Busted!

“Teach your children well . . . and know they love you!" ~ Graham Nash

Karin didn’t bother going in for a kiss.  She just calmly said goodnight at her son’s door and closed it, wondering where she’d screwed up. 

Years ago, bedtime seemed almost magical – snuggling up with her tiny tot, exploring, fantasizing or just being silly.  Hunter’s favorite bedtime stories were actually the ones she made up.  It wasn’t easy creating a new story at the end of a long day, but thankfully young minds love repetition.  Minor changes to familiar stories kept him amused.

Parenthood was the most challenging mission she’d ever faced.  It didn't help that there were no single-mom role models in her life (he bolted when Hunter was still learning to walk).  But they’d survived the toddler times.

She learned how to throw a decent pass, how to pitch a tent, and how to build an “epic” pinewood racer.  She resisted the urge to scream when he brought home slimy pets.  She dumped Cheerios in the toilet to help perfect his aim.  Wrestling on the bed, floor and grass always brought fresh bruises.

That was nothing compared to the “terrible teens.”  A teenage boy’s world is dynamic and volatile.   Surging hormones can dim the spark of even the most confident moms.  She learned to tolerate and even laugh at an occasional belch, fart, or other icky stuff.  But talking about girls, sex, and male “naughty parts” went well beyond her expertise!

Now this!

When she’d opened the door, his hand went to the top of the laptop screen with supersonic speed making it impossible to know what was on the screen.  To an inexperienced observant it wouldn’t have raised any suspicion.

Karin however, knew this move all too well!  She had two brothers and grew up around guys; she knew when they were trying to hide something or when they’d been busted.  As she walked down the hallway to compose herself, she was pretty damn sure he’d been watching porn.

What to do?  She didn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable than he already was.  Hunter needed to know that his sexual curiosity was not innately bad, but rather something that he should express in other ways.  “Sleep on it,” she reasoned.

While he was at school the next day, Karin “borrowed” Hunter’s laptop to scan his browsing history.  She discovered the “shock” of her life! 

Instead of digitally-enhanced images of semi-naked girls, she learned that her 14 year old son was taking a free online Spanish class.   He’d confess later that there was a new kid at school who only spoke Spanish.  He wanted to talk to him and make him feel welcome.

Lord, grant me the patience to be a good example for my teen during times when they test every part of me.  Give me strength to both stand firm when needed and let go when the time’s right.  Let me offer the right advice and set the right rules to help them be the person You desire.  Amen

Dachau Revisited

“If you forgive others for the wrongs they do to you, God will forgive you. ~ Matthew 6:14

It was at a church in Munich that he saw Kleist, the former SS guard who’d stood watch over the barracks at Dachau where so-called political prisoners were subjected to slave labor, medical experiments, torture, execution, and death from starvation, disease, or exposure to extreme temperatures.  Suddenly it all came rushing back to him, like a tsunami of pain and hatred. 

They’d come for Guenther in the middle of the night and dragged him from his family.  They forced him into a rail car meant for animals.  Through the slits, he saw his wife Olga beaten as she desperately tried to give him a package filled with food and essentials.  The greedy pigs had kept it for themselves.  That was the last time he saw her.

Dachau became his home until Allied forces liberated the camp in 1945.  Kleist had been a sadistic thug.  Middle-aged and portly, his fat nose and cruel brown eyes dominated an acne-pocked face.  Guenther remembered the swastika emblem on his uniform – a symbol of peace and goodwill.  It had certainly not given him any joy.  When the barrack’s door creaked open and Kleist marched in, Guenther knew it was for only one reason - another beating; one he couldn’t stop.

Reality snapped him back to the present as anger swelled inside him.  Guenther unconsciously touched the scar on his cheek where Kleist had slashed him years ago.  He felt an undeniable urge to punch the former SS guard in the gut. 

The church was nearly empty now.  Kleist approached Guenther beaming and bowing; displaying no recognition of the man he had so viciously treated decades before.  "How grateful I am for your message, Padre," he said. "God has washed away my many sins!"

He thrust his hand to shake Guenther’s.  The Priest, who had preached so often to the people of Munich on the need to forgive, kept his hand close at his side.

Even as bitter thoughts boiled through him, he remembered that Christ had died for this man too!  “Lord Jesus,” he prayed, “Forgive me and help me forgive him too.”

He tried to smile. He couldn’t raise his hand.  Guenther felt nothing, not the slightest spark of warmth or charity.  And so again, he breathed a silent prayer. “Jesus, I can’t forgive him.  Give him Your forgiveness.”

As he took Kleist’s hand, the most incredible thing happened.  From his shoulder and through his palm, a current seemed to pass between them.  From his heart sprang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed him.  Guenther discovered that it isn’t on our forgiveness that the world's healing hinges, but on His!  When God tells us to love our enemies, He gives, along with His command, the love itself.

