Monthly Favorites : June 2023

My Family : We cram the frame

“Do for one what you wish you could do for many.” - Andy Stanley

This past week, I was fortunate to take my family on a quick road trip to Seattle, the Haro Strait, and the Oregon coast, and it was one of our favorite family trips. From start to finish.

At one gas station, however, I was in desperate need of the restroom when, to my dismay, I realized I needed a code to open the door. Which I didn’t have. I tried both restrooms, even knocking a few times to see if they were in use (which they weren’t). A gentleman behind me watched my whole struggle, said nothing, waited till I backed off, then put in the code and closed the door.

“What?” I said aloud.

One of the workers then peaked his head around the corner, “7537” he yelled. I punched in the numbers, opened the door, and took a seat. Nature was calling. But I digress.

For a while, that guy - the one who could have helped me out but didn’t - nagged on my mind. “Why didn’t he just give me the code?” I thought. “Why didn’t he help?”

I couldn’t answer that question, but the incident did spark an idea. Or rather, a perspective . . . look for the helpers. Instead of focusing on the people/events that frustrate me, look for the people and events that bring unexpected joy.

So I did. And there many.

One was the young man in front of my six-year-old son and me. We were headed to the elevator that would take us down from atop the Space Needle and the young man was a few paces ahead of us.

“Can I push the button, Daddy?” Elias asked.

“Sure, buddy.” I said. Then, a few steps later, the young man in front of us stopped, turned, and with a slightly embarrassed smile on his face, pointed Elias towards the down button. He had overheard the small request and chose to do something about it. He chose to help, even when it wasn’t expected.

Another was the middle-aged mechanic who stopped his busy day to give our SUV a thorough lookover because I was nervous about some sounds. He even dumped a liter of oil in because we were a bit low. When asked how much it would cost, his hand batted my question away, “No problem. Just get home safe.” He provided time, oil, and a whole lotta comfort, all at no charge.

There was also the security guard at a nice high-rise building who ignored the “No public restroom sign” and heard my request to let our kiddos use the restroom. He said yes, then allowed my entire family access.

“Thank you,” I said repeatedly.

He smiled and said, “Happy to help.” He broke a rule to help a family.

These events, although small and insignificant (to the point that, if I hadn’t written them down, would have been forgotten and lost amidst the other memorable or stressful moments), reminded me of the power of perspective, and of simple moments.

We can either focus on the people and events that frustrate us and bring us down, or we can see the helpers, we can BE the helpers - “Moment Makers” - just by seeing and hearing the people around us.

How we choose to see the world makes a world a difference in how we interact with it.

Although life is hard, disappointing, and often a seemingly endless battle, it is also filled will hope, beauty, and meaningful reminders. We just need to look for them, and at times, create them.

“Do for one what you wish you could do for many.”

That’s what I’ve been thinking about this past week.

Here are a few favorites from the month of June!

Favorite Book:

Fans First: Change The Game, Break the Rules & Create an Unforgettable Experience

When adversity hits, most people dwell on the negative. It’s raining. We’ve lost power. There’s construction . . .

When things go wrong, when there’s a challenge with the experience, that is the best time to wow your fans. They’re not expecting you to make a random wrong a right, it’s a little heroic. Or, as Bananas catcher Bill LeRoy might say, a little joyful” (pg 47).

Favorite Advice:

This one was offered by a friend (Gary Phile!) who called me the other day. “I think you’ll like this,” he said. And I do. So very much.

When in the presence of others, when the conversation or action causes us even the slightest alarm, work through the following questions:

Does it need to be said?
Does it need to be said by me?
Does it need to be said right now?"

If the answer to all three is, “Yes!” Speak up. If there is even a single “No,” keep quiet and figure out who and when - and if anything! - needs to be said.

And I just love that.

Favorite Podcasts:

At the Table: Mind the Gap, with Patrick Lencioni

When it comes to organizational clarity, a tiny gap on a leadership team can become a big crack down the line.  This week, Pat and the team discuss a few reasons why these gaps appear, and how to best prevent them.

