A Productive Day

I hate to admit it, but I judged him.

 

No, I didn't say anything, make a face, or do anything anyone could have seen on the surface.  But I felt, for just a moment, like he was less than me. And I pray for forgiveness for feeling this way.

 

I drove slowly through the elementary school drop-off line, dressed up in a jacket and tie, and the kind of shoes that make that clicking sound against the floor, making their wearer feel important and sure of himself.

 

After my boys got out of my truck and walked toward the entrance, I began pulling away, but had to stop to allow another Dad who was walking his son into the building to cross the drop-off line.

 

And that's when I felt it.

 

This man walked slowly, holding his son's hand. His pace was not deliberate; no hurry at all, almost slow enough to appear depressed. He looked sloppy and disheveled, but I'd like to think that wasn't the reason I judged him. After all, we all know better than to judge someone for how they're dressed, right?

 

I judged him because I assumed from his demeanor that he was embarking upon a day of minimal productivity. I surmised he didn't have much on his docket today, and, for just a moment, I felt superior to him because, of course, my calendar is full, and somehow that makes me better.

 

Of course, I'm judging an appearance, just as much as if I were judging his clothing. He could actually be busier than me and two of my friends put together for all I know, but that's not the point. And maybe I'm just an arrogant jerk, but that's not the point, either.

 

The point is, even if this man accomplished nothing more today than to hold his son's little hand, walk him to school, and get his day off to a gentle start, peaceful and prepared, with the knowledge that his Daddy loves him, that is, in the scope of a lifetime, a more meaningful and enduring accomplishment than all the important things on my calendar.

 

When my sons become men, they won't find comfort in the events my phone reminded me to attend or the things it reminded me to do.

 

Will they have memories of Dad's hand holding theirs, his agenda only to be present with them?

 

I bet this other guy's son will.

 

 

It was 100 years ago today...

Father,

No one alive today remembers this, but on this day, 100 years ago, a 19 year-old shot and murdered a royal couple, for reasons he must have believed were valid.

How could he have possibly known what this murder would trigger? Did he ever imagine the millions who would die in the years of war that would follow his act of violence? Could he have envisioned the countless people who have never been born in the generations since, because their would-be fathers, grandfathers, and great-grandfathers perished in the mud of some European battlefield? The innocent civilians, having nothing to do with his grievances, but swept away in the torrent of war?

Only You know, Father, but I doubt he thought of any of that. There's no way he could have.

And that's what I pray about tonight, Father, for all of us.

The tempter deceives us still. Our adversary encourages us to have more confidence in our own vision than we have in Yours. The serpent still whispers that we know as much as You do, that You're the one who isn't being truthful, and that You're afraid of us becoming like You.

The deceiver affirms our sense that we have the power to manipulate others, to see the future, and most of all, to determine in advance the scope and limits of our ungodly acts. We hear the voice that tells us we can say and do what is hurtful to someone, and still control the splash, direct the dominoes, and keep the fire of our sin safely where we can see and control it.

But the truth is, there's a reason You have told us vengeance is Your sole domain. We honestly can't see in advance where the river of our rage will roll, where it will overrun its banks, and who beyond our target will be swept away in its rapids.

We just can't see it, and You know that about us, and that's why You ask us to trust You.

God, we do trust You, and we ask you to help our distrust!

It's easy to sit here today and think young Gavrilo Princip was just another hateful, politically-motivated, short-sighted fool. It's easy to cast him aside as a nut, a terrorist, a murderer, a moron who was too stupid to realize his murderous act would explode into something he never could have imagined, and hurt people far beyond the scope of his grievance.

Yes, it's easy to think all that, until I remember some of the times I have listened to the same deceitful message, and thought I could control sin.

It didn't work for Gavrilo, and it doesn't work for me.

Father, please continue to be patient.

A Mentor's Death

I still remember when I learned he had passed away.

He was one of my earliest professional heroes, someone I admired, looked up to, called on for advice, all the usual mentorship stuff we throw around too cheaply most of the time. This guy was the real deal to me. He took a chance on me, gave me my first shot in leadership, and I took very personally the goal of never letting him down.

We worked hard together, laughed a lot, and my daily interactions with him were an ongoing tutorial in leadership, both effective and, sometimes, not so much. His health was terrible, and he didn't do much to improve it. When he retired, I didn't hold out much hope that he would live much longer at all. Literally. I thought it was likely he would be dead within a few years.

When I moved away a couple years later, I honestly feared he would die, and I would not hear about it in time to attend his funeral. I don't know if this is sickeningly morbid, but that's what I thought would happen, and this scenario just broke my heart.

So, before I moved, I took the step of asking a friend to keep me posted about him. She would certainly know if and when anything happened, and I rested easier knowing my feared scenario would not come to pass.

Well, you may have guessed by now:  It happened after all, exactly as I had envisioned it.

