Breakfast with Heroes

I once attended a breakfast with the local American Legion post of Marianna, AR. I was invited by a gentleman in my church who seemed to be surprised that I showed at 06:45 – I think he thinks everyone my age and younger sleeps too long every day and my guess is, he has gotten up at the same time every morning for the last 50 years.

When I walked in, I was initially introduced to a few men at the end of a long table and before I knew it, every man in that room took the initiative to introduce himself, welcome me, and shake my hand.

Every one of these men is a veteran and has served our country militaristically at some point in their lives. I was among men of different branches of the military and from different eras of time, and all with a certain war attached to their time of service. Many of these guys are gruff. These men are unapologetic for who they are. They are men’s men. I sat with men who drink their coffee black, they eat fatty breakfast food [maybe cooked in lard], and a couple of them lit up their smokes right at the table - unfiltered, I think. I began to hear the sound of Fortunate Son by Creedence Clearwater Revival playing in the background of my mind.

I am a man that is not normally in such an environment. I am married to a woman who is concerned with good eating habits and healthy living. Though I do drink my coffee black, I also drink skim milk, I don’t smoke [though I do like the smell of a good cigar], I have never been in a battle beyond that of words or being beat half to death by bullies. I don’t cuss. I have no actual war stories. For that matter I don’t even have a firearm other than a shotgun passed down to me from my grandfather - it gets fired once a year to bring in the new year. The only physical scars I have are from surgeries and a hit across the nose with a pipe. And, when I pledge allegiance to the American flag, it is through a freedom I take for granted more than I’d like to admit.

Not so for these guys. They don’t Facebook, Instagram, tweet or blog. They certainly don’t drink skim milk and they don’t care what the surgeon general says. Some have tats that might make you blush and probably some memories they’d like to forget. They have played cards by the light of a Zippo with gunfire in the distance. They have spent many nights not wondering what to do tomorrow, but wondering if they will see tomorrow at all. They have had tours of duty that took them from family and friends while [in some cases] returning to a country ready to spit in their faces. Most of these men have seen more harshness and brutality in a short period of life than many of us will see in a lifetime. They are men who have served and sacrificed for our country and they are American heroes.

I wondered about the different stories they had to tell and unlike my father and grandfather would they even choose to tell them. I pondered the sense of duty they felt for their country and their comrades who fought beside them. Are they still proud of the country they served? Are they proud of our path as a nation? Is America anywhere close the America for which they fought?

As I sat with these men I felt honored. I felt honored to be seated among men with such patriotic pride as the members of the American Legion of Marianna. I felt the concern they had for fallen veterans as they discussed a detail to aid in local funeral services and who would volunteer to set military headstones at forgotten graves. I watched as one man stood and said he was no longer physically able to do the job but would gladly volunteer to teach others for the task. I felt the pride as they discussed the placement of American flags at the local cemeteries for those to be remembered and I appreciated the dedication to continue their American Legion post.

I have never taken the opportunity to serve in military service, but I am incredibly grateful to those who have and still do. I am thankful that there are those who God has called to commit themselves to the wellbeing of our country and pray that His protection is upon them. As we enjoy Memorial Day, we should all stop and consider the sacrifices, especially to the point of death, made by men and women on behalf of our country and give thanks to God for the privilege of being a part of what even my Kuwaiti [and fellow American citizen] friend calls the greatest nation on earth.

My God and My Peeps

A few weeks ago I was enjoying a delicious seasonal treat within seconds of the purchase. I could hardly get out of the store before opening my box of Peeps from the left over Easter stock. I almost ate them right in the store while shopping with plans to purchase the empty container when I checked out [technically, that is shoplifting] but my reason for not doing so was selfishly motivated – I didn’t want to have to distribute all my Peeps to all my peeps with me. Those babies of mine love Peeps as much as I do but unlike me, they are not skilled enough at Peeps eating to do so without a mess.

Anyone who eats Peeps has their own way of consumption and I am no exception. There are five to a pack, they are eaten a pack at a time, and in my humble but accurate opinion, the chicks are the only true Peeps. I’m a Peeps purist - forget the bunnies.

The first one is sudden death for the Peep. It goes in my mouth all the way with maybe a single bite into two pieces and its over. It sets the foundation for all the rest and I always think and say the same thing “man, I really like Peeps”. The second Peep has a different experience. I don’t know what it is about those little eyes on the sides, but I always nibble them off one at a time before going further. There really is no substantial taste or texture to the eyes, but it’s what I do every time. The last three experience any and/or all of the following experiences.

(1) I generally bite the head off one or two.

(2) I start with biting the tail on one.

(3) I usually stretch one out further than the skin of sugar allows and watch the mallow center appear.

