Optical Insomnia

It's 3 am and I'm still awake.

Perhaps it is my over stimulated brain, anxious for tomorrow's events to happen and play out in real time as they imagined. Maybe my body has been over rested from being on Christmas break, with feet that don't know what to do with themselves but to itch for a walk downstairs for one more drink of water. And of course when all you're thinking about are a countless random things, you begin to wonder what it all means.

I spent half my day at the emergency room, awaiting news of whether or not the wheezing and shortness of breath I had been battling over the past week was bronchitis, pneumonia or worse. Urgent care shot me up with a steroid and ordered me to the ER, I refused and got progressively worse. Delcina finally harassed me into going, and I was undoubtedly thinking more of the cost, time and possible bad news more than getting myself better.

Despite all that, I read some more of a book I had been reading "God's Politics" (and interestingly enough, quite a bit of information I didn't know about the Israel-Palestinian conflict), people watched (Del and I had some bad fun out of the sound of someone vomiting) and talked like husbands and wives do when their isn't a task involved or being interrupted by phones, kids' requests or the television. We left the ER, made a Kroger visit an ended the night with a banana split. It's good to be sick, indeed.

Over the past week, the inevitable wait for sleep to sweep over me like a smooth blanket never arrives. There's the thoughts about my family. Sometimes the distance from some of them is a blessing unto oneself. I always tell my mom that I love coming to Houston now because I see the best of my family. The vacation time, stress-free from work. The cousins playing together, grandma's making my favorite meals, eating out at the places I can't get here. And we've all grown up some too. As a teenager, I was too full of pride to listen to any advice. Lost and mean spirited. Who the hell was I to appreciate what I had on front of me?

And then a sleepless night turns into music, and jokes you've made during the week, and quips you want to remember the next time you see that one person. I end up thinking about women I shouldn't be thinking about, and creative ways to get my kids at school to be more than creatures of their environments. Then eventually, my thoughts turn dim and I try to black out everything (sometimes I have fun shooting the Devil with a shotgun, or chopping him with an ax and telling him to get out of my head). When I was a kid, I used to squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to see glittering spots of white and yellows. It's never really black you see when you close your eyes. That would be the end, wouldn't it? I see cloudy impressions, sometimes distant faces, those freaky optical illusion pictures that seem like two faces at a standoff, or is it an hourglass? Sparkly, faded renditions my synapses shooting fireworks.

The Reluctant Worshiper

Something today at church clicked. Perhaps it was the man sitting in front of me playing solitaire on his cell phone (ironic, the game that shares a synonym for "being alone"), or perhaps it was my son throwing a tantrum in Sunday school class. Maybe it was the youth director asking me if anything was going on at home (regarding Cruz), or the snow falling lazily outside. Maybe it was the talk I had with Rob about another friend who will be spending his first Christmas without his wife who recently passed. Or maybe it was none of those things. Maybe it hasn't clicked yet, and that's the problem.

The advent season, along with a strong message from the church to spend less (money) and give more (time, love), it goes without saying that the time of season brings out people to church who normally don't attend during the year. It's been a complete transformation to see how I expect to go to church on a regular basis, rather than the former, when i only attended for weddings, baptisms or on religious holidays like Easter and Christmas. You can tell there's a new crowd at church. Sometimes your favorite seat is filled with the butt of another person whom you've never seen. You might sit a row closer, a row back, you see the back of heads you never knew before. Sometimes you have a new-member ceremony or a baptism, like this morning.

Two babies were introduced to our church family. Beautiful kids. One of them rested on a relative's shoulder in front of us and suckled on her hands. The young man sitting next to her kept his head down for much of the service (even during the morning "welcomes" he made a point not to shake anyone's hand), and at one time I stood to sing, I realized he had been playing solitaire on his phone. Another gentleman, about a row up, fidgeted with his phone and had the look of frustration about him. He sat with his back halfway turned as if to leave at any moment. A man on a fire drill routine.

I saw myself in both of them. The reluctant worshiper, like myself over the past few weeks, with eyes on something else. Your phone, the church pamphlet, a pretty woman. Mind elsewhere. Lunch, what failure God is making you see right now (or the failure you're choosing to focus on at the moment. God has to see us in a loving light, or he'd be done with us for sure), an attractive woman's neckline.

