Who Is John David?

My Dad hails from a different era.  Born during the Depression, he was raised in a time when you didn’t talk about your problems.  Times were tough and complaining did nothing to resolve the economic troubles that engulfed our nation.  Work was the only solution, and since everyone else was busting their rear ends to survive, just like you, you didn’t go griping to your neighbor in an attempt to make yourself feel better.  As a child, I don’t think I ever heard him complain about anything, aside from an occasional jab at my Mom, who is very high maintenance.  Nor did I ever hear him bemoan his mistakes for more than just a minute or two, and even that was a rare occurrence.  And while his go it alone, ever-positive approach to life is still admirable to me, I now realize that technology has forever left its mark on society by rendering that once heroic philosophy obsolete.

This blog entry comes to you from St. George Island, off the Gulf Coast of Florida, where my family, along with my sister’s family and our Dad have spent the last day or so relaxing.  Last night, we stayed up late into the night, talking about a number of things – some important, some not so much.  At around 11:00, my Dad, who had been largely on the periphery of the conversation, as he had busied himself with a 500 piece puzzle, asked a bizarre and random question.  “How do you unfriend someone on Facebook?” he asked.

A little taken aback, we hesitated before answering.  Up until that moment, we had spent a large quantity of time discussing my 23 year old nephew’s relationship status, as well as the characteristics he’s looking for in a woman.  Ben, who’s a very deep thinker, has an extremely shallow grocery list when it comes to women.  Somewhere between “flexible”, “built like an hourglass”, and “able to do a cannonball with minimal amount of splash,” my Dad had asked his question.  Something in the previous discussion must have triggered his question, but it was way too early for us to know exactly what.

I then explained to him the mechanics of the unfriending process.  With a puzzled look on her face, my sister Carla then asked, “why do you want to unfriend someone?  Did you get your feelings hurt by something they posted?”

“No,” my Dad said.  “I have a friend that I don’t know, and I probably just need to unfriend him.”

“Who is it?” someone asked.

“I’m not sure.  His name is John David, and I just assumed I knew him, because he sent me a friend request.  So I accepted it, and now I need to unfriend him, I guess.  Anyway, he sent me a picture of a naked woman this afternoon.”

Wait.  What?

We all looked at each other, not sure if we had all heard the same thing.  You could have heard a pin drop in the room as our minds went into high gear.  “He sent you what?” someone else asked.

Ben immediately piped up, “well… suggest him as a friend to me.” 

We all had a good laugh, then my wife chimed in, “Daddy, did he send it to you in a message, or did he tag you in the picture?”

“No, he tagged me,” said my Dad, obviously more than a little bothered at the thought of being sent a picture of a naked anything at this point in his life.

“Daddy, that shows up on your wall.  Did you delete the picture?” she asked again. 

“No,” he said.  “I didn’t know how.  I checked it on my iPhone, and when I saw the picture, I couldn’t tell what it was, so I clicked on it to make it bigger.  Once I realized it was a naked woman, I put my phone away as quick as possible.”

Then it hit us all like a kick to the groin.  The 75 year old patriarch of our family, and perhaps the most godly man any of us has ever known, had a nudie picture posted on his wall, and rather than deleting it, he just simply put his phone down and walked away.

Immediately, we all scrambled to get our online devices – iPhones, tablets, etc – to see if the naked woman was still on his wall.  I don’t remember the first to spot it, but within a matter of seconds, a chorus of, “oh my gosh’es” went up around the room in sporadic intervals as we surveyed the woman in question.

She was definitely naked, but simply describing her as naked doesn’t do justice to the level of nudity she had obtained.  Without going into great detail, she was well beyond the threshold of tasteful art, and in the dark and grungy recesses of the world of pornography.  However, we soon realized what had sparked my Dad’s recollection of the seedy photo – it had to have been my nephew’s mention of the word flexible.  I quickly asked my Dad how long it had been since he first got the photo.

“Some time this afternoon,” he said.  “Maybe 4 or 5 hours ago.”

As a family, we were shocked.  But not in a way that says, “oh my gosh, Daddy, how could you?”  No.  We were shocked in a way that said, “oh my gosh, Daddy, didn’t you realize that turning off your phone did nothing to get rid of this trashy photo?  Don’t you know that everyone from Pastor Larry to Mama (who has not yet joined us) has potentially seen this picture and flagged you as a pervert on Facebook?”

To say that we laughed hysterically would be a gross understatement.  I’ve had many friends, mostly female, who have laughed so hard that they wet themselves, but I’ve never actually considered I could do that to myself… until last night.  At one point, I considered the possibility of laughing up an internal organ, and by the looks of it, everyone else in the room felt the same.  We were dumbfounded that my Dad, when faced with some of the most unnatural poses known to photography, simply turned his phone off to make the problem go away.  All he had to do was ask for help, but instead, he simply lowered his head and went to work once again, hoping to put his troubles behind him.  But in this age of technology, you just can’t work your way out of a jam like this.  No amount of puzzle putting together can get porn off of your Facebook page.

