Month: June 2018

It’s just coffee!

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For 5 years, Amy took care of everyone at camp, from the camper’s dietary needs, to the staff’s late night hankering for cereal, and our fearless director’s love for Diet Coke and peanut M&M’s. She knew how to make everyone feel welcome, valued, and loved. It was her gift, and not everyone knew how much of herself she poured into that work or how much time and energy it required of her.

Amy became revered for the iced coffee treat she put out halfway through camp. It doesn’t taste like coffee. It tastes like liquid dessert. Last year, our hospitality team put it out in her honor. I took one drink and bawled, for an hour!

Today, I slowly drank a cup, holding back tears, not knowing why I was trying to and trying not to cry at the same time. Fifteen minutes later we sang “Your Love Never Fails” in worship. I couldn’t stop the tears. And then our speaker flattened me.

Speaking on Joshua 4, Tim Love said, “Our lives can be memorials for others who come after us.” Then he encouraged us to make memorials when God is faithful and sovereign so 1) we don’t forget, and 2) others can be encouraged and inspired from those memorials.

I find it uniquely odd and yet comforting that Abba God would make a memorial out of a used plastic cup and a signature red straw. Sometimes I close my eyes and feel Amy right next to me. Then my heart rends itself in two upon the reminder from my soon open eyes: she is not right next to me, not physically at least.

In time, Amy’s liquid love dessert may no longer be served at camp, but for me, this monument will always remind me that Amy’s legacy will live on to touch many more than she ever knew. God is faithful.

When was the last time God proved to you He is Faithful and Sovereign? How can you memorialize that incredible event?

The Devil be Damned

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Two nights ago, I waxed poetic about the “increasingly irritating insomniac incubus” within the smoke detectors in my house. I knew we were dealing with Spiritual Warfare, but thought, “Good grief, why give the devil the spotlight?” I focussed more on God’s intervention and flexed my alliterative skills, trying to show the humor.

Every year, leading in to camp season, spiritual warfare is center stage. Most years I’m prepared, or at least quick to recognize and change tactics. This year, it “started late” – or rather l noticed it late. The incubus within the smoke detectors got my FULL attention. Shortly after posting last, the sucubi entered the fray: two major issues exploded within my home – the kind that hit you so hard out of nowhere, it takes a beat to recover. Yesterday was challenging just getting to camp. It was almost 7p.m. when I finally arrived! I’m usually here at 3p.m. in full setup mode. The setup surprisingly was still finished with time to spare.

Today was the day for half our coaches and deans to go back to the church, collect our campers and return for a packed evening. Everything was going without a hitch until the buses didn’t show. After much prayer and a scramble of phone calls, four buses appeared (albeit two hours late), but we only needed three. Our incredible coaches and activity directors had kept our charges engaged. We finally loaded the buses and hit the road to much applause.

Six miles from camp, one of the now three buses broke down. Having emptied the bus onto the other two, we got back on the road heading for camp. The kids were nearly three hours late, but God…

I have to say, that phrase is quickly becoming my favorite: but God!

… but God had a plan, and things shot into motion. All lost luggage was found, all missing toothbrushes were replaced, and all staff was pumped to see what God’s going to do! I haven’t seen the devil work this hard trying to destroy camp, but I’m not amazed that God is always prepared. The incubi and succubi are shaken at the power of God. They’re terrified about God’s plan for these 4th and 5th graders. I’m excited! God is here, at work mightily, and changing hearts already. The devil be damned!

Smoke Detector Demons

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Smoke Detector

It was just after Midnight this morning when everything went awry. There was a chirping, every 30 seconds. Micah and Isaiah had just come home from watching Jurassic World in 3D. Micah was laughing and telling me how he tortured his brother during the “almost scary” parts of the movie. Isaiah is apparently more fun to watch in an intense movie like this than me. I wasn’t sure how to take that information, but I chuckled and began heading for bed. We all groaned when we heard the chirping. We all knew what it meant.

