Side Dishes

There's something fearful about storms, always has been.  The obvious reminder of who controls the heavens becomes blatantly obvious when clouds begin to roll in like some supernatural army.  It's poetry, really.  And reading enough novels and poems over the years, no author can really capture the essence of nature.  Walt Whitman comes close, and in a pinch, I'd take the cinematography of some random Oscar winning movie where the landscape plays more of a role than a villain.

Tonight's blackout of the Cordova home was proceeded by the typical ominous signs--the porch umbrella that twists and jostles, an upturned flower pot, the ripples of the pool water, grayness.  The lights flicker, the computer inevitably has to be shut down, and you wonder how long before the fan begins its final twirl, if just maybe this once, that will be the end of power for a very long time.  


The kids had already fallen asleep from the rigors of play, their sweat and stick already enveloping my wife.  The anxiousness of sweat dotted my forehead, despite the opening of windows after the storm had passed.  The kids eventually awoke.  The seeds of hunger escape from their lips.  Plans are made, money transferred.  Movie or dinner?  I rigged the garage door to free us from captivity, the lonesomeness of lost electricity.

So the trek begins.  This is the scene of the Armageddon movie you never witness.  That first drive onto the road, spotting downed trees, wondering if you really heard the sound of an ambulance in the distance.  The initial traffic jam is inevitable and so begins the patience.  Years ago, in Houston perhaps, there would have been no driving around on a blackout.  The traffic there is bad enough when electricity is working.  We pass the first fried chicken joint before the flood of indecision comes between my wife and I.  Flavor v. budget.  Budget v whims.  Whims v kids' preference.  The hamburger joint we decide on has no empty seats.  We both realize the wait for anything, with the entire town blacked out, is going to be a long one.  Our attire is hoping we don't decide to walk from the car in public.  People may stare.

We head back into town with the onslaught of residents already taken a head start.  The right side of the strip blinks with electricity.  The left side is vacant.  Further ahead, after about 30 minutes of driving, we realize our second destination is without power.  We forge ahead, suburbanites on a trek for sustenance.  The lines around McDonalds curve around the parking lots.

We make another 20 minute drive to another chicken joint.  The parking there hasn't been as well thought out as the one in the suburbs.  The inside is closed.  Vans are backing up into the line dangerously close to the sides of the car.  People look hurried.  One man, the stereotypical redneck in large-tired truck and jeans, is accompanied by a young female in the type of shorts a father would disown a daughter for.  The drive through line does not move, albeit for the two cars that inched out of line for a greater trek to be blogged about on other websites.  Choices are made.  We follow suit.

By the time we circled back to our original point of destination, at least an hour and a half had passed.  The van DVD had played, restarted, finished and replayed again.  Both our phones were charged 20% (they too suffered from the impatience of their users after the blackout), I had a 17 minute conversation with my father about Batman and family reunions while contemplating how many mashed potatoes we would order with our meal.

On the drive home I was thankful for the time.  Ironically, the movie the kids watched heavy-handedly God-spoke these well worn mantras about spending quality time with your kids, lest they end up on a movie screen somewhere fighting secret agents without their parents' whereabouts.  The conversation with my dad, the summaries of our jobs and our attitudes, the day we had at the pool serving our many friends and their kids.

Sometimes I read how many think prayers aren't answered, or how the prayers are self-centered or materialistic.  In my case, I too become jaded.  That wondering says more about us than God.  If he can give me, a man who deserves little, the extra time to plan, to talk, to be with my family, why can't I turn the dial on the heavy-handed God-speak all the time?  I wish it was as simple as ordering mashed potatoes.

Reclaiming Conviction

Church services of late have made me think about family.  My own, the one who guided me, the ones I followed on television as if they were my own.  Each series so far are followed with disclaimers, which if you've read this blog about a month ago, I ironically had to use this method to great effect.  Even going to church has been a different experience.  The music, the handshakes, the catching-ups are a simple and calming affect of church.  But it's the conviction that makes me come back week after week.  The conviction, the squirm, the uneasy laugh I have among my friends and my wife who sit in our area, are the reasons I know I'm in the right place.  Going to church to feel good is not why you should be going.  Going to church to make changes, to make you think, eventually makes you feel more than good.  Unending joy.