Plain English: Why So Many Young Men are Lonely, Sexless, and Extremely Lonely, with Derek Thompson

Many men - especially younger men - are socially disconnected, pessimistic about the future, and turning to online anger . . . they are facing higher rates of depression symptoms, suicidal thoughts, and a sense of isolation, as seen in the agreement of 65% that ‘no one really knows me well.’

Favorite Conundrum:

I’m taking the money. You?

Let me know of anything you’ve been reading, watching, listening to, or have been inspired by!

Happy July!

#doGREATthings!

Give. Relate. Explore. Analyze. Try.

For more on . . .

Blog : Monthly Favorites

Work. It gets the best of me.

This picture was taken a day after a major accident. I wasn’t paying much attention to the road; I was trying to call a struggling teacher.

I find that, at the end of the day, when I arrive home to my lovely wife and five fantastic kiddos, I’m exhausted. And not just tired exhausted, which I am, but resource exhausted.

I am less patient than I want to be because I used it all up throughout the day.

I’m less caring and intentional with my wife because I spent the day pushing into hard conversations and thinking and caring for others.

I’m less fun and energetic with my kids because my body is soar, my legs tired, and my mind spent.

Work gets the best of me; my family gets the worst.

I am not new to this understanding, nor am I espousing a wisdom previously unknown to every hardworking mom and dad, husband and wife. I am just renewed in my conviction and more aware that, recently, I am falling asleep on the couch while a child is in mid sentence, that I am spending too many evenings watching a movie or binging tv shows because its easier than anything else and I just want to rest.

My wife is generally very understanding and extremely accommodating to my busy schedule and demanding job. Recently, however, I begun to notice a slight (if not more than slight) slip in my time, efforts, and fight for quality family time. More than ever - and I’m not entirely sure why - I’ve adopted the attitude of “I deserve this” when in reality, I don’t. I just think I do. And I think it has something to do with moral licensing.

Moral licensing is “the habit of balancing out our good and bad decisions.” It is the convincing of “ourselves that it's okay we didn't do any recycling this week, because we usually do.” It is the attitude that its “fine to have that second helping of cake because we went on a run yesterday” (via).

Said another way, it is “when we are confident we have behaved well,” that we have “demonstrated compassion and generosity” all throughout the day or week and are therefor permitted little acts of selfishness, impatience, or thoughtlessness. It is the destructive convincing that, in the scheme of the week, day, or life, we have - generally - been a good person and are therefore permitted small acts of imperfection (via).

The problem with this way of thinking is fairly obvious. Namely, it isn’t right. From a basic integrity argument for sure, but also from a relational argument. Just because we are good most of the time doesnt mean we are permitted moments where we can be unkind, unloving, or foolish. And when I write it out, that truth is obvious. When I try and live it out, I find it much less convincing. And I hate it. My wife and kids deserve better of me.

So why is it so hard? Why do I continually do that which I do not want to do?

My son answered this for me the other day when he and I were engaged in a rather heated discussion. He had been rude to his younger sister and I was getting on him. “I don’t like acting this way,” he said, openly and honestly.

“Then why do you do it?” I asked. “Are you like this at school?”

“No.” He responded.

“Then why at home? Why do we get the worst of you?” I asked, instantly thinking of a black kettle and pot.

“Because it’s safe, I guess.”

Bingo.

Work, although safe in many regards, is not nearly as safe as my home.

If I am short with my staff or impatient with my words, I can expect a phone call or visit from my boss. If I don’t show up to work, I don’t get paid. If my behavior is less than what is expected, I will be placed on an imrovement plan. At work, there is immediate and uncomfortable accountability.

At home, there is grace. At home, there is unconditional love. At home, there is comfort. And comfort can be an incredibly bad thing.

I know my wife won’t leave me, just as she knows I won’t leave her. But not leaving is a pretty low bar of expectations. We can stay together for the next thirty years but be completely unsuccessful in our marriage, in raising our kids.

And that is exactly what has been on my mind lately.

