I was struck today, by an epiphany. The blow was not fatal, but actually created a surge in energy and purpose. I have to show you the bump.
Respect is a natural consequence of faith. Therefore, a person with authority issues will have difficulty taking God at His word. In Matthew 8, Jesus is "amazed" at the faith of the centurion. What did the centurion do, how did he show this "amazing" faith? He amazed the Son of God. He recognized the authority of Jesus. Jesus' authority over him, his servant and the sickness afflicting the servant. The centurion understood that because of Jesus' authority, a simple command would change the situation. The centurion respected Jesus. He understood authority. Ladies and gentlemen, those with and without bumps, faith is seeing the authority of Jesus as ultimate. Faith is not a religious exercise, spiritual effort, a routine or program. Like the centurion, you must live your life as though Jesus were king and has the final word in your affairs.
Respecting Jesus would seem to be wise. However, many say they believe in Jesus, yet live lives full of contempt and disrespect. You might actually ask "I can see respecting Jesus. He is respectable. But my boss, parents, teachers, pastor do not deserve my respect".
How can you, in one breath serve Jesus as Omnipotent, Omniscient and Omnipresent and in the next breath, assert that people in authority over you are there without God's direction? You may say "I am not saying they are in authority without God's direction. I am just saying they are not worthy of my respect". So, you will respect God, but not those who have His delegated authority?
The first commandment with a promise in the Bible is "Honor your father and mother, that it may go well with you and that you may enjoy long life on the earth".
Based on our current culture, that commandment must read "Honor your father and mother, if they agree with you, never abused you, don't embarass you and never share their opinions with you". The promise says nothing about them being worthy of honor. The command does not leave room for you to judge your parents.
The way many Christians treat their pastors, spouses, employers and children does not bear the aroma of honor and respect; rather, the stench of arrogance. We are called to be whole, complete integrated people. Therefore, how can we be one thing in church, but be so radically different at home and in the workplace?
I will leave for now this thought: if I say I trust God with my life, and honor Him, how should I treat those He has placed in authority?
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Grace and Endurance
I have been involved with people all my life. Not just around people, but involved - listening, watching, encouraging, challenging and occasionally, fighting with them. I have been inspired by some, baffled by others (I'm not joking: eating straight butter, talking to window blinds, and not tolerating the heat set on odd numbers are a few endearing traits of people I know). Every person has a story. And every story is changing, and being reframed as God develops the plot.
At this point, I should gush forth about the beauty of humanity, how God's image shines out of men, the inspiration of the human spirit. Blah, blah, blah. But I can't. I won't live on cotton candy when the main course, sometimes seasoned bitter, gives me strength.
Rather, what draws my attention to people is how they handle failure. Or endure frailty. Or just dance with their own weirdness. More enthralling, is how they accept the failure, frailty, weirdness of others. Best of all, when this acceptance is with people they cannot escape! No false nobility possible.
I witnessed a husband caring daily for his wife, who no longer recognizes him. He wrestles with his own concerns about finances, heart disease, and his remaining 'real' knee. I saw a father caring for his grand daughter, even though he had abandoned her father decades earlier for drugs. A couple who had started at the altar pregnant, and scared, now parents not only to their children, but surrogate sanctuary to dozens of others.
Whether weakness is a consequence of my choices or someone else's doesn't matter. I must live with it either way. Grace and endurance are only possible out of weakness. These people I mentioned fascinated me because they chose to trust God, they submitted to redemption, they told the truth about themselves and those they loved. The image of God shines so strongly when people forgive, walk with a limp, and extend love when punishment is richly deserved. Every person mentioned is quietly strong. They listen. They serve without pretense. They pour hope into a situation by simply being in the room. Yet none have a spotless record. Some have a limp. Others still have debts to pay. They are intimately acquainted with failure and frailty.
My caveat is that weakness can only be transformed into grace and endurance at the hand of God. Without God, frailty and failure lead to death. I do not believe in a nobility of suffering for its own sake. Survival is not a right. Without God, these situations I related are simply long-lived torment and misery.
For today, I am thankful to God for His second chances, his redemptive miracles out of pain. I love watching real heroes at work, God's stakes driven into the hard ground of our time.
At this point, I should gush forth about the beauty of humanity, how God's image shines out of men, the inspiration of the human spirit. Blah, blah, blah. But I can't. I won't live on cotton candy when the main course, sometimes seasoned bitter, gives me strength.
Rather, what draws my attention to people is how they handle failure. Or endure frailty. Or just dance with their own weirdness. More enthralling, is how they accept the failure, frailty, weirdness of others. Best of all, when this acceptance is with people they cannot escape! No false nobility possible.
I witnessed a husband caring daily for his wife, who no longer recognizes him. He wrestles with his own concerns about finances, heart disease, and his remaining 'real' knee. I saw a father caring for his grand daughter, even though he had abandoned her father decades earlier for drugs. A couple who had started at the altar pregnant, and scared, now parents not only to their children, but surrogate sanctuary to dozens of others.
Whether weakness is a consequence of my choices or someone else's doesn't matter. I must live with it either way. Grace and endurance are only possible out of weakness. These people I mentioned fascinated me because they chose to trust God, they submitted to redemption, they told the truth about themselves and those they loved. The image of God shines so strongly when people forgive, walk with a limp, and extend love when punishment is richly deserved. Every person mentioned is quietly strong. They listen. They serve without pretense. They pour hope into a situation by simply being in the room. Yet none have a spotless record. Some have a limp. Others still have debts to pay. They are intimately acquainted with failure and frailty.
My caveat is that weakness can only be transformed into grace and endurance at the hand of God. Without God, frailty and failure lead to death. I do not believe in a nobility of suffering for its own sake. Survival is not a right. Without God, these situations I related are simply long-lived torment and misery.
For today, I am thankful to God for His second chances, his redemptive miracles out of pain. I love watching real heroes at work, God's stakes driven into the hard ground of our time.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Whose Gold Star Do You Need?
I recently heard a commercial office staffer bitterly complaining that she had to help a residential client in the office. The staffer had gone to extraordinary lengths to meet the client, ask clarifying questions, and share ideas that saved the client gobs of money. The irony is that at the end of the sales process, the client wanted to deal with another staffer in the office. The staffer had done nothing wrong as far as I could tell.
"That's why I don't like dealing with residential customers!" she wailed. This, in spite of the fact that she helped other residential customers the same way. The only difference was that they appreciated her.
I asked her why she had gone to such lengths to help this client. She wasn't sure why. I suggested that it was because that was the kind of person she was. She did a fantastic job. Her attention to detail, follow up and generally looking out for the client's well-being was exceptional. The customer simply didn't acknowledge it.
She was down because she was not validated by the customer. She needed that gold star to feel good about her service. She felt zero pride in her efforts because the client had not recognized them as well.
Many of us are excellent parents, mechanics, doctors, artists, dog walkers or conversationalists. I am regularly surprised at the level of competence and skill in otherwise ordinary people. We are excellent whether or not it is acknowledged. You know it. God knows it.
It is important to be soberly confident in ourselves. Otherwise, we are handing the keys to our happiness to everyone around us, hoping they will unlock the door of praise and acclaim. Do good and admit it. Let others share your opinion if they choose. It is a twisted kind of pride to allow one negative comment spoil the multitude of encouragements and compliments. It is in effect saying "If I don't receive 100% of what I want, I will receive none of it".
Are you excellent or not? You need to decide. Others can confirm it, but they can undermine it as well. You alone answer for your life and you alone can choose to be happy.
"That's why I don't like dealing with residential customers!" she wailed. This, in spite of the fact that she helped other residential customers the same way. The only difference was that they appreciated her.
I asked her why she had gone to such lengths to help this client. She wasn't sure why. I suggested that it was because that was the kind of person she was. She did a fantastic job. Her attention to detail, follow up and generally looking out for the client's well-being was exceptional. The customer simply didn't acknowledge it.
She was down because she was not validated by the customer. She needed that gold star to feel good about her service. She felt zero pride in her efforts because the client had not recognized them as well.
Many of us are excellent parents, mechanics, doctors, artists, dog walkers or conversationalists. I am regularly surprised at the level of competence and skill in otherwise ordinary people. We are excellent whether or not it is acknowledged. You know it. God knows it.
It is important to be soberly confident in ourselves. Otherwise, we are handing the keys to our happiness to everyone around us, hoping they will unlock the door of praise and acclaim. Do good and admit it. Let others share your opinion if they choose. It is a twisted kind of pride to allow one negative comment spoil the multitude of encouragements and compliments. It is in effect saying "If I don't receive 100% of what I want, I will receive none of it".
Are you excellent or not? You need to decide. Others can confirm it, but they can undermine it as well. You alone answer for your life and you alone can choose to be happy.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Chainsaw Pants and A Machete
Today was a dream day. Few have been better.
First, I took my son out practice driving. My wife lets me do this until they're over their jitters. Then she takes over. Fathers tend to become very tense while driving with their newly minted permit holder. I find it keeps me in touch with the eternal and how precious, and brief, life can be. It's a lot like bungy jumping: you are out of control, there is an imminence of death, and it's not over until you stop shaking.
The lad will be a great driver. All my claims of whiplash were mostly in jest...
I also went to a workday with our church, clearing our property for a new building. That's nice and all. But the real fun was using an axe, hatchet, machete and chainsaw. Hauling trees by hand and ripping out ancient vines were a bonus. If I could have used dynamite, I could have died complete. Apparently, God still has plans for me.
There was a wholeness here working with the brothers and sisters. My son (the new driver), several boys and experienced old timers. One particular brother was a ray of sunshine. He was inspired to start a new clothing line: Chainsaw Pants. He proudly displayed the slash of inspiration. His pants were altered, and God being merciful, left his leg untouched. I say, next time, use a mannequin. Unless it cramps your muse. I suppose genius has its price.
At the height of activity, 15-20 people worked on two areas of the property, clearing away trees and brush to bring light into the overgrown area. The harmony of chainsaws, conversations with laughter, the growl of the tractor and the sound of surrender of trees and under growth. The barbeque added to the mixture of old and young, male and female, fathers and sons, nourishing the experience.
Finally, the church worship team came over to fellowship and eat. My wife leads this group and they needed time to talk, have fun and not work. They arrived with kids in tow. Teasing, food and weird stories mixed and marked the time with joy. Our psychotic miniature dachshund strolled into the scene, alternately threatening and begging for food. If she had opposable thumbs, she would rule the world. The conversation jumped from dog breeds, to feeding large pet snakes. From favorite children to abusive sisters. It was like having ring side seats to a boxing match in the zoo, where the monkeys were loose.