I wondered of my emotions were on my face, exposed for everyone to see like these two men. Was I upset that my church family did not show their true love of Christ to these two men enough for them to look up from their phones, enough to smile, enough to shake someone's hand? Was I upset that I was not worshiping to my fullest, haven't been in my personal life?

Leaving church and walking up to class, I stopped by to see a friend. I've been chosen again to be part of the next Emmaus Men's Walk in March and told him I'd be ready. Will I? Will it be the kick in the pants I need? Will it give me the energy to pick myself up off the mat?

Then once in class, I see the look on my son's face. Downcast, surly. Like the two men in church, both my son and I resemble now. Two faces not ready for church today. Two faces that need some focus and adjustment. Two faces that need some discipline. But love too. Lots of love.

I sat for the remainder of the hour, my wife teaching class among the chatter and laughter of our beautiful fourth graders. I spent most of my time trying to reassemble an eraser that fits together in a 6-piece puzzle. One of the girls had broken it apart last week, and I was struggling to find the proper way to fix it. One of the kids (his name is Clay, another bit of irony in this fantastic, puzzling day) asked to try. We both couldn't make sense of it until almost the end of class. Until we noticed the pattern. We even broke it apart again to see if we could recreate the magic. Unbroken. Broken. Magic. Faith. Seems like a pattern, doesn't it?

There's a Softball in my Eye

I hate softball.

There, I said it. I hate the one sport that I willingly sought out for my daughter to play at age 11. The motivation then was to involve her in something. Perhaps it was that dad fear of his daughter becoming THAT girl. so, sign them up for everything. Chess club, band, choir, sports. Anything to keep the guys away. College scholarships? Yeah, that will work too. Just keep the guys away. Too busy for dating. Too busy for relationships. Too busy.

And softball was fun. It helped me build some daughter/dad time when she was a tweener. I loved our talks on the way to practice as she was rushing to put on her socks. The smiles when she scored. The surprise of her first triple.

There were underlying issues I dealt with. Being gone every weekend. Less time with my younger kids because I was taking score, or lobbing whiffle balls an hour before games. Early wake-up calls. Losing on Sundays. Losing on late Saturday nights and not even getting to play on Sunday. Playing 14u.

But, in the end, my daughter excelled. She was everyone's favorite teammate. She compliments well. Not the star but certainly not the runt of the litter. Fast but not lightning. Flexible. the utility player. Kinda like she is in life. Everyone's best friend, great grades but not 4.0. Not the loudest one of her bunch but no slouch. What a young lady she has turned into. And it has nothing to do with my quest to keep her away from guys or to keep her too busy to socialize. I hate softball but I love her. It's a good "but then" to have.

This fall and now going into winter, I've stayed away from any of her tournaments. If I ever missed a game during the summer, I took it out on whoever was making me not be there. I cancelled appointments and denied visitations from friends. Sorry, softball tourney. Sorry, practice. Sorry.

I did not handle this sub culture well. I enjoyed the notoriety that went with the game and being involved. I joined a softball message board and met hundreds (okay, tens perhaps) of people. Giving myself to God helped in that regard too. Instead of wins and losses (well, not sure if that itch to win will ever leave, just not by any means necessary) it was being on the right team, the right place. All the whiffle pitches and cookouts and hour before games with bad coffee were supposed to lead somewhere. A scholarship, recognition, maybe even some coaching glory. I grew selfish. Instead of loving the game because it accepted Lisa, I loved it for how it made me feel.

And this lead to other feelings. Resentment isn't something you carry around lightly. What kind of person am I to be jealous of a teenage girl. Why? Because she plays better than Lisa? Because she's treated better by the college coaches? Why am I picking on the flaws of everyone and not noticing the log in my eye? I tell my friends and they side with me. Friends sometimes comfort you instead of telling you to get over it. If I get over it, I'm weak and submissive. But isn't that the way I have been taught by my church community? Submit yourself.

So, now I sit at home on the weekends and get text updates about how my daughter is doing. This past week she finally told me she wanted me there and that it had obviously upset her that I haven't been to one game since August. How do you tell your daughter you don't want to see her coach, or a friends' mom or dad, or even their own friend? What kind of dad have I become?