Why the Professor Should Come Home for Dinner

They say that girls have a tendency to marry someone like their father.  In a lot of ways I did just that.  But apparently I also married my mother.

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When I was growing up money was tight so my mom was always looking to pinch pennies.  One of her strategies was to buy the cheap peanut butter, the kind that had a rock hard mass of peanut sludge on the bottom of the container and a thick coating of oil on the top.  To be even remotely edible this product required a good half hour of stirring before it could be spread on bread.

Nowadays people call this organic and pay extra for it.  They may even argue that the stirring is good because it give you a good arm workout thus counterbalancing the calories and striking a blow against childhood obesity.

Recently the Professor came home with this kind of peanut butter.  He was quite pleased that he found peanut butter without any palm oil.  "It might need a little stirring though," he warned.

Tonight at dinnertime the jar got opened for the first time.  Imagination boy looked at it in dismay.  He stirred for awhile.  Then I took over to give his arm a break.  I didn't last long either but not because my arm got tired.  I had an idea.  Why use muscle power when there is a kitchen full of gadgets to hand? Am I not my father's daughter?

"I have a great idea!" I said.

This made the children nervous.  I can't imagine why.

I pulled out my handy dandy stick blender.  "Here, plug this in behind you" I said to Imagination Boy as I started to put the blender in the jar in the middle of the table.

"No," three voices chorused.

"You'll make a big mess." (Like they would be the ones cleaning up any potential mess)

"At least do it on the counter where it won't splatter all over us."  (Okay, they may have a point there.)

I was pleased to see that the jar was just wide enough for the blender.  What it wasn't, was deep enough to hold all the peanut butter and the submerged blender.

The kids shouted in horror as the peanut butter overflowed.

"This is why Dad needs to make it home in time for dinner," Oldest Girl said.

In my defense the peanut butter was nicely mixed when I finished (apart from the chunky bits I scooped up from the outside of the jar and stuffed back in) and Imagination Boy did make and eat his sandwich.

How to Throw a Perfect Surprise Party

Today I am going to tell you how to throw the perfect surprise party.  The kind where the person whose birthday it is is totally and completely surprised.

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Step 1. Make sure it is a first birthday.

That's it.  There are no more steps.

When Oldest Girl was turning one we were living in a small cheap apartment while we waited for our house in another state to sell.  No one had ever visited us there and I don't think Oldest Girl was aware that such a thing was possible.

The list of people Oldest Girl truly knew and loved at that point in her life was pretty small so when pretty much all of them walked in the door and said surprise, she was stunned.

She sat there in total disbelief and delight.  And then we got on with the party and a great time was had by all.

We threw a surprise party for my dad when he turned 50.

It is hard to throw a surprise party for a pastor and invite the entire church and have it still be a surprise. But we almost pulled it off.

He pretended to be surprised but when we asked if he had guessed he told us the truth. Earlier that day some idiot a caring member of the congregation called him at the church to ask him if the party that night was at the church or at his house.

He was surprised when my oldest brother showed up having flown in from out of town.  So at least we surprised him a little.

Moral of the story:  It is a lot harder to surprise an adult than a baby.

Dad's Favorite Places

Yesterday I read a good friend's blog post about a trip to the Railroad Museum in Sacramento.

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That brought back the memories.

I've been there many times.

Too many times.

You see, when I was growing up, everywhere we lived (and that is several places) my Dad had a favorite spot to bring people who visited us or just the family if he could hoodwink us into it.

In Sacramento that place was the Railroad Museum.

I have nothing against the Railroad Museum.  It is a fine museum.  I probably even enjoyed it the first time.  But as a teenager I was not thrilled with numerous repeat visits.  Dad would drone on and on about the various locomotives.  He was endlessly fascinated with machinery and engineering and how things worked.

The good thing about the Railroad Museum was that it had a gift shop.

This was important because the only way to get Dad out of a place like the Railroad Museum was to tell him that Mom was in the gift shop.

That usually got him moving in a hurry.

In Louisville, Kentucky his place was the the locks on the river.  This was much worse than the Railroad Museum because there was no gift shop.  Dad had the car keys and the only way to leave was to wait for him to be ready to leave.  This always took forever.