My Old Friend

I love my garden.  For some reason, I feel closer to the Lord when I’m working in the dirt, tilling, planting, weeding, watering, or even just watching the plants grow – if that’s even possible.  I think it’s a point of relating to my Creator.  After all, He’s the original gardener, responsible for the most famous of gardens.  I often imagine what His must have looked like, and I’ve decided that once I’ve crossed over into His realm, I will spend a tremendous amount of time exploring a renewed Eden. 

Today, as I sat in my garden, I thought of Nathan.  I thought of all that our family has suffered in the previous weeks - the nightmare we’ve each lived through.  I didn’t cry, but I was overcome with a mix of emotions, as I’ve been prone to these last few days.  I thought specifically of the role I’ve had the privilege of playing on behalf of my sister’s family, doing all that I know to do to be the hands and feet of Jesus during this incredibly harsh time.  It’s a role I’d rather not play, to state the obvious, but I use the word “privilege” intentionally, as I know there is something eternally precious about getting to love those who are hurting.  Once again, I thought of the deep and profound sorrow that weighs them down during this time and the fact that their pain causes me to hurt more than I already do over the loss of my nephew.  I also thought of how I have learned to set aside my own sorrow temporarily, in order to be strong for them.  As these thoughts filled my head, a separate, quiet, confident thought entered in and took center stage.  I began to think of God as an “old friend”.  Now, I’ve learned, over the years, that the voice of the Lord takes on many forms, but His most consistent tone in my life is that of a quiet, confident thought.  So I leaned into this thought, and soon found myself being affirmed by my Father, as a lifelong friend.  And while that might not mean much to you, it tore me up inside, and the tears began to flow. 

Friendship is not cheap, nor is it formed quickly as we’re prone to think in our warped, 21^st century, western culture.  Abraham was called a “friend of God”, and Moses, as it is written in Exodus 33, spoke to God face to face “as a man speaks to his friend.”  Both men had very profound relationships with their Creator, and I daresay that God will refer to both as “old friends” throughout eternity.  Both had a history with God that was rich and full.  Both walked a road that was rocky and long.  Abraham journeyed with God into foreign lands, and while that journey was obviously a physical one, it was more so profoundly relational.  He became intimately familiar with God as He ventured into the unfamiliar.  Similarly, Moses wandered around in the wilderness for 40 years, daily facing some extremely harsh conditions.  Yet despite facing the threat of starvation, dehydration, disease, mutiny and even potential exposure to enemy armies, He experienced some of the most intimate encounters any man has ever experienced with God.  That friendship became so tangible that he ultimately vowed to not go anywhere without the Presence of the Lord. 

Intimacy carries a price.  It comes through experiences – both good and bad.  It’s what happens when we live our lives, no matter how high the highs or how low the lows, in the constant presence of another.  It’s a flow of life between two people, who dare to open themselves up to one another, during the course of their time here on Earth.  It’s what two people share that is uniquely theirs and theirs alone.  And friendship with God is the abundance of life that Jesus Himself spoke of.

During the past few weeks, I have experienced much that I wish I could simply undo.  I would be a happier person right now if my family hadn’t been hit with this insidious tragedy.  What God spoke to me in the midst of the storm, however, brought me a sense of peace.  These are the trials through which friendship is tested and strengthened.  These are the moments where we meet God in a new way, and we walk away having been kissed by the Ancient of Days.   If I had a choice, I would undo this horrible mess.  And yet, I could never choose to unravel the tapestry of intimacy that God has knit in my heart through years of pain and joy.  This is the most difficult stretch of my life’s journey thus far.  And while on this path, I am prone to loathe it.  But the promise from Him is this: walking it will lead me to a place of familiarity with Him that I would not know otherwise. 

This is not my first time around the block.  I’ve had some successes, and I’ve skinned my knees a time or two.  I’ve won some battles, while others were lost.  I’ve loved, I’ve lost.  I’ve struggled and I’ve rested.  I’ve even had my teeth kicked in.  But through it all, God and I have become old friends – His words, not mine.  I’ve always suspected as much.  For my part, I always considered Him my closest friend, even when I wasn’t very faithful towards Him.  But to hear Him refer to me as an “old friend”… well… that’s worth the price.