I was born in 1974, so all the late 70 shows and 80 family shows were probably reruns.  I watched the Jetson's every morning thinking they were made in my time.  I watched the Flintstones, too.  One family in the future and one set in prehistoric times.  Dads overwhelmed with family responsibilities and blowhard bosses.  The wives always knew more than everyone.

Later, I was obsessed with shows like "Good Times," "All in the Family" and "The Jeffersons."  'Good Times' and 'Jeffersons' brought attention to the mythical and overbearing "Man" who ruled over the ghetto (meaning, the loves of people with color) with a macabre sense of humor.  Why didn't JJ ever make it out of the hood? Cause the Man kept him there?  And what about the head of the household?  John Amos died, leaving a family to fend for themselves (and was probably a symbol of the lack of African-American fathers in society at the time), George Jefferson showed you didn't have to be white to be a bigot, and  Archie Bunker made me think every old man was secretly a mean-spirited Nazi.  But a funny Nazi at least.

Other family shows had their moments.  The hippy fathers and Ronald Reagan-loving Alex P. Keatonm the Brady Bunch's blended family survived reruns, the Grand Canyon and annoying cousins.  The Full House made child rearing a man's job (albeit 3 men), Tony Danza was a maid/step-dad and Tim Allen perhaps began the buffoon dad with a heart of gold trend.

My family was neither of these and parts of all of them.  My grandmother was known to muse Archie Bunker-ish at times, and to imagine seeing her free my one black cousin's hair from her braids to straiten and 'clean' it was something to behold.  My aunt Rachel reminded me of Roseanne and the conversations I had in the car with my mom as a teenager (if my life is to flash before my eyes, it will be me in a passenger seat listening to my parents) rivaled anything on Gilmore Girls.

So we reclaimed some moments in our family, resurrected some long ago habits.  We used to have game nights which resulted in some form of tantrum from the kids because one went out of turn and one didn't win.  The one reminder I have of the man God wants me to be is to assume that I am doing enough.  There's two sides of this argument that could lead to trouble as well.  I could compare myself to my dads or other non-Christian and Christian fathers, but that's a human standard I have no business bringing to my family.  The other is thinking that since I could never be perfect that I should just forget doing anything.  I could never play enough games or throw enough baseballs, but I sure have fun along the way.

The other reclaiming experiment was the family dinner.  With our older daughter about to leave for college, we have been eating more meals at the table.  This is comical at times too, from Milly's ranch dressing obsession and my son's penchant for eating dinner without wearing a shirt.  The kids have been helping Delcina in the kitchen and helping set the table.  The forks don't always arrive on time and the salad doesn't always have small lettuce, but dinner has been a blessing I know many families do not foster.

I'm anxious to reclaim something new next Sunday.  I want to squirm when I feel something is directed at me.  Conviction looks great on us when we submit.

Playing Monopoly with God, and Other Mind Games

My life should be in shambles.  Utterly destructive, floor-falling-out, meteoric meltdown shambles.  Perhaps because I've been conditioned to await a destructive, earth-shattering screw-up is the reason why I've felt a hesitance in my steps.  Has anything been particularly earth shattering?  Far from the contrary.  I should be ecstatic.  Then why aren't I?

I began having an open dialogue with myself.  Now before you think I have been speaking to myself in the mirror like some one-act play, no, it isn't quite like that.  And talking amongst my head is not virgin territory (in all sense of the word).  I typically review scenarios in my head where I envision outcomes and circumstances.  It's like playing chess, only with no opponent but my conscious.  Again, this is nothing new. When I was a child, my mom would frequently find me writing stories, or playing a 4-player game of Monopoly with no one but myself.  When I was in high school, my gaming became more elaborate.  I created a baseball game complete with imaginary rosters made with school friends and real-life players.  I even had a game board and made stats.

Over the years the mind-scenarios have changed somewhat.  The ones I have now are typically PG-13 narratives that tend to slip their X-rating past the censors.  I have to be careful at times with where my mind drifts to.  Soft core porn scenarios are typically not the type of imagery I need from day to day.  It's easy to think badly.

