Fri., Oct. 28, 2005--Being a good fathusbander

Our daughter woke up around 10 p.m. last night complaining of a stinging pain in her private parts (yes, yes, I know, I could say "vagina," but she may read this one day and be unbelievably embarrassed). We tried various things to ease the pain, but what finally helped an hour later was Caroline taking a baking soda bath with Anne. When Anne came to bed, I told her she did some good mothering and she reciprocated by saying I did some good fathering, but any impartial observer would note that I had very little direct contact with Caroline.

It wasn't that I didn't want to. I offered to hold her, to scratch her back, to get her dolls, to get her some crackers, but Caroline's answer to pretty much everything I offered was a shake of the head, a tear-soaked voice that cried "Mommy," and a look that pretty much told me to not come near her. It doesn't take long for a father to get used to that so I'm way beyond feeling slighted. What I did do at 10:30 was remember a 24-hour "NurseLine" that we have access to through our health insurance. Anne called, talked to the nurse for a few minutes, and got, among other ideas, the baking-soda bath idea. So, when Anne complimented by fathering skills, I quickly realized that part (much?) of good fathering is good husbanding. So far in our parenting, Anne is the driver much of the time and I'm the pit crew. Instead of changing tires and fixing an engine, I offer diapers, phone numbers, and neck rubs. I'll climb into the parenting car for a spin from time to time, but Anne is the preferred driver, no question about it. I will have more time behind the wheel (almost done with the race-car metaphor) in the future I'm sure, but for now, it's kind of neat to learn from her.

Thurs., Oct. 27, 2005--Baseball for girls

As I was listening to all of the responses to the White Sox victory last night, I was struck by the number of broadcasters who kept saying that this is something that grandfathers, fathers, and sons will always remember and share together. A couple of things ran through my head.

First, if what these broadcasters say is true (and I don't doubt that it is), what is it about baseball that creates this bond? Men tease women about weepy "chick flicks," but there are more than a few men who get choked up by the final scene in "Field of Dreams" when Roy's dead father comes out of the cornfield for one last game of catch. Maybe other sports create these memories (football games in the backyard, shooting baskets at the hoop on the garage), but baseball is the model. I think about games of catch with my dad as I'm sure he does with his dad and so on. When you play catch, it's usually warm, it's an activity that doesn't take a huge amount of skill, and you have to face each other. Ah, I think that might be it. There aren't many activities when a father and a son stand in front of one another and actually have to look at each other as they throw and catch, throw and catch. The father may notice his son growing up, the son wonders if he'll be like his father. They may talk, but usually the only sound is the pop of mitt, which is usually the only sound that's needed.

Second, should this be an exclusively male thing? I'll always have wonderful memories of taking my daughter to her first baseball game, which was, as a matter of fact, at U.S. Cellular Field, where the White Sox play. The White Sox, however, weren't the ones playing. This was last year when the Florida Marlins were forced to find other places to play their home games because of a hurricane. Because of some scheduling quirk, they played two games against the Montreal Expos in Chicago. It was great because tickets were cheap, you could sit wherever you wanted (meaning Caroline, who was 3 at the time, could get up and move if she wanted to), and the baseball was still major-league quality. So, yes, fathers and sons will enjoy this memory. But don't forget the mothers and daughters, too.

Wed., Oct. 26, 2005--Prayer in school

I was talking about prayer with the children during the children's sermon last Sunday and was trying to emphasize to them that one can pray to God any way, any time, and anywhere. I started by describing a litany of postures and places where they could pray (of course, one boy had to verify that one could pray in the bathroom which set off a chain reaction of giggles). I asked them if one could pray in different places and and occasions and they would all answer, "Yes!" and then I asked if they could pray in school and there wasn't even a hesitation: "No!" The whole congregation erupted in laughter, knowing that the issue of prayer in school is a loaded one.

I was really taken aback by the unanimity of the children that school isn't a place for prayer. Now, I'm usually on the more progressive side when it comes to church-state issues, but I must say that I was saddened that children might pick up on a message that states that there must be no prayer in school whatsoever. I'm not calling for teachers to start leading an "Our Father," but do children believe that God is only limited to certain places (like church and home) and does not belong in others (like school or, say, the mall)? Is it a matter of their inability to grasp the wide varieties of prayer and how one can indeed pray in school (one can pray constantly, for that matter) or is it when they think of prayer, they think only of guided, spoken prayer? I didn't have time to pursue this with them, but I tried to let them know that one can pray 24/7 no matter where they are and no matter who tells them they can't.

