For Father's Day...Belated I Know!

When I was a kid, I thought my Dad was SO NOT funny. I remember the phone ringing upstairs and my Dad lunging up the stairs two at a time. A pastor in a normal, middle-class tri-level in NW Indiana, we'd hear him shout, "County Jail, Warden Speaking." And then we'd hear him murmur something...Mom and I would dash up the stairs yelling, "ROOGERR!" and "DAAD!" simultaneously. Turns out he'd say "County Jail, Warden Speakin'" in a fake southern drawl and THEN pick up the phone and whisper a hello. Mom and he always got a good giggle out of it. I would just roll my eyes and say, "grownups." His antics in answering the phone would continue pretty much my whole life, ranging from the pizza delivery company to the pest control company to the morgue. Sometimes he'd actually answer the phone with this crazy talk. The stammering on the other end was almost too much for him to handle. He'd crack a smile and quickly shift gears for the unsuspecting victim on the other end of the phone line. Whenever he was paying a bill over the phone, he'd spell out his first name and then say, "Box. Like cardboard." He always got a laugh for that one. My older sister Corrie says it to this day. I wonder what she'll say when she gets married.

Honestly with his profession and personality, you'd never suspect my Dad has as keen a sense of humor as he does. If something is the most amazing thing to ever transpire on the face of this planet, he'll say in monotonous syllables, "That's great babe." I used to think this was totally rude. Now I know he's a little tongue-in-cheek mixed with ultra-laid back.

From ages four until I turned twelve, we'd sing at the local nursing home ever Friday. There were three girls in my family old enough to sing. That's really where I learned to sing harmony. I remember my sister telling me to just "hear" it. And "hear" it we did, to songs like "In the Garden" and "Tis' So Sweet to Trust in Jesus." If we didn't sing loud enough, we got a spanking. "But if you sing loud enough," Dad would smile, "you get a Coke!" Mmmm...I remember those cold coke cans. I'd struggle to pop open the metal ring, but the cool fizz that came was worth the bruised little fingers. I'd try to chug it, like my dad's friend Chuck after one of their softball games, but I could only get a couple of gulps down before my stomache started to ache. I never got a spanking for singing too soft at the nursing home. I was the "loud one" and it was easy to avoid punishment on that end. Now Corrie, she had a small frame and an even smaller voice. To get her to sing above a whisper was like pulling teeth. Dad would cajole and prod and push and finally resort to spanking every week. But after four emotional weeks like this, well, all her kicking-n-screamin must've helped her lungs to just sprout out real huge, cuz' after that, well, she never did have a problem singing loudly again.

The only thing I didn't like about the nursing home was the smell and the required hugs. I went through a "Don't TOUCH me!" stage for about four years when I was younger. I still don't know what caused it. Along with singing loud enough, we were required to hug every neck in the room at this nursing home. It wouldn't have been so bad except there were some people so drugged up that hugging them was like hugging a drooling corpse. Or worse, some of them would just hang on for dear life not wanting to let you go! If that particular long-hugger was a stout woman, well, you got a nose-full of bossom for an indefineable amount of time that seemed like eternity. Gross.

What I loved about the nursing home was the candy and the motions. Two of the little ladies were well into their hunderedth year. They'd keep little plastic baggies of mints and butterscotch with them to give to us every week. I loved the butterscotch. We got to do motions with several of the songs we sang. We'd sing "He's a Peach of a Savior," to the tune of "The Lord's Army." Each time we sang it three times. We'd sing it once at a normal pace, once in slow motion and once at super sonic speed. We also loved singing Father Abraham so fast that when we spun around we'd lose our balance and end up falling on the floor. Dad would allow a little bit of foolishness, but we knew we only had about 30 seconds of it before we got the slight eye squint, which meant our precious Coke reward was on the line. I always thought his slight squint was really him imagining the size of the spanking stick he'd use on us. When I was eight we went to one of those pioneer exhibitions. It was one of those things where they had rows of tents with different exhibits showing you how the pioneers lived. They had corn being ground for meal, clothes being washed on a board and hot wax being stirred for homemade candles. There was also a tent where they burned words and designs onto wood. This was my favorite tent. I loved the smell of burning wood and thought the swirl of roses on a chair was so pretty. I would sit and trace the swirls with my finger while munching an ear of rosted corn. I really wanted one of the little rocking chairs they made. Dad and I stood there about 15 minutes while he had something made. I don't know why I didn't ask what he was doing. It wasn't til we got back to the car that he showed my mom what he had bought: a large wooden spanking paddle with all of us kids names engraved on it. I knew I hated that stupid tent. It served my dad right when he broke that stupid paddle on my heinie about six months later. Pioneers must not have had kids as obstinate as me.

