Why It's Good for My Kids to Get Sick Once in a While

I take some guilty pleasure in when my daughter is sick.

It's a terrible thing to say, I know; and I didn't realize it until this week. But it's true: despite the germs and the vomit and the scrambled schedule to stay home with her, I do find joy looking into those helpless, miserable eyes on sick days.

This realization was a process beginning on Sunday morning. I woke up a little later than usual, so instead of my customary trip to the gas station to get the Sunday paper and subsequent perusal of its myriad stories, I chose to forego it in favor of the opportunity to sit in our rocking chair and read to the girls. A morning full of good books and good snuggles beckoned. There was only one problem: neither of my girls wanted to read with me.

I offered. I waited a few minutes and offered again. I sat in the chair and displayed several of their favorite titles, attempting to entice them. They were otherwise detained. "Don't take it personally," my wife encouraged. But how could I take it any other way? One of the few "Dad" skills I have to offer, that of literacy coordinator, was being rejected as unnecessary.

With a pout and some grumbling, I pulled out Time magazine and tried not to mourn their independence.

In the middle of church, my 4 year old said she felt sick and went to the bathroom to throw up. She didn't throw up. At the end of the service, she went back to the bathroom. She didn't throw up. We got into the car, and then she threw up. I'm pretty sure she aimed for all the cracks in the upholstery to maximize the damage.

We got home, and the clean up began. Suddenly miserable and feeble, she needed her clothes changed and washed, she needed to be tucked in on the couch, and she needed a stuffed animal to clutch. I needed to eat lunch; instead I lost my appetite mopping up the car. That was pretty much the day.

How could I possibly find joy in that? Easy - suddenly Miss Independent could think of nothing she wanted more than to bury her head into my shoulder, listen to me tell her it was going to be okay, and let me read books to her.

I don't root for my children to experience pain and sickness. I feel bad for them when they do. But I don't feel sorry at all that it is an opportunity to remind them that I can be counted on, that I will protect and care for them, and that there are days when they just can't go it alone. It's not that they don't know all of those are true; it's just nice for them to feel that truth on rare occasions as well.

I get the feeling that God knows something of this as well. Wanting the best for us, I'm certain He realizes that there are times we don't want Him to read to us and we would much rather play whatever we feel like. There are times in which, despite the fact that we know better, we behave as if we think we can accomplish anything on our own, arrogantly celebrating our self-reliance.

I've been spiritually ill at times lately. I've metaphorically vomited all over a lot of cars, all as a result of the dual problem of catching the contagious comfort flu and shoveling sugary dessert after sugary dessert into my soul without any calories of substance. I've attempted to "battle through" the illness on my own, waiting passively to get better. But when I get sicker and sicker, fatigued and helpless, it is then I crawl on my Father's lap and ask Him to tell me it's going to be okay. And He does.

I know God doesn't want to have to baby me for long, just as I want my children to continue to grow to be independent in many aspects of their lives. I'm certain some of the messes I've made in illness have been rather foul to clean up. But I also feel He must smile knowing that it is in this state of disrepair that I often best understand our relationship.

My daughter is well again, running high octane through the house, conquering her pre-K kingdom, boldly proclaiming herself to be the queen of the universe. But she isn't too healthy to linger a few extra moments in a hug, or in a snuggle, or in my lap with a book. And that's the perfect kind of healthy for me.

Jonah, Love Actually, and Me

Twenty-eight minutes. No good.

Saturday night before I delivered the Sunday morning sermon at our church last week I was in my office giving it a final run through or two. The assignment was 25 minutes. A week ago it had been around 22. A few edits later, followed by flu days with no work, and there I was, polishing. And over time. Hoping I had just been slow, I went through again. I looked at the clock. Twenty-eight minutes. Time to cut.

I searched the sermon for what could go, what I could safely cut loose and not feel like had cost much to my message. There wasn't anything. I was emotionally tied to every piece in every section, and I felt the impact of losing every sentence whose worth I weighed.

But 28 isn't 25. Three minutes had to go. There just wasn't room for everything I wanted, and I could just imagine the yawns and clock-watching from a perturbed audience unhappy with the new guy's windy ways. So I cut. I didn't shave around the edges; I took out a knife and sliced a couple of whole pieces, pieces that I felt academically married to, some sentences and paragraphs that were there in my head and on the page long before there was any semblance of a sermon.

