Fuel For the Fire

Writing is therapy, at least it seems that way to me.  I find it interesting that my wife had prodded me to start this blog years before it really began to serve a different purpose.  Writing gives me the opportunity to thoughtfully express what I am feeling inside, to transcribe the raw emotions that I am experiencing, and to share with honesty and transparency.

My last two years have been incredibly difficult.  In the midst of losing both of my parents, I have had to finish my seminary degree, have had a third child, have been involved with a church split, have been part of a church plant, have been executor and keeper of my father's estate, and have had various other challenges that have faced me directly or indirectly.  The old adage that what doesn't kill you makes you stronger has seemed more true than ever.  Only by the grace of God can I stand.

All of this is just fuel for my writing fire.  I will continue to write to bring healing and restoration to my soul.  I believe that we are a storied people, and while we have lost much of the tradition and heritage of stories within our own culture, we still cling to the power of story as we watch films, read books, and seek out anything that seems interesting, inviting, and even similar to our own lives.  Story makes an impact on us, especially when we find that we can relate to the story being told.

My hope and prayer is that God might use my story for the sake of healing in others.  I am not the only one who has experienced difficulty.  I am not the only one who has struggled through hard times.  But when we come together and share our stories, we realize that we are not alone.  We realize that we are together in situations in which we thought we had been abandoned.

There is much more to write and I will do just that.  I will write as much and as long as it takes.  My father was always one to tell stories.  I always loved to hear him speak of his years of growing up or the trip that he took to Europe while he was in college.  He could tell stories and I loved them, even the parts that seemed so dated and hokey.  It was those stories that really revived him towards the end. 

One of the last times that he spent time in the hospital, I remember how one of the nurses and the chaplain spent about an hour with us as Dad just told story after story after story.  He loved having an audience and he would craft the telling of the story according to the reactions of his audience.  In that way, I am my father's son.  I do the same thing.  After Dad had exhausted himself by talking, I remember the look on the face of the nurse as she told me how amazed she was by the life that she had seen in Dad.  It had been missing for so long, but these two beautiful people had given him ear to weave his stories, they had shown him respect and love, they had given him the gift of presence and of time.

We all need to be loved and needed.  In so many ways, that's what I realized that Dad needed more than ever towards the end.  There were stories that I wanted to know more about, but I also knew that he just needed to be loved.  He had lost his companion and his partner amidst one of the most grueling journeys that he had ever been on, and he felt alone.  In the end, my prayer was that he would not feel that way when he died.  It broke my heart to think that he might die all by himself in his room with no one there with him.  What a gift from God it was to both of us that we were together when he passed through death into life everlasting.  I love you, Dad.  How precious it was to spend those last hours with you.  I can't wait to hear your stories again and to give you a great, big hug.  I miss you so much already.

Father of Three

It's been about two and a half weeks since my daughter was born. We are doing our best to adjust to the new "normal" around our house. Every morning as I sleepily rise from my bed, I wonder why I am so tired. Then I remind myself that although my wife does the feeding, it usually wakes me up throughout the night.

It's funny though, just as people had told us, girls are so much different than boys. In fact, I had just told someone the other day that if we had a girl first and then had our boys, we might just have had one. Not sure that we would have been prepared for what was to come if we had a girl first.

I remember when my oldest son was born. We were living so far from family. Although we had a lot of people within our church that acted as family, it's just not the same. I think that was more readily apparent with my wife, although she really didn't make a big deal about it. Her mom flew down within a day of the baby being born.

But there was a connectedness among our family, just the three of us, that bound us together. I remember how proud I was to hold my son. I remember how my wife and I cried and held each other as we stared at our little bundle under the bili lights that he needed to stay under to help his jaundice. The world was new and surreal all at the same time. Everything that we encountered was a new experience that was met with part fear and part excitement.

When my second son was born, we had been living in Virginia for almost a year. There was more hesitation in me than I cared to admit, at least outwardly. We chose not to find out whether the baby would be a boy or a girl and so on delivery day, it was again a surprise to us. I held my new son with the awkwardness that a middle school boy holds his date at the first dance. I just wasn't sure what I was going to do with this baby.

I knew how to change him and hand him to my wife to be fed, but deep down inside, I wasn't sure that I could handle it. I remember thinking how much I loved my oldest son. I wasn't sure that there was room in my heart to love this one the same way, and frankly, I think that I was a little scared. I didn't know that I would be able to spread myself over these two incredible little boys. Would I be able to love them equally?

In the first months after he was born, I remember him crying a lot when I would hold him. I would immediately tell my wife that it was just proof that he really didn't like me. I was really trying to justify my own feelings inside. But somewhere, sometime, something happened and it all changed.

I can't remember when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I fell in love with that little boy. Maybe it was because I was praying so hard. Maybe it was that my heart grew three sizes that day, like the Grinch. Whatever the reason, I know that the result was that I loved both of my boys the same. Yes, they are different, but the love that I have for them is incomparable.

Needless to say, with all this trouble over #2, I was beginning to wonder what my reaction might be to #3. Throughout the entire pregnancy, I kept asking myself whether I was crazy. If I wasn't sure that I had room in my heart for 2, how could I even think that I had room in my heart for 3?

But the pregnancy was a time of distraction for me. At the same time that a new life was growing within my wife, my mom was reaching the end of her life. Having gone through pregnancies twice before and waiting until delivery day to find out whether it was a boy or a girl, we decided to find out this time. I kept telling people that I was getting too old for surprises.

I think deep down inside I knew that it was a girl. With everything going on with Mom, I should have figured that it would be. Although we were still shocked when the news ultrasound technician told us that it was a girl, deep down inside, we both probably felt like that was a sign to us that Mom would not be around long.

Like I said, I was distracted during the pregnancy. I was trying to come to grips with the fact that my mom would not be around for a long time. I really didn't take a lot of time trying to figure out how I would find enough love in my heart for a third child. But God knew what he was doing...like that's a surprise. The anxiety that I had going from 1 to 2 wasn't really there when I went from 2 to 3.

Now, we're trying to find our groove. We are a family of 5. Somehow, there was enough love in my heart for all 3 of my kids. I'm not going to push my luck and see what happens with 4 though. But every night, when everybody's sleeping, as I lean over my kids, kiss them, and pray for them, I think about the love that God has for us. His children number way more than 3 and his heart is big enough for all of us.

I am blessed. Sometimes I wonder what I've done to deserve all that I have when others struggle to make it to the end of the day. I do my best not to forget that and to thank God every moment that I am reminded of it. Sure, I have faced difficulties in life, but so has everyone. I do believe that much of what we face is a result of living in a fallen world. Paul's words to the church in Rome in Romans 8 have helped me tremendously. I am thankful and I am grateful.

When I kiss my kids, I rub noses with them too. It was one of the last things that I experienced with Mom. The night she came home from the hospital, we sat on the couch and I told her some things that I really needed to tell her. I told her I loved her, she opened her eyes, and we rubbed noses together. Since then, every time that I do it with my kids, I am reminded of Mom. My daughter has my mom's name as one of her middle names, but I know, there's a part of Mom in all of them. Just knowing that helps me to know for sure that there's enough love in my heart for all 3 of them.