Being a Daddy

“So, it wasn’t my fault?!?” part 2

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Just hours after helping Micah deal with his overwhelming guilt, I faced the pain of my own. What follows is a continuation of the chapter of my book, Good Grief?!?, I shared yesterday.

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burden of guilt
Source: http://www.uploadinghope.com/

I completely understood Micah’s feelings of guilt. I was struggling with my own. When I had talked with Amy’s family on that fateful morning, I left one small detail out of the story, and that detail was sitting on my chest causing panic to rise.

What will they say when they find out? I had asked myself.

They won’t forgive you!

Lying in bed later that night, I began to really wrestle. I knew my family, Amy’s family, loved me. I knew they knew I loved Amy and was doing the best I could to take care of her, that I always had.

I don’t want to give undue credit to the devil, because I think he gets blamed for many things in which he has no part. Not that he minds, I’m sure. But sometimes I think Christians find the devil in the details of many things, even when he isn’t there. This time, however, I’m pretty sure my boys and I were right in the middle of spiritual warfare.

One of the names for the devil is “accuser”.[1] He is also called “the father of lies”.[2] I know that “He walks around like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.”[3] I also know that his lies are usually subtle, but deadly. If he could entice Micah to believe his mother’s death was his fault, he could cause a lot more havoc and possibly pull Micah away from his faith. If he could get me to continue thinking Amy’s death was my fault, I would end up a shallow, defeated man. My faith would be shaken, and I would most likely begin pulling away from God and the church as well. I’ve seen it happen to others.

Upon realizing the battle my boy was fighting – that I was fighting – I decided to talk with my father-in-law right after I talked with Amy’s sister. If Lisa forgave me, Gary probably would too, I reasoned.

It was an awkward conversation that Friday.

“Lisa, um…I need to tell you something.” It sounded ominous as I heard myself say it. The two of us were going through photos for the slideshow of Amy’s life. Lisa stopped and looked at me. “I missed the last alarm on my phone to go check on Amy.” I had set an alarm to check on Amy every two hours through the night, like any other night. She’d gone to bed with a migraine. “I wasn’t there with her when she died. She was alone.” I paused.

“Thom, it’s not your fault.”

“I was afraid you’d be mad. I haven’t told Dad either. I don’t want him to be angry.” In truth, I didn’t want him to blame me for his baby girl’s death. Typing it brings revulsion. Gary took on the role of being my dad when I entered this family. He loved me like the son he never had. I didn’t want to tell him, but sitting there, talking with Lisa, I realized that if I didn’t tell him, I would hold on to the guilt. I would also be holding on to the assumed anger I expected Gary to have toward me.

When I finally talked with Gary and Mary, I could let go of the guilt crushing me. He was not angry with me.

“Dad, I thought she had a migraine. I slept on the couch so I didn’t disturb her while she slept. I checked on her every two hours, but I slept through the 3:00 a.m. alarm. She died alone.” I paused to let it set in. “I’m sorry. I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d be mad.”

“Thom! It’s not your fault. I know that. I know you loved her.” Gary hugged me. I broke down. The irony of him hugging me like I had with Micah is not lost on me.

[1] Matthew 12:24. [2] John 8:44, NIV. [3] I Peter 5:8, NKJV.

“So, it wasn’t my fault?!?”

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The grieving process is a difficult one. And no two people enter or travel through it on the same path. In our house, I had lost my wife and partner; my 17-year-old lost his mother, champion, and mentor in the mischievous; my 14-year-old lost his mother, world, and Autism whisperer; and my 12-year-old lost his mother, baking mentor, and cheerleader.

All of us have wrestled with this question. Although the outcomes have been similar, the path through the guilt-ridden darkness was nowhere near the same.

What follows is an excerpt from my book Good Grief?!? It is the account of when my oldest first faced the harrowing guilt.

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Fault“Micah, why’d you skip so much school already?” a boy in one of his classes asked him that day. They knew each other from the previous semester, but they weren’t really friends. (Micah had transferred from a private school to an Arts focused, option, public school in the middle of his junior year, and it had been rough.

“There was a family emergency,” he replied, not wanting to get into an emotional loop that might send him home.

“Yeah, right!” the kid snarked.

“Um…right,” Micah mumbled.

“You just didn’t want to come that’s all. Right? Be honest.”

“I am being honest. There was a family emergency.”

“Right!” came the sarcastic reply. “Who died?”

Micah left the room. He didn’t respond to the boy’s taunts. He was upset, and he didn’t think it was anybody’s business he was dealing with his mother’s death.

 

It had been ten days. Ten days full of numb, full of tears, full of silence. My boys had been acting “fine”, telling me a little bit about what was going on at school, but I knew there was something deeper, much deeper happening within them.  I just didn’t know how I was going to get it out of them.

I began praying their faith would strengthen through this nightmare. That they would not walk away from the truths on which they had been raised. I began praying they would have opportunities to honestly deal with their feelings and their pain. Then it donned on me: God, what’s going on with the boys? What am I missing? The answer didn’t come in a whispered response like many had come in the past ten days. It came later that evening, almost twelve hours after I asked, at least for Micah.

