Father's Day Apologies

I'm not sure if it's a recent trend or not, but I've noticed that in churches on Father's Day, fathers commonly are in danger of being under attack. It's not on purpose, of course. Nor is it malicious. There are Father's Day well-wishes. Sometimes there is a celebration of manhood itself. But in an understandable rush to call God the ultimate Father, there is an admission and even an apology to all in the church body who have had less-than-stellar father figures. "Some of you have had absent fathers or abusive fathers or distant fathers," someone will say. And then they will point those to God as the faithful, love-without-end Father that He is. Rightfully so. But can you imagine the same thing being said on Mother's Day? On Mother's Day the lamenting and understanding tones are for those who wish to be mothers but either are not or can not for reasons out of their control. And they deserve those lamentations. But I don't hear the same for those who cannot be fathers. Instead, there are apologies for the bad ones.

There is a book that I teach to my juniors titled Until They Bring the Streetcars Back by Stanley Gordon West. In it the life of a teenage boy, Calvin Gant, is examined; and a major aspect of the plot is his tenuous relationship with his father. The father is distant but hard-working. He is generally serious with occasional flashes of frivolity. He served in the war, and that service changed him. He speaks sparingly of feelings and never of love. He demands much and provides much. He has a perfect record of attendance at work but a non-existent record at Cal's athletic events. It's been fascinating over the last 14 years in the classroom to hear student discussion on the merits and flaws of this father. Consensus has moved from generally positive and understanding to primarily critical in little more than a decade. Cal's father is a punching bag for them, a father who doesn't do enough, show up enough, express love enough. The flaws are memorable; the contributions, cast aside. For many of them, they say, the same goes for their own father.

This tells me that one of two situations is true: either we are too hard on fathers and quick to judge them if they are not the perfect balance of everything expected of men in the shifting expectations of the last 5 decades combined, or there truly are a lot of bad fathers out there.

I work hard to be a good father, but I admit that my great fear is that my children will remember me most in 30 years for my flaws rather than my contributions. That possibility haunts me if I allow it to. What flaws will stick out? My stubbornness? My fatigue-induced low tolerance? The frustration in my voice when they haven't obeyed as I saw fit? What have I missed that they won't forget or forgive? My daughters aren't even teenagers yet; I can't imagine the atrocities I'll commit during those years.

My father has the comfort of knowing that 30 years later, it is not the flaws that his son remembers. The flaws are mere foibles, and many are comical. One Father's day I remember we made my dad a shirt mocking his frequent and unmistakable use of the phrase, "You know?" in his conversational speech. It is "flaws" like this that make me remember and smile. I know who my father is, and I know he's not perfect. I'm not looking through some rose-colored glasses and waxing poetic about some non-existent past. Instead, I see who he was and is, and I know I see a good man and a good father who can rest easy knowing that.

I don't remember the absences so much as I remember the work ethic. I know he is stubborn, but only because he has stubbornly shown up every time I've needed him. He didn't let me choose the radio station, and he didn't let me choose when we were done working or what jobs were my responsibility. Because of those "flaws," I know and appreciate Paul Harvey and the satisfaction of a late night shower cleansing fatigue and manure from the day. He loitered when I preferred to hurry, and I learned the value of community.

Thank you, church, for your concern. But my father needs no apology for him. He is not God. But he helped me know God, and he helped me know callouses, and he helped me know the value of a face to face conversation. I hope I give my own children as much as my father gave to me so that they can look back at any flaws, hear the world's assessments of my shortcomings, and know that I did everything in love from the bottom of my heart, just like my dad taught me.

A Firm Foundation

This week my daughters had their end of the year AWANA award ceremony. AWANA is a church program on Wednesday nights for kids preschool through elementary ages at our church where they memorize verses and listen to speakers and play other games. Typically the AWANA director has a speaker for the awards night, but this year she decided that instead of one speaker to have a couple of speakers who had gone through the AWANA program when they were a kid and now had kids in AWANA. Having been an AWANA alum myself, I agreed when asked to offer a few words on the stage.

