Category Archives: Family

Moms and Dads

Dad says the hardest message for him to preach each year is Mother’s Day. Typically, churches talk about how wonderful all mothers are, all the great abd selflless things they “do for us,” blah blah blah. But Dad didn’t have that kind of mom. He loved his dad, but didn’t have much of a relationship with his mom, from what I understand. So he has trouble preaching one of those “aren’t moms great” messages.

Some people have trouble hearing them, too. Same for Father’s Day. Not every father is great, every mother wonderful.

My pastor recognized that on both days this years, because he knows that in our congregation, there are people who don’t look up to their parents. So he cut out the purely laudatory stuff, and instead preached more balanced, realistic messages. But there’s still the issue of “honoring” your parents. The Bible doesn’t say to honor your parents if…. It just says to do that. So it can be a trick for sons and daughters whose parents aren’t worthy of honor, except that the Bible says they should receive it.

I don’t need to work all that out, because I do have superb parents. Dad says that when he preaches about mothers, he pictures my mom, not his own mom. He gets his example of what a mother should be not from his own mother, but from his wife. That’s pretty cool.

At Starbucks this morning, the lady at the cash register asked me if I had a good Father’s Day yesterday. Before I could answer, she asked, “Are you a father?”

“I have two cats,” I replied, “and they did get me things.”

“It all counts,” she told me. “It all counts.”

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Breakfast with My Wife

Pam and I had breakfast together this morning. It almost never happens. But today, she has an all-day meeting at Huntington College, right next to where I work, so we rode in together. She’s a member of PACE–the President’s Advisory Council on Excellence. They meet twice a year, and the spring meeting always occurs at a highly-inconvenient time for accountants–just before April 15. So she’s taking today off, despite a huge stack of tax return crying out for her attention.

For the past several weeks, we’ve both been heading off to work–she to the east, me to the west–at around 6 a.m. But since her meeting didn’t start until 9:00, we both slept in (our cats were very confused), and then went to Sara’s Family Restaurant for breakfast. Breakfast is my favorite meal, but I rarely eat it. And it’s even more rare for me to eat breakfast, out, with my wife. So today was a nice treat.

I’m sure there’s a point here. Some people talk until they think of something to say. I’ve been typing, hoping for a wonderful Christian illustration or spiritual application to invade my brain cavity. But it doesn’t look like that’s gonna happen.

So, suffice it to say: I had breakfast this morning with my wife, and I greatly enjoyed it. Period.

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16 Years

Last night, Pam and I celebrated the 16th year of our engagement. There’s nothing special about “16,” of course, except that it’s one more than 15. I remember when Mary Miller, the wife of my previous pastor, died very unexpectedly in 1989. Not long after I proposed to Pam. Mary and Denny had been married for 15 years. I thought that was such an incredibly long time.

But now, I’ve been married for longer than that, and Denny has been remarried (to Karin) longer than he was married to Mary.

In December, my brother Stu celebrated his 25th year with Joyce. This summer, my parents celebrate their 50th.

I proposed to Pam on the day after Valentines Day, because I refused to be traditional or predictable or clicheish. I was ready on Valentines Day, but intentionally waited until that day had passed.

Last night Pam and I went to our favorite restaurant, Red River Steakhouse, then came home and watched the previous night’s episode of “24,” our favorite show. I think only one person was killed on screen, which may be a record for that show. Of course, a nuclear reactor is in melt-down, with many people destined to die horribly of radiation poisoning, but that’s all off-screen. In the video age, if it doesn’t happen on screen, it doesn’t happen.

Alas, I have drifted morbidly away from the romantic theme of this post. Fortunately, Pam enjoys the mayhem as much as I do. Just one of those things that keep us together, I suppose.

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My Wife’s Reading Obsession

Back in the mid-1980s, when Pam and I were dating (for 5 years!), I started a goal of reading 52 books a year. One per week. I got the idea from something I read. Pam adopted the goal, too.

I reached that goal for seven or eight years. It was kind of a contest between Pam and me, to see who would end the year with the most books. Back then, I usually ended the year by going to see my parents in Arizona, so it wouldn’t be until I returned that Pam and I could compare lists and declare a winner. I think I won just one year, with around 85 books to her 84, or something like that.

But then came a year when, in June, Pam hit 52. I mentioned the idea of her ending the year with 104 books, and expressed doubt that it could happen. She rose to the challenge and did it–104 books read in one year. Now, Pam isn’t a skimmer. I tend to skim, but Pam reads every word. She’s just very very fast. And it’s why, sometime during the early years of our marriage, I gave up on the 52-a-year goal. I guess I was just demoralized with the realization that I was seriously out-classed.

But Pam hasn’t quit. She has continued meeting her goal every year. And in 2004, she outdid herself again. She ended the year with 110 books read. A good share of them were Christian fiction. That’s what she mostly reads. That and various secular mysteries (especially medical mysteries, a la Robin Cook and Michael Palmer).

Very recently, the blogger at Bemuseme, one of my favorite Christian blogs, wrote about the book The Red Tent. It’s a book about the women around Jacob, writen from the point of view of Dinah by a modern-day Jewish woman. I read the book in 2002, and it was the best book I read that year. I’ve trumpted The Red Tent around a number of people. I felt I learned as much about Jacob’s world from that book as I did from a lifetime of Sunday school classes.

Bemuseme talks about how we Christians like to tie up all the loose ends. The post I’m talking about is located here. It’s a wonderful little essay. He writes, “Judging by what I’ve observed, evangelical authors would not carefully craft a story rich with ambiguity and wonder, love and betrayal, drama and passion. Instead, if recently successful Christian fiction is any indication, our version of Dinah’s tale would be stale, heavy-handed, preachy and poorly-written.”