Turns out, my early-career hero lived another ten years after he and I parted ways, and experienced improved health during much of that time. I learned this when I happened to catch up with the friend who was supposed to tell me when he died. She did tell me...that he had died about a year before.

My surprise and sadness were, in the moment, matched by frustration with my friend, though I did not tell her so. What purpose would it serve? She told me the story of my mentor's death, and we reflected together on how much he had meant to us. My friend did acknowledge how unfortunate it was that I had never been informed of what happened, and just when I thought she was about to apologize for forgetting me, she dropped some humbling perspective:

"I'm surprised you didn't know. He was so active on Facebook, I assumed you were keeping up with him."

Oh.

Well...

I myself had been active on Facebook for five years at that point, and couldn't believe my mentor had never friended me in all that time, if he was on Facebook too. I really thought I was important to him, a protege he was proud of, a legacy beyond himself, an extension of his values and priorities, etc, etc, etc. I actually resented my dead mentor for a bit. How could he have ignored me all those years, when it would have taken nothing but a few keystrokes to find my open Facebook page? I should have been among the first people he looked up when he opened his account!

Of course, after awhile, the obvious and uncomfortable fact settled into my mind:

"You didn't look him up, either, you know..."

Pride, pride, pride.

This man, who lived a full life of family, faith, and professional success, many of whose years included the burden of serious illness, who spent many years working with many different people, and only two of those years working with me, should have prioritized an ongoing, personal connection with me, during the last ten years of his life. And all that, when I hadn't thought to look him up myself.

That thought was the foundation for the hurt and resentment I felt.

When you spell it out like that, I was not nearly as slighted as I first felt I was. In fact, the opposite. I had felt I deserved the glow of my mentor's continued attention and praise, without the investment of my own attention and thought toward him. I thought I should have meant a great deal to him, when I had not made sure he knew how much he meant to me.

But I hope he knew. I have to believe he did know.

Isn't it a mystery how we pass through the lives of people, and they through ours?

And, isn't it interesting to consider the expectations we so often bring to the table, expectations of what others are supposed to do for us, emotional needs we want others to fill, but not always what we could do for them?

Could this be different?

Could we instead focus on giving freely to others, investing gladly in the lives of those souls who are with us for a season, regardless of what they ever give back?

Could that outlook possibly be the key to feeling the glow I thought should have come from my mentor?

RIP, Mr. Shelton.

I loved you, and I hope I somehow showed you how grateful I am for all you invested in me.

Without Guile

Sweet night.

We've had a busy day, and we're tired. Settled into our laptop spots in the living room, interacting with the world out there, and even a little bit with each other.

Our 6 year-old, Jonathan, has a buddy spending the night at our house tonight, so he is more excited than usual. We Redboxed a movie and a Wii game for our boys and Jonathan's friend, but the kids have instead gravitated toward the Legos in the bedrooms, which is a cool reminder that kids like to play, don't need much help doing it, and adults don't need to plan every minute of their lives for them.

But here's what just happened, that I am praying I will never forget:

Jonathan has a little thing he does now and then, when he is listening to the radio in his bedroom. We keep his radio tuned to K-Love, and his favorite artist is Toby Mac. When a Toby Mac song comes on, we usually find out about it when Jonathan comes running down the hall and, without a word, turns on the radio in the kitchen so we can hear the song too.

The best part is hearing his sweet, six year-old voice singing along with one of his heroes.

The lyrics to "Get Back Up" or "Me Without You" take on a whole new relevance when sung by your child.

Tonight, sometime after Kristi and I had drifted into laptopland, and the kids in Legoland had faded into the background, I became aware that the kitchen radio was playing, at pretty decent volume, and Jonathan's voice could be heard singing along with Toby Mac's new hit, "Speak Life". The spirit was contagious, and I couldn't resist singing along, too.

It was then that I realized the radio in Jonathan's room was on, and that he had done his usual thing, playing K-Love in his room, and turning on the kitchen radio to let everyone share in the joy of Toby Mac.

So, what about this meant so much to me on this particular night? He has done this many times; it's not a new thing. Why such a big deal?

The difference tonight is that a guest is here.

I am amazed and overjoyed that our son behaved exactly the same way in front of a buddy that he normally behaves when he is alone with us. He played the same music, shared the same joy, sang with the same gusto, and did it all without the slightest hint of hesitation, inhibition, embarrassment, or shame.

He didn't change a thing on account of a guest being present.

I distinctly remember doing quite the opposite while I was growing up.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not naive enough to think our six year-old will never experience embarrassment about the norms of his household when his friends come over. And I don't maintain any illusions that he will never behave differently with friends than he will in front of us. The innocence I saw tonight will not remain unspotted throughout our son's youth; I get that.

But what if....Can I even say it? What if...

What if, somehow, it could be?

A child growing up with such a sense of identity that it didn't matter who knew who he really was? A kid who knew it was OK to be honest? A boy or girl who could just sing their true song in their true voice, regardless of who would hear?