I remember getting a spanking every day one summer. We got spankings for three things: Disrespect, disobediance and lying. If you think about it, any adolescant misdemeanor can be categorized as one of these three. I think I was most often spanked for disrespect. Well, disrespect and delayed obediance. According to Dad, "Delayed obediance is disobediance." So really it was my mouth and attitude that got me into trouble. I loved to answer my parents serious queries with a lotta' sass. They thought they were so smart. And that whole "delayed obediance" thing was primarily due to draggin my feet...part of my quiet rebellion to do whatever they were asking me to do.

I can't find the exact quote, but somewhere in my youth I remember someone telling me, "It's funny how much your parents will learn from the time you turn 16 until the time you turn 21." I've thought about that so many times since hitting my 20s. I remember thinking I knew so much more than my fuddy-duddy parents. Typical teenager. And then when I turned 21, almost to the day, I'd start to call Dad and ask for advice. We'd even talk about boy stuff. It was always humorous. He'd always ask if the boy knew the Lord. And then he'd just listen. I'd spout off about a particular encounter and he'd just listen. I think he considered this long-suffering on his part. I honestly think he could've done without every detail, but I was bound and determined to make sure he knew what was said to me and how and from whom. At the end of the conversation he'd offer me a verse of Scripture or a little thought. If the verse or thought cut a little too close to home, well, I'd think he was being a little pushy or too churchy. But I'd think on what he said for a few days and invariably call a few days later to apologize for a poor attitude. Mom on the other hand, well, she'd spout off for hours on what I needed to do to chase a boy away or attract him near.

Growing up with four sisters, going to the grocery store with the family was always an interesting ordeal. If Dad took you, you always knew you were getting Hershey's Almond Chocolate bars from the checkout counter because those were his favorite. He'd walk in with the youngest in the grocery cart and the rest of us would roam about, looking for things that we couldn't live without, e.g., sugary cereal, marshmallow creme and frozen pizza. We knew if we begged just right, we'd have a chance of at least getting one item we wanted. When he had finished getting the items on Mom's list, he'd give one sharp, quick whistle. He could have whispered it, and I don't know why, but we'd always hear that whistle and come running. I don't know if any of us ever got a spanking for not responding to the whistle, but if any of us did, I'm sure it was me.

They say that our view of God is largely based on our view of our earthly Father. Honestly, I can't imagine what people do who don't have a good earthly Father. It really makes me sad. I don't think I'm feeling sorry for them. Rather, I just get sad because it was so easy for me to see the Father as good and loving even when punishing. Every time my Dad spanked me he'd say he loved me and hug me afterwards. And amidst the snotty sniffles I'd hug him back. There was one season where I was going through a particularly rebellious stage. Every time Mom or Dad said something, I'd shoot something dicey right back to them. There was all sorts of screaming and door slamming on my part...and furrowed brows and occasionally screaming right back on their part. One day, after a particularly punchy shouting match, i was cooling off by shooting baskets in the driveway. Dad came outside and silently shot baskets next to me. After he'd made one particularly stellar three pointer, I tossed him back his "change." He held the ball in both hands, slowly shifting it around. I could see the wheels spinning in his brain, but there was nothing in this world that would have prepared me for what came next. "Annetta. I love you. You are my responsibility and the Lord has asked me to make my family my priority. If it takes me leaving this church and going somewhere else to make you know Him, I'll do it." And with that, he set the ball down and I lept into his arms for a huge hug while sniveling, "I'm sorry Dad, I won't do it again!" For a moment I had thought lightening was about to strike me. I mean, my Dad giving up his church position because of my poor attitude and razor tongue? Surely leaving the pastorate would have to have more severe repercussions than leaving any other profession?!? But my Dad never had to make good on his promise. After that generous, but scary, offer, I straightened up a little. Our home went from the battlegrounds of World War 111 to intermittent arguments over stupid stuff. It was that conversation with my Dad, more than any other moment in my life, that showed me how much my heavenly Father cares about me. My Dad here was willing to put aside things that were extremely important to him. My heavenly Father offered me His Son.

