Strength

Strength is a word that has more sides than a domino. Like all words, the understanding comes from interpretation. Strength means different things to different people. What does it mean to be strong? I've read the bible over and over and I find so many different shows of strength.

Strength is saying, "NO," to the voice in your own head that says, "Go ahead. It won't hurt."

Strength is lifting a weight that everyone says you couldn't.

Strength is saying to someone, "you are that man!" Even if the hearer is a king.

Strength is wrestling, getting beat, and dealing with the limp.

Strength is calling wrongs what they are.

Strength is telling someone, "wherever you go I will go."

Strength is feeling compassion so much it makes your gut hurt.

Strength is realizing everybody's got something to deal with, and nobody's normal.

Strength is running to a prodigal son.

Strength is looking at a giant and coming at him with the only five rocks you've got.

Strength is building a boat in a desert because God said so.

Strength is a soldier who knows each day is gift.

Strength is praying so hard that you sweat blood and tears over something you do not want to do, but do it anyway

Strength is forgiving. It's confronting. It's loving.

The greatest strength is one who would stretch out his arms so wide, bleed, thirst, and hurt. But those arms were stretched out so wide that Jesus could not only hang on a cross, but wrap those arms around even those of us who spit at him.

True strength can be summed up in one name, "Jesus."

You Can't Unboil an Egg

A baby's born.

His name is chosen and put on a bracelet, then on a birth certificate.

That name means the hope of the parents, and the last name is the one that makes that unknown little person theirs. Thank God for parents like mine who gave tons of sleepless nights, prayers, cares, and hopes to that little one.

It takes a while, like boiling an egg, but then the baby becomes a toddler and a personality starts to take shape. By the time the egg takes shape he has an identity and we call him a kid.

That kid breaks bones, talks back, and learns he doesn't have to give a damn about anything that doesn't matter to him, and grabs on to things that matter the most to him. The kid starts to make the ones who care proud and breaks their hearts all at the same time. He just doesn't realize what he's doing yet. He just keeps jumping his bike off ramps, playing ball, and going to school.

Pretty soon, he's a teenager before you can imagine that he could get that many years on him. The teenager starts to jump bigger ramps, breaking more bones and hearts caring more and less about those and that which matters, yet he still doesn't get the grip on what and why but at least thank God he's still around scars and all. The hope is that he'll know enough about what he's seen and heard to stay true to what makes the difference. That's a parent's hope still printed on that birth certificate.

Before anyone notices the teenager turns into a hard-boiled egg, hell bent on being his own person with no way to stop him. You can't unboil an egg. He makes decisions that can't be unmade, says words that can't be unsaid, and does stuff. Some are proud moments like graduations, Military pinning ceremonies, weddings, reconciliations, you name it. But still there are ramps to be jumped, scars to be made, and ball to be played. It doesn't matter that the one who was named in a nursery isn't owned by the arms that once held him, the arms still welcome him. Good or bad.

Then that thing turns into a full-blown adult. Whatever, "adult," means. Grown up is a term so relative you can't quantify it by any means no matter how hard you try. But there's still hope your grown up will grow up. There's still hope for that little baby grown to be a bigger baby in the eyes of the one who first saw him.

I looked at my birth certificate for a long time yesterday wondering what my Mom and Dad thought and hoped when they chose that name of mine and attached their name to it. I can't imagine. I just know they loved me through scars, jumps, and missed shots. I wish every little one born could have my experiences, as much as I hope my own little ones don't have many of the experiences I chose in my life. Yet still, they'll jump their own ramps, receive their own scars, and choose their own ways. They'll learn, relearn, and relearn. I guess that's called life. Hopefully, I've given them at least a third of the lessons I got, because you can't unboil the water.

When they're grown-up, whatever that means, I hope they'll be able to say what I can say today. Whatever they've done, and wherever they've been. Whatever road they've chosen and whenever dead ends derailed them.

Thanks Mom and Dad, I sure do love you.

I don't write sermons anymore, but this would've been one I should've.

Eggs, Sliced Tomatoes, Cantaloupe, Bacon, and Coffee

The best breakfast is made out of eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and coffee. There should always be a rode hard, put up wet waitress who's working hard because she has to and needs a big tip, a smile, and a retort to all her barbs.

I've always loved and hated food. I've run thousands of miles to get rid of the calories until I read a Gatorade bottle that said calories were, "energy." Counselors have told me that food fills the hole in the soul, I just figured it filled the whole of the belly. I think I'm more right than they were.

But the best breakfasts are the ones filled with eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and a gallon of coffee with friends. The friends are the ones who made the rest worth it. Breakfast is the time of day when the world is new again, the day before got wiped out by the night, and friends will talk about anything, everything, and nothing. They'll tell bad jokes, argue about politics and religion, and forget it all before the plates are cleared.

