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Holes

The children wanted to dig a hole in the backyard this weekend.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because. It’s a big yard. It needs a hole.”

“Don’t you remember digging holes when you were a kid?” My wife asks.

I honestly don’t.

I remember tying the wagon to my bike and going on imaginary trips. My maternal grandmother would even mail her paper boarding pass to me so I could use them when I pretended to travel. I still have one tucked away in a book somewhere. It serves as a memento of a generation passed.

I remember being younger and having absolutely nothing to do. Of course, you dare not admit this boredom for fear of being overheard and the avalanche of chores that might follow.

I remember putting fireflies in jars.

I remembering eating tons of ice cream and not getting an upset stomach and I remember drinking a coke and still being able to fall asleep.

I remember riding my bike until it was dark and walking to McDonald’s with my brother.

But I don’t remember digging holes.

Still, at some point this weekend I paused from the home construction project I wanted to get done and looked out in the yard. There were the children, digging a hole. I found myself unconsciously humming a song I heard once upon a time. The song is “Eulogy” by The Hereafter and, though I have no idea of its origin, I love these lyrics:

Let’s pretend that we can still pretend/Let’s pretend that we are young again/I am only looking for a friend/Let’s pretend that we are young again.

As I hummed the tune, I wandered out to the yard. The kids were so proud. So dirty. So happy.

And I had to admit. It was an impressive hole.

This week remember what gave you joy when you were kid. Hitch your wagon to your bike. Smile more. Email less. Put down the phone. Catch a firefly.

Dig a hole.

 

 

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Rough Weekend

Maureen was away for seven days and usually the time the kids and I spend together in her absence is filled with waffles and ice cream or a double feature for movie night. None of that happened this weekend.

The week was filled with homework and soccer practice and was enjoyable and largely uneventful until Friday afternoon. We hit Home Depot for few things, including light bulbs. As we unpacked our items, child number three decided he could reach the counter from the door and threw the bag, including the light bulbs. The light bulbs didn’t make it.

Friday evening child number one got pizza out of the basement freezer and never shut the freezer door. Her error was discovered fifteen minutes before we were leaving for soccer game number one.

We lost the game. It was as if fate knew that’s how it should be.

Fast trip home between games to clean the house for two friends arriving this weekend for a visit only to find child number two and four sitting among their piles of messiness reading, not cleaning, just reading.

“Daddy never cries,” they told Mommy when she got home.

I don’t babysit my children. I parent them. Unlike some men, I am proud to say that I can manage when my wife has to travel.

Still, what a welcomed sight for all of us when she returned home Sunday afternoon.

One can be strong. Two, leaning on each other, are even stronger.

May your week be blessed.

 

 

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Calm Amidst The Storm

A friend told me that it takes a year to really move. A year to get settled. A year to feel at home.

As the son of a military officer, he moved around a lot as a child and young adult, so I remember thinking he must know what he is talking about. Still, I thought, it will not take us that long. Being together is what counts and it will feel like home quickly.

My friend was right.

Sure, the house feels like home some of the time. But there is a restlessness that is shared by the children and the parents as the projects continue. The basement is off limits as our first project of preparing the playroom and movie area is stalled. The walls are framed and the drywall is hung, but the rest of it is waiting for the whole house air conditioning to be installed, which had to wait until the bank gave the okay, which waited for the estimates and paperwork.

So we moved the Legos to the sunroom to give the children some space to play. Then the sunroom project of new walls, windows, and a sliding door forced the Legos to move to the dining room table. To save money, we let the company schedule us whenever they wanted so when they arrive and say, “It’s time,” we moved. The sunroom will not be finished until the insulation and drywall go in, but to save money, the insulation crew is waiting to come out until it’s time to do the attic, which cannot happen until the air conditioning is installed.

Champagne problems, to be sure.

Still, there is a restlessness as movie night is moved to the master bedroom and we crowd into the bed and argue over who sits where. There is restlessness as we squeeze into the kitchen to eat dinner, having surrendered the dining room to the Legos. There is dust everywhere.

Thankfully, the heat has abated and the windows are open, cooling the house. Boxes and toys are still unpacked as they are moved from room to room. Books litter the floors as I try to catch up on writing. Amazon keeps delivering boxes for projects that have to wait for the weekend or other pieces of the puzzle to be completed. We would use the garage for some larger things but the doors are broken and do not open. They, too, are on the list.

Then, in the midst of the craziness, we look out the window and see the deer that wander through our yard. They like to eat the Hostas, but since landscaping is on next year’s list, they can only wander through our yard to see what the neighbor’s have to offer.

