The Death of Saul and Jonathon (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
When all the Israelites in the valley saw that the army had fled and that Saul and his sons had died, they abandoned their towns and fled. And the Philistines came and occupied them. 1 Chronicles 10:7 (NIV)
My daughter, Taylor, and I had a Father’s Day date this past Sunday afternoon. We spent an hour and a half talking and catching up over a bite, a beer, and some ice cream. As we stood in line for ice cream we talked about the pain and confusion many people experience on Father’s Day and Mother’s Day. Taylor has been working for a non-profit art program that works with juveniles who are in the court system. She has many kids she works with who have never known a father figure of any kind. Some kids, she shared, have a birth mother, step mother, and foster mother and not one of them wants anything to do with the child. I tried to imagine how confusing it must be for these kids to imagine celebrating a mother or father.
Along my life journey I’ve noticed that there are certain themes which emerge in my thinking and writing during particular seasons and stretches. When I read a chapter each day there are nuggets in the text that resonate with me because of the things on which my brain has been ruminating. So it was this morning when I stumbled upon the verse above. Left without a leader, the entire social system of the Israelites fell apart. Without a leader who could organize and rally them, the army fled and left the people in the villages vulnerable. Without anyone to defend them, the villagers fled their homes and town for fear of being killed by the enemy. The enemy took over the abandoned towns as the villagers scattered across the land seeking safety and shelter. It sounds like chaos.
With that mental picture in mind, I thought of the kids with whom Taylor is working and the parallel between the two systems. The reality is that when a family is left without a strong leader who can organize and rally its members, a family system breaks down into chaos and leave the weakest members vulnerable. The entire system and each individual in it is open to occupation by negative forces and is threatened by isolation, fear, and the primal need for survival.
This morning, in the quiet, my mind continues to contemplate the theme of parents, children, and family systems. Perhaps its the combination of celebrating Mother’s Day and Father’s Day over the past several weeks. Perhaps it’s the transition we’ve made in recent years to having independent, adult children or the experience of entering back into living with and leading a teenager. Whatever the reason, this morning I’m again grateful for the strong leadership of my parents throughout the journey and I’m motivated to be a strong leader for my family system even though that role and its responsibilities change drastically over time.
It was a gorgeous Father’s Day weekend and we tried to make the most of it. On Friday, Wendy and I headed to Des Moines. While Wendy took care of some personal errands, I took my Dad out for a father/son lunch at Granite City. We then headed back to the folks’ house. Taylor got off work early and came over to join me and we had a nice visit the four of us.
Friday night was our friend, Kennedy’s, dance recital. Wendy, Taylor, Kev and I met at Urban Grill for drinks, then Kev left while Wendy, Taylor and I had a bite of dinner together and we celebrated Father’s Day together. The dance recital was long (over three hours), but Kennedy was beautiful and danced her heart out. We loved watching her.
Saturday was work day at Vander Well Manor. We recently replaced our old garage doors and refaced the front of the garage with new siding and trip. Suzanna has been working on painting the trim this past week along with some general trip painting that needed to be done around the house. She continued that while Wendy and I tackled the chaos of our basement. It feels so good to have cleaned up and organized some things. Having taken some time off on Friday, Wendy and I sat on the couch and worked several hours on Saturday afternoon/evening while we watched the Cubs beat the Phillies and then watched Ivory Coast beat Japan in the World Cup.
Sunday morning Wendy and I headed to Albia where I gave the morning message at The Gate church which meets in a building on the SE corner of the square there. It’s a small gathering of about 40-50 people. Wendy graduated from high school in Albia, and one of her closest friends from high school is a leader in the church there, so it was great to connect and catch up. I missed a call from Madison while we were at church. Wendy and I headed back to an empty house as Suzanna had headed to Ankeny to visit her and Wendy’s folks. Wendy and I grabbed a bite of lunch and did a little more work before heading back to Des Moines mid-afternoon.
We met Taylor at Jordan Creek Mall late Sunday afternoon. Wendy went off for some quiet time while Taylor and I had a little daddy/daughter date which began at Cold Stone Creamery and ended at Champps. We all headed back to Kev and Beck’s house about 6:00 and then headed up to Plaza Pub to grab some pizza for carry out before retiring back at the house for pizza, wine and conversation that went until about 10:30 p.m. When we got home, Suzanna was up and we debriefed with her about her Father’s Day with mom and dad Hall before getting to bed way too late (or early, as it was well after midnight).