Menudo is a terrible breakfast unless Sandra Chavarrhia makes it, because she'll just smile and listen to boys be boys slurping up horrific cow guts. But what makes it a good breakfast is the time laughter breaks up the air, and the day's still new. Nobody eats breakfast feeling sorry for themselves unless they got it through a window in a greasy paper sack filled with ketchup packets.

Breakfast always starts with a prayer and ends with handshakes. Eggs, sliced tomatoes, cantaloupe, bacon, and coffee fill the belly, but it's the talks that fill the heart.

Sometimes

When you've said all you have to say. Seen all you thought you needed to see. Heard all you needed to hear. I call it, "Sometimes," time.

Because, sometimes you have something more to say, the better two choices are, "I love you," and, "I'm sorry." But you still have somebody who wants to hear from you. They love the sound of your voice, and what you might have to offer. They even might need your wisdom, and contrary to popular opinion, wisdom's the greatest gift, just ask ol' King Solomon.

Sometimes, we haven't seen the best yet. I figure there's bigger and better things to see since my baby girl already sang at the Meyerson Symphony Center, and my little man already played football at Cowboys Stadium. I think they'll see big things, and I hope to see them with them. Sometimes we wish we could go back and make things different about what we saw. We can't. We just have to see what's in front of us, and look up and thank The One who let's us see.

Sometimes, we haven't been all the places we need to go. Not like on a to-do list, but like on a, "TO GO!," list. The places we need to go aren't the fanciest cities in the biggest places. Sometimes the, "to go," places are Waffle House with somebody you don't particularly want to talk to, but, you're all they got. Sometimes the to go line is at the store with somebody who needs you to buy them a loaf of bread and not lecture them. Sometimes, all the time, there's somewhere to go. It's not the buildings, or the mountains, or the seas, that make them places to go. It's the people, they're the best.

I think there's a reason Jesus always said, "let him who has ears to hear." I'd translate it this way, "just listen you hard-headed thing you Clint." We need to listen to the loud, quiet, and in-between voices that continue to shape us on the anvil of life. The Master is not finished with us until he put's us up. That banging sound is Him, hammering us into shape, knocking off our rough edges, and polishing us up.

Sometimes...

Nerfherding

Friends are funny things. We learned that in a game I named, "Nerfherding." I didn't know why I named it such, but I reckon it was because of the concept of the game.

We would take a red Nerf ball and throw it in the air and the one who could hold on to it for at least, "Ten Mississipp," would win. We'd give grace to the one who couldn't count to Mississippi without getting tackled, hit, or otherwise knocked sideways. He'd get to win that round. Dumbest dadgummed game I could've ever made up. But we thought it was fun.

We made up some simple rules:
1. No eye gouging.
2. No crotch punching.
3. No crying.
4. Always start each match with a prayer... just in case.

I can't count the number of times we ended up in a full fledged fight over the ball ignoring every rule we instituted, but there were no referees, just us.

So why in the world do I write about the dumbest game ever? it taught me grown up rules.

1. If you're going to grab the ball, you better know what you're going to do next.
2. When someone knocks the hell out of you, it was at your invitation.
3. No crying.
4. Always start the match with a prayer, not in case, but because God still listens to fools.
5. The best friends sit around after whipping each other and laugh.

I write this because we all grew up, sort of, and still we're the best, "Nerfherding," friends there ever were. A lawyer, a Navy, "SEAL," turned Deputy, a restaurant running phenomenon, and, well, me.

Thank you boys.

Things My Father Never Told Me

I am glad to say that I am not among the group of men and women who still suffer from the trauma of never hearing, "I love you," from my father and mother. Both of my parents have always been loving in word and action. Amidst the many that wanted affirmation or acknowledgement from a parent and never received a hint of it, I stand not in that company. I know the pain is intense and widespread as over many years of listening to individuals sitting with me, tears staining their cheeks, recounted the bruises left by silence or worse, violent arrows shot at their hearts, paralyzing their own ability to love others fully. I have always known my parents love me, but as Father's Day approaches I think of those things my father never told me.

Dad taught me many things in life. How to hunt, fish, and tie a necktie. He showed me how to shine my shoes and check the oil in the car. He told me of words and actions that were right and wrong. As I grew older he told me stories of his own life's poor decisions and misdirections mixed with the humor that only time can make stories upon which one will say, "someday we'll look back on this with a laugh."

Riding in my Dad's pickup we talked. I still have the vivid memory of sitting with Dad in his boat on White River Lake talking while we fished on the day before my first experience with kindergarten. The time he talked to me about sex, I'm not sure which one of us was more uncomfortable. When he would come into my bedroom I knew that times I was in for a stern, "talking to." Many times my attitude and replies were insolent and obviously infuriating. I was born with a hard head and suspect I'll die with one as well.