The Comet

I have just ended a most unforgettable week. A week that brought about a hurricane of emotions and experiences. A week I just assume to wake up tomorrow morning and discover never existed at all, except in my dreams.  During this week, I have tasted the injustice of a premature death.  It is incredibly bitter.  I have experienced the loss of a loved one, and while I know it’s inevitable, I just assume not ever experience it again.  I have been lifted up by the hands of hope and faith, and while they both remain, I am still faced with an outcome that seems most undesirable.  I have known what it is to weep with those who can do nothing but weep.  And while I hope that was a comfort to those who most needed it, it’s not the kind of comfort I want to be in the habit of giving.  I have witnessed my children losing someone dear and have not had the capacity to sufficiently answer their questions or deal with their grief.  This concerns me deeply as a father.  I have known exhaustion of an unfamiliar kind – the kind that comes from serving others over an extended period of time in their moment of need – and while I could not envision a situation where I wouldn’t step in and do the same all over again, I hated that the need was so dire.  I also learned what it’s like to swallow your emotions and pretend to be strong, only to have them resurface in moments of quiet retreat.  I have also tasted the sweetness of worship in the midst of sorrow.  It’s as refreshing as any cold spring on a hot summer’s day.  Thanks to my sister and her amazing family, I know the grittiness of a faith that can truly say, “no matter what, Lord, I will still trust in You!”  Having witnessed such a rare sight, I am humbled.  I have heard those I love boldly pledge an allegiance and love for the Lamb of God that supersedes man’s natural desire to hold tightly to the things of this world.  By this I am encouraged and now see that the good news of Jesus Christ is an unquenchable fire that will one day consume the whole Earth.  I have seen a community respond to tragedy, crossing every racial, social and denominational line, and this makes me happy.  I have experienced the mystery of knowing someone, without fully knowing who they are until they have been taken away.  I have learned of the greatness of my nephew, whom I have loved dearly for 15 years, from those who recognized his true greatness in a much shorter period of time.  

This week, I saw the passing of a comet.  I have lived under its light for the past 15 years, and while I had every opportunity to bask in its glow, I only caught glimpses of it from time to time.  Now the comet is gone, and I am deeply troubled by its passing.  Nevertheless, I am grateful to have had the opportunity to see it – if only for a moment.  In my state of heightened sensitivity, I now suspect that I’m surrounded by comets.  This makes me want to recognize their beauty while their light is still with me.  God give me courage to live and love as freely as the one we’ve lost.

Getting There

My wife recently advised me to consider documenting some of the more significant moments of my life, so that our children will have a written account of their father's unusual existence.  And though her choice of the word 'unusual' caught me a little off guard, I'm sure that she was implying that my life is so very uniquely profound, it just wouldn't be fair to the rest of humanity to go unrecorded. Now when someone suggests that I ‘go ahead and do such and such to make sure it gets done before you die,’ I go into major procrastination mode.  Such reaction betrays my true conviction that by not planning for death, I will somehow delay its arrival and vice versa.  This time, however, I’ve decided to stare death in the face and make use of the time, abundant though I’m sure it to be.  So this next series of blogs is devoted to one of the most significant adventures of my life to date.

In my younger years, I was more adventurous than I am now.  Lately, it seems that if I catch a reprieve from work obligations, school board duties, church responsibilities and various family commitments, I am most likely to be found sitting on my couch hanging out with my children or watching TV.  I’m not sure if it’s my age or just a general feeling of fatigue, but lately, I’ve longed for few things more than a chance to lounge around on the couch.  This story, however, isn’t about my present condition, but rather a specific adventure I embarked upon as a young man.  It's the story of a 24 year old, single man who walked away from the security of a good job with a reputable company, as well as the comfort of life in the United States, and set out for Lausanne, Switzerland, for the purpose of becoming a missionary.   

I inherited a love for travel from my now deceased grandmother, who set foot in more countries than I could begin to count.  As a child, I was subjected to endless carousels of slides highlighting her journeys abroad, which forced me to become familiar with such faraway places as the Great Pyramids, Buckingham Palace and the Kremlin, to name a few.  And while I never fully appreciated the value of those low rez Kodaks projected in cruel fashion on the wall of my grandmother's den, I am no cognizant of the sacred exchange that took place during those moments.  My Nana was imparting to me a desire to experience the unfamiliar, and for that, I will forever be grateful.  It is this desire that propelled me into the strange and exciting world of foreign missions.  

I realize that the word 'missions' often evokes images of such places as Haiti, Nigeria or some other third world country.  Lausanne is hardly third world.  In fact, Switzerland is about as first world as they come.  But my quest to become a full-time missionary began with a 6 month Discipleship Training School (DTS) with an organization called Youth With A Mission (YWAM).  The school, by design, combines Bible based lecture with practical application in a foreign missions environment. So I figured if I was going to 'rough it' in a missions setting for 3 months, the least God could do for me was to let me spend the lecture portion of my school in a cushy Alpine setting. 

