No, I don’t mean “time is hilarious.” Time is… peculiar.

This morning, as I was getting dressed, I looked at my forearm as it emerged from my sleeve and thought, “That looks like the forearm of an old man.” At 50, I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me to have revelations like this, but it honestly surprised me. I stared at my arm blankly for a minute, thinking of the inevitability of the aging process, and the peculiar manifestation of it in the texture of that region of skin.

You’re History

Ten years ago, in 2002, I was not yet writing this blog. My mom had passed away in 2000, but my dad was alive and living with my sister in Georgia. I think Mom’s passing was one of the milestones that caused me to look in the mirror and say, “You’re on your own now. You can’t go running to Mom anymore for advice about how to live your life.”

The truth is, I really had leaned on Mom for advice over the years. Most of what I know (or think I know) about parenting, came straight from Mom. (The rest of it came from watching Mom and Dad. Dad wasn’t particularly verbal about parenting issues, at least with me, until the last five or six months of his life.) In contrast, Dad was someone who I saw as a “meaning of life” counsellor. Back in 2002, I didn’t lean on him for that kind of advice nearly as much as I should have.

Now, as I look in the mirror, I see more of Dad in the various aging signs of my body. I see Crow’s Feet and age spots that resemble his, and occasionally telltale signs like the aforementioned wrinkles in the skin of my forearm. I also see signs of stress, the loss of naiveté’, thousands of lessons learned, and more than a few sleepless nights.

Your History

Five years ago, in 2007, I had just started blogging, perhaps out of feeling a sense of mortality. What drove me to do so? Was it the arrogance of thinking that I possessed some collection of wisdom or truth that had somehow escaped others?

Actually, I think it was a realization that I wished I had listened more to things that Dad had said (or wanted to say), but that I had never taken the time to hear. I felt the need to capture, if for nobody else than my sons, some of the things that I always wanted to discuss with my Mom and Dad. I wanted to put down, in as permanent a form as possible, stories and lessons, observations and ideas, and all manner of things that I felt my sons might one day want to read. I wanted to answer, in advance, some of the questions that they might wish they’d asked, at some future date when I might not be there (or might not be able) to answer.

In the (generally forgettable) “I, Robot” with Will Smith, there is an interesting scene where Spooner (Will Smith) holds a conversation with Dr. Alfred Lanning (James Cromwell). The device Spooner uses to carry on this conversation projects a hologram of Lanning, and can respond interactively in Lanning’s voice and with his gestures, but only with the relatively limited information that Lanning programmed in.

It occurred to me a few years ago that this is what this blog is. This blog is a device for communicating, to those who would ask, the various things I thought about and felt strongly enough about to capture within a post here.

To be sure, a blog like this is a redacted version of my thoughts and feelings. This may capture the “text of my life,” but it quite obviously doesn’t state the subtext. I suppose one could argue that, with this blog in-hand and a decent knowledge of my life, you could figure out much of the subtext.

Along the way, I met some new people (other bloggers), found an audience (on occasion), and have compiled enough of my thoughts here to fill a book or two. (At least one book, “Don’t Blink,” a compilation of parenting tips and advice, will result from this.)

In Passing

Since I’ve started blogging, I’ve also lost several friends (including a fellow blogger or two). Where possible, I’ve gone back to read their Facebook pages, or their blogs. Sometimes, it’s not possible to read my friends’ thoughts anymore. My hope is that anyone whose life I’ve touched will be able to, if they choose, retroactively hear from me. This form of communication isn’t immortality, but it remains a way for express and demonstrate my love long after my passing.

You see, communication is what takes us from singular, isolated beings and makes us part of something larger than ourselves. When we choose to not communicate, and intentionally isolate or hide our thoughts and feelings from others, we become less. To be certain, we are safer, and not at risk of the pain when we withdraw and exclude. We also lose our ability to love and be loved.