For some reason, our family is plagued by the Smoke Detector Demons. It is always in the middle of the night when those stupid things go awry. I tasked Micah with changing the battery and set off to bed. Unfortunately, the monster machine with an attitude was the one doubling as a carbon monoxide detector! Thirty seconds after the battery was changed, the demonic detonator of discord began its din again. We pushed buttons. Eh! Eh! We reset the battery. Eh! EH! EH!  We even unplugged it from the ceiling wiring. That apparently was the last straw! We’d muted the maniacal mayhem happening every 30 seconds by inadvertently awaking all five siblings of the beast. Armageddon was fastly approaching. I’m sure the neighbors could hear it by now. Needless to say, my sleeping angel was no longer sleeping. Autism does not like unexpected noises, especially loud ones in the middle of the night.

“Turn that off, Dad!” he yelled.

By sheer luck — more probably the hand of God — Micah and I were able to silence the siren. It was nearing 12:30 a.m.

Eh! Eh! EH! We hung our heads in defeat. Another 5 minutes we discovered the problem: — as noted in size 6 font on the wall side of the dastardly device — the faulty Carbon Monoxide detector had to be “replaced immediately!” I cringed as I called the after-hours-emergency-tenant line for the rental company. After 10 minutes, it was clear that the end of the world was nigh! They could not fix the machine until Home Depot opened. We would have to endure the increasingly irritating insomniac incubus within the machine, every 30 seconds…until HOME DEPOT OPENED!

It was nearly 2:30 a.m. before my numb brain was able to override the tintinnabulum and slip into a fitful, nearly awake, state of sleep. I woke for work at 6:10 a.m. Not ready to be manning a kettle corn trailer at the Hillsboro Saturday Market, but alas I trudged on anyway.

Work was painfully slow; my brain was wading through the sludge of over-due sleep requirements. I went to play practice after work and found out my son needed sandals for the camp dramas in only 2 days. My bed seemed to be slipping farther and farther away from me. When I opened the door to my house shortly after 5 p.m., the irritant was still sounding off every 30 seconds. Because of weekend issues, the handyman could not get a key from the office to simply come into my home while I was away and fix the problem. I passed out from sheer exhaustion at 5:40 p.m. Micah arrived home shortly after and was able to direct the handyman when he finally arrived around 6:00 p.m. I woke to a pounding, dehydration headache at 8:00 p.m. The silence was blissful! I ate two microwavable, frozen burritos while updating you, my readers. I’m heading back to bed in minutes. Hopefully, the near gallon of water I’ve been chugging, along with the Tylenol, will alleviate my still throbbing head while I “uneventfully” slip back into the coma of sleep.

Thank God I have an incredible son who took charge of the situation when he was off work tonight! He even took his brothers to Red Robin for dinner! I haven’t heard such blessed silence in years! Hopefully the sleep will be blessed!

Facebook Memories from…God?!?

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Grandma Edisons Fbook post

Three years ago, I received this note via Facebook from my grandma. It popped up this morning. Why? Because someone at Facebook thought it a good idea to create a “You have memories with __ and __  today” popup for their users.

Although I hadn’t seen her in nine years, Grandma and I had a special connection. We kept in touch through Facebook and the occasional phone call. Growing up, she would often come into town to celebrate a special birthday treat – just her and I – near or on our shared birthday. I felt close to her. I spent many weekends with her at her lake house away from the city before she retired to Arizona. She introduced me to comedy music, musicals, and root beer. I even inherited my red hair from her. When I had talked with her last, Grandma told me she had just been diagnosed with stage four cancer.

“I’m not going to take the radiation,” she said in a calm voice. “I want to enjoy the time I have left. And I don’t want anyone to be sorry for me. I’ve made peace with God. I’m old. I’ve lived a good life.” She was so matter-of-fact. Then she added, “You’re a good dad, Thom. I’m sorry I couldn’t come up for Amy’s service.” I understood. She was in her late eighties and she’d lost a lot of her strength and energy.

