Tag Archives: parenting

The Helped

I find myself spending too much time thinking about the world I will leave to my 13 year-old, Rachel. There seems to be a whole lot of bad news some days. Recently, the attacks in Belgium just seem to be latest senseless act of a growing set of desperate people who feel they are not being heard. The mayhem always has the violence porn industry in tow. I wonder if there is an antidote to the hopelessness, fear and impending doom Rachel sees every day.

Then I remember Fred.

Fred Rogers, that’s Mister Rogers to you and me, seemed to be the world’s ambassador to children. He delicately explained the world to us in all it’s wonder and all it’s chaos. He seemed to instinctively know what we needed. That sweater and those sneakers were our symbols of certainty, sanity and safety before we even knew what those words meant. He spoke our language in a steady voice which never stooped to condescension. I guess Mister Rogers learned well the story of Job in seminary because his patience seemed to be unlimited.

Do you remember how he told us we could think about a disaster?

He told us the story of his mom’s advice about how he could think about disaster and violence porn. She told him simply, “look for the helpers.” In our language, he told us faith and hope would be found in the “helpers.” He felt so strongly about his mom’s helper concept that he urged the violence porn industry not to edit those helpers from their porn.

Did you watch Mister Roger’s Neighborhood as a child?

I look for the helpers today. I find great solace in them today. I think Jesus would have been a helper. In spite of personal danger, these people run toward the fire. Many have no skills to bring to bear once they make it to the breach. They might be bricklayers, garbage men and window washers but, they try to help anyway. Knowing their only contribution might be human kindness, they are willing to give it. Their split-second decision is to love.

Do you know people like this?

In my recent spiritual spring cleaning, I have made a decision to look for the helpers. I have made a conscious decision to reduce the influence in my life of people who seem to take pleasure in violence porn. I want to replace those people with helpers as influences in my life. This is an endeavor for me and not a transformation. I have however found peace in the journey. It is not my nature to run toward the fires of this life but, there is peace there. I have to be honest here. It is not my nature to serve those I don’t feel worthy. I feel that there are people in my life who build fires in their’s every day. My nature is not to run toward those self-made fires.

Have you had your feet washed in a figurative or literal sense lately.

I think back to all those who washed my feet. There were times I did not deserve it. There were times I would not have washed my own feet. Helpers have been everywhere in my life. Those helpers came exactly when I needed them. Fortunately for me, they didn’t ask questions. Perhaps some of them once had the same done for them. Perhaps they washed out of gratitude. Perhaps they washed out of a longing for peace. Regardless, the affect on my life has been profound and lasting. I am grateful for the helpers, the foot-washers. They are the perfect antidote for the darkness which visits all of us. I pray that there are lots of helpers in Brussels. I pray that the children of Belgium get to see plenty of those helpers in action.

Picture Credit

George Washington for President

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The Sunday Morning Sermon

In case you haven’t noticed, this is a political season in America and I have to tell you, I am a little fed up. I am so tired of half-truths, spin and outright lies I am starting to feel sick when I turn on the news. Truth has somewhere, somehow died a slow and painful death and I am pretty sure I missed the funeral. Through it all however, I believe most of the ugliness, pettiness and divisiveness would be gone tomorrow if we agreed not to support people who lie.

I am sure you heard the candidate who told us most in the illegal Hispanic population were rapists and drug dealers.

That statement was more than crude and in my 53 years I have heard crude. It was more than racist, because I believe the statement would have made Bull Conner blush. It was more than insensitive, because I can not fathom the kind of dinner table questions Hispanic moms and dads had to answer. It was decidedly more than unchristian but, not for the reason you might think. It was more than cringe-worthy, in a season with a pretty high cringe-quotient.

It was a lie.

When did we begin to honor dishonesty? When did we start giving little Johnny a cookie when he told a whopper? “I am so proud of Johnny. He is a natural born liar.” When did we begin rewarding little Suzy when she copied her homework answers? “We are so proud of Suzy. She cheated her way to Valedictorian.” Do they give you a medal at WestPoint now for lying? “For meritorious and capricious lying, the Congressional Medal of Dishonor goes to…” Has the story of George Washington and the cherry tree been erased from our national memory? “I am not sure little Georgie has a future in politics. He just can’t tell a lie.”

We still have a zero-tolerance policy on the fib at our house. Should we change that? Have you?

So, why on earth are we considering liars for public office… I am not sure considering is strong enough, how about seeking? Yup, instead of disagreeing with the other side, whatever that is, we want our politicians to turn the other side into fire-breathing, hell-bent bonafide monsters. So if public office means a suspension of reality, then I hereby nominate Aslan for President. Peter would make a good Supreme Court Justice while we are at it. I am sure Justice Scalia would be proud of our choice. Of course neither of them would make very good liars.

Do you think Aslan the lion would ever win a political election in this country?

I understand how useful hyperbole and exaggeration can be at times. Those devices are extremely useful in comedy and storytelling. Sometimes, exaggeration is useful in education to help define cause and effect. There is a place for things not exactly true especially when the speaker eventually tells us the truth and explains the why a lie was useful.