I talked about how being in AWANA as a kid, though I didn't realize it at the time, provided a firm foundation for who I am today. I learned verses and truths that I understood in part at the time so that I could understand much more in full now. I learned that a church building is a place for fun and friends and learning, not just a place to sit down and shut up and wait until I was allowed to leave. And I learned that a church is a place where I mattered to adults, and my faith mattered to them. Until I had to speak about it, I hadn't really considered those lessons. But I see those same foundations being built in my kids today because of the work of the AWANA volunteers every Wednesday night.

I went through the AWANA program, received my firm foundation, and was given the opportunity to speak about it and its impact now on my kids, because of my mother.

She took me there. It was not a program at our church, but she took me there anyway. She told me it was important and made it important in the home. I can still smell the crock pot full of chili when we got home Wednesday nights, cooking all day so that we could eat together and still have enough time to get there. She challenged me each week to work through the books and learn as many verses as possible. My mother decided 30 years ago that this was important enough for us to do, and she was right. It wasn't just another activity that would fill our time. Instead, it was a firm foundation.

A friend of mine who spoke before me at this year's AWANA ceremony thought it would be cool if he brought in some of his old AWANA awards to show while he spoke so the kids could see them. He was also a circa-1985 attendee (though in a different church than me), and I recognized his awards as the same I worked for and received as a kid. I remember the pride I had in having achieved some of the AWANA honors, often admiring all the work I'd done to get there.

I realize the truth now. It wasn't just my work. It wasn't just my activity. For me to accomplish anything, it required Mom. I know that now. I know that as sure as the Sunday and Monday and Tuesday nights in our home are spent learning verses together, sometimes through frustration and struggle, so too were far too many nights in my youth spent with Mom urging me to learn one more verse, or listening to me practice, or I'm certain tolerating my impatient frustration fits. She could have dropped me off at the door at 6:30 PM and picked me up at 8 and left it alone the rest of the week. But she couldn't. She was building a firm foundation. And she did.

I know now that to build that foundation, the Wednesday night routine at home is disrupted. Supper is sooner. Bags and Bibles and books and vests have to be rounded up and ready. Bedtime is later. The weekly routine is also disrupted. If it matters, if a kid is to learn and grow and put down brick by foundational brick that will be remembered, it has to matter to someone else as well. And that someone else for me was Mom.

This week my daughters got a note in the mail. It was from my mom. On the top of it was a handwritten verse from her, followed by a few words congratulating them on all their work and success this year. It seems she's still building that foundation, even if she lives two hours away. Building it through notes, the same notes she sent to me with a verse at the top when I was in college, two hours away.  Building it through verses inside of plastic eggs on Easter morning, next to those precious M&M's and assorted pieces of chocolate. Building it through phone calls asking to hear the books of the Bible recited by them after hearing of their success. Building it because it was important 30 years ago, and it's important now.

My foundation has many bricks that have led to who I am and how I work and on what I build my family's foundation. I am thankful for all the AWANA bricks and a mother who quietly mortared them together.

Happy Mother's Day.


****To read more about how cool my Mom is, see these previous Mother's Day posts:

• She Showed Up
• A Mother Multiplied
• Honesty and Enthusiasm
• Why I'm Glad Mom Didn't Like Rap Music
• Battling a Mother

My Month in a Bathroom

I've been unable to write for the past month, as I was busy in the bathroom.

On the road back to Iowa over Spring Break, Emily and I decided to do a quick bathroom remodel in our upstairs bathroom. We actually said and believed that - quick. We had no lofty goals; we were merely in it for functionality: a toilet that flushes consistently, tile that wasn't cracked, and a sink with room for soap. After making due for ten years with the secondary, second-class bathroom, we figured a fix-up would be low cost and low hassle. Tile, a toilet, and sink: how hard could it really be?

Not that hard, actually. But not that easy, either. Easy enough that it's finished now. Done. Mostly by me, a 36-year old without an official man-card and hands much more accustomed to keyboards and books than hammers and nails. It's amazing what one can learn from YouTube and a patient neighbor willing to teach. After a month of nights and weekends, this tiny 25 square foot space is like new. Or at least functioning.

