Epiphany

Passion

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It’s an interesting word. Passion literally means “strong and barely controllable emotion.” We often pair it with a goal to achieve, a driving force, or romantic love. But that’s not what I witnessed at my house this weekend.

Heading into Easter, my youngest and I watched Mel Gibson’s The Passion of the Christ, starring Jim Caviezel as Jesus of Nazareth. It was my third time experiencing the movie, and it affected me no less than the previous two showings (one in a theater and one on a Christmas Eve a long time ago with Amy and her parents).

We had just been reading the Easter story in our morning devotions this week when I suggested to my son that we watch it. Knowing how it affected me, I should not have been surprised at my son’s visceral passion as he put voice to his confusion, grief, and passion. I can still hear him screaming at the Roman guards and at Caiaphas, the High Priest.

Each viewing, my body has reacted violently to every crack of the cane and whip, each lash of the cat-of-nine-tails, and every jarring fall under the weight of the Cross. It astounds me that the brutality depicted in the movie was “toned down” to receive an “R” rating. The violent handling of my Lord and Maker was much worse than depicted in the movie… and what I witnessed in the movie left me physically ill.

Each time I’ve watched that movie I’ve been struck by many things, but a different one seems to hang onto me for hours and days after the viewing. The first time I watched it the epiphany that Mary most likely watched each painful step of her son’s excruciating crawl down the Via Dolorosa. She also felt each smack of the hammer as it struck the spikes. When Mary’s memory takes the story back to a time when Jesus, as a little boy, falls, she runs to him to comfort him. I was undone. Watching her seemingly stare down Satan seconds later shows a determination, and resignation, I never ascribed to the Virgin Mother.

The second time I watched it, finishing in the wee hours of Christmas morning, I was struggling for breath when I realized the symbolism of God the Father crying. The dad in me was again undone, filleted by the deeper understanding of God the Father. It was then that I began referring to The Father as Abba. I finally saw His “daddy’s heart” after so many years of only viewing him akin to Zeus.

This time watching the epic was much different than the last two viewings. Those were marked by an eerie quiet with an undertone of quiet sobbing and nearly silent sniffing. My son’s reaction could not be contained like so many adults. He was so enraged by Caiaphas, Pilot, and the Roman soldiers.

“How can they do that?”

“Can’t they see they are killing him?!?”

“How could you be so evil?”

“This is all your fault!”

My son’s jabs were hurled at a deaf television while the characters continued on without acknowledging him. I, however, was neither deaf nor blind to him. His sobs could not be muted. His cries could not be ignored. His flinches could not be unheard.

When the scene where Mary tries to comfort her bloodied son came on screen, I heard wailing, bolstered by a realization…or maybe it was a new understanding that only the grief my little one has wrestled with of late could comprehend.

This daddy’s heart was rent, watching my youngest wrestle with some of the same “strong and barely controllable emotion” I never understood until I was at least twice his age.

The global church has done a good job romanticizing the event and the weapon of such

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Picture courtesy of DeseretBook.com

demonic physical and mental torture. Do I understand, yes… and no. Watching such a visceral depiction of something I was originally taught on a flannel graph in Sunday School made me feel cheated… actually, no, I felt ashamed because I never understood the depths of pain and agony Yeshua allowed Himself to receive at the hands of wicked men so that I could be saved. Can children handle the level of violence this event held, no, but somewhere along the road, I feel as if I should have realized, or been shown, just how wholly evil, brutal, and wicked this event truly was. I can no longer look at the symbol of the cross without replaying the violence in my head. I am so ever grateful for the sacrifice of my Lord and Savior. May I never again romanticize the event as a thing of beauty.

 

What does love look like at your home?

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I know it’s an odd question for many, and the picture below might confuse you a bit, but I hope I’ve got your attention.

When answering my question, many of you probably think of lovers kissing, a couple holding hands while taking a leisurely walk, or exuberant hugs from little children. Others of you probably think of diamond rings, beautiful weddings, and watching a movie while snuggled on the couch with a loved one. For me, I have a pretty different view of love.

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Notice the glove?!?

Friday, February 22, was the 22nd anniversary of my first date with my wife Amy. It was a crazy day. We were getting together for coffee to talk about youth ministry (honest!). That was all the 1-hour meeting over a cup of joe was supposed to contain. Then God intervened when a mutual friend changed both our expectations of the appointment – just 20 hours before it was set to take place. A 1-hour coffee meeting turned into an almost 13-hour date (complete with flowers, a movie, and 2 meals). I’m waiting to hear if it breaks the Guinness Book record as the longest first date!

Shortly after picking Amy up for the date, I recognized things felt different than any other first date I had ever had. In college, when preparing for a first date, my stomach was in so many knots, food never stayed long in my stomach. This time was very different. By the end of lunch (a 5-hour event because we’d lost track of time), I knew I’d found the love of my life. We’d been talking every night for the 3 weeks prior, so I already had an inkling on my way into Applebees.