Saturday Triumphant! New drivers, chainsaws, food, hard labor, listening, surprising tales and no amputations. Our God is the God of all hope. And humor.
What will tomorrow bring?
First, I took my son out practice driving. My wife lets me do this until they're over their jitters. Then she takes over. Fathers tend to become very tense while driving with their newly minted permit holder. I find it keeps me in touch with the eternal and how precious, and brief, life can be. It's a lot like bungy jumping: you are out of control, there is an imminence of death, and it's not over until you stop shaking.
The lad will be a great driver. All my claims of whiplash were mostly in jest...
I also went to a workday with our church, clearing our property for a new building. That's nice and all. But the real fun was using an axe, hatchet, machete and chainsaw. Hauling trees by hand and ripping out ancient vines were a bonus. If I could have used dynamite, I could have died complete. Apparently, God still has plans for me.
There was a wholeness here working with the brothers and sisters. My son (the new driver), several boys and experienced old timers. One particular brother was a ray of sunshine. He was inspired to start a new clothing line: Chainsaw Pants. He proudly displayed the slash of inspiration. His pants were altered, and God being merciful, left his leg untouched. I say, next time, use a mannequin. Unless it cramps your muse. I suppose genius has its price.
At the height of activity, 15-20 people worked on two areas of the property, clearing away trees and brush to bring light into the overgrown area. The harmony of chainsaws, conversations with laughter, the growl of the tractor and the sound of surrender of trees and under growth. The barbeque added to the mixture of old and young, male and female, fathers and sons, nourishing the experience.
Finally, the church worship team came over to fellowship and eat. My wife leads this group and they needed time to talk, have fun and not work. They arrived with kids in tow. Teasing, food and weird stories mixed and marked the time with joy. Our psychotic miniature dachshund strolled into the scene, alternately threatening and begging for food. If she had opposable thumbs, she would rule the world. The conversation jumped from dog breeds, to feeding large pet snakes. From favorite children to abusive sisters. It was like having ring side seats to a boxing match in the zoo, where the monkeys were loose.
Saturday Triumphant! New drivers, chainsaws, food, hard labor, listening, surprising tales and no amputations. Our God is the God of all hope. And humor.
What will tomorrow bring?
Friday, October 9, 2009
Eureka!
In the movies, the archeologist stops, stands up out of his hole, coughs up some dust and says "I can't believe it! It's the lost ____ of the Amazonian __________ Red Ruby of __________ !" or something like that. Of course as soon as he touches it or says the days of the week backwards, something ominous happens. Chincillas take over or a 9-month-term President will win the Nobel Peace Prize. Always something that takes a massive leap of faith.
In reality, whatever he found isn't new. It was a known quantity when it was first made. It was part of life. But time passed. It was buried, maybe hidden. Then, because some unwashed, old guy with a beard and weird hat removed vines/snakes/trash to find it, it is a "Eureka!" moment.
So much wonderful, mythically awesome, epic stuff has happened in my life. But rain, a sore back, and slow internet have hidden the adventure and concealed the treasure. It has already happened. It is still awesome.
Friends, break out your broom, and trash can. You already have treasure at your feet. God has a rap sheet as long as His arm...Time for a Eureka moment.
In reality, whatever he found isn't new. It was a known quantity when it was first made. It was part of life. But time passed. It was buried, maybe hidden. Then, because some unwashed, old guy with a beard and weird hat removed vines/snakes/trash to find it, it is a "Eureka!" moment.
So much wonderful, mythically awesome, epic stuff has happened in my life. But rain, a sore back, and slow internet have hidden the adventure and concealed the treasure. It has already happened. It is still awesome.
Friends, break out your broom, and trash can. You already have treasure at your feet. God has a rap sheet as long as His arm...Time for a Eureka moment.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
Dadoracity: The Way Out of the Box
The plain truth is that real families are quirky, suprising and sometimes painful. By "real" families, I am not including media families, from "Leave It To Beaver" to "Arrested Development" - they aren't real. I was hoping my friends' kids and wives would take care of this, but obviously I am stuck with being the bad cop. They had to know sometime.
These families are fake. Pretenders. Poseurs. No, I'm not joking. The "families" are actors with scripts. They get paid to pretend and go home after the filming is done. Plus, real families don't use blanks.
I am also declaring that real families are sometimes the loneliest places to live. I witnessed this first hand in the home repair industry. I would arrive at the bustling home of the Smiths. I am greeted by Mom, Dad, crazy uncle Louie, five kids, two dogs and a schizophrenic hamster. Before two hours are up, four of them, including the hamster, have told me very personal details with the caveat "don't tell Dad/Mom/Louie/dog". They don't know even know me! How can you trust a stranger with a tool belt more than a family member that shares the bathroom with you?
Final Declaration: there is no harder job than being a dad. You know. Fatherhood. The Dad-meister. The Dad-a-rino. The Dad-a-rama. The Man. The Old Guy. Am I biased because I am a dad? Rat baskets, yes! Is motherhood hard and thankless and having to pass a 10 pound, squirming mass of new life, etc., etc. Yes. But I am not a mom. And I happen to be at the keyboard right now.
Here's why this job is not widely advertised, nor frequently recommended. Regardless of how 'progressive' you are, there are massive expectations of dads. And dads must deliver. When psychologists, sociologists, counselors talk about the impact of father-failure, the terms they use describing the damage are not passive or clinical. There are mounds of books by guys with really thick glasses and bad ties that go into excruciating detail on the importance of dads.
I'm not going to do that. 25 years of the Dad Wars have humbled me and put me in my place. I will not preach to you about the "HOW".
I want to suprise, you fire you up, remind you to breathe and laugh with the big "WHY". Why? Because dads make memories by just being themselves: grumpy, fickle, crazy, boring, combative, creative, to name a few. If you've got the job of dad, you are blessed, favored and to be certain, a history maker. History is made when you fall off the roof, run in a thunderstorm, read "The Hobbit" with a weird voice, break anything, and make your wife spurt milk out her nose.
Why don't I offer the "HOW"? Because "dadoracity" comes out of who you are. And to be honest, you are shooting at a moving target. Some days, it's shooting at you. You have to be the man, not act like the man, not make sounds like the man or smell like the man. You have to be king, whether you sit in the big recliner facing the TV or you're kneeling next to your kid's bed, praying with him at night. Whether your wife gives you the first steak off the grill or telling your teenager you love her even though she messed up. Whether you choose the restaurant or make the bed because it makes your wife happy. When you're king, wherever you park your butt is a throne.
Being dad is being Somebody. Somebody unbelievably important. CEOs get noticed. Athletes have celebrity. Politicians get their vote. But at the end of the day, the only thing that will last, that will matter, is how he served the people who live with him. They know him without his suit, car, props or his titles. They will not tolerate a fraud.
The wide-eyed daughter, who jumps on her pop's lap, crumples down the newspaper, grabs his face to make sure she has his eyes, and asks "Do you think I'm pretty?" will cast the biggest vote. Because of who he is, he will build who she will become. The legacy he creates in that very moment, that instant, outweighs all the money, all the reputation, all the acclaim he might get elsewhere. His wife, kids and others he serves, will tell the truth about him. They cannot, will not, lie.
Men, if you want to be a revolutionary, a change-maker, a crazy, box-stomper, then be Somebody. A dad.
These families are fake. Pretenders. Poseurs. No, I'm not joking. The "families" are actors with scripts. They get paid to pretend and go home after the filming is done. Plus, real families don't use blanks.
I am also declaring that real families are sometimes the loneliest places to live. I witnessed this first hand in the home repair industry. I would arrive at the bustling home of the Smiths. I am greeted by Mom, Dad, crazy uncle Louie, five kids, two dogs and a schizophrenic hamster. Before two hours are up, four of them, including the hamster, have told me very personal details with the caveat "don't tell Dad/Mom/Louie/dog". They don't know even know me! How can you trust a stranger with a tool belt more than a family member that shares the bathroom with you?
Final Declaration: there is no harder job than being a dad. You know. Fatherhood. The Dad-meister. The Dad-a-rino. The Dad-a-rama. The Man. The Old Guy. Am I biased because I am a dad? Rat baskets, yes! Is motherhood hard and thankless and having to pass a 10 pound, squirming mass of new life, etc., etc. Yes. But I am not a mom. And I happen to be at the keyboard right now.
Here's why this job is not widely advertised, nor frequently recommended. Regardless of how 'progressive' you are, there are massive expectations of dads. And dads must deliver. When psychologists, sociologists, counselors talk about the impact of father-failure, the terms they use describing the damage are not passive or clinical. There are mounds of books by guys with really thick glasses and bad ties that go into excruciating detail on the importance of dads.
I'm not going to do that. 25 years of the Dad Wars have humbled me and put me in my place. I will not preach to you about the "HOW".
I want to suprise, you fire you up, remind you to breathe and laugh with the big "WHY". Why? Because dads make memories by just being themselves: grumpy, fickle, crazy, boring, combative, creative, to name a few. If you've got the job of dad, you are blessed, favored and to be certain, a history maker. History is made when you fall off the roof, run in a thunderstorm, read "The Hobbit" with a weird voice, break anything, and make your wife spurt milk out her nose.
Why don't I offer the "HOW"? Because "dadoracity" comes out of who you are. And to be honest, you are shooting at a moving target. Some days, it's shooting at you. You have to be the man, not act like the man, not make sounds like the man or smell like the man. You have to be king, whether you sit in the big recliner facing the TV or you're kneeling next to your kid's bed, praying with him at night. Whether your wife gives you the first steak off the grill or telling your teenager you love her even though she messed up. Whether you choose the restaurant or make the bed because it makes your wife happy. When you're king, wherever you park your butt is a throne.
Being dad is being Somebody. Somebody unbelievably important. CEOs get noticed. Athletes have celebrity. Politicians get their vote. But at the end of the day, the only thing that will last, that will matter, is how he served the people who live with him. They know him without his suit, car, props or his titles. They will not tolerate a fraud.
The wide-eyed daughter, who jumps on her pop's lap, crumples down the newspaper, grabs his face to make sure she has his eyes, and asks "Do you think I'm pretty?" will cast the biggest vote. Because of who he is, he will build who she will become. The legacy he creates in that very moment, that instant, outweighs all the money, all the reputation, all the acclaim he might get elsewhere. His wife, kids and others he serves, will tell the truth about him. They cannot, will not, lie.
Men, if you want to be a revolutionary, a change-maker, a crazy, box-stomper, then be Somebody. A dad.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
The Still, Small Voice
My erudite friends are now processing their verbatim recollections of the Old Testament story of Elijah. Probably in Hebrew. While healing someone. I have amazing friends. I bask in their glory.