When we heard a visit to the locks was in the planning stages, those of us old enough to be left home alone would scatter and hide or suddenly remember vast amounts of homework due very, very soon. Younger siblings would beg to be left in our charge.

None of this seemed to dampen Dad's enthusiasm or his belief that if he just explained it all clearly enough we would all find the locks fascinating and enjoy it as much as him.

Not long after his death I took a ferry boat ride on the river in Tokyo.  As we enjoyed the scenery, I found myself taking lots of photos of locks and river gates.  Until I realized I was taking those photos so I could share them with my dad.

I wish I could go now to the Louisville locks or the Sacramento Railroad Museum with my Dad and listen to him talk.  I'd let him talk as long as he liked.  And I'd even listen this time.

A Punny Kind of Guy

My Dad loved puns.  The more groan inducing the better.

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His favorites involved Jonah.

It's a whale of a tale.

Can be a bit hard to stomach.

The whole thing seems a bit fishy to me.

Some theologians have a tough time swallowing it.

What, you don't like these?  It made the whale so sick he barfed on the beach.

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Have any more?  Add them in the comments.

Two Dads

Last night I pointed out to the Professor that the anniversary of my Dad's death was coming up.

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"I'm sorry" he said.  "I hadn't thought about the exact date."

Before I even had a chance to feel upset about that he added, "It was 20 years ago this year that my dad died."

There's a dose of perspective for you.

My dad didn't live to see me move back to the states.  He didn't live to see me learn how to use power tools.

The Professor's dad didn't live to see him get his doctorate. He didn't live to see him established in his career. He didn't live to see his son become a father. He didn't live to see him follow in his footsteps in so many ways both big and small.

Maybe the wound isn't as fresh but do you ever get over losing a parent?

I had 18 more years with my father than the Professor did.  My Dad saw my graduation with a Masters degree.  He baptized my three children.  He visited me in England. He discussed my job with me in the final days of his life.

I know it isn't a contest.

We both had wonderful fathers.  Imperfect, flawed, colorful characters the two of them.  And both of us lost them way too soon.  Because it is always too soon to lose a parent.

Lent and Loss

Two years ago tomorrow my father died.

He died in the middle of lent.  On Easter Sunday I said goodbye to my mother and the house he died in and headed back towards home on the other side of the globe.

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Three years and a couple weeks ago was the great Tohoku Earthquake and Tsunami in northern Japan.  My world had already been rocked a couple months earlier by dad's cancer diagnosis but now the frequent yet unpredictable aftershocks caused my physical environment to match my emotional environment.

One year ago I was preparing to move back to the country of my birth after almost a decade overseas.

This year I often feel like a stranger in a strange land as we all seek to adjust to life back in the states.

Sometimes it feels like the world hasn't stopped rocking.

I miss my dad.  I remember how proud he was of me when I went to seminary and got a masters in youth ministry.  I don't think he ever said those words to me but I knew it.  He was pleased as could be that I was following in his footsteps even though he wished I would have gone all the way and gotten ordained ("When are you going to start preaching?" he would ask).

And now I'm living in a old house and renovating it using as little money and as many reclaimed materials and creative solutions as possible.  I'm doing things I never imagined myself doing like climbing into crawl spaces to identify plumbing problems, snaking out drains, hanging drywall, demolishing and rebuilding, laying flooring, and using power tools.

And I want to call my dad and ask him questions.  I want him to visit and see my handiwork.  I want to discuss options and ideas.  But most of all I want to see how proud he is of me for following in his footsteps.  He wouldn't say it, but I would know.  I would hear it in the tone of his voice and the questions he asked and the way he smiled.

I believe in heaven.  I believe my father is there. But I suspect heaven is nothing like popular conceptions of it. I don't believe my father is sitting up there looking down at his loved ones and smiling as he follows our daily lives.  And frankly even if he was it wouldn't make me feel better.

I miss him here and now.

Maybe that is what lent is about at least for me, for now, for this season.  Lent is about loss and the instability of this world, about sacrifice and denial.  Lent leads to the cross and the cross leads to resurrection: Jesus resurrection, Dad's resurrection, my resurrection.

