Photo by alicepopkorn (click for info)

I skipped church today. I skipped church last week too. Put aside for a minute (or two) why I would go on Saturday, and let’s just talk about this for a bit.

I didn’t grow up going to church.  Oh, there were a few occasions, like when my grandparents took us – or my parents wanted to appease their parents, but for the most part, church was a foreign concept to my family.

Several years ago, after multiple attempts to straighten out my life, I found God.  Not in the usual manner, mind you, but in a more spiritual, less religious sort of way.  I had stuck my toe into the water of various world-views: Buddhism, Scientology, Disco, Bowling Leagues, et cetera – but they all left me feeling empty.

After a Summer of independent Bible reading, I developed this personal relationship with God.  It was really great!  Without the rules, traditions, and politics of Western denominations and the associated churchianity, I began to find some purpose and meaning in my life.  Through the creation story (actual, or metaphorical), I discovered the beauty of a weekly sabbatical.  It was awesome!  One day out of seven to recharge, relax, release, and renew.  Perfect.

Yet, despite the great days of solitude, worship, meditation, and relaxation – often spent in the forest, or on some mountaintop – there was something missing.  Community!

We are social creatures.  We live in social communities.  We thrive in communion and common-unity with others.  But where does a Bible-reading, God-following, independent-thinker find community?

Traditional churches often lack the naked purity of an unadulterated belief structure.  Years of institutionalized religion has corrupted most churches.  I mean, there are so many unscriptural doctrines that have become a part of the cultural norm – most people wouldn’t even recognize their churches if those doctrines were stripped away.  Then, of course, there are the traditions, worship modalities, and social customs – that have absolutely nothing to do with a journey of faith – but have become so ingrained, that it is impossible to remove them.

Image by Andy Ford (click for info)

Though I resisted, eventually I found myself sitting in a traditional worship service on a non-traditional day. It was OK, and sometimes very inspiring.  For the most part it was inspiring.  And then I got involved.  Not in a casual, behind the scene sort of way, but as a leader.

I was asked to be a youth leader, and that was a lot of fun.  Then I became a part of the leadership team at a really fun young adult ministry in Southern California.  I spoke, I led, I cast vision – it really was great!  But through that experience, I was inspired to attend the seminary and enter full-time pastoral ministry.  Now, this was scary!!

Immediately after the seminary, The Wife and I ended up in a small, conservative church in Rock Springs, Wyoming. [cue the Twilight Zone theme music].  It was a good experience – just like open heart surgery can be a good experience – painful, but necessary. In fact, it nearly killed me.  But that’s OK, it nearly killed those poor people too.  What a year – 15 months actually, but who’s counting?

From here we were invited a to start a church from scratch. We had two offers.  One in Minnesota, and one in Colorado.  If you’ve ever been to Minnesota, you’ll know why we chose Colorado!

Those five years in Colorado Springs were awesome! Very hard, a lot of work – but incredible nonetheless!  From the very beginning, we set the stage to be a community of faith – without the preconceived notions of what a “church” should look like.  Unlike any church you’ve ever seen, and unlike any unchurch you’ve ever seen.  We were a community for people who had given up on church, but were still looking for God!  And it was fun!

At the end of five years, we were about 250 strong. Not in the traditional sense, mind you – and therefore without any “official” recognition.  Only about 90-100 gathered together at any one point, and the majority of people were not typical “Christians.”  We had recovering, and not-so-recovering meth-addicts, alcoholics, and others.  We had recovering Christians, people from the GLBTQ community, regular people, esoteric people, introverts, extroverts, kids, seniors, tall, and short people.  It was really great!  Really fun.

When we first started, I had this notion that people who don’t attend church, but are still seeking God (people like me), would beat a path to our community.  I also thought – given the rhetoric of The Church – that the denomination would throw resources our way.  Unfortunately, neither of these premises turned out to be a reality.  So, at the end of our five years of funding, we had to move on.

We landed in Oregon.  Home! Well, for me anyway.  I left Oregon in 1995 and was thrilled at the opportunity to return in 2007.  Five generations of family can’t be wrong.  We took a position pastoring a more typical church.  We were told it was progressive, it isn’t.  They thought I was safe, I’m not.  It didn’t work out – and unfortunately it was really painful figuring that out.

So, here I sit, on a Saturday morning, while my family is at church.  I’m glad my kids are there – and I wish I’d had that experience as a kid.  But it isn’t church they are at – they are just in a church building, attending another event.  I don’t crave events – I crave community.

That’s why I’m not there this morning.  It is hard for me (if not impossible), to have community with people who don’t think, act, or envision life the way I do.  If I’m not embraced in my uniqueness, why would I want to be a part of them?  If I am rebuffed for seeking a higher spirituality, a more compassionate social attitude, or a less formal liturgy, then why would I want to be on that team?

If I don’t feel safe; if it isn’t safe; if they don’t seek safety as a value – then why would I place myself in that space?

It isn’t better behavior I seek.  It isn’t eternal salvation that motivates me.  I don’t fear eternal damnation.  I certainly don’t seek exclusivity.  So, what is there that would make me want to be a part of your club?

Photo by @gwalter (click for info)

Club?!  Exactly – club.  There is a creed, a dress standard, and certain rituals that do little to bring me into relationship with my Creator.  If I don’t adapt to their “standards” then I am quickly ostracized – or physically removed.  This sort of exclusivity is against almost every value system I subscribe to.

I value diversity, inclusivity, and transparency.  I value integrity – not just honesty, but pure integrity – where our belief systems and our practices are in increasing, ever-growing, alignment.  I don’t want to be a part of a community that is so afraid of the unknown, that they never (or rarely) step our of their comfort-zone.  I don’t want to be a part of a community that denigrates compassionate, moral obligations, and efforts to provide healthcare to everyone.  I don’t want to be a part of a community that is unsympathetic to the plight of the poor born outside of our borders.

I need to be the part of a community that values authenticity, spiritual growth (at all costs), and personal, daily salvation – the kind that gets people through this day – just “one day at a time.”  I need to be some place that is real and experiential.

I’m looking for a community for people who have given up on church, but are still seeking God. Because that’s who I am.  I haven’t’ found that – and that’s why I skipped church today.

Why do you skip church?  Or not.  Maybe a better question is, why doesn’t church interest you?

___________________

Related Posts:

• I Was Naked When I Showed Up…
• Safety for Stages of Faith?
• The Flabby Body of Christ

I’ve often thought that someday I would develop water systems in developing parts of the world.  My Dad was a waterline contractor and later managed the Raleigh Hills Water District.  I know water, I know dirt, I know the need.

