Sunday, June 24, 2012

June Traditions


For some reason, perhaps because June is the month for weddings (something to do with the ancient goddess Juno), I was wondering about the common practice in our culture for the bride's family to absorb nearly all the cost of the nuptials.  Having been father of the bride once and with four more prospects, this economic practice has very real implications for me.  While the bride price has a rather mixed history, it does make sense to me that after bearing all the responsibility of preparing daughters for adulthood that Dad should get some compensation.  Right?  Or, should I just be grateful that a dowry isn't expected as well?  

Sting Like A Bee


Mom did a lot of little things to make our cramped quarters more livable.  One was to acquire a wooden picnic table and benches which sat outside on the patio.  Occasionally on warmer days, we would eat dinner there.  One balmy afternoon, I was sitting at that picnic table, absorbed with one of my 'vroom' toys, either a small metal car or a small metal airplane.  You will recall that I swore off plastic airplanes after a bad experience

In the impatience of adulthood, I forget how easily a child slips into the world of play, to a place and time that is quite imaginary and yet so real.  My children often remind me what a strong external stimuli is required to break into that other place.  I was somewhere that long ago day.  Not at a simple wooden table outside of a tiny trailer.  

I was yanked back to reality by a sharp pain in my hand, the one not occupied in propelling my toy.  I looked over in time to see a bee buzz away, leaving a throbbing poison sac at the end of the stinger plunged into my skin.  I was stunned.  First, by the injustice of being assaulted by a bee when I had done nothing to provoke it.  (Children DO have a strong sense of justice, after all).  Second, by the burning sensation that was rapidly spreading through my hand.  I did the only thing a sensible child would do: I began howling for Mom and ran into the house to find her.  She carefully removed the stinger while I scarcely was able to watch.  Mom kept me within eye-shot for awhile to look for any signs of truly dangerous allergic reactions.  But other than my hand swelling and developing a few purplish-red blotches on my skin that faded after a few days, I was no worse for the experience.  I gained a new respect for bees and still marvel at beekeepers surrounded by swarms of bees, seriously doubting their good judgement.  The 'Killer Bee' invasion had me worried for years. 

The bee sting was one of many maladies in the years of childhood which sent me to Mom.  As time went on, I discovered that in this big world there were limits to Mom's ability to fix things.  She couldn't always make it better.  But there were and are no limits to her compassion, or her faith in the Creator of this big world.  And when I need prayer, I make sure to let her know.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Father's Day

After seeing the movie 'Courageous', I asked the pastor of our church if he had thought about including something about the Courageous Resolutions in our Father's Day service.  Well, he thought it was a good idea and asked if I would be willing to take that action item.  [Moral of that short story: If you make a suggestion, be prepared to be the solution].  That is the context for what follows.

A Story of 2 Men
THEIR LIVES
Both grew up in homes that were less than ideal.  One had his mother die when he was young and had a father prone to drink and anger.  The other saw his parents divorce when he was a teenager.  Both signed up to serve in the armed forces as soon as they were old enough during the time of the Korean conflict.  One joined the Marine Corps and became a mechanic maintaining armored vehicles, the other went into the Air Force with hopes of being a pilot, but his eyesight was not quite good enough and he became a munitions technician for jets.  Both married while in the military and their eldest children, both girls, were born in military hospitals.Neither was much for travel.  After leaving the military, each man held a single public sector job for decades until retirement, living in a single home for those same years.  Both men enjoyed playing guitar with friends and occasionally at local venues.Both men spent a lot of time tinkering in the garage.  One had 4 children, one had 3 children.Both have grandchildren, both are now well into retirement.

THEIR LEGACIES
In spite of the surface similarities, there was a key difference that dramatically impacted their legacy.  One was a man of faith in God who kept his marriage vows - the ones that say "till death do us part" - for 46 years.  The other kept his vows until the responsibility of fatherhood became more than he could handle.  He divorced his wife after 10 years and married another woman who could focus her attention on him.  So, here is the legacy of the man who divorced after 10 years: Among his children and grand-children, 10 marriages (of course some of those are repeats), 8 divorces, 5 children born out-of-wedlock, siblings that can hardly bear the sight of each other, grandchildren floundering in life.  The legacy of the man who stayed the course: Among his children and grandchildren, 6 marriages, 1 divorce, no out-of-wedlock children.  In addition to that, his children and adult grandchildren are married to believing spouses and furthering his legacy of faithfulness.  Holidays and birthdays are a joyous time of family reunion.  The father who didn't finish the job is my Dad.  The father who stayed the course is my father-in-law Hal.