I experienced a range of emotions during the project, which I'm sure many who have undertaken similar projects with similar levels of experience can attest to. The overconfidence of demolition came first. The momentum created by the ease and quick process of destruction is intoxicating and disorienting, leading one to actually believe they may be ahead of schedule. This is followed by a small dip of apprehension predicated on the knowledge that you have no knowledge and are paralyzed by the fear of beginning. But then, if you're fortunate, comes success. Sweet success. You do something for the first time. You create. You finish. You thump your chest, berating the project with derogatory epithets as if it, your opponent, had been defeated by your strength and moxie. You speak of your success, telling people about the project and the journey and how far you've come and how you, yes you, the one who nobody ever thought could, has indeed laid tile.

I was there. And it was sweet. Staring at the installed tile, the finishing touches having been completed in an adrenaline-packed flurry 30 minutes prior to dinner guests arriving, the swell of pride made me a believer. I could do this. I could be trusted with tools, and I would win. I had already won one battle. The war was at hand. Medals of valor, all around!

And this lasted for one day. One. Because after that one day, after the tile had settled and dried and cemented itself into permanence, I went to check on the project. I saw the flaws. All of them. They mocked me. They proclaimed their permanence. I knew I must stare at them and recognize their authority all my days in this house, and I sunk into a fog of dejection. I felt crushed under a mountain of despair. I ripped up my imagined man card.

My wife was there to pick up the pieces. My wife who understands me. My wife with the realistic home improvement expectations. In her wisdom, she laid it out there for me: "You know this isn't a sermon or a speech or a blog post, right? You can't spend hours pouring over every sentence, shaping it and revising it and re-revising it into submission. It doesn't work that way. Get over it." Ouch. She was right. A few weeks later, my imperfect, but pretty darn good for a renovation rookie bathroom is up and running.

This real-life story serves up many a metaphor. Pride cometh before the fall. Listen to your wife. Don't bite off more than you can chew. Or even Teddy Roosevelt's "the credit belongs to the man in the arena who strives, and errs, and falls short." Those all seem appropriate.

More so for me, though, was the realization of how much those tiny flaws in my home remodeling bothered me, how much I want to revise and refine and perfect them out of some sense of irreparable mark I was making on my home, and how few aspects of my real life with real consequence receive similar scrutiny. I almost never fixate on the inches, on the level, or on the cracks in my faith. Or in the way I use my time. Or in my relationships.

The bathroom flaws may never be recognized by guests, and that gives me comfort. But the same lack of recognition of the flaws in my spiritual house should not. If anything is worthy of intense scrutiny, it is that, visible to an audience or not.

So I go back to my real work now. I put down the power tools that I just learned to use and put away the mortar and grout and caulk. I collect my Menards leftovers and mistaken purchases and get my refund. I trade them in and scrutinize the flaws and mistakes I can work on and that do matter, and I roll up my sleeves.

A Purple Shirt and an Open Book

When I was in San Antonio last week on vacation with the family, I purposely wore a University of Northern Iowa shirt because I knew we would run into somebody, somewhere, who was a Panther at some time. It happens every time we leave the Midwest - invariably someone will see our proud purple gear and we'll get a "Go Panthers" and perhaps a conversation from a complete stranger. We are part of the same tribe: we've lived in the same community, had classes in the same buildings, hold many of the same values, and feel the strong tie of supporting a university who has few casual fans, but many loyal alumni. In the few hours we were on the Riverwalk and at The Alamo, it happened twice: both times with smiles, well-wishes, and the knowing and comfortable look of shared experience.

As Panthers, we like knowing we are not alone in the world. There is not one around every corner;  in fact, I know of no other Panther flag flying in our community on game day, whereas Iowa and Iowa State flags and apparel are as common here as snow in March. There is a shared pride and boost in loyalty in the midst of fellow grads, an uptick in casual conversation and camaraderie. So the opportunity to wear the purple and gold outside of the state, particularly somewhere as far removed as Texas, is an opportunity for reciprocal gain.

