annie, really) had an unmedicated home birth; we use cloth diapers; and we do a bunch of other ‘crunchy’ things. Annie is all about it because it’s healthier, better for the environment, etc. I’m mostly on board because it’s so much cheaper! Instead of buying 3500+ diapers for a kid through potty training, we have about 25 cloth diapers (and we can re-use them if/when we have more kids!). Instead of having to haul around formula, bottles, find a way to heat water, etc, Annie can just feed her at the “milk bar.” Plus, since we nurse, it means I don’t have to get up as much in the night!

 
FF: How has fatherhood changed you?

JS: I used to get very little sleep because I didn’t need it and wasn’t tired. Now, I need more sleep than I’m getting, and my waking time is not all by choice.  In a deeper sense, I worry more and hope more. I worry about the world in which my little girl is growing up. I wonder if our culture will twist her sense of beauty and self-worth, or even cause her to think that her value is only found in her appearance. I worry about whether gender stereotypes will limit her notions of what she can do–if she feels forced to wear pink and love princesses and unable to wear lab coats or be an astronaut. I worry about the gangs in our neighborhood and find myself paying attention to the tags, hoping that the most recent dis won’t be cause for shootings when the weather warms. I find myself encouraged by the neighborhood school (where I’m already involved as an LSC member), which is fantastic. I worry about the potential for flooding in the condo we’re about to buy, and trust that there isn’t harmful mold hiding under the carpets.

But I have hope too. I have hope that she will be a friend to others. I have hope that she will love the Lord. I have hope that somehow, my muddling fathering will help guide her into a full and vibrant person. I have hope that she will be an advocate for positive change in her world. I have hope that the best thing I can do–the strongest vote I can make and the loudest voice I can raise–is to trust that by bringing a life into the world, I am making the world better.

 
FF: What mistakes have you made as a dad? Name at least one and talk about what it meant to you.

JS: I think the greatest mistake I’ve made thus far is not investing enough time in my relationship with my wife over the past 7 months. We’ve both been busy with the routine of taking care of Lisa, preparing for the next day, working, and trying to find a moment of sleep to overcome exhaustion. We’ve not spent enough time on dates. We’ve not spent enough time just talking to each other. Because of this, our relationship has suffered–not in serious ways, but in subtle ones that lurk beneath the surface. I don’t ever want to get to a point, even years from now, where our lack of connection with each other causes us to have distance. And the better we are as husband and wife, the better we are/will be as parents.  We’re certainly nowhere close to this yet, but I don’t want my daughter to grow up in a home where good, healthy relationships aren’t being modeled for her. (Did I mention that I worry more these days?)

 
FF: What’s the most helpful advice you heard when you were becoming a father or advice you’ve gained since you’ve been a father?

JS: As soon as you find out you’re going to be a dad, start sleeping as much as you can. You’ll be glad for it later.

The best advice I’ve figured out since I’ve been a father is to get in your baby’s face. Let them feel your face and pull your hair and slobber on your nose. Blow raspberries on their belly and listen to them laugh. Sing to them. There is nothing more joyful and wonderful and awe-inspiring as seeing your child–this creature that was so utterly helpless and dependent–begin to respond to you and interact with you. Even before they have language, a kid will express so much emotion and share her love to you as a parent. Get close, and soak in as much of it as you can.

 
FF: How do you attend to your relationship with your wife outside of your being parents, and has parenting changed your marriage?

JS: Hah! I didn’t read ahead, and I feel like I already answered this one above. Parenting has definitely changed our marriage, simply by refocusing our attention on the little one rather than on ourselves. It’s so much *effort* to get away on our own, and so much of our lives are dictated by the baby’s schedule. Even when we do manage dates, there’s a sense of urgency to get back home to the baby, rather than linger and simply sit and enjoy each others’ company.

 

FF:  Talk about the role you want to play in teaching your daughter.  I imagine Annie will be a good educator to her, since she is an educator, but how have you taught her.  How do you hope to?

JS: I read to her. Probably not often enough, though she’s usually more interested in eating the pages than looking at the pictures. Her favorite books at the moment are “Moo, Baa, La La La,” “Oso Pardo, Oso Pardo, Que Ves Ahi?” and “Daddy and Me”. I love reading to her. Whenever I go on walks with her, I try to point out and talk about the things I see–dogs and trees and stores and cars and whatever else is around. She is wonderfully alert and just loves to take it all in.I must say, the notion of “teaching” Lisa seems a bit funny at this point. Most of her ‘learning’ is just a matter of her figuring out the world around her and how she can interact with it. My role in teaching her that sort of thing is more just a matter of exposing her to new situations, people, and things, and letting her figure it out. She has a wonderful ability to study objects in a measured way before picking them up or moving them or whatever she wants to do. She’s very thoughtful and deliberate; I don’t have to do much except get out of her way.

As she gets older, I hope to teach her in so many ways. I hope to teach her to be kind, loving, compassionate, encouraging, and friendly. I hope to help her gain a sense of God in her life. I hope to help her find the rhythms of family and spirituality by establishing traditions and sticking to them. When she gets to school age, I hope to help her with her homework and look for ways to challenge her and push her even more. I hope to expose her to a wide range of ideas and people and experiences and places. I hope to teach her to love the outcast, to be compassionate to the people around her to suffer. I could go on…

 
FF: What surprises are there along the way for parents? What do you wish you were told to expect?

JS: Well, there’s always the explosive poop while the diaper is off and baby is on the changing table. That’s always surprising.

I wish I had been told to expect that relationships would be so much harder to sustain after the baby comes. In the past 7 months of parenthood, I have not spent nearly enough time with my friends. Nor has Annie. As wonderful as it is to be a parent, there’s a sense of loss when it comes to the freedom I used to have to spend time with friends. If you can, really cultivate deep friendships with friends and get them used to coming to your home. It will be so much easier to maintain friendships if it’s already ‘normal’ for them to reach out to you and to come to you than it is to a) remember that you have friends you haven’t seen in a while, b) figure out when you can schedule to meet them, and c) actually muster the energy to pack up baby’s stuff, leave the house, and visit for a short while. If you think it’s hard to see your friends now, it’s 5 times harder once you’ve got a baby. Be intentional about your friends.FF: What is one recent memory you made with your child?JS: Every moment is a memory I’d love to hold on to. But one that feels especially cool at the moment is from last week. I had put Lisa in a sitting position in her crib for a moment while I went to prepare a diaper for her. A moment after I put her down, she grabbed the rail of the crib and pulled herself into a standing position–the first time she stood up completely on her own! I was simply shocked, but had the presence of mind to grab my mobile phone and shoot a video (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CoJUZyMbIls) when she did it a second time a few moments later. Such a great moment of pride for me (look how much she’s progressing!) and a cool ‘first’ for her!