I well remember the day that I was escorted to the airport by my mom and my sis, bound for Lausanne.  It was an emotional moment for all of us, but especially so for them.  I am the baby of the family - the youngest of 7, and it's always hard sending a baby off to Europe for 6 months.  My flight was on Delta, and I was flying ‘standby’ on an employee buddy pass.  I was most excited about this, simply for the fact that buddy's get to sit in the front of the plane, if available.  In the days leading up to the trip, I had prayed desperately for a first class seat.  I reasoned that I must be worthy of such a prayer given the fact that I was sacrificially giving up my life to become a missionary - at least for the next 6 months.  As I awaited the final boarding call, the gate agent summoned me to the counter and told me that there was, in fact, one first class seat available.  My mom put her arm around me my shoulder and with tears in her eyes said, "God must be smiling on you!"  It was a watershed moment.  I was touched at both my Mom's tenderness, as well as the Lord's obvious interest in my travel comfort.  I then said my good-byes and turned to walk tearfully down the jet-way.  

I soon found myself in another world – no, not Switzerland - that would come later.  I entered the world of first class travel.  I pinched myself when I saw my seat.  It was truly a thing of beauty with its plush leather finish and more than enough butt room for me and a guest.  The instant my posterior touched down on the soft cushion, a flight attendant arrived to take my drink order.  As the throngs of coach customers pushed and shoved their way back to the cheap seats, I confidently ordered a glass of champagne.  "Champagne?" I thought to myself, "Who orders champagne on an airplane?"  Then it hit me - first class passengers - that's who.  I was then hit with the reality of the moment.  I was jet-setting.  I was bound for Europe - young, single and soon to be sipping champagne.  My mom’s words “God is smiling on you” were echoing about in the hollow confines of my brain.  No one knows for sure where the geographical 'top of the world' is, but I'm pretty sure I was there for brief, shining moment in first class. 

I then struck up a conversation with my seat neighbor who was Swiss.  I know this not just because he was well dressed, well groomed, and slightly effeminate (in an obvious heterosexual way), but because he told me so.  I don’t know what it is about the Swiss, but they just seem to ooze a sense of importance.  As we spoke of such things as first class travel and 'those poor schmucks in coach,' I began to swell with a sense of importance.  I'm not sure if the sense of importance had more to do with the seat or the fact that a Swiss person was giving me the time of day.  After all, the Swiss are important, and they don't just talk to anyone.  “My days of God not smiling on me are definitely in the past,” I thought to myself, as I reveled in my newfound sense of significance. 

My champagne soon arrived.  I discretely watched my new Swiss friend and made a mental note of how he held his plastic, Delta airlines champagne glass.  I mimicked his every move, holding my wrist at an awkward angle with my little finger slightly dangling off the stem of the glass and began to enjoy the sweet, alcoholic nectar of my first class experience.  After a couple of sips, the flight attendant returned.  “I’m sorry sir,” she began, and I, being full of a sense of self-importance, expected her to apologize for not being able to serve my filet mignon until we were airborne.  “You’re going to have to change seats,” she said, hardly apologetic.  “It seems that the ‘no-show’ has just checked in at the gate and there are no more available seats in first class.  You’ll have to sit in the back.”

In one cruel nanosecond, my first class house of cards came tumbling down around me.  Just like that,  I had been exposed as a fraud and demoted back to coach.  My uppity Swiss friend cut his eyes at me and sneered as if to say, “you don’t belong here.”  After only a few short moments at the top, I was now banished to relative exile.  I stood and reached into the overhead bin for my carry-on.  Once securely in my possession, I then reached for my glass of champagne.  The flight attendant stopped me and said, “I’m sorry sir.  Those are for first class passengers only.”

I then marched to coach like a prisoner headed for the Gulag.  I was told there were plenty of seats in coach.  There were, only they were all at the back of the plane.  The very back... of a 747.  Practically everyone was seated but me, so the whole plane watched in wonder as I was booted out of first class and condemned to coach.  Feeling a bit like Rosa Parks – although a much less stubborn Rosa Parks at best – I heard my mom’s words in my head again, only this time they rang with a certain air of sarcasm, “God is smiling on you, God is smiling on you.”

I eventually settled into a seat about 5 rows from the back of the plane.  As I asked God if the smile had turned into a frown, I soon realized that there was no one within spitting distance of me.  I ended up with the entire center row to myself.  I stretched out and slept soundly most of the way to Switzerland, dreaming of the adventure that awaited me.  Turns out, God had a funny way of smiling on me that night.

At baggage claim, I saw my Swiss friend.  I tried to tell him that I had a very comfortable trip over.  He refused to make eye contact with me.

