Todd: Jobs; Around the House, the Heart Is Where Dads Do the Real Work

I have long followed Todd Wilson, a homeschooling father like me, who goes across the country speaking to other homeschooling dads and moms, unlike me. If I had boundless energy and established donors and speaking contacts, I still wouldn't have the God-given anointing to do what he does to bring homeschooling families the encouragement he does.

Todd's transparency, his willingness to admit his failures to live up to his own ideals, places him in a unique class of legitimacy and sincerity. His tag line, "You da dad!" means simply that each father occupies an irreplaceable role in the lives of his children and that each of us are called to step up and fill the role. It doesn't shift with the changing nature of relationships and the sense of impermanence that pervades today's society. We are the ones who shape the next generation into what they will be, by our presence or, regrettably, by our absence. Our children need things--irreplaceable things--from us as dads that they will never get from their moms or from anyone else in their lives; our approval and our blessing, to name two.

Did I get all this by listening to Todd? Maybe. Or it could be that he simply confirmed what I've known in my heart all along. Regardless, I've grown under his leadership and direction as he teaches by his own life and experiences, which enables his sometimes brutal honesty to cut through all the malarchy and flotsam of being a parent and a person in ministry, two roles I can appreciate more than most.

His latest dispatch from the trenches was about the passing of Steve Jobs, one of the most visionary leaders of technology the world has seen in the past 200 years, perhaps since creation. No, I'm not putting you on, and yes, I'm a PC person. I haven't supported Apple since the Apple IIc in 1985. Yet, even the most hardened PC proponent must recognize Jobs' role in making the technological world what it is today. Nonetheless, Jobs' accomplishments didn't really matter in the big scheme of things. Nor did Newton's or Edison's or anyone else's. They were all human, they died, and what really mattered was who they loved and who loved them. That's true greatness. Todd gives hints of this in his latest update.

Hey Dad,

I hope you’re doing great, but I’m feeling a little somber. It started last night as we were gathered in the familyroom to watch one of the original Anne of Green Gables movies. My oldest son Ben (18) walked into the room and announced, “Steve Jobs just died.”

I imagine it was a little like that evening in the 60’s when they announced that Walt Disney died, especially for a technology kid. Ben is also a techno-kid, so for the last 2-3 years he’s kept us abreast on all the latest Apple inventions and upgrades, Apple stock, and the news that just a few weeks ago Apple passed Exxon as the most valuable company in the world.

Today, the tech-world is eulogizing him…recounting his story, his unique personality, and the gizmos he invented that have helped shape the modern world.

To tell you the truth, I can’t stop thinking that all he worked for, sacrificed for, and cared about…didn’t really matter. Don’t get me wrong. I think all the iGadgets are cool, but I would just about bet that he wasn’t thinking about iGadgets during his last few moments.

In fact, his name will soon fade (my little kids didn’t know Walt Disney was a real person), and someone else will control the iUniverse.

The truth is that some things matter and some things don’t…iThings don’t matter but iDads and iHusbands DO.

So, Dad, go love your wife and children…and change the world!

You ‘da iDad!

There's little to say after all that, except that, the further I go in living with my disabilities, I'm realizing that my role as a husband and a father has so much less to do with my abilities than it does with my heart and my will. I could never lift a finger again and yet be a successful father. Though I can't walk out my love for them by providing for them and working with them on things, I can love them with my heart, my eyes, my words, and my care of their hearts. I will not always have them in my home as I do now, but being a father, as my own father is showing me, never goes away. I will live forever, and I will love forever as well.

Much peace,

Adoption Is A Love Most Wonderful

Something very close to my heart is adoption. No, I have not adopted a child, but I'm very open to it, if finances allow. Stories that feature adoption continue to move my heart. I believe it's because I've grown in my faith to view myself as a child of God, which very closely parallels adoption. Paul repeatedly used adoption to help his readers understand the faith, telling the Romans, Galatians and Ephesians that as Christians, we are adopted as sons (and daughters) into God's family.

Like everyone else born on this planet, I was born into the wrong "family." I did not know God in my heart. I was lost, and, if God Himself had not intervened, I would have died never knowing Him, nor ever finding my true home. He did intervene, thousands of times before I was born and likely many more after. He chose me, not because I was better or worse, happy or sad, or even because I was born to good (or bad) parents. He chose me because He loved me. He made me His son when I had no concept of what that meant.