My interest in this began during a short-term mission trip in southern Mexico.  The people of this village only had running water for about an hour a day.  They left their faucets open and when the water was turned on, it filled cisterns located on the roof of their houses shanties.  For the next 24 hours, they rationed this water and hoped it would flow again the next day.  And of course, this water was not clean – the way you and I think of clean water.

Recently I’ve been able to place some ads on my site, which has enabled me to self-host the blog, which gives me the opportunity to be more flexible with what, and how, I manage the content.  Most notably, I’m able to place banner ads for significant charities, next to the paid ads.  This is how our society works, the creation of wealth, allows us to support those whose needs are greater than our own.

As the holiday season approaches, consider giving a gift to a worthy charity, in another person’s name.  Despite being unemployed, I don’t need more stuff!  I’m sure that’s true of most people for whom you usually buy gifts.  Spend, splurge even, but at least dedicate some of your holiday budget to those who have a need greater than your loved ones.

It’s not just the right thing to do – it’s what we do.

_____________________________________

Other Worthy Charities:

• ADRA
• Habitat for Humanity
• Charity Navigator

It’s been just a year since we participated in a family hay ride, at my aunt and uncle’s house, in Brush Prairie.  When we stopped at the barn, we discovered a mommy cat with seven kittens.  Of course my kids (and The Wife) thought they were adorable.  After waiting for their shots and sterilization surgeries, a month later we brought home two sibling kittens.  They were a perfect fit for our home.

A month or so ago, both kittens experienced medical and traumatic incidents.  Rocky apparently tangled with something bigger than him and his foot became inflamed.  We suspect he learned the importance of staying away from raccoons!  With some nursing by The Wife, he was restored to health.  Rozy, however, began to lose weight and we couldn’t determine the cause.  She was plagued by vomiting and diarrhea.  Because of our current financial situation, we couldn’t afford to seek expert medical attention for her.  The Wife used her best RN skills to nurse her back to health – and we had begun to see a turn around.

Tuesday evening we returned from a couple of days in Eugene.  We stayed with good friends there while I took an American Heart Association PALS course.  We left the cats in the garage with adequate food, water, and the all important kitty litter.  Upon entering the garage we were greeted by Rocky, but Rozy was nowhere to be found.  Jennifer grew gravely concerned.

We sent the kids into the house and I got a flashlight and began to search high and low. Interestingly, it’s not always easy to tell if something is alive from across the room, but dead bodies are unmistakable.  As soon as I saw her, I knew we had lost her.  She was curled up in a corner, motionless.  I had to move a mattress and some boards to get to her.  She was cold and stiff, but it was obvious she had gone painlessly.  Jennifer began to cry.

As I stood with my arms around my tender wife, I whispered silent prayers for wisdom.  How will I break this to my precious little girl?

Jennifer went into the house to make some dinner for the kids and I began to extricate Rozy from her place of rest.  I left her lying on the garage floor, covered with one of my old t-shirts.  When I went into the house, both kids were eating, and The Wife was quietly crying in the living room.  I was not yet ready to break the news to my Darling Daughter, but she is too bright for her own good sometimes.

“Daddy, did you find Rozy?” She asked.

I mumbled something just short of a lie, as she stared into my eyes.

“Did she die?”

I nodded softly, and quietly said: “Yes.”

My eyes were locked onto hers as I watched the realization creep into her soul.

How would she react?  Does she understand?  What is she thinking?  How badly will she be hurt?  Will she be hurt?  Am I going to have to have a long conversation about death? What will she... And with that a look of sheer pain broke over her face and she reached out to me.  I scooped her up out of her booster chair and held her close.  She melted in my arms as the sobs and cries pulsed through her tender heart.  The pain was real.  She understood.

She has been with me as I’ve officiated at funerals, but it was just under a year ago when we drove to Valentine, Nebraska to do Jennifer’s uncle’s funeral.  And it was just about a month ago that my Darling Daughter was sharing with me her memories of that event.  She talked about what it was like to see Uncle Aub in the casket; and she wondered why everyone was so sad.  Of course, she has also seen dead animals along the roadside, the birds and shrews that our cats have killed, and just a few weeks ago we found a mole that the cats had left for dead.  My daughter has seen death, but on this Tuesday night, she was tasting it.

It’s at this point that I have to admit that I’m not much of a cat person.  I had a cat when I was a kid, and I loved him dearly, but my experiences with cats since have not been ones you’d call endearing.  I hate to admit this, especially in the midst of my family’s grieving, but the loss of Rozy wasn’t affecting me that much.  But, when my wife started crying, my heart was pricked.  When my Darling Daughter started sobbing, I lost it too.  The three of us sat on the couch, in a big heap of arms, legs, tears, sobs, prayers, and runny noses.  I hated to see the pain of death in my precious, sweet, innocent, and Darling Daughter.  I cursed the disobedience and rebelliousness that brings death into our lives, and I cried out for salvation from the pain.

After crying for a bit, Darling Daughter asked if she could see her Rozy kitty. Of course.  When I lay her in the garage and covered her, I had already tried to prepare for a “viewing.”  The Wife was hesitant, but all my education on death and dying, plus way too much personal experience, has taught me that this is an important part of the grieving process.  Jennifer hadn’t wanted to see the body earlier.  She said Rozy was such a pretty kitty, she didn’t want the images of death to cloud out the good memories.  All four of us ended up standing on the in front of the car, looking at Rozy on the other side of the garage, wrapped carefully in my old t-shirt, with just enough of her exposed.  That’s as close as Darling Daughter asked to go.

She wanted to know why I covered her with the t-shirt? Because the garage floor is cold. Why is her face covered?  Out of respect. I also explained how she wasn’t breathing, wasn’t moving, and what death means.

“See how her tail isn’t moving?” I asked.  ”Kitties’ tails always move, even when they’re asleep.  Not even her tail is moving.“

After a few minutes of quiet reflection (absorption?), we went back into the house and began to discuss plans for the funeral. Of course there were more tears and more questions, but I was amazed at how aware and understanding she was.  Smiling Son was mostly oblivious to everything.  He showed concern over the tears, but mostly smiled curiously.  While she was getting into her nightgown, I asked my Darling Daughter if she wanted to draw (one of her favorite activities)?  This bit of informal art therapy allowed her to express much about her relationship with Rozy and her feelings.  It also opened up opportunities for her to talk about some things she was trying to wrap her heart and mind around.  Via her drawings, we decided to bury Rozy under one of our newly planted apple trees.  She spent a good hour drawing.