Months later, at the beginning of May 2017 — just before Micah graduated from high school, I received the call: Jesus had come in the night to take her home.

This morning, I was processing it all again. Why? Because someone at Facebook thought a “trip-down-memory-lane” tool was a good idea. Most of the time, I eagerly click on it, not thinking about what might be lurking behind that link. This past year, I’ve been caught off guard by memories I wasn’t prepared to be reliving.

Today was…different.

Yes, I cried. Yes, I reminisced. And yes, I was mad, initially, at not having been forewarned about the drama linked to Facebook’s wonderful new tool. Then, God intervened.

“You’re a good dad, Thom.” It echoed in my head. Then, as I so often do, I began running down the list of reasons why it wasn’t true. This past week, I’ve fought with one of my boys quite a bit, struggling through HARD, battling through WOULDA-COULDA-SHOULDA, and droning on about THIS-IS-NOT-HOW-WE’VE-RAISED-YOU speeches ad nauseam. Par for the course of parenting teenage boys…right? Many times I’ve asked, “God, what am I doing wrong?!?”

This morning, I lay in bed, in tears. “You’re a good dad, Thom.” I got in the shower. “You’re a good dad, Thom.” It kept ringing in my ears. Over and over…until it wasn’t Grandma’s voice anymore. Stepping out of the shower, I realized the missing component to my parenting tactics this past week. Hurriedly, I shot a quick text to a good friend, admitting fault and asking for prayer.

“He gives us eyes to see, but it starts with hearing from Him. And hearing begins with listening. Open scripture and listen for His voice. You are beloved.”

I was soon sitting on my son’s bed, telling him I was sorry for not having approached the week with Spiritual eyes.

“I want you to know that I love you very much,” I finished.

“I know, Dad. I love you too.” Smile. Hug. Prayer.

I am so very glad God takes the time to line things up in ways only He can, to teach me how to be a good dad. I may not have the market cornered, but I’m glad I have a Grandma (and a host of many others still surrounding me in prayer daily) who believed I could become a “great Dad.”

“Thank you, Abba, for today’s Facebook memory.”

Good Grief?!? Intro

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photo of eiffel tower
Photo by Eugene Dorosh on Pexels.com

What follows is the first half of the introduction to my book. Since the second half doesn’t “work” too well on a blog, I’m only sharing the beginning. Stay tuned for more book excerpts!

Some of my favorite memories center around food – whether it was a birthday party, a family reunion, or a romantic getaway, the food – its smells, flavors, and experience – tend to be the first triggers of great memories.

One of my favorite memories happened when I was eating a French pastry, on a bustling street, full of French, English, and other European dialects yammering away at one another. I stood there, one hand holding a fresh, warm cruller…well, a half-eaten cruller to be exact…and what an amazing sensation. The sugary glaze was slowly covering my hand; the warm, freshly baked dough melted in my mouth along with more of the sugary sweet, semi-liquid coating; and the scents of other pastries flooded the air. It was simply magical.

My other hand was busy as well. You see, it was the third day following my wedding. My new bride and I were holding hands, and had been holding hands for much of the past three days. I’ll admit, it was a new sensation – having lived seventy-two miles apart while we dated – and I enjoyed it thoroughly. Just intermingling our fingers brought warmth – inner and outer warmth – and a smile to my face. Mixed with the incredible pastry, I was in wedded bliss.

That evening, we were on a different street, full of many different languages again, but this time, we were eating authentic Chinese food, prepared by people who truly know what Chinese food should taste like. As I looked around me at the Imperial red and gold roofs that hearkened back to the Tang Dynasty in Ancient China, I was caught up in the grandeur of this new life together with the only woman I had met who completely completed me.

Later that evening, we stole away to a small shop that prided itself in unique cookbooks from around the world. Amy collected cookbooks. I chose one for her that would help us to remember the entire day. Handing it to my new blushing bride, I said, “We need to remember to come back here in twenty-five years.” She smiled back at me.