I learned many things from Dad's words, but I learned at least as much from the things my father never told me.

My father never told me how to work hard, she showed me. He was a brick mason by trade. A work that was physically demanding. Laying brick and stone, using mortar and a trowel as the tool of his art, layering row upon row on so many buildings in and around the town where I grew up. He did it very well and without his labor in blazing heat and blustery cold wind the beauty of many a building would be not be both beautiful and a testament to his true mastery of art. I remember seeing a bottle of aspirin on the dashboard of his truck, and watching him come home from a day on the job, dirty and tired, a witness of how hard he worked. He built the fireplace in our home on 48th Street, and I've never seen one like it before. He let me lay the last brick, it was the only one to fall off over the years.
I worked for my father as a teenager before I was old enough to get a job at a grocery store sacking groceries. It was not easy to work for him, never a moment to sit still, especially for the boss' son. He owned his own contracting company and with my Mom by his side managed to do well due to their diligence in what they were doing. My father didn't tell me how to work hard, he showed me. He still probably doesn't know to this day that there were a few times when I was a child that I was awakened slightly as he very quietly walked into my bedroom, dark as night still outside my windows and kissed me on the head before heading out the door for another day at work. Once looking at the clock beside my bed I saw that it was 4 AM. I fell back to sleep, he went to work.

My father didn't tell me how to treat ladies. I learned from my Dad that it was important to open doors for ladies, to offer a seat to a lady in a crowded room where not seats were left, and to always answer with, "yes ma'am," or, "no, ma'am." It was an unspoken, but clear understanding that there are ways and words that boys may use among the boys, but never in the company of ladies. That said, I must also admit I never learned to use foul language or tell bawdy jokes from my Dad. I can hardly recount a time when I heard my Dad use some of the words that have flown from my own mouth too freely in frustration or anger. I recall on the early morning ride to work for my Dad the first time when I was thirteen he said, "You're going to hear a lot of things on this job site, I don't want to see you standing and listening to any of it, and I certainly don't want to hear you repeat any of it around your mother or anyone else for that matter." He was right. I heard a lot of crude talk and nasty jokes. I learned to cuss in Spanish. None of it was from my father. I know that he was not the Saint on the job, but I wouldn't have known it.

My father didn't tell me how to be a husband, he showed me. Before my own wedding there were no speeches on the virtues of a good husband or the ways to treat a wife. I like to think that he knew I had seen it enough to recognize the right and wrong way to conduct myself. It was obvious to me that he has taken to this day his vow to love and honor my Mom, "for better, for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health." As with any couple there were arguments, some more heated than others but always resolved. Of many classmates I was becoming a rarer breed that had both parents living together under the same roof, a blessing I didn't realize until much later in life. We never worried or wondered where Dad was when he wasn't working or at home, never chasing him to bars or spending time with the wrong company. He is a family man.

My father never told me how to be a father, he showed me. I learn more and more as years roll along that to have raised me as a son must've been quite a challenge at times. I've already mentioned the thickness of my head but not it's connection to my mouth. More than once we butted heads and I said things that I wish I could take back, but we know that once words are uttered they have their own life and are no longer retrievable. Still his words to me in those times may have been harsh, but not unloving in any way. I was fortunate enough to look and see my parents at all of my school programs and sports events, affirming me with their presence. Knowing they were there at my college graduation was probably more exciting for them than it was for me, a sort of breath of relief. Isn't college the best seven years of everyone's life? I was shown how to be a father by the simple art of, "being there." In times both good and bad, triumphant and trying, Dad was there.

Yes, he taught me many things. Riding a bike, how to fish, how to shoot a shotgun, how to catch and throw, the way to hustle on a ball field. Many words we shared and still do. It was also things that he didn't tell me, rather he showed me that have lasted as well. In times of worry and disappointment, still my parents were there.

Reading in Henri J.M. Nouwen's book The Return of the Prodigal Son I see the loving hands of the father and remember my parents hands:

"I felt drawn to those hands. I did not fully understand why. But gradually over the years I have come to know those hands. They have held me from the hour of my conception, they welcomed me at my birth, held me close to my mother's breast, fed me, and kept me warm. They have protected me in times of danger and consoled in times of grief. They have waved my good-bye and always welcomed me back. Those hands are God's hands. They are also the hands of my parents...those whom God has given me to remind me how safely I am held."

My father is a man, and no man is perfect. But I proudly carry his name and pass it to a new generation. I am not half the man I see in my Dad. What he has taught me with his words I still have hidden in my heart and even in the dusty cobwebbed recesses of my mind. What he showed me I can still picture often. In many falls from grace wandering the rambling way of my existence in this life, I pray often that I can see at the end of my life that I somehow, someway, became half the man my Dad showed me I could be.