The Wife told me later that she and our Darling Daughter stayed up late laughing, crying, giggling, and processing.  (It was one of their most intimate times I was told.)  Later, when they came to bed, we all slept in a cozy heap of comfort in our family bed.

Wednesday morning we began preparing for the funeral.

Darling Daughter called a friend and very matter-of-factly, told another four-year old how her Cat, Rozy, had died and she wanted him to come to the funeral.  Unfortunately, he was unable to come.  After a bit, we decided to limit the funeral to just our immediate family.  I placed Rozy in a box and we dug a hole under one of the apple trees.  Darling Daughter asked if she could put the box in the hole?  Sure, I said; but thinking it would be difficult, I asked her why she wouldn’t let me do it.

“Because she’s my kitty.” I was told.

After placing her in the ground, I held my Darling Daughter close and gave a brief eulogy.  We talked about our memories of Rozy.  We laughed, we reflected, we smiled, and we cried.  As I shoveled dirt onto the box, we sang a couple of songs.  I pushed a stick in the ground, as a temporary marker, and then we prayed.  This is the text we read during the service, and this is the hope we cling to:

“And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have dieds so you will not grieve like people who have no hope.For since we believe that Jesus died and was raised to life again, we also believe that when Jesus returns, God will bring back with him the believers who have died. We tell you this directly from the Lord: We who are still living when the Lord returns will not meet him ahead of those who have died. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven with a commanding shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet call of God. First, the Christians who have died will rise from their graves.Then, together with them, we who are still alive and remain on the earth will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air. Then we will be with the Lord forever.So encourage each other with these words” ~1 Thessalonians 4:13-18

In my life, I’ve seen too much death.  I have images ingrained into my brain of tragic deaths.  It wasn’t until my Mom died, almost four years ago, that I really understood the pain of death.  It wasn’t until last Tuesday night that I really felt the pain when someone else loses a loved one. Clearly, this was the most important funeral I’ve ever performed.

I know my Darling Daughter will grow up, move on, and this kitty will become a distant memory.  She’ll never forget her name though.  And she’ll never forget her first real loss.  Neither will I.  Damn. Death stings!

______________________________________________________

Related Posts:

• • Helping Children Deal with Death
  • Talking To Children About Death

Since losing our health insurance two months ago, I have been particularly stressed over the well-being of my family.  Although we rushed to make sure we were all tuned up and ready to go, it is still quite scary to be living in an age of high healthcare costs, but no way to pay the bills.  Listening to people denigrate the proposed healthcare reforms has made me particularly angry too.

“This is good news.” Our DHS caseworker said. “Well, bad for you, but good too.”  Apparently we were so broke that we qualify for the full Oregon Health Plan Plus program – 100% expenses paid.  That is good news – except for the part where we are that broke!

What a roller coaster this last couple of months have been.  To be terminated in the middle of the worst recession since 1929 is not a recommended path.  Our faith has sustained us, but I have to admit the vacillation between discouragement, dis-empowerment, anxiety, and disillusionment has been a wild ride.

“Also, because of your lack of income, you qualify for the full food stamp allotment of $600 a month.” Our very kind caseworker informed us.  Our kids were being entertained in the next cubicle by another kind caseworker.  I don’t know what you’ve ever heard about DHS employees – but I’m here to tell you they treated us very well – and were very kind.

I’ve applied for several jobs – some I thought would be fun, others would be challenging, and still others I could do while standing on my head. All have turned me down.  I sought to reinvent, redefine, and re-envision my purpose – I saw myself in roles I would never have imagined.  And still nothing.

“It will take up to 90 days for your mortgage hardship case to be reviewed,” the nice lady told me over the phone.  But I don’t have enough money to last that long I explained.  ”You can miss up to three payments before foreclosure proceedings start.” Whew! Another reprieve.

When we arrived in Portland we had three months wages in savings – as is recommended.  But it’s amazing how fast a family of four can burn through cash.  Because of a miscalculation in our escrow account, they raised our house payment $500 a month last year.  Then, because of the downturn in the economy, we were not given cost of living raises.  Poof!  In less time then you can say fiscal responsibility, our bank accounts were drained.  It was at that point when the termination came through.

“Nationalized healthcare is socialism!  We are not a communist country!  Healthcare is not a right!  The state should not be responsible for taking care of people – the Church should be taking care of people!” And so the epitaphs would fly.  It’s one thing to argue against government supported healthcare, when you are covered by insurance.  But interestingly enough, the only people I heard argue against the currently debated plan, are those who have jobs and health insurance.

One thing that has become very clear to me in the last few months is how much paperwork is involved in being poor. Every agency, every time I turn around, has a form for me to fill out.  some are online, some are in arcane paper forms, and some are just over the phone.  There are phone cues, websites, and regulations to navigate.  It is a full time job.  I don’t know how people get through this – especially those with less education, fewer resources, or those for whom English is not their first language. I don’t know how some people manage.

I’ve found it interesting that those who say the Church should be taking care of people, actually have nothing to back up those words.  The state just came through with the equivalent of $1200 a month in assistance, but the Church has offered nothing – and we haven’t asked, because we know the Church doesn’t have those kind of resources.

Of course, the fear of losing our house loomed large.  But, in the bigger picture, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.  My real fear was to move into a one, or two-bedroom suburban ghetto apartment complex and the influence of the others on my family.  It’s not like we can lock our kids in the apartment all day – but then again, there are scary things happening in apartment complexes.

But this week has been a week of victories.  We now have full health insurance coverage!  We have a larger food stamp allotment than we generally spend on food!  And, it looks like we may be able to squeeze out a few more months in our house – without a foreclosure!  I believe we’ll make it.

Earlier this week, I met up with an old friend who was coming through Rainier.  He’s a former paramedic and firefighter.  He asked me why I didn’t recertify as a paramedic.  To be honest, he’s not the first person to ask me this – but he is the first who actually knows the score.  Later that day I made some phone calls and sent out some emails – and this actually looks very doable.

So, stay tuned.  We’ll see what’s next on the agenda.  But, I just wanted to take a few moments to praise God for sustaining us through these difficult times – and for the light at the end of the tunnel.  The Walter family has hope today!

My Dad is an incredible man – you’ve heard me talk about him before. Born in a log cabin that was built in the late 1800s, no running water, and he not only had to walk to school, but the trip required a row boat and a horse too!

