humbled

We went fishing, Soren and I, down to the public pier just north of downtown Seattle and away from the tourists. 
"Do you think Terry will be there, Dad?" Soren asked, a pole in each small hand.
"I don't know, Son, we'll have to just wait and see."
I knew who Soren was referring to.  Terry was present at the pier last time when Soren pulled up a starfish.
"What IS this thing?" Soren asked, eyes full of wonder at the bright orange creature, the size of a dinner plate.
"That's an eighteen-legged starfish, boy."  Terry stated, coming over to show Soren how to take him off the hook.
And that was the start of an afternoon full of Terry showing an eight-year-old boy how to fish salt water for ling cod, salmon and the occasional cabazone.

When we arrived pier there was no Terry.  Sor pretended not to be disappointed.
"Maybe, he'll show up later." I offered as we baited our lines.
And he did.  Pulling up on his bicycle, pit bull on leash and pulling a homemade trailer contraption filled with garbage bags came Terry.  He sported a fishing lure on his baseball cap and a snap swivel as an earring.
"Hey there, Kid!"  And so another afternoon of teaching started.
I gave them some space and went over to fish on the other side of the pier next to a couple of other guys.

"Terry wouldn't ever tell you this," said an older guy with a bent over nose, "but he lives under that bridge over there in a tent.  That's why he's here all the time."

About that time, Soren came over to proudly show me both the pocket knife--every fisherman needs a pocket knife, Terry told him--and a fishing pole--both presents from Terry.

A homeless person gives his fishing pole and a pocket knife to a kid.  Freely, easily, without a second thought.  I grip my stuff so tight my knuckles are white from lack of blood.

over my head

Fathers' Day.  There's been a bunch of good ones marked by after-lunch naps, not-so-excellent suppers prepared by newbie cook's hands of my children, crayoned cards expressing love.  Not so this year.

I've got a thirteen-year-old daughter who's at a moment in her life where the freight train of adolescence is meeting up with her father having to make some tough life decisions that directly impact her.  I am "selfish."  I don't "have a clue."

And she is pissed.  And I am, both fairly and unfairly, the bulls eye.

So this Fathers' Day...not so good.

Enter in one of those little tragic occurrences that provide the turning point on which such bigger things can pivot.  Anna went swimming with her cell phone.

Such teeth-gnashing, such despair you have never seen (unless you, too, are closely related to a teen with a smart phone that gets broke.)

I took a deep breathe and put out the offer to fix it.  Now those of you who know me know that I have a knack for fixing most anything, especially electronic...but a smart phone that went swimming? 

As I laid it out on the dish towel next to my tools at the kitchen table I paused and considered.  If I fix it, great, Anna will have a bit of faith restored in her father's wisdom and perhaps even find a doorway in her hardened heart thu which we can begin to heal.  And if I cannot?  Stony silence, and much more foot stomping lay, ahead.  And what if I not only cannot fix it, but also make it worse?  Not being able to get it exactly, perfectly back together will be confirmation of my ineptness in handling my life and my daughter's future.

Within an hour, I had stripped that cell phone to little piles of tiny screws, four circuit boards, touch screens and membrane switches.  Parts so tiny that I needed reading glasses to see, and tweezers to manipulate.

Fortunately, I found the fault in a tiny switch that no longer made electrical contact when pressed.  But, how to fix this?  Our relationship wouldn't be moved the slightest in a positive direction by being able to proudly announce that I had figured out what was wrong, and then present her with a table-top full of shiny electronic bits.  No, success would only be measured with a bit of tinny music and a welcome message on the screen.

Using a magnifying lens and a razor blade, I slit open the membrane switch and sprayed contact cleaner inside where the lake water had oxidized the contacts.  Three hours of tweezers and jeweler's screwdriver work later I had it all back together.  Just so.

And it worked.

Does our relationship work?  Absolutely.  Always did and will.  Gizmos break and that's the end of them.  Human beings, built by the great master inventor, have a circuit of hope, an assembled program code of family, and are powered by love.

father and son

"Dad, are those your initials?"  We both looked incredulously at the two letters, MF, scratched on the door along with the year 1971.

I was up at Holden Village for a few days.  Hidden away in the bosom of the Cascade mountains, it is an old copper mining town turned Lutheran retreat community where I had lived as a boy for a year or so.  My father had brought us here from the Midwest.  And the contrast of this little village was as big as the mountains that surrounded us.  From flat dull yellow corn fields to fresh glaciers and sharp black granite peaks that sawtoothed the sky.  Tight-lipped staff at a Missouri Synod Lutheran grade school to the Hinderlie era of 1970's free-thinking young theologians and artists.  From a family who's dinner guests were depression and alcoholism to a wide community table filled with laughter and diversity.

And here I am now as a fifty-something with my young boy out for a day hike to show him where I tramped when I was his age.

All boys want to see old mines.  It's in our make up.  So, when he jumped at the chance to peer into one of the old access portals, we set out.  It took awhile to get there and my memory was a bit fuzzy about the exact path to take.  But even my pulse quickened when I saw the gray ventilation tunnel doors.

"Here it is, Soren" I said pausing to catch my breath.

"Wow, how cool is this!" as he ran over to look at the double door air-lock, swinging the heavy wood on stiff hinges.

And, then we saw it.  Actually, he saw it, even though the letters were right in front of my face.