A Tense Encounter

My wife loves to lavish gifts on those she loves most.  And since I am, at the very least, in the running for the title “love of her life,” I often find myself as the beneficiary of her generosity.  My wife also takes great pleasure in her individuality, which spills over into her purchasing decisions with great frequency.  She’s been known to avoid trends and fads just for the sake of maintaining her individualistic integrity, even when doing so means going without something she would otherwise buy.  All this to say, when she buys you a gift, you can expect that it will be something you’re not expecting. 

Throughout our nearly 15 years of marriage, I’ve had regular bouts with both a stiff back and neck – a condition, it seems, that I picked up from years of sitting at a desk with my shoulders drooped to my knees and my head arched forward like a racehorse lunging for a finish line.  And while it’s not a very pleasant condition, to say the least, the remedy is actually quite a simple one, provided that I can find a willing accomplice.  A simple backrub, delivered with a little love and a firm grip, does the trick every time.  Early on in our marriage, I looked to my wife to provide such relief.  After all, she’s the most obvious choice, or at least it seemed at the time.  I naturally assumed that she possessed both the affection and the will to carry out the task of un-knotting my achy muscles.  I was wrong on both accounts.

It’s not that she doesn't possess the strength necessarily, it’s more, I believe, an issue of resolve.  My theory is that she sees no return on her investment of time and effort, given that 9 times out of 10, a good massage puts me to sleep within minutes.  Why rub on someone for a good 15 or 20 minutes only to put them to sleep and get nothing in return?  And while outright refusing my requests for a rubdown would demonstrate a severe lack of marital commitment, my wife maintains the illusion of caring by putting forth a minimal amount of effort when asked, giving the shortest and least effective massages known to man.  I once suggested that I’d be better off if she’d just place a half-dead fish on my back and let it flop about.  “At least I’ll have a fighting chance of some actual pressure being applied to my back for an acceptable duration of time,” I said sarcastically as I suddenly felt an enormous amount of unsolicited pressure all at once in the form of a slap to the back of my head.  Shortly thereafter, the massages ceased altogether, and we reached a comfortable medium.  I quit complaining about my back, and she quit pretending to care.  

And so, it was with great astonishment that I received a most unusual birthday gift from her, several years after the “dying fish” assault.  Several days prior to my special day, she announced, with no pretense of discretion, that I should plan to be home from 5 to 6 on my birthday, which translates into Christmas Eve Eve.  Not exactly sure of what she had up her sleeve, I questioned her until I had enough information to solve the riddle.  After several minutes of serious interrogation, I deduced that she had scheduled an appointment for me for an “at home massage”.  And while I very much appreciated the thought, this peculiar news was met with a great deal of skepticism.  I had no idea that masseuses made house calls, and the more I thought about it, the more I questioned the validity of the “massage” in question.  Fearing that my wife had misconstrued whatever advertisement that enticed her into this bizarre gift, I began to wonder what kind of services I would be getting and whether or not they were legal in the first place.  With my imagination running wild, I convinced myself that she had fallen prey to some horrible sting operation meant to catch solicitors of “at home massages”.  I pictured myself on an episode of Cops with my face blurred out being handcuffed and escorted to the backseat of a patrol car in nothing but my underwear on Christmas Eve Eve, of all days.  So I pressed for more information in a desperate attempt at avoiding a life of imprisonment.

I eventually discovered that I would, in fact, be getting a bona fide massage.  But in satisfying my curiosity, I opened up another can of worms.  Turns out that the masseuse, which I had naturally assumed was a woman, was actually a man.  And while that alone was enough to make me squirm, the real kicker came when I discovered that the man was someone I knew and went to church with.  And there it was.  I was not only scheduled to get a complete, one hour rub down from a man, I would have to see that man every week for Lord knows how long.  How would I ever be able to make eye contact with him again?  Suddenly seeing myself on Cops was not the most unpleasant scenario I could think of.  While wanting to sound grateful, I inquired as to the likelihood of getting a full refund.  “I’d really like to get something for you with that money instead,” I said as I grasped at the only straw I could find.  “That is what would truly make my birthday a happy one.”  She didn’t take the bait.

Sensing my apprehension, however, she quickly assured me that everything was going to be okay.  She told me there was nothing weird about the situation, and while I wanted to believe her, my imagination wouldn’t allow me that luxury.  Eventually, however, I acquiesced.  After all, she had truly done something selfless for me, and the least I could do is graciously accept – even if it challenged my manhood.

