Cause and effect

Deuteronomy 8:10-18 (NIV)

When you have eaten and are satisfied, praise the Lord your God for the good land he has given you. Be careful that you do not forget the Lord your God, failing to observe his commands, his laws and his decrees that I am giving you this day. Otherwise, when you eat and are satisfied, when you build fine houses and settle down, and when your herds and flocks grow large and your silver and gold increase and all you have is multiplied, then your heart will become proud and you will forget the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the land of slavery. He led you through the vast and dreadful wilderness, that thirsty and waterless land, with its venomous snakes and scorpions. He brought you water out of hard rock. He gave you manna to eat in the wilderness, something your ancestors had never known, to humble and test you so that in the end it might go well with you. You may say to yourself, “My power and the strength of my hands have produced this wealth for me.” But remember the Lord your God, for it is he who gives you the ability to produce wealth, and so confirms his covenant, which he swore to your ancestors, as it is today.

In the last few days, Jack has had a crash course lesson in cause and effect. Not that we haven’t tried to impart such wisdom earlier, of course, but it really seemed to crystallize in the last 30 hours or so.

On Sunday, Jack got to go to my parents’ house after church. The rest of us came back down late in the afternoon for dinner. Near the end of the evening, Jack was getting dessert. I was walking through the house and noticed the light on in the office, which was empty, so I flipped it off. I thought nothing of it.

(Our children leave lights on and toilets unflushed wherever they go. If I charged them a quarter for every switch flipped and handle pushed I could outsource the job to someone who would do it for a dime and we’d both be able to retire early.)

Jack, on the other hand, thought a lot of it. Turns out he was headed back into the office with a bowl of ice cream. But instead of saying, “Dad, I’m going back in there!” or even “Hey!” he just grunted, put his ice cream down and stomped off into the basement. I turned the light back on for him and told him so, but it was no use. He pouted the rest of the time we were there, strongly resisted leaving, carried his sour attitude home and gave us a bunch of trouble about getting in the shower. En route to being forced to brush his teeth, he said a few choice words that cost him his screen time privileges for a week.

Yet through it all, Jack maintained the entire ordeal was my fault because I was the one who turned off the light. He refused to take ownership of anything — not a pattern of leaving lights on in vacant rooms all over the house, not refusing to explain his displeasure, not coming out of his funk in time to eat his dessert, not dragging his feet on the shower, not saying things he’d been warned not to say just a day before, nothing. By his logic, my one innocent mistake not only ruined his entire weekend but also gave him license to respond in the worst possible way.

I calmly explained to him, and later wrote out, how it was his decision to react poorly that led down the path of disappointment. I can admit making a mistake, but I’m not going to let him think another person’s error is a free ticket for him to carry on so rudely without repercussion. I’m sure my words fell on deaf ears and blind eyes, but I have got to keep trying to get through here. The world is going to forgive us all a fair amount of transgressions. But I’ve not met a successful adult who wasn’t willing to take at least a little blame when everyone can see where the fault lies.

His next lesson in cause and effect was a bit more practical. It came this afternoon at the dentist’s office, where he blatantly lied in answer to the “have you been brushing every day?” question. His response of “I missed a day or two” rang false the second the dentist saw the orange plaque on his lower teeth. As the dentist scraped away, Jack clenched his fists, tensed his legs and whined. Max, who had begged to come, said to me, under his breath, “is this really how Jack behaves at the dentist?” The dentist joined me in another calm explanation: If you really do brush your teeth every day, then you won’t be subject to all the scraping. Again, deaf ears I’m sure, but at least he didn’t have any cavities this time.

We had another kerfuffle right before bedtime tonight. Long story short, Jack was playing with a Charlie-sized toy. Charlie took exception and reacted the way two-year-olds do, and then Jack reacted the way two-year-olds do as well, which is not the desired outcome for someone who is almost nine. As all three kids got sent off to bed, Jack again tried to place the blame anywhere but on himself. He insisted he had a right to be angry.