When my career is over, when I receive the retirement plaque of 30-some years commitment to this wonderful profession, I don’t merely want my wife and kids in attendance, I want them celebrating their dad. A dad they know, that they respect, and that they are proud of. I want my wife to be excited for the next chapter of life because she has learned from the past seven that no matter the circumstance, I will be present. That in all things, no matter how busy or exhausted I am, I choose her.

Lately, I don’t think she could confidently say that.

In a recent conversation with a friend I found myself saying, “I am defined by my family. My wife, my kids. But I spend more of my days thinking about and caring for my profession - the kids in my building and how I can improve the school.” I spend less time considering how to pursue my wife, support my kids, and build a solid and safe home.

Work gets the best of me. My family gets the rest of me. And that just simply terrifies me.

So what do I do? What does this acknowledgement mean? And, more importantly, what can I do about it.

One, I think flirting with moral licensing needs to go. That’s a dangerous and dark alley, and the fact that I’ve even lingered on the corner makes me sick.

Two, I need to place some of my selfish ambitions aside - or at least be willing to. So what if I gain all that my mind desires - a successful publishing career, a several times recognized blue ribbon school, and great applause for all I’ve done - if my wife and kids don’t know me, don’t trust me, don’t like me, what is it worth? A pile of dirt, that’s what.

And three, give to Caesar what is Caesar’s. I am not responsible for what will happen, only what needs to be done (as I slightly nod to Gandalf). I am also responsible for what I’ve been given. And what I’ve been given is a kind and gracious wife who loves others more than herself and five kiddos who need a dad, a father, and an example. If loving and caring for them lowers my chances of personal advancement, so be it. It is out of my hands. My children, my wife, my family, however, are not. And I need to grip them tightly.

Work may get the most of me, but it doesn’t need to get the best of me. I can love my job, work hard at refining my craft, come home exhausted, and STILL carry some of the best of me through the door. And I must.

Becoming a better father and husband makes me a better principal, educator, and leader because it makes me a complete, more well-rounded person. And when I am a more complete, well-rounded person, work gets the best of me. And so does my family.

#doGREATthings!

Give. Relate. Explore. Analyze. Try.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Education : On Leadership

"And" : by Kasey Schurtz

Zuzu, my four year old, is desperate to read.  She loves looking at the pictures in her books but she wants to be able to understand the words too. We’ve tried to satiate her desire to read by looking at sight word flashcards together.  One of the first cards we flipped over was AND.  No doubt she understands that word. Despite her familiarity with it, she scrunched up her face and with a wrinkled nose asked, “What does AND mean?”

Such a simple, easy, complex, difficult question.  I tried to explain that it was an additive. It adds more to something. Not exactly a great “explain it like I’m five response,” so I offered some examples.  

“Like babies and”

Zuzu quickly finished my example by shouting “milkshakes!”  

I was thinking about babies and bottles.  She was right though.  Milkshakes make just about anything better.  And shouldn’t we be looking for as many opportunities as possible to add value to our lives and the lives of others too?  We should add just one more AND when we talk to our family, our friends, and our colleagues.  Thank you for giving me a few minutes of your time AND I can’t wait to work with you again.

In the course of our daily trek, we often stop short of a much needed AND.   Worse yet, we often become takers.  We subtract from others.  With the best intentions of all those who were present, I met with a team of teachers to discuss a student who struggled academically.  One by one, each teacher offered up their view of the student with the same sentence frame. He (insert vague positive comment) BUT he (insert numerous perceived shortcomings.) The clause following BUT does the opposite of adding value. Each BUT chiseled away at the perceived value of that child.

BUT. That was not one of the sight words that my daughter was learning which is probably for the best.  She likely would have run around the house shaking her butt or screamed about our dog Murphy having a furry butt. The humor of a four year old.  If that was one of our sight words, not only would I have had to explain the difference between butt and but, I would also have had to talk about how BUT is a negative.  It negates. Dinner was good, BUT the steak was overcooked. Treyvon is a really talented kid, BUT he doesn’t do any of the work I assign him.  

