It Isn’t Mother’s Day for Guys

Mother’s Day became national holiday 58 years before Father’s day became an officially recognized holiday in 1972. And, I remember Mother’s Days past more than I remember Father’s Days. But, that may be more a family thing.

For most of my life, my dad celebrated Father’s Days with my brothers – going on weekend hiking trips or fishing or something else I wasn’t, by reason of my gender, included in. I remember that our church had organized father-son hiking trips and I even remember hearing talk about a father-daughter trip (with a much shorter hike), but I never went on one. I had three older brothers to compete for my dad’s time and attention.

I’ve thought about my dad a lot lately, though. He’s going to be 73 years old next month. I’m glad he’s still around and living close by.

He’s a good man and he has always been a good role model to my siblings and me. He worked hard. He went to work even when he didn’t feel like it. His work ethic is something I learned from him, and it’s an important value to me. When I have students who miss class, I tell them this: I’ve earned five college degrees and I never missed a lecture. Even the day I had a miscarriage, I still went to class. I don’t call in sick for work, either. In fact, most of winter term this year, I was pretty much lecturing in a flu-like fog. I was miserable and in intense pain many days, but not showing up was never an option. I fulfill my commitments. It’s a value I learned from my dad.

The other day, I wasn’t feeling well and I called my dad and asked him to bring me some Advil. Ten minutes later, he was letting himself in, with a cold bottle of water in one hand and Advil in the other. He does things like that for me and my children all the time. He’s my superhero. I’m sorry to break it to you, but my dad’s the greatest dad of all.

Far too many men these days abandon their responsibilities and their children. We need to recognize the real men who step up to the plate, every day choosing to do what’s right. Happy Father’s Day to all the men out there who work hard and sacrifice to support their families.

But if any provide not for his own, and specially for those of his own house, he hath denied the faith, and is worse than an infidel.

1 Timothy 5:8

Ten Things You’ll Never See (and/or Hear) at the FOC

Last night, I visited a local church (it was my second time visiting). As I looked around, I thought about all the ways this church (and most churches) differ from the definition of church I grew up with. Here are just ten (of numerous) things I saw/heard at last night’s church service, that I would have never seen/heard at the FOC:

1. A worship band – with electric guitars, loud drums, and women in the worship band.
2. A wooden cross hanging on the wall – topped by a crown of thorns.
3. Worshippers spontaneously standing and lifting their arms to the Lord in praise and adoration.
4. Asians, Hispanics, and African Americans.
5. Someone leading the congregation in prayer (praying aloud).
6. Congregants with their Bibles open (following along with the sermon).
7. Bibles.
8. People taking notes on the sermon.
9. A sermon.
10.  People warmly greeting strangers.

The list can go on endlessly – I didn’t even mention the presence of pastors (seven of them!). Or that one of the associate pastors, who was wearing shorts at church, had a friendly discussion with me about politics. That’s not something that would’ve ever happened at the FOC (a male leader taking the time to discuss politics with an unknown female visitor).

The point of this comparison is not to say one is better than the other – more to discuss the shock that can occur when you only know one definition for a cultural phenomenon (church) and later discover that the overwhelming majority of the Christian culture has a completely different characterization of that same term (church). This was an accepting and positive experience. I didn’t feel judged. I received hugs from a few strangers. They were eager to welcome a new friend into the fold. Imagine.

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Dear Readers: I am busy this season with the care of my family, so I will only be able to blog weekly. Enjoy your summer and please check back every Sunday for a new post.

Write Fearlessly

“If you wish to be loved, show more of your faults than your virtues.”

Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton

When I started writing my book, I wanted to write it as a fictional novel to avoid making enemies, to say the least. But I received some advice that impacted my writing and thinking about my writing: if you’re going to write nonfiction, write fearlessly.

A family member had been asking to read my memoir for more than a year. Knowing it would upset the person, I made excuses. But last month, I gave in. And the person hated it.  Among many of the complaints were some scenes/chapters that depict me in a bad light.

“How could you let everyone in church read that?”

“What church?” I said.

“Your church!”

“My church?” I said.

“The Followers!”

“Oh, you mean those people who’ve been shunning me for the past nineteen years? I don’t care what they think about me.”

For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God

Ephesians 2:8

A Writer of Things Nobody Reads

For several years after earning my undergraduate degree in English and professional writing from Portland State University, I worked as a technical writer. Whenever someone asked me what I did for a living, I would proudly say, “I’m a technical writer.” And more often than not, the reply would be: “You’re a typewriter?” Haha – I guess I was a bit of a mumbler before I became a professional speaker (teacher).

Do you want to know what a technical writer does? I wrote proposals, press releases, instructions, and manuals – I was a writer of things that nobody reads. Do you doubt that bleak assessment? I’ll challenge you to look for your VCR manual – or that wonderfully colorful booklet that came with your cell phone. Did you read them? How about the instructions of Microsoft Word or Excel? Those booklets are full of really useful information and techniques that would revolutionize your world (if you’re as geeky as I am).