This building is called Church-of-the-Holy-Spirit, but the real church of the Holy Spirit is what every believer sees when he/she looks in a mirror. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Those who were musicians, heads of Levite families, stayed in the rooms of the temple and were exempt from other duties because they were responsible for the work day and night. 1 Chronicles 9:33 (NIV)
For many of us, worship is something that happens one hour on Sunday each week. If you or your local gathering of believers is really whacky, you might add another hour or two by way of a Sunday night, Saturday night, or mid-week worship.
It struck me this morning reading about the host of singers and musicians who literally lived in the temple because they were needed day and night for the continuous worship that took place. The idea of “continuous worship” is foreign to most of us because our brains, experience, and tradition has been to compartmentalize worship into a one or two hour time slot in our week. The threat of this, of course, is that we think of God and/or our faith as something we put into a compartment of time. We take it out once or twice a week, then put it back and forget about it until the calendar and clock tell us it’s time to pull it back out again.
I am reminded this morning of the radical concept that Jesus introduced and which Jesus followers celebrated around the globe just over a week ago on the Sunday we call Pentecost. God’s Holy Spirit was poured out into the hearts of believers. The temple stopped being bricks and mortar and became flesh and blood in the form of any and all who believe. Church was never supposed to be a building we go to once or twice a week. Church was to be the living, breathing, touching, loving, feeling, serving people who believe and follow Jesus. Worship can happen anywhere, anytime, day or night because God isn’t at the church building, God is in me. My body is the temple and I take it with me wherever I go.
Today, I’m reminded once again that my body is a temple of God open for worship 24/7/365.
It’s Top Five Friday! From the home office in Pella, Iowa. Here are the top five things I appreciate about my father.
He said “I love you”…every day. He has also said “I’m proud of you.” I have met a startling number of men on my life journey who have significant soul wounds from fathers who never said those words. It wasn’t until I set out on a journey of my own to discover about what it means to be a man that I discovered how this simple act, one that I’d always took for granted, was a true act of manliness that many males just don’t get.
He taught me how to be affectionate. I’m a hugger. I loved cuddling with my daughters when they were young. I love cuddling with my wife, hugging her, holding her, touching her. I know that the women in my life value my ability to show appropriate, manly, loving affection. I learned that from my dad who was always affectionate with my mother, and with me and my siblings. Interestingly, my earliest memory is of my dad holding me. We were sitting in a black leather chair. He was wearing a white t-shirt. I couldn’t have been older than two or three.
He taught me to shoot, to fish, and to hunt. While I never developed a passion for fishing and hunting like my dad had, I certainly value the knowledge and the many memories I have of days spent fishing the boundary waters and walking the autumn fields of Iowa with my dad. As an adult, I was once asked if I wanted to go hunting with a bunch of men from church. They assumed that I was unlearned in the field, but I agreed to go and brought my brother’s 20 gauge Remington shotgun to the hunt. The boys gave me a hefty dose of ribbing about my “small gun” and asked why I didn’t use a 12 gauge shotgun which was more powerful and had better range. A short time later when I was the only member of the party with a pheasant in the bag I smiled at my surprised companions and quietly said, “If you know how to shoot, you don’t need a 12 gauge.” Thanks, Dad.
He taught me the value of hard work. It wasn’t something he said, but something he did. It was growing up watching him do what needed to be done every day. It wasn’t just the getting up and going to work early every morning or sitting and working at the kitchen table on weekends during tax season, but also they way he spent evenings and weekends doing what needed to be done around the house, fixing things up, making things better. It was the expectation of being productive, giving it your best, and doing a good job no matter the task. I watched. I learned. I’m grateful.
He let me become who I was meant to be. I never felt pressure to be what he wanted me to be or hoped I would be. He didn’t tell me what college to go to and I didn’t get a stern lecture when I chose to be a theatre major. I was never told what extra-curricular activities I would be involved in, but got to choose and explore those things which I enjoyed and the things in which I was interested. I was quietly allowed to make mistakes, even tragic ones, that led to failures which I needed to experience in order to grow and mature. There was never an “I told you so,” “If you’d only listened to me,” “I could have told you,” or “What in the hell were you thinking?!” There was, however, if I may reference the top of this list, always an “I love you” and always a hug.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad. Thanks. And, I love you, too.
American troops in an LCVP landing craft approach Omaha Beach 6 June 1944. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The sons of Ulam were brave warriors who could handle the bow. They had many sons and grandsons—150 in all. 1 Chronicles 8:40 (NIV)
I remember well the conversations between boys on the playground of Woodlawn Elementary School. There is something God instilled in boys that we begin to measure one another by physical strength and prowess at a young age. When comparisons on the playground ended in some kind of dead heat, the arguing escalated to comparing fathers, grandfathers, and ancestors for bragging rights. Those bragging rights often rested on military service, especially those whose male ancestors fought in a war.