Adoption is a most wonderful love. It says, "You belong to me. I give you my family and those I dearly love. I give you my name that identifies me, so that you and I are linked together for all time." Perhaps this story that my daughter found on a friend's Facebook page best reflects this. I guarantee you will appreciate reading it.

Of Summer, Steaks and Suffering By Comparison

It's been a tough few weeks. Physically, I have more energy, but pain, insomnia, and "fibro fog" have also been high.

Here we are at the end of June already! It seems like only a few days ago, we were sitting down with our long-time friends, Andy and Sarah and their family, to a dinner of the best steaks I can remember eating. They were that good! A slow cook over charcoal made it even better. Great googly-moogly, if you want to make me salivate this 4th of July, offer the following menu!

From Training A Child To Training A Young Man

We interrupt our regularly scheduled blogging for a very important letter from a father to his son. 

 Dear Son,

This letter is reaching you in April on your birthday, but I started it in January. Something this big is going to take planning and I need to get all the head start I can. I'll get to that in a moment.

You're 12 today. Yea! A solid dozen years of life is now under your belt, and that's terrific! Things haven't been easy for you all the time. You've stuck to your chores, and as you've gotten bigger and more capable, we've given you new ones. However, it's not just that you've grown more capable. You've grown more responsible as well. You don't shirk from doing the job you've been assigned.

You've learned the physical and demanding game of football, so much so that I respect your abilities and your talents. If you continue to practice, work hard, and stay true to your desire, you could certainly play high school in a few years, and from there, there's only One Who knows how far you can go.

Because of these changes and because you are my son, we're going to be training you in things that men are expected to be able to handle. I will teach you all I know about plumbing, household maintenance, car care, and more. I'll train you in driving. I will help you begin to think defensively and how to guard yourself and your loved ones to protect them as best you can.

I will be giving you scriptures to memorize so that you have His Word hidden in your heart. I know from experience that there will be times in your life where you are glad you committed the Scriptures to memory, times where having a Bible is too impractical but where you can bring up out of the storehouse of your heart the solid, insightful truth as you are led by the Holy Spirit. That is the true use of the Sword of the Spirit.

I will be praying with you, teaching you how to meditate, and how to cultivate an active prayer life. I've already worked with you on hearing the Spirit. My hope is that we can improve on this with time and patience.

We will consider all of this part of your homeschooling, but more importantly, I pray that in the end, you will consider this the most valuable part of your early education. I say early education because, really, you never stop learning. But if you start good, if you have a clean, stable foundation, whatever you place on top of it will be in good shape.

Son, I love you. I know you are getting older and I am racing to fill your mind and heart with what you need when you leave. I pray I give you everything God wants me to give you. If I do, I know I will have done as good a job as I can. In the end, I want to hear "Well done! You are good and faithful. Enter into your Father's happiness." As you grow, you will hunger for that more also.

As we move forward, my goal is not to create another "Steve," but to help you become the best you possible in God's sight. Remember that this may not be the same as the best you in the sight of the world. We need to keep talking about this as we go.

I love you, son. We are different in some ways and the same in others. In all, I find you a wonderful boy and future man. You bring me happiness and thankfulness. You are a blessing of God in my life, and I am thankful for you.

Love,

Dad

A Celebration Of Life, Of Memories, and Of Love

Writing, it seems, makes thoughts stick.

My dad is 70, as of August. His own dad never made it to 70. Perhaps as a celebration of sorts, he is writing his memoirs. And he's doing so with the patient help of my mom. I'm very proud to know he's doing this and more than a little excited! His memories are parts of my own history, and more importantly, a legacy that I can pass on to my own children and their children's children. That is, if Jesus doesn't come back before then, which is one of my dad's favorite caveats. He's anxiously waiting for Him, and so am I.

Still, if He does delay, I will have the memories of my dad long after he passes on, in the earthly sense. I say "in the earthly sense," because my dad really won't die. Sure, his body may stop living, and I will be very sad to see him leave. But he's going somewhere special. ;-)

A friend lost her uncle, in the earthly sense of course, last week. She's sad and we talked for a while, but like Paul said, we don't mourn like those who have no hope. The more I think about death, the more I am convinced it doesn't exist for the Christian. Again, we see the body they leave behind, but it's uncanny how many times I have heard relatives, after they've viewed the body of their loved one, state that their loved one isn't there. Call it a "death mask," or whatever, but based on my own experiences, I can confirm that the body is a shell that we leave behind and that dying isn't the end.