There is another instruction manual that is undervalued: the Holy Bible. I used to try to read it, but it really frightened me to do so, because I would come across something that struck fear in my heart (something I was failing to do or doing that I shouldn’t be). I would read a few sentences and close it with a quick (and heartfelt) prayer of repentance for whatever I had just become convicted of.

In my late twenties, when I decided it was time to finally plough through the Old Testament, I was shocked. I couldn’t believe some of the laws and rules. I was confused and sometimes even horrified. I prefer to stay in the New Testament, going to the Old Testament for Proverbs and Psalms and getting my OT stories from Veggie Tales movies (I wish I were joking about that) and church sermons from men who’ve spent their lives studying the scriptures.

Seven years ago, I challenged myself to spend more time in God’s word than worshiping the television. Rather than spend four hours a day in the word (I wish!), I stopped watching television. I still don’t spend enough time in God’s word, but the more time I spend with God (reading and praying), the better my days go. I know that God’s word is true and useful and relevant and having experienced the blessings that come with walking in communion with God, it’s something I want more of.

Are you having a bad day, week, month, or year? It’s time to open the instruction manual. It won’t always make your problems go away, but getting an eternal perspective will do wonders, as does the peace that comes from time with the best friend a person could ever want.

Steve Spencer: The Dad He Didn't Have to Be

Today's guest blogger, Steve Spencer, is a trust administrator by day and a fiction writer by night. His blog can be found at http://spencersb.blogspot.com/.

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My dad was born 26 May 1921, probably at home, in the middle-of-nowhere in Itawamba County, Mississippi, second oldest in a family that would eventually be eight.  He may have had a third grade education.  I never saw him read anything but a newspaper.  He could write well enough to get by; sign his name, keep his ICC (Interstate Commerce Commission) logbooks back when they were books, multi-part carbons with line graphs and drivers could lie on them to cover up the fact they drove all night from Memphis, TN to Waco, TX.  As far as I know, the only fun things he did that didn’t always involve me was grow peppers & tomatoes, and watch a baseball game.  I don’t know his favorite team, but it was the South before cable got big, so it was probably the Cardinals or the Braves.

When Dad was 16, his father died of pneumonia.  At the time, it was deadly; nowadays,

you go to the doctor, get pills and go home.  His older brother was already out of the house, so it fell to my dad to provide for the family.  In depression-era rural Miss’ippi, that meant farming.  No, not farming, just picking.  The only farmland he ever owned was a thirty-by-fifty plot in our back yard.  So he enlisted in the Army, making corporal before being discharged with a low-percentage disability due to a training accident.  To my shame, that’s about all I know about his early life.  But he was a veteran, at a time when being in the army ran the risk of the bone-numbing cold of Bastogne, or the mosquito-infested tropics of the southeast Pacific.  He came home, got a job, married my mom; and bought a house, a car, and a Chihuahua.

At age 44, he and Mom adopted a roughly-six-month-old named Steven.  I don’t know what my original middle name was, but he gave me his; Arnold.  I hated that name.  I grew up in the mid-seventies, with Green Acres on TV.  When I graduated high school, I refused to let them say my middle name, calling me “Steven A.”  He was there, in the audience (Mom was too sick that day to go).  He never said anything, but I sometimes wonder if that hurt him.

They brought me home (I was already in the family, a grand-nephew or some such) and the Chihuahua was pissed!  He’d been the baby until I came along.  Mom said he used to snuggle up against me and growl.  Mom had babysat kids before, but they always left and I was staying.  I’m sure he thought: “I don’t know who this thing belongs to, but they need to come get it.”

Dad worked at Schering-Plough for 13 years, running the machine that made Di-Gel tablets.  In the days before OSHA, the room he worked in was a fog of chemicals, scarring his lungs and plaguing him with breathing problems for the rest of his life.  I saw him gasping for breath many times as a kid.  He had a nebulizer before they were cool.  After he left Plough, he drove an OTR truck hauling metal cabinets for Sandusky Metal Cabinets.

I never played catch with my dad.  He didn’t know how to be a kid.  He never got to be one himself.  Not to say he ignored me.  We fished, we camped, we watched rasslin’.  And he never had a problem telling me he loved me, and I knew he did.  In my early 20s, when I finally hit teenaged angst, we had plenty of arguments.  He actually kicked me in the butt, once.  In hindsight, I wish I would have tried harder to understand why he fought with me, maybe we wouldn’t have argued so much (not that it was a lot, but for all practical purposes “Spencer” = stubborn).

So why do I write a Memorial Day message about someone whose death had nothing to do with his service to our country?  Because his death had nothing to do with his service to our country.  Because he came home.  Everything I just wrote about us was possible because he came home.  How many stories like this never happened because someone didn’t come home?  Mine did.  In part, because theirs didn’t.