But in the stillness we stand silent. We stare out the window knowing that any little noise will scare them off. In hushed tones we huddle at the window and talk about how pretty, how small, how tall, how majestic, how quiet, how everything they are…

We stand in our home together and watch.

The stillness is interrupted by the rapping on the door.

“Why is that person knocking so loudly?” I ask no one in particular.

“Oh, yeah,” comes the response. “The doorbell is broken.”

(Sigh)

“It will take a year,” I tell myself, “It will take a year.”

 

 

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A Prayer for the First Week of School

Master and Teacher,

Bless the students who will have trouble settling down this week, whose minds are still at the beach or at grandma’s swimming pool, or the amusement park or soccer camp.

Bless those who sit nervously in class: those who are new in school and those who never read anything over the summer and know a test is coming.

Bless those who will struggle, those who will succeed, and those who get lost in the crowd.

Bless the new friendships that will begin on day one and bless those cherished friendships that will be renewed.

Bless them all with compassion, that they may root for the underdog, celebrate those who accomplish much, and pray fervently for each other.

Bless them with an environment free from bullying, needless competition, and petty jealousy.

Help them, Lord, to fall in love with learning.

Bless the parents of these students, their first teachers in the ways of faith. Give them patience when the homework takes too long, give them courage to understand that their children are not perfect, and give them the courage to discipline with love. May they abdicate less and partner more.

We beg you, Lord, to bring these children safely home at the end of the day, the week, or the semester. Keep them free from violence – at home and at school – on the bus and on the streets – and guide them home to the waiting arms of those who loved them first.

Finally, Lord, we pray in the thanksgiving for the men and women who have already been hard at work straightening desks, taping names to cubbies, painting lockers, planning classes cleaning rooms, decorating bulletin boards, hanging posters, and studying test scores. Bless these servants with peace, patience, persistence, and your Spirit, that they may be Your presence to our young people, Your hands, and Your voice.

We make this prayer through Christ our Lord: teacher, servant, and source of all hope.

Amen.

 

 

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Blind Guides

I can relate to this morning’s Gospel reading. Jesus is chastising the Pharisees for their arrogance, their impudence, and their failure to hold themselves accountable to the same rules they force upon others. The Pharisees, in short, miss the point.

Sometimes, so do I.

I mistake the whining for immaturity when it is really rooted in hunger. I mistake the moodiness for irritation with siblings when it is really rooted in nervousness about a new school. I mistake the over-sensitivity for pettiness when it is a struggle to find balance between a child and being a big girl. I excuse the lack of confidence on the fact that she is the youngest, when really she just wants to find her place among the others.

I get irritated when the dishwasher is not filled the way it should be but do not take the time to teach them how to do it. I complain about the condition of the bedroom but do not take time to help straighten it. I expect maturity and empathy and responsibility but sometimes fail to lead by example.

Blind guides indeed. Blind parents. Blind father.

This week, I will teach instead of tell. I will model instead of demand. I will listen for the explanation instead of jumping to conclusions.

This week, I will be less pharisaic and more like the Master.

The real struggle is what happens next week, and the next, and the next…

 

 

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Amused at the Park

The children and I spent a day last week at the local amusement park. It is called Quassy and the kids named it Connecticut’s version to Lancaster’s Dutch Wonderland, which used to be part of our summer tradition. Though smaller and boasting less rides, the park is manageable and affordable, two things often missing from similar parks. Since the admission to the park was included in the day camp our local parks and recs hosts, I decided to save the kids from the bus ride and join them. Plus, child number two is a bit skittish on some of the rides so it helped to have Dad along.

We started at the swinging chairs. Every year since she was tall enough to ride them, child number one has sought to conquer the ride. This year, her brother joined her. In past years, the screams coming from my first born would have passers by thinking someone was dismembering her and then there was the one year the operator stopped the ride early. To be fair, the bar on the front of the chair had come down and split my lip and since she was sitting behind me screaming, the teenage  operator saw the blood on her shirt (flying off my lip), heard her screams, and wondered what he had done wrong. But I digress.

This year, she climbed aboard, buckled herself in and pulled her hat down over her face. No screams. She later commented that if she didn’t look, she wasn’t scared, and could just enjoy the ride. There is a lesson in there for life in general, I am sure.