MF, 1971.  So 40 years ago, as an eleven-year-old boy, I was off by myself exploring around this mountain side, my interest piqued by the mine tunnel.  And now, here I was with my young boy showing him the same things.

I'm tempted to try to explain what this poignant occurrence means.  We both felt it's richness.  But I didn't pick at it then and I won't now, either.

I can't even begin to compare how much different, let alone better or worse, my son's childhood is than mine was.  It all is what it is.  And what it was.

I felt my boy's hand slip warmly, comfortably into mine.  "Let's keep going, Dad."

I met myself on the road this morning

Up and out the door extra early this morning to get my daughter to the field-trip bus.  Five am provides a different group of people: students waiting for the link bus to Wenatchee, migrant workers, some on tractors, some on foot...and a homeless woman.  Driving by fast on the way into town, I recognized her as the woman I had met down in town several weeks prior and as I came back up the road thirty minutes later, there she was still trudging up the road, a blanket roll jammed out the top of her pack, a staff in hand, hood up against the morning chill.

The human being in the ditch and me wondering if I could, should, would live up to the roll of the good Samaritan.

I drove past.

I've been thinking lots about aspen trees.  There's a beaut of a grove when my boy and I hunt for morel mushrooms this time of year.  Biologists say, they are all interconnected down under ground and, as I snooze on my back looking up at the gentle canopy of green, I imagine all those roots intertwined in a crazy pattern of give and take.

It wasn't far up the road before I pulled over and turned around.

Her name is Nina and she's from California.  Thru my rolled-down window I offered her camping anywhere she'd like on my land and she accepted.

Dropping her off in a quiet grove of pine in a turn in my road, I suggested that this would be a good spot to spend some time.  Her eyes didn't look away from my gaze and her hand was small but firm in mine, our clasped fingers briefly feeling like those aspen roots.

Now I get it: it's part of the design

I had been haunted by this short little guitar piece on, of all things, the newish movie Cowboys and Aliens.  Haunted by it, so much so, that I sat down and learned it.  Somethign about it was so beautifully simple and the melody really moving.  It took quite a bit of practice on my part to get the notes to ring clear and the playing of it to be simple and uncomplicated.  Then I decided to play it as an introit at church today.  I second-guessed my decision for a bit--it's not a religious piece, it came from a stupid movie--and then just told myself to shut up and trust my instincts.

Now to the point of why I am writing about it.  I am sitting in the back of the church waiting for things to get real quiet so that everybody will be able to hear this quiet, simple little piece.  It is all of 30 seconds long, mind you, so I need there to be some focus.  I pause..and then start in.  Right after the first couple of notes, I hear this high-pitched whining that's going up and down, over and over.  I keep playing, but I, and most everybody else is distracted.  An elderly woamn gets up and starts walking towards the back, straight towards me and then, as I still try to salvage the piece, I realize that the awful sound is coming from her hearing aid which is over-amping and feedbacking.

Oh, boy.  Such timing.  There went my couple hours of practice to learn and nail down this music.  I hope this doesn't read like I was upset because I didn't sound good to everyone.  It' really isn't about me.  Truly.  But, I did really work hard at creating this piece for everybody to hear, and I really did want them to hear it because it was such a beautiful piece of music.

But, in my frustration, a great thing happened.  I had this sudden ahha.

I believe, no count on, God's grace to make good the on-going damage done by the chuckle head named yours truly.  I believe that I am forgiven for all the crap I have done and will do.  I apologize over and over.  I wish it were not so.  I feel bad about it.  Especially when it comes to my hurting other human beings around me.  But here's the deal: I think that I work way too hard at trying to make everything perfect.  I don't think that I've ever really been okay with the notion that I am a human being.  I feel bad about myself.

One of my Dad's favorite metaphors was describing himself as a cloudy glass lens and that his job was to polish out the scratches in the lens so that God's love can shine thru better and brighter.  True to being a father's son, so have I.  Blisters on those fingers from polishing.

But, maybe, maybe, God's love get's thrown around in lots of crazy directions as it goes thru my lens.  Maybe I should not be so quick to curse and clean out the imperfections.  That this thing is not so linear as I work at being better and God is pleased, but rather that God works thru my imperfections.  Can I dare say publicly...even put them there?  That screwed up events, messed up plans, and people at their not-so-best create even more depth to the Mystery.  Maybe instead of just feeling relieved that grace can exhonerate me and my Lutheran guilt, I should not be so quick to clean it all up.  That our shortcomings, indeed some (all?) of sin itself, IS part of the plan and that I can let it be just what it is.

Cue the Leonard Cohen line: "Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." 

coming along

The tower is coming right along.  I am busy sheetrocking the interior.  My octogonal room is easy compared to the kids' rooms.  There I need to bend 4 x 8 panels of 1/2" sheetrock to the tank's round walls...not an easy task, but by spraying the backside of the sheets with water, and alot of patience, they bend enough to make the curve.  Here's the look of my room up top.

More importantly, though, I just want to be a proud pappa today.  Check out these two videos.  The first of my seven-year-old son, Soren, who's been playing the violin for two years:

The second one here is of my daughter, Anna, twelve, who's been playing the violin for nine years.  I would say something, but this speaks for itself....

the things we have

What do you have, that you did not receive?
And if you did receive it, why do you boast
as though you did not?

1st Corinthians 4:7