I admit that, at the time, I always feared this escalation of generational military comparison. My friend, Scott, had an actual saber from one of his forebears who served in the Civil War. That was the ultimate trump card. As far as I knew, there wasn’t too much of the warrior spirit to brag about on either side of the family. My uncle was a navy man in the Korean war, but being a cook on a landing craft wasn’t about to go over big with the boys on the playground. My maternal grandfather served in the Civil Defense during WWII, but having a helmet and billy club to defend Des Moines from the Imperial Forces of Japan wasn’t exactly the stuff of playground legend either. I still remember that billy club. It was made from a sawn off pool cue, but that didn’t compare to a Civil War saber.
As I’ve been reading through the genealogies of the tribes of Israel the past week, I’ve noticed that “mighty warriors” get called out quite often by the Chronicler. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same. And, I get it. A few weeks ago our country celebrated Memorial Day followed by an apt commemoration of D-Day. We honored the warriors, both men and women, who put themselves on the front lines to defend our country, our culture, our freedom, and our values from those who have sought to take that away.
Around 450 B.C. when the scribe was first penning the genealogies of the book of Chronicles, I believe things were far more precarious than anything we know in America today. City states and villages were under constant threat of raids and attacks. The Chronicles were written after both Israel and Judah had suffered destruction and exile at the hands of Assyria and Babylon. “Mighty Warriors” who could defend a village, town, or tribe were honored because they were an every day insurance policy against being raided, pillaged, tortured and killed.
Everyone who knows me knows that I am passionate about the arts, but it is not lost on me that the freedom and affluence which affords me the luxury of being able to explore every medium of art was made possible by the blood sacrifice of warriors. I have always heard versions of the quote, “I was a soldier, so my son can be a farmer, so his son can be a poet.” I did a little digging to find the source of that quote and found it predicated on a letter our American founder, John Adams, wrote to his wife, Abigail:
I must study Politicks and War that my sons may have liberty to study Mathematicks and Philosophy. My sons ought to study Mathematicks and Philosophy, Geography, natural History, Naval Architecture, navigation, Commerce, and Agriculture, in order to give their Children a right to study Painting, Poetry, Musick, Architecture, Statuary, Tapestry, and Porcelaine.
Letter to Abigail Adams, May 12, 1780
Today, I’m thankful for the warriors, leaders, farmers, teachers, and businesspeople who paved the way for writers, poets, musicians, artists, actors, and playwrights to work in peace and freedom.
Throwback Thursday on the week of Father’s Day. I have so enjoyed being father, daddy, dad, papa, pops, daddy-0, and faja to these two gorgeous beauty queens. I never ceased to be amazed at the beautiful women they’ve become inside and out, and I’m eternally grateful for their grace with all of this dad’s imperfections. Love you, Taylor-Made and Maddy Kate.
English: Comfort in Grief (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
And E′phraim their father mourned many days, and his brothers came to comfort him. 1 Chronicles 7:22 (NSRVCE)
The first funeral I ever officiated was for a nine week old infant. I was a snot-nosed kid right out of college. The grieving parents, barely older than me, sat zombie-like through our initial meeting and through the service. I don’t remember what I said, though I’m quite sure it was canned and safe and perfectly inadequate for the moment. I didn’t have a clue what they were going through and I wasn’t sure what to say or how to love them well in their grief.
Along life’s road there are many different tragic experiences that can be both painful and isolating. I have experienced a few of them myself. Wendy and I have experienced a few of them together. Some of life’s tragedies are isolating because they are not understood, or can be grossly misunderstood by others. People love you. They care about you, but they feel awkward and inadequate in their ignorance about what you’re going through. Rather than saying something inappropriate and stupid, unsure how you’ll react if they bring up the subject, they choose to simply not say anything at all.
I was struck this morning by the one sentence I pasted above which is stuck in the midst of E’phraim’s genealogical record. E’phraim had lost his sons to ancient cattle rustlers. His brothers coming to him in his grief and provide comfort was, I thought, a beautiful picture. To be honest it reminded me of times when I was comforted in my pain, and other times when I’ve felt completely alone.
Today, I’m thankful for those who have had the courage to step through the veil awkwardness and ignorance to provide presence, love, and comfort in some of the darkest moments of my journey. Today, I’m recommitting myself to returning the favor.
A few weekends ago we were at the lake with our friends Kev and Beck. Kev was at the grill on the deck prepping dinner and called me out to view this thunderhead that was brewing above the tree line across our cove. I grabbed my camera. I love the way the sky can endlessly create such drama and beauty.
My Life: A Photo Abecedarius
Sunset Over Lake of the Ozarks
Haitian Wisdom: an Abecedarius
Word of the day – Abecedarian
Other Illuminated Manuscripts
