Father | Son

In much of the competition-based television foisted upon us today, there's a fairly common trope. It's a father or mother doing something like artfully cooking a sea slug or trying to get up Mt. Upchuck-a-rama (I may or may not have that name wrong) in record time for the sole purpose of making their child proud of them. Nine times out of ten, as the footage rolls and the overwrought emotional music is cued, it turns out said child is an infant who would not know if his father was climbing Mt. Whatever or if he was the closet door. So it's pretty safe to say being proud of daddy isn't much of an issue yet.

As the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML will tell you, I don't appreciate these scenes. They're trite, maudlin, and spectacularly lazy. It also usually launches me into an unhinged rant on the nature of parent-child relationships and as her nom de guerre suggests, SML has an unending well of patience with me, but she's done with these rants, so we aren't watching a lot of this type of television together and that's probably for the best.

The Great Mullet Debacle of 2014
Not our finest hour. Let's not
talk about it ever again.

These maudlin scenes have been playing in my mind of late as we are preparing for The RM's wedding just 13 days from today. My involvement in this event has been reserved to paying for stuff sans complaint and taste testing tacos and a next-level dessert for the groom's dinner.  I did nominate myself to create a playlist to add to the ambience of that dinner. For those of you unfamiliar with my iTunes library, it is essentially an extended cry for help consisting of more than 1200 songs that have no discernible rhyme or reason, so this playlist is going to be aces! That said, I've found myself in a mawkish well of my own creation thanks to the lyrics of one song that I added to the list, forgetting that it's about a father's love, as opposed to an unsettling love song between an F-Dude and his F150 as the title would suggest. The chorus of the George Strait song "Love Without End, Amen" goes like this:

Let me tell you a secret about a father's love

A secret that my daddy said was just between us

He said daddies don't just love their children every now and then

It's a love without end, amen

It's a love without end, amen

As I've listened to that song multiple times, more than one tear has fallen from my eyes as I think about this good young man, my son, and the pride I have in him, as well as the unending love I feel. Even during the Great Mullet Debacle of 2014 wherein we experienced a taste of the Seventh Ring of Hell that no parent should have to endure, I've loved this son of mine to the Moon and back, just as I have his sisters.

Holding him after 18 months of not seeing each other

My son, The RM, is now somehow on the precipice of marrying a smart, capable, lovely young woman and starting a completely new phase of life. I can't help but marvel at how this has all played out. Wasn't it just yesterday that I held him in my arms for the first time, still smarting from the fact that I didn't get to finish a burrito because he decided to turn up fast? Wasn't it just yesterday that I held both him and his mother as a doctor set his broken arm (first of three, but who's counting)? Wasn't it just yesterday that we threw our arms around each other in a victory hug in the bleachers at Wrigley at our first Cubs game? Wasn't it just over a year ago when we threw our arms around him as he emerged from behind the Curtain of Incompetence (AKA the TSA) at the Hartford Airport as he returned from his missionary service as a mature young man? I held him for a good long time that day, remembering all the times I held him before and then, as you see from the picture above, I stood back and marveled at my son. I marveled at the man he'd become. I marveled at what the future held for him. I marveled that somehow I had something to do with raising him and his sisters into the good people that they are. (On that point, I need to give credit where credit is due right now: the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML is why my children are who they are. Also, she is a saint.)

In the coming days, he and I will have a few more 'advice' sessions and I'm sure he won't remember a lot of it. I hope he'll remember the good things I've tried to demonstrate as his father and as a husband to his mom. In thirteen days, I'll hold him again as I wrap my arms around him and through my tears, of which there will be many, I'll say 'Congratulations, son,' as he embarks on a new life as a husband. I'll give my new daughter-in-law a hug and say 'He's yours now. Buena suerte!'

Like that cowboy philosopher George Strait said of a father's love for his children, "It's a love without end, amen." I could not agree more.

To the DLT Triumvirate

No, not that DLT
@mcdonalds.wikia.org

A long time ago, in a kinder, gentler America, one not choking on the specter of soon being led by a nepotistic, tiny-handed spelling challenged megalomaniac who happens to own what may be the worst restaurant in this great country (as a reminder, this IS a great country), a restaurant you may have heard of, McDonalds, decided that we, the eating public, had had enough of lettuce and tomatoes getting warm on its burgers. So they foisted upon us the McDLT (presented above in its environmentally friendly polystyrene glory). It was in a word a failure, with a capital "F." For those of you who remember tasting it, you know why. If you don't, count your blessings.