Tues., Oct. 25, 2005

From the archives (Sept. 22, 2005)

It figures that as I write yesterday about the need to simply be with someone rather than worrying about doing something, I get a call yesterday to be somewhere and I end up actually *doing* something that helped immensely. I went to visit an older couple from our church who recently moved from their home of 40 years into an apartment. He has Alzheimer’s which, as anyone who has cared for someone with this disease knows, can be stressful at times. I don’t have a ton of experience in dealing with folks with dementia or Alzheimer’s, but I know enough to be patient, listen to stories told repeatedly, and encourage them to talk about things they do remember. I did that with him yesterday, but it wasn’t until his wife mentioned that he loves his records that I discovered my purpose that day. She was unable to hook her stereo up, which consisted simply of a receiver and a turntable. We went into the room where the stereo was located, I was able to connect her speakers and the turntable to the receiver, she went to get some albums, and a few minutes later, a sound I hadn’t heard in a while came through the speakers. I didn’t buy my first compact disc until I was in college so I’m more than familiar with records, both 45s and 33s. It had been close to 20 years, however, since I heard that familiar pop of the turntable arm and the soft hisses and scratches of a needle on vinyl. Soon Benny Goodman came through the speakers and the man I was visiting with was transformed. He was listening so intently to the clarinet, horns, and piano of this jazz combo. He’d wince slightly when the record when scratch, but I could tell he was in a place that brought back wonderful memories. As I stood there listening with the both of them, I realized that moment would be a wonderful memory for me, too.
I’m sure my being a “pastor” and listening and comforting was helpful, but it was my modest skills as a stereo technician that really helped. I was able to do and be at the same time.

Fri., Oct. 21, 2005--Idealism from 10-year-olds

Idealism can be a great thing because it can push us to do or experience things we might not consider. The downside of idealism, however, is that the actual experience might not match our expectation and we can walk away frustrated, which may squash our idealism a little bit. Our church has started a new venture of tutoring children at a local elementary school, mostly working with children of Mexican immigrants. I first went a couple weeks ago and I was afraid I had set my expectations too high. Privileged people (like myself) tend to do that when working with people coming from a different socio-economic background. We have these visions of pulling people up and being their saviors. That’s a pretty poor attitude, but sometimes we can’t stop ourselves. My first experience a in the classroom wasn’t great (see blog on Oct. 7), mainly because there was a substitute teacher the day I went and she wasn’t too sure what to do with me. So, I sat. I went back yesterday. Score a point for idealism. I worked with two 10-year-old girls who speak little English. I worked with them on the English words for clothing plus a little conversational English, too (“My name is…, My address is…). It was a wonderful 45 minutes. They were delightful, eager to learn, and also patient with me as I tried my high-school Spanish on them. I certainly hope I don’t look consider myself a person who can “save” them. If, eventually, I can be a kind of friend, a friend who tried to explain the difference between pants and jeans, I will be grateful.

Thurs., Oct. 20, 2005--Lamentation

Many churches with contemporary worship begin with a few (or more than a few) praise songs. These songs are upbeat, cheery, and start the worship with a little kick. I always wonder, though, about those folks who walk into church and really don't feel much like praising at that moment. Giving praise to God is something we should do, obviously, but, if we're honest with ourselves, we're not always in that frame of mind and guitars and drums and the group of Seven Smiling Singers might not change that.

I've heard of a few churches that are brave enough to start with a lament. Now, that brings its own problems. Someone walking in ready to be energetic and praise God probably won't be too thrilled with singing a dirge-like song. At least it's honest, though, because it recognizes our range of emotions.

There's nothing like a good lament, but we're usually a little too proper with our emotions to let our anguished feelings out. As much as it pains me to admit this, we could probably take a few lessons from my 4-year-old daughter. Lately she's been giving some top-notch 10-minute lamentations a couple times a day. She repeatedly expresses the reason for her grief, she has a strong desire to be held, and tears usually accompany this display. Granted, it gets tiring for my wife and I (especially my wife since my daughter usually wants to be with her), but Caroline is an excellent lamenter.

That may be the problem with us middle-class folks. We don't know how to lament when the mood strikes, when we're overwhelmed with what goes on in the world, when our loved one has cancer, when we have little reason to exude joy. It would do us some good, I think, to be able to express our grief, be held by a loved one, and shed a few tears. Maybe I'll make that a New Year's Resolution or save it for Lent next year. I've got to work on my laments.

Tues., Oct. 16, 2005

Mary Jo, our church's family ministries coordinator, voiced today what may be the case for a growing number of Chicagoans: She's sick of the Sox. It's everywhere in the Chicago area. Yesterday as I was driving on the freeways, the big electronic board telling drivers how long their commute is going to be also congratulated the White Sox for making it to the World Series. All of this discussion brings up an important point about bandwagons. Many Chicago baseball fans insist that you have to choose. You're either a Cub fan or a Sox fan. You can't be both. Since I'm not a native, I'm able to cheer for both (as long as the Reds aren't still in it) so I'll be watching the World Series with my White Sox cap and encouraging my daughter to wear her White Sox pajamas.