Father in heaven, we want to know you and be closer to you.  Please show us how.  Forgive us for doing wrong, for hurting you.  Forgive us just as we forgive other people when they hurt us.  Amen

Lost, but Found

“I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.” ~ (John Newton 1779)

Sadness gripped his heart like a vice as Paul reminisced about the death of his daughter Ellie less than a month ago.  In all his dreams about her she’s still active, charming and full of life.

Tears still crept back in some random moments when he least expected them.  Small artifacts bring memories of the morning she died rushing back: a screaming ambulance; the deadly intersection; anything with the expiration date JUN 17.

He will forever be a father of four – “Three children now.  We lost our fourth, our oldest, in an awful car accident.”  Time races on.  There’s so little time from cradle to grave.  Ellie’s was especially short, but no one’s is much longer, he thought.

He lost so much that day: a life; a dream; a prayer . . . and God.  Rather than accept a God who allowed such things to happen, Paul embraced the ‘Great Nothingness’ where nothing is hoped, so nothing can be lost; where nothing is expected, so nothing can disappoint; where there is no one to blame when things go wrong.  The hollow, empty feeling provided a respite from pain. 

He envied people whose lives, whose childhoods, had always been rich in faith.  They had spiritual reserves to tap into.  If they forget where those were stored, someone was always close to remind them.  His faith had been intuitive rather than taught.  Paul’s religious instruction was haphazard, absorbed largely through the mysticism of candles and statues and incense.

He went to her room, hoping sweet memories might just rock him from his grief.   Lavender walls showcased a collage of photos, some taken just weeks ago.  Her face seemed frozen at thirteen.

A trunk crowded with stuffed animals lay at the foot of her bed.  Shelves were filled with trophies, souvenirs and the books she loved to read.  Ellie’s cell phone rested among her collection of makeup and nail polish.  As he lifted it from her desk, the phone magically came to life, flashing the last text message she’d sent before she passed: “Hey Mom, I just wanted to let you know I’m okay and I’ll be home soon.”

For the first time in his life, Paul understood the meaning of faith.  Life is short, but heaven awaits.  And today Paul was one step closer to seeing his precious angel in the presence of the One who orchestrated it all for His good and His glory.

Faith is a mystery; a journey without a map.  It unfolds like a rose, sometimes tightly budded, sometimes in full bloom.  When you think it has withered, it sprouts somewhere else.  When you think you've got it figured out, you discover a deeper layer of petals or a path you never knew existed.

“Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail, and mortal life shall cease,                                     I shall possess within the veil, a life of joy and peace.”  Amen

My Dad, My Hero

“Holy Father, You are my fortress, that mighty rock where I am safe." ~ Psalm 94:22

The word “hero” usually conjures up images of super humans with magical powers, sweeping in and saving humanity from villains and natural disasters.  But when I hear that word, I see my Dad.

It’s a bit contradictory - heroes are subtle, quiet, courageous types; but their actions often change lives in profound ways.  Heroes put their best selves forward, using compassion, kindness, empathy, and non-violence to serve others.  My Dad has always been my hero!

As a child, we often found solace walking in the woods, where nature stole the stress of daily lives and wrapped its gentle affection around our souls.  Anxieties quickly faded into the distance replaced by chirping songbirds, hammering wood-peckers, and winds whispering through the wild flowers.  Amidst the sweet aroma of damp grass and pine needles, we got lost in each other’s company - just me and my Dad . . . and heaven on earth.

It was always an adventure!  I always felt safe; I knew Dad was there if I faced any real danger.

I peppered him with questions about everything: why birds flew instead of ran, why trees grew so tall and lived longer than us, why fish couldn’t talk, and why some animals died when others lived.  I was already thinking life’s deepest questions in a kid’s innocent ways.

He took all those questions with noble patience explaining that each animal had a role in the world and they just knew exactly what to do. 

Dad’s gone now, a life ironically cut short by a bad heart.  He was a loving husband to my mom for 38 years, and provided a good living for our family as a construction worker.  I miss him every day. 

Last week when I was searching through some of Dad’s things, I found a crisply folded note among some papers.  It was an old journal entry in my dad’s handwriting dated just weeks before I was born.  It read:

“I’m 18 years old, an unemployed, alcoholic who is failing out of college; a victim of child abuse with a criminal record of auto theft.  Next month, ‘teen father’ will be added to the list.  But, I swear I’ll make things right for my child.  I will be the Dad I never had.”

I don’t know how he did it . . . but he did!  Now, as a grown man, I see all that my father taught me.  I wouldn’t be the man (the friend, husband and father) I am today had it not been for him. This morning my son asked me what we could do together today.  I replied, “I know a forest that’s filled with adventure and seems to go on forever.”

Heavenly Father, bless our Dads.  Though they are brave and protective, they must also be frightened sometimes.  When their hearts break because they can't do it all; please let them know how much we love them.  Amen

My Flag, My Country

“You're the emblem of the land I love; the home of the free and the brave.” ~ George M. Cohen

You’ve seen me.  You’ve pledged your allegiance to me.  Maybe you’ve even stood at attention before me and saluted.  But do you really understand me?

