What God has Joined, Let No Man Tear Apart:

Mark 10:9 ⁶“But at the beginning of creation God ‘made them male and female.’ ⁷‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, ⁸and the two will become one flesh.’ So they are no longer two, but one. ⁹Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.”

Matthew 19:4-6 ⁴“Haven’t you read,” he replied, “that at the beginning the Creator ‘made them male and female,’ ⁵and said, ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh’? ⁶So they are no longer two, but one. Therefore what God has joined together, let man not separate.”

Genesis 2:18 ¹⁸Then the LORD God said, “It is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit for him.”

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I have the greatest friends. Some of them have little ugly warts. Some of them have huge honkin ones. Most of us have some of both.

Some of us have achieved a high level of success using various techniques to disguise and hide them. But when the kids are all in bed, the sun’s gone down, and the drinks are leaving rings on the table- during that seven-minute lull in the conversation during that short silence- we look at each other- and we all know what’s what and who’s crap belongs to who.

So we talk about it.

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Why do we hold our marriages as sacrosanct? We say “divorce is not an option,” but we all know people who’ve said that... we say “marriage is for life” or we say, we’ll “make it work.” But why?

It occurred to me as we were talking once- the fella used that phrase, “make it work,” and at some other point in the conversation, said something about “her going and doing her thing while I...” and I drifted off to my thinking room while he kept going. (don’t worry, I was recording the discussion in my mind- for quality assurance purposes).

Do we “make it work” because God has declared that what He hath joined, no man should separate (Mark 10:9)? Do we battle through because of the threat of being an “adulterer”? Is that why?

If it is, my fear is that we’re respecting the law only because it’s the law- and this was the sin of the Pharisees. It was for this reason that Jesus could not be the Lord of the Pharisees. And it is for this that God’s desire to be a father is so frequently lost in the awesome fear of a Holy, Righteous Judge.

As we talked, I began to connect some points in my mind. A marriage that is held together only by the bonds of law is no marriage. They are already divorced.

But in Jesus, on the cross, the full punishment was dealt for all sin. In Jesus, we gain son-ship- and our Holy, Righteous Judge regains His place- as our Father.

And our Father paired us with our husbands and our wives because they designed to match our needs through our lives! Because He gives us every good thing. She is God’s very best for me! And he knows my heart!

He is God’s very best for you. That’s why they should not be separated.

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A word- that doesn’t mean that abusive situations should be tolerated. It doesn’t mean that sin should go unchallenged, or unchanged. While God has designed for each other, and is able to make all things turn out for good- that also requires the mutual submission and repentance of the entire marriage. If you are experiencing the kind of turmoil that wrecks our homes and marriages- WORK IT OUT. Don’t be afraid to separate for awhile. Seek shelter in the shadow of God while you rebuild broken trust, broken faith, and broken hearts.

And it may come to pass that you are not able to reconcile before God.

Men, treat your wife with adoration, and serve her every need, and love her, before she has deserved it. Care for her heart, show desire to protect her. Not because she’s helpless, weak or simple. But because you treasure her above all other people.

Women, respect your husbands, and show them that they are amazing, because you know who they are, even if that’s not who they are yet. God is building him through your words, your heart, and through your willingness to respect and believe in him.

This, I believe is what God intends for our marriages. Not that we tolerate each other out of reverence for God, but that we grow each other in adoration both for her AND for God- out of gratitude and hope- for the purpose of the kingdom, and the joy of our fulfillment.

For the Lord said, before sin or anything had been corrupted, that “it is not good that the man should be alone; I will make him a helper fit[ted] for him.”

Socialization-schmation!

There are two things I almost always hear when I tell someone I homeschool my son. The first thing is usually “OH!,” as though a spider just crawled over my shoulder and surprised them. The second thing, without fail, will be a remark or concern about “socialization.”

It was my first concern when we started discussing the idea of homeschooling our kids. The second was stigma, but it’s my thinking that a stigma has to be accepted by the stigmatized to gain legitimacy.

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Our babes are a wee 6, 4, 2, and under 1. So the times, they are constantly a-changin. My heart has been warmed numerous times by the camaraderie shared by the older two boys. They’ve been such tight friends over the years.

