I came to God with fashion sense

And clothes I bought at great expense

I knew the drill

All things down pat.

God said, I never wanted that.

I huddled with my life long friends.

Talk to strangers? That depends.

I loved the show from where I sat.

God said, I never wanted that.

I knew each song

I’ve heard them all

Each choral piece and worship call

I cringed when someone’s song fell flat

God said, I never wanted that.

My i-pod has a thousand songs

Of worship stars before the throngs.

On Sundays I step up to bat.

God says I never wanted that.

He says, I want your heart to sing

and worship as me as rightful king

To come with sacrificial praise

To honor me in all your days

To drop your mask and foolish pride

for they’re not the reasons that I died

I conquered death to make you whole

Your LOVE has been my greatest goal

To vow your love and make it true.

Your love is what I want from you.

I have a confession to make. Love really hurts these days. It all began when my 14 year old got MMA lessons for his birthday. Often I come through the door of the house and somewhere lurking in the shadows is a 140 pound guy with the body fat of a coat hanger who will bring me into submission.  This was fun when he didn’t know Brazilian Jujitsu.  There’s a lot I didn’t know about MMA.  It would have been great if he would have told me that “tap out” is a mercy command. I would have tapped out the moment I caught a glimpse of his swan dive from the top of the stairs to the top of my head as I came through the foyer of our home.

I’ve learned a few terms over the past few weeks including…

[pullquote1 align=”right” variation=”orange”]I know there will come a day when he won’t be hiding around the corner to see if he’s stronger than his father. The connections we make together over the next four years will impact his life and mine for eternity. [/pullquote1]

The Armbar: a joint lock that hyperextends the elbow. Note: It causes pain. Tap out, Dad.

The Anaconda Choke:  consists of trapping one of your opponents arms with an under-hook and clasping hands on the other side of his neck, squeezing his neck and arm together to cut off air supply Note: Anytime anaconda and choke are used in the same sentence, I don’t want to be involved.

The Heel Hook:  A hold which is applied on the heel and then fully accomplished by twisting the knee at the joint. (I am limping this morning.)

The Twister: Involves facing your opponent’s feet while in half guard, putting your hand on your opponents knee and creating space to spin your foe into submission. (I prefer the Milton Bradley game version.)

There’s a lot of stress for my 9^th grader and if being his personal crash test dummy creates a bond between us, I’m in. I will recover from his pinch grip ties, arm bars, over-hooks, and leg locks. Caleb is a guy and like most guys we are programmed for battle. I’m even more proud that he realizes that there’s a spiritual battle out there and in here.
There’s a formidable foe and he has a strategy for both of us. We’re ready. And together with God the ultimate tap out is certain!

My son is a church planter on Xbox.  I write this and yet I don’t even know what it means. Not exactly.  Evidently he’s built a church on a game map and then he invites gamers to come to the Bible Study on Xbox live.  All the members keep their game weapons outside the edifice Caleb somehow constructed in the Xbox universe. As a side note, I don’t think I’ve ever had to remind church members in the real world: “Hey church, we’ve got a business meeting this Wednesday Night.  Be sure to drop your heavy ammo, nuclear weapons, bananas, trip wires, rocket launchers, star blings, and power packs in the vestibule.

I overheard a little bit of a meeting.  (Please don’t tell him I was snooping. Let’s keep that between you and me.) It was amazing. I’d never seen him lead out in anything.  He’s quiet at church.  He fades into the background. But with an Xbox live account and a Message Bible, he’s a 21^st century church starter in the making.[pullquote1 quotes=”true” align=”right” variation=”orange”] There is not a family cookie-cutter. Every family member is different. Although it’s a no brainer I never really understood that until we had two kids. [/pullquote1]

What I’ve come to understand is that Caleb is on a different frequency and if I want to connect with him I need a bigger antennae. Period.  Each of my four sons transmits things in a way that is uniquely theirs. Darlene does too. There is not a family cookie-cutter. Every family member is different. Although it’s a no brainer I never really understood that until we had two kids.  When Jacob was born the first thing I said and held him on those first few moments of his life was, “He’s different!” Subconsciously I suppose I just thought I’d have another Isaac- but no! He even had a different smell. Not bad, just different. When Jacob was born I realized that I immediately had to upgrade my antennae.