 

After his brothers were in bed, Micah and I often talked. It had been a whirlwind type of day. For him, it was the end of his first “week” of school. After five days of school, he was exhausted. He hadn’t talked much to anyone about what had happened. His school guidance counselor knew. His teachers knew. His only friend at the school knew. That was all.

“What’s bothering you?” I asked Micah. We were both standing in the kitchen. It was after 10:00 p.m. His brothers had been in bed for over an hour, and we’d got up from watching some mind-numbing television show to get something to eat. I kept forgetting to eat. Micah had missed dinner, having returned to work.

His response to my question was just raised eyebrows and a cocked head. It was as if he was saying, ‘What do you think is wrong with me!’

“You’ve been acting a bit off tonight. More off than usual for these past few days. Did something happen?”

That’s when he told me about the boy in his class.

“Why didn’t you put him in his place?”

“I just couldn’t. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

“Why?” My tone was probably a little irritated from the boy’s comment.

“Because I don’t want everyone to look at me with pity and feel like they need to feel sorry for me.”

“But, he was being kind of a jerk,” I pressed.

“No, Dad, that’s how last year was. We would harass each other in class. It’s how it’s done at this school.”

“I can sic Lexy on him if you want me too.” I was only half kidding. Micah gave me a faint smile.

“No. If it comes up again, I’ll take care of it.”

We returned to the family room – Micah with a sandwich and I a bowl of cereal. We watched something else that was supposed to make us laugh, and then decided we should try to get some sleep. Walking to the kitchen with my dirty dishes, I felt unsettled.

“Is that all that’s bothering you?” There were immediate tears. I wish I had pressed harder earlier, I chastised myself.

“Um…I just…um…” and then there were more tears.

“Micah, it’s okay to cry. Tell me what’s going on.”

“I just keep thinking…um…well…” He looked me in the eye. I could tell he felt guilty for something.

“It’s okay, Micah. It’s okay to feel. It’s okay to be mad. It’s okay. But it’s not okay to hold onto things. You need to tell me or someone what’s going on.” I was trying to be as gentle as possible. I knew my boy was fragile. Who wouldn’t be?

“I just keep thinking, what if I had checked in on her in the middle of the night.” He paused. “I mean I did get up to use the bathroom. I could have checked on her. I could have called 911. I could have saved her life.” The gravity of that revelation hit me full on in the chest. My eyes watered.

“Micah,” I took him by both hands and stared him straight in the eyes, “when I talked with Mom’s specialist on the phone, he said, based on where your mom was and how she died, he’s pretty sure it was a blood clot. There’s no way to know for sure because there was no autopsy, but he’s pretty sure.” Micah started sobbing, heaving at the shoulders. He covered his face with both hands. I wrapped my arms around him.

“Then it’s not my fault?” he whispered.

“No, this isn’t your fault. There’s nothing that could have been done. If it were a blood clot and she was in the hospital, she would have still died. The monitors don’t usually scan for blood clots. It’s not your fault.”

Micah’s legs ceased working. He began to crumple. Being over three inches taller than me, and a few pounds more, I was struggling to keep us both from falling onto the floor. I didn’t let go. I flashed back fourteen years. Micah was three and he’d been injured pretty badly. I was holding him while he was sobbing. I picked him up and cradled him in my arms for a long time. Then I returned to the present. I couldn’t pick him up. He was a full grown, extra-large, man sized boy with a broken heart.

“I can’t hold us both up,” I whispered finally, wishing I didn’t have to.

It took a minute for Micah to regain his footing. But he didn’t stop crying. We stood in the kitchen for a long time, me still holding my “little boy” in my arms.

“There’s nothing any of us could have done,” I whispered again. We stayed up talking for another half-an-hour. I wanted to make sure Micah had let go of the guilt. I knew it was too much for him to handle. He wasn’t guilty.

Lamentations of a child

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Yesterday I posted about Amy’s memorial service. Today I felt led to give you a glimpse of what happened 12 hours prior, and the questions I still have for God. What follows is a copy and paste from a Facebook post on that night.

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In about 12 hours, the service for my beautiful bride, my Amy-zing wife, my perfect counterpart, will be coming to a close. It’s a bit surreal. After receiving the link for the video of Amy’s life in pictures, we decided (Lisa, Gary, Mary, and I) that it would be best if we watched the video before the actual event so that we weren’t caught off guard by anything. While Travis (my best friend since high school) and I watched the video with my boys, I was struck by a realization about fatherhood that I’m struggling with. I didn’t really truly understand what LOVE was until I became a dad. I thought I had figured it out when a beautiful blonde stole my heart, but there were aspects of LOVE that I was still blind to. Once I became a dad, I really began to understand God in a different way. I began noticing things of this world through the eyes of a father.