Some Christians also believe in the bandwagon concept, meaning you need to be a Christian for the long haul. It irritates more than a few that Jesus has given a loophole that gives people a chance to come on board at the last minute no matter what. The eminent philosopher Bart Simpson once had this exchange with a traveling preacher named Brother Faith:

Bart: Excuse me, Brother Faith? I've gotta know -- how did you *really* get the bucket off my Dad's head?
Brother Faith: Well, I didn't, son. You did. God gave you the power.
Bart: Really? Huh. I would think that He would want to limit my power.
Faith: [laughs] Oh, yes, Lord. When I was your age, I was a hellraiser, too. [holds up Bart's slingshot] My slingshot was my cross. But I saw the light, and changed my wicked ways.
Bart: I think I'll go for the life of sin, followed by a presto-change-o deathbed repentance.
Faith: Wow, that's a good angle. [contemplates for a second] But that's not God's angle. Why not spend your life helping people instead. Then you're also covered in case of sudden death.
Bart: Full coverage? Hmmm.

God wants us to have full coverage, of course. But grace is a bandwagon, meaning there's room for everyone at all times. Even Cubs fans. Even Sox fans.

Wed., Oct. 12, 2005

Whenever we go to some sort of gathering where I meet new people, I always find it amusing/interesting to gauge people's response to my vocation. Sometimes people will joke about having to watch their language (ha, ha) and occasionally I can see the person's brain going crazy trying to figure out a way to get away from me, but more often than not, people are fascinated, kind of like how one would be treated if they were from another country. If I were to say I'm from New Zealand, I can imagine the questioner saying, "Really?!?" I get the same response when I say I'm a pastor. For one thing, younger folks (can I consider myself--at 37--as young?) are not real common in the clergy. I think people expect gray hair. For another thing, the whole topic of religion and spirituality is something that people are eager to talk about whether they go to church regularly or not. I was reminded of that these last few days. Our church is putting together, for lack of a better phrase, a marketing plan and one of the things we wanted to do was ask a variety of folks simple questions like, How would you describe your faith? and What do you like about your church/What would you want from a church? I took the lazy/efficient way out and e-mailed a bunch of acquaintances these questions and I've been surprised by the e-mails I've received. I was concerned that I wouldn't get much response, but it's been a good return plus I'm getting responses from people I wouldn't have expected, especially from people I don't know real well. I can sense a real struggle in answering some of the questions that seem simple. When you think about it, though, being asked to describe your faith is not so simple.

I think part of my calling (in my own self-depracating way) is to attract certain people who have been put off by the church for one reason or another. If that is the case, I couldn't be more pleased.

Friday, Oct. 7, 2005

I was a fifth-grader yesterday for the first time in 27 years or so. I've decided to volunteer as a tutor at a local elementary school for an hour a week as another way of getting out and about in the community. There are quite a few folks from my church who are also doing this and we'll mainly be working with students from immigrant families, most of whom are from Mexico.
I showed up for class yesterday and it was memorable for so many reasons, but I probably shouldn't get into all the details here. But it was surreal to be transported back to that age. Fifth grade was actually a pretty great year for me in the little town of Eldora, Iowa. I had some great friends, had my first real "girlfriend," and just enjoyed the heck out of life. I'm veering into "things-were-better-in-my-day" territory, but things are defintely different. Instead of rows, students sit in clusters of 4 desks that face each other, which seems to me to be like guiding Cookie Monster into an Oreo factory. Also, everybody has a water bottle and it's a little more relaxed as far as students getting up and walking around (there was also a substitute there, which may have had something to do with it. Subs are in a no-win situation).
I also attracted some attention because I was new and different and 10- and 11-year-olds like new and different. When the students first walked in, it was like I was a display model at a department store. The students would come up, look at me in interesting ways, ask me questions (who are you? obviously the most often asked), and I think at least one touched my arm to verify that I was real. It's going to be an interesting experience, I think, but one thing was pretty clear when I left. I'm not cut out to be a teacher at that level and I am so thankful that there are those who have those gifts.

Tuesday, Oct. 4, 2005

I went apple picking last Saturday with my family at Apple Holler, which is just over the Illinois-Wisconsin border. It's tailor-made for Chicago-area families who want to have that outdoorsy experience while still having access to a few amenities for the kids. It was also a very warm day, as well. The apples taste great, but, all in all, it wasn't my favorite fall memory.
You have to make your way through what's essentially a farmer's market carnival (pony rides, food stands, etc.) to get to the orchards and it was a pretty crowded day. I think the thing that bothered me, though, wasn't anything that the Apple Holler people did (all of whom, I should say, were very nice), but I have this thing about the weather. I like it to be normal. There's a small part of my brain that is a little concerned about global warming and the mild winters we've had the last few years make me nervous. I'm sure there are countless meterologists who would say that global warming has nothing to do with it, but it's my fear, nonetheless. So, when I go apple picking on Oct. 1, I want there to be a little bite in the air. Give me 65 degrees or so. Not 85. Not shorts and t-shirts. Oh, dear. I've become an autumnal Scrooge.