The same seems to be true for those who dare to dawn superhero attire. I make this assumption as one who is not a superhero aficionado. I've seen some Batman movies, if that counts for much. But that is not my tribe. I do, however, now own a Superman t-shirt. I obtained this to satisfy the whims of my youngest daughter, a burgeoning member of the Wonder Woman clan, and her desire for all attendees to her most recent birthday celebration to be appropriately adorned in accordance with her theme. The shirt is comfortable, though, so I dared to wear it last week. I am afraid to do so again. In my few hours in public supporting the iconic "S," I was greeted as one of the tribe. It was clear I was somehow taking a side, making a claim of my love and history and rooting interest in the new Batman vs. Superman film. It was a little scary. I felt like apologetically explaining, that I was wearing this attire for the soft cotton, not the external brand. I was a poser, a fake, but I produced the same spirited response as if I had been legit.

A few days after our trip in San Antonio, I woke up earlier than my wife and kids in our hotel room in Oklahoma and decided to head down to the lobby to read before everyone got up. I picked up my iPad and a Time magazine and tip-toed out of the room. Upon entering the lobby, there was a separated square of love seats and couches next to a fire place and away from the televisions and breakfast area, perfect for avoiding distractions. There was already a woman sitting and reading on one of the couches, and I noticed she was reading a Bible. I sat down adjacent to her and asked if it would bother her if I sat down next to her. "No," she replied. "I'm just getting in my daily reading." I asked her which book of the Bible she was reading from, and we had a nice conversation for several minutes following.

"You know," she said, "not many years ago I wouldn't have ever dreamed of picking this book up. Now I start every day with it. It's such a treasure." I agreed, and she went on her way. On cue, I put the Time to the side and opened up my Bible app to start my day with some Psalms. A treasure indeed.

That brief exchange changed my day. Like me wearing my UNI shirt days before, she was stating her tribe in a hotel lobby at 6 AM. She gave someone else from the tribe an opportunity to not feel alone, a chance to exchange knowing smiles and connected conversation, and the motivation and pride to revel in that citizenship as well. A woman I'll probably never see again, in a hotel lobby in nowhere Oklahoma, during a morning I was merely killing some time, unintentionally joined with me. She properly turned my attention away from basketball scores, Twitter, and Time, and instead into words of Life. Later I met her family in the line for waffles, and she offered smiles and small talk with my daughters. We were all the better for it.

Some days that's all it takes: an open Bible and a smile. Seeing that made me a better father, husband, and disciple that day all the way north on I-35.

When a Strip Club Comes to Your Town. . .

When a strip club comes to your town, you realize a few things. . .

One thing you come to realize is that you may be poised, like a diver, arms pointed, feet ready, for a dip into hypocrisy. Because when it comes, particularly when it comes two blocks away from your own residence, you bemoan its existence. Loudly. You cringe at the thought of what it will do to your property value, to the reputation of your community, and to the atmosphere of your small town Main Street. You wonder how you will explain to your young daughters the taunting, hulking banner with provocative dancing women obnoxiously and unavoidably displayed on your walk to the post office and diagonally from one of their favorite restaurants. You hope the City Council can find a way to banish the establishment to at least the outskirts of town, to where the drunken imbeciles won't puke on your sidewalks or drive into your parked cars. Not in my backyard, you say. We have got to get this "business" moved. There's got to be a way.

And then you realize there isn't a way. Not right now. Not legally. Not without a book of matches and an accelerant. You become more educated. You realize more fully the plight of the the dancers. You realize they are victims in so many ways. You find out about the possible prostitution, about past rumors of organized crime and drug deals and forced labor. You look around, and you realize that what many see as victimless entertainment leaves a string of victims: the long-time shop owner next door who can no longer be open in the evening, the apartment-dweller above with the young children, the "dancers," and every other young girl who walks past and is told that she is worth more with her clothes off than her clothes on. These victims become your message.

It is at this point that you realize you're in the deep end of the hypocrisy pool. At least you do if you're me. Because the goal is to move the business. But the message is of the collateral damage. And removing the business will merely make the victims someone I can't see, in a neighborhood in which I don't live, where I am not directly affected. And then I see that my problem isn't with evil, isn't with victims, it's with my discomfort and inconvenience. 

Dear world: I repent of this hypocrisy. At least I will try to. I repent because in the past strip clubs were just a punchline for me, in the same way my town is a punchline to others. I casually ignored all the ways sex is sold in culture. I will joke no more. 