Christmas Eve Eve arrived after an unusually lengthy amount of time, and I had gradually grown tenser by the moment.  The hours I had spent thinking about the awkward present had knotted every ounce of muscle and tissue in my neck and back into a spindly mass of knotted chaos, and as the clocked ticked closer to 5 on that dreadful day, the pain became excruciating.  At 4 o’clock, my wife announced it was time for her to "start getting ready".  “Get ready for what?” I asked.  

“I’m going shopping so you’ll have a more relaxing experienced,” she said with no shred of humor in her voice.

I can’t remember my exact words, or even the tone with which they were spoken, but I’m pretty sure I used profanity.  I was desperate and meant not to be left alone in the house with a male masseuse, even if it was someone I went to church with.  Determined, my wife resisted.  I finally pulled out a trump card.  “But this is my birthday present isn’t it?  What I want for my birthday is to not be left alone with a dude in my house with a case full of his own rubbing oils.”  She laughed for the first time since informing me of the massage, and I sensed, rightly so, that this whole dilemma was giving her a great deal of pleasure.  Nevertheless, she agreed to stay – partially, I think, because she knows I would have left shortly after her, had she gone.   I further convinced her to promise me that she would remain within eyesight of me the whole night.

When the masseuse arrived, he greeted me kindly and I did my best to return the favor.  He then asked where to set up his folding table.  Fearing that he was looking for a more private locale, I quickly pointed to a spot right next to the front door.  “How ‘bout right here?” I said as I choked down my apprehension over the thought of what was to come.  My wife laughed out loud at her idiot husband.  As he set up the table, he spoke of church and people we both knew.  This only made things more bizarre.  Somehow, if you’re going to get a rubbing at the hands of a guy, you shouldn’t talk of the familiar.  In fact, you should probably just not speak at all.

I slowly warmed to the idea of the massage (and by “warm” I mean going from about 30 below to maybe 20 below) as he began to apply pressure to my neck.  After all, the back of my neck is, when it’s all said and done, the one place I would allow a guy to rub me, if it were entirely up to me.  The problem is, when you start with the place you least mind being touched, there’s nowhere to go from there except down – literally.  I soon discovered I had not been signed up for a back and neck only massage.  No sir, that would have been far too inconsiderate of my wife who, as I said earlier, loves to lavish her unusual gifts on me whether I want them or not.  Instead, she anteed up for a full body rub.  Several times during the session, the male masseuse commented on how unusually tense I was.  “Huh,” I would reply, “that’s unusual.  I don’t feel that tense.”  Each time, my wife laughed out loud.  She became hysterical when he started working on my legs and nearly busted a gut when I suggested he focus more on my neck and back.  “The real problem area is more towards my neck,” I said, feeling confident he would change directions if given the right information.  “Actually,” he said with authority, “you’d be surprised at how tension in one part of the body can cause pain in other parts.”  He continued working his way down my leg, and I started to see his point.  The tension of the entire scene was causing me an enormous amount of pain in my ego. 

When it was all over, my male massaging friend said good-bye and went on his jolly way, though I refused to look him in the eye when he wished me a Merry Christmas.  But once he was gone, I was the most relieved I had been in years.  I thanked my wife who, by this time, was fully aware of the misery she had inflicted upon me.  She repaid me by taking me to a movie.  As a side note, I didn’t enjoy the movie either – my neck and back were locked up from all the tension of getting a male massage.

The Day I Nearly Ruined and Then Saved Christmas

Christmas is almost here, and once again, I am visited by the ghost of Christmas past.  This year, he’s taken me to the year 2005, when I had just 2 kids and things were… well… a bit quieter around our suburban Phoenix home.  Isaac was 5 and Emily was 3, and while my eldest was dead-set on getting some sort of video game from Santa, Emily asked for a shiny new bicycle.

As these things are prone to happen, Mrs. Claus headed off to the store in search of the children’s prizes without a plan in place to ensure their arrival at our home having been pre-assembled.  Furthermore, Mrs. Claus didn’t tell Santa that it was his job to complete the assembly until the day before his anticipated arrival.  And while nobody truly knows the exact day of Santa’s birth, around our home, it’s common knowledge that the day before Christmas (also known as Benmas) is the birthday of Mr. Dismukes, who had been conscripted to fulfill the duties of the true Mr. Claus.  I had no desire to build anything on my birthday, let alone a bicycle.  So I spent the better part of my morning lamenting the fact that a completely unassembled bicycle awaited me in our garage.  But, as always, one look into the bright blue eyes of my then youngest daughter caused every reservation I had about the daunting task that lay before me to crumble like a stale biscuit.  After all, what kind of Santa would I be if let down this precious little girl.  So I made my way out to the garage and began the monumental task.