Unfortunately, I do not share their erudition nor have I ever owned any.
I'm talking about the still, small voice of danger that haunts dads in the night. Yes, you should be scared. Imagine this scenario:
You are a dad. Dead, coma asleep. Near the edge of your bed. Because you are a veteran dad of many night engagements, your dad radar is always running. You become aware of a small, humid sound in your ear.
"Daaad" It is breathed with urgency. You process instantly this is your 4 year old son. By the numbness in the rest of your body, it is between 3 and 3:30 AM.
You still have not moved a muscle. More information is required before action. Responding to your mental prompting, your son continues.
"Daaad. I don't feel good" Processors are now at 100%. The relative humidity in his breath (2" from your left ear), the small lurching sound he made and the record of consumption of four caramel apples just 59 minutes before bedtime are enough for a green light. The darkness is no challenge. Just another dad mission. Good thing it wasn't the twins. That would have taken some effort...
In one acrobatic, panther-like motion, you bounce yourself from horizontal to vertical, throw back your half of the bedspread, while simultaneously grabbing your son off the ground and turning him toward the bathroom, and upon landing, avoid stepping on the dog. Your inert spouse makes an inquisitive grunt. Better for her not to know.
"I got it honey. Go to sleep" This has consumed 3.5 seconds and your are within 7 feet of the drop zone. You carry your suffering son, facing forward into the bathroom. The cat dashing in the shadows between your legs, causes a minor pause, as you seamlessly transition to your best Broadway step with your bilious partner. No time for distractions.
Just in the nick of time. Four apples, caramel and some kind of kibble in the commode and not on your floor, sheets and dog.
Another mission accomplished. Sign, sealed, delivered. Total time on target: 4 minutes.
The wife rolls over, now partially alert.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. The boy needed to talk".
Charlie Mike, dads.
Unfortunately, I do not share their erudition nor have I ever owned any.
I'm talking about the still, small voice of danger that haunts dads in the night. Yes, you should be scared. Imagine this scenario:
You are a dad. Dead, coma asleep. Near the edge of your bed. Because you are a veteran dad of many night engagements, your dad radar is always running. You become aware of a small, humid sound in your ear.
"Daaad" It is breathed with urgency. You process instantly this is your 4 year old son. By the numbness in the rest of your body, it is between 3 and 3:30 AM.
You still have not moved a muscle. More information is required before action. Responding to your mental prompting, your son continues.
"Daaad. I don't feel good" Processors are now at 100%. The relative humidity in his breath (2" from your left ear), the small lurching sound he made and the record of consumption of four caramel apples just 59 minutes before bedtime are enough for a green light. The darkness is no challenge. Just another dad mission. Good thing it wasn't the twins. That would have taken some effort...
In one acrobatic, panther-like motion, you bounce yourself from horizontal to vertical, throw back your half of the bedspread, while simultaneously grabbing your son off the ground and turning him toward the bathroom, and upon landing, avoid stepping on the dog. Your inert spouse makes an inquisitive grunt. Better for her not to know.
"I got it honey. Go to sleep" This has consumed 3.5 seconds and your are within 7 feet of the drop zone. You carry your suffering son, facing forward into the bathroom. The cat dashing in the shadows between your legs, causes a minor pause, as you seamlessly transition to your best Broadway step with your bilious partner. No time for distractions.
Just in the nick of time. Four apples, caramel and some kind of kibble in the commode and not on your floor, sheets and dog.
Another mission accomplished. Sign, sealed, delivered. Total time on target: 4 minutes.
The wife rolls over, now partially alert.
"What was that?"
"Nothing. The boy needed to talk".
Charlie Mike, dads.
The Call No Adult Child Wants To Answer
When you are older and your parents are old as dirt, you realize that they are mortal. They make weird sounds, can't chew, see, hear or walk without some extra equipment. Looping conversation about doctors, prescriptions and sleep patterns. Sadly, you envision that someday Mom or Pop may not be with you.
Then you get the call. The one that knots your stomach. Makes you push back your emotions so you can stay strong for the kids.
"Hi, sweetie. How are you?"
"Mom, what's wrong? You said you had something important to tell me...how bad is it?" Was it cancer? Did Uncle Louie finally die at the bar, like he always promised?
"I met someone I think you would like."
An anvil flying out of your refrigerator, striking your dog and transforming it into a grapefruit would suprise you less. Would a terminal disease been so bad?
"What do you mean, Mom?" You know your parents' divorce was rough. But you figured (like all simple-minded children of any age) that they would stay single forever.
"I met a nice man named Tony."
"Where did you meet him."
Pause.
"Mom, where did you meet him?"
"On E-Harmony on the World Wide Web..."
Her words trail off into the background. Your Mom dating? You feel a vague nauseous feeling climbing in your throat. On the Internet. What kind of cretin is dating your mother? Named Tony?
"He looks real good in jeans too, if you catch my drift." That catches your attention right quick and in a hurry. Mom took your silence as support of the whole idea and has been sharing all the gory details. The nausea is now ruling your world. Divert. Divert. Divert.
"Mom, I don't need to know that, believe me. I'm sure Tony's a nice guy. Cindy wanted me to ask if you were coming for Thanksgiving?"
"I'm glad you like him. He and his kids are coming with me to your place for the Holidays."
Apparently the phone is connecting two separate universes.
"Mom, 'his kids"? How many and how old?"
"They're cute as can be. Let's see: Tyler is 16, Mami is 13 and Rufus is 8. And their Rottweiler Angus is to die for!"
I've swung in 5 minutes from the death call of a parent to invasion of strangers. And your Mom is a cougar. Eewww.
"Mom, how old is Tony from E-harmony?" I try not enunciate too strongly the name Tony, but I feel ambushed. Isn't she supposed to live out her days in peaceful solitude, spread wisdom and joy from crocheted items?
"You, know sweetie, age is not the big a deal anymore. Why I saw a program the other-"
"A number, Mom. You're stalling"
"He's 49"
"Rat baskets! You're kidding me, right? He's not much older than me! Someone kick me in the head right now! Un-freakin-believable!"
She waits until I run out of breath from my frantic ranting.
"You want me to be happy don't you?" The quiet Mom voice. Clear, with overtones of guilt.
"Yeah, Mom, but-"
"And I sacrificed for you for years, didn't I?"
"Yeah."
"What time do you want us to show up on Thanksgiving? Also, Tony is allergic to wheat and likes his plates warmed. Try not to stare at Rufus. The wandering eye is getting better."
What do you do with that? Tune in next time for "Thanksgiving with Our Family. Bring a Gun"
Then you get the call. The one that knots your stomach. Makes you push back your emotions so you can stay strong for the kids.
"Hi, sweetie. How are you?"
"Mom, what's wrong? You said you had something important to tell me...how bad is it?" Was it cancer? Did Uncle Louie finally die at the bar, like he always promised?
"I met someone I think you would like."
An anvil flying out of your refrigerator, striking your dog and transforming it into a grapefruit would suprise you less. Would a terminal disease been so bad?
"What do you mean, Mom?" You know your parents' divorce was rough. But you figured (like all simple-minded children of any age) that they would stay single forever.
"I met a nice man named Tony."
"Where did you meet him."
Pause.
"Mom, where did you meet him?"
"On E-Harmony on the World Wide Web..."
Her words trail off into the background. Your Mom dating? You feel a vague nauseous feeling climbing in your throat. On the Internet. What kind of cretin is dating your mother? Named Tony?
"He looks real good in jeans too, if you catch my drift." That catches your attention right quick and in a hurry. Mom took your silence as support of the whole idea and has been sharing all the gory details. The nausea is now ruling your world. Divert. Divert. Divert.
"Mom, I don't need to know that, believe me. I'm sure Tony's a nice guy. Cindy wanted me to ask if you were coming for Thanksgiving?"
"I'm glad you like him. He and his kids are coming with me to your place for the Holidays."
Apparently the phone is connecting two separate universes.
"Mom, 'his kids"? How many and how old?"
"They're cute as can be. Let's see: Tyler is 16, Mami is 13 and Rufus is 8. And their Rottweiler Angus is to die for!"
I've swung in 5 minutes from the death call of a parent to invasion of strangers. And your Mom is a cougar. Eewww.
"Mom, how old is Tony from E-harmony?" I try not enunciate too strongly the name Tony, but I feel ambushed. Isn't she supposed to live out her days in peaceful solitude, spread wisdom and joy from crocheted items?
"You, know sweetie, age is not the big a deal anymore. Why I saw a program the other-"
"A number, Mom. You're stalling"
"He's 49"
"Rat baskets! You're kidding me, right? He's not much older than me! Someone kick me in the head right now! Un-freakin-believable!"
She waits until I run out of breath from my frantic ranting.
"You want me to be happy don't you?" The quiet Mom voice. Clear, with overtones of guilt.
"Yeah, Mom, but-"
"And I sacrificed for you for years, didn't I?"
"Yeah."
"What time do you want us to show up on Thanksgiving? Also, Tony is allergic to wheat and likes his plates warmed. Try not to stare at Rufus. The wandering eye is getting better."
What do you do with that? Tune in next time for "Thanksgiving with Our Family. Bring a Gun"
Monday, October 5, 2009
Mud and Daughter In Laws
You are probably saying right now "James, why the heck are you muddy, wet and covered in snot?"
Fair question. A sad tale worth sharing.
I was at the park with my family, Cindy: loving wife, Steven: manly son, Rachel: brilliant daughter and Misty.
Misty the favorite oldest daughter. The beloved one, the new daughter, apple of Dad's eye. That's what makes this scene so much more tragic.
I was feeling spunky so I gave my manly son (150 + lbs) a piggy back ride. I was magnificent: an old man with back issues with his hulking son on his back. I had the wind in my face and the adoration of my family.
BAMO! Ambush! Steven lurched backwards, twisting and writhing. I didn't let go of his legs, and I plunged, slow motion, into the murky, black, turgid pool of mud. The towering oak of the family felled. Every person in the park (I'm sure) gasped. I landed on my left side, legs, torso and face immersed in the stinky pit of mud (maybe a slight exaggeration). Death, if not dirt, was imminent.
Revelation: as I floated, stunned, in the mud pool, my daughter-in-law laughed hysterically. Did I mention that I loved her? How does she respond? By tickling my poor son while he was riding the Dad Stallion in the park. You have to know: Steven has been diagnosed as having ticklitis retardum. Sad, but true. Put the fingers on his sides, and his IQ and motor control head south.