He gives an example from his own life. “I believe God hates divorce, and that it’s rarely if ever what God wants. But how do I reconcile that conviction with this fact from my life: if my wife’s parents had never divorced, I would likely never have met her? What am I to make of that?… What theological construct allows for both the wrongness of their divorce and the rightness of our marriage?” Isn’t that a great conundrum?

Bemuseme just raises some great questions, and comments far beyond what I’ve extracted. I encourage you to take a look. It’s worth the journey. And while you’re at it, read some of his other stuff. He’s good.

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Christmas with Family

Yesterday, Pam and I had our last Christmas gathering. Things started last Thursday, when we had supper at Smokey Bones with Pam’s biological father and stepmom, Jim and Ann, and then went to see the movie version of “Phantom of the Opera.” They had seen the stage play four times, including the Michael Crawford/Sara Brightman version.

My parents, along with my brother Rick’s family, came to the Christmas Eve service at Anchor. We arranged the sanctuary seats in a circle, with the grand piano in the middle, and mostly sang carols. I played the piano. Dorene had told me that their two-year-old son, Cameron, is fascinated by piano playing. I would occasionally look in his direction and see him staring intently at me. It always made me smile. Pastor Hallman gave a nice Christmas devotional. At one point, he asked the congregation to name their favorite Christmas movie. My smart-aleck brother Rick said, “Die Hard.” We all laughed.

After the service, we went back to our house, and Stu and Joyce and their four kids, along with assorted friends/girlfriends/boyfriends, soon arrived. It was a fun evening. Mom made her famous noodles. Christmas Day itself was rather uneventful, except that I watched the Lakers/Heat and Pistons/Pacers games.

Then yesterday, after church, we went to Pam’s brother’s place around South Whitley. We had a gift exchange. But the main event was watching the Colts game, where Peyton Manning beat the touchdown record in what was truly a thrilling game. Jim had a big-screen TV, so that was nice. Pam’s Mom is in California, so the only contact with her was by phone. I’m sure she missed getting together with her family over the holidays.

For my first nine years, when we lived in Indiana, we always went to Elgin, Ohio, to spend a day at Grandpa and Grandma’s place on Christmas. My aunt and two uncles and their families would be there, along with my best friend in the world, my cousin Mike. Those were great times. Of course, Grandma always had great food. But then there were the presents we always received from Grandpa and Grandma.

One year, they got each of us three older grandsons–me, Mike, and Brad–a “Johnny Seven.” That was an awesome, and bulky, toy gun that fired seven different things (grenades, missiles, etc.). The two middle grandkids, Stu and Trent, each got what was called a Monkey Gun. It only shot one thing, a yellow missile, but it shot it hard. Our Johnny Sevens, by comparison, merely lobbed missiles, and you could take a hit fairly well. But if you got hit by a Monkey Gun, it really really stung. We had raging battles in Grandpa’s utility room (I can’t believe we didn’t break something), but we older kids were deathly afraid of the Monkey Guns wielded by the young pipsqueaks. How humiliating!

I loved those Christmases. But we moved 500 miles away to Pennsylvania in 1966, and four years later we moved to Arizona, so those special Christmas gatherings with relatives came to an end.

Stu’s kids, now all out of high school, were fortunate. Every Christmas, they were together with their two uncles and grandparents. I, likewise, cherish those get-togethers, the latest version of which occurred on Christmas Eve. It won’t last forever, because Stu’s kids will eventually marry and move to parts yet unknown. But for now, things are as they should be. Especially since I’m able to spend Christmas with Mom and Dad, who remain healthy. What a blessing!

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Don’t Want No White Christmas

Woke up this morning to about eight inches of white stuff. Knew it was coming. Hoped it was just a bad dream. The good news: we closed the UB offices, so I didn’t have to go in to work today. And then Pam stayed home, too. The bad bad news: had lots of time to shovel lots and lots of snow. I got the snow blower running last night, but it’s just a little thing suited mostly for just a few inches of snow, not the deluge we got last night. Might as well run a blow dryer on a long extension cord.

When I hear the song “White Christmas,” I groan. My parents like to have a white Christmas. Dad, after all, grew up in Michigan. I’m sure they’re happy today. And I must admit–it’s very pretty outside. But I can do without.

And, in fact, I did do without for a number of years. We moved to Arizona in 1970, and in the desert, all Christmases are brown or tan. I liked that. I liked going outside in December in a T-shirt. The lake in Lake Havasu City was too cold at that time of year, but you can’t have everything (unless you live in the Caribbean, I guess, which is something to consider). We moved to California in 1974, and there, we could at least see snow up in the Sierra Madres, but it kept its distance. Out there, we talked about “going to the snow.” If we wanted to sled or throw snowballs, we piled into the car and drove into the mountains. That’s the way to do it. Snow by invitation only.

Until 1988, I spent most of my Christmases in California or Arizona (my parents moved back to Arizona, the Phoenix area this time, in 1983 or thereabouts). I would fly out there for a couple of weeks during the holidays, often leaving–or more accurately, fleeing from–a white Christmas. But alas, everyone moved back to Indiana or Ohio in 1989, and fleeing is no longer an option. If it snows, we have a white Christmas. It comes to us, unbidden. On Saturday, we will have a white Christmas, unless there is an unusually strong solar flare.

Give me the desert any day. I wonder if Jesus ever had a white Christmas? Jesus, of course, was unfortunate to have his birthday on the same day as Christmas, which meant one less day for presents. But even divinity couldn’t solve that dilemma, I guess.

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