You do have a right to be angry, I assured him, because he was right about that. He was playing with the toy first and, while he could have shared, he did not blatantly ask for Charlie to get mad at him. However, it is how he displayed that anger that led to the problem. Feel free to be angry, but don’t respond with immaturity and dangerous behavior. We keep reminding him if he doesn’t care for the punishments he should consider not causing the infractions in the first place. Yet his energy remains dedicated to explaining why he’s never at fault.

I’m in my early thirties and I’m sure I don’t always link cause and effect as well as I should. As good as I am in recognizing this (and other) shortcomings in my kids, I can be equally unable to identify them in myself. So while I will keep plugging away at trying to break through to Jack (some day he’ll understand it, or at least stop denying it, right?), I might also be well off to turn more of the focus inward to make sure I’m not overlooking my own giant stumbling blocks.

A prayer for February 18:

Lord, help me to pay more attention to the lessons I refuse to learn. It is wonderful to feel I might be growing and changing for the better, but I realize I’m probably overlooking certain mistakes I make so often I’ve almost assumed they’re part of the scenery. But it doesn’t have to be that way. Because of your power and your love, I have the ability to address all my challenges. You give me what I need to overcome. Be patient with me God, for I may be slow to adapt. But I want to make myself a better person, more worthy of you. Don’t ever give up on me. Amen.

Looking back, looking ahead

Jeremiah 9:23-24 (NIV)

This is what the Lord says:

“Let not the wise boast of their wisdom
   or the strong boast of their strength
   or the rich boast of their riches,
but let the one who boasts boast about this:
   that they have the understanding to know me,
that I am the Lord, who exercises kindness,
   justice and righteousness on earth,
   for in these I delight,”
declares the Lord.

On this, the 300th consecutive day I have tried to formulate thoughts about parenting and prayer and turn them into cogent writing, I was brought back to the very beginning. As I’ve noted several times, this project was inspired by two specific parts of my church life. The first was a congregation-wide evangelism study our small group tackled during Lent 2012. The second was a moment of inspiration at the end of that study in the midst of a sermon from one of our associate pastors.

Well, Lent began Wednesday, and there we all were today, our small group gathering in a Sunday school room after worship service to share lunch and begin our journey through another all-church Lenten study. Just minutes earlier I had been in the sanctuary, listening to that same associate pastor preach yet another moving sermon, her last for our congregation before she moves to California at the end of the month.

In some ways, I feel like I’ve grown a remarkable amount over the last 300 days through focusing on scripture, committing to praying daily and especially just taking stock of my emotions and actions with an eye toward living with intent and purpose instead of just reacting to whatever comes along. Yet in other ways, I feel I haven’t grown at all, that if anything I’m a bigger disappointment to myself because even after doing all that stuff I just said, I’m still making mistakes left and right and having many of the same struggles with the kids as we faced last April.

Of course, those warring internal perceptions might be considered healthy. I need to feel like I’m making some progress, otherwise I’d just become frustrated and quit. But if I ever feel like I “solved” something or had everything figured out, I’d be like a person mentioned in the passage form Jeremiah, boasting of wisdom or strength. My favorite part of the passage is the careful distinction that the one who boats should boast not of knowing God, but of having the understanding to know God. As I read that, it says “Don’t tell people you know God — you can’t fully know God. But what you can say is your heart and mind are open to God, and that you are guided by God’s capacity for kindness, justice and righteousness.”

One of my recurring themes is how a life of faith and regular prayer does not make me better than anyone else. I still consider myself broken, sinful and in need of God’s saving grace. I do feel my belief is a sustaining force, that it helps me live differently than I would if I did not know God. I understand plenty of people think their lives are entirely complete without any faith whatsoever. I’m just different. I feel my life is only complete because it is built on faith and everything I have that is worth anything is only enriched through God’s many blessings.

I frequently return to the big-picture question: “What kind of parent do I want to be?” And as I plod along searching for a big-picture answer, I find lots and lots of little answers, building blocks contributing to a larger assembly. Unlike a set of Legos, where the finished product is pictured on the box and step-by-step instructions come inside, I’m more of a constant work in progress, perpetually subject to change. Further unlike Legos, I’m not the one putting all the pieces in place. Rather I am the pieces, and I’m trusting God to continue to mold me into something resembling how I was designed in the first place.