I liked the pieces. I liked them a lot. But I didn't need them. In the way of what mattered most, they had to go.

My wife and I watched the film Love Actually the other night. We've seen it many times before, but we never viewed the deleted scenes until that night. The director spoke in advance of the scenes, and he indicated that when they finished the movie, they realized that it was 3 1/2 hours long. They knew they had to cut to make it marketable. The final run time of the film is just over two hours, so it's clear they also cut deep. The director paraded out scene after scene, talking about how they initially absolutely loved it and couldn't imagine the film without it, but ultimately it had to go.

After watching several of the scenes, my wife and I expressed mutual feelings: we were thankful for the cuts. Frankly, we saw no loss at all. Knowing how much we enjoy the final product, we saw the value in seeing it pruned into only what was necessary and fruitful.

The cuts were hard for the director, just as they were hard for me with the sermon, just as they are hard for any writer in the revision process who must let go of prose that are perfect, just not for this occasion. You've got to cut to get to the essence of what really matters.

I see that reality in every season of my life. As hard as I want to try, I can't fit 28 minutes into 25. If I do, what I have is worse at each of the 28 minutes than if I just got rid of something. The something is usually good. I don't think cutting the garbage out of our lives is the hard part, Most people, when faced with the knowledge that something they are doing is a significant time-sucker with no real payoff are quick and even joyful to drop it. No, what's hard is when everything you have is good, or seems good. But you know it's not essential.

Everything you choose to do is a trade. You are trading that time and that activity for doing something else. Too often, it is choosing not to do better what's essential and fulfilling.

Let me encourage you to cut. It probably won't feel good, because there's not a lot in your day-to-day schedule, or in your holiday plans, or in your work day, or in your time with your family, that you don't think is helpful. But it's likely you're trading good for what's best.

Name what's best. Name what's essential. Then get out the knife.


***My writing has been primarily absent over the past month or so as I've spent much of my energies preparing for my Sunday morning sermon debut, a message on Jonah 3. My next several posts, therefore, will be either commentary about the experience, key passages from the message, or pieces I couldn't fit in but enjoyed writing anyway. 

Eighty Percent

Eighty percent of success is showing up, according to Woody Allen.

I've come to believe that it's 80% of friendship as well.

One of my favorite movies is Tombstone, primarily because of the theme of loyalty shown in the friendship between Doc Holliday and Wyatt Earp. Whenever an important event for Wyatt is going down, Doc shows up. He's there for drinks, laughs, and shootouts. In Wyatt's darkest times and grandest accomplishments, Doc is there. During a particularly difficult and dangerous time, another character asks Doc why he's there.



Last Sunday morning when I stood up in front of our church and delivered a sermon for the first time, I had some friends show up. I invited them without an expectation that they would or should be there. Sure, I wanted them there, but only to share with them what I'd been working on for the past few weeks. I didn't necessarily think that their presence would make a huge difference to me. I was wrong. Their faces in the crowd at a time of risk and adrenaline and joy and priority for me was a distinct act of friendship. I'm not sure there are many greater acts.

For several of these friends, showing up was anything but convenient. For some, church is one of the last places they'd expect to find themselves on a Sunday morning. For others, it required a detour of sorts in travel plans. But they showed up anyway. With no real expectation of personal gain, they were there.

Friendship is no more complicated than that.

I remember when I used to coach and our team would play at a gym in the suburbs of Des Moines. Almost every time we came to that gym, I had friends from the area in the gym. They could have cared less about the teams and players on the court. It was a never a good basketball game. They had better things to do on a Tuesday or Friday night. And it wasn't like we could hang out and spend a lot of time together; I had a game to coach, after all. They were there for no other reason than that eighty percent of friendship is showing up.

You can't show up to everything. And I don't believe anyone expects that of you. But when you can, and when you do, you will be making a statement. And it will be a statement long felt between friends.


***My writing has been primarily absent over the past month or so as I've spent much of my energies preparing for my Sunday morning sermon debut, a message on Jonah 3. My next several posts, therefore, will be either commentary about the experience, key passages from the message, or pieces I couldn't fit in but enjoyed writing anyway.