Tonight was probably one of the hardest things I’ve had to do in a very long time. While we watched the video (twice), Micah and Isaiah laughed at the funny pictures and a few tears crawled down their cheeks at others. But Gabe screamed. He didn’t just cry. He didn’t just bawl. He SCREAMED through both times through. As my heart ached for him, and my other two, who were by this time full on sobbing, I was struck with a question that still has me up, two and a half hours later. Does God’s heart rend when we scream? It didn’t take long for me to stumble onto the next epiphany. As Jesus hung on that barbaric, Roman cross, wailing in pain, did the sound pierce God the Father so much that He wanted to “end it all,” push reset, and then create a group who wouldn’t usher pain, destruction, and death into their world? I don’t think I’ve ever heard true lamenting before tonight. As I lay on the bed holding him, rocking him, I asked God how do I help heal my son’s heart. Allowing God the Spirit to fall on the room with a PEACE like no other, I asked Gabe to practice his speech for tomorrow and then to sing “10,000 Reasons” with me and my Spotify account. As we sang, his little heart began to fill with HOPE while dread and fear were thrown out.

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Picture courtesy of: http://sustainabletraditions.com/2012/08/lament-and-hope-the-need-for-a-sackcloth-and-ashes-revival/

Two and a half hours after we pushed play on the video for the first time, my little Gus was able to finally take in a couple deep breaths. He’s asleep now, and I’m still pondering the immensity of pain and anguish God the Father endured while His Son lamented the torture of His body.

2 Years Ago…Today

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It’s hard to believe that two years have passed since Amy’s memorial service. Today has been a difficult day – surprisingly – for me. Two things have kept me going today. The first is the song God woke me up singing: “Even If” by MercyMe. The second was the memory of my boys honoring their mother at the service. To honor Amy and my three boys, below are the parting words of each of my three boys to, and about, their mother. Isaiah went first, Micah followed directly after him, and Gabe spoke right before the final worship song. I hope these words move you as much as they’ve moved me today.

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ISAIAH

14324483_10210808805555894_1872310915559200635_oThe first thing that I think you should know about my mom is that she changed me through her ministry to other people. Mom taught me many things and gave me many qualities of herself to continue on in her memory. She taught me to be creative and to try new things; she taught me how to cook; she taught me how to be nice to and serve others; and she gave me a passion to work with kids.

Besides the many creative things I’ve attempted and enjoyed with my mom’s encouragement, she taught me how to cook like she cooked. I am glad I know how to cook her chicken, make her version of slop, and bake her amazing chocolate chip cookies.

When I was 5, Mom let me really help her bake chocolate chip cookies for the first time. We had fun, even though there was a big mess to clean up. The best part about that day was that it was the first time I got to do “quality control”, something my dad usually got to do.

Over the years, I have watched my mom volunteer at many Beaverton Foursquare camps. This past 4-5 Camp I got to volunteer with her for both my first and her last time. Every year, even when she was tired, she didn’t stop working at camp because she wanted to serve the kids and staff, thinking of their needs, not her own. I want to go back to 4-5 Camp as a volunteer though and help honor her legacy of love and care of others.

The second thing I want you to know about my mom was that she loved everyone she met. I want to live up to her example. You may not know that there were many people who loved and trusted my mom with many different things. She loved everyone, and hardly ever said “No” to serving others, even us kids.

I loved crawling into her lap – even just a few weeks ago – and she would hold me until I fell asleep in her arms. I may have surpassed her in height this summer, but I will have to strive to come close to her supernatural height and her model of faith.

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MICAH

14310560_10210808805995905_5256768924942963016_oMy freshman year I went to my school’s graduation ceremony, and every single graduate had the opportunity to give mini-speeches and thank the people they love. Mom leaned over to me and said, “20 bucks says that you couldn’t fit song titles into your speech.” So, instead of a graduation speech, I decided that for the circumstances, maybe we could make it this speech instead? Besides, she owes me 20 bucks already. But I guess I should just “Let It Go.”

From the time that she watched me do the “Single Ladies” dance that I have regretted since, to her pummeling me with a stuffed shark because I couldn’t understand the lyrics to “Hit Me with your Best Shot”, to her trying (and succeeding) to make me crumple to the floor by tickling my earlobe, mom was always mom.

Over the last two weeks of her life, Mom persistently pestered me about college applications, particularly, an essay for one specific college. They wanted a paper on my Jesus story, and how I have grown in Him. And although I know there was “Something to Believe In,” I struggled to find a way to write about my faith story. “How can I help you?” she kept asking me. I didn’t know what help I needed, so I didn’t answer my mother’s question. I spent so much time upstairs in my room or with my friends to avoid her bugging me. Today, I wish I hadn’t. For those of you wondering, I have not finished that essay, but I know who it will be about. Don’t worry, mama. I’ll make you “Proud of Your Boy.”

Two weeks ago, to this day, I was at work for an 8-hour, on my feet, being nice to people, shift. I was having a no-good, very bad day, and I called home. My supervisor was going to let me go on a meal break soon, and I felt like I just needed to come home. So I came home and had dinner with the family. It was a bit chaotic: I felt like a rushed mess, and they all had finished their food already. Mom made them wait at the dinner table for an extra 45 minutes just for me, but it felt normal. I didn’t even remember that mom was sick. “I Want the Good Times Back. That Would Be Enough.” We were laughing and playing games until I had to race back to work.

