Trouble with Math

Without fully realizing our children would one day ask me to help them with their math homework, my wife and I started a family. For about eight years, everything was going great. We had three beautiful, healthy kids who showed signs of intelligence and not one of them asked me anything about fractions or if they could have their navels pierced.

I have never been good at math and I’m not at all pleased that someone decided to invent fractions and grow polynomials. Then, just to be mean, the Babylonians invented word problems. No wonder their society didn’t survive.

Shortly after our oldest son, Matt, entered the third grade, my wife rudely left to visit her parents in Vermont for a week and left me alone to help with our son’s third grade homework. I checked our wedding vows and saw nothing in there about math, but that didn’t seem to matter to Matt.

He read me his assignment in his cute little voice, “A circus performs four more shows during the week than it does on the weekend. Each week day, the circus performs two shows.  How many shows do they perform on the weekend?”  He then looked up at me with big, hopeful eyes. What he saw, however, was a grown man’s face contorting into strange spasms of confused panic.

I finally mustered, “The circus is in town?”

Matt just stood there looking at me with those big, wide eyes. I wondered if he could tell I was silently cursing the Babylonians. Then, in a moment of brilliance, I remembered Walt Disney’s Snow White on Ice was in town. I picked up the phone and called the ticket office.

“How many shows do you perform each week?” I asked. “We have two shows Monday through Friday and three shows every Saturday and Sunday,” the nice lady said.  “So, how many shows would that be on the weekend?” I asked excitedly. There was a long pause and then the nice lady finally said, “That would be six.”

Matt and I slapped high-fives.  Sometimes math is easy.

Home Field Advantage

I have watched with a great deal of curiosity as the latest group of high school area athletes contemplate their college futures. Most say the only thing they have decided on so far is that they are undecided.

Barely 16 months ago, my son was tossing his high school graduation cap high in the air while eagerly looking forward to fulfilling a life-long dream to become a Miami Hurricane.  His recruiting trail was less than 15 miles and the Coral Gables campus was his only official visit.  “Why would I go on any other visits?” he questioned, when out of state invitations were offered. “I’d just be wasting their time and mine.”

I understand that just because you grow up in a certain area doesn’t mean that the local college is the right fit.  For some, going away for school is absolutely the best decision for a myriad of reasons.  Academic standards, financial requirements, and other expectations are always factors affecting decisions.  And of course, there are many who would love to play for their home team but for one reason or another, are simply not given the opportunity.

But now, with a full year of being a family with a student-athlete under our belts, I have discovered that it’s the “other things” that make playing at home so special.

When my son committed early to the University of Miami, I’m not sure who was more excited: my son, or me.  Half my wardrobe has a “U” on it and the stickers on my truck would be difficult to remove. I am very comfortable flashing “the U” sign and my email salutation to friends who egregiously attended other universities often states, “It’s all about the U.”  I’m even friends with a former Ibis.

But things, as we all know, rarely go exactly as planned.  And so it was that before my son even stepped foot on the field his freshman year, he found himself as a medical redshirt recovering from an unexpected and certainly unplanned surgery.  One of the “other things” quickly kicked in as a mother’s care and concern meant sleeping in the uncomfortable chair in the hospital room just to make sure her boy was okay.

The list of “other things” started adding up quickly, like the fun of meeting his new friends and having them over for dinner. “Other things” include catching a last minute movie knowing Dad will gladly pay–even for Milkduds, or periodically delivering a fresh batch of mom-made-cookies for the team to enjoy. “Other things” even included sneaking into a practice and hiding behind trash cans and bleachers so your son (or a coach) won’t see you but being very worried that a security guard will–and taser you from behind.

The “other things” are also late night talks to encourage and advise when things aren’t working out quite right or when the struggle is greater than expected. “Other things” is simply being there to comfort when he finds finds out he needs yet another surgery.   Of course, “other things” is the absolute thrill of seeing your son on the field proudly wearing the uniform and living his dream.

While going away for college has its list of “other things,” too, there is a definite reason for the phrase, “home field advantage.”  It’s more than being familiar and comfortable with your surroundings.  It’s about an entire network of family and friends who support you, come to watch you play, and cheer you on in athletics as well as life.  Home field advantage is all about the “other things” that mean so much, but can’t be found in brochures, locker rooms, or play-books.

So I wonder, as I listen to the banter from some of these local high school athletes, if they have taken the time to consider the “other things.” I suspect not.  But as we have discovered, there is a powerful home field advantage.  Sometimes, it’s even hiding behind a trash can.

Monkeys in My Coconut Tree

There are monkeys in my coconut tree.