REDEMPTION
I have already talked about how my Dad's absence affected our family here and here.  We ended up in an Assembly of God church in Fallbrook which just happened to be where Karen and her family were attending.  Her brother and I became good friends.  Then, when I was 13, Mom moved our family to Wyoming where she is from.  What makes Hal's story even more compelling is this.  He knew the sad statistics from my family of origin.  After 5 years in Wyoming, I conspired with Hal's son to show up on their doorstep when I was a directionless 18-year-old, and the family took me in.  Hal put his own reputation on the line to recommend me for my first two jobs, including one I had for over 8 years that supported me while I worked through college.  And when it became clear that geography was destiny for his youngest daughter and I, he provided wise counsel.  Later, he gave his blessing to my joining his family as son-in-law.
Coming from the background I did, I knew if I got married, I wanted it to last forever.  But, when it came to fatherhood, I still felt the absence of a role model.  Thankfully, in addition to my father-in-law, God put my in the company of other faithful dads.  I watched them and their children and saw them 'getting it right'.  They were and are great examples.  For the longest time, I wrestled with the opening phrase from the Lord's prayer:        
     "Our Father, who art in heaven..."  (Matt. 6:9)
A father in heaven seemed even more remote than my earthly father.  But, from watching these men and from the blessing of my own 5 daughters, I have come to understand what a father's love is all about.

RESOLUTION
Men can and do have an influence on their children and grandchildren, and other men and their children.  But, it doesn't happen by accident.  The right kind of influence takes the intentionality captured so well in the Courageous Resolution.  The verse from Joshua that sums up the resolution came at the end of his life.  Joshua was an old man looking back at his own legacy of leadership.  Early in his life (see Joshua 1), he was told three times by the Lord to be courageous.  His spiritual father Moses was gone, and he was being handed a big responsibility to guide the nation of Israel.  He took hold of the heritage he had, and the faithfulness of God he had seen, and lived a life of courage.  At the end of the journey, he could say, "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord."  Men, regardless of what has happened up to this point (and believe me, I still fail as a father), we can resolve like Joshua to be the men God wants us to be.
Proverbs 27:17 > As iron sharpens iron, so one man sharpens another.
Ephesians 6:10 > Finally, my brethren, be strong in the lord and the power of his might.


Thursday, June 14, 2012

Those 2 Boys


Remembering a fallen father.
Up at the end of our street lived the two Ellinger boys with their parents.  Their dad was in a tank battalion in the Marine Corps.  He served and died in Viet Nam.  I don’t remember meeting their dad and have little recollection of their mother.  I do remember the boys.  Mike was about a year younger than I, but like almost every boy near my age, he was bigger than me.  His younger brother Tim was about my brother Philip’s age.  Somewhere along the way, perhaps in the park laundry room, Mom and Mrs. Ellinger struck up a friendship that continues to this day.  Each would occasionally watch the other’s children and of course when birthdays rolled around invitations to simple celebrations were extended.  So, we would spend time with the Ellinger boys.  This was not my idea of fun.  As a kid, you have two kinds of acquaintances: those you choose, and those that are chosen for you.  Now, I wouldn’t say that Mike and Tim were bad characters.  In fact, as far as I know, they turned out all right.  It was just that when I knew them, especially Mike, they were the kind of boys that most parents marvel at due to their seemingly boundless energy matched by an equal propensity for mischief and squabbling.  Tim also had an annoying habit of leaving tooth marks in the rims of Mom’s Tupperware tumblers because he liked to gnaw on them.  In honest retrospect, they were the normal boys.  I was the one on the low end of the curve when it came to seeking adventure.  Other than feeling overwhelmed by their boisterous company, the only other experience I specifically remember involved a tandem bike ride on a non-tandem bike.  It was an adult bike that I assume belonged to the Ellingers.  It had some kind of flat rack on the back that I was sitting on while Mike was on the real seat peddling.  I had my feet perched precariously on the nuts that held the rear wheel on and was hanging on desperately to the rack.  In the trailer park, there were ‘speed bumps’ to keep cars from going too fast.  These were effective for bicycles as well.  We hit one of the bumps and the impact was enough to cause my foot to bounce up and then catch in between the frame and the spokes of the still-turning rear wheel.  The curious sensation of my skin being rubbed off my inner ankle quickly became painful and I howled for Mike to stop.  Somehow, we got my foot out from between the wheel and the frame and I hobbled home.  The large abrasion healed in time…  