I cannot prevent every strip club in the nation from business as usual. I cannot protest or speak out against each one individually. But I can take the matter more seriously. I can speak about it as more than harmless, victimless tomfoolery. I can work all the more fervently each day to teach my daughters where their worth comes from. I can take the lead of the citizens of another community, the community that endured the most recent strip club from this owner on their own Main Street, the citizens who cared enough about the damage and the evil and the ethics to come to our town and help long after theirs was safe. Ambivalent acceptance and a mere shrug of the shoulders is no longer an option.

We are only a few weeks into this experience in my backyard. So far I've been so busy pointing out what's wrong there that I've been unable to see what's wrong with me. Hypocrite. This is what I've learned thus far. I am certain there will be more. 

Reaching for True

Sometimes in writing you begin with the one true thing you want to say, and you spend all your time trying to find the best way to say it. This is called clarity. You have discovered something profound and worthwhile, and you see it so clearly that you can boil it down to a tightly worded sentence or phrase, and that is all you allow yourself to see as you're writing. You check everything within the writing with that sentence as it's guide. Does this help me say my one true thought? Will this illuminate it? Provide a universal example of it? Wax metaphorically, cleverly, shining ever-brighter and more colorful pulsing lights on the various aspects of that truth? Or does it distract? The true thing guides the writing, and you write because you've found this true thing, and you have no choice but to get it down, hoping to either share it or find someone else who's seen it and believes it, all to convince yourself that you either have something to offer in this world or that you are at the very least not alone in it. The truth thing compels you to write, and you have no other choice.

Sermon writing is like that for me. I do not want to get in the way of the singular true idea that must control the message. So I spend hours, days, even weeks, looking for that truth. But when I find it, it controls all 30 minutes of my speaking. I do not say it unless I believe it will get my audience closer to the idea. It is the standard-bearer. I instruct my students to boil down some of their essays into 20 words or less. Or entire novels. There is comfort in knowing exactly what you want to say.

Some conversations with friends are this way. Sometimes you discover a true thing, but it just isn't for a wide audience. It isn't for any audience, really, other than this friend who knows you and your previous thinking and will understand the true thing when you are able to talk about it. So you know ahead of time, when you sit down for a cup of coffee with them, or for dinner, or for a tasty beverage around the fire, or a bike ride, or a run, or a letter, exactly what you want to say. You have your truth, and you want to get it out. You want to try it out. It is no test of friendship to determine if they agree; no, you already know from previous experience with them that you are not alone in this world. It is because you've already agreed on so much that you must get this out to them. So you practice ways to bring it up before you see them. Or you realize it, and you count down the days until they're back in town, or back in the country, available for uninterrupted conversation after the kids have gone to bed. And your piece of truth guides you, guides all you have to say, and you know that more than likely it will still stand, and stand strong, daunting or comforting, the next morning.

It is comforting for a true idea to guide you. It can also be rare.

So many other times, a little like this one, you're just not sure what's true. You haven't found it yet. You just know what's real. And you've got to tease out the true and discover it. Or not discover it, as the case may be. But you notice, you observe, and you see a little glimmer. You've been watching for it, not knowing what it would look like or from where it would come, and you've seen it. You don't know what it means, but you know it is real, and you know that it matters. So you write.

You write. You explore. You examine. You don't know where you are headed, but you know it is better than standing still. The engine is running and the foot is on the gas, even if the compass is broken. And you come to the finish line, paragraphs or pages later, and perhaps you've found the destination. You found the land you didn't know existed even though you'd seen the postcards. You know what you didn't know, know why it matters, and know what is has to do with last week and next week. And you couldn't have gotten there without the writing. And you wouldn't have written without the watching.

I have been spending too much time waiting for the true sentence in order to get me started. The true sentence is my security blanket, my self-assurance that I have something to offer, that I have a little wisdom, that what I'm getting down is worth reading and worth writing. It allows me to do what I know how to do and go where I know I want to go. There is no danger in finding that which I don't want to find. And there is no danger in an audience finding that either.