But before we get to Easter there is a whole lot of lent and the whole betrayal and anguish in the garden and crown of thrones and "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me."

Reduce, Reuse, Recycle

When the Professor and I got married over two decades ago we were poor struggling college students.

I believe our monthly budget was about $400 and over half of that went to rent.

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So we furnished our first apartment with whatever we could get our hands on for free.

The summer we got married the Professor worked maintenance at the college dorms.  They were replacing some furniture that summer so he was able to bring home two desks and two dressers.

Do you have any idea what state dorm furniture is in by the time it is discarded by the college?

Just use your imagination.

Over the years as we moved again and again (and again and again) various bits of this furniture were scrapped.

But one college cast off dresser made the trip with us over the ocean to our current location.  Here it has served ably in the garage holding mittens and scarves and random craft supplies.

But it was time to say goodbye.  This dresser was not fit to make yet another move.

I sat down with the screwdriver and pulled the dresser apart so the trash people would pick it up with out charging us extra for furniture removal.

It was very bittersweet to dismantle this item which had seen so much good usage and been with us so long.

As I piled all the pieces by the trash I just couldn't get rid of it all.

I saved this, the base of the dresser.

I figure we can use it in our new crawl space to pile stuff on that we don't want sitting on the floor.

I can't tell you how happy it makes me to think that this item someone else discarded and which has been a part of our entire marriage will still be used.

Over the years of marriage our fortunes have changed.  We can buy new furniture if we want to (which we rarely do).  But that original spirit of working with what we have, of being content with less, of seeing possibilities where others see trash, that hasn't changed.

My Dad would be so proud.

Missing Dad's Garage

My Dad's garage was the stuff of legends.  It could easily fit two cars plus a ton of storage but after the first year or so of living in the house, cars were relegated to the outside as the garage slowly filled up with "useful" odds and ends.

amateur_photo_borevia photopin cc

My sister used to joke (long before Dad actually got sick) that the first thing she would do when she heard that Dad was dead was to run over to the house and burn the garage down so none of us had to deal with all the junk inside.

When Dad actually was dying, I spent some time trying to sort through the items in the garage and separate out the treasures from the trash (and there was an awful lot of both) in preparation for Mom's inevitable move to a smaller more manageable house.

The items I found included (but are by no means limited to)

• broken dishwashers
• numerous vacuum cleaners of various sorts and states of repair
• uncountable corded and cordless drills and parts pertaining to said drills
• bins and bins of screws, bolts, nails, and assorted jumbled hardware
• power tools, power tools, and more power tools
• oodles of lawn mowers and parts
• broken garbage disposals
• garage door openers both functioning and broken
• electrical bits and pieces of all shapes and sizes
• wood and metal scraps
• spring, casters, wheels, etc.
• gardening equipment of all sorts

And that list is barely scratching the surface.  Let's just say it was an epic yard sale.

You see, my Dad was very handy.  He could fix nearly anything and his favorite way to do so was using whatever odds and ends he had to hand.  Thankfully for him (and usually not so thankfully for the aesthetically pleasing value of the finished repair) he had an awful lot to hand.

In retrospect we can see that Dad was sick for years before the cancer diagnosis.  There were many years where he continued to collect odds and ends and throw broken items into the garage for the repairs he hoped to get to soon.

Trying to sort through the garage was not an easy task physically or emotionally and despite hours of work I didn't feel like I got very far.  It was hard to know that these items that had value to my Dad would have little value to others.

And now, as I prepare to move in to a house that needs some updating and creative storage options, I find myself longing for my Dad's garage.  I peruse DIY projects on pinterest and think, "I could easily have built this with supplies from the garage."  It will be painful to buy things like caster wheels that I could have had for free.

But much more painful is the longing for my Dad himself.  It is easy to buy new items from Home Depot, but there is no way to buy the conversations about home repair, fix ups, and creative problem solving that I wish I could have.

Garages and their contents can be replaced.  Dads can't.

Eulogy

Here is the eulogy I gave at my Dad's funeral.

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Giving good gifts was not one of my dad’s many skills.   I think all of us kids who were alive at the time can remember the Christmas Dad gave mom a pair of scissors.  

She was not impressed. 