“How can I help you?”

Mom always asked that. To everyone.

I asked, “Are you okay?”

The day before her passing, we were having a great time. We went bowling to celebrate a final day of summer as a family of five. Little did we know, that was our last celebration as a family of five. About halfway through the game, Mom started feeling sick. We thought it was just another bad night.  She has had so many over the last 2 years. When we got home, Dad and I helped her upstairs. I wish I remember the last thing she said to me. But I remember what I told her: “Are you gonna be okay, Mom?”

So many people had no idea how sick my mom was.

You see, she didn’t want all the attention on her. She didn’t want everyone to treat her differently. So, instead of complaining, she changed the topic. She chose to focus on her gifts, rather than her sickness. My mom served in ministry for 30 years. Knowing her state of health, it “Blows Us All Away” how continually and unfailingly hospitable she was.

IMG_90661I’m wearing those bowling shoes now. We called the venue, and they let me borrow them to honor the last time Mom was Mom, focusing on celebrating with us. I kinda wish I could just click my heels and we would be together again. She taught me to laugh, she taught me to love. So much of me is made of what I learned from mom. And it will stick with me “For Good.”

As Christians, we don’t have to be eternally sad because we know that we will someday meet again in the Presence of the Lord. So, I get to say “Goodbye Until Tomorrow.”

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GABRIEL

14409486_10210808859717248_1674417536705584557_oHi, everybody. I’m Gabriel, and good afternoon. Amy was my mom and I just miss her so much. I wish she was here with me right now. I just want her with me. What made me really happy was how she just loved me. And I just wanted, for all of us, if we could just love on her and wrap around her heart.

I’m going to miss her because she was there. But I’m excited that she’s stuck in Heaven right now. She always sung me, “How great is our God.” That was the first lullaby she ever sang to me. It took me forever to learn her. It took me years to figure out why she was my mother. And then I got it. She loved Jesus very much. I hope you do too.

Our last song is “10,000 Reasons.” Some of you know it by heart. It was one of my mom’s favorite worship songs when we were a family together. In this whole memorial service, we have been just loving her. Thank you all for coming. Let’s sing together her last song.

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Amy gave my boys a passion to be servant warriors in her footsteps, to be a spark of joy in someone’s day, and to be someone who loves for no other reason than because God put the person into their lives. I married this incredible, amazing woman 21 years ago, and even though she is stuck in Heaven, as Gabriel put it, she is also stuck in our hearts.

Daddy! Did you see me!?!

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My father and I are not close. I haven’t seen him since my oldest was only 6 months old, and he’s now almost 19 1/2. I’ve tried to bridge the gap, but I have not been met with a desire for a relationship. When I was in high school, I remember looking out at the audience from the choir stand, the band pit, or even from the acting stage, trying to catch a glimpse of my father. He was not usually there to watch me. As I grew up, took on a career, found a bride, and became a father, my father was only present at one of those events, and he wasn’t very happy to be there either. All my life I have vacillated between struggling with feelings of abandonment or feelings of guilt (what did I do?).

Father Heart

When I was in Bible college, my wise mentor gave me a copy of The Father Heart of God by Floyd McClung, Jr. Actually, he required me to read it. It was a hard book to digest. McClung, Jr.’s premise suggests most people have a similar relationship with God as they do with their own father. My relationship with my father was hostile and has become non-existent. The realization was terrifying. I did not, nor do not, want a hostile or non-existent relationship with Abba God! Every once in a while, God reminds me of that book and the lessons held within its covers – usually when I feel very low and abandoned and I find myself saying, “Dad, look what I did!” to an empty seat.

God and I have worked really hard for my worth to not be wrapped up in my earthly father’s approval, and it started with that book. McClung, Jr. challenges his readers to intentionally work on a healthy relationship with our Creator. When I finished reading that book, I vowed to not be the empty seat father.

When my kids were little, we signed them up for gymnastics, soccer, and baseball. It never failed that they would accomplish something difficult and they’d immediately look over to see if I’d seen their accomplishment.”Daddy, did you see me?” was a constant question for a while. Each time I would be there grinning, except once. One time, one of the boys accomplished something he’d been trying to accomplish for many weeks. I was not there to see him. Although it was only walking across the balance beam by himself, it was a big deal! And I had missed it. Since then, I’ve fought my schedule in order to be present when my kids say, “Daddy, did you see me?”

In the past two weeks, each of my boys in their own words has said to me, “Daddy, look at me. Listen to me. See what I did.” All three of them have done so for both praiseworthy and help-needed situations. “Daddy! Did you see me?!?” I almost missed each event. It was as if the Holy Spirit flicked me in the head right before the performance and I found myself completely focused on what was about to happen.