Don't worry. You can close your mouths. I too, was shocked. Fortunately, I have combat training and was able to make it back to the house alive. This post is my insurance against another 'accident'.
Sometimes the truth isn't pretty. There are many faces of ADS. Of course, she blamed me and said I should clean Cindy's car and hers (to make it up to her). ADS logic. Who can know it?
Love that girl.
Fair question. A sad tale worth sharing.
I was at the park with my family, Cindy: loving wife, Steven: manly son, Rachel: brilliant daughter and Misty.
Misty the favorite oldest daughter. The beloved one, the new daughter, apple of Dad's eye. That's what makes this scene so much more tragic.
I was feeling spunky so I gave my manly son (150 + lbs) a piggy back ride. I was magnificent: an old man with back issues with his hulking son on his back. I had the wind in my face and the adoration of my family.
BAMO! Ambush! Steven lurched backwards, twisting and writhing. I didn't let go of his legs, and I plunged, slow motion, into the murky, black, turgid pool of mud. The towering oak of the family felled. Every person in the park (I'm sure) gasped. I landed on my left side, legs, torso and face immersed in the stinky pit of mud (maybe a slight exaggeration). Death, if not dirt, was imminent.
Revelation: as I floated, stunned, in the mud pool, my daughter-in-law laughed hysterically. Did I mention that I loved her? How does she respond? By tickling my poor son while he was riding the Dad Stallion in the park. You have to know: Steven has been diagnosed as having ticklitis retardum. Sad, but true. Put the fingers on his sides, and his IQ and motor control head south.
Don't worry. You can close your mouths. I too, was shocked. Fortunately, I have combat training and was able to make it back to the house alive. This post is my insurance against another 'accident'.
Sometimes the truth isn't pretty. There are many faces of ADS. Of course, she blamed me and said I should clean Cindy's car and hers (to make it up to her). ADS logic. Who can know it?
Love that girl.
Teen Daughter Syndrome
Note: This is written from a Dad's perspective, although much of the angst is shared by Moms.TDS moves our culture like a an unseen whale ripples the the surface of the water. Sometimes like a semi thrown into the water by Godzilla.
Here's the picture: big, burly contractor who looks like he uses his hands to crush glass is in the mall with his 16 year old daughter. The untrained observer will miss that the damage has already been done because he is in the mall to begin with. The 230 pound mover of heavy objects is flanked by 98 pounds of bright indifference. She suddenly removes her oversized sun glasses, turns to the Mass and simply asks
"Daddy?"
You know the sad story. Another FPS (Father Protective Services) statistic. He has no choice here. All of his attention, energy, resources are now poised with the anticipation that he might be able to make her happy.
"Yeah, sweetie?"
The answer may be gruff or distant, to preserve the thin shroud of dignity he wears in public. However, if it is in his power to grant her request or only bend a federal law to accomplish it, he will.
Why is this tragedy repeated with such appalling frequency? What happened to the warriors, hunters, captains of industry, pioneers who spit in the face of death and drank danger like a diet soda? The same men who served in combat, have lead businesses and families through the gamut of tragedy, and stitched their own head wounds are now walking with their daughters through the Ms section in Kohls. Why has this not been addressed? The fact that the current President has 2 daughters gives me great pause...
You still don't believe me? Go to a department store. Play a recording of a little girl saying "Daddy!" and every father within a mile will turn their head and look, even if their daughter is grown and gone. The same programming can be observed in parks, restaurants, theaters and schools.
Can Dads ever have their hearts back? Where did this start?
I'll wait another day to turn my daughter in to FPS...
Here's the picture: big, burly contractor who looks like he uses his hands to crush glass is in the mall with his 16 year old daughter. The untrained observer will miss that the damage has already been done because he is in the mall to begin with. The 230 pound mover of heavy objects is flanked by 98 pounds of bright indifference. She suddenly removes her oversized sun glasses, turns to the Mass and simply asks
"Daddy?"
You know the sad story. Another FPS (Father Protective Services) statistic. He has no choice here. All of his attention, energy, resources are now poised with the anticipation that he might be able to make her happy.
"Yeah, sweetie?"
The answer may be gruff or distant, to preserve the thin shroud of dignity he wears in public. However, if it is in his power to grant her request or only bend a federal law to accomplish it, he will.
Why is this tragedy repeated with such appalling frequency? What happened to the warriors, hunters, captains of industry, pioneers who spit in the face of death and drank danger like a diet soda? The same men who served in combat, have lead businesses and families through the gamut of tragedy, and stitched their own head wounds are now walking with their daughters through the Ms section in Kohls. Why has this not been addressed? The fact that the current President has 2 daughters gives me great pause...
You still don't believe me? Go to a department store. Play a recording of a little girl saying "Daddy!" and every father within a mile will turn their head and look, even if their daughter is grown and gone. The same programming can be observed in parks, restaurants, theaters and schools.
Can Dads ever have their hearts back? Where did this start?
I'll wait another day to turn my daughter in to FPS...
Surviving TDS
The last we talked, I tried to raise the red flag regarding TDS, Teen Daughter Syndrome. The response has been eye-opening: the severity and resiliency of this affliction is beyond anything I imagined. Have you heard of the Black Plague, Mad Cow Disease, or Avion Flu? They're just a scratch on the knee compared to the ravages of TDS.
You know the afflicted ones: they are good men walking around with gaping holes in their chests. Who is dialing 911 for these guys? "My friend Bob seems to have lost a major organ and use of his brain!" Everyone just looks away...you threaten the nest of the red-cockaded wood pecker and people riot, protest and give up hygiene. Pull a man's heart right of his chest and it's "pass the mashed potatoes, please".
What gives?
The secret handshake here can be found in the feedback from the grown daughters. They were so confident of the effects of TDS, they brazenly commented without using an alias. They just put it out there, shaking their fists at justice, daring back lash.
Apparently they know what's going on. Nothing happened. No sting, no SWAT raid, not even a slight twinge of conscience. Just...
"My daddy's heart is mine..." "they give their hearts away the first moment they see their daughter" "it goes on unchecked into adulthood". Scary, scary stuff.
I urgently searched for an antidote, a tourniquet to stop the arterial bleeding of these dads. What I found confounded, shocked and confused me. There is an answer to this pandemic, but it's not pretty. For you wussy men, man up: this kind of gore and suffering couldn't be played in a theater without handing out bags first. For those of you even remotely considering being a Dad, you ought to know the truth now, before you get ambushed by TDS. Cover the eyes of the minors in the room...
YOU GROW A BIGGER HEART.
That's right, you don't run away, don't hide, don't offer your job - you stand and give that heart.
Here's how it works: the smiling predator (that's the cute, cooing creature you held in your hands in the delivery room) snatches your heart, right out of your chest, in front of you. Brazenly, she runs off to celebrate the supposed theft. What she doesn't know, is that as soon as that happens, you grow more heart. Like all serial criminals, she comes back for more, thinking "I've got it all, but just in case I missed something" BAMO! There's more heart! She is completely caught off guard and reduced to simply coming back for more of the dad's heart.
Initially, you might resist as it is sometimes painful and bewildering. But it is the ONLY proven method to survive the onslaught of TDS. Some dads have tried and failed with other solutions: buy off the daughter - massacre. Pretend to be busy - desolation. Give your heart to someone else - judgment.
What about the poor guy with 3 daughters?! O, the gore! Is there no mercy? His heart expands like construction foam on steroids. That guy is a stud. Army Rangers have medics with morphine for that kind of suffering and this Dad goes with it like a walk in the park. Point: As long as the dad does not turn away, he grows more heart. He will actually flourish under the ruthless demands of TDS.
In the end, the dads win. It's a little messy, but they win.
I don't want my heart back, after all.
You know the afflicted ones: they are good men walking around with gaping holes in their chests. Who is dialing 911 for these guys? "My friend Bob seems to have lost a major organ and use of his brain!" Everyone just looks away...you threaten the nest of the red-cockaded wood pecker and people riot, protest and give up hygiene. Pull a man's heart right of his chest and it's "pass the mashed potatoes, please".
What gives?
The secret handshake here can be found in the feedback from the grown daughters. They were so confident of the effects of TDS, they brazenly commented without using an alias. They just put it out there, shaking their fists at justice, daring back lash.
Apparently they know what's going on. Nothing happened. No sting, no SWAT raid, not even a slight twinge of conscience. Just...
"My daddy's heart is mine..." "they give their hearts away the first moment they see their daughter" "it goes on unchecked into adulthood". Scary, scary stuff.
I urgently searched for an antidote, a tourniquet to stop the arterial bleeding of these dads. What I found confounded, shocked and confused me. There is an answer to this pandemic, but it's not pretty. For you wussy men, man up: this kind of gore and suffering couldn't be played in a theater without handing out bags first. For those of you even remotely considering being a Dad, you ought to know the truth now, before you get ambushed by TDS. Cover the eyes of the minors in the room...
YOU GROW A BIGGER HEART.
That's right, you don't run away, don't hide, don't offer your job - you stand and give that heart.
Here's how it works: the smiling predator (that's the cute, cooing creature you held in your hands in the delivery room) snatches your heart, right out of your chest, in front of you. Brazenly, she runs off to celebrate the supposed theft. What she doesn't know, is that as soon as that happens, you grow more heart. Like all serial criminals, she comes back for more, thinking "I've got it all, but just in case I missed something" BAMO! There's more heart! She is completely caught off guard and reduced to simply coming back for more of the dad's heart.
Initially, you might resist as it is sometimes painful and bewildering. But it is the ONLY proven method to survive the onslaught of TDS. Some dads have tried and failed with other solutions: buy off the daughter - massacre. Pretend to be busy - desolation. Give your heart to someone else - judgment.
What about the poor guy with 3 daughters?! O, the gore! Is there no mercy? His heart expands like construction foam on steroids. That guy is a stud. Army Rangers have medics with morphine for that kind of suffering and this Dad goes with it like a walk in the park. Point: As long as the dad does not turn away, he grows more heart. He will actually flourish under the ruthless demands of TDS.
In the end, the dads win. It's a little messy, but they win.
I don't want my heart back, after all.
CLAR Disease, Explained
After exposing TDS (Teen Daughter Syndrome) and its brutal effects on dads, I was annoyed that TDS didn't bother my wife. Not even a little. It's like having a cold, being grateful my wife doesn't have it, but still being vaguely resentful that she's heatlhy. So, at the pinnacle of maturity, I cast about for things or people that do vex my wife...a startling moment of marital self-awareness caused me to search for other people that vex my wife.