What it meant for the Ellinger boys when their Dad didn't come home in 1968 became a little more real for me over 30 years later.  I visited Washington, DC with my own family and we stopped at the Vietnam Memorial - The Wall.  I found Franklin M Ellinger etched in the dark granite and thought about two red-headed, freckle-faced boys, now grown men, and wondered…

Friday, June 8, 2012

DIRT


Dirt is uniquely fascinating for small children.  As parents, we invest a tremendous amount of energy in our children's cleanliness.  This is entirely at odds with a child's natural attraction to dirt as a source of entertainment.  Not to mention that dirt is known to be able to detect clean children up to 100 feet away.  (Remember 'Pigpen' from 'Peanuts'?)  Dirt comes in an endless variety of colors and textures.  Just add water and you have something even more useful: mud.  So many things can be made from mud.  At the beach, in the yard, in parking lots, children head directly for sand, dirt, mud and water with parents trailing along behind shouting such foolish admonitions as 'don't get sand in your hair' or 'don't splash in that puddle'.  Why not?  I have never heard of a child suffering serious harm from too much [external] dirt.  Yet, as a parent, I persist in the age-old battle.

"My" Tonka Buggy
All that to say, I was a normal child in my own appreciation for dirt.  On one side of our trailer was a small asphalt parking space, on the other a small plot of grass yard.  But, underneath was dirt.  Some trailers of the nicer variety had aluminum 'skirting' to lend an air of permanence to these houses with wheels and axles temporarily set up on blocks. Ours lacked such cosmetic elegance.  With the trailer somewhere between two and three feet off the ground, there was plenty of room for a small boy to sit underneath and play.  The dirt underneath our trailer was plain brown dirt.  It wasn’t the dark and rich kind farmers like to roll through their fingers or light and gravelly decomposed rock or even gray with lots of clay.  It was just medium brown dirt.  It was packed pretty firmly, but on the surface was a layer of loose stuff -- just right to grade roads with.  One Christmas, both my younger brother and I received Tonka Toy dune buggies.  Dune buggies were quite the rage in those days, and these were small-scale models of the ‘real thing’, right down to the flower decal on the hood.  My hand was just wide enough to match the width of the dune buggy.  So, I would sit for hours in the cool shade underneath our trailer carving elaborate roadways for my dune buggy and making those odd ‘vroom’ sounds boys favor that are so incomprehensible to mothers and girls.  When I was under there, it was my own little world.  I can only imagine what it looked like: a small boy running his hands in the dirt or pushing a small, metal toy car endlessly.  Either Philip was too small or just didn’t find dirt as appealing as I did, because I don’t remember spending much time with him down in the dirt.