Okay, now truth. Seriously, they hang out all day long. IN the trees, ON the couch, racing around the dining room table, hanging off of me (literally), and they TALK the entire time. So you’d THINK that at the end of the day, after all that talking and playing and running that they’d pass right out as soon as their wee heads hit their cheap pillows. But you’d be disappointed. I mean surprised. I mean disappointed. Because they talk. And talk. For another hour and half sometimes. What the world could they POSSIBLY have to talk about. My wife and I haven’t seen each other all day, and we’re sitting on the couch, silently, listening to them chatter upstairs, in zombie like reverence.

Anyways, they’re friends.

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As “Tig” (the older; dubbed because he is CONSTANTLY bouncing, and Tigger’s love to bounce), is navigating through his sixth year, his confidence in his own abilities, knowledge, and general stature as an authority in the world has taking a radical leap. Which has really been great for his studies. HOWEVER, it is also affected his “attitude,” particularly in relationship to his main social contacts, those being his parents and his siblings.

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There’s a gate between the dining room and the kitchen. If you have had kids, you’ve had some version of this gate. No, not like the Black Castle of Mordor with the guards, spears, and giant Ogre’s to open and close the heavy gates. Those weren’t on sale the day we went shopping, though I’ve had my eye in CraigsList™ pretty steadily. We say it’s to keep the kids safe from the implements in the kitchen, BUUUUUUUUUUT I think we all know- they are a shield and refuge, a tower against the storm, a high tower from the assault.

That’s just from my perspective. For them, it’s more like the windy turnstile gates in fast food restaurants or in amusement parks- they go back and forth, back and forth (it’s only a 30” door, for pete’s sake!) trying to weave themselves to the “front.” Where they can be served.

Let’s see, let me think: 30” doorway, 3 kids- that’s 10” per kid.

UNLESSsssss you’re the biggest, in which case it’s 20” for me, and you two can fight for the difference. This, ladies and gentlemen is what Jesus meant when he said “Love your neighbor as you love yourself.”

Or not.

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Seriously. If your children have siblings, they get all the socialization they need at home. Doesn’t matter if it’s 2 kids or 8. If they are in competition for air with somebody, and there is an authority figure present, you have all the building blocks to “socialize” your kids. And you’ll be surprised at how much you gain from a little socialization as well.

Don’t wait for pre-school, kindergarten, driver’s-ed. We have our own little reality at home, where we can set the boundaries of reality and fantasy. Where we can set the mandates and rules, and where we can say KNOCK THAT CRAP OFF! YOU'RE ACTING LIKE A PUNK AND BEING A PAIN IN MY NECK!

Or something along those lines.

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What opportunities have you had to “socialize” your kids at home? How have you seen those moments played out again in public? What tips would you offer the parent of a young child like me?

Coffee Snob

I’m not really a coffee-snob. People think that I am. But it’s not true. I just don’t like coffee that doesn’t taste like anything. The first coffee I really liked was some *highly* aromatic, “irish-crème” flavored coffee. My roommates and me drank it like it was keeping us alive. But I don’t think I really understood how coffee worked until I was over the ocean.

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We were flying to Amsterdam, and had an engagement about an hour after we landed. I’d tried to sleep on the flight over, but I couldn’t manage. I’d resisted the alluring, siren smell of coffee as the attendants walked by, over and over and over, thinking that I might still get some sleep. Until finally the captain announced that we would be landing shortly, and the attendants offered one last time.

This wasn’t my first time on an airplane, so my expectations were not set very high. I remember sort of looking out the window as I brought the foam paper cup to my lips. Not the sort of thing you do when you’re about to drink the most amazing coffee you’ve ever had. It was almost like I deliberately wasn’t respecting the coffee. It was “just gonna have to do.” I’ll tell you what it did. It spoiled me for life to coffee of the “regular” variety.

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To this day, I have not been able to reproduce what I enjoyed at every opportunity for the next two weeks. The Dutch drink coffee. Not like a taxi driver. Not like a construction worker, or a campus youth pastor, or even a college student. It isn’t the gluttonous main-line, buzz-keeping, taste-in-my-mouth replenishing coffee drinking that I and many others have sunk to. It was more like the British, and their tea. Except all the time. Anytime. “Let me make us some coffee.” And it’s like they have this national brand: Douwe Egberts. Ooooooh, sweet, sweet, Douwe.

