Flashback: November 2004

The post that will make all the women who read this (all one of them) ANGRY!!

Part of the reason for this blog is to force myself to be disciplined enough to write a bit most every day. From time to time I want to include an older story from our family archives. These are little incidents that we retell in our family from time to time and I want to make sure that they are kept up to date in pixilated form.

In November of 2004, things in our household were stressed. Kadie was pregnant with Squealer and we were heading into the holiday season. As a result, we were busy making holiday plans. At the same time, I was concerned about an extended time off for from work. I was worried about what it would mean for my job if Squealer was born during the Spring semester. It was a tension filled holiday season.

And Kadie was large. No larger than should be expected in the eighth month of pregnancy, but large nonetheless. This is obviously an expected part of pregnancy, and with emotions/hormones raging as they are at this time, much grace should have been afforded her.

But I (foolishly) did not. One afternoon as we approached each other down a hall, we stepped aside so that we could pass. But, unsurprisingly, her belly brushed up against me and she sheepishly said “Sorry”.

And it should have ended there. I do not know why I then uttered the next few words. Had I been given a millenium to think of a more cutting reply, I could not do so. To this day my face burns with shame at the thought of what I said next:

“You seem to be acquiring a gravitational field.”

Kadie looked at me in shock and horror. She immediately raced to our room and cried, shrieking “You called me a planet!” It was a dark day in our lives and in our relationship.

I am amazed at what we husbands say at times. It is like we revert to grade-school level and forget everything we’ve learned about romance or chivalry. My cousin says that we need the voice in our head saying “Danger Will Robinson, Danger!" whenever we are about to say something stupid.

Basically, men should not speak to their wives during the nine months of their pregnancy, save for the occasional “Yes, my Queen.”

A Mexican Standoff

The evening had gone well. We were a little uptight because this was the first visit to our home of our new minister of music and his sweet wife. When the minister is over, of course, you try to act your best. So far, we had successfully navigated light conversation and friendly banter. It had been a cordial evening and now it was time for dinner.

I had prepared two different types of chili (it was still cold outside). Kadie had arranged some tasty toppings in several beautiful glass dishes on an island in our kitchen. We were all excited about sitting down for some hearty fellowship. We only needed to pray for our meal and then we could eat.

But as we prepared to pray, Squealer stealthily slipped up and plucked the glass dish containing the grated cheddar cheese off the island . I made a grab for him, but he eluded me while, with Tourettes like intensity, shrieking “Cheese!!!!” in victory.

It was at that moment that Kadie took a step toward him and said “Squealer, give me that right now!” Squealer slowly moved back a step, and while he moved back he hoisted the glass dish aloft in his right hand, far above his head, as though it were a javelin.

When he did this, everyone in the room froze. The minister. The minister’s wife. Kadie, myself….even Skeeter and Scooter were motionless. We were each powerless to stop what we were all sure was about to happen. Kadie said later, that she knew if she took a step toward Squealer, it would all be over. The minister’s wife said later that she really had to laugh, but if she did, she knew that the room would immediately be shrouded in grated cheese. All I could think about was what a great blog entry this would make.

“Squealer, give me the cheese” Kadie repeated, this time more sharply.

“No” replied Squealer.

Mother and child coolly measured their opponent's determination. Two sets of blue eyes flashed at each other as they silently wagered how far this would go. Time….slowed….then stopped.

Squealer of course had the (literally) upper hand. It was the only cheese in the house and I was rapidly computing the time it would take for me to make a quick run to Wal-Mart. It was at this moment that I saw Kadie rise in stature before my very eyes. She loomed over his little body and uttered the words “Do you want a time-out?”

Now, a time-out for Squealer is what Kryptonite was to Superman and donuts are to Oprah. It robs him of his will. He is powerless before it. Squealer would rather get a spanking than a time-out. His will longs to be so unfettered, that he hates to spend even a restricted moment in a corner. Corporal punishment is preferable to even momentary incarceration.

“No time-out!!” he thundered back. But Kadie worked the chink in his armor. “Give me that cheese right now, Squealer or you will get a time out” she repeated, slowly enunciating the last six words. She took another step toward him.

“No time-out!!” he repeated, but less confidently now. The crisis was passing. And Kadie covered the last step while taking the cheese dish away from him at the same moment. He looked down at the floor while whimpering “Cheese…” in silent defeat.

Kadie walked passed me and shot me a quick look that said roughly “Remind me again what you are useful for around here?” But to our guests she smiled sweetly and said “Let’s pray.”