Maybe it's my Dad's example of who God is that has gifted me with a greater understanding of faith. I mean, it's not hard to imagine God's gonna' catch you if you leap if you have a Dad like mine. I've worked with some pretty phenomenal Christian leaders, a couple of them are the leaders of our century. My Dad is the godliest man I've ever known. I mean, don't get me wrong, he's defnitely gone through he's more infuriating stages. There was that time when I was ten that he was going through a stage where any type of rock beat was from the devil. We had to throw out our Amy Grant cassette tape and records. There was also the no-dating-til-you-are-16 stage. Well, maybe that was smart as they had me for a daughter! There are many moments when he drives me crazy. But there are far more when I am so thankful that he was the one that God placed in my life. When my engagement was called off, Dad and I would sit and talk for hours. Rather, I would talk for hours and he would listen.

It's funny. The older I've gotten, the more I can hear my Dad's voice in the day-to-day. Sometimes I'll be working on something and I'll hear how he would react to it and I'll laugh. The other day I went into a store with exorbant prices for their product. I had to chuckle as I could hear my Dad say, "They sure are proud of their merchandise aren't they?" What's really funny is that I'm writing all this while my Dad is still very much alive. He's still chugging away, loving my Mom, growing in the Lord, emailing a daily Bible Study he writes to a couple hundred people, pastoring a church and really into nutrition. Anytime I want, I can call him and unless he's preaching I know I'll get a listening ear. But more than me telling him, I've come to rely on his telling me. After watching the way he's lived, I've found that I need to hear him more than I need to tell him. The same is true for me and God. I've started to listen a little bit better. I'm trying to quit coming to His Word with a laundry list. Rather, I've found if I look for His character in those pages, well, I'll hear them in the every day in much the same way as I hear my Dads voice. I see things as humorous sometimes now, in the way He would. I love the way He's put together certain people who should have never "worked" but in His divine wisdom, they are a perfect fit. Or the way He continuously gives me a girly-girl for a close friend...such an odd fit for the tom-boy that I am.

I think it's when I DON'T listen for that Voice, when I'm not in a place where I can hear it, that I have issues. I think trying to hear God's Voice with sin in your life is like trying to hear someone talk to you while you've got your hands clamped down securely over your ears. His Voice comes out muffled. Sometimes it ends up as a garbled command, like you'd played a horrible round of Chinese telephone. I've done things in His Name that He didn't want me to do. I did them, in a state of sin, not really listening or walking right with Him. He ended up throwing a few punishments for me in the end.

When I'm trying to hear His Voice, I tend to do what Tony Evans does to prep for a sermon: I read myself full (of Scripture). Pray myself hot. And walk myself empty (mulling over what He is saying). This little routine has a tendency to re-boot my system. At the end, after much confession and listening, well, I can hear that Voice again.

After seminary I was on a church staff in Houston for a couple of years. I loved that church. But towards the end of that time, I started to really fell like God wanted me to step out in faith..that He had more for me. I didn't know what that "more" was, but I knew staying in my comfort zone was not it. I put off leaving the church for about six months. Finally, I told the pastor that I was leaving in eight weeks. I packed my things and left...only to have the Lord open up a cabin for me to stay in Estes Park, Colorado (thank you L&KC!). While there, my routine: Wake and read Scripture for 4-6 hours. Write music for a couple hours in between. Hike to town and around and back, sprinting some for acclimization. Get home in time to grill some of the frozen elk Larry hada left for me in the freezer and prepare dinner of some sorts. Read and write for a couple more hours. Go to bed. Somewhere in the middle of the reading and listening and hiking and writing, well, I learned all sorts of things. He cleared my life of all sorts of dead things in this time. But more than anything, well, I learned what His Voice sounds like. I learned how to recognize it amidst the hustle and the bustle we call life. When I came off of that mountain, roughly 40 days later, I was a different girl. Alone with Him, He had hewn some serious ears into my soul. I think this season was one of the ost fruitful of my life. Since that time, I've pretty much been in the desert. But it was this "Learning to Listen 101" crash course that has kept me on course in the midst of a few years of hell. And it's knowing His character is good, just like I know my Dad's is good, that keeps me beleiving this pain will end one day. My Dad would want the pain to end, after it's done what it's designed to do. God will make this pain end after it's done what it's designed to do, mold my character. Am I sick of this season? OOoh you better betcha. But I also believe with all my heart that it's not forever. I keep telling people He's coming for me and that it'll end. I want to be Prince Caspian's Lucy who doesn't give up on God's promises even when everyone else does. I want to believe no matter what I see with my eyes.