Perhaps unintentionally, BUT erases anything that was spoken previously.  My wife only heard, the steak was overcooked.  Treyvon only heard that he doesn’t do any of his work.  BUT negates words that might have inspired good feelings or helped to build up someone’s self-esteem.  BUT doesn’t solve problems, or look to the future. BUT has a finality to it. AND is hopeful. AND leaves room for growth.  If we can exchange but for and, we may find ourselves adding value to others.  Dinner was good AND I can’t wait to help you make breakfast in the morning. Treyvon is a really talented kid AND we are working together to help him develop a system for tracking his assignments.  By swapping BUT for AND the good feelings remain and new opportunities manifest.  

Considering the value of AND, I’d like to finish with a quick edit to my intro.  My four year old is desperate to read.  She loves looking at the pictures in her books AND she wants to be able to understand the words too. As is, the book already has value and it can offer so much more when she understands the words.  Those we encounter each day, our colleagues, our students, they all have value exactly as they are, and let’s add to that with just one more AND.

If you have an idea you’d like to share or someone you believe we could all benefit from, please reach out and let me know! I am eager to share your story.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Education : On Leadership

Love and Families

“We need to extend love to others. And if we don’t have a chance to do that, something goes really wrong.”

A family is a place where you offer care, you offer unconditional love. The bond between you is no longer transactional, its no longer even voluntary. And we’re seeing that spread in biological ways but in non-biological ways too. It’s one of the more hopeful things I see in society.”

It reminds me, a bit of a line in the book Tribes, by Seth Godin. In it, he writes, “What people are afraid of isn’t failure. It’s blame. Criticism” (pg. 46). I wonder if one of the key reasons why the family unit has broken down is because of the blame and criticism slung back and forth. About work, home, responsibilities, expectations, etc., etc., etc..

Creating one’s own family that doesn’t carry the burden of cultural, familial, and religious expectations is not only a bit more freeing, ITS A TON MORE FREEING!

Yet, there’s something to be said about a traditional family unit. A father, a mother, and their children. Isn’t there?

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  On Parenting

Chanel just called, to say . . .

“Maybe not everything is supposed to be comfortable?”

Heavyweight “is the show about journeying back to the moment when everything went wrong,” and then trying to pick up the pieces, make amends, or seek forgiveness. It’s a brilliant show. I’ve listed some of my favorite episodes here, or you can listen to all of them on Apple Podcasts and Spotify.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Podcasts  :  Short Films

Rewind Forward : When today becomes the past

I often return to the moment before the accident. One moment, I see a young beautiful lady laughing into the camera . . . CUT . . . three months later, she woke up from her coma. When I saw her for the first time, I asked my father, "Who is this woman?"

This video truly shook me a bit, and not just because of the death of so many family members (actual and relational), but I'll admit, the thoughts and memories of older days, when we were camping and living and struggling together, came rushing in. I easily resonated with,  

Do you miss him sometimes?

Not just sometimes . . . always!  Always!

And I don't think I'll ever stop. But also, 

I'm ready - to stop looking back, and to look forward. For a long time, I dreamed of standing here together again. But life took another turn.

Some of my family have said the brokenness we're experiencing is "God's will" and until He decides it's time for us to reconcile all we can do is pray. I think that's bullshit. I think we are a product of the decisions we've made, of the truths we hold so dear. Life didn't take the turn, we did. And now, we're miles and miles apart, still heading in opposite directions, waiting for and dreaming of the days when someone else will turn around. 

As I write, my family (wife and kiddos) are traveling the country. We're nearing the end of our fifth week on the road (from Wyoming to Pennsylvania with stops in Virginia, New Jersey, Michigan, Indiana, Wisconsin, and North Dakota). On our way to Virginia, I wrote in my journal,

We’re nearing 4 weeks of road tripping, and some days, I just want to be home, sitting on a couch, doing very little. Because traveling is expensive, because traveling breaks habits and somehow convinces kids it’s okay to push and break rules, and because one-year olds don’t sleep well on the road. And we are tired. 
But then we stand and look over the valley and I get to see the country with my son, my wife, my kids - my family -and then, through the perspective of young eyes, the miles and millions of cups of coffee are worth it. Because someday, I’m going to wish they all fit in the van again.