Letting go of my instincts can be incredibly difficult. Even though I’ve been rewarded for doing so in the past, and burned when I resisted, the chance to assert my own control (or the perception thereof) usually is too great to ignore. If I do anything in the next 65 days of this effort, I hope it is to take time every day to catch myself in a moment, completely stop and pray for God to take over.

I keep trying to tap into things like God’s kindness, justice and righteousness. While I still think that’s the right aim, what I’m actually doing is attempting to claim those things as my own attributes rather than ask God to use me for those purposes. I have to continue to break down my self-built walls and allow myself to be reshaped in God’s image. I don’t want to struggle each day with choosing my way or God’s way, I want to just fully know what God’s way is and live accordingly.

These last 300 days have been meaningful. If nothing else I’ve gained a deeper appreciation for the blessings of fatherhood and the enormity of the attendant responsibility. I hope and pray to be the father my children deserve. Some days are better than others. I really feel I’m trying my best, yet I realize some days my best isn’t good enough. That’s why it can’t be “my” anything, it has to be God, working through me. If only I can let God in to make it happen.

A prayer for February 17:

Lord, I thank you today for perspective. For the reminders of how and why I started this project. For the windows into other parents’ lives and struggles. For the appreciation of why this hard work is important and the potential lasting benefits. Continue to guide me, God. Mold me and use me however you see fit. Do not let me take pride in my achievements, do not let me forget how I need you to accomplish anything of value. Make me a better person, God, that I might be able to teach my children how to live in your love. Amen.

'I told you so.'

Psalm 84:8 (NIV)

Hear my prayer, Lord God Almighty;
   listen to me, God of Jacob.

“I told you so.”

That’s what Jack said to me when I picked him up in the busy school office this afternoon because he spiked a fever.

“You told me what?” I asked, because I am long past the point of being surprised by anything Jack says to me in public.

“That I had a headache. I told you that before school and you didn’t believe me.”

“That was yesterday, buddy. You didn’t say anything about a headache this morning.”

“Well I still had one!”

And there we were. Not sure how to respond, I just drove him home. I’d offered to leave work to get him because Charlie was taking a nap at home while Max was at preschool. Plus Kristie had to take Jack and Charlie out to pick up Max about an hour after Jack got home anyway. And since Jack was sick, we canceled by babysitter for tonight and I went to our small group alone. I knew that would be the case since Kristie has a knit night with some girlfriends set up for Saturday, so me doing the “get the sick kid” run just seemed like the best way I could help.

When Jack was a baby, I was a newspaper reporter working semi-regular hours and Kristie was a band director working well more than 40 hours per week. Once her maternity leave ended, we tended to schedule Jack’s doctor appointments (outside of regular, planned-well-in-advance checkups) when I could take him. I don’t think my dad ever took me to the doctor as a child, so it never occurred to me that was something I could or would do as a father. But it proved to be a rewarding experience.

For one thing, it made me feel like I knew everything going on with his well being. I knew where to go or who to call if there were an emergency situation when Kristie was gone. I was able to be his guide and guard when shots or other uncomfortable measures were needed. Even when Max came on the scene I was pretty involved with the medical stuff for both kids. If one of them was sick, there was no sense bringing the healthy one to the medical facility. Sometimes it just fit my schedule better than Kristie’s to swing by for a regular vaccination.

Even with Charlie I’ve had at least one memorable (for all the wrong reasons) solo trip to the pediatrician. For some parents it’s probably seen as a tremendous chore, and with good reason, but I greatly appreciate the flexibility that allows me to be involved on this level. Being the adult taking a child to the doctor — even when the child is in grade school — very directly reminds me of my role and responsibility as a father.

That said, for all my involvement in certain parts of my children’s medical histories, I am not always the most nurturing parent. I am very good at hugs and whispering “it will be OK” on a virtual loop. I have gotten pretty handy at administering medicine to unwilling recipients (so long as they are human; cats are another story). But when a child wakes up sick in the middle of the night, my main contribution is waking up with them and being able to roust Kristie. And perhaps remembering where we keep the puke bucket.

