Nothing’s more exciting than learning about a newborn. Talk about good news!
My friend Jim just had a baby boy and I’m thrilled for him. My mind immediately leaps back to when my boys were first born. I quickly forget the sleepless nights or the anxiety about how could we ever afford children. (I remember fretting about spending a mere $2.50 on a diaper pail.) Instead I want to tell Jim about the gummy smiles and the sweet scent of your kids after their bath and all those crazy things we built out of Legos.
I never look at my mostly grown sons without seeing their faces when they were babies, wrapped in their first blanket at the hospital. I can’t travel those fifteen blocks from the hospital to our home without remembering the excitement I felt at their birth.
And you know what? The excitement is still there when I hear from them by email or by phone. I can’t wait to know what is going on in their lives. I hang on their every word.
At baptisms at our church one minister used to say, “A new baby is a sign from God that he wants the world to go on.” A new baby is a reason to be filled with hope. Think what the world can become!
“Remember how bad things were last year?” I heard myself saying. I was giving a two-minute stewardship address at my church, and worried once again how we were ever going to make our budget this year. There were still too many folks in the congregation out of work and even more whose jobs seemed to be threatened. How could they dig into their pockets at such an insecure time?
Then I remembered. Things seemed even worse last year. The stock market had tumbled thousands of points, several big banks had closed and many more were teetering on the brink, everybody’s 401Ks had plummeted so much that they were calling them 201Ks. “Remember how bad that was?” I said. “Well, we got through that year.” The end of October seemed disastrous. The end of December we closed our books pretty close to our goal.
Sometimes it’s worth having a bad memory. I can forget those painful memories of adolescence when I said and did more stupid things than anyone could count. But every time I wonder how I’m going to get through something – when times seem really hard – it’s worth remembering.
I think of a really tough moment in the past and remember: “I got through that. I’ll get through this.” The help I needed was there when I needed it. It'll be there again.
No, I won’t tell you how old she is. She doesn’t want any of her tennis girls to know how old because she’s afraid they’ll hit the ball back too soft. But that she plays tennis twice a week is pretty impressive. It’s one of those things her four kids love about her. She loves a good game and she never gives up. (A little Celebrex helps the arthritis.)
We all love talking to her on the phone because she wants to know all about us, about our kids, about our friends, about the movie we just saw – should she see it? – and the book we just read – would it work for her book group?
She does a great job of taking care of Dad – he’s slowed down a lot – and although she says she prays for patience, the prayer seems to have been answered tenfold. But then she was pretty patient with us. With our cars and tree houses, with all the times we stayed out too late, with the girlfriends and boyfriends she knew were wrong but she never said a word, with the wrong turns in our career paths. (She would also tell you that she prayed to keep silent.)
She used to remind us her birthday was coming up, just in case we might forget. But these days none of us ever do. We’re all so glad to have the chance to say: “You’re a great mom. You’re a great mother-in-law to our spouses. (They could tell you how all your prayers to keep silent were answered.) You’re a great grandmother. Happy Birthday!”
It’s good to be able to say the important things at least once a year.
Sunday night Carol and I were putting the final touches on dinner – celery root soup and a beet salad – when the phone rang. Tim calling from college. “How’s it going?” I asked, conveying his answers as Carol set the table and sprinkled cheese on the salad. Midterms were coming up, music theory was really hard, Japanese history was interesting. I was about to ask him about rehearsals for “Richard II” when I heard a beep on the line.
“Just a second,” I told Tim, “there’s another call coming in…”
“Hi, Dad,” I heard William’s cheerful voice.
“Hey Will, could we call you back? Tim’s on the line.”
“I’m at Macy’s,” he said, “and I’m trying to figure out what kind of coat to buy.”
“Okay, Mom will call you back on her cell…Hey, Tim, are you still there? That was your brother. He’s shopping for coats at Macy’s. How’s the play coming along?”
For the next twenty minutes, Carol was on one line and I was on the other, getting all the news. The soup got cold, the lettuce got warm, but who cared? Shakespeare and Japanese history and the virtues of camel’s hair vs. herringbone were much more interesting.
“Love you,” I said on my line in parting. “Love you,” Carol said on hers. Then we sat down for dinner and grace. “God, be with our kids,” I prayed. Seemed like God was watching over them pretty well already.
Why are bow ties so impossible to tie? I wear one once or twice a year and each time I find myself stymied. I used to know how to do it. Back in high school I was once in a show where I had to tie a bowtie backstage between scenes in 60 seconds. No problem. I could even do it without a mirror. Not now.
The other day I was tying my bowtie at the office – or rather, trying to tie it. I stared at my reflection in the window, making the loop and then working on the rabbit ears (as we used to call them), hoping for something cheerful and spiffy.
I couldn’t do it. I found myself squirming and twisting my torso, as though that would help, tugging at the silk loop without ever pulling it through. What a failure. Don’t tell me I should just go buy one of those pre-tied ties. That would be cheating. They always look fake to me, like a tie for a Ken doll.
Finally, I asked my colleague Amy if she could help. She helps Edward with his bowties all the time. “Sure,” she said. I sat on her desk and she undid the mess that was hanging around my neck and started over. In less than a minute she had created a masterpiece. A perfect butterfly at my throat, making me a dandy for the day.
It occurred to me that maybe God made bowties – or likes to have me wear one every once in a while – so that I’ll know how to ask for help. In other words, it’s not the tie that makes the man, it’s the humility that really clothes him.
Next time you see some guy in a bowtie, a real bowtie, ask him who tied it.
I was thinking about a neighbor Carol and I have been praying for. Quite frankly I was wondering if we should tell her or not. What does it mean to know that people are praying for you? Would she understand how it was meant to help? And how would I ever explain that?