One of my jobs growing up was to make sure Dad bought Mom a poinsettia at Christmas time and a lily at Easter time because he just couldn’t be trusted to remember on his own no matter how many times Mom told him this was a requirement.  And although every birthday and Christmas gift I received from my parents said love Mom and Dad I knew Dad really had nothing to do with it.

But even though Dad may not have given me tangible gifts, he gave me something much more valuable.  

He gave me the greatest gift any parent can give their child.  

My entire life I have known without question that three things were true.  

Number 1, Dad loved me..  

Number 2, Dad loved Mom.  

And number 3, Dad loved God.  

This is the gift my Dad gave me.

But as you may have noticed, I am not an only child.  Dad also gave this gift to his other 10 children.  But even more than that Dad gave this gift to the world.

Dad loved me.  He loved me for who I am and not just who he wanted me to be.  All of us kids have done things and made choices that disappointed Dad.    Dad could and did get angry, not often, not quickly, but it did happen. 

But he never stopped loving us, not even for a second.  

And that doesn’t just apply to his children.  Dad loved people this way.  My parents are the most loving, forgiving people I know.  Through all of his life my dad loved and reached out to all people around him but especially to those people that others overlooked, the poor, the powerless, those with special needs.  Dad saw past skin color, IQ, worldly wealth and importance and just plain loved people where they were at for who they were.

Dad also loved Mom.  

My parents were married for over 53 years.  On their second date my dad told my mom he was going to marry her.  She immediately replied, “Oh no you are not!”  I think we can all be glad she eventually gave in.  In today’s world where so many elements fight against solid marriages, my parents set an example of give and take, of compromise and cooperation that we all can follow.

And last but definitely not least, Dad loved God. 

Dad loved God with all his heart, soul, strength, and mind.  And he loved his neighbor as himself.  Dad didn’t just say he loved God, he lived it.  Sometimes this made life hard for Dad.  His ministry career had lots of bumps in the road because the fact of the matter is that lots of us say we love God but not many of us really live it.  And it makes us uncomfortable when someone challenges our comfort zone by not just saying they love Jesus but actually living like Jesus.  That was my Dad.

When I reflect on Dad’s life and all the people he had an impact on, I pray that I can give my children the gift he gave me, to love my children and others, to love my husband, and to love God.  And I know that Dad’s prayer for all of you would be the same.

One Year Ago

One year, one week and a couple of days ago I got on a plane and flew across the globe to be with my Dad and Mom as the end approached.
...

One year, one week, and one day ago, my Dad said, " I don't know why all you people are traveling to visit me."

"Dad, you do know."

"Yes, I do.  And I appreciate it."

"We just want to spend what time we can with you because we love you."

"I love you too"
...

One year and one week ago I sat with my Dad and my oldest brother and his wife and daughter and watched a DVD of another brother preaching.  My sister in law and I had a conversation on the protestant versus the Catholic view of communiion.  Dad didn't engage in that conversation.  Clearly he was dying.
...

One year and six days ago I did the dishes while Mom sat next to Dad and held his hand.  They didn't talk.  They didn't need to.
...

One year and five days ago live continued on in the house while Dad started to slip further away.
...

One year and four days ago I sat at the computer and tried to complete some work long distance.  Dad asked me about it and we ended up discussing church budgeting priorities.  It was the last real conversation we had.
...

One year and three days ago Dad couldn't really walk anymore.  He still wanted to join the family at the dinner table.  We put him in the chair and wheeled him to the table.  He seemed totally out of it.  The children were bickering. Mom asked Dad if he wanted to pray.  He did.  He prayed that the family would be able to pull together and support each other.  It was his last clearly lucid speech of any real length.
...

One year and two days ago Dad spent the day in bed.  Random things came out of his mouth at random times.  He spoke of flying and looking for a luggage cart.  He saw things that weren't there.  He worried about things from his childhood.
...

One year and one day ago we walked around the house in hushed tones, waiting, knowing it couldn't be long, not wanting it to end but not wanting it to continue either.
...

One year ago today I stood around the bed with my mother, my brother, and my sister and we all touched Dad as he breathed his last.

One year ago today Dad died.

It was too soon.

One year.