Of course, this transparency works both ways.

Just as an uninhibited child will share faith and family norms with friends, he or she will also express differences in faith and family norms with the very family who so carefully instilled those things. Parents can't ask for one, and not accept the other.

How do we raise children who will let shine the light God has placed within them, in front of friend, foe, or stranger, without feeling an obligation to filter, dim, or shade the light, or put it out altogether? Kids who will grow up into men and women free of guile? People who are who they appear to be? Husbands, wives, parents, and friends who sing the song their spirit is moved to sing, without shame?

When do our masks begin to form?

God, let us as parents nurture the sensitive flame of your spirit in the hearts of our children.

Father, let us never blow it out.

Whipping Out My Phone

I had a feeling someone was going to say it sometime. (OK, my wife has been after me about it for awhile now, but I've been putting off dealing with the issue...)

What a great blog post by Chris Wejr here. So timely for me, and perhaps for you, too.

Chris shares his conviction that we are all missing too many of the moments going on around us and among those we love, all in the name of our minute-by-minute commitment to electronically document those very moments.

Sounds like me!

One of my most telling examples of this is a piece of video I captured as a souvenir:

It was a great night.

Just me and Kristi, enjoying a concert we had looked forward to for months.

The awesome Gavin DeGraw opened the show, and when he took his performance into the audience, the crowd went nuts! Without even realizing it, we all divided ourselves into two groups:  Those who moved toward Gavin to try and get close enough to interact with him, and those who whipped out their phones to try and get a picture of him.

Those who lived a special moment, and those who documented it.

Can you guess which group I fell into?

Don't get me wrong. I think there is room to do both in almost any situation, and I think we are tremendously blessed by our gadgets that let us capture images so easily. 

But I have to shake my head when I watch this video and remember how Gavin DeGraw walked right by me, within just a few feet of me, with no one between me and him, and I didn't even reach out to shake his hand.

Later in the concert, Gavin performed his new hit, "Best I Ever Had", and one lyric in particular stood out:

"I'm looking at the crowd, and they're staring at their phones..."

Singing Satisfaction When I'm 40

"I don’t want to be singing 'Satisfaction' when I’m 40."

My Dad once told me about this quote from a young Mick Jagger, in the Stones' early years.

Apparently, Mick couldn't see himself in his 40's, still performing the same hits that made him a star in his 20's. While there is some variation in the accounts of what exactly he said, and what his exact age cutoff was for singing "Satisfaction", the quote has always made me laugh.

How could Mick have known he would still be rocking well into his 60's?

Whether we're singing the song or not, we all want satisfaction, no matter what age we're turning. So, what does satisfaction mean for you?

The right achievements, the right compensation and recognition for the work you do, the right relationships in your life? The right body? The right looks? All of the same in the lives of your children? The right number of blog hits, retweets, Facebook birthday wishes? (Aren't they great, by way?)

I think most of us would have to confess that we want most or all of the above.

An intimate walk with God? Yes, that too, right?

Some of us convince ourselves we can walk with Jesus while still craving all the same sources of satisfaction everyone else does.

I have fought hard to think this for a long time, and I think it's time for that to change.

Jesus is enough. His grace is sufficient for me. He brings satisfaction.

And if I ever lose the relationships, achievements, compensation, health and vitality that I want to have, Jesus is still enough. Whether or not the lives of my children end up being filled with everything I hope for them, Jesus is still enough. Whether or not anyone notices or respects me, or gives a rip whether I'm here or not, Jesus is still enough.

I am passionate about launching young people into successful adult lives, and I plan to keep rocking that music deep into the future, as long as I possibly can. It's what I believe I'm here to do, and I'm grateful to have a purpose.

But even if that purpose is ever taken from me, Jesus is enough.

And that's why I'm singing satisfaction when I'm 40.

"We All Got Bruises"

Lately I've been enjoying the song "Bruises", by Train.

It's a sweet song, a dialogue between old friends who cross paths after ten years and reflect back on their past relationships and experiences, many of which have left bruises.

The song strikes an optimistic note about how these bruises "make for better conversation", and are simply a reality of life for all of us. I'm no exception, and I'm sure you're not, either. Just like the song says, we all got bruises.

But this song has also reminded me that, while I surely carry my share of bruises left on my heart by others, there are people out there right now carrying bruises of their own, bruises that were left there by me.

Some of these bruises I have completely forgotten about causing, and others, I never knew I caused. Some I still remember all too well, and these hurt more than the ones I carry myself.

So, tonight I'm saying a special prayer for people out there carrying bruises I caused.

Father, please ease whatever pain they still feel from things I said or did.

Father, please let me remember bruises I caused that I could still heal, and help me see the opportunities I might have to make things right.

Father, please let me forget the things you're taking care of, and want me to forget.

And God, please help me to be kind.