Then it came to me, in a cascade of memories, splashed with pictures of burned counters, rusty tools, executed dolls, dirt clod wounds and broken windows.
It is none other than Clueless Like A Rock (CLAR) Disease. It is the yawning chasm between actions and consequences that boys try to gap with energy. It is choice without consideration. As a boy, it is fun.
Yes, it exists. I am not making it up. Ask any mom if their son has ever done anything she didn't understand. I am guessing she will not say " Why yes. Little Thayer totally lost me explaining quantum physics before naptime". More likely, it will be "Why does Jeff like to eat mud?" "Tommy won't keep his pants on" "My son breaks his toys, but plays with the Tupperware" "Why is everything a gun?" "He doesn't talk, he grunts" "He climbs everything, then tries to jump".
This is indeed a cruel dilemma for the mother: she deeply loves and cherishes her son, and yet wonders if he will ever be normal (read "like a girl"), if other mothers' sons are feral like hers. Would it really be wrong to sedate him until he was 18? Will she be marked among mothers as the failure, the only one not able to teach her boy manners, to remain clothed, to not say everything on his mind as it enters his mind at the top of his lungs? What has she done to deserve this? She ate right, listened to classical music and read books without pictures to her son during pregnancy. What did she get? A hyperactive, spitting, climbing, running, chasing, relentlessly curious boy.
Good news, moms. CLAR is not fatal. Just keep the lad away from electricity until he is at least 12.
Here's a hint for coping with CLAR: every man you know had it. Some worse than others. From this pool of hyperactive testosterone came US Presidents, artists, cooks, authors and possibly your husband.
Then it came to me, in a cascade of memories, splashed with pictures of burned counters, rusty tools, executed dolls, dirt clod wounds and broken windows.
It is none other than Clueless Like A Rock (CLAR) Disease. It is the yawning chasm between actions and consequences that boys try to gap with energy. It is choice without consideration. As a boy, it is fun.
Yes, it exists. I am not making it up. Ask any mom if their son has ever done anything she didn't understand. I am guessing she will not say " Why yes. Little Thayer totally lost me explaining quantum physics before naptime". More likely, it will be "Why does Jeff like to eat mud?" "Tommy won't keep his pants on" "My son breaks his toys, but plays with the Tupperware" "Why is everything a gun?" "He doesn't talk, he grunts" "He climbs everything, then tries to jump".
This is indeed a cruel dilemma for the mother: she deeply loves and cherishes her son, and yet wonders if he will ever be normal (read "like a girl"), if other mothers' sons are feral like hers. Would it really be wrong to sedate him until he was 18? Will she be marked among mothers as the failure, the only one not able to teach her boy manners, to remain clothed, to not say everything on his mind as it enters his mind at the top of his lungs? What has she done to deserve this? She ate right, listened to classical music and read books without pictures to her son during pregnancy. What did she get? A hyperactive, spitting, climbing, running, chasing, relentlessly curious boy.
Good news, moms. CLAR is not fatal. Just keep the lad away from electricity until he is at least 12.
Here's a hint for coping with CLAR: every man you know had it. Some worse than others. From this pool of hyperactive testosterone came US Presidents, artists, cooks, authors and possibly your husband.
ADS Generations
Dads, buckle up! Just when you thought you knew where this ride was going, oops! Where’s the track! Hope you’re a quick healer…
That’s right. You have built the kind of pain threshold that would make professional fighters put on a tutu, hockey players take up knitting and Army Rangers look for a type writer. Teen Daughter Syndrome is no laughing matter, like, say, the Economy or the Swine Flu. Beware! There is a new menace! It is more complicated than crawling blind folded through a two story pile of barbed wire without losing blood.072.jpg)
Another Daughter Syndrome. Don’t laugh yet. I’m not talking about the one you brought home from the hospital. I’m talking about the young lady your son brought home.
You didn’t see this one coming, did you? The guys thus far had stuck together…watched football games, made cool noises and smells, broken and burned things, worked loud and sweaty in the yard. You even tried to gang up on your wife and gross her out with tapioca and spaghetti. But now, your wife’s son has run off, found him a woman and married her. Who is she? What is her dad like? Does he take painkillers or just have a huge heart?
Your wife told you it was coming. You saw it coming. You did. You tried to understand it, to analyze it, to make a solid decision. But it happened too fast. You were still pondering when you came to and BAMO! You’re standing front row, on the groom’s side of the church in a tux. Then the cold truth slaps your face: you never had a chance. They included you out of pity. They were thankful for the funding. But in the end, you were just collateral damage.
With your wife’s encouragement, which sounds an awful lot like “Don’t be stupid! She’s a wonderful young lady! I love her! I can’t wait to spend more time with her!” you begin to adjust.
You observe that your boy (a man really, twice as smart as you ever were) acts differently. He and your new daughter are “discussing” something from “different perspectives”. This will be good, you think. The boy is stubborn and persistent. He has to win. Popcorn falls from your open mouth as you witness this carnage:
Your boy: “Let’s go to Luigi’s tonight for dinner”
New daughter: “We don’t want to do that, sweetie.” She’s twirling his hair as she softly gazes into his eyes.
Your boy: “We don’t?”
New daughter: “No, sugar. Let’s go to the Metro and have tofu blobs instead”
Your boy: “OK. Sounds good to me.”I whip around and look to my wife. Intervention? Body Snatcher Police? Who do I call? My son is missing! I whisper through my teeth to my wife “We gotta talk!”
She uses her kind eyes as she approaches me with a hand up to stop. As she guides me to the kitchen, she asks “What’s the matter?” Incredulous, frothing at the mouth, I stage whisper “You didn’t just see what I saw? He hates tofu blobs! For that matter, who doesn’t? Why doesn’t he stand his ground? Did she steal his soul?”
The much praised and admired wife of many years poses a question: “Do you remember another young man willing to do anything to spend time with his new wife?” “Tommy Smith?” I blurt out.
She punches me in the gut. “No, you dork. YOU.”
“I was never that bad. I mean, come on. That’s nauseating”. Hands on her hips, she cocks her head to the side, eyebrow arched. Judge, jury, executioner. “I have to admit” she pauses for the kill, “you were worse, really, truly pathetic”. I try to argue. But eventually, my denials run dry. She is right. I am just confused.
I acknowledge (“Hi! I’m Tom and I’m a Father. Welcome to Father’s Anonymous”.) that my boy has not changed. Just blessed enough to marry a woman he passionately loves. I have avoided the real issue as long as possible: I must learn about this New Person, this Daughter I know very little about. This cheery, loud, dramatic creature who pops up and says “Hi, Dad!”
For now I must stop. Many of the dads are still processing this double-barreled threat: your own daughters steal your heart. You can deal with that. But now your sons will choose another daughter you will know nothing about. You have no choice. Your son loves her. You must love her too. Will she love you? Your wife and the New Person are already thick as thieves. What does that mean?
I don’t know. I need to find some tapioca and spaghetti.
That’s right. You have built the kind of pain threshold that would make professional fighters put on a tutu, hockey players take up knitting and Army Rangers look for a type writer. Teen Daughter Syndrome is no laughing matter, like, say, the Economy or the Swine Flu. Beware! There is a new menace! It is more complicated than crawling blind folded through a two story pile of barbed wire without losing blood.
072.jpg)
Another Daughter Syndrome. Don’t laugh yet. I’m not talking about the one you brought home from the hospital. I’m talking about the young lady your son brought home.
You didn’t see this one coming, did you? The guys thus far had stuck together…watched football games, made cool noises and smells, broken and burned things, worked loud and sweaty in the yard. You even tried to gang up on your wife and gross her out with tapioca and spaghetti. But now, your wife’s son has run off, found him a woman and married her. Who is she? What is her dad like? Does he take painkillers or just have a huge heart?
Your wife told you it was coming. You saw it coming. You did. You tried to understand it, to analyze it, to make a solid decision. But it happened too fast. You were still pondering when you came to and BAMO! You’re standing front row, on the groom’s side of the church in a tux. Then the cold truth slaps your face: you never had a chance. They included you out of pity. They were thankful for the funding. But in the end, you were just collateral damage.
With your wife’s encouragement, which sounds an awful lot like “Don’t be stupid! She’s a wonderful young lady! I love her! I can’t wait to spend more time with her!” you begin to adjust.
You observe that your boy (a man really, twice as smart as you ever were) acts differently. He and your new daughter are “discussing” something from “different perspectives”. This will be good, you think. The boy is stubborn and persistent. He has to win. Popcorn falls from your open mouth as you witness this carnage:
Your boy: “Let’s go to Luigi’s tonight for dinner”
New daughter: “We don’t want to do that, sweetie.” She’s twirling his hair as she softly gazes into his eyes.
Your boy: “We don’t?”
New daughter: “No, sugar. Let’s go to the Metro and have tofu blobs instead”
Your boy: “OK. Sounds good to me.”I whip around and look to my wife. Intervention? Body Snatcher Police? Who do I call? My son is missing! I whisper through my teeth to my wife “We gotta talk!”
She uses her kind eyes as she approaches me with a hand up to stop. As she guides me to the kitchen, she asks “What’s the matter?” Incredulous, frothing at the mouth, I stage whisper “You didn’t just see what I saw? He hates tofu blobs! For that matter, who doesn’t? Why doesn’t he stand his ground? Did she steal his soul?”
The much praised and admired wife of many years poses a question: “Do you remember another young man willing to do anything to spend time with his new wife?” “Tommy Smith?” I blurt out.
She punches me in the gut. “No, you dork. YOU.”
“I was never that bad. I mean, come on. That’s nauseating”. Hands on her hips, she cocks her head to the side, eyebrow arched. Judge, jury, executioner. “I have to admit” she pauses for the kill, “you were worse, really, truly pathetic”. I try to argue. But eventually, my denials run dry. She is right. I am just confused.
I acknowledge (“Hi! I’m Tom and I’m a Father. Welcome to Father’s Anonymous”.) that my boy has not changed. Just blessed enough to marry a woman he passionately loves. I have avoided the real issue as long as possible: I must learn about this New Person, this Daughter I know very little about. This cheery, loud, dramatic creature who pops up and says “Hi, Dad!”
For now I must stop. Many of the dads are still processing this double-barreled threat: your own daughters steal your heart. You can deal with that. But now your sons will choose another daughter you will know nothing about. You have no choice. Your son loves her. You must love her too. Will she love you? Your wife and the New Person are already thick as thieves. What does that mean?
I don’t know. I need to find some tapioca and spaghetti.