I don't know what sort of turns life has down the road, I just know that for now, we're all in the van together. I also know that however I travel now, the way I love my kids, the conversations we have or don't have, the stories we share the memories we create will most definitely and directly impact how we, a family, travers the road ahead. 

You can't outrun the past. With that I agree. But I can choose to sit in the present, to live and love and pursue with the tenacious truth that I'm not guaranteed tomorrow, and that someday memories might be all that I have left. 

Although hopes and dreams will forever be before me, I do have a say in how this thing plays out. These days are about these days and right now. The ripples will take care of themselves. 

Because they call me Dad : A Fireside Sunday

     Photo by @storyanthology

I could have taken a nap. I could have read a few more pages of In Cold Blood or got busy with any of the other millions of things I can get busy doing. I could have spent a large chunk of the day writing. But I didn't. Because my wife thought we should make a fire.

And as often happens, she was right. 

Snow fell from the trees and landed in our laps and dinner and our kids laughed those long and deep laughs that warm the soul. 

We sat together as a family.

Elias spit raspberries. 

I can't help but constantly feel guilty for not writing more often, for not "pursuing the craft" because I know full well, if this is ever going to happen, it won't just fall in my lap (I already said enough about that).

But then we have a day like today and I'm reminded there isn't room. Nor do I want any. Because Eden "loves the mornings" and Zion asks if she can cuddle and help make breakfast. And I get to be there. 

Because they call me Dad.

And because my wife asked me to build a fire.

So we did.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Open Thoughts  :  On Parenting

The Mountains Never Lie

But this picture does. Completely. Judah even picked up on it, "What's so great about cranes?" he asked. But he didn't see what I saw: a little cropping on the left to cut off the construction, a kneeling down to place the bush in front of the house, and of course, a clever little title about fresh mountain air on a crisp fall day with the family.

Never mind the highway behind us or the golf course to the far right. 

You don't see those things, only Judah and I do, but in recent days I've begun to wonder if, over time, he won't see them either. Rather, when he stumbles across this picture, I wonder if he'll only see the blue lake and towering mountain. If instead of talking about the construction that surrounded this picture, he'll recall surprising his auntie at University, picking out pumpkins at an old pumpkin patch farm, and playing UNO, in a cabin, long after Dad wanted to go to bed. I wonder if, when he looks back on this weekend, he'll remember the singing to our family's favorite tunes, reading Harry Potter in the front seat of the van, and watching tumble weeds bounce across the windy roads. Because, at the end of it all, the crane doesn't matter, and his mind will subconsciously crop it out.

However, when I look back on this weekend, I will forever see the cranes, the squeaky breaks that I can't afford to fix, the meals we had to budget, and the gas we had to syphon from some car in the middle of the night because we couldn't afford to fill our tank. But so what. It was worth it. And I'd do it again next weekend if I could.

Judah wasn't sheltered from those things, he was there with us, listening to our conversations and having to hear "no, we can't afford that." He even held the hose to the car while I sucked the gas out, but I don't think he'll remember those moments, and if he does, he will for sure remember them with a different tone, just like when I was his age my dad lost his wallet during the first few days of our two-week journey out West. I remember him losing it, looking for it, and I vaguely recall a discussion between him and Mom as to how to handle it. But that's it. What I remember more is the camping, the hiking, evening fires, eating every meal, sleeping warmly, and playing cards with my family. Whatever happened to the lost credit cards and driver's license, I've never known; how Dad payed for everything never crossed my mind, because it never seemed to cross his. And we had a great time.

By the way, Judah and I never syphoned anyone's gas, so relax. We did, however, pee behind the KOA cabin instead of walking to the bathroom. Which isn't even close to the same thing.

On the drive home, with The Lumineers blaring, I had some time to think about the weekend, and one of the thoughts that crossed my mind was this: what if kids collect memories of family and security not because they're sheltered from the harsh realities, but because they experience them with their parents, along side their parents, watching and evaluating, and then responding and feeding off of how they respond. 

What if Judah and Eden and Zion hear, over and over, "we can't afford that" but still experience a great time with rocks, simple lakes, and free parks? What if while they color and draw the scene that passes outside their window, they overhear Mom and Dad discussing - arguing even - budgets and plans and schedules, then watch them kiss and laugh and reconcile? Doesn't that teach them how to argue? How to work through conflict? And how to find the simple joys amidst life's many limitations?

Doesn't that teach them how to be human?

I think so. I think it teaches them that Mom and Dad are fallible, that we make mistakes and seek forgiveness, and that we don't need money or gadgets or things to enjoy life and each other. I think it instills a sort of subconscious safety-net for their fragile minds that reminds them that no matter how much they fail or struggle or fall short, we're still here, that we're still a family, and as such, we're gonna go camping. 

In the future, if and when my kids do look back and remember the cranes, I don't want won't lie to them, I won't tell them they're not remembering it clearly or that they just need to remember the lake and mountains and "forget about the cranes." Because they were there. They were part of the scenery, part of the adventure, but we enjoyed the mountains and pumpkins anyway. 

Because that's what families do.

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  The Mountains have a Way  :  On Parenting

BE SURE TO SCROLL DOWN AND SUBSCRIBE - THANKS FOR READING!

Open thoughts on a broken family : The Human Being Stuff

“After listening to your audio I was unsure how to respond, which is the reason for my delayed response. I see our situation different than you described, so I am not sure what to say or what counsel to give. I will keep praying for wisdom to respond correctly and for all our hearts to be ready for reconciliation.”

For the past twenty something years, I’ve been a part of a broken family, and in the last few years, the heights of tension and dissension have reached beyond comprehension. So, it is with little shock that most all of the podcasts and articles and movies I’ve listened to, read, and watched have been filtered through a lens of brokenness. And because there is no one to vent them to (outside my wife of course), I’ve begun to write them down.

I have no conclusions or eureka moments, just thoughts and questions. Maybe you do to, if you've experienced or are experiencing something similar. Maybe not. Either way, I hope you find these ramblings of thoughts and connections encouraging, even if it only means we are struggling and hoping and floundering together.

This is probably going to be at least a two-part series. I’m not sure yet. It depends on how therapeutic it is. But we’ll worry about that later.

For now, here’s the first posting. It’s entitled, “The Human Being Stuff”

After the 2016 elections, John Pavolvic lost contact with several of his friends. In an open letter to them all, he tried to explain why.

I know you may believe this disconnection is about politics, but I want you to know that this simply isn’t true. It’s nothing that small or inconsequential, or this space between us wouldn’t be necessary. This is about fundamental differences in the ways in which we view the world and believe other people should be treated. It’s not political stuff, it’s human being stuff — which is why finding compromise and seeing a way forward is so difficult.

I love that line, “It’s not political stuff, it’s human being stuff” because, although it’s completely vague, it’s also completely perfect. “The human being stuff.” Just perfect.

He continues,

I cannot have political debates with these people. Our disagreement is not merely political, but a fundamental divide on what it means to live in a society, how to be a good person, and why any of that matters.

Replace “political” with religion, and that’s where I’m at. But really, replace it with parenting, sexuality, or anything else that deals with the human being stuff and that’s where many families and friendships are at – divided and broken.

Like Pavlovitz, I find it difficult to carry on a conversation with anyone whose basic foundation of what it means to be human is completely different than my own. And when those people are called family, it gets even harder, and when family hardships and differences are constantly shielded by the “let’s pray about it” comments, it becomes nearly impossible.

Anyone who knows me, or my family, knows we are a splintered mess. We don’t talk, we judge before we speak, and we choose ourselves over others time and time again. 

Maybe you can relate?

From the outside, however, my family looks okay, sometimes even healthy, but behind the whitewashed exteriors of ourselves, we are rotting, dying, and full of crap. If we’re honest.

A few weeks ago, I stumbled across a tribute to the comedian George Carlin. In it, Louis CK shares some thoughts on what made Carlin so great and how his approach to comedy saved Louis’ career. While watching, I couldn’t help but wonder if his advice could also save Pavlovitz’s friendships and, possible, my family.

One night, in Louis CK’s early years, after yet another disastrous show, he found himself alone, in his car, wrestling with the reality that after fifteen years of diligent work, all he had to show for it was fifteen years of the same “shitty material,” and he was mournfully ready to give up. Until he heard George Carlin talking about his comedic process: at the end of every year, he threw all of his material away, and started over. Louis couldn’t believe it. It took him years to build up his material, how was he supposed to throw it all away?

But he did. And now, he is one of the most respected comedians of our time.

“When you’re done telling jokes about airplanes and dogs” Louis explains, “you throw those away,” forcing yourself to find new material and to “dig deeper.” Deeper into everyday life and deeper into what makes us, us. “You start talking about your feelings,” Louis continues, “and who you are. And then you do those jokes and when they’re gone, you gotta dig deeper and then you start thinking about your fears and your nightmares and doing jokes about that.”

Fears and nightmares and the things that we try so hard to hide and disguise, even though they are the raw and real part of humanity, the human being stuff that every family has to deal with because it too is part of life, part of us, and part of growing and living and loving together.

But my family doesn’t go there. Maybe you can relate?

Instead, we talk about airplanes and dogs and prayer. We talk about forgiveness and love and what God would have us do in our lives and how to serve and read and worship His holy name, and when things get a little messy, a little hard and raw and real, we again talk about prayer, never our fears and nightmares. Never our sins and guilts and mistakes for those are better left locked behind closed doors so no one can see them, just hear them, as they scream and yell and cry in the darkness. “Lord reveal us” we pray, backs pressing against the door, legs straining against the pounding and thrashing, “give wisdom on what to do and how to reconcile” we pray, and the pounding and screaming lurches through the walls, down the halls, and through bed covers that are tightly held over little heads and jammed into little ears.

Then, when prayers continually go unanswered, when the family remains broken and yet another holiday passes us by, we reach for pen and paper, or sometimes a blog, and write the same shitty material we’ve been rehearsing for the past fifteen years.

So what now?

Where do we go from here?

How does prayer and prayer alone reconcile? Does it bend the hearts of the wicked to see the right and true path and the error of their ways?

If so, which one of us is the wicked and which is the righteous?

More importantly, how do we deal with all of the human being stuff? Because, after fifteen years of the same rhetorical sweeping, it no longer fits under the prayer rug. 

THANKS FOR READING.

The Mountains have a way

Four weeks today, Judah and I arrived in the states.

Four weeks today, we began our process of transition.

It hasn't been terrible, but it for sure has not been smooth. For any of us. Our kids want to know where they will be going to school and when they'll see their friends again. I want to know where I'll be working and if I will see China again. Josey wants to stop living out of suitcases and random boxes and wonders when life will ever have routine again.

We all want a little bit of clarity but seem to be getting none. Each answer only muddles the future; each day adds more questions, more doubts.

So, we went camping. And, as expected, the getting out helped.

One morning, while sipping coffee and listening to the kids play, I asked Josey what she was thinking. "About the mountains," she said.

"What about them?" I asked.

"I don't know exactly," she looked around, at the kids, the trees, and the snow-covered peaks, "They just have a way about them." She thought for a moment more, "A way of clarifying, ya know?" 

I did, and I didn't. So I grabbed my journal, because I didn't want to forget her words. "The mountains have a way," I wrote, and I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

The mountains have a way . . .

Of Simplifying:

A simple fire, the smell of pine, and the birds' morning songs. The sky roles from black to deep blue, to sky, and the fire cracks and pops and spits. Coffee brews. 

Kids knuckle sleep from their eyes, the tent-flaps skip and dance to the morning breeze, and slowly, the day begins. More coffee is brewed.

There is little care for the rest of the day, just play, in the land where fallen trees become giant dragons. Where knotted sticks turn to swords or guns or simple things that only a wooded magical dragon could need. Because, in the maze of trees and grass and twigs and dirt, opportunity of imagination is endless.

So scrape your knees and get dirty and yes of course you can climb that tree or turn that patch of dirt into a Nature Town because that's why we're here, to simplify. To rid ourselves of the things that bind us, that hinder us, and that distract us from what matters. 

Because the mountains have a way. 

Of Stripping Away:

For the past four weeks, we've been reuniting with family, applying for jobs, waiting to be called by hopeful employers, rearranging boxes and suitcases, and trying to move forward but unable to do so because we don't know where we're going to live, because I have not been able to land a job. 

But in the mountains, with my family, these concerns slip away - if only for a short while - because instead of checking the inbox or checking missed calls, we're on a hike, sliding down glaciers and watching fish feed on the bugs of the mountain lakes. We read in hammocks and write in journals. I teach my son how to swing an ax and smile when he cuts his first log all the way through - something he never had the chance to do in urban China. The girls laugh and play and cry and talk because the land of dragons is big and dangerous but Mom and Dad are just there, sitting by the fire, so what is there to be afraid of?

We eat simple dinners and sit around the fire, talking, and watch for shooting stars. 

Josey and I, for the first time in months, talk about our move from China, because it's quiet, and there is little else that needs to happen. Because the mountains have a way of doing that.

Of Reminding:

I wear a vest that is not my own. It's an old JC Penny vest that is too small, even though the tag says, "XL" - being washed and dried for almost twenty years will probably do that to any vest. I also have two massive green Coleman sleeping bags that have mallard duck print on the inside. They're 100% cotton and each weigh around fifteen pounds. They're terrible for hiking, but perfect for camping. Especially family camping, and they have been for as long as I can remember, because they were my dads.

On one of our many fishing trips, I remember telling my dad that he was different there than at home because he was "more fun. More relaxed." And he was. Some of my favorite memories of my dad came with camping or fishing or splitting wood or racking leaves, and in most all of those memories, he's wearing this vest. 

This past weekend, it held my son's pocket knife and carried Zion' rocks. 

I haven't camped or fished with my dad in over twelve years, and I miss those times, almost daily. Sometimes, the memories attached to this vest are more than I can bear, because they're some of the best a boy could have. 

Which is why I wear the vest and carry the sleeping bags, because even though they are fully imperfect, they're perfect for camping and chopping wood, for cold nights and searching for constellations (which I can never find, minus the Big Dipper).

This vest and these sleeping bags are made for mountains, for camping and making memories, and for family.  Because that's what my Dad used them for, so it's what I'm going to use them for. Because the memories they carry are more than I can bear. And I hope, someday, my kids will struggle beneath its beautiful weight. 

Of Giving:

Five weeks ago, Judah and I hiked and slept on the Great Wall of China, and the lessons we learned were foundational. This short trip reminded and encouraged us of a few of those lessons. Judah dealt once more with fear, this time of bears, and I wrestled again with feeling expendable. The bears never came, but I needed the voice of my wife and son to get over my pride. Both of them, on separate occasions, considered how we as a family might bless someone outside ourselves. Both of them mentioned our camping neighbors. The day before, they had wondered into our camp. He was from Colorado and she was from Montana and they, along with their little three year-old daughter, Ellie, were planning on staying for several more nights.

"Can we leave a pile of firewood for them?" Judah asked. I looked to Josey and smiled because she had mentioned the same thing a few minutes earlier. 

"Of course," I said, "that's a great idea!" So while Josey and I packed up the van, Judah and the girls piled a large stack of wood next to the neighbors fire pit - Eden making sure it was stacked with care and purpose.

Because after a few nights in the beauty of the mountains, the perfect "thank you" blesses others, not ourselves. A lesson I'd have forgotten, if not for the mountains.

My wife was right, the mountains do have a way about them . . . a way larger than any word I can write. Which is probably why we go back. Because, like Whitman wrote about the stars, " . . . When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them . . . How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick, Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself, In the mystical moist night-air, and . . . Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars."

The mountains have a way. And all I can do is stand and look up at them, in perfect silence. 

For more on . . .

-N- Stuff  :  Simple Living  

BE SURE TO SCROLL DOWN AND SUBSCRIBE - THANKS FOR READING!