Sometimes these scenarios take a destructive turn, as if some Rube-Goldberg technician resides deep into my sub conscious ready to topple the dominoes.  Turn right here, fall into a swamp, get strangled by an anaconda and they find your bones centuries later type of silliness.  I will typically run trial scenarios before I make phone calls to parents to hash out all possible directions a conversation can take, both positive and negative. Before I go into a meeting with my boss, I'll do the same thing.  I try to drop menu my life like I'm some Christian Terminator.  I must be armed for every question.  Being prepared has its advantages.  But it can also stifle randomness.  It makes me in control of events that I should be giving to God.  It makes me ruler of my life rather than being a participant in something more important.  Furthermore,  it reminds me of how life used to be rather than what it can become.

I love the real conversation I have all the time.  My youngest daughter has been having bad dreams recently. Here's a snippet:

What was your bad dream about?

There was a werewolf and he scratched me and I turned into a werewolf  (I think she caught a glimpse of Lisa watching Teen Wolf on MTV and me watching the silly original with Michael J. Fox).

Do you have nice dreams, momma?

I have nice dreams too, daddy. (she pronounces "nice dreams" as "ice creams")

Ice cream?  You can't have ice cream right now, silly.

Not 'ice cream', daddy, (and then she yells) "nice dreams!"

Whipped cream?  Well, that would be good on pumpkin pie, Reycina, but honestly, whipped cream at 1 in the morning?

Not whipped cream, nice dreams!


Or other conversations with my older daughter about boys, the attractiveness of confidence and her plans for the future.  The ones with my wife on the back porch during barbecue reflections.  About the house, the people that invariably bother us both, the complaints of life with a bottle of beer.

And I've been having a dialogue with God and Jesus, too.  I told my share partner this morning that regardless if my "talks" have been nothing more than self-deluded manifestations, I do believe one thing is constant.  God does speak to us all the time.  Because of our adult minds and hang-ups, that loss of courageous, childlike thinking, we've lost touch with those inner conversations over time.  Many of us have become Doubting Thomases, awaiting some miracle or force to intervene because we don't have the courage to simply believe in what God wants for us.  We await this wound for us to place our fingers in, the allow the blood to drip on our own hands before we believe in the miraculous.  Our lives are not miraculous in themselves enough, we argue, or we wouldn't be doubting at all.  How silly and simple it all seems now typing it out.

So what have my conversations with God been like lately?  I ask him questions about the future of my son.

He's in good hands.  You're his father.

Or I thank him for my daughters.

I love you, that's why they have been entrusted to you.

Or I ask him why I don't seem to learn from my mistakes.

But I still love you.

But you know my sins.  Even those sins.  You know.

You're asking me for an out.  I know you too well.  I love you.  That is enough for any man.

But I still don't feel like...

Again, you're placing me in human contexts.  Didn't I love you before you knew about me?

Well, yeah, but...

And do I not see the choices you've made before and envision the ones you're going to make?

Well, yeah, but...

I not giving you an out if that's what you want.  I love you too much to allow you to continue to be the same person you were.  

I just can't...

But I love you.

But I...

And I still love you.

Eventually the Doubting Thomas cries himself to sleep.  There aren't any mountains to climb or rapids to cross.  The Doubting Thomas awaits the next ball to drop, not because he knows any different, but because even though the wounds are clear and distinguishable, the person, The Living Thomas, The Courageous Thomas, is something new and challenging and totally unlike the Doubter.  There's fear there.  Terrifying fear.  Fear that leads to joy.  The joy that has been awaiting to be unwrapped like a gift.  A gift.

The Difficulty of Moses

There's enough evidence in the weather to know that summer has arrived a tad early.  The grass is a light yellow, thirsty for nurturing water.  The remnants of charcoal sprinkles the patio underneath the pit.  If you wave your hand over the grill, you can still feel the warmth from the previous nights' feast.  The pool waves circulate from the wind and pump, and the water is clear now.  Goggles litter the landscape.

Even the house shows the changes.  Shirts are left on the floor in defiance of sweat and sun.  Pool towels take residence on the chairs.  Doors remain ajar as if they await visitors.  Glasses rejoice at the red juices and teas that fill them.  Cabinets spill forth its contents to be rearranged, redistributed, its books to be read, bookmarked and hi lighted.

My sleep times become more erratic, as if I'm cramming for some unseen movie/tv show exam.  I reflect constantly about school.  Try as I might, I always tell myself I am going to relax and not think about school whatsoever, and then I read something, or talk to someone, and then the mind gets going about what to amend, what to add and what to discontinue.