Then it was off to the wooden roller coaster. “I’m not going,” child number two repeats the entire 20 minutes in line. “I’ll wait with you,” I think to myself. But as we near our turn, she summoned the courage and off we went. Two thoughts went through my mind as we hit the first hill: First, I am taller than most of the youngsters on this ride and I really hope the designers of this ride took that into consideration for that tunnel up there. Second, the bar, though tight on me, has left significant room for the child next to me to wiggle around and if she falls out, her mother will kill me.

Unless they are filled with actual tea, I don’t do teacups.

The pirate ship was my undoing. Back and forth motion makes me ill and it didn’t help that the eight year old next to me kept coming off the seat as the ride made its return trip down and then up again. Half way through, he say, “Okay, I’m good, we can stop now.” I explained that it doesn’t really work like that as I close my eyes and hold him tightly. The oldest child, who took her sisters to the merry-go-round while we were getting nauseas, is waiting for us at the exit and say, “I thought you hated that ride.”

“I do,” I said, “But I love your brother.”

“So do I,” she says pointing back to the ride, “But not that much.”

We hit the other rides in due time and the water park was a nice place to sit and watch the kids run hither and yon while I took a nap. “When did I get old?” I think as I sit in the shade and close my eyes, wondering why no adults work at this place.

The end of the day sees us parked at the bumper cars for four or five turns. The lines in the park have dwindled and Joe, the teenager running the ride lets the kids go again and again. I find the bumper cars to be both exhilarating and counter-intuitive. I was taught not to hit things when I drive, so I instinctively swerve around the cars and navigate the traffic in the pen around and around without hitting anything. “You’re doing it wrong,” Joe says over the intercom, mocking my abilities to steer clear of the others. Then, wham, the kids have ganged up on me and hit me from all sides. They shout with glee as Joe tells them to do it again. “Everyone hit the man in the blue car,” he announces, pleased with himself. I consider trying to jump the tracks to hit Joe with my car, but enjoy the moment of bliss on my youngest child’s face instead.

“Have fun teaching them how to drive,” Joe calls as we depart. I laugh, praying that day will stay far away, knowing deep down it will be here before I know it.

“Home again, home again, jiggity jig,” I announce like I always do when it’s time to head back to base. I am hoping they will sleep. I am hoping the sun has exhausted them.

If only wishing made it so.

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Five Years On

As I look back on the five years since we lost Dad, I am moved this morning by the reading from the second letter of Paul to the Corinthians.

Brothers and sisters:
We hold this treasure in earthen vessels,
that the surpassing power may be of God and not from us.

Dad taught us that we are not in control. Ours should be a life of quiet service to others, not one of power or prestige.

We are afflicted in every way, but not constrained;
perplexed, but not driven to despair;
persecuted, but not abandoned;
struck down, but not destroyed;

In the last few months of his life, Dad came to know what persecution really meant. Still, he was a man of prayer and confidence, never despairing, never losing hope. Though he knew the ending of the story, he filled its pages well, living intentionally, knowing that each day mattered.

…always carrying about in the body the dying of Jesus,
so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our body.

He knew he became what he received, so he received the Body and Blood of Christ often. He let Jesus live in him and through him and with him.

For we who live are constantly being given up to death
for the sake of Jesus,
so that the life of Jesus may be manifested in our mortal flesh.

The ups and downs of life are a shared effort between us and Christ, so long as we remember that we are rooted in Him. If we connect our sufferings to Christ, so too will we share in Jesus’ resurrection.

So death is at work in us, but life in you.

The relationship is changed, not ended.

Since, then, we have the same spirit of faith,
according to what is written, I believed, therefore I spoke,
we too believe and therefore speak,
knowing that the one who raised the Lord Jesus
will raise us also with Jesus
and place us with you in his presence.

Dad professed his faith proudly, knowing that care for his wife and family – bringing others to Christ through himself – was his ticket home to God.

Everything indeed is for you,
so that the grace bestowed in abundance on more and more people
may cause the thanksgiving to overflow for the glory of God.

Thank you, Dad, for who you were and what you continue to be in our lives. We miss you every day and give thanks again and again for all you taught us about life, love, and peace.

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Signs

In today’s Gospel reading from Matthew, we hear some of the scribes and Pharisees demand of Jesus, “Teacher, we wish to see a sign from you.”

Wouldn’t that be nice?

As violence begets more violence and the world seems to go indiscriminately mad around us, wouldn’t it be great to get a sign from God that everything was going to be okay and that if we really try, we can achieve peace?