All of this over a papercup, in a coach class international seat; tired, sweaty, needing a cigarette (yup, I used to smoke), and not expecting to experience this coffee.

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For years I struggled to reproduce the cup(s) of coffee that were so graciously served to me over and over during my week in the Netherlands. I even bought some of the same brand and had it mailed home. Must be something in the water. Nothing matched up. I found adequate replacements in grocery store aisles, in the French Roasts, Gourmet Roasts, the Black Silks, and over time they helped me to forget. But then... the Rwanda Blend came along. And literally finished whatever “me” there was left after the Douwe- was completely obliterated by the Rwandan blend, packaged and sold by ... you won’t believe me if I tell you. Maybe I shouldn’t.

I think it’s an espresso roast. I don’t know. All I can say is that it is stuh-wrong. But sooo right. What’s amazing to me, and it wasn’t obvious until we ran OUT of the Rwanda blend, is that it is so clear in its flavor. So... distinct. If coffee were something you could draw, like a square, or a circle, this coffee would have a dark black, .7mm borderline- heavy, around a perfectly black square. Like brand new laser toner black on the page. Not at all like, “I think my desk jet is REALLY close to being a dried up piece of junk in my garage” black square.

That’s the best I can say. When we ran out the 2^nd or 3^rd time, we went back to “the source” only to discover it had been replaced by some Guatemalan crap. WHAT? WHERE’S MY RWANDAN BLEND?! Gone. Just. Gone. So, we punted. We went back to the grocery store “Gourmet” and went home. You know what? It was different. It was... muddy and dirty. No matter how strong we made it, it just tasted like... mud. I felt like I was straining the substance through my teeth. Like if I could just run it through some cheesecloth, or another paper filter, maybe I could clean up this mess, and salvage it. But no- I look down into the cup, and I see the inappropriateness of this cup in my hands, where greatness once glistened, like a great dark pool- a mutt of coffees. A blend of blends. A mishmash of flavors. A best of what’s around poor excuse for a cuppa. So I wait, for the beautiful, tall woman, with the basket perched on her head, impressed upon the dark, bronzed bag. My Rwandan blend. Come back to me.

Road Trip

CraigsList ™ is totally, totally awesome. It’s a free online version of local classifieds. It’s a searchable database of advertisements for pretty much anything you could ever want (to throw away). And it’s free?! And local?! Did I mention that it’s awesome?! There’s just one real drawback.

There’s this sort of unspoken code of ethics connected to Craigslist. No checks. Just cash. Delivery of goods is a privilege. “You haul” is the norm. And the stinger: first come, first served. Just because you make contact with the seller doesn’t necessarily entitle you to first claim. If you can’t get there to purchase or take the item in question, it’s still for sale. And in some instances, if you're not quick about it, you may make the drive to get something and get there only to discover that it’s not there anymore.

This morning, as I read more of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection in Luke’s careful study, I had to wonder if Jesus ever felt that way.

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Jesus and his fellow road-trippers were pretty much always on the move. Jesus says of himself that he “has nowhere to lay his head.” They’re always walking someplace, going from this town to that town. And since at least a third of his little tribe were fishermen, they went by boat, too.

Luke tells of one trip they took across the “lake” where the weather almost got the best of these professional boaters. These master sailors were afraid for their lives while Jesus, the carpenter, is sawing logs in the bottom of the boat. So they wake him, terrified, to alert him of their imminent doom, only to watch, jaws gaping, as he yells to the wind to be calm. And it does.

“Who IS this? Who commands the wind and it obeys?!” they ask each other, incredulous.

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So they land, finally, on the other side of the lake only to be greeted by a freakshow of a man. I can only hope it was still day time when they stepped foot on the shore, because the welcoming committee came out to greet them acting like Marilyn Manson, but even nakeder. And possibly more maniacal. And his opening line? “What do you want with me, Jesus? Son of the Most High God?!”

So the guys who are sharing their spam, and taking turns at the water fountain with Jesus? Not sure who he really is. Freakshow? Seems pretty sure about who Jesus is. Interesting.