Taking the book, she replied, “I agree, but in the meantime, we can use this cookbook and our Honeymoon to inspire every room in our home.” Home. It had a nice ring to it. Yes, we had a house that housed our earthly possessions, albeit a rented house, but a house is not always a home. This beautiful lady wanted to create a Home with me! I grinned much bigger than I had already been grinning.

As we left the shop, dreaming of what our home would look like, I asked a simple question: “Do you want to head to the waterfront for the fireworks, or head over to Italy for some more Gelato?”

Looking around me now, each room of our home has been touched by that trip to Disneyworld, and each time I look at a cruller, I smile, making a mental note to begin planning my return trip to Disneyworld…alone.

 

That’s Preposterous, Dad!

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preposterous

My cell phone rang.

“Dad, my bus isn’t here.”

“It’ll be there soon. If it’s not there in 5 minutes, call me back.” I wasn’t really understanding the situation. Five minutes later, the bus still had not arrived.

“Have you told a teacher?” That’s when I realized the high school released students over thirty minutes prior. “Where are you?”

“I’m waiting behind the school.”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to make a call and call you back. Are you okay?”

“Yes, Dad. I’m okay. Don’t forget to call me back.”

I have the school district’s bus garage on speed dial for this very reason.

“I’m sorry, Sir. With all the high schools releasing early today, things are a mess. I’m not sure where your son’s bus is. Just a minute…”

My hackles began to rise. My son rides a Special Needs bus which picks him up and drops him off ten paces from our house. I don’t care how much a mess things seem to be; Special Needs busses should NEVER be lost! Noticing my rising anger, I took a deep breath and tried to smile (Amy taught me that).

“Um…Sir, I’m sorry. I can’t find the bus. We’ll get a bus to him as soon as we can find a driver.”

Another deep breath. A third.

“No.” I was calm and measured. The operator was trying to talk over me. “I’m only 10 minutes from the school. I’ll go get him, but I need a promise that he’ll have a bus for the last 2 days of school because I won’t be able to pick him up.”

“Yes…I promise. I’m sorry, Sir.” I severed the line with a swipe of my finger and on the back sweep, dialed my son’s phone.

“I’m on my way to get you,” I said when he answered the phone. “Where are you right now?”

“I’m with my teacher, now, Dad.”

“Can I talk with her, please?” I asked, buckling into the van and starting the engine…still breathing measuredly…still smiling. My son’s teacher is an incredible one. She was unhappy about the situation.

“Thom, I don’t know why my staff just left him out there by himself. This will not happen again. I’m so sorry.” The conversation ended pleasantly. Ten minutes later I pulled into the school; my son and his teacher were waiting next to the curb.

“I’m going to send an email and copy you on it when I get back to my office,” she promised. “I’m sorry this happened.”

“I’m just glad he knew to call Dad.” I grinned and sighed. My son buckled into his seat. His teacher waved goodbye. Still breathing slowly, I pulled away, headed for Slurpee Heaven, hoping to prevent a meltdown.

“I’m sorry your bus didn’t show up,” I began.

“What happened?”

“Transportation dispatch told me they lost your bus and couldn’t find it,” I said calmly.

“That’s preposterous, Dad!” He shook his head, rested his chin on his fist and his elbow on his knee, and stared out the window. I grinned.

“When did you learn that word?” I inquired.

“At school. My teacher explained it to me. Another student said something that wasn’t right and she said, ‘That’s preposterous.'” He returned to staring out the window. That was that. There was no meltdown, but we were still heading to 7Eleven; the Slurpee would now be a reward for having the right attitude.

Three days have gone by since he uttered that word. It still brings a smile to my face. The next time I get all hot and bothered by someone else’s mistake, I’m going to remind myself, “That’s preposterous!” Maybe, just maybe – with God’s help, Amy’s constant encouragement to be calm and smile in a stressful situation, and my son’s honest outlook on life – I’ll find the smile I need to change my outlook.