(4) I might play with one for a bit and wonder about the process that actually births them into existence [I know - I know. I can Google it, I just never have].

(5) I usually play out some type of peep decapitation scenario.

Regardless of how they are eaten or by what steps or imagination, they all go down the same way – easy. They are sugar, and nothing more…and whatever those little eyes are. They are soft, sweet, gentle, and unless you have a cavity, inoffensive.

So while I was enjoying my peeps and reliving my childhood days and imagination, I began to think “you know… God is kind of like a peep”. Well, not my God! However, a lot of people’s perception of God is.

So many people treat the God of all creation, maker of heaven and earth, as though all there is to him is sugar coated fluff. So many people want to dress up their perception of God to be a 5 pack box of Peeps theology that goes down easy and with little or no effort on their part. They might even explore some elements of him along the way, but in the end, they just want there to be a smooth sweet taste that goes down as it own spoonful of sugar. They aren’t concerned with true nourishment form his word or adjusting lifestyle to his precepts. No, they want the sweet and no sweat. They want milk and honey without the faithful battle. That’s the kind of God so many people desire. They want a God who saves them, but requires no obedience in response. A God whose substance dissolves easily the moment we taste of him. A God whose word is also coated in sugar so that when ours lips are touched by it, the last thing to come to mind is anything close to the likes of a burning coal designed to purify our mouths because we are literally undone in His presence.

No, my God, my portion, my savior, my counselor, my loving father, my good shepherd, and my potter is not to be broken down or devalued by me; I am to be consumed by him. I am to be undone. I am to be shaped and molded. I am to be refined. I am to be melted and not hardened from exposure to him and his glory. My God requires that I chew diligently upon his word and expose myself for the melting mallow that I am in his presence. It is my coating that should be stretched beyond its natural points of comfort.

My prayer is that as God continues to refine me; my heart will forever be soft and pliable to his crafting and that I will seek not the ease of false spirituality, but the substance of being fashioned into a reflection of Him.

Paternal Parenting among the Pathetic

As a parent now four deep in children, my mind is often plagued with the aspect of my children coming into their own decision making process. I have always said I would rather raise boys than girls because of the wretchedness of my own gender to be selfish, crass, tacky and rude contrasted with the desire deep inside every woman’s heart to be loved, cherished and appreciated.

I believe the task of teaching my boys is one of significant value to them when they enter adulthood as well as to any woman they may seek as a wife. One of the greatest challenges to raising boys is to teach them that it is not acceptable to treat women as “objects” in a culture that does nothing but place women before them as objects baiting them into a philosophy of thinking that only reinforces a lack of value. I have the task of teaching my boys to have a specific respect for women in a culture where the very objects of such respect behave in unrespectable ways.

I think about the idiocy of “reality” TV shows like The Bachelor that have women all voluntarily clawing for and pawing upon one guy all at the same time who, quite likely, does not have the respect for them for which they truly long. I think about the clips I see for promos and wonder what various fathers think of their daughters as they are exposed on national TV for their desperate attempts at grasping significance towards an ending that supposedly includes “happily ever after” in a scenario that is hardly real while reflecting the sad reality of our times.

Even so, I still feel like boys are easier to raise than girls - I can teach my boys to be men of integrity who seek to have and demonstrate genuine character. I can teach them to be chivalrous in a world that lacks such concern. I can teach them to be polite and express themselves with the greatest regard for the company they keep, and I can teach them the importance of treating a lady like a lady even during the absence of lady-like behavior. I can teach my boys that the existence of women is not for their gawking pleasure, but for the purpose of being a helpmate throughout the days of their lives and a beautiful parallel to God’s love for us. I can teach my boys what it means to be devoted to a woman and not pixels on a website. I can teach my boys to exercise restraint and guard against temptations without approaching tempting situations blindly defeated by their own passions as if there is no way to avoid bad decisions.

They can learn the value of restrained pleasure in anticipation of authentic marital companionship and I can teach them how to see to it that their commitment to their wives comes second only to their commitment to God and that their commitment to God dictates and drives the nature of their commitment to their wives. I can teach them how their marriages can and should be a testimony of the life they live in Christ reflecting the example of Christ’s love for His church and what it means to love selflessly and unconditionally so as to cultivate the best relationships possible. All these behaviors and attitudes can be taught and, if my sons learn them well, will lay a tremendously strong foundation that will move the heart of any woman seeking such loyal, committed, devotion. What woman doesn’t want a man who will man-up on his relationship and commitment to her? My boys will be taught to find the one who God has ordained to be with them forever – and without the “trial and error” “sowing of wild oats” destructive approach that so undermines and insults the integrity of genuine relationship.