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Anyway, on with the story. Jesus cures this man, casting the whole Queen's Navy of demons out of him and, fittingly, into a herd of hogs (an animal the Jews scorned as unclean by Divine proclamation). When the herd managers return with townspeople to demonstrate that it’s NOT THEIR FAULT (the pigs, upon being possessed, promptly took to the lake and drowned themselves), the townspeople saw Marilyn acting more like Mr. Rogers than Mr. Hyde, looked at the floating pigs, and told Jesus to take his show back out on the road.

So you know what he did? Got back into the boat and went home.

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There’s a book I read several years ago that completely altered my perspective on more than a couple of things in my faith-life. It’s called Permission Evangelism by Michael Simpson, and it’s an apt title. But it’s not really about evangelism, is it Michael? It’s about the Holy Spirit. Because the Holy Spirit delivers the heart of the broken and rebellious to a place where they can kneel before God and be fixed. And sometimes the heart God wants is simply not ready. God comes to the door, in the person of the Holy Spirit, on behalf of the man Jesus, and there’s nothing to see. God won’t force it. He may come back later. But for now, He just gets back in the boat.

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I guess you could say that I’m fascinated by how Jesus’ agenda works. While he’s going places, he’s constantly interrupted, redirected, misappropriated, reappropriated and in general lives life subject to the needs that surround him. He’s been invited to dinner, invited to sickrooms, invited to funerals, invited to speak, and invited to leave. He’s incredibly open to invitations. Even invitations to beat it. I think my take away is that I need to perhaps accept rejection differently. Maybe I shouldn’t get so bent when people just aren’t that interested. Maybe their acceptance or rejection of me, or whatever I’m trying to offer doesn’t define my success or failure. Maybe it’s alright sometimes to just get back in the boat.

Who Am I?

Who Am I?

I re-read a story recorded in a historical account of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection known commonly referred to as Luke’s gospel. I had read it earlier this week, and when I sat down this morning to read, it was still there- so I went ahead and read it again.

Jesus has been invited to dine with one of the many Pharisees. Jesus, accepting the invitation goes to the Pharisees house, and while they are eating, a woman, known to be a prostitute, comes and interrupts their meal, crying and carrying on, and anointing Jesus’ feet with her tears, and then wiping them dry with her hair.

The Pharisee, “Jonah” let’s call him, sees and recognizes the woman at Jesus’ feet, and is more than a little perturbed to see this teacher, this prophet, this man who claims to be the Son of God, allowing himself to be defiled by the touch of an unclean person. “Surely, were this man a prophet of God, were He the SON OF GOD, this woman’s uncleanness would be offensive to God’s Holiness!”

In Joe’s mind, the Holiness of God, and the holy ground He stood upon, absolutely sacrosanct. Non-debatable. People had been struck by fire, swallowed by the earth, and just plain fallen to the ground dead because they had defiled God’s presence somehow with corruption, wrongdoing, or sin.

Jesus tells a story to his listeners then, of a money-lender who has two clients about to default on their respective loans. One of them owes 500 denarii, and the other owes only 50. The lender has compassion on them both, and forgives the loans. “When forgiven,” Jesus asks, “which of them will love the lender more?” It’s obvious, isn’t it? “The one who is forgiven much will love much, and he who has been forgiven little, loves little,” Jesus answers.

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Earlier this week, when I read this story the first time, my thoughts were of Jesus, and how I, in contrast, in an attempt to keep my ways righteous, have tended to isolate myself from people or things that are opposed to what I perceive as “right” or “God-honoring.” And how Jesus was secure enough in the righteousness of God to be unafraid. To boldly reach out to someone who was in need of him, unafraid of how their ways or ideas or habits might disrupt his own.

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A good friend of mine has a special gift for putting you, as a listener, into the scene of the Bible. When he tells a story from the Bible, he describes it as if we were both standing there, one level removed from the central characters- supporting cast, or extras in the scene.

So I imagined myself there, around the table, watching this social train-wreck as it unfolds, horribly awkward, and unstoppable, as this whore walks into the preacher’s dining room uninvited, and unwelcome, and starts crying, all the while coming closer and closer to the guest of honor.

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Who am I? As Jesus tells the story, and I listen to him, who am I? Am I the one who has been forgiven little? And therefore, likely loves little? Me with my isolationist, puritanical rules, stubbornness... is that me? But when I am alone, I know my secrets. I know my terrible moments, my inward thoughts, and even the things I’ve dared to say out loud. I know my boasting and my pride. I feel like I’ve been forgiven an awful lot. So... where’s the love? Where’s the compassion, grace, and gentleness, which I’ve been so graciously shown?