Tomorrow I will write happy memories.  I will write of my Dad and my children because everything I am as a parent is due to the love and training my parents gave me and they gave me so much.

But today...today I am just sad.

Duct Tape

My dad could fix just about anything with duct tape.

Your prom dress needs hemming.  Duct tape will solve that.

Image courtesy of Grant Cochrane / FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Muffler falling off.  Duct tape to the rescue.

Textbook falling apart.  Duct tape again.

If it wasn't duct tape, it was clothes hangers or paper clips or old shoe laces.  He was good with his hands and it made him happy to fix things using just the supplies he had to hand.

Dad was also an optimist.  He believed nearly everything could be fixed if you just put a little time and effort into it.

So his garage and basement were full of all the broken things he intended to fix someday and the tools and odds and ends he intended to use to fix them.

During one of my visits near the end, the dryer stopped working.  Dad had some suggestions for repair but eventually I solved the problem on my own.

The problem was excess lint clogging up the exhaust system.  I gathered all the wire coat hangers I could find, bent them out into a line and duct taped them together.  I then went outside and used my improvised snake to clean years of accumulated lint from the pipe.

Mission accomplished.

Like my dad I can use duct tape to give a bit more life to items that are on their last legs.

But it doesn't last forever.

Duct tape doesn't fix cancer.  Duct tape doesn't hold life in a body when it is time to go.

But every time I pull out a roll of duct tape to fix something or solve a problem, I'll think of my dad.

Refridgerator Repair 101: Don't try this at home.

One of the last projects Dad and I tackled together was refrigerator repair.

The treatments had stopped and Dad was home.  He had had a scare with his heart and was now confined to his chair or bed for the most part.  But Dad had not given up on life or living.

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Mom left the house to run errands and Dad suggested I pull out the fridge so that I could look at the back and see if I could pull off the one little part that he figured was the reason the ice maker no longer worked.  

Just looking at things didn't seem like a bad plan at the time.  

Dad shouted directions from his chair around the corner and I did the work.  

We were a wonder team of creative problem solving and brainstorming.  Can't find the right tool, no problem we can fix that with a rubber band.  

There was a point in there when we questioned whether attempting this was really a good idea but by that point we were in too deep emotionally.  

Soon dad couldn't resist coming around the corner and sitting on his chair to watch the action.  It wasn't long after that before he was on the floor next to me.  

Then mom came home and caught us.  

We managed to get the suspect part off and I took it to the repair store for testing.  Unfortunately the part tested out just fine which meant we had solved nothing.  I came home and put the part back on.  

Here was where things went a little pear shaped as the British would say.  

I put the part on and Dad insisted on inspecting it to see that I had done it just right and he agreed it was good.  So we plugged it in and let the water flow.  Mom got to do the honors of trying to get a glass of water from the water dispenser (which worked perfectly at the beginning of the day).  

She pushed, no water.  

Dad and I could hear and feel the water running through the pipes at our end so we figured she needed to push longer. 

Note to any of you at home who may plan on attempting foolhardy refrigerator repairs at home, when you can hear and feel the water rushing in and it isn't coming out the proper location, holding down the button longer in hopes of a miracle may not be the best plan.  

Soon mom had left the room cause this clearly was not the place for the faint of heart, and dad and I were lying on the floor on opposite sides of the fridge.  

It was around that time that I managed to give myself a nice electric shock and soon after that that all the water that we wondered where it could possibly have gone made its appearance on the floor.  

Clearly it was time to retire to the comfy chairs for some creative problem solving.  

After talking through the situation, we decided that no one really needs to get water from the fridge door anyway and we unplugged the offending part and put the fridge back in it's place.  

We pulled out the ice maker and now Mom has more space in the freezer.  

Win-win right?  

We tried to convince Mom that this whole project was undertaken out of our deep love for her and desire to provide her with the ice cubes she craves, but I'm not sure she was buying it.

Saying "I Love You"

For some people, saying "I love you" does not come naturally.

My dad was one of those people.  I don't think I heard him say "I love you" to me until the final year of his life.

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But he told me he loved through his actions all the time.

When I was in high school, Dad drove me in the 3 miles to school every morning.  He also went out of his way to pick up my best friend and give her a ride too.

Dad loved to sing to the two of us in the car.