In the last 60 years, he has owned three businesses, raised a family, owned a vacation home, an RV, and has always driven sporty cars. He pioneered some “green” practices within the municipal water distribution systems around Portland. (To be truthful, he wasn’t trying to be green ~ that word didn’t exist in the 1980s ~ he was just being frugal and practical)

My Dad is an optimist, he is driven, and everyone likes him. In 1998, after his stroke, I flew to Portland to take over his duties.  For two weeks straight, everyone I spoke with told me what a great guy my Dad is – and I still hear that from people.  He is very well liked.  My Dad works hard, he doesn’t take no for an answer, and he knows how to get the job done – no matter how many rolls of duct tape, sheet rock screws, or bailing wire it takes.

But, his chronological age doesn’t match his biological age. In the early 90s he had open heart surgery to replace a congenitally defective valve.  A couple of years later  a physician made a medication error  that almost killed my Dad from a cardiac tamponade.  I’ve spent a lifetime in the back of ambulances, it’s a whole new experience to be back there with my own father.  Then, as I mentioned, almost 11 years ago, once again due to a medication error, my Dad suffered a stroke.

All my life he’s told me that I may get bigger/stronger/smarter – but I’ll never be tougher than him. Now, I help him carry his laundry into the house from the car.  He’s still tough – there is no doubt about that – unfortunately, his body has betrayed him.  Sometimes mental toughness is not enough though.

During his Korean Conflict Army tour, they discovered his IQ to be 140. Well within Mensa qualifications.  Unfortunately, raised in abject poverty, with no emphasis on school, and very little post high school education, my Dad was never able to capitalize on that raw computing power between his ears.  In fact, it was his lack of understanding in capital  finance and business practices that forced him to leave self-employment – more than once.

Right after my Dad’s stroke, in another poorly made financial decision, my parents sold their house (which was almost paid for), and proceeded to burn through years of capital in a very short period of time.  Now, three and a half years after my Mom’s death, my Dad lives in a 20 x 20, one-room, studio “house.”  This is a step up from the 24 -foot RV where he was living in my driveway – but not much.

My brother and I, in an attempt to allow my Dad his independence and freewill, have tolerated this sub-standard living space.  The place is cold, drafty, and smells of mildew.  Less than 25% of his lifetime accumulations are in the house, the rest are at my house.  In addition to the downscale environment, the place has electrical issues and other safety concerns.

When he lived in our driveway, he would eat many meals with us. One concern we now have is whether he is meeting his nutritional needs.  It appears that he’s lost weight and vigor, since he moved  into his own place a few months ago.  He has lost stamina and even balance.  But despite repeated invites, he seems to prefer his independence.

Lately, we’ve been trying to find another solution that would provide a better standard of living.  We once again offered to let him move into our spare bedroom, which is a little smaller than his house, but he didn’t want to do that.  We offered to move out of our master suite – giving him fully 25-30% of our house, his own bathroom, enough room to set up a kitchenette, and a room as big as his current house.  Overall he would increase his living space by 30-40%.  He was reticent.

We persisted in inviting him to move in with us. Finally, I resorted to the idea that we needed the help – financially.  The $3-400/month that he would pay, might  enable us to keep our house – given our own unemployment/cash-flow issues.  This is the truth, by the way – but not the original motivation.  Finally he relented.

So, I asked him when he was going to give notice at his current place?  Not until the end of October.  Hmmmmm….

As The Wife and I discussed this, we came to the very real observation, that he doesn’t want to move in with us.  He would have his own entrance, we’d make accommodations for his dog, et cetera, and so forth, but…  The bottom line is, he values his independence more than he does his health and his comfort.

Of course, everyone has to die someday, but no one enjoys facing the death of their parents.  In fact, most people revert to infancy before their death – whether through dementia, failing health, or whatever, at some point the kids need to step in and parent the parents.  Sometimes we have to manage their medications and finances, other times we have to take away their car keys.

UPDATE: Last night, before I was able to post this, my Dad joined us for a nice dinner. (Yummy Lentil soup!)

I asked my Dad last night if he really didn’t want to move in. “Not really.” he said.

I asked him if he’d rather stay where he is.  “Yep”

I asked him these important questions:  “How will we know when you’re no longer able to take care of yourself? When will we know to take your car keys away?  When will we have to make those decisions for you?” Or, to sum it all up: “Are you going to fight us all the way?”

His answer was not unexpected, but was pretty funny: “You better believe it!”

And we all had a good laugh – but I hope he thinks about it.

http://www.caring.com/questions/

[Confidential PS to my brother: Dad is still planning to move in with you when you get your house built - "because he'll have more privacy there."]

Photo by Ucumari

One thing My daughter and I have always enjoyed doing is wrestling.  Well, it really isn’t as much wrestling as it is tickling, crawling, laughing, and cuddling – but she calls it wrestling.  It’s always been one of our special times.  Just recently my Smiling Son has figured out how fun this is too!

He and I go through phases in our relationship.  Several months ago, it was like a switch was flipped and he became infatuated by me.  It was awesome!  If this is what it’s like to be worshiped, then bring it on – ‘cuz my son was worshiping me.  Then a a couple of months later, The Wife attended an event and took Darling Daughter.  My son looked at me with distrust a bit of fear.  It was as if he was saying, “Do you have what it takes to meet my needs?”

“What if I get hungry?  What if I need a diaper changed?  What if something happens and I start crying – do you have what it takes?“

It was pretty funny really, but I had to dial back the machismo and be more tender.  I had to reassure him that I could meet not just his wants, but his needs too.

Then in the last two weeks, Smiling Son has discovered wrestling.  He wrestles with me, he wrestles with his sister, he tries to wrestle with his (”I am not a playground; your Daddy is a playground!“) Mommy, and sometimes he lays on the cats hopping they’ll wrestle with him.  He comes up to me and says something along the lines of: “ree? ree? Ree!?”  Which of course sounds a lot like his words for raisins, water, new diaper, potty, kitty, and a few I haven’t figured out yet.

Photo by Ucumari

But in the last couple of days I’ve figured it out – there is only one thing he wants from Daddy with that sort of urgency: “REE-e!“

“Oh!  You want to wrestle.“

“Yeah!” He says, with the one of the words he has perfect diction.

“No way!” I laugh.

“Yeah!” He says.

“No – not you?  You want to wrestle?”

“Yea-Ah!“

“No way!“

“Yea-Ah!” He laughs in anticipation and I go over and lie on the floor.

He loves to stand on my chest and jump off, tickle my stomach, and have me hold him tight and roll around.  I can pick either kid up by the back of their thighs and pretend they are on a precarious balancing ride that may drop them off at anytime.  We laugh, we tickle, we roll around, I chase them on hands and knees, and they chase me.  We have an absolutely great time!