And yet those signs are here. In the children who resolve differences without fists, in the parents who love their children without hitting them, in the neighbors who learn to get along, in the countries that settle disputes without declaring war. We ask for signs from God while we ignore the presence of God around us. Like the man waiting to be rescued from the flood, we miss the radio announcement, the boat, and the helicopter….you know the story.

Once upon a time, when Gandhi sought to enter a church, he was told he was not welcomed. “I’d be a Christian,” he was reported to have said, “If only the Christians acted like Christians.”

Perhaps this week we can find the signs of God around us. Perhaps this week we could look for opportunities to spread peace instead of violence, joy instead of fear, love instead of anger.

Because I am willing to bet, if you look around, God is here.

Waiting to be recognized.

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The Ditch

I’ve been thinking all weekend about Sunday’s Gospel reading. It is one of my favorite parables and I used to love when it would come up in class when I was teaching. But as I reflect on the events of the last year or so, the parable has taken on new meaning for me as I wonder how that scenario would play out in today’s world.

Someone would probably have video taped the attack on the man as he traveled down the dangerous road and then they would have posted it online. Every talk show would be checking in with experts to discuss why the priest and the Levite did not stop to help the man in the ditch and how much culpability they shared in the man’s plight. The Samaritan would be hailed as a hero and his story would be made into a movie.

But others would ask: “Why couldn’t the man just get up on his own?” “Why do the priest and Levite get a pass?” “Why does the Samaritan get honored for doing what he ought to do?”

They would ask those question because they have never been in a ditch.

The reality is the man couldn’t get up. I imagine it might have been because of the beating he experienced at the hands of the robbers. But most people know it isn’t always a physical reason that lands you in a ditch. Once in a great while you experience something so powerful and painful that you simply cannot help yourself. Call it depression. Call it addiction. Call it a crisis. Call it whatever you want. It’s an abyss, a darkness, and it can envelop you.

How we respond to those in the ditch says an awful lot about where we are in our own journey. It says a lot about who we are as children of God.

The truth is we are always on a journey. We are, by our nature, unfinished. By the grace of God, we are always longing for more. We must be patient. With ourselves. With each other. We must, in the words of Teilhard de Chardin, “trust in the slow work of God.”

But being unfinished is not an excuse to ignore the need around us. Longing for more does not give us permission to pass by on the other side of the road.

Who around you sits in darkness this week? Who around needs a hand? Who among you lies helpless in a ditch?

And what do you plan to do about it?

 

 

Artwork: “The Good Samaritan” by Paula Modersohn-Becker, 1907.
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Holding Hands

As we walked the neighbor’s dog the other day, something happened that changed my day entirely. I had worn flip-flops as we left the house, not expecting to walk a mile with the dog or the children. But as we drove towards Home Depot (where they know us by name at this point), the children remembered they needed to feed and water Digby, so we stopped at our neighbor’s house. No problem, I thought, I can sit in the car while they complete their chores. They had failed to mention a walk was part of the deal.

So off we went around the circle. About half-way through the first loop, the youngest sighed and announced that having a dog is hard (she’s not much of a walker) and it would be easier if I carried her. I told her that wasn’t going to happen. She was hot, I was hot, and she is not as small as she used to be.

Another deep sigh from the seven year old.

Then, as if resigned to continuing our journey, she simply slipped her hand in mine.

As a parent, there is something very sweet when a child slips his or her hand in yours. All at once it gives you a feeling of pride and a sense of responsibility. She knew she was safe with me. She knew she could keep up if she stayed in step with dad. She knew she would not get lost, left behind, or left out if she simply held on.

As we walked, I wondered what went through her mind in the moments before she took my hand. We teach our children to hold our hands when they are very little and we are crossing the street. We teach our children to hold our hands in the store when the crowds are overwhelming. Though they fight about it, squeeze one another’s hands too hard, and generally annoy one another we hold hands when we pray at Mass. Sometimes on movie nights, when the movie is scary and the characters on the screen face the unknown, we hold hands. Somehow, the act of touching someone makes the unknown more bearable.

Do you remember the first time you held the hand of someone you loved as an adult? That moment there was a connection, a spark, a nervous calm as you realized you were falling in love?

It still overwhelms me sometimes to think about how much responsibility comes with raising children. Inside, I am still a child wishing I could hold the hand of my father or mother.

I know that the day is coming when the hands of my children will grow too big to hold. The day will come when they will reach for someone else’s hand to make them feel safe.

For now, however, I will hold on. I will protect them. I will guide them safely across the busy streets. And I will cherish the moments when they slip their hands in mine and, despite all my faults, trust that I will walk them home.