But I don’t ever remember anything about how to deal with childhood illnesses other than hoping the kid sleeps it off. You give what for a fever? How many days before we call the pediatrician? No, I don’t remember which ear he was tugging. I am not scared of blood, but I typically do not keep my cool when one of the children is bleeding. Just about the only way to make sure I’m level-headed is for Kristie to be so anxious and unsettled such that I am subconsciously and unusually serene. One inexplicable strong suit of our partnership seems to be an uncanny ability for only one of us to be off kilter at a time. This has helped keep many potential crisis situations from blowing over.

But again, “I told you so.” And I didn’t have a comeback. He had told me so about 36 hours earlier. It’s his first illness in several months. That probably means no time outdoors Saturday enjoying the abundant snow in our yard. He may have to miss his Blue & Gold Cub Scout banquet Sunday, and we may need to have a plan for dealing with him that morning when we both have to be at church by 8:30 a.m. for a bell choir run-through. Then there’s the fear that whatever bug is responsible for Jack’s fever has already infected the other two. I guess someone has to be Patient Zero.

But hopefully we’ll be out of the woods soon without much extra concern. Getting sick every so often is more or less a part of growing up. And next time Jack has a headache, or even thinks he does, I’m sure he’ll cling to today’s experience and insist he be allowed to stay home because, “Remember what happened last time?” If there is a next time, I’m getting Kristie involved. That way even if everything else plays out the same way, we both can be on the receiving end of an “I told you so.” Because sharing is the best.

A prayer for February 8:

Lord, our life is filled with so many blessings, all it takes is for one tiny piece to be outside the normal bounds for me to get a deeper appreciation for just how well suited I am to the typical routine, how important it is to me for us to have stability and predictability. Please help me use this time to fully consider my role and responsibility as a father, and give me the strength to try ever harder to rise to the best of my abilities. Amen.

A long night ends in contentment

Psalm 146:5 (NIV)

Blessed are those whose help is the God of Jacob,
   whose hope is in the Lord their God.

“You don’t think I’m overreacting, do you?”

That was the question Kristie asked me as she carried our nearly two-year-old son to the van around 12:30 a.m. today, bound for the nearest emergency room. I’m no doctor, but the sound of my own son struggling to breathe is unmistakable. I reassured her we’d made the right choice, then came back inside to wait for some form of communication.

Owing to some other family news, my mind had already been active — perhaps not racing, but certainly not placid — when I heard Charlie making noise over the monitor in our room. Kristie had just nodded off, so I elbowed her to get her attention. In a matter of seconds, she said, “That doesn’t sound right” and sprang into action. Charlie was crying and wheezing, struggling for every breath. He could barely cough to clear up the congestion. He didn’t want water. He was miserable. The choice was obvious.

Jack and Max slept quietly, oblivious to the ongoing drama. I got caught up on some reading on my computer. Then I tried getting caught up on TV. Eventually, struggling to stay awake, I took my charging cell phone upstairs, plugged it in near the bed and turned on the TV. This was most definitely a “minutes feel like hours” scenario.

At 1:42 a.m. I got a text message: “Croup. steroid, zofran bc he was vomiting, breathing treatment. Now cool mist through a mask.” We traded notes, and by 1:50 I knew all there was to know. Twenty minutes later I jolted awake as my phone buzzed again. Apparently it gets pretty boring being in a patient room with no TV or windows when you have to hold a nebulizer to a pale, wheezing toddler’s face for 60 minutes. Not to mention the unpleasantness of not being able to change your clothes after your kid gets sick on you.

The communications continued throughout the night, as did the treatments. A text Kristie sent at 4:25 a.m. revealed just how nervous she’d gotten on the way to the hospital via confessions of some abused traffic rules. It wasn’t until this afternoon she told me she’d heard Charlie’s breathing get progressively worse on the way and dialed up 911, ready to press the send button if he stopped trying to inhale.

When she finally carried Charlie into our bedroom sometime after 5 a.m., with him wearing a toddler-sized gown and wrapped in clean, warm, bright white hospital blankets, I pulled him close and stared deep into his eyes, gently stroking his hair as we both drifted quickly back to sleep. I can’t recall any specific emotions from the moment. I knew a long day was in store since I’d have to get up to get Jack off to school, and Max would be on his regular schedule as well. Sure enough, when 7:30 hit all three boys were ready for action.