Sometimes while playing with my Darling Daughter, she will exclaim, “This is the best day in the whole world!”  It is awesome.

Photo by CC Carlstead

Tonight while reading kids books, I came across a photo of a lion and her cub. In my head, I imagined that cub running, playing, biting, and tugging on its Daddy’s tail.  That’s what my son is doing – that’s what my daughter is doing.  Lately too, my son, who sleeps in our bed with us, has taken to cuddling with me all night long.  I love this job!

PS: The coolest thing ever though, is to watch my kids wrestling with each other – their laughter and giggles are so authentic and so absolutely delightful.

Lately we haven’t been able to get out much.  We are saving every penny for the approaching storm – in a very real fight to keep our home.  So today, when I was going to Home Depot, I asked Darling Daughter if she wanted to go with me – she did!  Then Mommy suggested that we all go – it was time for Smiling Son’s nap, and he falls asleep best while driving.  So we loaded up the truck and headed out!

On the way there, Darling Daughter wanted to know why her cut finger was healing, even though there was no medicine in the Band-aid®.  It was a good question – insightful really.  Mommy gave her a medical answer about cleanliness, bacteria, and the work of the band-aid.  But as they spoke, a thought came to my head.  I realized that we are created to heal.  People have been healing for centuries without the aid of triple antibiotic ointments.  It’s in our DNA.

That’s when the light came on to something I’d never thought of.  If we are made to heal physically, why wouldn’t we be made to heal emotionally?

For some reason, I’ve had this weird idea that if someone were to experience a horrendous tragedy, they would be emotionally scarred for life.  Yet that doesn’t always seem to be the case.  Take Elizabeth Smart, she went through what is quite possibly every parents worst nightmare – and beyond.  Yet, from all apparent signs, she is healing well.  Granted, she has had some excellent care, but nonetheless, she is healing.

My own example tells the same kind of story.  Born with disfiguring facial defects, multiple surgeries, a lifetime of being taunted, teased, and bullied, and then just when my life should be launching, I enter a terrible marriage and near life-ending divorce – all before the age of 23.  And in the last 27 years, I’ve bounced back – stronger, more resilient, and standing on a much better foundation than ever before.

I’ve heard it said that kids are resilient – they bounce back.  It’s been hard to accept that though.  I never want my children to experience the pain I’ve experienced.  Yet, while I still believe it is my role to shelter them until they are ready to fledge, I realized today that life is filled with pain and my kids will experience some of that pain.  But they will move through it.

While I can still take preventive actions to avoid accidents and dangerous situations (e.g. Child safety locks, seat belts and car seats, be careful about who they associate with, etc), I realized today, for the first time, that we are built to be resilient.  Emotionally, as well as physically.  We’ll get hurt – that’s a given.  It’s what we do about that injury that determines the depth of the scars.

My college roommate and I were in our room one warm Spring day listening to the scanner and shooting the breeze.  Neither of us really had our head in the whole education game.  As volunteer firefighters and EMTs in College Place, Washington, that’s where our focus was.

The locals were trying to make a living and the interruptions of ambulance calls were inconvenient to them.  They were more than happy to let these 19 year old punks carry the pagers.  Unfortunately, running ambulance calls and studying were not a good mix for us (and likely not for anyone else either).  There was some chatter about a fire down in Oregon and we turned our attention to the scanner.

Apparently there was no organized fire department in the Oregon territory just south of College Place.  People don’t consider the need for these sort of niceties until their house is actually on fire.  After hearing reports of smoke, some of the locals from Walla Walla County Fire District 4 started looking for the fire.  In rural communities, postal addresses are seldom used.  Landmarks and dirt roads are the usual method of navigation.  So it was no surprise that no one really knew where this fire was located.  As we listened to the radio chatter, there was some confusion as to whether this burning house was in Oregon or Washington.  If it was in Washington, the county fire guys would take care of it.  If it was in Oregon, they would have to let it burn.

Newcomers to rural living are often shocked to hear there is no organized and official fire suppression agency. Like tap-water, toilet paper, and electricity, they just assume this stuff is provided by some omniscient political body.  Actually, modern, public fire agencies are fairly recent technological development.  Benjamin Franklin is often credited as the inventor of the fire department (I have never fact-checked this, and today I’m on a roll and don’t want to get distracted by opening more tabs on my browser, if I’m wrong, let me know in the comments).  For many years, fire suppression agencies were operated by the insurance companies who were seeking to minimize their losses.  Eventually, as the 20th century matured, more government agencies formed their own fire departments.  But there are many areas, especially rural communities, that still have no agency tasked with providing fire suppression, medical, or even police services.

It was quite interesting to listen to the old-timers on the radio.  There were references to the “old Miller farm” and that field that used to have a “couple of oak trees back in ‘63.”  By now we could see a column of smoke from our third-story dorm room.  We hadn’t fought a good fire for several months and it was beginning to sound like this house-fire was just across the border in Oregon.  Almost without words, we decided to grab our turnouts and head down to see if we could “help.”  We grabbed the scanner and ran to Ray’s car – an early 70s, red, Ford Maverick.  After stopping by the fire station to grab our gear, we headed south to find this unchecked house fire.

Although we were driving into unknown geography, both of us have a keen sense of direction, and that, coupled with the confused voices on the radio – not to mention the large column of black smoke marking the location – we pretty much drove right to it.  A column of black smoke indicates a “working” fire.  A lot of carbon is being produced and the fire is freely burning.  Columns of white, or gray, smoke indicate a more slowly burning fire.  The column generally does not rise as quickly, and is often mixed with steam because of the water being applied by firefighters.  Smoldering fires are filled with more toxic gases, carbon monoxide, and unburned materials.  The column of smoke from this house rose hundreds of feet, straight into the air.  It was black and we knew this house was burning pretty well.  We weren’t quite ready for the scene that unfolded before us though.

Long before seeing the flock of cars parked in front of the burning house, we saw a couple dozen people milling around the house, wringing their hands – literally, and figuratively.  As we parked out front, we saw that this house was actually burning from the top down – like a cartoon.  I’ve never seen a house burn like this ever again.  The roof was fully involved and the flames were consuming the house from the top down.  Several men were running in and out of the house, doing their best to salvage furniture, keepsakes, and appliances.  Ray and I parked on the dirt road out front and just looked at each other with wide eyes.  Now what?

