Ray

I love Dr. Pepper. Growing up, I only remember having any kind of Coke (it's all Coke) when we had pizza. Mom wasn't big on sugary things, diet drinks hadn't really surfaced and milk was supposed to be good for me, so no cokes. 

But Grandpa drank Dr. Pepper. 

Ray Elders was a church planter and pastored churches in Alabama, Arkansas, Kentucky, Tennessee and South Carolina. As you might imagine, the pay was never great. I only remember him living in a parsonage or a trailer.

He worked as a carpenter and painter, fixed wrecked cars and trailers, even raised bees for awhile. Anything to bring in a little extra income.

I told him when I was 5 I wanted to be a carpenter and a pastor just like him... "So I don't have to go to college."

It would be so hot in Tennessee the tar would bubble off the asphalt. I'd climb in Grandpa's rebuilt car and we'd fly down the road to visit someone in the hospital or buy pop rivets to fix a trailer. He'd stop for gas and would get a Dr. Pepper. So I would too.

Now I'm in my 40's and know Dr. Pepper has nothing for me but weight gain. But somehow, when I drink it, I feel the warmth of the Tennessee sun. I feel the wind on my face and smell the dust from doing 60 down a dirt road in a car with no AC. 

And I hear his laugh. It's the laugh of a man with his only grandson. It's full of love for the boy and thankfulness to God for the time together. 

So I roll down my window, squint my eyes from the sun, wind and dust and I sip a Dr. Pepper. And I remember. I have been and I am unconditionally loved. And it's well worth the calories. 

Weddings and Wonder

One of the great things about having small children is experiencing the world through their eyes. You get to rediscover the beauty of things that have grown dull with familiarity.

Our wonder is renewed as we watch them experience the first smell of a flower, touch of a puppy, barefoot walk in grass.

Something happens as kids get older. Those discovery moments become less frequent and more obscured by debates over bedtime, homework, chores and curfew. A routine settles in and life returns to ordinary.

All that came rushing back last month, as Marcus graduated from college one week and married the next. The excitement of accomplishment and new adventure was bubbling out of him. It was like his first taste of ice cream.

Events like weddings bring wonder to our doorstep, like the flash of fireworks in the night sky.

But every day wonder surrounds us silently. It's the sunset we never see because we’re working with our head down. The universe is brimming with things to amaze us, but we have to look up.

Most days wonder doesn't show up on our doorstep. We have to leave the house. But it's out there. Maybe in that new flavor of ice cream.  

I Miss My Mom

I miss my mom today. I'm not sure where it came from. It was one of those, blindsided with grief when you least expect it moments.

There's a lot going on. I'm worried about covering bills and our income deficit to the mission. At the same time the excitement of a boy's graduation and fun of his wedding.

I didn't miss her those days. Sure, I was very aware she wasn't there, but I didn't miss her.

But this morning I woke up early and laid in bed wresting with life. Somewhere in the darkness "Honey Off a Thorn" whispered in my mind and I tried to remember what I had written.

I pushed it away, got out of bed and began my day. I tried to catch up on emails, set up appointments and chugged coffee. Then I remembered what had been whispered earlier.

I went back through previous posts, found the link, read to the bottom... and was suddenly undone.

The things I struggle with, the worries of life, the joy of the past few weeks and the lack of Mom's presence tumbled me, like a wave tossing driftwood.

1600 miles away she sits, Alzheimer's keeping her unaware.

I think we're hardwired to share struggle and accomplishment. It's why we complain about work and celebrate birthdays. The big ones are made to be shared with those closest to us.

I think that's why today, I miss my mom.

The DeVries

Marcus married sweet Kelsie last week. She’s a lovely girl who loves Jesus and loves him. The wedding was an awesome celebration.

But, if marriages were arranged in the U.S. they probably wouldn't have gotten together. Our families are too different. They’re Dutch. We’re mutts. She’s never left the country. Marcus has lived on three continents.

She’s from a small town with one red light. Marcus grew up in big cities. Her Dad can do great “man” stuff like back up a trailer, run five miles, has great tools in his garage and can fix stuff. I can walk… to the kitchen… and fix biscuits. 