My passing may bring an end to my ability to receive love, but why should it bring an end to me expressing it?

We discussed a wide range of topics. Last night, while shopping, we’d discussed the design of intake systems for performance cars (the merits of hood scoops versus cold-air intakes). Today we talked of Facebook, parent-child relationships, and sexuality. In other words, just another typical conversation with one of my sons.

In the middle of his junior year of college and with his older brother married and living 90 miles East of us, you would think that I would be accustomed to my younger son being four hours-away. You would think that him being home for several weeks over the Christmas break wouldn’t create an intense sense of loss as I watched him drive away today. You would think I’d have seen this coming.

You would be wrong.

Mirror, mirror…

Both of my sons, for good or bad, look quite a bit like me. Just yesterday, when my younger son went to get his license renewed, someone who didn’t know him said, “Are you Tim’s son?” The family resemblance is strong enough that a friend of mine from high school, not having seen me for over twenty years, met my older son and immediately asked the same question. Both of my sons have heard “You look so much like your dad” that they’ve long since started to expect to hear it.

Today, as we sat and talked, I noticed that he was briefly distracted, watching someone intently as they walked from the drink dispenser back toward the counter. I turned to look. My son had been distracted by seeing a toddler step away from her mother at the drink dispenser, and wander off looking for her father.

I smiled to myself. The boys don’t just look like me.

“Pass the changing roles please…”

Several years ago, just prior to my father’s death, Dad came to live in our house. During those all-too-short months, some of the most remarkable experiences I had were our late-night conversations about theology. Dad, having been formally trained at a Southern Baptist Seminary, took great joy in wandering down lesser-travelled conversational paths in his search for the truth, and this became even more evident late at night when he would suddenly become unusually talkative.

During one of our more memorable conversations, we were discussing the Biblical story of Jesus and the woman caught in adultery (John 8:1-11). Dad looked at me thoughtfully and said, “Did you ever wonder what Jesus wrote on the ground?” He was speaking of verse 8, where Jesus writes something in the dirt with his finger, prompting the religious leaders that were about to stone the woman to drop the stones and walk away. Dad continued by saying, “I wonder if he wrote the name of a mistress of one of the men about to stone her, or maybe some other shameful secret that all of them knew.” We never came to any solid conclusions, but I loved having this kind of conversation with him.

Today, sitting across the table from my son, I asked him for his opinion of a project that I was considering. I asked because the project might be considered controversial to some of my theologically conservative friends, and I was concerned about the potential reflection it might have on our church, and who people perceive me to be.

He looked at me and said, “Well, I don’t remember Jesus worrying about spending too much time around prostitutes and tax collectors. It seems to me that he hung around with all sorts of people, and not just the religious ones.” The people in question aren’t prostitutes or tax collectors, but they’re definitely a group that most Christians spend little time on or with. As of now, I haven’t yet decided whether or not to take on the project, but I found my son’s comments thought-provoking, to say the least.

Life Shared vs Barter-dom

As I sat in my car, watching him drive away, I suddenly realized why my own father took such joy in such conversations. It wasn’t because he wanted to pass along some grand theological truth to me. In fact, I doubt that it mattered too much to Dad what it was we talked about.

Dad knew, as I’m beginning to understand, that being intimately connected to someone has little to do with the exchange of favors. We don’t create intimacy and love by saying “If you’ll do ____ for me, I’ll do _____ for you.” Sadly, many relationships are built on such bartering. I know of at least one couple that treats sex this way: “We can have sex if you’ll take out the garbage this week and help me get the house clean.”

Last weekend, my younger son turned 21, and I joked that now my parenting duties were complete. My friends reminded me that there were many more things left for me to take care of, not the least of which would be grandchildren. Even so, him reaching this age does mark an important milestone, and it caught me a bit off guard. He’s on a different road now.

