What I want you to know (to my 13 year old daughter)

A momentous occasion is about to happen in my house. My oldest daughter is turning 13. Feelings of shock and awe. There are so many things I’d like to say to her, that I compiled a list. But I realize that words are not enough. If I have not shown her by now how I feel, words will simply be empty...lifeless.
With hopes of encouraging others, I got her permission to share the list:

• I want you to know that I am so proud of you.
• I want you to know that you are loved…loved by God and loved by me. No Father can love you more; no father can love you more.
• I want you to know that although my love for you is great, it does not compare to the Father’s love for you. You can always trust in His love, always.
• I want you to know that you are beautiful. Inside and out. Spend time working on your inner beauty, it lasts forever.
• I want you to know that when you were born, I couldn’t stop tearing up when I thought about you. This emotion started the day we found out you were a girl, and continues on today. I’m sure it will ever end.
• I want you to know that a father thinks about his daughter’s future wedding day. To be honest, it is a feeling of dread that starts shortly after she is born. But it is also mixed with hope that she will marry someone grand to share her days with.
• I want you to know that God has an incredible plan for your life. He has equipped you with gifts, talents, and brains, and he will uniquely use you for his glory. You have to be attentive, but you will hear his leading.
• I want you to know that the world will try to lie to you about so many things. It will tell you that beauty is skin deep. It will tell you that sex is ok before marriage. It will try to convince you that you aren’t good enough, that you need something more. Hold fast to what God says, and don’t believe the lies.
• I want you to know that there is nothing more fulfilling than following Jesus with your whole life. He has never let me down. He will never let you down either.

There are so many other things that I want you to know, but most of all…
I love you!

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Football and Faithfulness

I was watching my son play football last summer when it hit me.

Faithfulness.

I love to watch my kids do things. Any parent does. I was cheering, the video was rolling, hoping he would score the TD. He went out long, the entire length of a short field, the ball came spiraling over his head. It was overthrown. The crowd (of 12 very biased parents) were on their feet. You could hear a slight gasp. He leaped further than I thought he could leap. The ball grazed his fingers in the end zone, but he was unable to hang on. He fell to the ground.

It was great.

The truth is, he could have come up 4-feet short, and I still would have been thrilled. He could have grabbed the ball and ran into the wrong end zone, and I still would have been proud of him.

And then it hit me.

The crowd of people were titillated by the big play, but what really won the game for us was the boys who weren’t getting cheers. They were quietly doing battle on the line of scrimmage. They were just playing their roles, faithfully. They set up, they pushed back the other players, they guarded their quarterback, they fell down sometimes. And then they did it all over again. They would pick up a yard or two, but not allow our team to go backwards.

The Bible calls this faithfulness.

Let me ask you a question, would you rather catch one winning “touchdown” in life, or everyday do what God has called you to do? No accolades. No cheerleaders. No great video footage. For me the choice is simple. God calls us to be faithful.

But the fruit of the Spirit is…faithfulness (Gal. 4:22)

Today I met my adopted son

We travelled to Ethiopia today. It took us all night, but we made it. The plane ride started out with my wife sitting on one side of me and a tiny Ethiopian woman on the other. But then the largest man on the plane decided to switch seats with her just before takeoff. That’s ok though because he was nice, and the three of us worked out a mutually beneficial system of synchronized bathroom visits.

It’s amazing how dazed you feel when you have been up all night without a moment of sleep. When we hit the ground in Addis, we had that feeling. For me it was coupled with a sinus pressure headache, a lovely stomach issue, and my body’s rebellion against our skipping dinner. We met our contact, Abel, and he was very cool. He wore a shirt that said “Oregon” and then naturally asked if we were from Oregon. I said no, no we were not. We were from Pennsylvania. This threw him a little bit since I had my favorite Providence Friars shirt on. (Whenever I wear this shirt when I travel, people stop me to ask if I know so-and-so. Sure enough, someone in Addis asked if I knew so-and-so, from Providence. People apparently believe Rhode Island is so small that every person knows every other person.)

Abel gave us the surprise of the trip by telling us that we were going to the orphanage…today! We were happy, but the change of plans also scared us. I mean, we looked like death, smelled like feet, and were as disoriented as drug users. (We’re not though--drug users.)

Meeting Matthew was amazing. It was a group setting, and we were not allowed to single him out, or tell him that we will become his mom and dad. There was an immediate connection between us. He is perfect. We bounced a ball together, snapped lots of pictures, and tried to include all the other kids at the orphanage in the fun. My wife’s toughest emotions were about all the other children there. Who would come for them? There was another adoptive couple in the room with us. They were great, and as God would have it, were also from PA.

At one point, a bigger kid took Matthew’s bouncy ball away from him. I waited to see his response. His eyes started to well up with tears. He did not fight back, but he pleaded to have it back. He wanted to keep throwing it to me. He really enjoyed this attention that he was getting, and neither of us wanted it to end. The bigger boy did give him the ball back.

All the while I was thinking… Soon, Matthew. Soon. Our lives are about to change.

When we left, it wasn’t quite as hard as we expected, because we will be visiting the orphanage twice more. Out of nowhere, Matthew came to say goodbye to me with a big hug. We hugged for a long while. And then he kissed me on the back of the neck.

This was the day I met my new son.

[Sorry no picture! We are not yet allowed to post.]

The difference between girls and boys

I read this post over at Relevant Magazine that talked about how we shouldn’t let girls watch Disney because of the “princess propaganda.” Now, I know that Disney takes it a bit too far with the whole “follow your heart” shtick, and we all know that life doesn’t always end up “happily ever after” with the man/woman of your dreams. But the tone of the article struck me as wanting to genericize (oh yea, it’s a word) gender.

Ok, so here’s where I’m about to go out on a small limb and risk being seen as sexist or something.

I think that we should be ok with gender distinctives. I think it’s ok to be true to who God made you to be. I think that it’s ok for boys to be boys and girls to be girls. I think it’s part of what makes life so grand. God made it that way for a reason! He didn’t create a uni-sex world where everyone fits into the same mold. He created man, realized one sex wasn’t good enough, and so he created woman too.

I know every guy and gal is unique, but for me it is obvious. The sexes are very different. Having both girl and boy children has brought even more conviction to this belief. My son quickly became obsessed with trains, sports, and breaking things, without any help from me. My girls loved dressing up, and playing house, and (*gasp*) they even love the Disney princesses.

Maybe I’m just a bad parent.

But here’s what else. Gender is also evident in our parenting. I wish I could say I am one of those nurturing, sensitive dads, but that isn’t exactly true. If my son gets an injury, I usually rub it off, and send him back in the game. My wife, on the other hand, will continue to ask me if I think he’s really alright. The bump, she offers, might actually be a concussion. My drive for my kids seems to be that of a provider and a defender, and I know many men who feel exactly the same. I know, I know, traditionalist! To make it worse, my response to my daughters is often different than to my son. If one of them gets hurt, I turn into “EMT dad.” I race to the scene, the first aid box comes out, and on goes a SpongeBob band aid.

I know that culture tells me that my instincts are wrong in this, and that my daughters ought not to like Disney princesses. But I choose to celebrate the differences. They’re fantastic! I choose to live in a God-created world full of color and distinction. How about you?

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