Have you heard such an explanation this political season? Is the fault in our stars or in ourselves?

I think we made it this way. We have rewarded fiery speakers who tell us lies about our ideological opposites for too long. We love people who think like us. We especially love those who demonize our “enemies.” That may be the crux of our problem. Somehow, our fellow citizens have become enemies. People who think differently must be stopped. We can no longer agree to disagree. We want our politicians to label our ideological enemies as unpatriotic, greedy, weak or evil. Those labels have become the talisman of a true believer. When merely saying it is so loses its effectiveness, we want them to use a religious interpretation, shoddy statistics, science-for-hire, stereotypes, prejudice… to prove our point. Any form of the lie is ok, if it leaves our ideological enemies in a figurative bloody pulp in the gutter.

Have you seen people this season in more than a figurative bloody pulp?

If we don’t mind a lie and actually encourage it, then what is next? I think all things are possible including moving from the figurative to the literal. In a democracy, we must agree to disagree from time to time. As we learned in kindergarten, things don’t always go exactly as we desire. Kick-the-can fans have to play in the sandbox from time to time and we don’t get to verbally or literally beat-up the sandbox voters. The kick-the-can voters can opt to play by themselves but, in a democracy, the game is set by the majority. A kindergartener knows outlawing all community games, because we didn’t like the vote, is not an option either. Somehow a five year-old knows telling lies about the sandboxers won’t change anything for the better. They instinctively know what we seem to have forgotten. Without the sandboxers, they won’t have enough kids to play kick-the can and some of the sandboxers make excellent kick-the-can players.

Picture Credit

Pigpen is Blown Away

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I seem to be in a little funk lately. My real job is not perfect. My daughter is beginning to be a teenager. I need an outbuilding for my yard tools and lawnmower. It will have to be a brick monstrosity worthy of my new subdivision. The Taj Mahal of garden sheds complete with bricks and windows. My cat uses plants instead of a litter box. I have a best friend I haven’t seen in six years. I need to see my sister more. I need to visit my mom and dad more. At some point, I become aware of my problem.

I am so grateful to have a mom and dad to go see.

So what if I am not getting the respect I desire at work. I have a great job practicing civil engineering. A job, incidentally, I believe God made me to do. Otherwise why would he have planted the seed so early in the sand box? Why would I have been in such awe of a simple bulldozer? Now, I have a hobby I love as much.

By the way, thank you Mr. or Mrs. Reader!

I see people griping about cars parked in the road or trash cans left an extra day in my neighborhood. I see people griping about the Hispanics who mow their grass and build their houses. I see people griping about their taxes. I see people griping about their kids. I see people griping about their doctor or hospital. I see people go on for days about their spouse. I see people run down teachers. I see people who refuse to see anything good about our country. I see people who believe the world is an awful place.

Are you like me? do you find yourself joining the Pig Pens of the world occasionally?

You know those people. They drive a great car, live in a great neighborhood, have a great job, pretty good kids… They have had a big pile of breaks in their lives. They went to a great school. They got a chance to go to college. They had a great support structure with public roads, churches, bridges, parks, schools, families, friends…but, somehow, they did it all by themselves. Their work entitles them to a cloud of anger, fear and some kind of weird fantasy of a perfect life in the past. The cloud follows them around like Pig Pen. Sometimes people run the other way.

Do you feel like you have borrowed Pig Pen’s cloud sometimes? I know I do.

When I see a cloud forming I know how to blow it away. The question always becomes; how long will I indulge myself with the pity party. When I am done, it is as simple as dropping the Gratitude Bomb. A little gratitude will fix most delusions in my head. When I feel victimized at work…I get thankful I have a job. When I feel like someone is getting over on society…I remember the kind souls in my life who gave me something I probably didn’t deserve. When I feel, I know I should first feel thankful.

Do you know people who write gratitude lists?

It is not a bad practice but, I like to say my gratitude list. I think there is a great listener. I have also found gratitude a powerful teaching tool for a thirteen year-old. Sometimes gratitude even helps blow away the cloud for other Pig Pens in my life. After all, what does it cost to be grateful? What could it hurt for me to try? I am pretty sure my misery can always be refunded.

Pigpen picture courtesy: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/412783122075777259/

Happy Birthday to Curiosity Just Because

I Guess My Affair is Over

Another Brick in the School Show

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I may have gone to one of my last “Summer Camp” shows tonight and I can’t help but, to be a little sad. Summer Camp in this context is a little misleading. There were no cottages, camp fires or cots at this camp. Depending on where you are, I have heard these programs called a number of things, Extended Day, After Care, Working Family programs, Beyond the Bell and my favorite, Hobby Hour. I have visions of Bob Villa and Tim Taylor instead of the usual college kid trying to get a jump on their fellow education majors. Whatever you call them, these programs are a modern answer to latch-key kids.

I wish you could have seen the show.

I was trying to smell the roses, I guess. So I spent some time watching the parents. First I looked for the parents who were traveling with us. A few of them seemed to be a little like me, maybe more alert. Some were still checking their email and producing the requisite golf clap at the end of each number. Like the rest of us, they were still in their scrubs, ties and greasy work uniforms. With the schedule busted due to the program, some were wondering what from the freezer could be possibly cooked and served in ten or fifteen minutes or if they could still mow the grass. Some were wondering if those pizza coupons were still in the car.