There was no sign of any fire apparatus – despite all the chatter we’d heard on the radio.  This house was located in a rural Oregon county and no agency had authority to fight fires there.  Again, without much discussion, we donned our gear and began to walk up the long driveway.  We didn’t know what we were going to do, but we figured we were better trained and better prepared than anyone else there.  We received a rock star welcome as the crowds parted to let us approach.  Apparently they had more faith in us than we had hope in the situation.  They applauded and cheered us as we strode to the fire – oblivious to their welcoming overture.

By the time we arrived at the front door of this inferno, the flames had already consumed the roof and half of the walls. A couple of men had just removed the refrigerator from the house, but it was now unsafe for anyone to reenter the house – even with our protective gear.  We stopped a man who was trying to get in.  It was too hot to even be on the front steps.  Now what?

Ray and I were quite the team.  We both had been involved in emergency services since our mid teens, we skied, hiked, climbed, and really enjoyed each other’s company.  Just two years earlier, he was the first person I met when I transfered to a new school.  Not only did he take the time to introduce himself and welcome me, but at lunch time, he invited me to sit with him and his friends.

Now, as sophomores in college, all our energy was going into the local volunteer fire and ambulance organization.  Besides upgrading equipment, procedures, and ticking off the old-timers, we loved to run calls.  The ambulance was equipped with advance life support (paramedic-level) equipment, but we were only basic-life support (EMT-level) certified.  That didn’t stop us – we charged ahead, using the heart-monitor/defibrillator, IV supplies, and medications.  Our primary drug-of-choice was gasoline.  We drove fast and aggressively.  What were they thinking, turning over a 5000 pound 1964 Pontiac ambulance, with a Cadillac 454 under the hood, and three (count-em - three!) sirens – to a couple of teenagers!!  We were insanely dangerous and hooked on adrenaline.

Before the school year was over, both of us dropped all our classes, left a trail of debt, and took a bucket-load of memories.  It is really hard to get up and go to classes when you’ve been up a couple of times in the night – saving lives and alleviating pain and suffering.  Often, we’d get a routine medical transport, right in the middle of my extremely boring History of Western Civ class.  No worries – I’m a rescuer!  See you later prof!  If the truth was known (though I’d never admit this), I got a real thrill acting like the “big-man-on-campus” – disobeying traffic laws, running out of the cafeteria, ditching classes, etc.  It didn’t help my academics, or my social standing, but it was certainly fun!

Again, without many words, we decided that trying to save the house was pointless.  Even if we had five fire engines and an unlimited supply of water, the best we’d hope for was to save the foundation.  However, right next to the house was a large garage/shed/out-building.  Firefighting isn’t just about suppression, it is also about minimizing loss.  If we can’t stop the fire, maybe we could keep it from spreading.  Because of our turnout gear, we were able to put ourselves between the house and the garage.  It was hot, but bearable.  Unfortunately, there was no water.  When the roof burned, it severed the electrical drop line to the house and the rest of the property – including the pump house.  Now what?

Improvise!

Someone figured out our plan and noticed the hundreds of Mason jars in the garage.  We organized a water brigade, not with buckets, but with quart jars.  A long line of people formed, filling the jars in the horse trough and handing them down the line.  We then splashed the water on the side of the garage to keep it cool and prevent the fire from spreading.  It wasn’t much, but it was something.  At least they’d have a place to store that salvaged furniture.  As the fire continued to burn the wall of the house, just 10 feet from the garage, Ray and I took turns splashing water on the siding of the garage.  It was these efforts that kept the garage from catching fire – which would have eventually spread to the other outbuildings nearby.

It was in the midst of this surreal scene - two teenage boys, directing an eager team of rural farmers, to save what we could of these people’s property – when a 1946, Army-surplus, fire contraption showed up.  It was red, very dusty, and had a hose real on it.  Like keystone cops, these old farmers drove this rig right up on the front lawn, sliding to a stop – they jumped off, fired up the Briggs & Stratten pump and started spraying water on the now, nearly-incinerated house.  Ray and I looked at each other in disbelief!

We had already pushed the walls of the house into the fire to keep them from falling outward. The house was really not much more than a foundation filled with burning coals, and now these yahoos (yeah, I said it!) were dumping precious water onto a lost cause.

Fortunately our helmets and firefighter gear gave us a level of positional authority.  No one knew us, no one knew our names, and we didn’t know any of them.  But we had absolute authority.  Much like Superman or the Lone Ranger must have experienced when they showed up to save the day.  I asked, no, told the man spraying water on the ashes to give me the hose.  Couldn’t he see what we were doing?  Didn’t he see us struggling intensely to save this garage?  Though the fire was nothing more than a heap of coals, it was still hot enough to ignite the garage if we didn’t keep it cool.  What was he thinking!?

As I took the hose, Ray got a pike pole off this old fire rig. With the pole he was able to move burning debris away from the house.  (An interesting aside: Apparently this old fire rig was owned by the father of a paramedic I worked with years later at Buck Ambulance in Portland.)  They kept this rig in case there was a grass fire that threatened their wheat of hay – but most of the time they used it to spray pesticides.  This is the first – I learned one night several years later – and last fire they had ever fought with that rig.

With the arrival of the fire apparatus, we disbanded the Mason jar brigade and used the hose to keep the garage siding cool enough to prevent ignition.  Within an hour of our arrival, the house had been reduced to smoldering pile of hot ashes.  The once vertical column of black smoke had given way to a wispy, low-hanging cloud of white, choking puffs.  The garage was no longer in danger of catching fire and the excitement was over.  Ray and I walked back to his car, put our gear in his trunk, got in the car, and drove back to campus.

We weren’t trying to escape, we were just done.   Being good task-oriented individuals, we figured the task was done, so we went home.  Besides, we were still on ambulance call, so we really needed to get back in our area.  Thinking about this now kind of makes me laugh.  I imagine those people looking around after we left, wondering: “Who were those guys!?”  ”I don’t know. But they left this silver fire nozzle.”

About half way back to campus, we looked at each other.  Wordlessly we asked: “What just happened!?”  And then we laughed all the way home!

We all want to be special – or at least feel special.  But really, feeling special is a great space to be in. This is one of the reasons people create foundation, build tall buildings, and create world-changing initiatives or medical cures – all with their name attached. In recent years, as a US President nears the end of his presidency, it has become popular for the press to talk about his “legacy.”

I believe we are born with this need to be special. I believe that parents have an obligation to meet that need as best they can.

