My Dad's Birthday

To Dad, on your 75th birthday:

Thanks, Dad, for this crazy life. 

Thanks for all the ways you helped me when I was a little kid. Thanks for coming home from work with a smile (most days, except for that really stressful period in the 80's). Thanks for my pink bedroom, the sandbox, and the fort up above it.

No wonder I love to work with you! 

Thanks for all the awesome trips that we took. I'm so glad I've gotten to see so many cool places, and I'm glad I was with you. Do you remember teaching me to body surf in Hawaii? I do. I was so scared. I'd never seen waves like that. You never told me not to be scared. You told me to do it anyway, that it was worth it.

You were right. It was worth my sand-scraped belly to feel the Pacific ocean, which more alive, more raw than anything I knew, carry me up to the shore in an explosion of white and blue.

Do you remember night surfing on Tybee Island? I was 17. You and Todd ran right in to the inky water with the little boogie boards. All I could think of were sharks, or things with tentacles, or going under and never coming back up. Standing paralyzed in the sand I felt so angry at you for your lack of responsibility.

I did it, though. I went into the water with tears on my cheeks and then I was calm. We paddled out beyond the surf into calm water. We floated on our backs with the blue-black velvet sky above like a canopy and the pinprick stars shining through. I had never felt so separate, yet so connected to everything. That is a cherished memory.

As we walked back to our cottage, laughing and wet, I felt the meaning of the word kinship move beyond my heart and into my bones. 

I want to thank you for saying yes. You said yes, with Mom, to brothers after deep loss. You said yes to trips and parties and sleepovers and camping. 

You said yes to chemo and radiation, and I know it was hard and horrible but I'm so grateful you're still here. Remember meeting at Marengo Caves for my 37th birthday? Your chemo fanny pack and pants that no longer fit reminded me that your body was waging a battle against you, but you still were still smiling.

You and Mom stayed with Liam because you were too weak for a long walk. You were just happy to be with your grandson on a sunny October day.

Just like Bilbo Baggins, whose birthday you share, you said yes to a grand adventure. Remember when you read that to us, my brothers and I? You sat on the landing at the top of the stairs and read entrancing words of caves, dragons, and treasure.  We've really had an adventure, haven't we?

There are shoes in the hall and no spoons in the drawer. There are things to be fixed and books to put away. Games are played, movies are watched, animals come in and out in a constant parade. There is more than we know what to do with.

And there is love, always love, more than we know what to do with.

That's really what you've taught me to say yes to: love. It doesn't mean you were perfect or didn't mess up. You have given me the gift of your apology, and have always tried to do better because of love. You taught me about Jesus and doing right even when you're tired.

You also taught me to take naps when needed, and they're always needed.

Happy Birthday, Dad. I'm so excited for the next twenty-five.

The Story We Tell

A favorite picture book of mine is titled You Are Special by Max Lucado. I read it to my children when they were little. It's the story of Punchinello, a little wooden doll, who lives in a village. The people of this village give one another stars or dots based on good or bad things about each other.

It's not a lot different than 'likes' and 'hearts' on social media.

In fact, I suppose it's the very same.

Anyway, I could never get through it without a tear trickling down my cheek. I didn't cry over the dots that Punchinello received. I cried when he went to Eli, his Creator, who told him none of those things mattered.

I cried because it's such a darn relief to know that the dots that other people give us, the dots we give ourselves, even the stars we think we have, simply do not matter in light of how our Creator feels about us.

To quote from Disney's Beauty and the Beast, it's a tale as old as time. We are born with a desire to know our worth. We can choose the worldly way, working and striving to measure up to standards that are impossible.

Or we can choose God's ways, resting in His presence and allowing Him to fill in that gap. 

The story we tell about our lives reflects who we are allowing to author our lives. I've thought about this a lot over the last three years.

When we first moved back to Lexington I would say to people who asked, "We're staying with Mom and Dad til we're on our feet." Mainly because "Lee is changing careers and we don't know what the heck we're doing" seemed like it would raise more questions and who has time for that in the canned good aisle?

There were many times, though, that I told myself we didn't know what we were doing. That we had completely screwed everything up. When that happened I found myself reliving every major decision from our past. I walked away from those memories convinced we had made the wrong choice. This would land me in a funk.

Neither story was completely true or false, but one way left me standing upright and the other left me wallowing in regret.

I'm not suggesting that we gloss over our struggles and pain. When we were in the worst of it, months into our new journey,  I had no problem telling people that we were really having a Hard Time of it. Our Hard Time lasted much longer than I had anticipated. In fact, our Hard Time looked a lot like each of us coming slightly unravelled.

Except Liam. He was pretty great. Minus sleeping with us forever.

You know I'm a fan of sharing struggles. I think it's important. I also think how we frame those struggles is important. Playing victim to life in my story isn't going to do me any favors. Of course, putting myself on top all of the time is just as dangerous.

If I create a narrative of never-struggling, always-achieving my brain and my body won't be copacetic. They'll be confused because that's not anyone's reality.

We can reflect on our history without ruminating on regrets. We can take the time to think where God has used us in other people's lives, how He has shaped our lives through other people, and figure out how we can best move forward. Our story is part of something greater than us.

This is on the wall of Third Street Stuff & Coffee here in Lexington. 

Our story, our narrative, our personal history - whatever you want to call it, is our thread that anchors us to God. So when it feels like you're unraveling you can pick a strand up and follow it to our Redeemer. He'll get you going again.

Our story is for us.

We have nothing to prove, only purpose to fulfill. Our purpose doesn't need to be big and shiny and garner lots of attention. Our purpose generally involves loving others. The dots and stars of this world don't mean a thing.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Not ever.

Be brave, misfits, and tell your story true.