The year had its moments.  I felt conversational with the students from day one, but I felt a loss of control with my emotions with others.  As a teacher, I expect results.  I teach, you learn, we test and we show growth.  I find I am this way with my friends too, sometimes even with my own kids, my marriage.  The kids have gotten more challenging as the years have gone by, but the major difference is the time I devote to them.  It was nothing for me then to stay after school for tutoring, or to walk a student home to meet the parent who has failed to call me back.

This past week, I was introduced to 4 different types of schools.  One is the Darwin school.  In the Darwin school, it is the survival of the fittest.  Kids are tracked based on their ability and aptitude, rather than creating students equipped for what their futures might bring.  I grew up with some aspects of the Darwin school.  I remember being in tracking groups, most likely the one for sarcastic, silly boys.  Teachers expected us to remain seated and to complete all of our work.

The second type of school is the Lombardi school.  The Lombardi school believes that effort will provide results.  Failure leads to learning in this type of school.  And if you haven't met your goals, try harder.  I can say I fall into this category daily in my own teaching.  While effort does have a lot to do with learning styles and ability, many kids are trying hard.  No kid wakes up and says to themselves, "How can I screw up my learning today?"  I find that my words of affirmation to my kids are more directed towards effort instead of academics.  I had a professor in college who used to call his sweat stains and red-faced look after class "power teaching."  If you aren't sweating, you aren't working, right?  I hi-five kids whose wrists hurt from writing too much.  You sure worked hard today.  

And in terms of failure as motivation, today's children fail time and time again but never see an end.  They are working hard, considering the fact they are sometimes multiple grade levels behind in reading.  They have completed their work, on time, with little assistance sometimes.  They kids are so used to seeing failing papers boomerang back to them, what's the difference between what I'm teaching them and what others before me have taught them?

The 3rd type of school is the Chicago Cub school.  No matter how you are doing academically, a teacher in the Cub school knows that it doesn't matter because "you'll get it eventually."  The Cubs draw record crowds every year no matter that they will never amount to much.  Teachers who teach to the Chicago Cub way love and nurture their kids, but in the end, do they really ever learn anything?

The last school is the Annie Sullivan school.  This is the "whatever it takes" school.  Annie taught Helen Keller, basically from scratch, right, and by any means necessary.  According to our speaker, why wouldn't we want our kids to be involved in a "whatever-it-takes" school.  At first I took this as a negative.  Does this mean do whatever it takes to raise test scores?  Does this mean that we place every rambunctious boy on medication to achieve sameness?

Do I do whatever it takes every day in school?  What did I try for my autistic boy, the new girl with drama, the kid 2 years behind in reading, my silly boys and my over achieving girls?  And am I reluctant to do so because I'm still vain enough to demand visible and undeniable changes I can measure and detect that very year?  I don't always get to see a child grow, from an educational value-added score, or the ones that mean more, from year to year.  I felt looping with a small handful helped me see some of the changes I yearn for.  Maturity, the ability to finish a task, writing an essay when they barely could write a paragraph.  But I don't get to see the same students years from now.  How many end up in college?  Or accepted to the National Honor Society.  I know 3 of my kids have children.  Does that make them unsuccessful?

I begin to see what it must have been like for Moses.  Here is the man who spoke with God, his face radiant from the light and power of the burning bush.  He has led his people through the desert, from Pharaoh's army, from starvation and the grumbling of thousands.  But does he get to see his people led into the promised land?  No.  Does he get to see his teaching in action?  No.

And imagine if Moses had been able to cross the Jordan into the land of milk and honey.  How long before the Jews would have placed him on a pedestal?  Could Moses have even walked the streets in his time without a plea from a peasant, or to squash a dispute?  Eventually, it would have been all about Moses and not about God.  It's only natural.  Would Moses have succumbed to the feeling of power?

And what if I had knowledge of all my ex-students' successes at my disposal (and I do with a handful, thanks to Facebook)?  Would I eventually begin to take credit for that one year of learning despite their parents' intervention?  How long would it take for me to take credit when no credit was to be given?  I have to realize that I am but a small part in a complex system of experiences, relationships and decisions.  Ultimately, a child's success has little to do with me and everything to do with their household.  I am thankful for the time I get to spend with 30 kids every year.  God has provided me with a sense of purpose.  But that purpose can be thwarted with ego and self-congratulations.