I'm reading a lesser-known John Steinbeck novel called Sweet Thursday right now. I can feel the joy and freedom in the prose that Steinbeck must have felt writing to please himself in the advanced years of his career. At the beginning of every chapter is a pithy phrase that points to the truth of that chapter. They are witty and instructive. The are fun and true. If you've ever seen the sitcom Frasier (Emily and I are greedily devouring a season that just became free on our Amazon Prime Membership), it also uses this style to introduce it's scenes. These titles, these declarations of content, originally made me jealous. Then I realized: for many of them, Steinbeck had no idea what it would be until he got there.

I do not know exactly what journey I've been on in these 600 or so words. But my engine is running. These words reach for the true.

A Coach's Response to Post-Season Basketball

This weekend marked the end to a basketball season I wasn't sure I would ever have again.

The year ended with a tear-filled locker room, the sting of coming close but not quite close enough draped palpably like a wet blanket over all of us in our final moments together. But of course it did. Looking back, I remember now that this is how it ends every year. I've now coached basketball for 14 years, and each year has ended this way. For all but one team in each class of the state, this is how it must be.

Before the game I offered these words to the team: "No matter what happens tonight, you will remember this. You won't remember every game you've played, but this is a district game. Whatever happens, win or lose, you will remember this game and what you did in it." Looking back over those fourteen years, I say that out of experience. I do remember the district games. For each team.

I remember the ball screen at the top of the key giving us fits in the 4th quarter of one district game that would have likely propelled us into a state tournament. I remember the night a senior took a quick two with little time left when we needed three. Then there was the missed defensive assignment coupled with the missed shots in overtime from another senior in another year. There was the night that was the last ever post-season game for the school, the last one I'd coach in for this district that was merging with another, and I remember none of the school leaders who had been responsible for that decision bothering to be in attendance. And in all of them, sobbing seniors saying goodbye, both boys and girls, the reality of an end they could never truly feel come crashing down.

I've been furtively cursing the outcome under my breath at random times during the past day or two, spouting off stats, or pivotal officiating decisions, or the name of the opposing player who had been averaging 4 points a game and somehow scored 19. Relaxed one minute, engaged in a routine task; the next, I know (or perhaps my wife knows) a tone of exasperated incredulity takes hold.

It is a difficult pill investing that much time, energy, emotion, and not feeling the reward. Each entry into the post-season you fool yourself. It will end badly. Despite knowing that, you don't allow yourself to believe it through all the preparation. You painstakingly stare at stats and film, diagramming every scenario, refusing to get outworked. In the end, though, it will just not be enough.

Post-season basketball only works out well for one team. The rest are left to rot in a sea of regret and what-ifs. But lest I paint too grim a picture, lest I sound like a wounded victim questioning the sanity of it all, I move to this realization: much of life is that way as well. It will not always work out. In fact, often times it won't. If you dare to commit and risk big, you will be let down at some point. That's why it's a risk. That's why many simply don't.

And that's why in basketball, and whatever life pursuits in which you engage, if the end result is the ultimate, and the journey is only the immediate, you are on a futile path.

Of course the end result matters. We wouldn't be there, committed, working, if it didn't. But it can't be it. It can't even be most of it. It's got to be worth it knowing that it very well could end up unsuccessfully. I've gotten a lot of mileage in the classroom out of one of my favorite catch phrases: "Success feels good." I'm now thinking it needs a little modification: "The pursuit of success feels good." If it doesn't, if the chase isn't worth it regardless of the result, then it's probably the wrong success to be chasing.

The day after the game, after a couple of inches of snow covered my driveway, my friend, fellow coach, and occasional snow-blower fairy came over. There was nothing left to say we hadn't said. But we kept talking. It's hard to let go of it. It's hard to quit fighting, quit trying to find a way to eradicate the outcome. And it's hard because the journey was good. The pursuit calls. Eight months away from the next season, we're hungry for the work again.

It will end just as poorly. There will be disappointment. There will be tears. If I am lucky enough to be a part of it, another season, another journey, I will choke back my own emotion as I hug good-bye to tear-stained teenagers who I won't have the opportunity to journey with any more. The buzzer will sound, at some point, and somebody else will be high-fiving; I will watch but try not to, stewing in envy.

And I will remember it. Just like each one before it. But more importantly, I will remember those kids and those coaches and the days we spent together, pursuing a worthy goal, sharing a commitment, and smiling along the way. The end is ugly and hard, but only because the journey itself was colored with joy.