Croup generally subsides during the day, which was the case for Charlie. Aside from an earlier-than-usual nap and being whinier than normal around dinner time, everything was normal. I followed doctor’s orders to purchase a cool mist humidifier. As I write, he’s asleep in his toddler bed with the vapors blowing directly at his head. I can hear him cough every so often and am hoping it doesn’t escalate to another midnight run to the hospital. It’s historically warm for late January in the Chicago suburbs, and you can’t beat midnight traffic, but really, I’ve grown to prefer nights at home to nights at the emergency room.

To be perfectly honest, I don’t think I prayed about the situation last night, at least not with any clear focus. This morning I drove Jack to the bus stop, with Charlie in tow, eliminating my normal time to walk and reflect. Also Jack forgot to put on his glasses, so as soon as I got home I tossed Max in the car and we drove the spectacles over to school. I certainly thought of God and tried to pray, but no real words came to mind other than “God, help” and “Thank you.” Still, I think that was enough to convey my feelings to the one who knows me better than I know myself.

This is exactly the sort of thing you sign up for when you choose to become a parent. Thinking of stories of my mother and grandmothers, I realize it’s also a lifetime commitment. No matter how old your children are, there is always a chance they’ll need your help. It may not be in the middle of the night, but it doesn’t matter what the clock says when your kid needs you. We thought we were in for a normal night of sleep, just like the hundreds beforehand, ever since he learned to sleep through the night. But we quickly learned otherwise, and then instinct took over.

In times like these, I am reminded just how important it is to have chosen the perfect (for me) partner in marriage and parenthood. Our ability to communicate effectively is never more important than when the stakes are high and time is brief. The flexibility our current lifestyle affords enables us to put our children and family above all other Earthly needs, and I hope it’s serving the boys well. I’m not interested in making the kids feel we’ve sacrificed for their benefit, but I do hope they grow to appreciate how much we value them and how seriously we take our responsibility to nurture.

Nights like these should be, eventually, blips on the radar, mere dots in the big picture of raising a child from birth to the brink of adulthood. They will be stories to share with other parents as we seek sympathy and solace, but scarcely worth considering compared to the larger challenges ahead.

But for the moment, the experience remains raw and real. I’d like to not repeat it ever, though I suppose we did learn a few things to be better prepared if there is a next time. Every day provides a chance for new experiences and different ways to learn about the many ways I can show my love for my family, some are just more outwardly positive than others. But so long as we’re all experiencing this life together, there’s joy to be found around every corner.

A prayer for January 29:

Lord, I have so many things for which to be thankful it’s difficult to know where to start. Some days it seems all I do is thank you for my family, but that’s because nothing else ranks so high in my life. It often feels like I have been given this family — the one I was born into, the one I married into and the one I am raising — so I could come close to understanding your love for all creation. I know I’ll never fully comprehend the mysteries of your love and grace, but you have given me more than enough to appreciate every day on this planet. May we continue to build our family on the foundation of your love. Thank you so very much. Amen.

The Pinewood Derby

Isaiah 48:7 (NIV)

They are created now, and not long ago;
   you have not heard of them before today.
So you cannot say,
   ‘Yes, I knew of them.’

It was our first Pinewood Derby. It hopefully will not be our last. But after our car’s performance, I could forgive Jack for not wanting to try again. On the other hand, there’s nowhere to go but up.

First, the raw details. The track has six lanes, and each Scout’s car gets one run down each of the lanes. For Jack’s age group that meant there were 12 total races. Max and I sat along the track near the finish line, Jack stood behind the trophies with a full view of the track and, most importantly, the timer that showed the speed of each car as it crossed the finish line.

Our first Pinewood Derby car. Hopefully not our last.

