Putting My Head Under the Water

"One, two, three, wheeee!", said Annie as she recently held Willow snug in her arms, dipping completely under the pool water for the first time ever. Popping right back up, Willow wiped her eyes, rubbed her little pug nose, smiled and said, "Gan, Annie."

Willow's always been the fearless one of the two. "Caution" and "reservation" are not adjectives Victoria or I would use to describe her. She's just a little go-getter. Poppy on the other hand is motivated to do as Willow does, but not because she's thrilled by the thrill, but rather to make sure she can do as Willow does. There's simply no way Willow is going to out-do her. And Willow? Well, she'll do as Poppy does because the two of them love each other so much and it's clearly evident they just enjoy being in one another's presence.

I see a lot of myself in Poppy. A bit reserved, cautious and competitive. I always had to check out all of the angles before I dove into anything. Where's the nearest safety net? What's going to happen in the worst case scenario? Is there any possible way I could do it better? I'm not particularly proud of those character traits, but on other hand when I see them reflected in Poppy and I can also see the upside of these gifts. The hardest part about being a Pop-tart is that I constantly analyze everything, and most of all myself. There's something about that spirited Willow-tree type that seems freeing, footloose and fancy. There's a "being in the moment" joy that just oozes from Willow's pores. And when she makes a mistake, gets scolded, or encounters an "owiee", she's quickly able to move on and put it behind her.

Watching Willow and learning from her will help me help myself. And as I help myself, I can help Poppy help herself and work together to not live as if the world revolves around me/us. I'll never forget Victoria sweetly telling me during one of my more contemplative seasons of life, "Honey, it's not all about you."

Funny how God gives us children to point out our greatest weaknesses, and funny how our children look to us as if we're perfect. One's looking into a mirror, and the other's looking into the face of God.

Putting my head beneath the water,

Tom

Party-Favors

It was someone's birthday party, I can't remember who's. I must have been about seven or eight. Birthday parties were always a highlight. What short-stuff wouldn't get excited about hanging out with friends of the same age, eating cake, playing games and running around without a care in the world? Everybody's happy, and whatever hardship might have existed before the party seemed to vaporize the moment you walked through that door and saw streamers, heard laughter and smelled sugar wafting from bright, primary colors of solids and liquids. The anticipation was almost as much fun as the party. And the best part of all? Party-favors. I knew that giving was supposed to be better than receiving, but I always felt better receiving than giving, and the party-favor satisfied that selfish craving to leave with more than I came with.

This party is etched into my memory though because I'll never forget what I received as a party-favor that day. I can't even remember his name, but I know that he was less fortunate than me. His family didn't have what we had and for whatever reason couldn't afford to throw a fancy shindig. I had certainly built this one up in my mind to a greater degree than reality (which seems to be true of most expectations). My disappointment reached an epic level when I received my parting gift. It was wrapped with newspaper and held together with masking tape. It was evident the birthday boy decorated it himself; he certainly put a lot of care into it to ensure each angle was meticulously folded. Not wanting to open it in front of him I took it home. Covering the package with my hands, hiding it from my Mom with a titch of embarrassment, I walked to the back porch and unwrapped it in secret, almost afraid to see what was inside. An old, worn out paper-back book was unveiled with tattered pages and a cover that flaked the flimsy cardboard painting because of the crisscrossed wrinkles and folds. The title was one I'd never heard of. I started to cry, and my mother came out to ask me what was the matter. I showed her the book, and she was so sweet not to shame me for my ugly feelings. (That's the way my Mom is.) Tenderly she knelt down at my eye level and tried to explain what only an adult can understand and a young heart cannot embrace. My mother didn't need to shame me that day because to this day I remain ashamed of myself. I wish now I could go back in time and tell him how thoughtful it was to give me that book, and most of all that he labored to make it special for me. And I wish now that I had more acquaintances in life that could only afford to give me a worn-out hand me down as a the best gift they had to offer. I'm afraid I live in another league. I wonder who's most fortunate.

This story I pass down to my children so they'll remember. I'm reminded because of the recent birthday party Poppy and Willow attended for little Meredith, also adopted from China about the same time as Poppy and providentially a neighbor right down the street. Their heritage from the other side of the globe, born hundreds of kilometers apart from one another in a vast country brought two families together that wouldn't have connected otherwise, even though we're only houses away from one another. That too is shameful. Meredith's party was perfect and what a joy it was to celebrate her entree into the world with a family that loves her so. Poppy and Willow received more than a old, used book as a party-favor, and Poppy immediately began to hoard the best of both bags of gifts to choose which she wanted most. It was at that moment I recalled my birthday story revealed above, and oh how I wished I could have conveyed it to Poppy in a meaningful way just then. Someday she'll understand, I hope.