Incredible!

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Incredibles 2 poster 2

During the afternoon of November 6, 2004, on a Choir Retreat with my students from Heritage Christian School, a car pulled up to the lodge where we were staying and out poured four of my recently graduated students. Having been on the choir retreat in prior years, the students knew where we were staying. They were giddy and began yelling, looking for me.

“Mr. Johnson! We just watched you on the big screen!”

After calming them down, I learned they had seen The Incredibles the night before. And they’d driven out just to tell me about it.

“Have you seen it yet, Mr. Johnson?”

“You’ve got to see it, Mr. Johnson!”

“We swear; we were watching you! Especially the car scene.”

“Don’t ruin it for me,” I chided them, chuckling a bit.

When Amy and I saw the movie, I laughed until I cried. The car scene truly was me. I drove a red Ford Escort at the time, and I felt like I put on a raincoat with wheels every time I went to work.

And that’s how my life as a superhero started. Because of those four students, I became the mild-mannered teacher by day, world-saving superhero by night. My kids even believed it (granted they were only 5, 2, and 9 months at the time).  My secret identity has followed me from HCS to the other schools where I’ve worked. Two students from different schools have given me original drawn/painted pictures of me as a superhero, both of which I’ve framed and both of which adorn my classroom.

Last night, to honor Amy’s birthday (she was a Disney fan through and through), the boys and I went to the pre-showing of Incredibles 2. I was probably the only person in the theater crying. No spoilers, I promise.

There was a summer when Amy worked and I stayed home with the kids. I felt like Bob Parr. There was a moody child, a “jump first” child, and a child whose temperament changed the entire household in a blink. It was exhausting trying to care for all three without keeping up with the housework. However, every time Amy called to check on me, I tried to keep the brave-everything’s-okay voice. She saw through it, I’m sure, but I kept encouraging her to go out into the world and slay her dragon. It’d been too long since she’d worked outside the home. Each night, though, I reminded her she couldn’t leave until Isaiah graduated. I couldn’t keep up with it all…especially by myself.

Amy liked The Incredibles. She would have loved the sequel. It portrayed her in the best possible way. Truly flexible. Able to keep everything going, and going well. And one step ahead of each of the kids.

Is it still true today? Do I have an emotional, brooding teen? Do I have a child ready to run into the fray without much thought to the consequences? Do I have a changeling child who runs me ragged? Do I suck at housework and suffer from a lack of sleep? “Yes” to all. Was my Amy-zing wife truly Mrs. Incredible? Yes.  Go see the movie. It’s an incredible homage to my incredible family and ever elastic wife.

-Forever in His grip,

Thom

The Journey Begins

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You will grieve, but your grief will turn to joy. — John 16:20b

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My wife – Amy – died on September 6, 2016. That evening, I began posting my and my boys’ journey through Grief on Facebook.

In July 2017, God birthed in me the passion to write a book many had encouraged me to write. From those posts, and some personal journal pages, I found a significant outline for a memoir on Fear and Grief with the same title as this blog. As I sat down to write, I realized my battle to overcome Fear, related to Grief, led me all the way back to 1986 and the death of my great-grandfather. From that point on, coupled with the torment of a broken childhood home, Fear overtook me and imprisoned me in my own morbid imagination of what would I do if…? The book gives an account of the lessons I learned through major turning points in my life up to, including, and since the death of my Amy-zing wife.

In April 2018, I finished the first draft of Good Grief?!? and began the editing process. When I started the process of looking for a publisher, I asked God, “What’s next?” That’s when the idea for this blog took seed in my heart – a place where I can share lessons of the past, current wonderings in my wanderings through Grief and Joy, and excerpts of the book.

With school ended, and the Summer before me, I have the time to find a publisher and begin this quest into the world of blogging. Check back often. Feel free to share my blog with your family and friends and tag it on your own social media accounts. My hope is that we can all learn to overcome Fear and find Joy through Grief.