10 CLS

I am slooooowly making my way through HTML. I thought that blogging would not require any computer programming skills. “I understood that there would be no math.” I haven’t entered computer code since BASIC way back in the eighth grade. Ahhhhhh those were wonderful times. Dad bought our family a great computer back in the day and I could program better than anyone in my class.

Nowdays it takes me two stinking hours just to be able to insert links on the left of my page.

Prison Trip

The sound of the door closing was exactly like I had anticipated. It was the heaviest door I’ve ever seen and it crashed with a thud as it closed. It had a finality that surely signaled to countless prisoners over the years that hope was gone. I was entering a multilevel security prison with six others from my church. We were there to lead a monthly worship service with a special group of prisoners. These prisoners were those in protective custody. These had formerly been police officers, relatives of important officials, or judges. They have to be kept in special confinement for their own protection. The other prisoners would hurt or even kill them in they were kept in a common area.

We were told to leave our wallets behind and only go into the prison with our driver’s licenses. At three different times we had to give our licenses to someone so that they could verify that we had suddenly not traded places with a prisoner. We then passed several buildings that looked like barracks. Chain link fences and razor wire kept funneling us in a specific direction. As we rounded a corner, I suddenly saw a cinderblock building with a steeple. The sight of a familiar steeple topped with a cross immediately relaxed me.

After we went into the chapel, several things struck me about the service. First, was the way the prisoners entered the chapel. After signing in for the service, they approached our group and gave us each a big hug and said “Welcome brother” (or sister). It reminded me a lot of services I have attended in other countries. There was an intimacy and closeness among these believers that I do not often encounter in our own church. I was not expecting that.


We then began the service with prayer. Then we sang for around twenty minutes, followed by the sermon. After the service had concluded, I was surrounded by these prisoners and spoke with them for around twenty minutes. It was strange and sad to hear their stories. Several of them have come to Christ in the prison. They spoke about the challenges and about the faithfulness of God to sustain them. Several of them will remain in this facility for their entire lives.

One of them made the following comment. “People on the outside don’t know that there are good people in here. Good people who have made some awful decisions.” He urged me to tell people outside that there are believers in prison.

Several thoughts:

1) It amazes me that I have Christian brothers in prison. They welcomed me without defense. I guess that there is not as much pretense in prison as there is in church. By that I mean that they were able to talk to me freely and honestly about themselves without artifice. They didn’t really care if I judged them—after all, society had already judged them.

2) What was shattered was my long standing prejudice that people who are saved in prison are merely trying to impress the parole board. An intense cynicism is one of my worst attributes and meeting these brothers helped me to see that genuine faith is present even in the darkest of places. I mean, if you are in for life without parole, it becomes difficult to second guess motivations.

3) The Kingdom of God has taken root in some amazing places. Over the years, the church as an institution has made its way, like yeast or a mustard seed, throughout almost all areas of this world.

3) I would encourage you to get involved in some sort of prison ministry. I plan on returning to the prison, and I truly believe that I was blessed by the group.


Matthew 25:36-40I was naked, and you clothed me. I was sick, and you visited me. I was in prison, and you came to me.' "Then the righteous will answer him, saying, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry, and feed you; or thirsty, and give you a drink? When did we see you as a stranger, and take you in; or naked, and clothe you? When did we see you sick, or in prison, and come to you?' "The King will answer them, 'Most certainly I tell you, inasmuch as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.'

Tae Kwon Do

Taran's new belt. Testing went well!

Taking A Stand

Skeeter has a fascinating habit that she has developed over the years. Whenever she dines at home, she eats standing up. When we are out at a restaurant or at church for a meal, she usually remains in her seat. But at home, something possesses her to take to her feet. It could be honor for the daily repaste, latent feelings of superiority, or even an innate desire to always be prepared to flee the room if needed. But it's not something she does intentionally. Do other people do this? I mean, Lileks stands up when he writes, but surely not when he eats. Here is a typical picture of breakfast on a busy school morning.

Note also Squealer in a quiet moment of reflection. (I am unsure how he managed to get his portable piano to the table during the meal. I was never allowed to sing at the table growing up, much less play the Rach 3 as he seems prepared to do). Note also his spoon, under the table, cast aside as too cumbersome a device for eating Cheerios in milk. Fingers work better.

We have threatened Skeeter with time outs and other, more stringent, actions to get her to stay in her seat, but they are to no avail. She remains upright. We have essentially accepted this little eccentricity on her part and not forced her to conform to Western society’s arbitrary standard position of eating. It helps that she is roughly the same height as everyone else while they are sitting. So it really isn’t too distracting. It’s not like we are eating a meal next to an upright Yao Ming.