All this was going through my head while I was jogging in the neighborhood the other morning and through the park. “Hey old man,” one old friend called out as he passed me going the other way. “Nice shirt,” said a woman, teasing me about my old ratty T-shirt. “Keep it up, Mr. Hamlin,” a neighbor called from her car as she passed. With each exchange, I felt a little lighter in my step, encouraged, amused, reassured. It made the run go faster and smoother, knowing I wasn’t alone.
“Of course,” I thought to myself, “that’s what it’s like when friends pray for you or put you on a prayer list. You’re reminded that whatever you’re going through, however you’re struggling, you’re not alone.” What a wonderful thing to say to somebody: You’re in my prayers. You’re sharing their burdens. You’re reminding them that they’re a part of a larger community. You’re asking God to be with them in ways you can’t. You put yourself on a course with them, encouraging them all the way.
Tim had only been away at college for two weeks and I was already missing him. Don’t get me wrong. I was happy he was at school, glad to hear about the classes he was taking, glad to know that he was studying hard and having fun with his friends. But I’d gotten used to having him around this summer – home on weekends from his job as a camp counselor. And we’d especially had a good time at the beach when we were both on vacation. How could I tell him I was thinking of him?
Then I remembered how he would always ask me when we were home or at the beach or standing in line to see a movie or shopping at Target, “Dad, can I borrow your Chapstick?” I’d dig into my pocket and hand it over. And he’d return it. Father/son sharing.
At that thought I dashed out the door to the drugstore on the corner. I bought two Chapsticks, scribbled a quick note and sent it off to his school. At least he’d be surprised there was some mail for him.
A couple of days later I got an email back: “I just wanted to say thank you for the Chapstick, Dad. It was really very sweet. That little package brought a lot of joy to my day. Love, Tim.”
My older son, Will, never learned how to ride a bicycle as a kid. Let me tell you I was convinced that it had to be added to my long list of failings as a dad – I couldn’t teach him. I taught Tim, his younger brother, no problem. But no matter how many times Will and I went around the park, me clutching the seat of the bike, ready at any moment to let go…it just never worked.
So somewhere along the way I let go. I let go, as parents really must let go about so many accomplishments and achievements they dream for their children. Maybe in that letting go, there’s a spiritual relinquishment. Allowing God to take up parenting where you as a parent don’t feel like you’ve done your best. I only remembering trying to teach Will to ride a bike was incredibly frustrating.
And yet, and yet…one day when he was 16, out a friend’s beach house, he got on a bike, coasted down a small hill and rode it. He never really stopped after that. He rode a bike the rest of high school and he rode a bike in college. Now that he’s a newly minted college graduate, he’s taken it to even greater lengths. You might be wondering why I’m telling this story now (and one can only hope that Will, age 22, reads it with some forgiveness). It’s because of the text message we got on Saturday: “Mom, Dad, just finished 78-mile ride. It was great!” A 78-mile ride on Highway One up the California coast. From a kid whose dad could never teach him to ride.
Sure glad I had some help in parenting. You never do it on your own. Thank God.
I’ve come to think of it as “9-11 weather,” those brilliant blue clear sunny days we get in early September that remind me of kids going back to school, the parks filling up with soccer games, apples showing up in the farmers’ markets…and that terrible disaster that still remains for me an ache on the New York skyline. I look downtown and see a hole where two giant buildings loomed.
We bound back from tragedy. We humans are ever resourceful. That’s how God made us. New York has certainly bounced back and moved on to other challenges, the current one being a dreary economy. But these days of 9-11 weather serve as reminders of the losses that were suffered. As we move on, we pause and reflect. God made us like that too.
I pray for the families whose homes will forever feel empty like that bit of New York sky. I pray for the survivors who still feel terror in their heart at a sudden loud sound or the smell of smoke or the nightmares that wake them in the night. And I pray for those who call themselves our enemies because Jesus especially urged us to pray for our enemies. Would that we could all understand each other so such tragedies will never happen on any continent.
That’s what 9-11 weather does. It makes me want to pray. The peace the world aches for can start with a beautiful blue clear sunny September day.
I was just out in California where the fires were burning. The heat was intense, 104 degrees one day in Pasadena, and with the fires blazing in the foothills, the smoke could sting your eyes and the smell was everywhere, indoors and out. At night we looked to the hills and it was as though there were a volcano on the ridge, huge flames leaping into the dark sky, the red glare lighting up the clouds of smoke.
It would be easy to compare such a natural disaster with hell. Over 200 square miles have been destroyed, tens of homes lost, thousands evacuated, 2500 firemen battling the firestorm like a small army, building new fire breaks to contain the blaze. Two firefighters have been lost so far. I can’t imagine a harder job. The heat was intense enough without the fire. On Sunday at church there was a special round of prayers for the firefighters. They do heroic work.
What I have to remind myself when I see such devastation is that wild fires are a natural part of life in Southern California. It’s part of the ecology. This fire is particularly fierce because much of the area hasn’t burned in 60 to 80 years, and the old brush is like tinder. But the hills will turn green again with the winter rains – God willing, there won’t be floods. Some seeds even need the fire to germinate.
There is loss, but there will be new life. That’s also part of God’s ecology. I pray for the safety of the firefighters. I pray for those whose homes are threatened and all who have suffered loss. Meanwhile I hold on to the hope of the cooling breezes and the greening of the hills that will come. It always comes.
Why are bow ties so impossible to tie? I wear one once or twice a year and each time I find myself stymied. I used to know how to do it. Back in high school I was once in a show where I had to tie a bowtie backstage between scenes in 60 seconds. No problem. I could even do it without a mirror. Not now.