Many times my antennae isn’t up! Don’t you just hate when the people you love most are telling you something and the last sentence ends with a question and you realized that she’s waiting for an answer and you weren’t even listening to the question? And we all struggle with listening.  The best listener in our family is Arthur. Arthur never interrupts. He accepts whatever you say. He’s un-shockable. He provides positive feedback and he never, EVER judges. I started asking myself, “What makes Arthur different from everyone else in the family?”  And then it came to me. He’s our golden retriever. In truth Arthur has really saved me a lot of money on counseling.

As humans though, we all have reception issues. We learn differently.  As Gary Chapman has taught for over 20 years, we love differently, and we worship differently. We all do life differently.  We were designed differently. These differences have the ability to make us an amazing family and to drive us absolutely, stark-raving, bananas.  I’ll never stop trying to upgrade my antennae, but a Bible study with people who have rocket launchers still gives me the willies.

As dads, we have the unique opportunity to reveal truth to our children.  We get the chance to tell them how life works.  These are conversations happen along the way. They are unforgettable, sometimes unpredictable and other times- just plain weird.  Here’s one example:

The context: Having just listened on CD to Dr. James Dobson explain the mechanics of sex while driving down the interstate.

Son:  So that’s what you and Mom did when you had us?

Me:  Yes.

Son:  So you did that four times?

Me:  Well, at least.

Son:  You mean you and Mom have done that more than four times?

Me:  Yes.

Son:  In our house?

Me:  Yes.  Yes, we did. But we’ve done it on vacations too.

Son:  REALLY?

Me:  Let me think.  Well, yes.

Son:  But not at Disney World.  Please don’t tell me you did that at Disney World.

Me: Actually… Let’s see…  (I’m beginning to get nervous in the presence of my ten year old. The father-son trip seemed to have taken on the feel of a congressional hearing) I mean… Um… Not at Magic Kingdom, for goodness sake, but at the resort when you were… um… with your grandparents.

Son:  I see you two kissing and hugging.  But that?  That is what you did?

Me: Yes. We did that.

Son:  But not anymore, right.

Me:  Actually we kind of do.

Son: Still?

My son’s face becomes pail.  His breathing labored.

Son:  Dad, stop the car.  I think I’m going to throw up.

This was a greater miscarriage of childhood than the truth about Santa and the baseball doping scandal. Perhaps it was a preemptive strike upon his naiveté, but the truth was there under the light of day. The toothpaste was out of the tube and there was no turning back.  His parents were having sex.  Lots of sex. Our son, Nathan, now in college, still remembers that long drive into the dawn of manhood.

It was the first of many conversations we have had about the hijinks of monogamous marital bliss and other gritty subjects every father must unpack with a son. We’ve talked about lots of other strange and wonderfully embarrassing subjects but I’ll never forget the pit-stop on I-40 when my innocent son threw up after getting the low down on his parents and their scandalous activities that brought him into the world.

I never understood the dog. I didn’t really like the him as much as others in this house but over a period of months, I became the object of worship. He picked me out and said, “He’s mine!” This weenie dog couldn’t wait for me to sit down. He hated it when I sat in a desk chair. He was more at peace when I sat on the couch so he can rest his head on my lap. He freaked when I left in the morning and he celebrated my arrival in the evening. He was the most emotionally needy, dependent creature I’ve ever met. He wouldn’t be ignored.

There were are days when I failed.  He just overlooked those things and accepted me as I am.  He could care less if I got a raise. He had no idea how many followers I have in the twitter sphere. As far as he’s concerned, he’s the only one who follows me.  EVERYWHERE.

My family is a lot smarter than the dog but they too offer almost as much grace as Frank our dachshund.  Kids are much more interested in my time than my accomplishments.

Frank is gone to whatever place dogs go.  (It’s not a theological question I spend a lot of time on.) But he mark his territory.  Some of those marks required lots of febreeze ™.

My kids have left their mark as well. There are holes in the wall from capture the flag during an extended power outage.  There are knick in the coffee table from late night history projects. There are tree that are recovering from the weight of Tarzan movie projects.  I’ll catch-up on all the repairs. Someday.  Maybe. But we all miss the memories of Frank, the Dad-worshiping canine. The one whose life was a mess during the days I was out of town. I think he somehow got what life was all about. Chasing squerils and fighting dogs four times his

Lord, I pray this insane prayer. Make me like Him. Keep me so focused on Your presence that I can’t stand being away from You. Lord I focus my eyes on You waiting, wagging and wondering when I’ll see Your face.