Still, they welcomed us into their home. It was like some epic biblical wedding feast that lasted for a week. We moved into their home. Marcus moved in. Andrew moved in. Marcus’ friends from high school. Kelsie. Her brother. Her sister. Her friends.

We all showed up to help with a week of wedding prep. Instead it was more like locust taking over their place, loud, eating their food and using their shower. I’m still stunned by their graciousness and generosity.

Her parents, Brian and Diane work as lay ministers and have poured their lives into students for years. They have an obvious love for and walk with God. They have raised four bright, funny and gifted kids of their own.

Parents used to arrange marriages to benefit the family, to raise their status and create more financial stability. This marriage had nothing to do with status or wealth. But in terms of spiritual legacy, Marcus scored big time.  

Multiple Moms

This was my childhood. The younger brother. The youngest cousin. And any family within five years of me was girl. I was bossed, bullied, tattled on, corralled, directed and disciplined.

I was also loved, deeply loved, by the females in my life. All older. All bossy. And all loving. This picture kind of explains it.

Kim, Jeffrey, Tina, Cindy and Jill

I’m sure that’s the reason I've written so much about women, why I care about their struggle with self image, why I’m concerned about sexual abuse of the most vulnerable, why the situation in Nigeria crushes me and why relationship is my highest value. 

We may get older, but our childhood travels with us. Sometimes it's like a warm coat on a cold day. Sometimes more like ill-fitting shoes. We can change our shoes, but it will always be a part of our story. 

I'm thankful for my childhood and the profound impact of my mom's life on me. I'm thankful for the impact of her sister, Pat, and the four girls in the picture, who felt it was their job to "mother" me. 

Moms come in all shapes, sizes and ages. Sometimes we're born to them, sometimes we find them and sometimes God brings them to us. What's certain is we all need at least one. Fortunately, I've had many. 

Emotional Junk Food

I like TV. I like movies too. I even like books. There’s something about a well written character that sucks me in. I can get so attached to them I miss them when the book goes back on the shelf.

I like geeky Leonard Hofstadter on The Big Bang Theory. I feel like I know him. I know his friends. His mom. His hang-ups and insecurities and even where they come from. I want him and Penny to stay together.

I realized yesterday, I know Leonard better than my neighbor.

Leonard makes me laugh, roll my eyes, worry and laugh some more. He feeds me emotionally. And all he requires is a half hour each week.

So I can have a “friendship” with Leonard, Patrick Jane, Tony Stark, Batman, Frodo and Harry Potter and it doesn’t cost me anything.

The problem is real relationships are expensive. They take time, energy, investment, commitment, forgiveness, grace, understanding and self-sacrifice. 

I can’t sit down with my neighbor, friend or coworker for a half hour each week just to be entertained. I have to give something back.

There’s nothing wrong with a good show, movie or book. Story has the ability to teach us in profound ways.

We just need to understand it’s relational junk food. There's nothing wrong with eating some chips, but if that's our substitute for real nourishment, we'll end up emotionally malnourished. 

Be Careful

I ride my motorcycle to work every chance I get. It’s little. My friend Nick says it looks like a “little kid’s bike.” Can't remember why he's my friend.

Even though it’s a “little kid’s bike” Nancy mandated some rules. I have to wear a helmet. I have to wear a riding jacket. She even bought me a backpack, so florescent yellow, you can see it from the moon. I’m supposed to wear that too.

And every time I leave the house she says, “Be careful.”

In fact, everyone says “Be careful.” Nick says it. Ron says it when I walk by his office to leave. My boss Pete. Pastor Greg says it. Heck, even the guy at the post office when I pick up mail.

There was a time in my life this would have really bothered me. Because of my bent, my youth, my insecurities and my tendency to read subtext into conversations, I would have hated it.

Be careful? What do you mean? Of course I’m careful. Do you think I can’t drive? Am I not capable enough? Responsible enough? Don’t you trust me?

One of the beauties of getting old is a lot of that stuff seems to fall away. There's so much less to prove, so I can hear the words for what they really mean. These people care about me.

Like "As You Wish" from the Princess Bride, what they are really saying is, "Love you!" Hearing it so often makes me think everyone should ride a motorcycle. Oh, and it reminds me why Nick is my friend.