So. As in the words of Joshua, I choose today to continue to press on towards the prize of knowing HIm. I believe. I'm working on hearing. And in the midst of this hearing and believing, I find myself fully alive.

I Heart Running

Went on a kick back run today. The kind where you don't even have to be listening to music...you have your own personal soundtrack playing in your head. I love those runs. I just watch the miles go by in a blur while this cranium thinks it's fixing the problems of the world. I can do in upwards of 18 miles like this if I get in just the right frame of mind. But my favorite runs like this are not the runs with long distance but the runs with fast speed AND long distance. My legs are pumping, lungs are pumping and breathing is all about the rhythm. I love rhythm. I sometimes think I've a little African American under this pale-freckled skin. Put on a little R & B/hip-hop and I start a bopping.

Chapter 5: Onions, Singin' Screamin and Cabbage Patch kids

It's funny to see what makes people tick. My sister Corrie? She's definitely a gloriously whimsical individual. She thrives off of anything musical. Well, really my whole family is that way. I'm not sure what makes us so obssessive about it. But Corrie now, she's the one that might have a cardiac arrest if there isn't music in her head. We drove together a lot last week when she was visiting Dallas. She's notoriously a spacy driver, tending to cut people off unintentionally and then wave real friendly-like. She knows they're probably muttering cusswords under their breath, but she has so many other ideas and inventions rattling in her brain that she doesn't pay attention to a random driver. Meanwhile, I'm sinking as low as possible in my seat, hoping no one recognizes me. Put her in a city where she has no idea where she's going, and add me, the sister who gives worse directions, and you have a little bit of Disney's "Herbie" on wheels. I'd never noticed before this last visit, but when she makes a particularly harrowing turn, she tends to SING her "Ahhh!" The first time I heard it, I couldn't believe it.

"You just sang."
"What?"
"You just sang your scream."
"Oh that. I always do that. It's just IN me."
"No, but Corrie, you SANG. No one sings when they're yelping in surprise."
"What can I say, I'm a musician."

So she said... as if this explains everything. She is probably the one person in the world who doesn't get embarassed when you tell her she has food in her teeth. She gets mad. It's as if you hit a switch that turns her from a "whatever goes" mentality to "YOU'RE CENSORING ME!" mentality. Her reaction is volatile at best and nuclear towards the bad end of things. Let's just say I take a whole lotta blame that is only half my due.

For Corrie, there's nothin worse than censoring. She'd rather be poor in a dirt hut with haggis for every meal than be censored. Corrie's the sister who lived in Russia. I used to say Russia gave her the beatnik qualities that make her Corrie. But now I know these colorful patches of her identity were all just a little dormant...Russia just bombed her deep waters and they all came to the surface. It was pretty crazy to watch. She went to Russia as a little classical music lover, full of depth and quirkiness but firmly ensconced in propriety. She came back like a hippy Medusa, ready to embalm you in death-beckoning insults if you were to question some of her more odd qualities.

Now put her in a kayak with nature or on a sweaty, blisteringly heated hike, and well, she starts vomiting pithy bits of wicked-awesome wisdom like they are simply fruit loops she had for breakfast. Or put her in an art museum or some place that has contact with any kind of art form, and she flows with that happy energy that comes from being in love. The switch is kinda' ridiculous: From singin' screamin' to trigger-happy sensor-hating to intoxicating-yoda embodiment of all that is good and pure and holy. I sometimes get whiplash. At one moment she's my trigger-happy, bossy older sister and the next she's my good-vibes flowing favorite person in the world. I don't think she's like that with other people. Just her younger, push-her-buttons sister.