I once read that more US Presidents and Fortune 500 CEOs were second-born children – rather than holding other places in the birth-order paradigm.  The theory is that first-born children often get all the “special” attention – which many of us would think would lead to natural advantages that would assure greater success.  However, what happens more often than not is that second-born children try harder. They learn to try harder to be noticed, to be appreciated, and to keep up with their older sibling.  This leads to a natural inclination to succeed – where the first born often rests in a sense of entitlement, that does not lead to success.  More than anything I want my children to be successful – not necessarily in a financial/career sort of success – but more relating to life, love, and contentment. In order to best raise them to achieve that sort of success, I want to enable them with a healthy self-esteem.  Not proud, not arrogant, and not insecure. or defeatist.  It’s really a delicate balance.  So, how does one accomplish this?

The other night, while reading to our kids – a night time ritual – I leaned over and whispered in the ear of my Darling Daughter. “I love you.” I said. “You’re my favorite daughter. You are very special to me.” These are not foreign words to my kids.  I often say these things to them, publicly, privately, tenderly (when we cuddle), and laughingly (when we’re wrestling and tickling).  I love to give them verbal and physical affirmation.

It was a real wake up call to me.

As I whispered these words to my daughter though, I was struck with an epiphany. It was a real wake up call to me.  I immediately shared it with The Wife; and the next day I shared it with a young married couple with kids. If you give me a moment, I’d like to share it with you…

The Medium is the Message:

It is one thing to be told we are special – sometimes that message hits home, and sometimes it doesn’t.  It usually matters who is telling us.  If we admire and respect the other person, if we have a significant relationship with them, or if we seek their approval, that message is going to have a lasting impact.  I remember an authority figure in my life, who recently told me that I was one of the best firefighters he’d ever commanded.  This hit hard and sunk deep.  I will never forget that statement.

Sometimes however, people who we don’t trust or respect, will give us a compliment.  It just doesn’t seem to have the impact.  Oh sure, praise always “feels” good, but that doesn’t mean it affects us to our core.  In fact, we’re more likely to internalize criticism from strangers, than we are to receive their praise – but that’s another post for another day.  The truth is, if we don’t respect or trust another person, their praises, terms of endearment, of affections – well, they just don’t have the same affect.

My Role as a Dad:

There was a time in my life when I worshiped the ground my parents walked on – especially my Dad.  But as the years have gone by and I began to see their failures, I realized my parents had feet of clay.  It wasn’t just their imperfections though – often it was their poor judgement, stupid addictions, hypocrisy, and lack of integrity.  (Please don’t get me wrong, I adore my parents – still – and always!)  While I still appreciate my family’s affection and affirmation, it doesn’t really carry as much weight as it could.

I mentioned to The Wife: for our kids to experience the affirmation, esteem, and specialness that I intend in those words, I have to live an authentic, transparent life of integrity.  That means I have to seek forgiveness and make amends when I mess up.  I have to admit failure.  I have to be constantly and consistently learning, growing, adapting.  I have to be the man, that others – especially my kids, will respect.  In other words, I have to achieve the success I want for them – or at least be striving for it.

Granted, there will come a time in every child’s life where they will seek to create space between themselves and their parents.  There will be teenage angst, a seeking of identity, and a rejecting of their parent’s values – but the key here, is to live a life of consistency, integrity, and contentment, so that these phases will pass without too much damage in the relationship.  The ownership is on the parents – not the teen.

It was at this point that my mind took a brief trip into the world of infinite possibilities and back to the caged world of my childhood.  Snap!

(Please note, the next few reflections are not meant as criticisms as much as they are learning opportunities)

I know, intellectually, that my Dad loves me – but when he lies to me, even those little insidious white lies, I don’t feel very special.  When I would watch him lie to my Mom, a business associate, or a friend – my faith and trust in him were assassinated.  So, as his son, I know I’m loved – but I don’t always feel it in a way I’d like to.  I’m not sure my Dad knows how to love the way he wants to love – and for that, I forgive his failures and accept what he can give.

When my Mom used to tell me how special I was, and how proud she was of my accomplishments, I knew she meant it.  But her meddling, controlling, and co-dependent behaviors and words, seriously diminished the impact of those statements.  I began to see that her statements of affection were really cries for reciprocation.  She needed me/us to express these things to her.  But should the parent really be that needy of their children?  Shouldn’t it be a bit more spontaneous?

My mother was sexually and emotionally abused by her parents.  Is it any wonder she entered adulthood without a healthy self-esteem.  She wrestled with these demons of inadequacy until her death in January of 2006.  None of us could ever give enough for her to feel whole again.  The damage was done, but those she trusted the most.  Neither therapists, loving family, my Dad, or her kids – we were never able to replace the brokenness in her heart.

My Dad was raised by an absent father.  Being of solid Germanic stock, my grandfather worked from sunup to sundown – often 100s of miles from his family.  It wasn’t just his physical distance that did damage, this geography was just a symptom of his inability to connect emotionally with his wife and kids.  Though raised in poverty, my Dad’s family never starved – except for affection.  It’s no wonder my Dad didn’t know how to love.  It was never modeled for him.

The deepest blow was 30 years ago. I was going through the worst crisis of my life and I needed my family.  Unfortunately I was making some choices that made me afraid to be transparent with those I loved most.  When the feces hit the oscillating air mover, I reached out to my Dad.  Unfortunately, he was ill-equipped to deal with a struggling son.  He didn’t call me, he stood me up for lunch appointments, he couldn’t look me in the eye.  He wasn’t there.

Without that anchor, I made poorer and poorer choices. Without any sense of worth, I acted on the shame, disgust, and loathing I had for myself.  I sought affirmation from strangers.  And yet, in retrospect, I’ve found that partiers and pretty girls are a poor substitute for genuine affection, affirmation, and specialness.  I’m glad I survived and lived long enough to discover that – and to forgive my parents for their failures.

But how does one move forward when their parents are still making poor choices? What if your father never calls you – or doesn’t come and visit?  What if he shows more attention and affection towards his friends, job, and other obligations, then he does to you?  What do you do with a mother who wants to love her children, but is barely able to manage her own life – let alone speak leadership into the lives of her kids?

It is these sorts of issues that are creating anger in the lives of children, and adult children, across the landscape.  Kids have a right to expect their parents to be there for them – through thick, thin, joy, and grief.  Mere words are cheap.  Actions speak louder than words.  Presence is the medium – and the message is in the medium.

So, as I look at the innocence of the children that are a gift from God, I am struck by my own brokenness. My failures, my inconsistencies, and my lack of integrity.  I have to continue to learn from failures, grow in my brokenness, seek healing and learning, and lead the way for my kids.  I have to be the leader – not just in words, but in actions.