There were 87 cars in the Pack 627 Derby. Jack’s car finished 79th overall and dead last among Bear Scouts. As he so eloquently put it, with a scowl upon his face, “I got sixth place six times in a row!” Our car’s average time was 3.9574 seconds — the only consolation being the eight kids who couldn’t break the four-second barrier. Jack’s average speed was 163.7 mph. This is pretty impressive until you look at the top times — 199 mph for the Bear winner and 202.3 mph for the overall champion.

Jack also did not win the coolest car award, as voted on by fellow Scouts, or the design award, as decided by race organizers. He mostly kept his composure despite the frustration, though I could not ignore the disparity between the beaming, trophy-holding Bear Scouts posing with Jack’s Den leader while he started to pout just off camera.

I knew before we got there it would not go well. I’d never built a Pinewood Derby car, but I knew sawing off two corners to make it pointy (“Like an arrow”) and covering it with red spray paint was not the path to domination. I also knew it was not the best idea to start the project the day before the race, but I was not looking forward to the eventual blowup we had Saturday afternoon. Perhaps that’s a classic example of self-fulfilling prophecy, but I prefer to consider it the practical response to knowing one’s child as well as he knows himself.

If you're not the lead dog, the view never changes.

I will proudly say our car looked the most like the authentic handiwork of an actual eight-year-old. Jack had no idea what kinds of things you can do to turn a block of wood into a sleek, elite racing machine that’s just as cool to look at sitting still as it is racing down an aluminum ramp. Certainly we could have spent some time online looking at pictures and videos of other Scouts’ cars, but I did not want to inflate his expectations.

One of the other kids in his Den followed that path. I overheard him at our last Den meeting talking excitedly about his car and his plans to win all the races everywhere, but I knew his wouldn’t be the fastest at our race, let alone worthy of a grander stage. And I was right — it looked nice and was a half-second faster than Jack’s. But it was only good for sixth place amongst the 12 Bears. I’m not trying to run the kid down, but his mom has to deal with a different kind of disappointment than I do.

As for Jack? His initial reaction was anger. He wanted to destroy his car, perhaps taking a chainsaw to it. Where he’d get a chainsaw, I have no idea, but he was still committed to that outcome. I saved the car and hid it from him, if only for my own sentimentality. But while we were still in the cafeteria, he asked to be signed up for the upcoming Blue and Gold Banquet because he wanted to have a positive Scouting experience. During our short ride home, he was mentioning plans for next year’s car (much skinnier), which to me was a remarkable turnaround from the sullen display of just a few minutes earlier.

Next year we will plan ahead. We’ll do a little research and probably involve a friend who is handier with tools than me. In addition to building the car earlier, we’ll also have to manage Jack’s expectations better. If he works really hard and still loses every heat, he may become inconsolable. I suppose these are the kind of lessons a Pinewood Derby teaches you beyond how to build a car — to manage your time, to study, to win and lose with grace and so on.

Ultimately, I’m proud of my kid. Things didn’t go his way, but he managed his frustrations. He had no problem revealing them to me, but that’s what I’m here for — to allow him to be honest and open without fear of rejection. I need to be a safe place for him, even if it’s a burden to bear the full brunt of his third-grade rage. I also get to see him at his absolute best, so it’s not as if I spend my entire life as a whipping boy. It’s all part of being a dad.

Plus, we’re Cubs fans. “Wait ‘til next year” is a pretty familiar concept. Losing teaches important lessons, and we’ve started to learn them already. It wasn’t bunches of fun, but it was a good day.

A prayer for January 28:

Lord, thank you for the chance to spend time with my sons, guiding them through their childhoods. Thank also you for the lessons my father taught me, and especially for your instruction in so many different ways. Help me set a good example for my boys, remembering the example you set for us. Sometimes it can be so difficult to deal with disappointment, but never let me forget how your love never lets me down and that you promise ultimate victory. Your grace sustains me, and for that I am blessed. Amen.

Empathy at the airport

Psalm 27:7-8, 13-14 (NIV)

Hear my voice when I call, Lord;
   be merciful to me and answer me.
My heart says of you, “Seek his face!”
   Your face, Lord, I will seek.

I remain confident of this:
   I will see the goodness of the Lord
   in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord;
   be strong and take heart
   and wait for the Lord.