As I entered my workshop, I informed Mrs. Claus to keep the kids occupied lest they be tempted to meddle and discover the true identity of their favorite superhero.  I cursed under my breath as I tore open the box that held the millions of microscopic particles that, once fully assembled, would comprise my daughter’s soon-to-be favorite new bicycle.  I dumped everything onto the ground in search of something resembling an instruction manual and found only a single sheet of paper with some Chinese characters in the top margin, followed by a cartoon of a bicycle magically assembling itself.  I rolled my eyes and cursed some more as I started piecing together the bike, frame by frame of the menacing Chinese cartoon.

It’s common knowledge in our family that I am not the most handy person around.  It’s also widely accepted that certain projects, such as installing ceiling fans, putting up sunscreens, hanging crown molding and (thanks to this specific incident) assembling bicycles, are likely to present me with enough frustration to push me beyond my limitations and are likely to be accompanied by loud grumblings and intermittent profanity.  So Mrs. Claus decided to steer clear of the garage on this fine Christmas Eve.  

After several rounds of banging and yelling hailing from Santa’s workshop, Mrs. Claus decided to send one of the elves into the garage to inquire as to what kind of sandwich Santa wanted for lunch, instead of coming herself.  It’s not exactly clear to me now why Mrs. Claus didn’t think through the ramifications of sending an elf into Santa’s workshop where it would be discovered by that same elf that Santa wasn’t actually the one building her present, but this Mr. Claus has never truly been able to understand his Mrs.  Nevertheless, at some point during the construction of the bike, I looked up to see a pair of loving blue eyes, though slightly bewildered, looking at me, followed by a precious little voice that asked, “Daddy, Mommy wants to know if you want ham or turkey.”

Now before you go wringing your hands and assuming that Christmas was ruined for a 3 year old girl, you should consider a couple of things, as I did in the wake of that horrible moment.  First of all, while our eyes could clearly see each other as she stood in the doorway and I sat on the opposite corner of the garage, there were several piles of boxes and assorted junk between us.  So it was entirely possible, as I reasoned in that moment, that she never actually saw what I was building.  Furthermore, this story is about Emily – my most preoccupied child.  Emily has always lived in her own little world.  She’s now 9 and comically refers to her own land of make believe as “Lou-Lou Land” (named after her middle name, Louella), a place she’s frequented since she emerged from the womb.  She has the potential to walk right by an elephant in an otherwise empty room and miss it if her mind is on something else.  So I further reasoned that she was so pre-occupied by turkey or ham that she never thought twice about what I was building beneath the pile of boxes and assorted junk.

I went in to eat lunch.  I glared at Mrs. Claus and sarcastically thanked her for sending Emily, of all people, into the garage to inquire about my lunch order.  She gasped and covered her mouth as the realization of what she had just done smacked her upside the head.  But Emily said nothing or gave any indication that anything was out of the ordinary.

After lunch I finished the bike, and soon it was time to begin the Benmas festivities.  We opened presents, we had cake, but Emily said nothing.  We went out to eat that night at Mr. Claus’s favorite restaurant – Carrabba’s – and still, Emily said nothing.  We came home and began focusing our attention on Christmas itself.  We read the story of Jesus’ birth to the kids and discussed the true meaning of Christmas.  We then spread “reindeer food” out on our front lawn in hopes of giving Santa’s magical creatures a little snack as they paused at our house.  We each opened 1 present and then tucked the kids into bed.  Still, Emily said nothing.

She hadn’t noticed a thing!  Bullet dodged and Christmas saved!

The next morning, we were awakened by 2 very excited children ready to go see what Santa had brought them.  At our house, Mom and Dad have to be roused before anyone is allowed to see what Santa left behind, and for some reason, our kids have never questioned this silly rule.  So we walked to the den as a family, and Emily’s face lit up like the Christmas tree itself when she saw her shiny new bicycle in the middle of the floor.  She ran to it, climbed aboard and began riding all over the house.  She was as happy then as I have ever seen her, not once questioning the bike’s origins.  The kids spent the next 2 hours opening presents, calling relatives and playing with their new toys as Mrs. Claus and I soaked in the moment and eventually prepared a big breakfast for the family.

The excitement of the morning soon waned, and we enjoyed a quiet breakfast as a family.  Halfway through our holiday meal, little three year old Emily piped up and said to me as I sipped my coffee, “Daddy, I know that Santa didn’t bring me that bicycle because I saw you building it yesterday.”

Pppppppppppffffffffffffft, went the air out of my Christmas spirit balloon now hanging limp and lifeless over the breakfast table.  