When Amy was here, we had a pretty good system of keeping tabs on the boys: their likes and dislikes, their passions and passes, even their dreams and nightmares. Every once in a while, something would slip by us…almost. Amy had incredible radar. Little got past her. Now that Amy’s gone, I find myself missing a lot more than I ever used to miss.

Last week in prayer, I was overwhelmed; Where are you, God? Are you watching this?!? The answer was clear. Starting in Deuteronomy 31:6 and finishing in Hebrews 13:5, God says, no less than 10 times, “I will never leave you nor forsake you.” God reminded me He’s been watching the whole time. He was there helping me stretch ten dollars into enough for groceries for the week. He was with me when I helped one son overcome a daunting problem. He watched me fumble my words because I had tuned out the constant chatter and missed something important two separate times with two separate kids. Was He mad at me? Did He hurl lightning at me? No. He wrapped me in His embrace and showed me a bigger vantage point with which to look at the last two years.

The next time I feel like God’s not watching, I’m going to remind myself of those 10 verses of promise: “I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

Daddy: A Reckoning … the end?

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brave-quote-by-winnie-the-pooh

“Where’s my dolly?” I hollered as I walked through the aisles of the Christian bookstore where I worked.

It was the summer between my Freshman and Sophomore year in college. The store had been closed for the week while we moved from one location to a bigger, better one just “one mile down the road” as the sign put it. Not having a family or any other things tieing me down, I spent every possible waking hour at the move. I clocked more hours than any of the managers that week. The new store was opening in two days; it was nearly 8:00 p.m. and I was getting a bit punchy.

“Where’s my dolly?”

“Here it is!” called a young-dad-co-worker while holding up a package containing an actual doll. I giggled. He giggled. Within minutes I found the hand-truck (or dolly as I grew up calling them) and was back to work moving stacks of boxes. Two hours later I was in the storage unit behind the store preparing to batten down the hatches so I could go blearily home to find a pillow…any pillow.

“Thom, don’t grow up.” It was a simple statement, but it caught me off guard. I’d spent years listening to people tell me to “grow up!” or “act my shoe size not my age!” (I wore a size 15 shoe 4 years before I turned 15!) Here was someone telling me otherwise.

“What?” I didn’t know whether to be offended or not.

“Thom,” my co-worker started again, noticing my confusion, “I’ve watched many people grow up and get in God’s way. They get stuck in their ways and become a problem within the church. Keep your childlike, not childish, outlook on life. Don’t grow up.”

Every few years, God steers my memories back to that night. Many times as a reminder, sometimes as a warning. This reckoning has been the latter. It all started with a Casting Crowns concert and ended with the movie Christopher Robin, now out in theaters. I did not want to see this movie. I tasked my oldest with taking his younger brothers so that I could have a couple hours of peace and productivity. That’s not what happened. As God engineered the day, I ended up at the theater with all of my children waiting for the like re-telling – or rather continued telling – of the “bear of very little brains.” I knew I’d end up crying at the movie. Lately, I’ve been crying at telephone commercials! I wasn’t prepared for the lesson God set up for me, or rather, I wasn’t expecting it. God’s timing is always on point.

As I watched the movie, I was intrigued by something I’d never seen in Winnie the Pooh or his friends. Each one represents a specific emotion or state of childhood – except Kanga who represents mothers. As God opened my eyes to the profound message He’d laid out for me, I began to ponder these past two weeks and the lesson God’s been trying to teach me. As Piglet’s fear took center stage, followed by Eeyore’s melancholy, and Rabbit’s bossiness and practicality, I began to see myself wandering among the emotions of grief, guilt, single parenting, and exhaustion. I was struggling to see how the rest of Pooh’s friend fit into what God was showing me. When little Roo and Tigger bounded onto the screen, Mark 10: 13ff came at me: “Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the Kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone, who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

At that moment, each of the characters in Pooh’s Hundred Acre Wood morphed into the faces of my children at different periods in their life. I saw the exuberance of life, the life-giving joy and wisdom, and the bone-crushing grief and fear. I turned my head in the theater; rivers were washing my cheeks and landing on my collar.

God, I silently prayed, have I grown up and gotten into Your way?!? It was somewhat of a panicked prayer. How can I help my boys best in the upcoming days, weeks, and months? The answer seemed quite obvious. I feel ashamed to admit that the answer was terribly, painfully obvious. Good dads MUST have the faith of a child! And they must view the world through the eyes of a child…God’s child.

I felt pretty stupid sitting there in the theater crying, especially over something so blatantly obvious. After putting my boys to bed after the movie, I crawled up into Abba God’s lap and let Him play with what’s left of my hair while I told him of my fears, my sins, and my dreams for the boys.

I don’t know if God deals with you the same way He deals with me. You probably are much more mature in your walk with Him and your mutual communication probably doesn’t include “walking” or rather talking in circles. This reckoning for me — a re-defined definition and purpose of daddy — has left me with Hope and renewed vigor. Tomorrow I might screw everything up as a dad, but if I go to Abba God first with my wins and failures, He makes all things good for “those who love Him, who have been called according to His purpose” (Romans 8:28). To sum up, to be a good daddy, I’ve got to remember I’m a child myself, and I’ve got to return to a view of the world through the eyes and faith of a child. That’s the best gift I can give my boys right now.