Raising girls, on the other hand, is so much harder – and really for the same reasons. They too live in a culture where women often sabotage so much of what would be respectful and demonstrative of self respect while lowering their standards for acceptable “men” and relationships. I seek to teach my daughter not to settle for anything less than God’s best for her and to have standards that guide her to discover His will and not be governed by insecurity or fear.

I’m guessing the numbers are staggering for women who have entered bad relationships and marriages out of fear, insecurity, and anxiety over wondering if anyone else would come along and love them. I wonder how many fathers have watched daughters travel down treacherous roads of naivety [or stupidity] thinking “if she would only realize how special and valuable she really is…”

I also wonder how many daughters just long for there fathers to draw them into their arms and tell them how valuable they are and that if they will be patient, God is faithful and sustains. While I believe my boys are easier because I can teach them to have character traits and qualities that are in desperate demand, my daughter is much harder because I have to teach her to be patient and wait for God to provide someone with such traits – and there seem to be very few these days.

I want all of my children to discover godly spouses, but I equally want them to be godly people themselves so that the correct match of souls occurs. As a father, I bear a pythonic responsibility to teach such godly pursuits meshed with strategies of living in a world saturated with ungodly direction. In the end, my children will choose to heed my instruction or not, but my drive is to lead them to be like the men of Issachar, who understood the times in which they lived and knew what to do (1 Chronicles 12:32) and Enoch who “walked with God” (Genesis 5:22).

The Day Before the Night Before, Four

Tomorrow will be the fourth time I have marched down a similar road with my wife. Tomorrow morning Jennifer will give birth and we will become a family of six (that is a “V” followed with an “I”) and it doesn’t matter how I type it, it is still the same. That is eight little feet running around, eighty fingers and toes needing socks and sanitizer. This now means further explanation at the bank window as to why I need four suckers (all the same color, please) - additionally, cleaning out the family van will become increasingly frustrating. Eventually, that is four kids meals on the days we decide to brave a restaurant together and the “one token games” for any future Chuck-E-Cheese’s trips are greatly appreciated.

The stockings being hung by the chimney with care are becoming a pleasantly crowded collection of eclectic individualism at the Christmas season. Our Christmas tree has already become significantly decorated with “baby’s first Christmas” ornaments followed by “baby’s first year” and every Sunday school ornament project since. Our house is filled with laughter, tears, bikes, trikes, balls, dolls and plenty of little helping hands when we make cookies or take out the trash. I have always joked about the reason for having children is to have someone cut the yard and tote wood - we are closer and closer to that reality. I have dog feeders, flower waterers, fish catchers and leaf rakers. I have tree climbers, star gazers, dirt diggers and bug liberators. I have three children who are, strangely enough, all opposite of each other [how is that even possible in a trio?] who discover the world as they know it in their own way and wrapped in their own imaginations and conclusions. I have boys who protect their sister and a li’l girl who is as much a little girl as any little girl can be and is anxiously looking forward to mimicking mommy at every turn in the preparation and care of her new baby brother.

My children love Mommy & Daddy and although I do my best to trick them into saying I am their favorite parent, they are too wise [or loyal to Mommy] for my paternal trickery. One of them doesn’t want to hurt my feelings and will respond with “Daddy, you know I love you both the same” while another simply says “Mommy!” as if it was a stupid question to begin with, and then the third will answer in the way that is most beneficial in the moment; in the end, I know Mommy is truly the favorite regardless of the answer.

I do think of myself as a veteran in this area of a new baby with previous experience under my belt for this process, yet, there is always the moment for which I long that is after the admissions process, after the instructions from assistants, doctors, nurses in the O-R prep room for surgery, when all has been done to usher us in and take that baby from Jennifer’s womb. It is the moment when I hear the first whimper of a cry and see for myself that little fellow being measured and weighed, and then will I breathe a sigh of relief, snap a few pictures with one camera while dizzily videoing the room with another. In that moment of solace my world will seem to stop briefly as I witness the introduction of mother and child in a world that is both no longer divided and yet severed at the same time. I can’t wait for the sweet moment of tears and joy as a new life emerges with body and soul. I long to hold that baby boy and see his little eyes and ears and nose. I long to grasp his little fingers ever so gently and think about how tiny his little fingers are, to look into his little eyes and see the blank slate of learning before me. I look forward to seeing the relief on Jennifer’s face after nine months of preparation and the beginning of a new relationship occurs. I look forward to holding him high in the air and being thankful to have been found a worthy parent to be given the responsibility of molding and shaping yet one more child.

Yes, today is the day before the night before four, and I feel like I kid on Christmas Eve waiting to see what tomorrow brings.

The Blah, blah, blah blog

After deciding to write a blog, I asked my wife if she wanted to read my blog.

Me: So do you want to hear my blog?