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So this morning, my prayer was short. “God, if I have been forgiven little, thank you for keeping me in your presence, in your will, on your path. Please increase my love for people. But God, if indeed, I have been forgiven a great deal- show me the darkness of my inclination, so that I may go forward feeling a greater depth of gratitude. Make me more like your version of me.”

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Is the Net Actually Dirty?

Jesus Anointed by a Sinful Woman

³⁶ When one of the Pharisees invited Jesus to have dinner with him, he went to the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. ³⁷ A woman in that town who lived a sinful life learned that Jesus was eating at the Pharisee’s house, so she came there with an alabaster jar of perfume. ³⁸ As she stood behind him at his feet weeping, she began to wet his feet with her tears. Then she wiped them with her hair, kissed them and poured perfume on them.

³⁹ When the Pharisee who had invited him saw this, he said to himself, “If this man were a prophet, he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.”

⁴⁰ Jesus answered him, “Simon, I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me, teacher,” he said.

⁴¹ “Two people owed money to a certain moneylender. One owed him five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. ⁴² Neither of them had the money to pay him back, so he forgave the debts of both. Now which of them will love him more?”

⁴³ Simon replied, “I suppose the one who had the bigger debt forgiven.”

“You have judged correctly,” Jesus said.

⁴⁴ Then he turned toward the woman and said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I came into your house. You did not give me any water for my feet, but she wet my feet with her tears and wiped them with her hair. ⁴⁵ You did not give me a kiss, but this woman, from the time I entered, has not stopped kissing my feet. ⁴⁶ You did not put oil on my head, but she has poured perfume on my feet. ⁴⁷ Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven—as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little.”

⁴⁸ Then Jesus said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.”

⁴⁹ The other guests began to say among themselves, “Who is this who even forgives sins?”

⁵⁰ Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you; go in peace.”

I was reading this story this morning, wishing that it was the story of the Prodigal Son, and listening to my boys make quite the unholy ruckus upstairs. Seriously, boys, I’m trying to get with God here.

My bible and I have only crossed paths infrequently lately. Not a big deal, unless, like me, you believe in the power of Jesus’ Holy Spirit to interrupt your reading with His own voice, creating and showing you subtext and context that draw you and your life directly and personally into the story of God saving the earth and everything in it from every form of corruption and degradation conceivable. So, yeah. It was calling to me.

The prodigal son story sounded good to me. A story illustrating how somebody who thought they’d slipped below the waterline of worth crawling back, hanging onto a grain of hope that he could somehow slave his way back into his Father’s good graces, only to be surprised when his Father lifts his skirts to run down the driveway in a rather undignified fashion to kiss him and hold him, and to embarrass himself with affection towards this very dirty, stick-thin, and unclean man. Yeah, that sounded good to me.

But no. Not today. I turned to the place where I’d stopped last time, and came upon this story- rich with possibility. Jesus, who goes where he’s invited. The woman, who pursues Jesus in repentance and contrition. The Pharisee, who has invited Jesus to come and be a guest. Jesus, who mixes with unclean people, risking his holiness. The woman, who endures obvious scorn from the Pharisee. Jesus, who is willing to forgive both.

I have often recognized my tendency towards Pharisaism. It just seems easier sometimes to know and follow the rules as their written. Sorry. Jesus frequently bawled the Pharisee’s out for following the rules of God in such high fashion, but failing to show mercy, love and compassion.

When I think of Pharisees, or myself, I usually think of someone who has dedicated a great deal of time and energy to honoring the Law of God in all it’s rich implication. In committing myself with discipline to living correctly. Why? Because that’s how God designed us to live. It makes sense to live that way. Sorta like reading the manual and using what you gained in it. Just makes sense. I can relate to that. I think I’ve spent a lot of my life and my energy trying to “do rightly.”

Yeah. That’s workin for me.

Thing that struck me this morning is that the Pharisee was appalled that Jesus didn’t appear concerned by his intimacy and connection with this sinner. He’s recorded as thinking … “he would know who is touching him and what kind of woman she is—that she is a sinner.” The good Pharisee is concerned, for Jesus’ sake, because he’s been caught up into this notion that God’s desire for our holiness is connected to what we do, rather than where our heart is.