Perhaps it’s my own feelings of mortality, but I was struck by wondering how many more of his birthdays would I be blessed to enjoy? How many more casual lunches would we have where we could pick and choose the topics randomly, completely unconcerned with the need to discuss a particular subject? How much more life would we share?

Road Scholar

Just before I backed out of the parking space and started to drive home, I posted on Facebook, “And just like that, he’s gone again.” I don’t know, as my son officially gets on this particular road, what lies ahead of him, but I feel quite confident of his ability to navigate it well.

As I made my turn and went the other way, I did so with caution, blinking hard. For some reason, my vision had just become quite blurry.

This particular morning was different though. This morning, for the first time in twenty years, there were three people in the house on Christmas morning, and not four. Now the old question goes: when your son gets married, are you losing a son, or gaining a daughter? As I sat in the stillness of Christmas morning, it didn’t seem like a rhetorical question.

Lost & Found

On Christmast Eve, as we exchanged gifts at my older son’s house, it seemed clear that I had gained a daughter. We had transparently added her to all of our traditions: we now had a stocking for her hanging from the mantle, we had shopped for presents for her with the same sense of joy that had filled us when shopping for the boys, and she now found herself the victim of the friendly razzing that goes on in a close-knit family.

However, the feeling on Christmas morning was more somber. With nobody else awake and stirring around, I was alone with my thoughts, and suddenly acutely aware of the change.

“This is how it begins, I suppose…” I mumbled to myself. Soon enough, everyone would be up, the traditional chocolate-chip pancakes would be cooking, and we would (since Christmas fell on a Sunday this year) get ready for church.

I stopped and thought about this. Since my older son wouldn’t be here to eat his share of the pancakes, there might be some extra for me. Rather than taking joy in this, I felt a twinge that accompanied the thought.

Christmas Passed

Thankfully, the melancholy didn’t last long. As I sat, I suddenly remembered a similar morning 28 years ago: my first Christmas morning away from Mom & Dad, celebrating it instead with my wife of (at that time) six months.

Suddenly, the melancholy was replaced with an onslaught of memories of the intervening years, and how traditions began in our house to replace and supplant the ones I’d shared with my parents. In a few years, my younger son would be following suit, celebrating Christmas in his home, and not mine.

Sooner than I’m probably prepared for, both of the boys may be blessed with children. If so, then the traditions they forge with their families will become something precious for them to enjoy, though for a shorter time than they expect, and then someday look back on as I do now.

If only they can be so lucky.

Merry Christmas!

What Kind of Love?

What kind of love did this man have, that he would go down to the end of the road, every day, and watch for the son who had scorned his love and provision? What kind of love compels someone to wait patiently, even when love isn’t reciprocated, on the outside chance that someday, they will return?

Depending on the day, the father probably started doubting himself. “What did I do?” he must have asked, or perhaps “What did I say that drove my son to leave me this way?”

Can you imagine how, with each passing day, he might have been more and more discouraged? Did he ask about his son in town, or pester his son’s friends about his whereabouts? Did he go roaming through the countryside, searching high and low? Was he endlessly chasing after his son, never truly letting him go? Perhaps the father had an even greater love than that.

What if the father loved the son so much, that he hoped for the son to find the desire of his heart, no matter what that might be? Is it possible that the father loved the son enough to say “goodbye,” knowing that the son’s pursuit of his dream might never lead him home? What if the son said, “I never want to hear from you, ever again.” Did he love his son enough to honor the desire of his son’s heart this way?

With no way to know if his son was alive or dead, the father did the only thing he knew to do: wait.

Prodigal People

It’s been my experience that most of us have “prodigal people” in our lives. Sometimes, they “go to a far country” without leaving our house. Sometimes, they spurn our affection and provision. Sometimes, they must say “goodbye” to us in some way, so they can pursue the desire of their heart.

How will you respond? Will you arrogantly and smugly give them up for dead? Will you hope for them to suffer, and come crawling back to your door? Will you sit and dwell on the many ways of saying “I told you so” or something similarly caustic, should they ever darken your door?