First things first, the flight took off as scheduled today. It was a little weird, after not having flown since July, to go through the exact same airport routine two consecutive mornings. All of the scenery was exactly the same, but all the players were different. There’s two guys seated right near us who say they were booked on yesterday’s canceled flight, but otherwise it looks to be full of people blissfully unaware of our struggles from Wednesday.

Among the new characters was a family we encountered on the train from the remote parking lot to the terminals. It was a mother traveling with her three young daughters. The mom looked to be a few years older than me, though her oldest daughter was easily a few years younger than Jack. The youngest was in a stroller but perhaps older than Charlie. Regardless, any time I see a parent herding around three children in my kids’ peer group, I’m immediately sympathetic.

As the train approached terminal two, the mother reminded her charges to stay close to her at all times, especially in the security line. As the doors opened, she struggled a bit with her rolling back and the youngest girl’s umbrella stroller. She ended up pushing the stroller with one hand — much harder than it looks with that model — and toting the bag with the other. I wondered why she didn’t put the oldest girl in charge of one or the other, then quickly considered if my kids could have been entrusted to do the same.

We were headed to terminal one, so as much as I felt pulled to help this woman get where she was going, I stayed on the train. I don’t know what happened when they got to the narrow escalators, but I have seen what happens with my kids on wide escalators during slow hours at a shopping mall, and it’s less than ideal. And we didn’t have a wheeled bag or a stroller.

Nor do I know how they managed while sending each child through the metal detector or body scanner, how the girls behaved while waiting at the gate, if they sat quietly on the plane. It’s likely she’d bought seats for just the older girls so all four of them were in the same row with the youngest taking up residence on someone’s lap. Envisioning myself sitting between Jack and Max (to keep the slapping and poking to a minimum) while also wrangling Charlie led me to the conclusion this family I observed was most likely flying out of extreme necessity and not casual desire.

I know millions of people fly every day, including thousands of children. The mother I observed clearly knew her way around an airport and had steeled herself with the resolve needed to soldier ahead, guarding her girls and getting to Point B as smoothly as possible. She did not appear in need of empathy, from me or anyone else. But still I found myself wanting to offer some sort of olive branch, even a simple sign of courtesy. When I’m traveling without my family, there is no “knowing glance” that conveys the message “I have three kids about their age and I’m hoping your day goes well. By the way, is there anything I can do for you in the four minutes we’re breathing the same air in this little train car?”

And would she have wanted to hear the message? I’ve gotten more than my share of grocery store glances that scream, “Boy, do you have your hands full!” — and that’s just form the kind souls who don’t have the audacity to come right out and say so. They almost always have a friendly tone (even if to cover their inner voice screaming: “Three children? Are you crazy?”), but I wonder how my boys might feel if they realize they are the subjects of the inquiry?

This is a scenario where Jack’s tendency to be oblivious to his surroundings is beneficial. Max, however, who soaks up absolutely every external stimulus he encounters, might not be too far away from asking, “Dad, why did that lady ask you if your hands are full? You’re not carrying anything.” I can answer him honestly, and I can think of several questions I’m much less like him to ask based on grocery store observances. But still I’d prefer my kids not get the message that strangers perceive them to be a burden.

I read the Psalm excerpts last night as I prepared to write on the plane, and I have the same question then as I do now: what does it mean to seek the Lord’s face? I can answer in the larger sense, but on a day-to-day level, how does that pursuit manifest itself in my personality and approach to life? When I’m going through the motion of getting on an airplane, is there something I can or should be doing to be actively seeking God in that moment?

I did not pray for that family on the train at the time we were together, though I think I will now. I tried my best to be polite and courteous to those I encountered this morning, though any human is capable of having good manners and does not need to have a deep and abiding faith at the root of those outward appearances. And really, I don’t feel entirely comfortable forcing matters of faith into every possible situation. I could have said “God bless you” to the lady who made my tea at Starbucks, but that borders on trite. A polite “thank you” serves the same essential purpose.

So while I’ve not explored fully at this moment, I’ve given myself something to consider going forward: how and when can I seek God, and how do I teach my children to do the same? We can have confidence in God, can wait patiently to see God’s goodness come to the land of the living. And we can find opportunities to pursue God’s will for us in every setting. It won’t happen by accident, but neither is there an obvious map to lead the way.