To A Boy With A Hammer, Everything Is A Nail
This title elicits 3 responses:
1. A sigh, a grin and "Yep" - you are probably a veteran mother of the CLAR wars.
2. A loud guffaw, and then reminiscing about the worst beating you ever got from your mom - you are likely a grown male (think: windows, white walls and heirlooms).
3. Questions: "Why does the boy have a hammer? Can he swallow the nail? Who took him to the hardware store? How can everything be a nail?" - you are either a mother with only girls or an expectant mom who has fed at the table of talk show wisdom. You are in for a ride.
You see, to the little boy, the hammer is everything. The hammer is magic: it impacts and makes a fantastic sound. It reduces a large object into several smaller objects, multiplying his collection of toys. A draws instant attention from his mother. The hammer strikes fear into smaller siblings and animals. In leadership parlance, it is a change agent. Whatever is touched by it can never be the same. What is the 'appropriate' nail isn't even on the radar. How can something so good be limited to Dad's nails? It works on sister's dolls, furniture, dirt, Fluffy, windows, walls, flower pots, fingers (not his), and who knows what else once the hammer mojo is flowing. It is for him now what skate boards, girls, power tools, education and money will be for him in the future.
I am certain that most mothers from response #3 are frantically searching right now to see if they can determine the gender of their children fbefore they are born. "Please God, no boys or hammers!" Ease up, sister. Grab a paper bag and take a seat. Don't hide the hammers. Talk to the smiling lady from response #1 who talks quietly but scares teenage boys. I remember my mom being like this. She raised 3 sons and a daughter. She had the CLAR Eye: it's like the Eye of the Tiger, but really, really scary. It's the look in the eyes of the vet who is walking point again in his mind. You don't mess with that.
My wife has perfected this look. Her playful, beautiful eyes transform to the souless stare of a hungry shark. It gives the boys the heebie-jeebies. I know this because they grin like fools and try to be cute and affectionate. Too late. There is blood in the water. Judgment Day.
You see, young moms, the secret is not 'The Look' itself. It is action. You cannot stop a train with a lecture and you cannot reason the wind to blow another way. Your future CEO, builder, athlete, inventor, musician is wired to act, create, and change things. My boys knew that the Look was not a promise or a threat. It was the precursor of swift and ruthless action. It was the promised consequence to the admonished behavior. And get this. Action requires much less time and energy than lecturing and reasoning.
The issue is not the hammer. It's action, will and joy. You can teach your hammer wielder to share, to build, to work, to bless.
Mom, go get your boy a hammer. A big one.
1. A sigh, a grin and "Yep" - you are probably a veteran mother of the CLAR wars.2. A loud guffaw, and then reminiscing about the worst beating you ever got from your mom - you are likely a grown male (think: windows, white walls and heirlooms).
3. Questions: "Why does the boy have a hammer? Can he swallow the nail? Who took him to the hardware store? How can everything be a nail?" - you are either a mother with only girls or an expectant mom who has fed at the table of talk show wisdom. You are in for a ride.
You see, to the little boy, the hammer is everything. The hammer is magic: it impacts and makes a fantastic sound. It reduces a large object into several smaller objects, multiplying his collection of toys. A draws instant attention from his mother. The hammer strikes fear into smaller siblings and animals. In leadership parlance, it is a change agent. Whatever is touched by it can never be the same. What is the 'appropriate' nail isn't even on the radar. How can something so good be limited to Dad's nails? It works on sister's dolls, furniture, dirt, Fluffy, windows, walls, flower pots, fingers (not his), and who knows what else once the hammer mojo is flowing. It is for him now what skate boards, girls, power tools, education and money will be for him in the future.
I am certain that most mothers from response #3 are frantically searching right now to see if they can determine the gender of their children fbefore they are born. "Please God, no boys or hammers!" Ease up, sister. Grab a paper bag and take a seat. Don't hide the hammers. Talk to the smiling lady from response #1 who talks quietly but scares teenage boys. I remember my mom being like this. She raised 3 sons and a daughter. She had the CLAR Eye: it's like the Eye of the Tiger, but really, really scary. It's the look in the eyes of the vet who is walking point again in his mind. You don't mess with that.
My wife has perfected this look. Her playful, beautiful eyes transform to the souless stare of a hungry shark. It gives the boys the heebie-jeebies. I know this because they grin like fools and try to be cute and affectionate. Too late. There is blood in the water. Judgment Day.
You see, young moms, the secret is not 'The Look' itself. It is action. You cannot stop a train with a lecture and you cannot reason the wind to blow another way. Your future CEO, builder, athlete, inventor, musician is wired to act, create, and change things. My boys knew that the Look was not a promise or a threat. It was the precursor of swift and ruthless action. It was the promised consequence to the admonished behavior. And get this. Action requires much less time and energy than lecturing and reasoning.
The issue is not the hammer. It's action, will and joy. You can teach your hammer wielder to share, to build, to work, to bless.
Mom, go get your boy a hammer. A big one.
Just the Hope, Please. I Don't Want Any More Facts
Facts are like flat tires on a getaway car: you have all the parts but they just aren’t enough. Facts can be business failures, debt, Alzheimer's disease, separation from loved ones, fatigue, and a piece of cardboard for a bed.
Facts can also be good health, faithful friends, paying work, food, weight loss, and babies.
In the past, I packaged facts as good or bad. To appear discerning, as negative or positive. Facts consume our conversations (mostly disguised as complaining) because they reveal our lack of control and our outrage about it. We treat facts as though they are personal, because we honestly believe we are the center of the universe. It all must be about us. Therefore, the person who cut us off in traffic was determined to ruin our day. The terminally ill relative who just doesn't understand how hard it is for us to cope with their suffering. The business closure means I am a failure because I allowed the economy to falter.
The appalling truth is that facts do not transform a single thing. They are merely the tracks of what has already passed us. They do not lead, but lag. They are the stuff of analysis, not growth. I need something else, more dynamic, living. I'm tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I want to put the shoes on and run.
What I need is hope: the expectation of good in my life. Hope is searching for resilient purpose, not for relief of pain, taxes or traffic. I'm talking Good, not a delusion. It's recognizing the Divine Network, the Providential that plays out in so many dimensions, most surprisingly mundane. It’s more personal than Serendipity, more caring than Luck. It’s the Source of good which creatively cultivates hope among the rocky facts. Facts that cause friends to respond, "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that!" But it’s Hope that catapults you beyond those jagged rocks into a new country. It's like tripping over a chair and falling through a door into a room you never knew existed. You just discovered your house is twice as large as you imagined because you finally left the kitchen.
Good is when you have flat tire, and find out that the tow truck guy knew your high school English teacher and is working on a novel in between tows. It's learning to lay linoleum because you can't afford to hire an expert and discover you cherish the day sprawled on the floor cutting around cabinets. It's your business neighbor's wife's mom being your customer from 10 years' ago and remembering you.
We swim in facts, but can’t find a drop of hope to drink.We avoid hoping on a Purpose that we don’t control, even a good purpose. Our hope ebbs and flows in response to facts, which are revealed to be frauds, just fragile reactions. Hope leads and moves ahead, while what we experience always lags behind.
Faith, Hope and Love. Which will make the news? Which will ignite the blogosphere?
Transformation, revolution and peace absolutely will not happen without these three dynamic choices.
For today, I am done with facts. Just pass the hope.
Facts can also be good health, faithful friends, paying work, food, weight loss, and babies.
In the past, I packaged facts as good or bad. To appear discerning, as negative or positive. Facts consume our conversations (mostly disguised as complaining) because they reveal our lack of control and our outrage about it. We treat facts as though they are personal, because we honestly believe we are the center of the universe. It all must be about us. Therefore, the person who cut us off in traffic was determined to ruin our day. The terminally ill relative who just doesn't understand how hard it is for us to cope with their suffering. The business closure means I am a failure because I allowed the economy to falter.
The appalling truth is that facts do not transform a single thing. They are merely the tracks of what has already passed us. They do not lead, but lag. They are the stuff of analysis, not growth. I need something else, more dynamic, living. I'm tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I want to put the shoes on and run.
What I need is hope: the expectation of good in my life. Hope is searching for resilient purpose, not for relief of pain, taxes or traffic. I'm talking Good, not a delusion. It's recognizing the Divine Network, the Providential that plays out in so many dimensions, most surprisingly mundane. It’s more personal than Serendipity, more caring than Luck. It’s the Source of good which creatively cultivates hope among the rocky facts. Facts that cause friends to respond, "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that!" But it’s Hope that catapults you beyond those jagged rocks into a new country. It's like tripping over a chair and falling through a door into a room you never knew existed. You just discovered your house is twice as large as you imagined because you finally left the kitchen.
Good is when you have flat tire, and find out that the tow truck guy knew your high school English teacher and is working on a novel in between tows. It's learning to lay linoleum because you can't afford to hire an expert and discover you cherish the day sprawled on the floor cutting around cabinets. It's your business neighbor's wife's mom being your customer from 10 years' ago and remembering you.
We swim in facts, but can’t find a drop of hope to drink.We avoid hoping on a Purpose that we don’t control, even a good purpose. Our hope ebbs and flows in response to facts, which are revealed to be frauds, just fragile reactions. Hope leads and moves ahead, while what we experience always lags behind.
Faith, Hope and Love. Which will make the news? Which will ignite the blogosphere?
Transformation, revolution and peace absolutely will not happen without these three dynamic choices.
For today, I am done with facts. Just pass the hope.
Great Hope, Less Filling...
It's positively scandalous to use a classic beer commercial to talk about hope.
Too bad. Tough nuggets.
My hope-intolerant, purpose-challenged friends are saying "OK. So hope is more important than facts. So what does that mean to me?" I like these friends. They typically respond to your financial windfall by saying "Is that all?" or news of your piano prodigy by saying "She doesn't play another instrument?" That's OK. We need to get a little hope stuck to our shoes and leave it there. It needs to take a chair at the dinner table. It should be the memo everyone gets in Cubicle Land. It should energize the classroom with truth instead of just perspectives. But if hope turns out to be a sound bite, a cliche, then my life is just a bad reality show. All I can expect is reruns and inevitable cancellation.
As it turns out, hope does not happen to us. It does not smash us in the head like an errant golf ball from the country club. We will not stumble onto it like money we hid in our mattress last year. It is not tea leaves, a missing letter on the sign or a fortune cookie.
Hope is a choice.
And I deeply hate that. Because, if that's true, then I am responsible. For motivation, attitudes, words and decisions. If I have the option of hope, then blaming the economy, the President, my spouse, my missed chances, my parents, my boss - is the worst kind of negligence. It's living my whole life deliberately looking the other way. I don't dare look at hope. I wouldn't want that burden.