Daddy: A Reckoning pt. 3

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hospital crib

When my oldest was two years old, he’d had so many ear infections he needed surgery. I remember sitting in the prep room with him and Amy, nervous for a positive outcome. I remember thinking, If I could take this from you, I would. Eustachian tubes surgeries are so common, I should not have been nervous, but I was. There’s always a risk with full sedation, but it’s minimal kept replaying over and over in my head.

After the surgery, the nurse escorted Amy and me to our son’s bedside. The sight was a bit shocking to me. The crib he was lying in had significantly tall sides; it almost looked like “baby jail”. The nurse explained the difficulties our son might have coming out of the anesthesia and then left the room.

When Micah began to whine and wake, I lowered the side of the crib and picked him up to soothe him. He immediately stopped whining; however, he began fighting me, trying to get out of my grip. I didn’t realize how strong toddlers could be. It took everything in me to keep a hold of him as he threw his head forcibly backward. Amy suggested I lay him down. I agreed, nearly dropping my flailing son into the crib. As soon as Micah was out of my grip, he started whining and he instantly raised his hands begging to be picked up and held. I picked him up. He instantly began fighting and wailing. I set him down, trying to soothe him in the crib, to no avail. Amy tried as well. For nearly thirty minutes, we rotated through this same pattern. Amy was concerned she would drop him, so I picked Micah up, but she stood at my side, hands on our son, praying. It was an exhausting half-hour. All at once, Micah – while in my arms – stopped fighting and the light in his eyes returned. He looked at me, seemed to recognize he was safe, smiled, then snuggled into my embrace.

At the Casting Crowns concert last week, God reminded me of this almost faded memory. When the band began the chorus of “Just be Held“, I closed my eyes and began weeping. The reckoning had just begun.

“So when you’re on your knees and answers seem so far away

You’re not alone, stop holding on and just be held

Your world’s not falling apart, it’s falling into place

I’m on the throne, stop holding on and just be held

Just be held, just be held”

At first, it was as if I were back in that hospital room, wrestling to soothe my son who knew not what he wanted or needed. Then I saw the image I referred to in part 1 of this series: the picture of me on God’s lap, but this time, He wasn’t playing with my hair, He was trying to hold me as I kicked and screamed. As I focused on the picture in my head, I remember saying, But God, this is too much! I can’t do this! I could be such a better dad, but instead, I’m alone. I don’t know how to parent these kids by myself. It was a prayer of resignation. This can’t be what you planned for their lives! Then I heard more of the lyrics.

“If your eyes are on the storm

You’ll wonder if I love you still

But if your eyes are on the cross

You’ll know I always have and I always will”

If my eyes are on the storm?!? reminded me of another lesson God taught me during my senior year in college. I was in the middle of a different storm: a crisis of identity, a crisis of pain, a crisis of fear. It was the first time God’d used music to speak directly to me. I was at a Point of Grace concert with three very good friends, but I was very much alone. Scott Krippayne was the opening act for PoG. In his set he sang “Sometimes He Calms the Storm” and I was beside myself. The profound message in the song can be reduced to one line: “Sometimes He calms the storm and other times He calms His child.”

I know it wasn’t an audible conversation with God, but my heart knew what He was saying. I am and have recently been the child fighting against my Daddy as He was trying to comfort and care for me. Abba Father has walked this road with me since birth; He’s always been beside me. Over and over, He’s told me, “…I always [have loved you] and I always will.” I have been so focused on the storm of late: Amy’s death and the endless pain it’s caused my boys.

One of the things dads know well is the unavoidable construct of pain. Pain is instructive: “Don’t do that again.” Pain is a warning: “Move your hand off the hot burner!” Pain is also a reminder of loss: “She loved you very much.” A good dad understands that preventing pain is pointless. Pain will happen. Dads know that if pain was removed, we would destroy ourselves. Dads also know that pain builds character. When a dad looks down the road, he instinctively knows what will cause pain. But we still buy our kids their first bicycle. Why? Are we masochists? No. We know that part of life, part of growing up, part of living, is handling pain. We also know pain makes us stronger.

When Micah’s sedatives wore off in that hospital room, he recognized Daddy was holding him. He stopped fighting and wailing. He was content to just be held. When I stopped to listen for God’s voice at the concert, I realized I’ve been missing His direction for me: sometimes dads need their dads – sometimes a dad is just a grown-up boy who needs to stop fighting Abba and just be held.

…finished in Pt. 4…

Daddy: A Reckoning part 2

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Amy was hospitalized at twenty-five weeks and one day in her second pregnancy. I was out of my league on the parenting front without a partner. My hope lay in two things: I serve an awesome, big, and powerful God and the pregnancy had already surpassed the necessary point for a baby to possibly live outside the womb: 24 1/2 weeks. Amy could give birth and God could perform miracles, with or without the doctors’ help. The goal was to deliver after thirty weeks. Alas, she only carried the baby to twenty-seven weeks and two days.