What I wonder is if Jesus is so secure in his place in God’s heart that he can’t be touched by the corruption of another’s sinfulness. His faith in God’s power to save has given him strength and freedom to reach out, in justice, loving mercy, and with humble dependence on God.

I’ve been convicted in the last year or so of my own Pharisaism. Not that I live by such a high standard or code, thanking God that I’m not a sinner, tithing my mint and whatnot. Yes, there is some of that mixed into it, but that’s not what God’s been speaking to me about.

The Pharisee in this story isolated himself from the brokenness of the world, from the broken of the world because he was afraid it would drag him down. He was afraid it would somehow rub off, tainting his own posture before God. He couldn’t handle listening to radio stations that played AC/DC and Motley Crue because the lyrics filled his mind with terrible things. The commercials for the Lumber Yard just were too much. The drugs were too much. The cheating, selfishness, and complete idolatry of material goods were too much. What if it rubbed off?

The aroma of Jesus is stronger than the stink of cigarette smoke, the raunch of a dance club, or the smell of beer and puke. The strength of Jesus is greater than addiction, it’s greater than greed, and it’s greater than self-hatred. I just need to grab onto that strength and depend on it. Rather than resting on my own will, my own determination to be pure, my own desire to live holy. Would my life bring greater glory to God were it isolated in holiness? Or dirty like a fishing net? Is the fishing net actually dirty or did it just get some dirt on it?

Like a Brother (part 2)

Today's post is the conclusion of yesterday's post, "Like a Brother."

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When Jack was born I began to seriously ponder my relationships with my brothers. How did we get to where we are? What did I do in my relationships with each of them to get us here? How can I as a father create a situation for my boys to grow up together? How might what I do as a father create exactly the opposite effect?

It’s a big idea. How do I raise my boys to regard each other as collegues? Co-workers? Life partners?

Yesterday, they were playing with a matchbox car set. Tigger (#1 and currently the Alpha) was dominating and excluding his little brother, Jack. And Jack wasn’t gonna take it lying down.

At first I was tempted to just stick them both in chairs and lecture them about “sharing” and “loving your neighbor.” I want to instill in them the words of Jesus- Jesus says the most important thing is to “love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and strength.” So that’s sounds pretty important. But then Jesus said that “loving your neighbor like yourself” is like loving the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and strength. So that phrase gets repeated many times. “Loving the Lord your God is like loving your neighbor.” Because you can’t love a Creator and hate what He creates. The created is an extension of the Creator.

But that’s not what I did. Not this time.

I’m considering a different angle. When I tell the boys that loving their neighbor is like loving God, it’s true. But I wonder if the focus is too lateral. I wonder if that focus keeps them on a track of brother and brother? I think the thing that will hold them together most tightly is if I turn their gazes onto Jesus directly.

I sat them down in front of me and told them to put their cars down. Then I pulled out my little bible and read from the Gospel according to Matthew.

“Do not worry about what your will eat, or what you will wear.” I read them the whole story—“see the lilies? Even Solomon in all his splendor was not dressed as these…”

And finally, “He knows what you need.”

I told the boys that the toys and good things they knew were gifts of God’s generosity. I told them that the money they received to buy the toys that they had was a gift of their grandparents generosity. That generosity provided them with everything they had.

Therefore they had no entitlement to anything except the obligation to show that same generosity to each other. Jesus is generous to us. So the only choice we have is to likewise show generosity.

My hope here is simple. Too much of our satisfaction is found in our relationship to our brothers in the world. We are defined by those things, and measure ourselves by those things. I struggle now, as an adult to measure myself well. As I grow, the Spirit informs me that I must look to Jesus for that. Not to the world. And Jesus says that I am to come and relieve myself of that burden. That he will take it, and replace it with a light burden of grace.

And so begins an era, I hope, where rather than tell the boys how to treat each other, show them how they are responding to Jesus with their actions. And hopefully, the grace Jesus has shown me- the grace he will and does show my boys- will be the grace with which the 3 of us show each other. God knows it smooths over a lot of typically human behavior. Like hoarding, aggression, and spite. Like hurt feelings, the feeling of not measuring up like the other, or of not pleasing like the other. Of being forgotten, or even scorned.