What kind of a gift is a beat-up, bruised, disfigured and butchered body of a perfect man to me? If I were to see it with my own eyes, I'd be abhorred. But grace, the gift I never deserved or merited, covered my eyes as spectacles bringing full clarity to what only my blurred and naked vision clouded. Looking through it I now find the beauty of the Man, and am grateful He didn't come wrapped in adorning color and with fanfare. He's my old, used up paperback that contains the very words of life itself. I couldn't have asked for a more perfect favor, clearly more precious than any gift I might have brought to the party.

"My distant friend out there that handed me my perfect party-favor that day, whatever your name is/was, I thank you. And I'm so dreadfully sorry I scorned your grace."

Tom

More Than A Season of Summer

The solitude of a warm summer's night walk. Crickets chanting with chirps, frogs frolicking with foibles, deer dancing with deftness, and even bugs buzzing with babbles. It draws me from the depth of the deep.

The girls were running on the green-top of an abandoned tennis court. Pretending to race raggedly from one line to another, neither one caring who "won". The backdrop of a California golden hill with the shadow of a setting sun contrasted the court's surface with perfect artistry. Pitter-pattering of feet was all that could be heard, except the thoughts of my own heart toward God. Surely this puts life in the sweet spot.

Summer's are always a favorite. Clear sky overhead with loose clothing barely touching the skin. There's almost a sense of weightlessness. No constraints except the ones placed there by me. Maybe Fall will never come. But then Victoria would miss her favorite.

Today school started for Barret. Another constraint. Or is it? Must duty always be that way? I think not. The weightlessness of Summer doesn't have to cease. After all, the fullness of life peaks in this season and carries the strength to withstand the hardship of others. Colors change, temperatures drop, and obligations rise, but it's summer that undergirds the rest with assured hope for the next.

Barret's very serious about his studies. College is on the horizon, and he has his mind set on where he wants to attend. Not an easy task; certainly not a shoe-in. The Junior year is a critical one. He's determined, and prouder parents we could not be. The prayer is not only for acceptance, but more that this year would be a full year of summer. Like most, Barret is harder on himself than others are on him. He works tirelessly, which is atypical of summer-time. But the warmth, rest and energy summer affords is what Barret needs in the Fall, Winter and Spring. There is "a season for every activity under heaven". (Ecclesiastes 3:1b) For Barret, may this season under heaven be summer.

Loving the Summer (& Barret),

Tom (& Victoria)

"But Who Can Stand Before Jealousy?"

"Mommy, I'm jealous of that girl." Those were the words uttered by the little Poppy-flower of four and a half years of age just days ago. Viewing a sprouting "virtuoso" piano player, a prodigy of only six years of age on the Internet with Victoria pushed those words out of her mouth. (View for yourself below.)

What boldness! No, what guilelessness. "Impressive", was my first reaction when Victoria told me that story. Especially after Poppy then walked over to our own, almost century old upright piano from my great grandmother and proceeded to try to play on her own. With even more pride she said to Victoria, "I don't think she can do this" as Poppy proceeded to strum her fingers across the ivories from one end of the board to the other. "Oh, and you know what else Momma? Her brother isn't as tall as mine." Of course, who's really considering age, that the gifted piano player's brother was only a few years older than her, and Poppy's are almost 17 and now 24, respectively?

Teaching moments like this only arise when a heart is laid bare and the wickedness to conceal is unformed. Victoria jumped right on it like any good mother would. And what jumped on me was both inspiration and amazement. Oh to be so unassuming and innocently confess what doesn't feel right from the very beginning. That's becoming. And oh to be wracked at four years old with a force that rivals few others, including wrath and anger. "Wrath is fierce, and anger is a flood, But who can stand before jealousy?" (Proverbs 27:4) I'm both proud of Poppy and fearful for her.

I guess some jealousy drove me to a few lofty pursuits, the rewards of which I was immediately pleased with, but the longing for more insatiable. Misdirected pining can sometimes achieve remarkable humanitarian feats. The more remarkable feat is laying down to lift up. God's jealousy is righteous, and Victoria and my prayer for Poppy (and other "K's" from the household) is to steer the gaze away and to Him.

"Poppy, I'm jealous too. I'm afraid our age difference hasn't wiped that away. At least Jesus wiped it away, and His righteousness can become ours."