(By no means am I suggesting that we should martyr ourselves for those we love, and let them be abusive toward us. Those we love clearly must understand that words and actions have consequences, even in the midst of love. Those consequences, however, should not include witholding love.)

What then, from their perspective, would they expect to hear upon their return? Based on how you’ve behaved in the past, would they expect to be welcomed home, as the father welcomed his long, lost son? Or, will they expect to hear indignant, selfish words (however justified) of your pain?

Selfish or Selfless?

What if they are unsure? What if, as they approach the house (metaphorically speaking), they are too frightened to walk up to the front door and knock? Is it possible that the only way they will summon the courage to “come home” is if they see you, standing at the end of the road, waiting for them?

It’s true that if you do this, you may wait forever, and feel the emptiness of uncertainty. But then, who wants to be loved with a love that risks nothing? Who wants a love that costs nothing? Wouldn’t each of us, if we are wearing the Prodigal’s shoes, want to be loved with a love that waits patiently, forever? Wouldn’t each of us want to be loved with a love that selflessly sends us off to pursue what we desire, instead of selfishly holding onto us for themselves?

Stand. Watch. Wait.

Forever.

Years ago, a farmer and his wife were sitting down to dinner with their teenage son. The son (behaving as teenagers have a tendency to do), was upset with his parents over what he perceived to be unfair rules, which they had put in place for his protection.

Unable to see their rules as a sign of love and caring, the son lashed out lashed out and said, ”You are the worst parents in the world. I can’t believe the way you treat me. I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!!!”

The farmer, boiling with anger, said nothing. Instead he stood up, pointed to the son’s room, and waited until his son received the all-too-clear message. Being stubborn, but not stupid, the son quietly got up from the table, walked quietly to his room, and shut the door. For the rest of the evening, not a word was spoken by anyone in the house.

The First Day

In the morning, the start of a beautiful summer day, the farmer went out early to put up some new fencing. The son, having nothing else to do and feeling remorse over his behavior, went out to where his father was working, picked up a hammer and some nails, and began to help.

All day long, not a word was spoken. The family sat down to lunch, ate in silence, and then the father and son returned to quietly work on the fence. Dinner that night, was the same routine, until the son could stand it no longer.

“Dad, I…” he began.

“Shh!” was the immediate reply from the father.

He was a man of few words, but the brevity and intensity of his response shocked even the son. Along with the father’s harsh reply came a look that obviously meant business. The son, unable now to verbalize his apology, finished his dinner, nodded an unspoken “thank you” to his parents, and then went to his room. He waited, wondering if the father would knock on the door.

The knock never came.

The Second Day

The following morning, the father and son returned to work on the fence in silence, and not a word was spoken in the house or between the son and his father the entire day. The son worked as hard as he could.

The father looked at his son, nodded with his head toward the house, and then headed in that direction. The son, unsure of what this meant for the clearly unfinished business of the fence, followed several steps behind.

When the father stopped, he was at one of the corner posts of the gate, right next to the house. He turned to the son, and handed him three large nails and the hammer. The son took them, but had no idea what it meant, or what he was supposed to do.

“Hammer ‘em into the post” the father commanded. It was not a request.

The son did as he was told, taking care to drive the nails carefully, though his father gave him no indication exactly where the nails should go, or how deep they were to be driven. After the third nail was deep within the wood, the father reached out and took the hammer, and returned to the place in the fence where they had worked before.

The Third Day

On day three, the routine repeated itself, and the father and son were sweating as they worked on the new fence. Noting that his father was holding several large nails between his lips as he swung the hammer, the son took advantage of his father’s inability to respond verbally.

“Dad, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” he blurted out as quickly as he could.

The father stopped his work without looking to his son, looked at the tools in his hands, and slowly returned to positioning the fencing, taking a nail from between his lips, lining it up, and hammering it with even greater intensity than he had been using before. The son stood, helpless. He knew his father heard him, but the lack of any direct response crushed him.