In order to survive as a quasi-single dad, adhered to a crushing schedule. I woke at 4:30 each morning; made and packed two lunches and dinner; and then headed for the shower. I woke my son at 5:30 for his bath. We ate breakfast and were out the door by 6:15. I dropped Micah off with a friend or family member for the day, complete with a diaper bag ready for Armageddon, and had to arrive at school for morning staff meetings by 7:15. After school, I picked him up and we went – along with the dinner I’d stashed in the staff lounge – to the hospital to see Mommy. Traffic prevented us from arriving before 5:30 p.m. We’d eat dinner while Micah babbled about the fun things he’d done that day with Grammy, Lisee, Miss Ali, or whichever family friend he’d been stashed with for the day. At 7:15 each night, we would hug Amy and head home. By 8:30 my son was fast asleep and I still had dishes, laundry, and grading to complete. By 11:00, I had usually passed out asleep on the table or in the recliner where I’d been grading papers, usually having just consumed three or four scoops of Rocky Road for comfort. Wash, rinse, repeat four days a week. Fridays we didn’t go to the hospital because I was utterly exhausted. To make it up to Micah, we spent four and six hours at the hospital on Saturdays and Sundays respectively. The rest of the weekend was spent going to church, mopping and vacuuming the floors, and more grading. Grocery shopping happened when I could squeeze it into the schedule. The local Safeway had just been remodeled, and, for a blessed week, half-gallon bricks of ice cream were only one dollar, limit two per customer. I gave my little giant (who was eye to eye with the check counter) two dollars and sent him down the line next to mine each night on the way home from the hospital for a week. I consumed 9 1/2 gallons of ice cream myself while Amy was in the hospital.

One week into the regimen, I realized I could not keep up with an energetic 3 1/2 year-old boy who loved life and lived it hard all while juggling a home, a job, and a wife in the hospital; I just couldn’t. I begged God for a miracle without specifics since I didn’t really know what I needed. He answered my plea by providing prayer warriors and working hands – many unseen to me at the time, and a few very visible – to help me cope. My first Thursday night without Amy happened to be “Back to School Night”. I was mobbed by parents who wanted to bring meals, mow my yard, or clean my house. Amongst the fray of bills piling up and a tight checkbook, we were given fuel cards by two different families in order to keep our family physically together as much as possible. Amy took all the grading from me she could possibly take and I rearranged my lesson plans to avoid long essays until later in the year. Daily I woke feeling an encouraging hand pushing me through my day; I thanked God for the prayer warriors I knew and the ones I didn’t. And on the days when I felt I would break completely, God showed up in an encouraging note, delivered groceries from an anonymous source, or some other creative way.

After a week, I bought paper plates and plastic silverware and stopped folding clothes out of necessity. These two decisions bought me another hour of Z’s a night. I still had a few dishes to wash – pots and pans and the like; and I still completed one to two loads of laundry a day. I just upended the basket onto the couch. It became Micah and my dresser/closet for the month. Amy named the pile “Mt. Washington” when she arrived home to witness the carnage of her once beautiful, neat, organized home.

On Friday nights Micah and I ate dinner on TV trays while watching a movie. We sat together on the couch but I usually fell asleep within fifteen minutes, sometimes before I’d even eaten my dinner. Micah would always wake me up at his favorite parts: “Daddy, ya hafta watch! Dis is da bess part.” By that time, we’d amassed a cache of videos complete with singing vegetables, a skidoo-ing blue puppy, and singing animals who danced with princesses “Once upon a dream”. With such a variety, what did Micah always choose to watch?!? Disney’s Cinderella or

Cinderella

Roger’s and Hammerstein’s…Cinderella starring Brandi, Whoopie, and Whitney! Every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday we watched those movies – or at least they were on while we played on the floor, unloaded and/or reloaded the dishwasher, and performed a sundry of other tasks. By the end of that month, my dreams were replete with mice singing while they helped me clean the house

Gus2

(“Cinderelly, Cinderelly…”). Sometimes my students, family, and friends joined into the nocturnal foray, hounding me of many different tasks I couldn’t complete in the day, or sometimes I found myself arguing with a wand toting, diva fairy-godmother trying to convince me that Impossible was Impossible. Today, Micah’s favorite films include both these movies. He even nicknamed his newly minted brother “Gus-Gus” when they first met!

When Amy came home, I began joking with her: “You cannot die until our kids have all graduated from high school! I can’t do this alone.” There was a bit of truth veiled in that joke. I barely made it through that month and I didn’t want to become the “barely made it” dad my children would weep to their therapists about during their 30’s. Silently, I lived with the fear of losing my wife while my kids were still kids. It became an overwhelming terror multiplying inside of me. When Amy was diagnosed with kidney failure, I choked on that joke once, never again. In that moment I realized I would most likely become a single parent soon, and I wasn’t the daddy I wanted to be.

…to be continued in pt. 3…

Daddy: A Reckoning part 1

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1BryanDuncan
Photo courtesy of amazon.com.