With Inspiration & Amazement,

Tom (& Victoria)

Taxi Tips

After just recently returning from a business trip to Seattle, I can't help but ruminate on some anecdotal life-tips received from a taxi driver that drove me back to the airport Tuesday night (I wrote them down as soon as I got out of the cab). I love riding in taxi's because I engage in deep conversations that otherwise wouldn't happen were it not for the confined space and time a taxi cab and its ride affords. Some of my most profound encounters with strangers occur in taxi cabs; maybe it's because I feel freed to pursue personal convictions of others knowing that I'll probably never see them again in my life. (After writing that last sentence I realize my logic is embarrassingly flawed, weak and elementary. The same freedom I feel in taxi cabs is the same freedom I should experience in everyday life.)

Exuding a very jovial aura, I asked my cab driver what made him so happy. He responded in his strong Indian accent by saying that he possesses very little, and therefore is very rich in life. Probing a little further, I asked him to explain himself. He said, "Look, if you want to help beggars, stop looking for them on the street corners, because they're usually the ones that ride in my taxi cab dressed in Hugo Boss suits. They have everything, but possess nothing. The reason they're beggars is because what they have cannot satiate their constant hunger for more. So, they beg, beg, beg and beg, and then beg for more. They're never really secure."

So he teed it up nicely for me to toss my next query his way. I wondered what he meant by security, and he explained it like this, "Most people think that if they plan, purchase and pursue they'll find security that will carry them safely into old age. The only problem is that their pursuit makes them insecure, never achieving real security." I asked him if he felt secure, and he said, "Yes, because as soon as you realize that you cannot attain security you find real security."

Coming full circle, I said to him, "So you're rich in your poverty, and you're secure in your insecurity. Am I understanding you correctly? Is this what makes you happy?" He answered, "Yes, but it's not just that. I've learned that if you do exactly the opposite of what the world tells you to do, you'll find true happiness and fulfillment in life." In response, as I reached into my pocket for some money to pay him for his 20 minutes of service and entertainment, I said, "It's interesting that Jesus said some of these very same things. The difference is that richness, security and the pursuit of happiness are not found in the living out of these paradoxes, but rather in the living within them through the One that points us to God. In other words, my friend, Jesus already lived these truths to kill our pursuit in order to find the One that will lead us to life divine. Think about that."

Amazing how close most of us are to the Kingdom.

Waiting for my next taxi,

Tom

All Is Not Always Well

Life has a way of cruising along and all is well, and then it throws you a curve ball. You never quite know when it's coming, but right about the time you realize it's on its way it's across home plate and you didn't even have enough time to get into a stance. This is particularly true when someone in your family who's almost always healthy isn't feeling well, especially when it's one of your parents. Then, all of the sudden, all is not always well.

My Dad hasn't been feeling so hot lately, but I didn't know how badly until I called home the other evening and my parents didn't answer the phone. I figured they were out to dinner or something, only to get a call the next day from my Mom that Dad was in the hospital for some strange condition I'd never heard of. He's now home and is better than before, but is still extremely fatigued.

I wouldn't normally post about something like this, but felt I wanted to journal the off-balance and catawampus feelings I experience whenever someone close to me gets ill. My emotions are no different than anyone else's, I'm sure, but it's a strange and uncomfortable phenomenon that must be dealt with.

It's not natural that people, family members get sick. We were not created for this, but to live eternally without blemish or hardship. So it's natural that it feels unnatural. And it's particularly unnatural when it's one of your parents because no matter how young or old you are you always think of Mom and Dad as invincible. Whether my children realize this or not about Victoria and me, it's probably true for them as much as it is for me with my parents. I pray often for a long and healthy life; not for my benefit, but for theirs, especially the little ones. Moms and dads represent a strong sense of security in life, regardless of whether you're physically close in proximity or not. I'm glad God created us this way because it's a magnetic pull to find security in Him, the one who will never grow old, never grow weary and never fail. And since I'm (we're) created to find security in those who care for us most, our world is shaken when they are not feeling the way that you've always known or envisioned them to be. This is all the more reason why all children need mommies and daddies. They need that peace, that sense of belonging that can only come with parents. That's why, among so many reasons, Victoria and I believe in adoption. 

So tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day after that I'm praying for my Dad (and my Mom too). I've always prayed for them everyday, but at times like this I pray even harder, more passionately, and with deeper conviction. This too is a good thing because it raises the level of appreciation to where it should always be sustained. And it's another reminder to me that I need thank God for being God, His eternal care over my soul and the security and rest I find in Him.

"So, Dad, I know you're probably going to read this, and that's O. K. I write because I love, and I love because..., well, just because; I can't help it. Victoria is praying too, as are all of your grandchildren (and there's a lot of em' out comin' out of this household). Thank you to you and Mom for making me feel so secure; and thank you for helping me see the inseparable security the Father gives, whether you realized you were pointing me to Him or not.

I love you.  All really is well,

Tom (& Victoria, & Austin, & Meagan, & Annie, & Barret, & Poppy, & Willow)"