This episode demonstrates parenting in a nutshell. Figure out what habits and directions are destructive and try to weed those out. Accept the inconsequential behaviors. As one wiser than I has commented: Keep the end result in mind. Is Skeeter’s habit odd, and somewhat annoying to the uninitiated? Undoubtedly. But if our goal is to work to produce Christ-like children, then I suppose sitting down at the table is optional.

If somewhat annoying.

Family Wrestling Night

Last night was “Family Wrestling Night”

This semi-weekly occurrence in our household affects each and every member of our household in some important ways. Kadie typically sits on the couch, far above the fray. From this vantage point, she offers periodic comments like “Taran, be careful-Don’t Hurt the kids.” The “kids” however seem bent on hurting me. Our wrestling consists of the following. Scooter and Skeeter make a cunning attack plan while Squealer often operates as a rogue wrestler, capable of attacking anyone at any time. The girls try to keep him focused against me, but I actively (though mostly unsuccessfully) recruit him to my side.

Each of the three kids then take turns attacking me while I am down on all fours on the floor. Usually I repulse the attack and then I hold the attacker down and tickle him/her. At this point things get dicey. Usually the two free attackers seize my momentary lapse in concentration as an appropriate time to approach me from the side or from behind and kick/punch me repeatedly. At this point I can either grab another one or simply take it and continue tickling the first one.

Finally, I don a tremendous afgan and become "The Monster." Then, when the kids come up, I raise one end of the blanket up and “eat” them. But they never taste very good, so after I tickle them a moment, I spit them back out from under the blanket.

Wrestling always concludes in one of two ways: Bed time or when one of us gets hurt.


Usually someone gets hurt.

Introductions

Introductions are in order. Due to various job (mine) and safety (the kids) concerns, I am using pseudonyms for us all. Our home consists of the following:

Kadie is my long-suffering bride. We have been together for eighteen years, and married for fourteen. That means that I have now known her for over half my life. She is the most encouraging person I have ever known, and her intense compassion for others has had an incredibly positive impact on me. Her compassion works well in her profession of nursing. But she still makes me a little bit scared when she gets mad. She also has the widest sense of humor of anyone I know. She appreciates all types of comedy. One of my favorite things is to see her play straight to someone who doesn’t know her very well. She is, above all, enchanting.

Scooter is our eldest child and has entered what some are referring to as the tween years. She has her mother’s compassion and is a very caring, very mature ten-year old. She also reads voraciously and loves narratives in all forms. Her inquisitive nature keeps us each on our toes. "Dad, does God love Satan?" was one of her earlier questions.

Skeeter is seven and has a very distinctive personality. Essentially, this is her world, and the rest of us tend to be obstacles in her path. She is very focused and determined. I believe that she gets this intensity from her grandmother, because her mother and I do not possess it (it must be a recessive trait).

Squealer is three and, like Shiva, is the destroyer of everything. He is the most destructive force known to mankind and is the center of much that goes on in our household. His determination to force his will upon those around him is truly breathtaking. He is also gifted musically and is known for singing embarrassingly loudly in public places.

We are blessed!

First Post

I suppose my initial post will deal with the question of why. Why blog? The first answer will be that it is because I need to discipline myself to write some each day. I often find myself writing for my job, or filling out documents for various projects at home, but I haven't kept anything approaching a diary for decades. Guys in particular are notoriously unreflective. And yet I am fascinated by this world in which we live.

If introspection is where a person travels inward and explores himself, tohimself, then I suppose what I have more in mind here in this blog is extrospection. (Wait, a quick google search reveals---rats, I thought I had coined a neologism, ahh well). I want to explore myself in this world.

I also want to keep some written record of my family. I have been blessed with a fellow traveler in my wife, and with three active, loving children. They will each play a large role in this blog as well.

I am no fan, nor any great student of T. S. Eliot. But I do think that Prufrock was right in that life can be measured in coffeespoons. I understand that he meant this with some degree of condescension, but I hope to lay out some interesting coffeespoons in this blog.

So, this blog will consist of looks at me, my family, and my world (I am reminded of Douglas Adams' Life the Universe and Everything).

And finally for this initial post, I am thoroughly convinced, by both experience and faith, that there is a loving spirit at work in this world today. Through this blog, I hope to practice what the ancient Hebrews did when they so often recounted God's salvation history in the life of their community. I hope to narrate, through the minutia of my pedestrian life, my firm belief that God can be revealed even in the coffeespoons.

Oh, and Eliot believed He could too by the way!