A prayer for January 24:

Lord, thank you for hearing my voice. Thank you for your mercies, your love and your grace. As I explore all the ways I seek to be closer to you, it is comforting to know I am not chasing you but simply tying to meet you where you are. I am in pursuit, but you never change, always caring, always loving, always ready to hear a prayer. Your goodness never fades, your blessings continue despite my sins. Thank you for your forgiveness. Amen.

A change of plans

Ephesians 5:8-14 (NIV)

For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light (for the fruit of the light consists in all goodness, righteousness and truth) and find out what pleases the Lord. Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them. It is shameful even to mention what the disobedient do in secret. But everything exposed by the light becomes visible — and everything that is illuminated becomes a light. This is why it is said:

“Wake up, sleeper,
   rise from the dead,
   and Christ will shine on you.”

I was supposed to be writing today from 30,000 feet in the sky, but I did not get to board a plane this morning. Long story short, the flight was canceled and we’ll try again Thursday. The upside was I decided to take off the rest of the afternoon from work so I could pick up Max and then Jack from school, and my unexpected presence let Kristie go to a school meeting tonight while I stayed home with the boys. Max knew I’d be getting him after school, but Jack had no clue. It was pretty neat to watch his facial reactions to seeing me standing in the gym. Some surprises he can handle just fine.

We got the automated phone call about the flight cancellation seconds before putting our items on the security scanner belt. We cleared the checkpoint, put our shoes back on, and in mere seconds were standing at the end of an overcrowded, understaffed customer service line. This is what happens when 37 rows of passengers need immediate answers on their new itineraries.

As soon as I got the phone call, my mood darkened. No one appreciates getting such unexpected news anyway, and a pending TSA screening isn’t exactly like waiting to ride Space Mountain. But I made the choice to try to deal with the frustration with as positive an attitude as I could muster. First I considered my advantages — only a short ride home from the airport, flexible plans at our destination, no checked bags to track down and so on. It did not take much chatting (or eavesdropping) to realize how few of our fellow passengers had such freedoms.

Then I took the next step and considered the plight of the airline agents. Even more so than newspaper editors who field angry phone calls and open “cancel my subscription” letters, airline customer relations employees almost never get to deal with happy customers. The best they can do is offer appeasement since it is beyond their power to offer the only thing people want: to get on the plane they paid for and arrive at their destination on time. How miserable it must be to clock in and get chewed out for issues far beyond your control for eight hours, then punch out only to do the exact same thing the next day and the day after that.

Maybe my facial expressions or body language weren’t the best. But I tried to be courteous in my interaction with the airline employee. I avoided joining in the idle threats, spoken to no one in particular, to never again fly this airline. I held back (I think!) from passing silent judgment on other passengers who were less composed and unafraid to use profanities while addressing people just trying to do their jobs.

In short, I worked hard at responding to unpleasantness with grace. I was attempting, as the cited passage suggests, to live as a child of the light. Allowing anger to creep in would have been poisonous, so I struggled to keep it at bay. This is not to brag, because I’m positive I left significant room for improvement, but to serve as a reminder to myself that I am capable of putting into practice the ideals I claim to seek. At least in part, and not without concerted effort, but still I feel validated.

On balance, I’d rather have just gotten on the plane. But at least I am far more at ease this evening than I was last night. Seeing as I didn’t really want to be away, I felt blessed to get a bonus afternoon with my boys. Hopefully tomorrow’s travel plans go smoothly, but I should remember I don’t need brazen adversity to be light in the Lord and to strive for what pleases God. Those opportunities are abundant as the breaths I draw in and the seconds that tick off the clock. Shine on me.

A prayer for January 23:

Lord, thank you for your guiding presence in the midst of strife. Please help me to remember your willingness to stand by me in every situation. No matter how positive or negative I might be feeling, I know you are always with me, ready to delight in my joys and comfort my sorrows. Help me do by best to be your light in this world. Never let me forget without you I am in the darkness, and that only you can illuminate the path of true righteousness. Guide me always. Amen.