All the facts (see MSNBC, CNN, YahooNews, et al for the advertised facts) turn out to be entertainment at best. And horrible distractions at worst. I must choose hope.
My friends' whiny voices float in: "How can you have any hope in times like these?" Hope seeks the Real, not the Suspected. Facts, hovering around the cooler or clamoring in the media, always create suspicion, the expectation of the worst. Those who revel in the facts, tend to wallow in their hopelessness, and wear the mess like a badge of superiority. They proudly bear the cold, hard, stark reality. Even if that reality changes hour to hour, day to day. How can what's real be so changeable, so unstable and so controlled by other average, hopeless people? I might just be a simple country electrician, but even I know that's not real.
Hope embraces reality and questions everything. It is the fire inside of legitimate independence. It creates a level playing field in times of crisis: all men are revealed to be equal, because all men equally do not have a clue. It investigates to see if it stubbed its toe or found a diamond in the rough. It embraces business failure as financial focus instead of loss of control. Hope clothes disease with caring and listening in ways previously unknown. Hope is more than positive thinking. It is that solitary choice which will sacrifice deeply, expecting a better reality in the present because of the commitment. It is not delusional. Times of comfortable facts allow us to bypass this one choice. Tough times clear clutter.
Hope is a choice. What does that mean in the middle of a nasty argument about family finances? Where does it fit when a grandson has a severe learning challenge? How does that sit with someone on disability and looking at long-term unemployment? Where does it enter the balance sheet for the owner who must lay off half of his employees?
Hope is not afraid of reality. In times of quiet and waiting, under duress, it waits for the Nudge, the Voice to say "It will be alright. You can get out of bed again tomorrow, because something and someone better is there waiting".
Hope is a choice. And I still deeply hate it. And I have never been more alive, more awake, more joyful, than when trying on hope every morning. Hope can be small. Sometimes, it’s not much to look at. But the object of our hope must be magnificent, consistent and caring.
Jesus is that object, that Voice in the pressured, closed stillness.
What is your choice?
Too bad. Tough nuggets.
My hope-intolerant, purpose-challenged friends are saying "OK. So hope is more important than facts. So what does that mean to me?" I like these friends. They typically respond to your financial windfall by saying "Is that all?" or news of your piano prodigy by saying "She doesn't play another instrument?" That's OK. We need to get a little hope stuck to our shoes and leave it there. It needs to take a chair at the dinner table. It should be the memo everyone gets in Cubicle Land. It should energize the classroom with truth instead of just perspectives. But if hope turns out to be a sound bite, a cliche, then my life is just a bad reality show. All I can expect is reruns and inevitable cancellation.
As it turns out, hope does not happen to us. It does not smash us in the head like an errant golf ball from the country club. We will not stumble onto it like money we hid in our mattress last year. It is not tea leaves, a missing letter on the sign or a fortune cookie.
Hope is a choice.
And I deeply hate that. Because, if that's true, then I am responsible. For motivation, attitudes, words and decisions. If I have the option of hope, then blaming the economy, the President, my spouse, my missed chances, my parents, my boss - is the worst kind of negligence. It's living my whole life deliberately looking the other way. I don't dare look at hope. I wouldn't want that burden.
All the facts (see MSNBC, CNN, YahooNews, et al for the advertised facts) turn out to be entertainment at best. And horrible distractions at worst. I must choose hope.
My friends' whiny voices float in: "How can you have any hope in times like these?" Hope seeks the Real, not the Suspected. Facts, hovering around the cooler or clamoring in the media, always create suspicion, the expectation of the worst. Those who revel in the facts, tend to wallow in their hopelessness, and wear the mess like a badge of superiority. They proudly bear the cold, hard, stark reality. Even if that reality changes hour to hour, day to day. How can what's real be so changeable, so unstable and so controlled by other average, hopeless people? I might just be a simple country electrician, but even I know that's not real.
Hope embraces reality and questions everything. It is the fire inside of legitimate independence. It creates a level playing field in times of crisis: all men are revealed to be equal, because all men equally do not have a clue. It investigates to see if it stubbed its toe or found a diamond in the rough. It embraces business failure as financial focus instead of loss of control. Hope clothes disease with caring and listening in ways previously unknown. Hope is more than positive thinking. It is that solitary choice which will sacrifice deeply, expecting a better reality in the present because of the commitment. It is not delusional. Times of comfortable facts allow us to bypass this one choice. Tough times clear clutter.
Hope is a choice. What does that mean in the middle of a nasty argument about family finances? Where does it fit when a grandson has a severe learning challenge? How does that sit with someone on disability and looking at long-term unemployment? Where does it enter the balance sheet for the owner who must lay off half of his employees?
Hope is not afraid of reality. In times of quiet and waiting, under duress, it waits for the Nudge, the Voice to say "It will be alright. You can get out of bed again tomorrow, because something and someone better is there waiting".
Hope is a choice. And I still deeply hate it. And I have never been more alive, more awake, more joyful, than when trying on hope every morning. Hope can be small. Sometimes, it’s not much to look at. But the object of our hope must be magnificent, consistent and caring.
Jesus is that object, that Voice in the pressured, closed stillness.
What is your choice?
Hope from the Leper Colony
This article relates how three friends have walked with failure. More importantly, how we answer loss and where we find hope.
Welcome to the leper colony.
Unlike our brothers with physical leprosy, we can hide for a time among the general population. That is until the discussion moves past the weather or sports. Then things get uncomfortable. It is inevitable. "You lost your house? That's horrible" "How are you going to turn your business around?" "Why is it taking you so long to get this back on track?" "What's your plan for the future?" We will be revealed as failures. Worse still, as men without a plan to fix it. We are in unknown country: we don't know what we are doing. What we did before no longer works.
"I am somebody I never wanted to be", confided my friend. He had been a husband, father, homeowner and business owner. A man in control and with a plan. A modest benefactor.
He lost his business. Then he lost his house. After that, his wife left with his children. He feels like a pariah, a man disfigured with failure, whom people avoid. They're afraid that whatever caught him will catch them. We both confessed that in past years, we judged people who found themselves entangled in these very circumstances. We were wise, condescending and professionally distant with these lesser brothers. That would never happen to us. We were smart, driven, men of faith and integrity.
He now owns a patient and humble compassion for people who fail. A heart that is sensitive from being broken and still healing. Still not in control.
Another comrade in the colony, owns a luxury item business. His mortgages and monthly expenses are crushing. The sales for his enterprise have plummeted. Even after the economy recovers, he wonders how soon the demand for his product will return. He has cut and cut and cut. Many of his toys won't sell on a market flooded with boats, RVs and vehicles. All that's left to do is pull the plug. But even if he walks away, then what? What he has done successfully, prosperously for decades doesn't work. In his early 50s, what will pay his bills in this new country? How will he define himself in the second half of his life?
Like the rest of us, he wrestles with his pride. How did he not see this coming? He should have known. Why wasn't he better prepared? Maybe he never was in control. He confronts his own ideals of ownership and success. Was it really worth it to own all that stuff? Did he actually enjoy it or was the real joy in just owning it?
The final member of the trifecta owns a dwindling remodeling business. Sales crashed by 80% in a single year for the 20-year old business. He laid off half off his staff, men he personally trained and encouraged. Whose families he knew. Then more lay-offs. He is now down to a single employee. He scans his caller ID to avoid collector calls. He and his wife don't wrestle any longer with the location of their next anniversary trip; there are no long discussions about the charity they want to support. Rather, whether to pay the mortgage or to buy groceries. How to keep the IRS at bay for another month.
He learned to ask for help. "I used to be the one who wrote the check to get things done", he shared. "I have found out that I have awesome friends. They have fed me, given me a place to sleep and to shower".
"Where's the hope? Is this a bad joke?" you're screaming. "Have these guys done themselves a harm? Have the authorities taken away their knives and shoe laces?"
They chose hope. They are very much alive. But very much changed. And still very much in the colony. They are not through, nor is there an end in sight. But these three continue to stand.
They believe that Jesus loves them and cares about what they are feeling. That everything will work out for their good, even though they don't have dates, times and a plan. They ask God for anything and are thankful for everything. They see answered prayer, and see God's hand in the people around them who care. The greatest discovery, that as members of the leper colony, lepers listen to them. No longer pillars of the community, they are now routinely used by God to encourage others.
They have chosen hope over facts. Peace over control. Purpose over vision.
The leper colony is the divine incubator. For an unimaginably, suprisingly vibrant future.
Welcome to the leper colony.
Unlike our brothers with physical leprosy, we can hide for a time among the general population. That is until the discussion moves past the weather or sports. Then things get uncomfortable. It is inevitable. "You lost your house? That's horrible" "How are you going to turn your business around?" "Why is it taking you so long to get this back on track?" "What's your plan for the future?" We will be revealed as failures. Worse still, as men without a plan to fix it. We are in unknown country: we don't know what we are doing. What we did before no longer works.
"I am somebody I never wanted to be", confided my friend. He had been a husband, father, homeowner and business owner. A man in control and with a plan. A modest benefactor.
He lost his business. Then he lost his house. After that, his wife left with his children. He feels like a pariah, a man disfigured with failure, whom people avoid. They're afraid that whatever caught him will catch them. We both confessed that in past years, we judged people who found themselves entangled in these very circumstances. We were wise, condescending and professionally distant with these lesser brothers. That would never happen to us. We were smart, driven, men of faith and integrity.
He now owns a patient and humble compassion for people who fail. A heart that is sensitive from being broken and still healing. Still not in control.
Another comrade in the colony, owns a luxury item business. His mortgages and monthly expenses are crushing. The sales for his enterprise have plummeted. Even after the economy recovers, he wonders how soon the demand for his product will return. He has cut and cut and cut. Many of his toys won't sell on a market flooded with boats, RVs and vehicles. All that's left to do is pull the plug. But even if he walks away, then what? What he has done successfully, prosperously for decades doesn't work. In his early 50s, what will pay his bills in this new country? How will he define himself in the second half of his life?
Like the rest of us, he wrestles with his pride. How did he not see this coming? He should have known. Why wasn't he better prepared? Maybe he never was in control. He confronts his own ideals of ownership and success. Was it really worth it to own all that stuff? Did he actually enjoy it or was the real joy in just owning it?
The final member of the trifecta owns a dwindling remodeling business. Sales crashed by 80% in a single year for the 20-year old business. He laid off half off his staff, men he personally trained and encouraged. Whose families he knew. Then more lay-offs. He is now down to a single employee. He scans his caller ID to avoid collector calls. He and his wife don't wrestle any longer with the location of their next anniversary trip; there are no long discussions about the charity they want to support. Rather, whether to pay the mortgage or to buy groceries. How to keep the IRS at bay for another month.