I flashed back on the DLT this past Saturday when the mighty fine and stunningly patient SML and I went to see "Collateral Beauty." It was either that or "Rogue One," which was not an option really, as I owed her a 'chick flick.' Without giving it all away (Spoiler Alert: watch any of the treacle featured on the Hallmark Channel and you'll know the entire outcome of the movie in the first seven minutes), the protagonist, played by a weepy Will Smith, writes letters to Death, Love, and Time (DLT). That got me thinking and I've penned a few thoughts of my own to the DLT Triumvirate. Here you go:

DEATH
Like taxes, unless you are *smart* like our Precedent-oops, I mean President-elect, you, death, are as unavoidable as you are inevitable. You are the one constant in the life of every.single.person.ever. Ever. That's nothing to sneer at. You hold every one of us at bay, with your uncanny ability to strike most of us with complete surprise. That's funny because we all know who you are and that you will take us. But, for most of us, we don't know when you are going to make that snatch and grab and that makes life, well, interesting. I'm sometimes envious of those who know you are coming for them. They have time (I'll get to you, Time, shortly) to prepare, to get their houses in order, to say what still needs to be said. I think that uncertainty is one of the reasons so many people fear you. I'm not one of those people though. That's not to say I'm living each day as if it is my last. I can't live that way. There's still too much to live for. That is how I choose to face you, living this life as best I can, in spite of knowing that you're gunning (bad, bad pun) for me. Also, I have faith in what awaits after this life. It's pretty darn good. In the end, Death, this life is not some weird version of "Logan's Run." I know you'll get me at some point, but I've outrun you, living this life as best I can.

LOVE
Ah, Love. You've been awfully darn good to me, in spite of the fact that I have adamantly refused to celebrate the fraud that is Valentine's Day, wherein we are supposed to honor you. First, a birth mother who loved me enough to let me go. Second, parents who brought me into their home and loved me from the moment I was introduced to them at the wise old age of two days. You then jerked me around a bit in high school, as you do most of us, making me think I was the good guy from a John Hughes film (most of you have seen my high school pictures - you know this was epically delusional on my part). Then you introduced me to the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML and that was it. Mic drop. Then came three children and you redefined yourself, becoming something so powerful and unbreakable that I still don't completely understand it after twenty-six years of being a father. Then, just to make things really interesting, you brought out the big guns with the arrival of our grandchildren and redefined yourself. Again. I gotta say, I like how things have turned out with you, Love. You've done really well by me.

TIME
You're a bit like Death, aren't you, Time? You never go away either. You're always looming around, but you're a bit more present than your partner in crime, Death. There are reminders of you everywhere. On my wrist. On my phones. On every device I have, there you are, ticking away. Why then, if you are everywhere, are you so scarce? Why do we wish there was more of you? Why do we regret wasting you? Maybe it's because we know you are there and you seem finite. There are 24 hours in a day, seven days in a week, 365 days in year and we know that we've got stuff to do within those parameters. Because we know that when Death decides to make its move on us, you are done with us. Time as we know stops then. So, with the time we have here, we have things to do. Ironically, as we have you, Time, looming over us knowing that Death is coming for us at some point, we can miss out on the joys of the third part of the DLT Triumvirate, Love. That's what makes you tricky, Time. Figuring out how to make the most of you in this life is one of my biggest challenges. Thanks for that, Time.

Whether we like it or not, the DLT plays a critical part in each of our lives. Make the most of them. Let's just be grateful it's not the McDLT.

Live fully

Amen! and Amen!
Thanks "This Week in Church Signs" @twitter

As the #prayfordallas and other #prayfor hashtags made their way through my Twitter feed this week, I felt enormously conflicted. As a man of faith, I have seen prayer work in ways both small and large, even miraculous ways, throughout my life. I know prayer works. However, given the events of the last several weeks and months and the hashtags that have emerged from them (#prayfordallas, #prayfororlando, #prayforbrussels), I've felt that those prayers aren't getting past my ceiling, or anyone else's. I know that those prayers have been filled with pleas of comfort for victims and for the madness to stop. But it's not stopping. It's not stopping because prayer doesn't work. It's not stopping because prayer alone can't stop the madness. The reasons it's not stopping go way beyond our collective prayers. Our acceptance of our elected officials perpetual state of inaction. Our lack of humanity. Our divisiveness. Our unique misinterpretation of the Second Amendment and America's credo, "You can take my gun when you take it from my cold dead hands." Our white privilege. These are just a few of the reasons why prayer alone will not solve for the issues currently at hand.