Taking the cue from the farmer, the son picked up a handful of nails, and returned to work on his portion of the fence. As he worked, he struggled to see clearly, due to the combination of sweat and tears that were clouding his eyes. After several misplaced blows from the hammer that instead glanced off and struck flesh, the son noticed that his father had stopped working, and was watching him intently.

Without a word, the farmer turned and walked back toward the corner post they had visited the day before. Once there, he stood and looked at the nails intently. The son had followed, hammer in-hand, and waited to be handed more nails, to be driven for some as-yet-unknown reason.

After several minutes, the father looked at him and said, “Pull ‘em nails out.”

Confused but obedient, the son took his hammer and quickly pulled the nails out, one-by-one. He had driven them in deeply, so it took a bit of effort, but after a few minutes, the nails were out, and he held them out for the father to take.

Instead, the father said nothing, instead going into the barn, and returning a minute later with a bucket of white paint and a brush. As the son watched, the father began to dab paint into the holes, slowly filling them up. After several rounds of this work, the fence appeared unscathed, as good as new. By now, the son’s confusion was palpable.

His father looked at him and said, “I forgive you.”

The farmer closed up the paint can, quietly put it back in the barn, and then returned to the place where he had been working on the fence. The son watched, and eventually joined him, working in agonizing silence.

As lunchtime arrived, the father and son set down their tools, and headed toward the house. As they passed the corner post, the father stopped and examined his repair. The son was impressed by how difficult it was to spot the holes now, given the rough texture of the wood, and the skill of his father at fixing them. Still, he was confused and unsure what to say or do.

“Hateful words are nails. Sayin’ you’re sorry pulls ‘em out, and forgivin’ fills ‘em in…” the father began.

After a moment, he continued, “…but no matter how ya fix it, the holes are still there.”

Epilogue

The father never elaborated on the lesson, but allowed its truth to simply sink in, and sink in it did. Every day as the son left the house, he saw the corner post. Every day, he thought about the nails he’d driven into it, matching his “I hate you” outbursts that night at the dinner table.

Likewise, every day, he thought about pulling them out, and how the process mirrored his sincere but feeble “I’m sorry” response. Sometimes, he would stand close to the post, searching for the repair, and the holes. Over time, the weathering of the wood and subsequent coats of paint made finding the holes he’d made impossible.

Years after his father had passed away, he found the post a powerful reminder, and stopped there often, even though doing so brought back the sting of his words, and how hollow his apology must have sounded. Apologies are necessary, are healthy, and are a part of life when mistakes are made. As he grew, the son learned to apologize early and often.

Forgiveness, he also had learned, led to healing. Forgiveness was necessary, was healthy, and part of life when mistakes have been made. The son learned deeply the value of forgiveness, both given and received. He learned to forgive carefully and completely.

As the son grew, he learned to apologize and forgive. More importantly, he learned to stop himself before words ever left his mouth. He learned to appreciate the value of weighing words carefully before speaking, the way his father had. Through his life, he never forgot the lesson of the fence post. After all, even now, a generation later, next to a quiet, lovely farmhouse you’ll find a barn, some fencing, and a corner fence post.

And the holes are still there.

Here’s the scenario:

You’re stranded on a busy expressway late at night, your family in the car with you. The outside temperature is in the low 20′s. You’re in an old car, long since paid for, but sadly, not covered by towing insurance. In fact, it’s not clear how far you might be to a towing service, or how far it might be for them to tow you to civilization, much less your home.

You get out your cell phone and try to decide who to call at such a late hour. You look through your phone’s contact list. Name after name scrolls by. Who would you call if you need to be rescued in such a situation?

I am asking this hypothetically, but I’m curious about the real answer for any of us. Who do we call, and why do we call them instead of someone else?

Here’s the text: