they won't go looking.

“Oh, wow...  You have three daughters?!!  Dad, you better get your shotgun ready!”

Lots of vulnerabilities exist in my effort to father my three little girls as a single parent.  Little things may fall through the cracks here and there like hair and nails and most fashion related decisions, but one thing I am invariably good at is trust. I feel as though I’m a pro when it comes to adventure in their lives.  But then again, I’ve always had an uncanny ability to swoop in, sweep them off their little steadying feet and launch them into motion.  They love it.  Them momentarily suspended in air just above the ground or flying through the air and room onto the couch.  As they soar and float, even descending, a look lingers on their face.  It’s a look that affirms me.  Trust.

Without reason not to, they trust me completely.  Up until this point, I’ve given them more reason to trust than not.

It’s quite simple.  I’ve done what I said, I’d do.  And when I mess up and don’t follow through, I apologize.  I like to think of apologizing to my kids as emotional adventure taking them deeper into trust’s woods or higher and closer to trust’s summit.

Establishing and nurturing trust in a child’s heart is absolutely essential to healthy maturation.  Without trust, a child grows sideways, roots shallow, leaving them emotionally malnourished.

Think of it plainly in this way::

absence of trust + unquenchable lack, never enough = they go looking

As a parent, you never have to be a pro or know all of the answers.  In fact, the feeling of inadequacy can be an invaluable commodity.  Not having all of the answers and making mistakes earns trust quicker than parenting from a pedestal.

Your primary objective in parenting should not be friendship at any cost.  It should be friendship at great cost.

It will cost great effort in values of forgiveness and love on both ends.  Placing high value and seriousness on friendship and relationship not only strengthens trust but also portrays healthy relationships in the giving and receiving.

Just as sweet as the trusting look lighting up their faces when I send them sailing through the air, the look they give sitting on the edge of their bed watching my eyes well up, holding wordless apologies before anything is spoken - that similar look that I see on their forgiving little face finds me.

Trust’s roots thrust deeper into the soil of their hearts and our relationship.

So I don’t anticipate needing to threaten some boy who has yet to earn their trust with the presence of a shotgun someday.  I will have staked claim in my daughters’ hearts long before that kid steps foot on my scene.  And I imagine (and hope), I’ll be quite fond of him because in some distinct way, he’ll resemble me.

That day, vulnerabilities won’t exist in my heart.  If they do and I’m leaning on a shotgun to establish my place, I will have missed the mark.

My father effort is full here in establishing trust so that we find all that they need together and they won’t go looking somewhere else for what they think they need.

photograph by Jim Richardson

on fathering: be there.

One summer day, driving in his truck, windows down and summer air swirling freely between us, I remember feeling invincible.  No worry too big or fear too dark.  Life was summer sprawl, undisturbed still.  Unawakened to circumstance affecting. We were just driving down a wide, smooth road, but we might as well have been precariously navigating across a narrow ridge thousands of feet in the air.  Maybe it was the summer air that always seems to inspire adventure or his truck which always held the perfect balanced smell of work and dirt.  I think most of all, it was the courage I felt when we did things together, just the two of us.

In many respects, my dad will always be an anchor in my life formidable to each and every wave threatening capsize.

He wasn’t the perfect dad.  No dad ever really is.  He was the disciplinarian who enforced consequences but wasn’t always the firm parent.  In fact, sometimes he’d crumble faster than a dry sand castle.  I don’t think he ever gave too much thought to parenting strategies or thought about parenting goals stretching further than the moment.

And that’s precisely where he won as a dad, in the moment.  Perhaps more unknowingly than not.

Standing at third base, coaching and giving instruction as I walked to the batter’s box.  At the starting line reviewing strategy again, reassuring me that the miles spent on my bike training had fully prepared me to win.  Under the hood of his truck asking for the oil filter wrench then handing me back the tool I gave him and explaining what exactly the oil filter wrench looked like. Teaching me to fight and defend myself and stand up for what was right, at any cost.  “Every fight can be won.  Be the one who wins.”

Thinking back, I’m sure my dad faced many situations when he was uncertain as a father.  He definitely made mistakes, chose wrongly and came up short, but in my young boyish eyes, my dad was myth and legend making sense of a world that felt infinitely bigger than me.

Parenting is such as tremendous undertaking.  There are so many ways to get it wrong.  So many mistakes lie in waiting.

...when and how to discipline. ...when to say yes and stick to no, despite pulling tears. ...embarrassing them. ...emotional parenting. ...saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. ...not saying anything. ...working too much. ...not noticing little important details to them. ...discounting their effort given.

The list grows infinite as opportunity for mistake lies in each day and moment.

Beyond mistakes marring the past and those potential ones threatening in years ahead, the surefire way to get parenting all wrong is to be absent.

Present in form, missing in action.  There is no mistake greater than abandonment.  And sometimes abandonment happens with the parent sitting in the stands still distracted by the day, not noticing the only one truly needing to be noticed.

I’ve known plenty of parents who say the wrong thing often, break the rules of what’s considered good parenting and semi-obliviously stumble in and out of situations, yet still they succeed in being a good parent.  When dust kicked around in childhood and adolescent years settles and years are apparent, there stand their kids somehow ready to figure life out, prepared to take steps on their own.

The one fail safe parenting secret that always works: YOU

Dad, you can give no greater gift to your child than yourself.  Mistakes and all.

Get over your idea of providing enough, success, happiness and proper parenting, and move into their little lives.  Create residence in their hearts where they need strength and adventure and affirmation.

Don’t show up on time when it matters.  Be there.

Being there in your kids’ lives doesn’t mean knowing.  It means willing.  And that is far greater a commodity in shaping their lives than knowing yet being unwilling.

In very rudimentary effort, I am moving closer into my daughters’ hearts this summer.  We set a goal together to begin reading through C.S. Lewis’ series, “The Chronicles of Narnia”.  Our family bet was that we’d make it through book three by summer’s end.

My dad left when I was 17.  My sister, 13. One of my distinct, floor level goals as a dad has been to never leave.

And that’s more than an adequate start.  It’s my greatest gift and a framework for effective fathering.

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in homage and honor.

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“Tomorrow found in today; what’s ahead discovered in days behind.”

This has become somewhat of an echoing mantra and anchoring core value in my life.  Often what we need for today and beyond lies in the path behind us.  A risk that taught us to trust more.  A failure that taught us bravery.  A mistake that taught us humility.  A hurt that taught us to bleed.  A loneliness that taught us to find.  A darkness that taught us courage.  A victory that taught us to win.

Whatever those steps pressed into the ground of yesterday hold, above all, they hold life and answers and path.

The writing of my book gave perfect opportunity to look back, gaze upon the burning heap of dreams behind ...look ...love ...want ...hurt ...break, and mostly ...find.  Recounting pieces of my past floating, stretching further apart on life pulling like the tide and swelling waves, has, in a way, been the greatest happening.  Many days I felt like a scavenger walking through barren lands once rich and fertile, now hollow and uninhabited.  And then, I would stumble upon deep wells of remembrance whispering words I couldn’t understand but laced with promise and passage finding penetrating way into the chambers of my heart.

Losing my wife, a woman whom I loved indescribably, did nothing less than change me completely.

Life turned unexpectedly and unforgivably.  I stopped lost in tracks.  The steps behind me began to guide me with each faith-filled, God following, narrowly trusting, grace infusing step into the unknown.

Future bowing to past in homage and honor.  My eyes learned new, the value of unknown and how to choose.

Here’s an excerpt central to my story from a chapter currently entitled, “Surely Goodness and Mercy.”:

I saw a man alone, subdued by pain, frightened by the fear of all that may be some day, and I quietly asked to never be that man.  I can't.  I won't.  The man fumbling through fading memories like a thief holding a leaking bag, the man stumbling drunk on why things settled they way they did, talking to himself, mumbling angrily and hurt.  That will not be me.

My daughters will not know him.  They might see me wince and wrestle to the ground... But they will never know a hollowed heart comfortable only in shadows.  I may not have much greater to give them than that but it will be an echo that resounds like bells of freedom in their warm little hearts.  Always.  I pray.

I will not allow myself to be the man hollowed by pain, afraid of shadows and those things which lie in waiting. Life may indeed only seem to take from us, days, memories, happiness, but courage is mine to give. And the source, it is immeasurably and unfathomably deep. It is unending. Through darkened spots and failing strength, the reason for courage remains.

For months following her death, I only prayed for God to piece back together the life I was forced from.  So little did I know and perceive the beauty of his bridge building redemptive ability lies within the thinnest, most inescapable steps when I am invited to only follow and not need bearing or direction or understanding.

Each day, a decision. Choose wisely.  Trust ridiculously.  Step faithfully.

... A day forsaken is a day forgotten. So many want only to escape.

when you decide it ends.

“How’ve you been, man?” Such a simple question often returned with loosely connected surface somethings.  Quite often, I volley back one of a few pre-packaged responses always ready to buffer conversation passed me and into decisions needed to be made or details floating in my days.  Or the shallow response gently deflects the question back to the other person.  My automatic responses vary slightly into some form of “great” or “busy” or “well”.  It seems as though even when things aren’t great, busy or well, those words are still regular in my friendly responses.