It seems like yesterday when my wife and I sat in the kindergarten auditorium.

I wish you could have been there that day. Our new principal, Dr. Morgan, apparently still feeling the sting of sending his youngest son to college, told us something I didn’t really understand at the time. He said to have fun, smell the roses and above all, DON’T BLINK. He went on to say these would be the fastest passing thirteen years of our lives.

With most of my daughter’s Extended Day Summer Camps in the rear view mirror I have some advice for you.

Never miss an opportunity to see the joy. I wish you could have seen the faces of the children whose parents were checking their email. The highlight of a second graders month is apparently being able to lip-sink a Taylor Swift song in front of all the camp parents. Even the jaded, unamused and sophisticated kids my daughter’s age had a hard time containing the smile from time to time. Look for the joy in the real teachers. You can tell a good teacher a hundred miles away. They smile, tap their feet and laugh frequently. They can’t help themselves. They love and dote on THEIR kids.

But, there is one of those college kids that I am really sorry you missed.

This was the one just off stage showing the first graders the dance moves. Her face, well, it was raw joy. It betrayed more than I ever could on this written page. It was full of hope, promise and the realization of an avocation well selected. Her hair bounced and she displayed a kind of unrelenting smile that made MY face hurt. After the number was over and her kids were getting their requisite golf-clap, she hugged them all. Her affection held up the show because her kids were taking too long to get off the stage. It may have bugged everyone who worried about dinner, schedules, weed-eater string, cleaning gutters, email, a raise… It didn’t bug me at all.

Afflicted with Lameitude

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One of the perks of this new blogging job is being able to make up words. Today’s word is Lameitude. Big Brother Gates apparently hates my new word because he continues to underline it with a squiggly bright red line. At some point, I may add it to the dictionary which I am sure will be immediately reported through some seemingly innocuous update to the bowels of the high command in Redmond. His friend Mark will send multitudes of hoodie wearing geeks to determine what to sell me since I invented it. Their arch enemies, Larry and Sergey, over in Mountain View will develop some sort of algorithm to predict the who, what, when, where and why of new words and how they might capitalize on this knowledge.

Do you have as much trouble with focus as I do? Do you think it is part of my disease?

Well, back to the word of the day. Lameitude is a progressive seemingly incurable illness which afflicts parents. Research on this disease has been troublesome because it affects parents though a wide range of ages, nationalities and cultures. In a strange twist of the scientific method however, it has now been determined that the disease’s onset is most closely linked not to the age of the victim but, to the age of the victim’s children. More study is needed and continue to monitor this website for breaking news on this disease.

I think I should tell you some of the symptoms so that you will know if you have contracted this insidious disease.

After diapers, colic and potty training my wife and I were happy parents for a time…

I have to stop here. Can you believe Bill underlines potty? The fact that Bill doesn’t know the word potty is both scary and an indictment of our society. Were there so many levels of nannies and caretakers between himself and his children that he was robbed of the splendor of the potty? Well, I just feel sad for him…

Parenting was simple. Our daughter had needs and we met them. Food was easy after sterilized bottles, breast pumps and frozen milk. She ate most anything including broccoli and crunchy carrots. Entertainment was a breeze. Hours and hours of uncontrolled laughter could be produced by the cutting of the eyes. Clothing was a snap. A sundress with the blue vomit stain of too much birthday cake was socially acceptable. As long as she was clean, fed, warm and dry, things went well. Her only extravagance was a song to go to sleep and a new dress for church. Songs work for lots of things. My favorite is Sweet Baby James.

You must be vigilant with this disease because, out of nowhere, sometime around her 11^th birthday I began to be afflicted with Lameitude.

Yup, I hate to tell you but, eye cutting will quit working. Total and complete meltdowns will occur when you bring out the blue vomit dress. My Lameitude makes her refuse to eat broccoli, carrots, lasagna, chicken stew, potato soup, peppers, onions… well, it would be easier to list her current Lameitude tolerant menu. My singing has become revolting due to my Lameitude. I really don’t see or understand how embarrassing my Lameitude has become. It is so embarrassing my daughter has resorted to walking several steps ahead or behind me when in public.

I tell you, Lameitude affects everything including my speech and voice.

Lameitude has caused the language centers in my brain not to function properly. It makes me think I am speaking easily decipherable sentences but, apparently, I can’t. Many times I believe I am speaking but, my daughter’s eyes remain in a glazed, catatonic state.

It is a really terrible disease and I hope you don’t get it.

I really hate it for my daughter. She has resorted to staying in her room because she can’t stand the disease’s effects. She hardly, if ever, smiles. She mostly talks to her friends though Facetime, Facebook, IPhone, IPad, IThis and Facethat now. She must fill her days with Instagram and YouTube and other things I can’t understand because of my disease. I hate to say this but, I am afraid her mother has it too. There was a time when they were inseparable. My daughter was even clingy to her mom but, my daughter has to get away from her now too.