So, if Jesus does not return before I die, I have my dad's writings to help me remember and hold onto the good. And if that isn't something worth celebrating, I don't know what is! Whether with a camera, a paintbrush, or a pen, it is a good thing to make memories stick. Death cannot claim them if we are sure to make them last.

Fishing Beaver Dams

This post was originally published on my first blog, "Dad's Corner." 

It was hot. It was humid. And every few feet or so, you had to protect yourself from being slapped in the face by willow branches. At the age of 11, they stood over me like a forest. Marching though the morass, I was sure my dad was crazy. Perhaps he was driven by the thought of pan-fried trout with lemon juice. I'm not sure. But we were doing something that other people could think was fisherman's excess. We were fishing in beaver dams.

Beavers are engineers that use the materials at hand to construct massive dams across small brooks and creeks as part of making their home. Their dams retain significant amounts of water. Some dams can achieve a massive size, sometimes filling up most of a small valley. In these small reservoirs, trout breed and grow, sustaining small, industrious beavers and large, crazed fishermen.

These dams that we were in were not so large and they were choked by willow bushes, their elastic branches slowing our progress. Long grass would cover up beaver channels, which would be 1 or 2 feet deep with water, providing a soaking for whoever is fortunate to find them. My dad and I were prepared for this with hip waders, long thigh-high rubber boots that kept your legs dry...when they didn't leak. They were heavy, and in the days before neoprene, hot and sweaty.

With my dad's approval, I went down to the dam below him and worked my way through the willows toward a point where I could fish it. I approached the water and tried to get down to what looked like the perfect spot. I saw my next step, a bank of darker sand and I took it, putting all my weight on what looked like a sand bank. My foot and a good portion of my leg plunged into the brown bank which was actually a combination of mud and silt. My knee sank in and I was up to my thigh before I could compensate and pull back. To my horror, my leg was stuck and I couldn't pull it out. I panicked. I thought for sure this was some obscure form of Rocky Mountain quicksand that would be the end of me. I could see my dad searching for me only to find my little fishing cap sitting on top of my muddy grave.

I yelled-no, screamed-for my dad. When he didn't respond in the millisecond I patiently allowed for a reply, I screamed again. Soon a far-off voice called, "What?"

"It's got me! It's got my leg. I can't move!"

"What's got your leg?"

"The mud! Hurry! Come quick!"

"Just a second."

I allowed two seconds before I screamed again. "Dad!"

"What?"

"Come get me!"

"I'll be there in a minute."

Oh great! We've gone from seconds to minutes. "Dad, I can't get out!"

"Are you stable?"

"Well...yeah..."

"I'll be there in just a minute. Can you fish from there?"

"Well...yeah..." I was now faced with the odd task of carrying on with life as normal while I balanced on my right foot with my left leg gripped by the mud of death. I tried to fish, half-heartedly, and didn't catch anything. But the panic began to subside and my hot tears dried up. I even began to feel an odd sense of confidence that I would be all right. By the time the willows announced my dad's imminent arrival, I was relatively calm. He reached down and pulled on me, slowly freeing me from my muddy trap.

Whether we caught any fish that day, I don't remember. But what I carried out of that beaver dam was much more valuable than what I had set out for. I found that what looks like sand can often be mud, that panic is normal but not helpful, and that my dad would always come for me when I needed him, but on his own sense of timing, not mine.

Oftentimes, God hears a panicked prayer and responds with less-than-equal enthusiasm. It doesn't mean he doesn't care or that he isn't concerned about our feelings. But what I feel is often different from what's really happening. He knows where I am and he is strong and able to save me. Then why doesn't he do it right away? Because I have to learn that panic is not the response that gets his attention. Fear is the root of panic and the opposite of the love and peace he so much wants me to know and walk in. I could not find it if he would fly to my rescue every time. It's only when I am quiet, when I put aside my panic and fear, that he can speak words of comfort and peace to me. I must wait on him; wait for him to rescue me.

Proverbs 3:25-26, Psalm 91:3