Jennifer: No, I do not want to hear your blog.

Me: Do you want to read my blog?

Jennifer: No, I don’t want to read your blog.

Me: Oh… ok then.

Jennifer: (breaking the uncomfortable silence) Do you know what “blog” sounds like? Blah! Blah, blah, blah, blah.

In fact, if you say it ten times in a row fast enough, it just sounds like the rumblings of an idle engine. And so it goes with so many blogs, but instead, they are often but not always idle ramblings. People blog about everything from politics to education or someone’s trip to the other side of the world. Some people blog about their college days, while others blog about their grandchildren. Blog topics are as available as there are people with stories and as interesting as there are people of interest.

In a way, the bible is like a blog. As a blog with a purpose it is filled with events all conveying different experiences from different perspectives. It is loaded with narratives, biographical stories, poetry, instructional literature and futurism… everything but fictional writing. In the case of scripture, the “blog of God” is the truth in its rawest form and anything but random. Everything is laced together with divine precision and deliberate revelation of God’s purpose for His creation. Just like a blog, it’s availability to the reader is readily accessible [at least in our great land]. In the same way, we choose to read it or not. We can flip through the history of stories and occurrences and relate to the authors emotions behind the writing. In a similar way, we can comment upon what we read and choose to agree or disagree with the perspectives in the words, sentences and commands that come from the very mind of God himself. Likewise, we can choose to say that it is really not worth our time and decide not to subscribe to the divine precepts but instead choose our own.

Regarding human blogs, my wife makes a good point and whether she chooses to read my words or not [which is inconsequential because she will generally hear them anyway] remains her prerogative. But in fact, I agree with her, much of what people say to each other does amount to blah, blahs and idle chatter.

So, will my blog have a purpose? What can an Arkansas delta preacher with a wife and four kids bring to the blogging world? For me, I simply feel compelled to jot down random thoughts, observations, and experiences as they come my way - come what may. Whether my blog amounts to a blah of idle words or not remains to be seen, but nevertheless, I choose to rumble.

Why I Really Don’t Want to Blog

So, I have decided to give the blog thing a whirl. I really hate starting a blog for the following reasons:

1. Step 2 in the process is to “Name Your Blog”. The title of the step seems to be written with such excitement and happiness and I am experiencing neither. The name is everything, right? The pressure to think of the right name is awful. I have had the same screen of this step up for a while now and still can’t pull the trigger… Trigger. There’s a name. No, that’s too much like Tigger, and I can’t stand Winnie the Pooh.

2. I am generally insecure with myself and loath the idea of placing my thoughts on a page on the off chance that there are some who might choose or want to read them.

3. I am nervous about not having a proofreader to correct my potential errors in grammar and punctuation. [In a world long gone now, I would be equally concerned about my spelling but I am indeed thankful for the red underlines provided by my computer.]

4. It seems a little narcissistic. I mean it’s not like I am some radio or TV personality continuing on in cyberspace ranting thoughts on a blog by public demand. The very act of starting a blog for someone like me is self initiated with the assumption there is some interested reader out there with nothing better to do than stare at a screen of random thoughts from my head.

1. Granted, I do have a mother who will be interested in reading every word out of personal obligation if not just simple maternal interest.

2. If my grandmother could work her computer she might not only read them, but print them off and hang them on the refrigerator for her friends to read. She is very proud of me, of course. I could write about the color green and she’d love it.

5. I don’t have time. Even now I feel like I should be doing something else. Being able to sleep right now would be nice.

6. I might not stick with it. What if I end up being that person who has one or two entries that just sit for an extended period of time demanding that the following entry explains apologetically why I haven’t blogged in a while? It seems like that could be a little embarrassing. Even now I am thinking of years past when I had some nicely bound blank book with snowcapped mountains on the front in which I wrote the words “Well, It has been a while since I've written…” I mean, really?

7. I probably won’t be completely honest. I’m sure I will feel compelled to restrain some thoughts out of sensitivity to others who know me, or worse don’t know me well enough.

1. What if something happens that I find incredibly funny that reflects someone’s stupidity or lack of judgment? If I write about it, even with a fog of ambiguity, they might read it and be upset.

2. Writing about me personally will also be clouded. Who really wants to be completely and publicly vulnerable?

3. What if I want to cuss? Just kidding, I don’t cuss. It just doesn’t occur to me to do so.

8. I will certainly be made fun of, but hey, that comes with just about everything I do. I don’t want to care that it happens but I do. I won’t let it show and I’m sure I’ll blow it off and walk away. But, in the quiet, still, darkness of night I’ll be in the fetal position rocking back and forth out of intense pain and misery. Not really... I'm just as likely to be that way in broad daylight as well.