14 February, 2009

my valentines

my son is seven.  
my daughter is five. 
i have friends who's children are older and i have friends who's children are younger.  i have friends who's children are smarter and i have friends who's children are dumber.  
my kids aren't the tallest, strongest, fastest, most well-behaved, geniuses, or anything else we as american parents often want our children to be and against reason sometimes think they are.  
they sometimes get in trouble at school and get in scuffles with friends.  they get cuts and bruises, broken arms and broken hearts.
they stomp away from obedience and cross defiant arms.  they argue and throw tantrums.
they often won't eat all their food, take their dishes from the table, or turn off the light.
they wiggle in church and fidget during prayer.
they do 1,000 other things every day that would drive any parent up a wall.

and i would have it no other way.

my son asked me to read him poetry . . . my heart skipped.
my daughter will push her way through people just to hold my hand . . . i will always keep one free.
my son likes the music i like . . . he says "i like it because it's yours."
my daughter climbs in bed with me . . . i love her knees in my back.
my son offers me his own money when i am low . . . giving.  at 7!
my daughter writes "i love daddy" everywhere . . . even when i'm not there.

i see their joys and i feel their hurts.  they make me laugh and sometimes i have cried.  they defy my expectations.  they are my greatest source of joy and they are my greatest source of lessons learned.  they are not perfect . . . yet they are.

i love them with all my heart and i wanted to tell you.

in just a few moments, when i lie down in my bed, i will lie down alone.  no wife by my side i'll fall asleep in silent obscurity.  it is my own making . . . consequences like snow falling slowly into place every night.  i have no one to share these things with.  the joyous stories of my children go often untold.  they are treasures i store up in my heart to push into the dreams i hope to have each night.  sometimes, like tonight, i have to stop and take stock again of how fleeting this life is, how transient our stories appear compared to the eternal foundations of our God, and how i am nothing but a living testimony of His grace that i get to sit here in an empty kitchen and be able to share at all what a wonderful, wonderful gift my children are to me.

the following two poems i wrote for each of them.

to my son

 

you, me, the irony

of listening to the crash test dummies

at the auto shop

 

and the realization that re-do's

don't come in your size shoes

makes me stop

 

and take stock of this brief moment . . .

that time won't wait for what i meant

to do, fly with you, make you into

 

the kind of man i was supposed to be:

having wisdom, knowing responsibility,

leading you, teaching you, believing you

 

will grow up, but don't rush, let's pretend

while we can, that super-heroes always win in the end

and chase our shadows where time ticks

 

away in the darkness of a crocodile's belly,

if it's gonna tick, why not let it go silly

in a land where i can pick

 

you up and throw you into

the air a thousand feet up, and always catch you,

hitting the ground never in view

 

because here, where time ticks on the wall,

i cannot bear the weight of letting you fall . . .

re-do's don't come in your size shoes.

to my daughter

 

every time you make me tea

i have to remember to drink your smile

and remember that your tea is always best

with a little sugar.

 

and i have to remember mondays

and blueberry coffeecake

and being home to hold you

with your arms around my neck.

 

because i'll need to reach back

when i come home to see you

making tea for someone else,

with smiles and sugar, or

 

sitting in my chair on friday night,

while you're out getting coffee,

planning your cake,

your arms around his neck.



11 February, 2009

distractions made easy

there's something about not having people over, not being too affected by appearances, being able to "make do" with whatever and an overall nonchalance toward daily living's habits and rituals that makes the more practical points of my existence . . . well, non-existent.  the needs of my apartment are staring me square in the eye and when i turn around i can feel them boring holes through the more tender, empty parts of my skull.  each room is a neglected piece of my life that has been told, "soon, i'll get to you soon."  the kitchen is my practical roommate.  he's there when i need food or drink, microwave or coffee, the rare moment of actual "cooking" . . . and not cooking for cooking's sake (such as the artists would tell you is the only way) but for the mere need for food. the dining area is actually a dining/conservatory/office/catch all.  he is the roommate that catches all the flak for nothing, ends up being dumped on most of the time and only occasionally is used for his specific gifts.  the den is my laid back, long day, gotta get my feet up "forget the world" roommate.  he does nothing but entice me with his music and movies and tv shows . . . mind altering drugs which medicate the numbness which is often ascribed to the monotony of that thing we call "work."  i won't delve into the bedroom . . . most do not appreciate a venture toward the darker corners of ones dwelling.  let's just say he's the roommate that all the other roommates throw up on.

what i've seen

distractions are easy when they're stealing you away from those things which are of little or no concern to you.  those things which concern you most; for some it's relationships, for some work, for others family and home, and others a secularistic life style of out and up all night, have a tighter grip on your attention and little can steal you away from them.  it's not a profound statement, but it does give me pause to think of what things in my life hold my attention and what other things i'm neglecting toward a sadder end.  

historically, i've seen myself give way to myself.  there were no needs greater than my own and no avenue worth traveling if it did not end in my needs being attended to . . . even to the detriment of others.  hopefully, though, by the grace of God and an altered perspective on life and living, i am giving way to the needs of others before myself.  i still see glimpses of the old self when i look the mirror, the selfish and needy sinner within.  turning off the light on that person hasn't been easy and often times it still isn't.  guilt can still plague my mind.  my distractions have shifted from my needs being externally met to a focus on trying to fix how i "used to be" in an attempt to change my self perspective.  this never works and every attempt leaves me looking at the messes everywhere else.  a wake of wreckage has followed me for years and God's grace has cleaned up much of it.  but i struggle so often with my internal wreckage, my own innability to paint my life differently, and the rueful truth that no matter how many smiles i paint on my face, it is only by seeing myself in light of the cross and in the hope of the resurrection that i will have any peace, contentment, joy, and lovliness in this life.  

it's a process.  it's an easy process some days.  it's a downright hellish one others.  but it's a process.  tonight my apartment will be clean.  partly because it needs it, but also because for a few minutes i was given the grace to see how the smaller things in my life reflect the larger ones.  my kitchen may represent my witness day in and day out.  my dining area the mirror of my tendency to dump myself on others and not give heed to their needs . . . not be an ear or hear, or a shoulder to cry on.  my living area is my slothful desire to quit life and be a bum in a time when i must spend time with my children, be productive at work and develop relationships wherever i am.  and my bedroom . . . 

we are not lights in and of ourselves, we are mirrors.  and whether the light inside is bright or dim, we will reflect what is truly there, regardless of what we paint on the exterior of our washed out lives.  

the poem below was born out of a bad day and is a complete contrast of how my days begin when i look in the mirror and see the love of my Savior.


morning

the imprint of your frame still

lingers in my bed, and the sheets you messed

as you kicked and pulled yourself

away from sleep—your silence louder than the screaming alarm.

 

folding back the warmth,

feet recoiling from the cold,

i force my eyes to your pale back

and watch you dress it in guilt.

 

your goodbye closes with the door and with it I begin

another morning, just like the last—

drawing a smile on the bathroom mirror,

trying desperately to shower off the shame.