These things have been weighing on me and it's been tough to find comfort while grappling with all this. It's been tough in conversations with family and friends. It's been tough in my personal prayers. As I started plowing through my Twitter feed this morning, I didn't expect to find comfort. Each Sunday in my 'Moments' feed, up pops "This Week in Church Signs." It's a collection of the best in church signs from across the country. These are typically witty one or two liners used to get people's attention or to pique interest and bring people back to the pews. Some of these are awesome and demonstrate that there are some very funny clergy or church ladies out there. This morning I found the best one yet in my feed. It's the one pictured at the top of the post.

Live so fully that Westboro Baptist Church

will picket your funeral

Just a quick aside - if you're not familiar with the hate-fest/cabal of evil that is Westboro Baptist (and why the Baptists have not sued these people for defamation of character, slander, and libel is beyond me), here's a refresher. These are the folks who turn up at funerals of gay people with signs reading "God Hates Fags" or "God Hates You."  These are the folks who turn up at funerals of soldiers killed in action with signs reading "Thank God for Dead Soldiers." Suffice to say, they are a delight (and by delight, of course I mean a hideous scourge), living like true Christians (which is like saying the Kardashians don't care one iota about cash), and just the people you hope to invite to dinner. That is, of course, if you're dinner is in Hell where Satan is the Maitre'd, Hitler is your busboy, and Miley Cyrus and Lindsay Lohan are the house band.

The message on this sign, from the Wantagh Memorial Congregational Church, hit me with such force! In the face of an unsettled world, why not live life to  the fullest?! Why not live life out loud? Why not live in such a way that I can grapple with the issues of the day and still literally grapple with my three year old grandson? Why not live in such a way where I can stand with those who may not look like me, live like me, or love like me and let them know I'm a friend? Why not live in such a way to help those who may be voiceless find theirs? Why not live in such a way where some of my prayers that haven't gotten past the ceiling make it further? Why not live in such a way where I'm not embarrassed to go for a run, in spite of the fact that my moobs are back with a jiggly, disturbing vengeance? (I'll keep my shirt on though - you're welcome!) There's just something comforting in the specter of living life a little differently.

In "All's Well That Ends Well," William Shakespeare wrote:

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

With that in mind, what a way to use that as a guide while living fully!

In the meantime, I've got to go craft an email to the Church with my reasoning as to why we need signs in front our buildings.

I know

The grass in my yard, a muted green, is filling in the spots that didn't survive the winter. Yellow tulips bloom in our planter bed, coming to life as the rays of the sun feed them. The red bellied robins are back, gnoshing on the grubs that called our yard their winter home.  All these are hopeful signs that spring is here. Another most welcome sign of spring? This day - Easter Sunday.

Ages ago, as she peered into an empty tomb, a woman called Mary was wracked with anguish at the sight. A man asked her whom she sought. Without looking at him, she asked where the body had been taken. The man said, "Mary." She knew immediately that it was Him. Jesus had indeed risen.

He lives! All glory to his name!

He lives, my Savior, still the same.

Oh, sweet the joy this sentence gives:

"I know that my Redeemer lives!"

He lives! All glory to his name!

He lives, my Savior, still the same.

Oh, sweet the joy this sentence gives:

"I know that my Redeemer lives!"

- Text by Samuel Medley

His teachings at their core transcend our many differences and are meant to unite us: 

Love one another

May we not forget that.

I know He lives. I know that my Redeemer lives.

Presenting Our Baby Jane

Our Grandbaby Jane

In 1962, an American film about two not aging well has-been actresses, starring two not aging well leading ladies whose collective celebrity had long since gone the way of, oh I don't know, the Titanic, was foisted on the public. The two leading ladies? Joan Crawford and Bette Davis, just a couple of broads who detested each other, both of whom would later be remembered for their highly questionable approach to motherhood. The movie, you ask?

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane

If you've not seen it, you need to. It is a tour de force in scenery chewing. Seriously, it's an 11 on the over-the-top meter. We're talking DefCon 5, but seeing a completely nutty Bette Davis still thinking she's her child star alter ego, Baby Jane, is pretty funny stuff. Her Jane is a train wreck.

That's scary.

See what I mean? She a mess.

So why the 'Baby Jane' references? Because we now have our own Jane and she is perfect!