Dad had a beautiful preaching voice: strong, commanding, nice to listen to.  He did NOT have a beautiful singing voice.

He had the kind of singing voice that made babies cry, young children cover their ears, and people near him cringe.

And his choice of songs left a lot to be desired as well.  His favorites for those morning drives included his high school fight song and a lovely ditty about the cow kicking Nellie which included the refrain,

     "Second verse, same as the first, little bit louder and a little bit worse."

Which he would then proceed to do.

Of course this embarrassed me to tears and as we would pull up to my friend's house each morning I would beg him not to sing today.  He would solemnly agree and then as my friend got in the car he would burst into song with great enthusiasm.

Teasing was his love language.

Dad didn't say "I love you" but he lived it.  It's nice to hear the words, but, if you have to make a choice, choose the one who acts in love every time.

Learning to Drive: Stay off the Sidewalks

My Dad was of the throw-them-in-the-deep-end-and-they-will-learn-to-swim school of parenting.

Teaching me to drive was a classic example of this.

Paul Mayne via photopin cc

To call me a hesitant driver would be a bit of an understatement.  I was terrified of the thought that I would be in control of 3 tons or so of metal that could in seconds cause death or disfigurement to me, innocent bystanders, and property.

The day after I got my permit Dad drove me to an appointment downtown.  As we walked back to the car, Dad suggested I should drive home.

Given the fact that
   a) I had never been behind the wheel before
   b) We were downtown in a major city
   c) It was rush hour
   d) The drive home included expressways, and
   e) His car was stick shift
I didn't think this was the best place to start.

Dad seemed genuinely puzzled by my hesitation even when I pointed out my reasons, but he reluctantly agreed to drive.  He then spent the entire drive home demonstrating and explaining in great detail how to shift without using the clutch.

The next day Dad took me out on the quiet suburban streets of our neighborhood to practice driving for the first time.

I was nervous. He was not.

He was however full of advice and direction. Non-stop.  Occasionally contradictory.

Next thing I knew I was crying too hard to see the road.  And I was parked on the sidewalk.

Dad drove us home and Mom took over as driving instructor.  I didn't drive with Dad in the car again for years.

The last time I was in a car with Dad was the day I drove him home from the hospital.

It was 4 days after the surgery, 2 days after the diagnosis of terminal, stage 4 cancer.  I helped him climb into the car and carefully arraigned his oxygen tank between his knees.

I didn't cry on that drive home and I didn't drive on any sidewalks, but it was hard.  Much harder than learning to drive.

Blender Breakfast

My Dad loved technology.  He especially loved putting technology to creative uses that others wouldn't think of.  Sometimes this worked and sometimes...not so much.

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When I was in middle school my mom went back to work.  Her shift went from 6 am to 2 pm so it fell on Dad to get us kids up and out the door in the morning.

My dad was many things but a modern hands on, diaper changing, omelet baking kind of dad he was not.  Like most men who came of age in the 50's, the only cooking he did was outdoors.

Mom was a bit concerned about leaving Dad in charge of feeding us a nutritious breakfast.  (For mom, despite the advertisements on the Fruit Loops box, a nutritious breakfast must include a cooked egg in some form or another.)   She informed me that as the oldest daughter, it was my job to supervise Dad in the kitchen and make sure he did it right.

That first morning I stumbled into the kitchen to supervise Dad.  He was cheerfully singing to himself as he prepared breakfast.  He cracked several eggs into the blender.  I figured the blender was a bit of overkill for scrambled eggs and certainly not the way Mom would do it but I could let it slide.

Then he picked up the raw bacon and started to add that.

"Stop" I shouted.

"Why?"  he asked, genuinely perplexed.  "Bacon and eggs taste great together.  I always crumble the bacon and then add the eggs in the same pan when we are camping.  Putting it all in the blender first just saves a step."

"Dad, you can't blend raw bacon and eggs.  It won't cook right."

"Sure I can.  It will be fine.  My way will be more efficient."

"Dad, the bacon won't cook and you will poison us all."

"It'll work great."

There was no stopping him.  I had failed Mom I reflected as I sat down to my incomplete breakfast of Fruit Loops with no egg.