For the next 19 years, I held Amy’s hand, brushed hair from her face before kissing her, and washed the dishes. Yes! I washed dishes because I loved my wife. Amy had sensitive skin that broke out with horrible eczema if her hands were submerged in water for long. So, because I loved her, I washed dishes (until my kids needed to learn how to do this chore).

Shortly after we were married, Amy wanted to take a cake decorating class. Then she wanted to take a “Stamping It Up” class. Then she wanted to take a Creative Memories class. We did them all together. Did I really want to do those things? Eh. Did I want to do them with Amy? YES! She made those classes fun. We had a blast together. I got to spend time with her and learned some wonderful skills that I now get to pass on to my kids…her kids.

Many years ago, it was popular in the church to find your “Love Language”. Since then, it’s become a trend outside the church as well. Amy’s love language was Gifts, followed closely by Time. When I found out, I was mortified. We were living on a Christian school teacher’s salary. Every penny was accounted for before the check was cashed. I didn’t know how I would ever be able to afford to give Amy gifts. Amy saw the terror unveiling across my face at that couple’s retreat.

“You have given me so many gifts already, Thom,” she whispered. “You gave me this,” she said, pointing to her wedding ring. “You gave me a beautiful baby boy.” Our oldest was only 6 months old at the time. “And you wash the dishes every day.” The last one puzzled me, but she didn’t explain; she just turned around and continued listening to the speaker. It took God many years to help me understand… and accept that my dishwashing was a gift, a real gift.

With Valentine’s Day not so long past, and the 22nd anniversary of our 1st date just days ago, the question “What does love look like in our home now?” has been playing in my head. Maybe it’s because I miss her. Maybe it’s because I got used to giving Amy gifts and spending time with her. Maybe it’s because I’m finally on the other side of the heart-crushing pain of loss.

When thinking of dinner two nights ago, I thought of Amy. What would she have made for dinner? Then I remembered, they loved her spaghetti, but because of my allergy to tomatoes, my boys don’t get to eat it often. Take a gander at the pic. See the purple glove? What you can’t see are the long sleeves pulled down with the gloves pulled up over the cuffs. It was fun. The hardest part was not tasting my creation. Isaiah was happy to taste it for me when he got home. It needed a little more salt and pepper.

I made enough for the boys to have 3 different dinners of spaghetti. They didn’t jump up and down when they ate it, but their plates were empty in minutes…no complaints. I call that a win.

So, what does love look like at your house? In mine, it’s washing dishes, homemade gifts, and making spaghetti.

 

…a little cleaner inside and out

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Last weekend I was violently awakened by the pounding on my bedroom door and my middle son screaming, “Dad, the bathroom downstairs is flooding!” I did not descend the stairs in a loving, cheerful manner. It probably resembled a rampaging herd of buffalo. I was barking commands like a Marine drill sergeant, back before the military made them take emotional training courses. It was a war zone when I reached the bathroom. Luckily – which probably had everything to do with God and/or my guardian angel and nothing to do with luck – I reached the bathroom before the icky water drained into the forced-air vent on the floor. I grabbed the hand towels and barked orders for more resources. Needless to say, it was not fun.

After the flood waters receded, and the floor had been mopped with clean water, I began

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The “cleaned” plunger and holder.

to put things back where they belonged. That’s when I noticed how dirty the plunger holder had become. An odd duality played in my head: 1) guilt for having yelled and used language that would make some sailors proud and 2) the question ‘When was the last time had this plunger and holder had been cleaned?’ Sadly, that question was followed by, ‘Have I ever cleaned the plunger and holder?’ I was mortified by the realization that there were things in my house needing cleaning that had never been cleaned. I turned on the sink to the hottest water possible and grabbed for the strongest cleanser I had.

At some point, while standing at the sink, scrubbing the…ick, wishing I hadn’t let a string of expletives fly while I flew down the stairs, IT hit me: **THINGS** happen (think Forrest Gump). I got the giggles. In the middle of the giggles, I was hit with an epiphany: God loves me, even when I cuss, even when parts of my heart have not been cleaned in a long time, even when I’m coated in feculence… like the plunger and its holder. I don’t know about you, but I struggle with taking a close look at my heart, under God’s guiding light, in order to root out those places that need cleaning. You all probably know that the plunger in your bathroom needs to be cleaned ever so often. Me…I do now; but more importantly, God and I had a long chat, with His light on my heart, a little brighter than before. I’m not perfect, neither am I really knowledgeable about house cleaning, but I’m getting better…and a little cleaner day by day…inside and out.

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

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(“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…

An Epiphany re: parenting!