Jesus
creator
King of every king
and yet this was Mary’s boy.
blood spilled grace on me
and still Mary’s boy
piercing your heart Mary
to save me
forsaking you
and his kingdom
for me.
What a terrible loss
you suffered
to watch this one you feed, changed, embraced
carried, protected, and nourished
now condemned to bear nails and thones
whips and shame
so that we could all come to the table.
and face the Gethsemane of every broken generation
he cried for his Daddy as the sunset brought shadows
on the edge of town.
You had others
but that night He was your only Boy.

There once was a church on a hill by the bay,
with a wonderful spirit of love, you might say,
till a ragged stranger came inside
and rumors abounded far and wide.
Some thought he came from a shelter or prison,
and feared he might cause the church shame or a schism.
He’d invite total strangers and give money away.
And he really didn’t care what the members would say.
His friends didn’t smell clean as most church members would,
and in the eyes of the deacons, he brought more than he should.
The pastor spoke discreetly of this ragged man,
“He doesn’t fit our strategy plan.”
Brother Rupert said, “Don’t you see?
He laughs too loud and sings off key!”
Clara was concerned about relations and such.
She said, “He plays with the children too much!”
Jed, the chairman of ministry troops,
said, “None of our leaders want him in their groups!”
But the ragged man went on his way,
serving the church on the hill by the bay.
Scrubbing the toilets and cleaning the floors—
these were the ragged man’s ministry chores.
On Sunday they dreaded his unsightly appearance
and prayed that he wouldn’t cause strange interference.
They said, “Our church has stood too long
to be tainted by him and his curious song.
This man’s a menace to this congregation!
He’ll tarnish our image and fine reputation.”
They were tired of this ragged man’s presence inside,
and they locked all the doors so he wouldn’t reside.
A wicked northern blew a blizzard their way
as the members sang hymns in the church by the bay.
They sang to drown out his normal arrival,
as the blizzard threatened the man’s mere survival.
As the church members sang, their voices grew stronger,
each heavenly note was held longer and longer.
The winds blew that storm to the bay like no other
and covered the corpse of that unwanted brother.
The storm passed and they went on their way,
the members of the church on the hill by the bay.
They didn’t see the heap of snow
nor the ragged man buried below.
Yet beneath his old gloves buried deep in the snow
were the wounded hands pierced by nails long ago.
If they had looked closer at this man with no bed,
they’d have seen thorn-driven scars on the brow of his head.
And if they had embraced him, they surely would have cried,
for they would have felt the sacred wounds on his back and his side.
And if they had sought to know this man so odd—
they would have met face-to-face—Holy—Omnipotent—God.

In the year
of disappointment,
loneliness,
fear,
In the year
of confusion,
desperation,
and chaos,

I saw the Lord.

My eyes had been blinded by amusement—toys,
savings and wealth,
dreams and aspirations.
In the midst of the sand castles of my own
self-importance,
my eyes were blinded by the temporal,
until an eternal God shook the doorposts of my soul.
He came to me, and I saw myself for who I was outside of Him:
naked,
dying,
cold,
starving,
and helpless.
He didn’t come in the sanctuary.
He didn’t come in the crowds.
He didn’t come in the ceremonies,[pullquote3 quotes=”true” align=”right” variation=”orange” cite=”Matt Tullos”]He didn’t come in the ceremonies, in the shifting dance of the day-to-day. He came into my deepest closet of hopelessness.[/pullquote3]

in the shifting dance of the day-to-day.
He came into my deepest closet of hopelessness.
He didn’t come with four laws.
He didn’t come with three points and a poem.
He visited me at midnight, when I least
expected to hear His voice.
He came to me at a time when my hopes were dashed,
when my future appeared bankrupt.
He came to me when every solid foundation seemed to collapse.
He came to me in the wilderness of my own destitution.
He came to me in the poverty of my own understanding.
He came to me when I laid down my toolbox,
my first-aid kit,
and my cookbook.
He came to me!
Hallelujah!
With a quick fix?
No.
He came to me!
With a list of seminars and books to read?
No.
He came to me,
and there was absolutely nothing I could offer in my own strength.
The masks, alibis, and diplomas faded under the light of His passionate gaze.
He didn’t need me.
He didn’t need my talents.
He didn’t need my knowledge, my money, or my influence.
On the contrary, He came to me because, for the first time in my life, I knew I was utterly helpless;
I didn’t have the answers.
For the first time in my life, I knew no word, no thought, no event would change me.
Only God,
Christ alone,
could change my heart.

He came to me!
He wrapped His arms around me and said,

My beloved, I’ve been waiting for you.