No one but Dad ate the eggs.  He insisted they were delicious, but that was the last time he tried to use the blender to make breakfast.

Small kitchen appliances are a wonderful thing, but the blender is not the answer to all meal prep situations.

Sometimes Oatmeal is More than Oatmeal

Sometimes Oatmeal is more than oatmeal.  Sometimes Oatmeal is love.

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When my dad was dying, after the treatments stopped and he was home with hospice checking in weekly, oatmeal was his daily breakfast.  He prepared his giant bowl himself then sat in his recliner in the dining room to eat while family life swirled hectically around him.

And then one day he couldn't.  He couldn't handle being on his feet long enough to make his own oatmeal anymore.

I was there--having left my family behind to fend for themselves on the other side of the globe--to help out for a couple weeks and spend precious time with dad.  I also ate oatmeal every morning for breakfast so the job of making dad's oatmeal fell naturally to me.

I was very bad at it.

Dad wanted his oatmeal just so.  The proper proportions of oatmeal, water, raisins, and brown sugar were apparently essential as was the exact order they were added to the bowl, how they were stirred and the precise amount of time in the microwave.  And of course which bowl and spoon were critical as well. Dad would sit in his recliner and call out directions to me in the kitchen to make sure I did it right.

I never once got it exactly right.

Although he always thanked me for making his oatmeal, he always let me know which elements I had gotten wrong.

And the thing is, I didn't mind.  I knew he wanted to be in the kitchen making his own oatmeal.  He wanted to be still providing for his family as he had done for so many years and not have them wait on him.  He wanted to be healthy.  He wanted to live.

Ironically, shortly after I returned home to my own family, my brother stopped by to visit with Dad and in his email update he sent to us siblings scattered far and wide he included this line:  "Mom made his oatmeal (according to Dad, only Mary can do it just right ... but Mom is second best)"

I laughed and then I cried.

Because for me making that bowl of oatmeal every morning, criticisms and all, was a joy and a pleasure.  I was so grateful for the pleasure of being able do something, anything, to serve my father.  For me that morning oatmeal wasn't just oatmeal it was love.

When Mom called and said Dad couldn't eat his oatmeal any more I knew it was time.  I packed my bags and left my family behind again--this time with an open ended ticket.

Who's Holding the Cards?

Sometimes you can think you are winning when really someone else is holding the cards you need to succeed.

amanky via photopin cc

Your great-grandpa had a devious streak to him.  One time while camping at Yosemite National Park we were playing a card game in the evening.  In the game, Pit, you all try to get a hand full of the exact same card by trading the cards you don't want with other players.  Everyone trades at the same time by holding cards face down and shouting out the number of cards they have to trade. It's loud and hectic and crazy and fun.

So there we are at the picnic table in the campground frantically swapping cards.  I'm getting excited because I only need one card to have a complete hand full of Barley for the win.  I keep shouting "one, one, one, one, one" as I hold out the corn card that I need to trade away.  And I keep grabbing a card from another player, glance at it eagerly only to see that it isn't Barley but yet another Corn.  So I try again, yelling just a little bit louder.  I trade again, and again it is Corn.  But I'm so close to winning.

Almost everyone at the table is frantic just like me.  Everyone is trading one card only.  And that one card is always Corn.  But we are all so caught up in the fact the we are about to win if we just get the one right card that none of us notice this fact.

Suddenly Dad starts laughing.  We all keep trading our single Corn cards around the table sure we will win any second.  Dad laughs harder.  We look at him with annoyance.

"Just stop"  he says.  "None of you can win."  He exposes his hand which contains precisely one of each of the cards.  There is my desired Barley, along with mom's longed for Wheat, my sister's needed Rye and so on.

"I wanted to see how long it would take you to realize that none of you could win.  I figured eventually you would realize that you were all trading the same card.  Finally I gave up on you ever figuring it out."  He laughed some more as we all sat there chagrined.

When we calmed down, we continued on with the game briefly until the park ranger arrived to tell us to cut it out for the night as we were disturbing the other campers.

Sometimes you can be so focused on a goal and think you are so close that you can miss all the obvious signs around you that someone else is holding the cards and you can't succeed just by doing more of the same thing you have been doing.