I discovered that the dirt underneath the trailer had a mind of its own.  At one point, I had some boyhood treasure that I wanted to hide.  Now, why it is important to hide treasure is obvious: you don’t want the pirates to steal it.  Pirates always know how to find treasure unless you bury it.  My treasure was some kind of small medallion, an award from Sunday School.  It was in a little hinged plastic box.  You know the kind.  The bottom half was opaque and the top was clear to display the ‘treasure’.  Secretly, I fetched a large spoon from the kitchen and headed for my refuge underneath the trailer.  After making sure no pirates were watching,  I dug a small hole and reverently placed my treasure down inside.  Then, I covered the hole carefully to make it appear as if no hole had ever been dug.  Now in my simple mind, I made sure I buried it in the center of a line going down the middle of the trailer, just a little way from the rear.  Not wanting to risk it, I didn’t draw a map or take measurements -- pirates might find the information.  Sometime later, after the danger had passed, I went back to recover my treasure.  But, it wasn’t there.  After digging down in what I was sure was the right spot and finding nothing, I expanded my search until there was quite a large hole.  But, I never found my treasure.  I concluded that there had been a shift in the tectonic plates of the earth and my treasure was probably miles away, perhaps under the sea bed.  Like the parable Jesus told, I found that burying one’s treasure is a sure way to lose it.  Treasure is meant to be shared, not hoarded, and when I buried my treasure, it was taken away.  Now, that ‘treasure’, if it still exists, is decayed and ruined and neither I nor anyone else got any enjoyment out of it.  So now, I try to put my treasures to use to bring joy to others.  Except, of course, for pirates.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Wives and Daughters


In our bookish home, we read for inspiration, not just information.  Charles Dickens (so far as I have read) always succeeds.  There is a richness in Dickens that cannot be found elsewhere: unforgettable characters are very good, very evil, very silly, very simple and often a combination.  We have found another author from that era equally ennobling: Elizabeth Gaskell.  Gaskell weaves a more subtle tapestry than Dickens, creating characters a bit more human, a bit more believable.  I just finished reading her final, not-quite-complete novel: Wives and Daughters.  This was after viewing the BBC mini-series.  Yes, I know this violates my 'read before movie' precept.  My family forced me into it, truly.  Tied me to the couch and pointed my face at the screen and sat a bowl of popcorn on my lap.  At that point, I gave in.

GASKELL and DICKENS
Wives and Daughters shares a common theme with a splendid Dickens work: Little Dorrit.  Both tell the story of a young woman coming of age without a mother whose strength of character is sorely tested by the foibles and weaknesses of those around her.  Both illustrate the clear boundaries of class in England at that time.  Of great importance to me, both show the unique place a father has in the heart of his daughters.  Both show the value of good character in attracting the right partner.

In Little Dorrit, the father is a flawed, weak man with a misplaced sense of his own importance given his residence in debtor's prison.  Though he no doubt loves 'Little Dorrit', the tension between who he wants to be and who he really is causes him to frequently hurt her while favoring two older siblings who are ungrateful and selfish, and following their father's pretentious footsteps.  The father in Wives and Daughters is a wise, loving, albeit stern country doctor who makes one crucial mistake: thinking his nearly grown daughter is in need of a mother figure to replace the wife he lost when Molly was young, when she really just wants more of her father's precious time.  In spite of this vast difference between the two men -- one with significant flaws, the other with significant strengths, both authors show how deeply each daughter loves their father, simply because of who he is.  You can see why a Dad would like that, right?

BOOK VERSUS MOVIE
Both books were turned into BBC mini-series by producer Andrew Davies.  These are  compelling dramas.  Here are excellent reviews of Wives and Daughters, and Little Dorrit. Though a century and a half removed from the time they were written, Davies mostly 'gets it right', particularly with Little Dorrit, where he had seven and one half hours to work with.  Wives and Daughters is about half that, making it at times feels rushed.  In both, Davies leaves out a crucial element.  The books have clues to the source of Molly's and Little Dorrit's goodness.  It would be easy to say they are simply illustrating the romantic innocence of young womanhood.  But no, the stories have other young women not so noble and other noble characters that are not young women.  There is something singularly, divinely beautiful in the life of one who consciously chooses to subsume their desires in a surrender to other-centeredness.  This is what Dickens and Gaskell recognize.  References to Providence or The Good Book are not by accident.  They lived in an era where science was making broad leaps forward, but the rejection of a Divine Creator had not yet happened.  They recognized that science cannot produce goodness, nor can it thwart evil.  The power to love, particularly one's enemies, is super-human.

In the movies, you see how good Molly and Little Dorrit are.  In the books, you better understand why they are good.  And that is why I want my daughters to read.  In the end, I was reminded of how I need to treasure the time I have with my daughters and how I must prepare them to give their hand to the next man in their life.  These are stories I can point to and say, isn't that the kind of young lady you would like to be?  And so far, the answer has been 'Yes'.