I haven’t been asked that question lately.  At least not as often.  There was a time in the not too distant past when I heard those words everyday.  Many times over in each day, actually.  How was I adjusting to life after the death of my wife?  How were my three young daughters?  What were we going to do?  These questions and more were all motivating the constant questioning and concern.  But time moves on.  Concern and curiosity from friends and family remains but naturally waned a bit in time passing.  A year.  Nearly two.  Healthy smiles and new adventures and the constant questioning softened to a lull.

Because of one word, this particular time the question caught me a bit off guard.  The distinguishing word in my friend’s questioning: “man”.  Maybe, too, the way the question was asked and who was asking made it stand out.

Shortly after we met, John grew naturally into a friend of great stature in my life.  Committed to doing something about what he knows, John often finds himself in the right place at the right time.  With little concern, my friend is quick to respond to needs.  His quick abandon and committed response drips of Jesus.  And people draw to him as John closes in on their need with genuine, deep concern.  One of the most profound things that John ever said to me was in the form of a confession.  Driving me from the hospital to my home so that I could shower and get a change of clothes, he fumbled with a confidence bigger than himself and the moment through feelings conflicted.  My wife wavered between life and death, I sat shocked and sinking and overwhelmed and his words were simple.

“I really don’t know what to say, man, but I know God is in control.”  Those were his words, my friend John’s.  And they were more than enough.

And just a couple days ago, sitting in the warmth of evening sun John’s question slowed my thoughts and stopped me from conquering the world for a moment of honest reflection and simple words.

“Good, I think.”

I hadn’t stopped to really think about how I’ve been doing lately.  And maybe my lack of thought and constant emotional self assessment revealed something new blooming in my day to day.

There were countless days when the thought of something wrong with me hung overhead like a following, defining cloud.  Following.  Defining.  In my bleak estimation, life didn’t add up, my wife’s sudden death was a variable I had not accounted for.  Life held an incalculable value and happiness, meaning and joy alluded me.

Somewhere along the way I forgot.  Not in the way a person forgets due to uneventfulness or inactivity, but because of replacement.  Maybe love.  Maybe laughter.  Maybe the newness of life as adventure.  Whatever replaced hurt exactly in my life, days unfolded easier and laughter more frequent and honest.

Here’s the thing about hurt and pain: it’s leachy and holding.

When you decide it ends, it just does.  Hurt and pain give way to life and resumption.  Pain doesn’t just run its course or simply end.  It remains as long as you allow it.  And pain defines throughout the time it remains.

Pain is hurt still hurting.  So many allow pain residence and place in their heart.  You can see it plainly on their face and in every move and seemingly every decision made.  Pain becomes them.

Healing is the faith of painless living.

I heard a story years back of a man who grasped tightly to a specific hurt so grievously inflicted by another that he lived with it for years.  Bitter still in old age, he walked right up to his offender’s house one day long beyond cause for remembrance and punched him then for reason still apparent only to him, the offended.  The hurt one holding onto pain holding onto him.

That is precisely what pain does.  It encapsulates you.  Hurt happens.  It will time and time again.  Some hurts will be small, mundane jabs that threaten to cling to you and others will be near fatal deathblows that drop you to your knees.  In both cases of pain and hurt and beyond, you decide when it ends and when you begin to turn your face north to a new day inviting.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.  Lamentations 3:22-23

In each day, both darkened by the stain of hurt and glowing in the goodness of God, his love gives certain cause for joyful continuation and resumption of life free of pain.  When you decide it ends, it does because God's love never relents and is always present.

18 inches of trust :: a guest post.

Recently, along with a few others, I received an invite to write as a guest for a friend’s site (sayable.net).  The scope of topics were laid out for our choosing.  I chose to write about trust.

Trust does not always come with natural and effortless ease.  For me, and I’d imagine for quite a few of you, trust cuts against the grain of comfort and quiet in my heart.  Even in sinking moments when obvious cues scream move, jump, hold, remember, and the promise of better fades into plain sight, trust is not a neatly resolved conclusion.

It is the first step onto a rickety bridge promising to hold you some 20 feet above a crossing that bears the most fear ...and the most trust.

You must value something as true before you give trust.

In the day to day, trust adds up to more than disconnected, autonomous decisions.  Trust is a journey both into oneself and out of the shifting wasteland of one’s life as center and end.  What we trust reveals what we belief, value honestly as supportive and sustaining and ascribe as true.

I’d like to thank Lore for inviting me to guest on her site during her hiatus and allowing me space to draw from below my heart’s surface and bleed a bit on paper (or screen).  Make sure to visit her site and subscribe for regular updates.  She’s working on a book that you’ll want to read.  Trust me.

Here’s a direct link to my guest post.  “18 inches of trust.”