“What?” I asked incredulously, “no, you don’t understand!” I had no idea where I was going, but I had already started going there.  Half panicked and half curious as to how I would salvage the moment, I listened to myself go on, “See, honey, I didn’t want to tell you kids this but… well… Santa and I are friends.  We’ve known each other for years.  And I told him a long time ago if he ever needed any help to just let me know.  And this year, he’s been sick a lot, so he needed some help.  He called me up last week and asked if I wouldn’t mind building your bike for him, and I told him that I had the day off on Christmas Eve and that he could just bring it by the house early…”

I rambled on and on, but amazingly, my little girl hung on every word.  Anyone else would have needed a shovel, but not my Emily.  She wanted so desperately to believe, that she extended me the benefit of the doubt at every turn.  And when my story was complete, Christmas had just been elevated to a whole new place in her eyes.  After all, not every kid could say that their Daddy was friends with the Big Man himself!

Ike the Knife

Just found this post today - it's a blog I wrote earlier in the year, but never posted.  Better late than never.  Enjoy.

A few days ago, I encountered one of those rare Hallmark moments that seem to be reserved only for those fortunate enough to hail from the Dismukes clan.  It was a precious moment that marked the passage of my eldest (and only) son from childhood to adolescence.  It was a moment filled with excitement, confusion, panic and blood - a moment where the cold steel of a knife blade parted his flesh like Moses passing through the Red Sea.  There have been many historic blade wounds throughout the history of mankind – the beheading of Marie Antoinette, the stabbing of Julius Caesar, the emasculation of John Wayne Bobbit – but none had the impact on my life that this particular incident carried.

The night of the wounding began in relative normalcy.  I was at home alone with the kids, while my wife was at a PTO meeting.  I had all the girls in the den, where we were watching a little TV.  Isaac had been playing quietly back in his room, or at least that’s what we thought he was doing.  As we watched Rachel Ray prepare a tasty and healthy meal in 30 minutes or less, we heard a strange noise coming down the hall.  Shhh-klump, shhh-klump, shhh-klump.  Isaac peered around the corner hunched over, grabbing his leg, while mumbling incessantly, “I’m sorry Daddy, I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry, Daddy.  I cut myself, and I’m so sorry.”

“Wait.  What?  Did you say cut?  Why do you keep saying you’re sorry?  If you cut yourself, you’d be crying.  Why aren’t you crying?  What are you so sorry about?  What’s going on here?”  All these thoughts ran through my mind, but I didn’t voice any of them.  I was in process mode, and I was looking for any little bit of information that would help me reach a decision as to what to do next.  The banter continued. “Daddy, I’m so sorry, Mama’s going to be so mad.  I cut myself…” he said as he shhh-klumped his way closer to the couch.  And there it was, the first glimpse of blood – a tiny trickle ran from under his clenched hand down to his ankle, disappearing into his sock.  But he wasn’t crying.  “I’m confused,” I think to myself as I grasp at any straw that smacks of logic.  Fake blood.  The boy has bought a container of fake blood and is doing his worst knife victim impersonation. 

After a cursory round of questioning, I eliminated the possibility of fake blood and moved on to actual injury.  But judging by the volume of blood trickle and the absence of tears, I surmised that we were dealing with a scrape or, at worse, a tiny nick.  Convinced that my son was overreacting, I made him shhh-klump his own way into the kitchen where I could get a better look at his “wound”.  All the while, he’s still mumbling, “I’m so sorry Daddy, I cut myself.  Mama’s gonna be so mad.”

Prepared for nothing but the best, I made him release his death grip on his leg so I could get a better look.  As he moved his hand to the side, he revealed a 5 inch long swath of flesh hanging precariously from his leg.  If I didn’t know better, I would swear I saw it flopping about in the breeze.  A surge of blood gushed from his open wound as his little heart pounded, and as the red goo oozed, I felt my head begin to swim.  I’m not ordinarily bothered by gore, but there’s something about seeing the inside of a body belonging to one of your own.  It’s… well, it’s just not natural.

I immediately called for help with the girls (one of the many benefits of living close by to grandparents) and whisked the boy off to the ER.  After 8 or 9 stitches, the full story emerged.  Isaac was testing the sharpness of his new blade.  While testing to see if it would shave the hairs off his leg, he slipped and sliced his way to serious cut.  Apparently, the blade is plenty sharp enough.

To his credit, the boy handled the hospital visit like a trooper.  No crying - only the kind of gritty toughness that makes a father proud.  And while I had initially questioned his intelligence after hearing his account of the incident, I admired the display of manhood demonstrated in the ER.  After all, life is full of nicks and bruises, but manhood is partly a measure of the way in which one deals with them.  (Or at least it is for men, anyway.  I wouldn’t imagine we would talk about how manly a woman is for not crying while getting stitches… but I digress.)

This milestone was one I hope and pray I never live through again, but having come through it, I’m appreciative of what it revealed – a son who, though he may be prone to mistakes (like all of us), has the resolve to emerge a better man for it.