Archive for "smith"

The River

There isn’t any place on the planet that I would rather be than exactly where I am at this exact moment…sitting on the front porch at our family’s river cabin down here in Georgia. My wife says it’s unfair to call it a cabin because after 30 years and a handful of renovations, it’s really more of a house now, but all I know is that when I was about 3 years old, my father paid $7500 for a two-bedroom, tin-roofed CABIN. My wife is also prone to remind me that anyone with any sense would also lose the “river” part and just call it what it is, a ”lake house.” (more…)

Aggressive Affection

I took Smith to school this morning.  He’s my 2½-year-old.  I had a chance to hang for a little while with his teachers because this morning was “Donuts with Daddy Day.”  Clever alliteration, huh.  KRISPY KREME Donuts with Daddy Day, to be specific.  Except all the dumb little school kids ate every last one of the donuts before I had the chance to snag one!  (Just kidding about the kids being dumb, by the way.  I mean, they may be dumb, but I don’t know them well enough to know that for sure yet.  Okay, so just kidding about the fact that they may be dumb as well.  But not really).  ANYWAY, I love my son.  Like crazy.  Partly because he’s crazy.  He’s just all boy – climbs literally everything climbable (or not), loves to wrestle with me or our little white fluffy pansy dog, Otis…doesn’t make any difference to Smith as long as he gets to wrestle; he gets hurt ALL the time but he’s still really tough, shins always all bruised up, and he’s already been to the hospital twice for a busted lip and a busted chin.  The thing is, we run our household with pretty much only three rules for our kids:  1. First time obedience, 2. Have a “Right Response”, 3. Be kind.  And it’s a pretty beautiful thing to watch a kid as wild and as “all boy” as Smith is, respond to those things.   (more…)

In the Mundane

Feeling a bit melancholy today.  Not sad, just a little aimless I think.  Perhaps it’s the lack of sleep – my 2-1/2 year old son, Smith, was throwing up last night with some sort of a stomach bug.  He woke up today happy as the morning; his father, however, did not.  It might be the weather – one of those gray mornings that hangs a little bit heavy for whatever reason.  It’s strange because most of the time I love cold, gray days, odd as it sounds.  But today is not one of those days.  Or maybe it’s just the end of a really busy week that was also pretty thick with emotion over the events in Haiti and equally ripe with purpose in trying to figure out what it means to love well in times of crisis.  I know this is sadly selfish, but I felt very “necessary” this week, if that makes any sense.  Not because I felt like I could change the world but because I felt like I was a part of it.  I felt, in a very deep and visceral way, a certain sense of purpose.  I felt like I belonged to a body of believers that was actually living the cause of Christ out in the open, unashamed.  If one can be found at all, I think this can be the “blessing” of tragedy:  that we can, in a moment, identify with the pain of an entire people that most of us had given little thought to before, and that we even feel like we belong to that pain somehow.  That we feel like we belong to the ancient and shared mission of serving that pain with the cause of Christ.  That we feel like we belong to the long-told story of brokenness and redemption.  That we feel like we belong.  Period.  My prayer today is that God would not allow my melancholy to move into monotony, that I would not become motionless.  I am a part of this story.  We all are.  But this story of horror and tragedy and ultimately redemption in Haiti is only still just beginning to unfold.  And yet here, removed from it by only a flight on an airplane, we can already see signs of “moving on.”  It’s a little less reported today than yesterday, a little less thought about.  The work week has turned into the weekend, and on Monday we will start all over again.  We will inevitably slip back into the mundane of “normalcy” like moth to flame, and, I fear, forget that we are still a part of this story and that it is indeed still being told.