I once dated a fella with trigger points just as severe.

I would say, "I'm thinking kids in a coupla' years AFTER I get married. I want to smell like my favorite perfume during our first coupla' years of honeymoon, not my spawn's vomit. Plus, there's really a whole lotta' stress that comes from having a little human as your responsibility."

Josh would say, "I think Scripture is clear that we are supposed to
bear fruit and multiply. Multiply. Part of being married is having kids."

"That doesn't necessarily we have to multiply NOW. Couldn't we wait
for a coupla' years? Get our feet underneath us, a rhythm to our
marriage? I mean, just two years ago I was saying I hated kids...I
can't imagine birthing one quite so soon."

"I'm just saying, when I marry, Lord willing we're going to have kids right away. It's Scriptural."

And so the conversation always ended. There's no arguing with people who won't budge. And whenever this topic was brought up, sullen silence ensued. We both knew we were RIGHT. And we both knew the other was WRONG. Weird how you can be right when someone else's right is so the opposite.

In the end, we just wanted different things from life. Josh wanted to have kids and live in Pleasantville the rest of his life. I wanted to travel the world and live in a tour bus with my kids. He wanted to live near his family. I wanted to live as far away as possible. Compromise wasn't an issue on the front end - but it catalyzed THE issue at the very end.

When I was six, I loved my Cabbage Patch doll fiercely. Then when I was seven, Dad made me get rid of her because of some scare about the word Xavier being on her bottom. Folks were saying they were used by Satan to get into our homes. I thought that was the stupidest grown-up thing I'd ever heard. I mean, a doll was a tool of Satan? Seriously? Especially my beloved red-yarn-haired Patty? No way. Adults were weird. Sometimes, I'd be minding my own business, playing, and my younger sister, Betsie, would get an itching to play with my dolls. Something about the fun I was having made her want to play. Mom would come downstairs after my sister complained that I wasn't letting her play with MY dolls. I'd get "five more minutes" to play and then have to turn it over to my sister. Sucked. For her and for me. Bets would watch in agony while I savored the last five minutes of play. Then I had to sit in skin-itching rage and watch her play (with far less excitement) with MY dolls. She didn't even like playing with dolls! Oooo...I hated it. At the end of our time, neither one of us felt satisfied. Rather, I was just on edge with that particular sister for the rest of the day. Drove me nuts.


Compromise. A gift. Impossible. Infuriating. Beautiful. At whatever age. Whether it's debating who gets to play with the doll or who gets to have kids when they want them, compromise is about giving parts of yourself away. It's kinda' like the green technicolor Shrek likes to say, "People are like onions with all sorts of layers." If the compromise is about something on one of the more surface layers, no biggie, it's easily attainable - "Oh honey, let's do Chinese food tonight, we did Mexican yesterday." It doesn't require a whole lotta' "give" on either person's side. The surface layers of people are easily compromised, especially if they learned to share when they were younger! And it's even a joy to compromise when you love someone. It means you get to give something to the person you love. It's really a beautiful thing.

But at other times, when it comes to a deeper layer of your onion, compromise asks you to alienate your very DNA, abandoning your created being for another's dream - "Of course I'll wait to have kids. Even though it's my biblical conviction, I really love you. I'll wait as long as you say."

I'm really not bitter. I just look back and realize, we were oh-so-very-different at our core. Josh's and my views on childbearing were stamped on our souls...or washed on our brain. Asking Josh to change would be like asking Corrie to quit singing...to start caring about lettuce on her teeth at every moment...to never kayak again. All these things are part of her genetic makeup. Whether it's tabula rosa (she was raised to be this way) or it's innate, I don't know. But I do know that I adore Corrie the way she is now. Asking her to be different than she is would make her less "Corrie," less wonderfully colorful; Less alive. The same is true for Josh. And the same is true for me. At the end of the day he and I realized we would never work, no matter how much love we had for each other.

For us, it was much more than a give-n-take in sharing toys. It was even more than a little personality clash. Josh and I were onions with opposite cores. We were each created for someone else. We were not going to work.

p.s. Please let me know what you think! I'm working on putting together a book about relationships...I'd LOVE your input! OR even your frustrations with relationships! Might be fodder for book material! :)