Our granddaughter was born yesterday, October 16th, entering the world just before 1PM, weighing 8 lbs., 3 oz., and measuring 19 inches long. She came in a pound lighter and two inches shorter than her brother, so the delivery for her mother, Our Lady Of Awesome, was a whole lot easier (spoken like a man who A) was not even there and B) has never experienced childbirth, so my editorializing is 100% worthless).  Our sweet Jane also came into the world with a whole lot more hair than her brother did. She came into this world with three generations of mothers waiting for her: her mother, her grandmother, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML, and her great-grandmother. Although she won't remember it, Jane has been already been so richly blessed by having the three of them in the room as she was born. These amazing women will be Jane's examples, support and they will love her fiercely. Also waiting right there was her father. He will be her protector, her shoulder to cry on, and he will love her just as fiercely. Jane's brother, at two years and change, seems pretty fine with her arrival. He will soon wonder why she can't play with him yet and why he is not allowed to push the baby swing like it's a battering ram (this may take some delicate negotiating on the part of his parents). He'll soon be the one to not let any bully mess with his sister. He will love her fiercely.

I won't get to meet our sweet Jane for another two weeks (curse you, stupid, stupid work commitments!). For her, though, that's probably for the best. Let her get adjusted to this new world before Grandpa shows up, crying uncontrollably at the sight of his new granddaughter (the crying is a lock, so why pretend it's not going to happen?). Also, since 'indoor voices' is a concept I'm not a big fan of, at least she'll have had two weeks preparation before I turn up.

In the meantime, I'll just revel in pictures like these that are coming fast and furious:

Mother and daughter,
heart to heart

Sweet Jane, working the Utah do' rag

Welcome, sweet Jane, to our family. We are so glad you are here. Our joy is overflowing!

The things we do for love

What could have gone wrong?

As a result of some horrifically unwise decisions to follow trends when I was younger (ask me about my time as an "Urban Cowboy" devotee - better yet, don't, please don't), I've not been an  'early adopter' of all things trendy, if I adopt them at all. For instance, I've been slow to jump on the #TBT train on the interwebs. If you are more in the dark than I and don't know what that is, be not ashamed and let me clue you in. #TBT, shorthand for Throw Back Thursday, is a hashtag assigned to a photo from your past that you post on a Thursday somewhere, mostly the Instagrams or maybe on the Facebook. The more awkward the photo the better it seems.

Like I said, I've been slow on the uptake on this one and I finally posted my first official #TBT picture yesterday, which was, in fact, a Thursday. It's the photo featured on today's post. How does this picture qualify as 'throw back' and what on earth, you ask, does it have to do with the title of this post? Well, let me tell you.

This picture was taken about 15 years ago in our home in Temecula, CA. Said house was some kind of Spanish-style gem (we loved that house) that dot Southern California's myriad planned communities. Our planned community was no different and the fascist HOA dictated what the house looked like on the outside but had no say on what we did inside. Our home had very high ceilings and had this ridiculous 'bell tower' feature. PS - there was no bell up there. The only thing up there was one of those little sticky hands that you get in a bubble gum machine. You get one guess as to how it got up there. If you guess anything other than the Boy when he was four years old, you would be wrong.

It is that bell tower that I'm painting. The picture is an answer to the age-old question "Why do women live longer than men?" Because a woman would never take a 24 foot ladder, wearing weird apostolic sandals and surgical gloves (safety first!) and hang off it to paint in a way that is sure to end in disaster. But a man, yes, without a second thought, scrambles up the ladder and goes to work. This photo only captures phase one as I ascended higher to get that whole thing painted. And paint it I did. I was proud of my efforts. It wasn't until later that I realized I should have been proud of the fact that I didn't lose a limb.

So why'd I do it? Because it's one the things we do for love. If you are suddenly humming along to the somewhat dire 70's song of the same name from the British band 10cc, sorry, not sorry. You do things to make the person you love happy. I climbed that ladder because I wanted to paint that tower for my wife, the woman I love. She had a vision for that home. Who was I to say no? Now said woman I love, the stunningly patient and mighty fine SML, warned me that the way I positioned myself on the ladder was, perhaps, not the wisest (and by that, I'm pretty certain she met borderline dangerous and clearly foolhardy). She even offered to hold the ladder. I rejected the offer in much the same way I would reject a request to stop and ask for directions (again, more proof why women live longer than man). Because that's what men do. Grr....

There would be more walls to paint, in the name of love, in the ensuing years. I'm delighted to report that none required the ladder gymnastics of the Temecula house. But I'd do it all again. Why? Simple. It's the things we do for love. Speaking of which...