Happy  Memorial Day. And happy birthday to my dad, who would be 92 today.

Lost Babies

Have you seen the Discovery Health show, “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant”? Well, apparently it happens. And not just to very obese women. Also, not only to women who have never had children. I don’t get it. I knew I was pregnant every time. I’ve been pregnant four times, but only have two living children. Not the best odds.

I was in graduate school at George Fox University when I lost my first baby. Well, it would’ve been my second baby. I was taking birth control pills, but I still just knew I was pregnant. I had that unmistakable feeling about it and I was right. The same week, whether related or not I’ll never know, I threw my back out. It was painful and I went to see my doctor right away. While talking with the doctor about my back pain, I mentioned that I had a feeling I might be pregnant. She seemed skeptical (not likely while taking birth control), but ordered a blood test to put my mind at ease. She also wrote a prescription for a muscle relaxer and prescription-strength ibuprofen. I asked if it was safe to take on the off chance I was pregnant, and she assured me it would probably be fine to take that early in my pregnancy.

I picked up my prescriptions, went home, and took the pills. I remember sitting on my hot pink bedspread and feeling the pills kick in. The relief was immense. The next day I received a call from the doctor’s office: I was pregnant. I should stop taking the medicine immediately. I stopped: my back pain was already better. Being very excited about my pregnancy and life in general, I took my toddler son to the zoo with another mom friend and her daughter. It was a great day, except that I didn’t bring a stroller and my son couldn’t make it around the zoo without being carried a significant amount of the time.

I woke the next morning with severe cramps. A trip to the bathroom confirmed that the baby had passed. I was in shock. I didn’t think this would happen to me. I didn’t even consider it. I had already posted pictures of my son wearing a t-shirt proudly displaying the words: “I’m Going to Be a Big Brother!” I had made arrangements with my advisor to do my student teaching early so I could deliver my baby and still graduate with my class. Everybody knew I was pregnant. I wouldn’t be able to grieve privately. And my doctor ordered daily blood tests to confirm the pregnancy hormones were decreasing. I left every blood test in tears – this was how I learned I was pregnant, now I had to do it to confirm all traces of the pregnancy were out.

I remember driving the next week: it was a gray, raining May evening in Oregon. As my car approached a bridge, I couldn’t help thinking how easy and neat it would be to veer to the right. End the pain. Stop the self-loathing and self-blame about my baby. I should’ve listened to my intuition and not my doctor. I blamed the doctor too, but mostly I blamed myself. If I hadn’t taken those pills… If I hadn’t carried my son around the zoo … would my baby still be growing in my womb? I would never know.

A few months later, still taking the pill, I became pregnant again. It was a second chance. And I did everything differently. I avoided any medicine, even over-the-counter. I stopped drinking coffee. I ate meat at every meal, trying to ensure my body had the iron and nutrients needed to sustain a pregnancy. I didn’t carry my son, no matter how much he whined for it. And then it happened again. I felt numb about the second miscarriage. In a strange way, it proved to me that there was nothing I could do to stop it – in that second case at least. It gave me some peace to think that maybe the first pregnancy ended because it was never meant to be. I will never know.

A year later, I became pregnant for the fourth and last time. Seven weeks into my pregnancy, I found blood. I thought it was over. It wasn’t. I spotted throughout the pregnancy. At twenty-four weeks, my doctor began giving me weekly shots to stop the labor – I spent the last twelve weeks of my pregnancy fighting labor and two centimeters dilated. My perfect baby girl was born on her due date.

When I was going through the dark days after my first miscarriage, I found a poem that brought me comfort. I can’t find the poem now, but the gist of it was that if it weren’t for the baby who didn’t make it, we wouldn’t have the baby we know and love. The daughter who followed the two miscarriages has been such a blessing to our family. She is a sweet and loving child. A friend to all.

As we celebrate Memorial Day this weekend, I want to acknowledge the hurt and pain of parents who have lost their babies and children. I experienced the loss of two children I never got to meet – I can only imagine how much harder it would be to lose one (or more) whom I had held, nurtured, and loved.

Dear Jesus, Please Save Me From Your Followers!

Twenty-two million Americans say they’re Christians, but do not go to church. Why? Too many have been hurt by people in churches – by other Christians. It’s a fact that is flaunted by atheists. Christians can be hypocritical, judgmental, mean-hearted people. Why would someone want to have anything to do with that?

When Jesus heard it, he saith unto them, They that are whole have no need of the physician, but they that are sick: I came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.

Mark 2:17

Christians are not perfect. We sin, we make mistakes, and we often do it again. We are the ones Jesus came to help. You are the one Jesus came to help and to save. Please do not give up on Jesus based on your experience with some of His imperfect followers.