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It’s taken me nearly a week to write this post. The epiphany has been a lot to digest and understand God’s lesson to me. It never donned on me just how much my kids are like me or rather just how suited I am to be their dad until the other day. I know this might sound stupid, but the epiphany is too big for me to let pass.

Growing up, there were many careers I wanted to try on for size. Some fell by the wayside, others were tucked into the Maybe bin, while others landed directly in front of me. Dropping my youngest off at his first cake decorating class last Thursday, brought about the epiphany.

When I was in first grade, I wanted to become was a trapeze artist. (Insert giggles here.) I read every book about Miguel Vazquez I could find. He was my hero. Vazquez was the youngest flyer in the Barnum and Bailey Circus at the time, and he was only a few years older than I was. In the third grade, I learned I surpassed most trapeze flyers in height and therefore needed to find another passion to follow. My hopes of being a circus performer were dashed.

Years later, during a move to a new house, I found a cache of spiral notebooks in which I’d designed many trapeze flyer costumes. That got me started on fashion design. I spent my free time drawing clothes, inventing fabric patterns and testing different ways to re-design the boring clothes I wore. By middle school, I stood out from the crowd with my Z Cavaricci jeans and my three quarter sleeve jackets by Guess. I was wearing Don Johnson’s wardrobe ala Miami Vice before the show was popular!

Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with acting and Broadway musicals. In high school alone, I performed in six different plays. I was even cast in a professional production of Left Behind, right here in Hillsboro, Oregon. Although I’ve only performed in one musical – No, No, Nannette! – one of my Bucket List goals since 9th grade is to one day perform on Broadway! By the end of my Sophomore year, I wanted to become an American Novelist, publishing at least three books a year! (No one told me I couldn’t reach for the stars in my dreams!)

Amy and I spent our Honeymoon in Disneyworld. We had so much fun, and fell in love with the place, that we began making plans to retire and work in one of the Disney Parks after we raised a family.

Shortly after our wedding, Amy set out to take a cake decorating class together. We’d been catering events from intimate dinners for 6 to weddings with 1200 in attendance. We didn’t have a lot in common, except a love for the Lord and for all things Disney; I saw an opportunity to do something together, even if it wasn’t something I really wanted to do. I ended up loving it. Within two years, we were winning baking contests.

All in all, I grew up with a significant amount of creativity trying to break out of me. What did I grow up to be? An English/Language Arts teacher by day and a superhero by night – but that’s a whole different story/post for another day.

Now back to my epiphany.

My oldest has a passion for Broadway and wants to write musicals. He’s written, directed, and produced a one-act play during his Senior year in high school. He’s written many short stories, blog posts, and even a chapter in my book: Good Grief?!?

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Micah’s first Caramel Apple pie

Over the last year, he’s been working on a musical with a friend or two. I told him I want a front-row seat when he debuts on Broadway and a walk-on part for the week following. He recently returned from a trip to New York City in which he had the opportunity to see Waitress, his favorite musical and the reason he’s picked up pie baking.

My middle son loves all things Disney, especially Tinkerbell and Peter Pan his mother’s and his favorite characters respectively. He also has a deep desire to do things other people would like to do; this passion offers him community with creative people. He’s dabbled at cooking, musicals, and writing because his mother, brothers, and I have all enjoyed those tasks.

Then there’s my youngest. At almost three, he crawled into my lap, arrested the remote control from my grip and changed the channel from Young Justice to Good Eats with Alton Brown.

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The sundress Isaiah made.

He liked superheroes but thought that the Food Network was a better use of his time. In first grade, he asked his mother to teach him her famous chocolate chip cookie recipe. She plopped him on the island countertop, criss-cross-applesauce, and placed a giant Tupperware bowl in his lap. Then she made him swear to always “quality control” the chocolate chips and other tasty ingredients. He’s grown into quite the chef, confounding our taste-buds with his cooking and baking creations alike. The summer after Amy died, my son’s favorite math teacher left the profession choosing to be a stay at home mom to her son and newborn daughter. To show his appreciation, my youngest created a beautiful sun dress for the little girl. When his teacher opened the box, she asked him, “Where did you buy this? It’s so cute.” She was speechless when she learned that he’d made it under the direction of his godmother.

It was an amazing thing to realize my kids were growing up as extensions of me, not that I live through them vicariously, but that we can go through life together interested in and participating in activities we all like!

Then IT hit me.

Amy was very creative and loved cooking, baking, Broadway, and Disney. My kids are each an extension of her! I see her face in their faces daily. Sometimes the recognition brings a face-wide grin to part my visage, other times it brings tears. I know many kids grow up to be something their parents never saw coming or something their parents were never interested in pursuing. I find myself very blessed to look at my kids and see the extension of Amy and myself in them. All three of them will go places above and beyond our dreams. It’s my job to support them and offer help…when they ask for it.