It is my job, to be more than just a father in name only. I have to be a Dad – in actions, thoughts, motives, and intentions.  This is what it means to have a Dad Attitude.  It is more than words – it is about true leadership.  It is about influence.

My job is to instill a healthy esteem in my kids. Not inflated, not defeated, but balanced.  This is how I can enable them to achieve their dreams and their hopes.  This is how I provide a solid foundation for them to launch.  This is the best gift I could ever give to my kids.

My problem?  I want immediate gratification. But real happiness takes some work.

Spiritual growth is not for the faint of heart. I much prefer anesthesia – at least in the short run.  I’m glad I’m past the hard stuff: sex, drugs, rock‘n roll, etc.  But it’s funny, my current drugs of choice can be more deceptive.  Food, TV, mindless, eternal web surfing, sleep…

For several nights (weeks?), I’ve been sleeping like a paramedic.  We go to bed around eight or nine in the evening, I sleep for a good hour or two, then, like a misbehaving circadian rhythm, I’m wide awake.  Since I’ve been sulking in my cave for the last month or so, I just took this as status quo and stumbled off to my office cave to toil the night away.

Some nights are more productive than others, but for the most part, I wouldn’t use the words productive and insomnia in the same breath. Sometimes I just needed a place where I could toss and turn without disturbing the family I sleep with.  Fortunately I have a relatively comfortable couch in my cave.

Too often, however, I find myself wasting away the night and getting sleepy about the time the robins signal the approaching sunrise.  I’ve seen a lot of sunrises, but most have been from the back end.  My philosophy is that if God had intended mornings to be enjoyed, He would have put them later in the day.

Last night was different. One wouldn’t know it by watching me, but somethings happened last night – spiritually, holistically, mentally, emotionally.

As I slogged into my office for the night shift, feeling pretty content about the two whole hours of sleep I had tucked into my resume, I had an urge.  It was a small urge – a little voice, if you will.  It was a good thing.

Let me back up a bit…

Last week, after writing that 3000+ word post, I thought I was making a breakthrough.  ”Aha!” I said.  ”I’ve got this one nailed.”  I had it all figured out.  But have you ever noticed that we don’t always have integrity between our emotions and our knowledge?  Sometimes what we know to be true doesn’t match with what we feel?  Yeah, I thought so.

I’ve been thinking for a few days that I need a breakthrough. But what does that look like?  For those of us who primarily are defined as melancholic, that may be different from the sanguines – or the phlegmatics.  It is definitely different from those overachievers, the cholerics. For me, it isn’t enough to just know I have to make changes – I have to feel it.  This usually comes after a significant epiphany.

Interestingly, as I stumbled through the dark last night (actually, virtually, and metaphorically), I heard a “still, small voice.”  It was calling me.  Yet, small voices are easy to ignore.  I know – I’ve ignored that voice too often before.

Years ago, while struggling with some very deep heartaches, I found myself wishing that an angel would show up and save me from my despair.  One night, about two o’clock in the morning, I was on top of Council Crest – alone.  I was broken, discouraged, alone.  Did I mention that I was alone?  Anyway, I was alone and wishing an angel would show up to give me some hope.  Cuz, well, I was alone.

No angel appeared.

Several months later, I had an epiphany.  I don’t know where it came from, but it was deep (Well it was deep then).  Somehow I had this notion that angels were these soft, gentle beings.  Yet, most of the time, when stories are told of angel encounters, one is left with the impression that angels are powerful warriors.  They are not to be trifled with.

Most of the time when people encounter angels, they are driven to the ground and left speechless.  The word “awesome” was coined for just these experiences.  I began to have doubts about my desire to have an angel show up.

I remember seeing a Harrier Jump-Jet perform at the Rose Festival Air Show. This was the aircraft the was featured in the movie True Lies with Schwarzenegger.  The sheer, raw power of this machine had me in tears.  When the pilot turned the aircraft towards the audience, less than 150 feet away, and dipped the nose toward us, I was screaming.  Imagine this thing coming up over a rise, loaded with rockets, and you’re in its sights.  My chest was pounding, I was dancing on my tip-toes, the power just awed me!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZYlT23zB3QQ]

It was this thought that made me rethink my desire to have a face-to-face with an angel.  I’m not sure my heart, or my mind could handle that sort of encounter.  I withdrew my wish.  And yet, here I am, ignoring the whispers of my Creator.

Like I did last night.

I felt compelled to spend time with God.  But, I reasoned, I’m too tired.  I don’t feel like reading, I really can’t express my thoughts/concerns verbally – I’m not sure I’d be very good in this arena.  So, instead, I sought anesthesia.  It’s always better to listen to the leading.  To not make Him shout.

To be sure, I’ve found that God is big enough to speak to me through a myriad of methods. He’s used sci-fi, rock’n roll, and even drug-induced moments of purple haze.  While I don’t agree with some of my AA friends that I have to learn the hard way, I certainly choose that way more often than not.

I realized, this is one of the reasons I fear growth. I am afraid that if I adapt to other’s, um, suggestions, I will lose my identity…my true identity. But this is a lie, isn’t it? Seeking health and healing doesn’t have to mean that we have to lose ourselves.

At one point, House’s doctor asks him if he thought Van Gogh would have been Van Gogh if he’d had treatment.  House’s reply was exactly what mine would have been: “No.”  But the doctor replies, “Van Gogh would still be Van Gogh, but both ears would still be intact.”

That’s the hard part.

Would I still be the man I am if I didn’t feel about things the way I do?  If I slept all night, if I didn’t act on my creative urges, if I didn’t grieve the loss of certain things in my life – would I be the same guy?  More importantly, what if I didn’t anesthetize myself with the current drugs I use?  TV, food, – even reading.  Sometimes the good can interfere with the great.

Image via Wikipedia

So, here’s the bottom line.

I’ve been waiting for the big epiphany, but sometimes it’s the still small voice that speaks the loudest.  But it’s also the easiest to miss.  We want big answers (I want big answers!).  I want to know why this unfairness happened?  But sometimes it isn’t the why that matters. Usually it is the answer to this universal question that matters: “What will I learn from this experience?“

Here’s what I’m learning…

I’m again learning to listen to that “still, small voice.” I’m learning to quit using anesthesia when things get painful.  As M. Scott Peck says in the opening paragraph of his book, The Road Less Traveled, “Life is difficult.” Or, as I’ve heard it said, “God isn’t as interested in your comfort.” He is interested in my growth though – and ultimately, my happiness.

My problem?  I want immediate gratification. But real happiness takes some work.  Like I said, spiritual growth is not for the faint of heart.

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