He learned to ask for help. "I used to be the one who wrote the check to get things done", he shared. "I have found out that I have awesome friends. They have fed me, given me a place to sleep and to shower".
"Where's the hope? Is this a bad joke?" you're screaming. "Have these guys done themselves a harm? Have the authorities taken away their knives and shoe laces?"
They chose hope. They are very much alive. But very much changed. And still very much in the colony. They are not through, nor is there an end in sight. But these three continue to stand.
They believe that Jesus loves them and cares about what they are feeling. That everything will work out for their good, even though they don't have dates, times and a plan. They ask God for anything and are thankful for everything. They see answered prayer, and see God's hand in the people around them who care. The greatest discovery, that as members of the leper colony, lepers listen to them. No longer pillars of the community, they are now routinely used by God to encourage others.
They have chosen hope over facts. Peace over control. Purpose over vision.
The leper colony is the divine incubator. For an unimaginably, suprisingly vibrant future.
Keep Your Man Card. I'll Just Be A Man
I am absolutely furious, enraged. If I owned anything, I would throw it through a window. I might just go to my friend's house and pitch his stuff out his window. He'll understand.
Swirling bits of boy talk have been annoying me, like gnats at my ears. Deep voices coming from twenty-something gym rats with half-shaven faces and mussed hair.
"I almost lost my man card!". "If I did that, dude, they'd take my man card".
"Don't tell anyone I like that music - they'd snatch my man card". Has the male gender gone union? If you don't have the card, you don't belong? Please tell me that an entire generation of pretty boys is not so lost as to need a card to validate them. To give them confidence.
I walked into conversation between several male co-workers, aged 20 to 35. The normal laughing and joking. Then the man card came up. That piqued my interest. So I asked "What's a man card?
"Shocked silence, then disappointment. I got what they were saying, but still couldn't understand how someone else could take it away.
"If you do something girly, they take your man card away!""Like what? Wear pink?"
"No...well yeah, probably for that." Nods all around for wearing pink. "What about liking art?"
"Definitely for that! And hugging anyone but your girl friend?!" Once again consensus was reached by the jury of manhood. "Chick flicks?" I asked. Now I was just having fun. The jury howled in disgust.
"Oh, yeah. Number one killer, there.
" Pointing at the skinny redheaded kid, "So, someone, like say you, could take my man card?" Slight confusion, but then the ranks closed again.
"Yeah, we like you and all, but it's our duty to keep you in line if you go chick on us". Universal head bobbing.
Now I was angry. They believed in the man card like a 6-year old putting his tooth under a pillow and waiting for the tooth fairy.
My tone elevated slightly.
"So if I'm hearing you right, being married for twenty-five years to the same woman, raising four magnificent children, starting several businesses, enduring Army Airborne and Ranger training, surviving combat in the desert, keeping my word even when it costs me - that all means I need your man card?" I didn't mean to be yelling at the end, but sometimes it just happens.
Silence. Defensive stuttering. Missed phone calls to answer. Gotta go.
They didn't get it. At all.
For you pretty boys out there, pull that stupid thing out of your ear. And stop texting. Pull up your saggy jeans and give me eye contact.
First of all, it's not your fault you think manhead can be kept in your wallet. Your father and grandfather just looked the other way and hoped you would stumble across what took them years to discover. Or worse yet, maybe they just never found it themselves. Or they never showed up to show you how it worked.
Second, your buddies are at least as clueless as you are. I know you're warm and fuzzy hanging with buddies who dress, look and sound like you. But they don't give a rat's butt about you. How do I know? Because they will throw you under the bus in a heartbeat if it means they look better or helps them avoid anything hard. And you know it. Your only consolation is that you would do the same to them.
Third, you choose manhood. It is not bestowed on you by a singer, professional athlete, your girl friend or some other tooth fairy. It is not a look, an income, a car or sex. Most shockingly, it is not being accepted by your friends. You choose. And you figure it out as you go. And you do it mostly alone, maybe blessed by a proven few who will go the distance with you.
To be straight, here's some signs of manhood:
Manhood rises to the top in bad times. Not because the guy has massive biceps and a chain gun. No, because he knows what to do and cares. He isn't hyperventilating into a paper bag while the world around him goes to hell in a Dixie cup. He walks more than he talks. He's solid.
Manhood sets the tone. No whining or gossiping. When things are bad, he doesn't say "It sucks to be you". He listens. If he can help, he does. If work is nasty, he's joking and talking smack, building you up. He positively changes the atmosphere in any room or group.
Manhood knows what's right, when it's right. And he acts on it. He has a Code that is old and unchanged. He is challenged by what is right, not by making people happy. He is comforted by being just and fair, not inconsistent and comfortable in the moment.
Manhood is confident. He is not a chameleon, changing skin to get out of telling the truth or getting approval. You know what to expect from him every day. He is not different at home vs work vs out with friends. He knows himself and is just fine. If you like him, great. If not, have a great day - somewhere else.
Manhood gives. He is strong enough to give of his time, money, talent and heart. He is not a fearful hoarder. He knows having broad shoulders is not just to make him look good in a t-shirt. It's to bear the load for someone younger, older, or lost. And he doesn't care if he gets the attaboy for doing it.
Finally, manhood is humble. He wants to learn from anyone. He will not limit his teachers to a narrow few who stroke his ego. He knows other men who are far more experienced, more solid than he. He listens with his mouth shut. Still more, he knows men who are weaker and younger, who are more honest about his shortcomings. He hears with gratitude, not posturing. He's o.k. with not being the smartest/strongest/richest guy in the room.
Some old guy told me this kind of stuff thirty years' ago. He really got on my nerves. Instead, I chose the school of hard knocks, on an arrogance scholarship. I had to repeat several classes. My bad. Maybe you're smarter than I am.
Ditch the man card. Just be a man.
You will stand out in a world full of boys.
Swirling bits of boy talk have been annoying me, like gnats at my ears. Deep voices coming from twenty-something gym rats with half-shaven faces and mussed hair.
"I almost lost my man card!". "If I did that, dude, they'd take my man card".
"Don't tell anyone I like that music - they'd snatch my man card". Has the male gender gone union? If you don't have the card, you don't belong? Please tell me that an entire generation of pretty boys is not so lost as to need a card to validate them. To give them confidence.
I walked into conversation between several male co-workers, aged 20 to 35. The normal laughing and joking. Then the man card came up. That piqued my interest. So I asked "What's a man card?
"Shocked silence, then disappointment. I got what they were saying, but still couldn't understand how someone else could take it away.
"If you do something girly, they take your man card away!""Like what? Wear pink?"
"No...well yeah, probably for that." Nods all around for wearing pink. "What about liking art?"
"Definitely for that! And hugging anyone but your girl friend?!" Once again consensus was reached by the jury of manhood. "Chick flicks?" I asked. Now I was just having fun. The jury howled in disgust.
"Oh, yeah. Number one killer, there.
" Pointing at the skinny redheaded kid, "So, someone, like say you, could take my man card?" Slight confusion, but then the ranks closed again.
"Yeah, we like you and all, but it's our duty to keep you in line if you go chick on us". Universal head bobbing.
Now I was angry. They believed in the man card like a 6-year old putting his tooth under a pillow and waiting for the tooth fairy.
My tone elevated slightly.
"So if I'm hearing you right, being married for twenty-five years to the same woman, raising four magnificent children, starting several businesses, enduring Army Airborne and Ranger training, surviving combat in the desert, keeping my word even when it costs me - that all means I need your man card?" I didn't mean to be yelling at the end, but sometimes it just happens.
Silence. Defensive stuttering. Missed phone calls to answer. Gotta go.
They didn't get it. At all.
For you pretty boys out there, pull that stupid thing out of your ear. And stop texting. Pull up your saggy jeans and give me eye contact.
First of all, it's not your fault you think manhead can be kept in your wallet. Your father and grandfather just looked the other way and hoped you would stumble across what took them years to discover. Or worse yet, maybe they just never found it themselves. Or they never showed up to show you how it worked.
Second, your buddies are at least as clueless as you are. I know you're warm and fuzzy hanging with buddies who dress, look and sound like you. But they don't give a rat's butt about you. How do I know? Because they will throw you under the bus in a heartbeat if it means they look better or helps them avoid anything hard. And you know it. Your only consolation is that you would do the same to them.
Third, you choose manhood. It is not bestowed on you by a singer, professional athlete, your girl friend or some other tooth fairy. It is not a look, an income, a car or sex. Most shockingly, it is not being accepted by your friends. You choose. And you figure it out as you go. And you do it mostly alone, maybe blessed by a proven few who will go the distance with you.
To be straight, here's some signs of manhood:
Manhood rises to the top in bad times. Not because the guy has massive biceps and a chain gun. No, because he knows what to do and cares. He isn't hyperventilating into a paper bag while the world around him goes to hell in a Dixie cup. He walks more than he talks. He's solid.
Manhood sets the tone. No whining or gossiping. When things are bad, he doesn't say "It sucks to be you". He listens. If he can help, he does. If work is nasty, he's joking and talking smack, building you up. He positively changes the atmosphere in any room or group.
Manhood knows what's right, when it's right. And he acts on it. He has a Code that is old and unchanged. He is challenged by what is right, not by making people happy. He is comforted by being just and fair, not inconsistent and comfortable in the moment.
Manhood is confident. He is not a chameleon, changing skin to get out of telling the truth or getting approval. You know what to expect from him every day. He is not different at home vs work vs out with friends. He knows himself and is just fine. If you like him, great. If not, have a great day - somewhere else.
Manhood gives. He is strong enough to give of his time, money, talent and heart. He is not a fearful hoarder. He knows having broad shoulders is not just to make him look good in a t-shirt. It's to bear the load for someone younger, older, or lost. And he doesn't care if he gets the attaboy for doing it.
Finally, manhood is humble. He wants to learn from anyone. He will not limit his teachers to a narrow few who stroke his ego. He knows other men who are far more experienced, more solid than he. He listens with his mouth shut. Still more, he knows men who are weaker and younger, who are more honest about his shortcomings. He hears with gratitude, not posturing. He's o.k. with not being the smartest/strongest/richest guy in the room.
Some old guy told me this kind of stuff thirty years' ago. He really got on my nerves. Instead, I chose the school of hard knocks, on an arrogance scholarship. I had to repeat several classes. My bad. Maybe you're smarter than I am.
Ditch the man card. Just be a man.
You will stand out in a world full of boys.
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