In 1990, my youth group and I attended a Bryan Duncan concert. Opening the concert was an unknown group to me at the time. I do not remember the second half of the concert at all. In the middle of the opening act, Bob Carlisle, lead singer for Allies, began talking about the difference between his and his wife’s views of God when they were first married. Carlisle thought God to be the Zeus type, ready to throw bolts of lightning at a single misstep, demanding unwavering respect, and distant from His creation. I’ll never forget, however, the description of God as his wife encountered Him. What follows is my best attempt at retelling the story. 

“…My wife refers to God as Abba. In Hebrew, Abba means Daddy. It’s an intimate understanding of a child’s relationship with their father…as a daddy. She had a great relationship with her daddy and it transferred to her view of God. She wanted to call God by a name that indicated the same intimate relationship a little girl has with her daddy. The little girl doesn’t worry about grown-up issues because Daddy takes care of them. She doesn’t worry about angering her daddy because he always has time for her. And she doesn’t worry about tomorrow because she’s caught up in the here and now talking with her daddy. For my wife, the name Abba God fit that relationship better. When things get stressful and difficult for my wife, she closes her eyes and pictures herself curled up on Abba’s lap while He plays with her hair…”

That last sentence haunted me for decades. I grew up in a broken family. I had a father, not a daddy. In fact, my father asked me to stop calling him Dad or Daddy because he felt Father was more respectful. When his marriage to my step-mother ended in divorce, our relationship ceased to have any resemblance to healthy.

As I moved through Bible college, I still wrestled with the idea that I could have an intimate relationship where God would let me curl up into His lap and listen to my worries, my boo-boos, and my victories. When I was diagnosed with Acromegaly, I was angry at God and expected a lightning bolt for the many tantrums I threw directed toward my Creator. A year after I was diagnosed, I received an almost clean bill of health.

“We don’t know what’s happened, Thom, but you no longer have the pituitary tumor nor the disease in your bloodstream.”

“I do,” I told the Endocrinologist, “God healed me.” I was ecstatic…until I comprehended the doctor’s next piece of news.

“Our tests show that you may never have children, though.” My life entered a tail-spin. Selfishly, I wanted to have children. I wanted to prove that I didn’t have to be like my father. I wanted to prove that the mold could be broken and I could be a dad. With the announcement brought the certainty that no one would ever consider marrying me, that I was broken. I gave up all dreams of being a dad.

When Amy and I were dating – very early on – I made sure she understood I may not be able to sire children. After we were engaged, we began a five-year plan that would end with the first of five adoptions. (Yes, we were crazy and wanted five children: boy, girl, boy, girl, boy. Oy!) About six months after we were married, Amy was told she “would never be able to bear children”. We threw caution to the wind. I was told “may never” while Amy was told “never”. Her news was more definitive. She stopped taking the birth control pills and we began looking for an adoption agency just to figure out what hoops we’d have to jump through and just how much each hoop would deduct from our bank account.

God had a different plan. Fast forward five and a half years, add the mathematical rule “two negatives make a positive” and multiply by three. In the beginning, I was not a very good dad. I struggled to understand my role and to become the Daddy my children thought I was, or rather, the Daddy they deserved. With each of my three boys, there was a moment in time God froze for me. I can still close my eyes and relive each of those three moments. The house, furniture, and surroundings were not the same, but the three events were nearly identical. In each one, I was sitting in a recliner with one of my three toddlers curled up in my lap. Guess what I was doing. The realization at the time etched the moment into my memory. I can smell dinner during the first encounter. I can hear the blips and squeaks of the hospital monitors during the second encounter. I can see my beautiful wife watching me during the third. What was I doing? I was playing with my boys’ curls and talking with them about why their little heart hurt.

Sometime later, Amy and I were in a Christian bookstore, and I stumbled upon a picture by an unknown artist, simply titled “Destiny”. DestinyI stood stone still staring at that picture for an unknown length of time. My collar was wet from the tears when Amy found me. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t even speak. God gave her a revelation of her own. I had never even imagined Jesus as a toddler, let alone a nearly red-headed toddler with curls. The toddler in the picture looked almost like my youngest; it was overwhelming. Amy pointed out the shadow behind the toddler; that was the moment when God brought it all to a point. The concert. The desire to be a daddy. The three moments, one with each of my three boys. I was wrestling with it all while looking at one of my now heroes – Joseph of Nazareth – as he lived life with his “son” at his feet. We bought the picture and have had it in our home since. Today, the juxtaposition of the toddler Jesus playing with a spike while the cross looms in the foreground has me choking on yet another difficulty related to being a daddy: the world is big and scary and my children will get hurt – it’s my job to be the daddy they need when they are hurt.

In this season of life, as a widowed father of three teenage boys, I find myself struggling as a dad. My soul aches to crawl up into Abba God’s lap and bear my soul while He plays with…what’s left of my hair. And in the middle of the heart-pounding desire is another desire, to be a better daddy today than I was yesterday.

…to be continued in pt. 2…