I’m the product of a young widow whose patriot husband died in service to this country.  In 1776, a committee asked her to use her exquisite needlework skills to design a flag from George Washington’s crude sketch.  With minor modifications, Betsy Ross’ rendition quickly became the national standard.

To some I may be nothing more than decoration.    But my rippling folds speak subliminally; every color plays a role . . . every part has a voice.

My red stripes stand out the most.  They represent more than just the original thirteen colonies.  They’re the bloodshed, grit and promise of a brighter tomorrow.  White stripes stand for God and love; freedom and purity.

Blue signifies pride for this glorious land; for water hiding untold riches beneath cobalt depths.  Heavenly stars sparkle for every state, every amber wave of grain, every woman man and child – a forever changing constellation.

When the wind whips me around, I survey American and her sacred ground.  But when it’s still, I bow my head, praying for those whose blood was shed.  And for those whose memory was wrapped in my colors, we’re proud of you!  This grateful nation will never forget your ultimate sacrifice. 

Even in foreign lands, I serve as companionship to those far from home: a country that does not repel, but welcomes the “tired . . . and poor . . . and huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”  America remains a symbol of freedom all over the world.

Why do you fly me?  Because you can! 

Because you can disagree – about politics, or religion or whatever without worrying that someone will arrest you.  You are so blessed to live in this country.  Around here you can think about God, and talk about God and worship the God of your choosing.  Nobody’s gonna tell you that you can’t.   

You display me because I’m a nice flag, for a nice country.  Not a perfect one, but a proud one yearning to be better.

Through me, you see the scars of a nation that fought long and hard for the soil on which you stand.  Before you burn me or criticize me, take an honest look around.  Freedom isn’t free; it didn’t come without the sacrifice of mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers.

And when I’m so tattered that I can no longer serve as a symbol of freedom for these United Sates, retire me with the dignity you would a soldier.  I’m the oldest and most beloved veteran of a grateful nation. 

“Dear child, freedom’s just a prayer away, if you’re not too proud to stray.  From the hatred you embrace, then change your mind and face, turn 180° to the Son, and let wrath and rage be done.”  ~ Your Celestial Father

The Hospital Visit

“Stay close to Me and I’ll stay close to you." ~ John 15:4

Mandy hated hospitals – the atmosphere was suffocating and cheerless.  She loathed the sad faces, the silent screaming of aching hearts, the empty footsteps of people who were grieving.  That made the idea of visiting her hospitalized friend even more frightening.

At 17, Michael was battling leukemia.  In a way, Mandy owed her life to him.  He’d been there for her, through the family chaos that prompted her eating disorder.  He convinced her that she wasn’t alone, or nuts, or even weird.   He helped her gain the courage she needed to get help. 

Now he needed her, but she was paralyzed by fear.  There are no set rules for supporting a friend with cancer.  She’d learned plenty about his diagnosis from the internet and it didn’t sound hopeful.  Mandy knew she couldn’t be spontaneous.  So she rehearsed a bit.  It was going to be awkward.

“Dear Lord,” she prayed silently.  “Grant me Your blessings and mercies this day and every day!”  Short and sincere – just like God liked it!

Her nerves tightened as she maneuvered the halls towards Michael’s ward.  All of a sudden she heard a loud scream; someone must have died she thought.  “Oh God,” she murmured.  “ I hope it wasn’t Michael, I hope I’m not too late!”  Her panic quickened when she found the bed empty in his room.

“You looking for Michael?” a soft voice whispered from behind.  She pointed to another room down the hall.  “He’s so weak now,” she continued, “He can barely stand at times.”

Mandy felt small and alone as she trudged toward the darkened corner, her insides leaping and falling rapidly.  As she rounded the corner and entered the room, she saw Michael entertaining some younger children in the hospital with what looked like a few moves from Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ dance.   The curious kids were smiling ear to ear while attempting to mimic his crazy legs.

They talked for hours – nothing difficult about it.  “With so little stamina, why dance?” Mandy asked.

“I remember reading that doing God’s will is a lot like dancing.  When two people try to lead, nothing feels right.  When you are one with Him, you feel his gentle nudges moving you in one direction or another.  It’s as if two bodies become one.  Dance takes surrender, willingness, and attentiveness from me and guidance from God.  I’m learning to follow His guidance!”

On her way back home, Mandy meditated on the word GUIDANCE and kept seeing ‘dance’ at the end of the word.  When she saw “G” she thought God, followed by “U” and “I.” God, you and I dance.  She lowered her head and thanked God for His “blessings and mercies today.”

Dear Lord, help me dance more grace-fully with You, following Your lead and trusting Your G-U-I-Dance.  Remind me often that the purpose of dance is not getting to a certain place on the floor, but to enjoy each step along the way.  Amen