Maybe that grace will shape another generation of Covingtons. I hope I live to see.

Like a Brother (part I)

I have 3 brothers. 2 older, and one younger. My relationship with each of them is more than unique. It’s flat out different.

I have regrets of course. The real killer is that I have the opportunity to affect all of those relationships- but I don’t. Maybe it’s fear. More likely it’s laziness. Maybe it’s a combination of things. All I know is that I desperately want my 2 sons to have a better life together with their brothers than I have had thus far with mine.

I love all of my brothers. There are aspects of each of them that I cherish. My oldest is also a Christ follower. He has faithfully raised a generation of believers, and he has been a model of submission to Christ for the length of my life. He and his wife continue to bless me and mine inspite of my distance. He’s an amazing songwriter. And a jack of all trades. He’s a picture of commitment, holding firm to principals of stewardship that are far-reaching and broad.

30 years ago, he and his wife designed the floor plan for their house. The values designed into that house include stewardship of the sun’s heat to warm the flags of their living room. The rooms are small, and the house meets their needs, and not much more. He and my next older brother built the house together, over a period of years.

He and his wife home-schooled their two children, and probably faced a great deal of skepticism while doing it. They have over the years counted righteousness and obedience to God greater and more profitable than wealth or even stability in a society that measures success and happiness with dollar signs and years in position.

Both of his children cherish and uphold their relationships with their parents. As their parents, not simply as grandparents to their children.

So why don’t we ever talk?

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My next oldest brother- he’s an altogether beautiful man. During my growing up years he was home every summer, at least for a little while. He has a beautiful voice in my ears, and I love listening to him talk. His laugh is really a chuckle that can turn to characteristically “Covington” hack/chuckle. He and his older brother sound a LOT like each other, especially when they get to that hack/le.

He is full of integrity. Sort of a weird picture when you think of it. You see, “integrity” has come to mean “ethical” but really what it is is wholeness. He is very deliberate. Of course, they both are, so don’t misunderstand me. But a big part of who I am now was formed by my awareness of his wholeness with himself. And how that made him utterly trustworthy to me.

He is a lonely person, I think. He’s loved, but he strikes me as somebody who is sort of alien to society. He prefers solitude. He’s always been a bride to the earth he lives with, committed like a lover. He used to ride his bike on long tours. He would climb rock faces and glacier’s breath was like deep sleep rest. He would fish the dangerous oceans of the Alaskan coast to sustain his flying expeditions. He took my paragliding once. I expected it to be loud- like sticking your head out of a car window on the interstate- but it was utterly quiet. He talked to me while we flew, his head right behind mine. It was like he was talking right into the side of my brain. He too loves to build things.

When we are together it usually means late nights, and long talks. When we part it’s always promises and promises.

But we probably talk 2, maybe 3 times a year.

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Then there’s my youngest brother. We grew up literally side by side. Ask either of us and we’ll both tell you that we couldn’t be more dissimilar. But that’s probably not altogether true. We’re both fiercely loyal people. We both harbor creativity- or at least the ambition to creativity. We’re both nighthawks (though I’m a reformed night-hawk. It’s customary for me to go to bed early- but that’s an easy habit for me to break given the occasion).

We don’t share a lot in the way of interests. He’s a huge movie buff. Name it, he’s watched it. Likely is you watched it while he was in the projection booth setting up the films.

He’s a performer, and very gregarious. A total freakin ham. So am I. But he is so only in front of a few people. So am I. He has a very carefully constructed image. It appears to be completely the opposite. Me too. We both grew up in the shadow of death waiting for our dad to die, suddenly and tragically. It didn’t happen that way, but we both lived I think in that pallor of fear.

He stayed home though, while I left. And he was the one who called everybody home when it was actually time for Dad to die.

And we were together, with Dad, and with brother #2, when he did. Somehow our triangle of relationships changed. I don’t know how. I’m sure that part of it was that that evening, when Dad died, each of US changed in some way. We each had to face the fear that we’d been hiding from for most of our lives. And facing that fear changed not just who we were individually, but how we were together.

Thing is, he is almost totally isolated from the rest of us.

---(more to come)