I'm sure it was difficult for Moses to watch his people cross the Jordan into the promised land.  How long would it have been before he felt a twinge of jealousy?  I have to learn that I may sometimes get to help them cross the river, sometimes hand in hand, and sometimes I'm led to just watch from afar.  Just knowing that I am powerless is humbling enough.

Functional Dysfunction

Most of the time, I'm a total mess.

Let's just admit that fact right off the bat.  If you're a first time reader, you need to know what's coming.  Stories about a sinner who sometimes reluctantly and other times blatantly embraces the good types of life affirming change God has been asking of me all along.  I'm really no different from the person to my left or right.    Perhaps I can eloquently summarize a week in a few paragraphs better than the average blogger.  Perhaps I can express that thought, but most of the time I am pretty much in awe of what responsibilities and events transpire in my life.  I am the great observer.  Sometimes I'm allowed to intervene, and other times I am asked to intervene.  But in the end, I'm here for what amounts to a split second of time.  And when I don't allow God in, and even when I do, I'm still pretty much a mess.  Dysfunctionally broken.

These past few weeks have been a reminder my connections to the overall scheme of things.  The role of fatherhood, mentor, coach, husband.  The role of being a son was remembered for I truly found that to have been missing.  You never stop being your mom's son.  You feel at times that Dad has bequeathed some sort of manliness on, as if manhood was somehow given like a favorite recliner, or a worn glove passed from one person to another.  The torch.  But you're never really far from your mother.  I can be 50, and if my mom is still around in 20 years, or 30, you can bet she's still going to be my mom, and me, her son.

For the past month, and especially these last week or so, I have been resistant to criticism.  It could have been from parenting, teaching, being a husband, but amid all this stubbornness I had been praying about feeling "attacked."  While some of my feelings are true in the sense that the devil likes to make us feel like we are in charge, I had to remember the motivations behind the God whispers.

So there was work.  Perhaps the boss' rebuke isn't rooted in Biblical love, but in the corporate manifesto of "to cover one's ass."  Bosses are pressed by the numbers, the data, and the suit behind some fancy, cherry wood, stained desk.  Still, there's lessons to be learned and strategies to implement.

But from my wife or my mom?  That's the love true rebuke comes from.  The kind I felt at church this morning when my pastor began speaking about today's "modern" family.  I smirked about his disclaimer at the beginning of the sermon, where he began making the congregation feel better about the inevitable families out there who think they are doing "enough" in their lives to live a Godly way.  If I go to church simply to feel better, I might as well not go.  If I go for conviction, then, that's where I want to worship.  I'd cry if I wasn't on so much medication.

Perhaps that's why there are so many women out there raising kids on their own.  The men simply could not handle the conviction that comes with being a leader of the home.  Or perhaps that's why so many people don't attend church.  Who wants to be told that there's so much more than what the world wants?  And while many similar thoughts get me fired up on any particular day, why don't I ask myself the same question?

Many friends tell me, "you're too hard on yourself."  There's some truth to that I'm sure, but there's also a great amount of selfishness in the line as well.  Even self flagellation has its limits.  God doesn't want us lamenting past behaviors and choices.  He doesn't want us worrying about tomorrow, so I'm pretty sure he's not throwing our sins in our face either.  It's forgiveness with an expectation of change.  That's love.  He doesn't want us making excuses for making the same bad choices.  That's love as well.  And when conviction does change, it hurts.  It humbles.  It pushes us into action.  And conviction doesn't want us sealed off from the world like some basement jockey, whereby spending the day using our opposable thumbs to direct the actions of video game character along some dystopian landscape.  Hand me a lightsaber and I'm the most fearless of adults.  Hand me a Bible and I become meek.  Why is that?

Summer beckons, and reflections are sure to come.  I'm already 3 blogs behind and several books are calling my name in a soothing cacophony of temptation.  What will I give in with this summer?  Get away with?  Give away?  My God shoes sit beside me.  They're dusty from wear and have those green lawn stains from mowing.  The laces are unraveling.  The great thing about the God shoes is that there is always a new pair whenever I need them.  And their free.  Absolutely free.  Who else can say that?