No, really.  Little Capuchin monkeys–the “organ-grinder” kind.   We live a few miles from the Miami Metro Zoo and assume they escaped after one of our hurricanes.  If so, they hiked several miles before finding the county-protected wooded area behind our house.  We’re just glad it’s monkeys and not rhinos.  Everyone knows what to feed monkeys.  I have no idea what to feed a rhino.

There are three of them.  We’ve watched as they climb through the trees in the protected wooded area, climb over our back yard fence, and make the quick scamper into one of our coconut trees.  They like to sit on a palm branch and eat the little coconut eggs (or whatever you call them) and chirp with delight.  They actually sound a lot like I do when eating a Heath Blizzard at Dairy Queen.

They showed up quite often before (we assume) the county monkey squad caught them and returned them to the zoo. But for almost a year, we enjoyed sitting on our back porch, sipping coffee while enjoying the traveling zoo.  In fact, I highly recommend that when you have the opportunity, you should sit on your back porch and watch monkeys eat berries in your coconut trees, too.

I have a rather long history with little two-and-a-half pound Capuchin monkeys.  In fact, I grew up with them…and I’m not talking about my three brothers.  As I was sipping coffee and watching the monkeys in my coconut tree, I thought back about the time my monkey broke my arm…

His name was Reepicheep and he was named after the pugnacious talking mouse in the C.S. Lewis Chronicles of Narnia series.  He came to live with us when I was ten years old.  We got Reepicheep from the Amazon — not the online place that sells everything except monkeys — the actual place in South America with jungles, wild animals, and piranha.  Just to make sure, however, I went to Amazon.com and typed in “monkey.”  I was relieved to see they do not sell Capuchins.  At least not yet.

Reepicheep arrived via missionaries traveling on furlough to Miami. But as so often happens when  foreigners get a taste of America, he didn’t want to go back.  So when the missionaries went back to South America, Reepicheep stayed with us and become an illegal alien.

Reepicheep lived outside in a treehouse my Dad built specially for him.  It was a lovely but sparse two story condo with a front porch.  To keep Reepicheep from wandering off and joining a gang, he wore a leather belt around his waist which was attached to a light chain about five feet long.  The  chain was attached to a pulley wheel which was attached to a strong cable with one end anchored to the tree and the other end to the corner of our house about 30 feet away.  Got it?

This set up is important because Reepicheep taught himself the most amazing Tarzan-like trick which he performed all day long.  He would casually stroll to one end of the wire cable and dive off in a headfirst bungee jump.  Knowing exactly how far he could free fall before the five-foot chain would jolt him by the waist, he would deftly grab his chain and swing like Tarzan to the other end.  Honest!  The only thing missing was Tarzan’s jungle yell.  I used to charge the neighborhood kids fifty cents to come over and see our monkey swing.  I made $18.50 the first weekend we had him!

One of my jobs was to feed the monkey. This meant I would have to climb about seven feet up the tree, find his metal food dish, climb back down the tree, walk back inside the house, fill his tray with left-overs from dinner (no Purina Monkey Chow for our chimp), then climb back up the tree and hand over the dish.  At first it was sort of fun, but after six or seven months of this, it lost all its excitement.

So one day, in a moment of adolescent genius, my brothers and I decided to hang a rope swing.  We figured we would not only save gobs of climbing time, but our “speed feeding” system would  actually make feeding the monkey fun again. We attached one end to a thick branch and the other end to a deflated inner-tube tire. The trick was to run as fast as you could and dive into the inner-tube.  If done right, your momentum would carry you all the way up to Reepicheep’s tree-house. Once there, you had to then reach out and grab onto the tree house and hold yourself in the precarious prone position long enough to locate the metal dish.

It was a thrill seekers delight.

It became even more dangerous, however, when Reepicheep turned mean.  I don’t recall exactly when he turned mean, but I think it was right around the time I started throwing mangos at him.  Reepicheep was amazingly agile and hard to hit.  At first I thought he enjoyed our little game of dodge-mango, but as it turns out, it just made him cranky.

Even so, feeding the monkey had now become fun once again.  If Reepicheep was in a good mood, you could swing up and chat and play with him for a while during your search for his food dish.  If, on the other hand, Reepicheep was feeling a bit irritable based upon the amount of mango juice dripping from his fur, it became a rather daunting and terror filled experience.  It’s amazing how scary a two-and-a-half pound ball of fur with fangs can appear at dusk.

So it was, on a particular summer night in Miami, I was trying to coax the little ape away from his treehouse to the other side of his cable by our house.  A couple of near miss mango tosses were doing the trick and Reepicheep was as far from his tree house as he could possibly get.  My plan was to take off for the tire swing, dive into the inner-tube, swoop up to the treehouse, grab the food dish, and swing away to safety before the savage beast reached his house. It looked good on paper.

I lobbed one last mango to distract Reepicheep. My ploy worked as the gullible long-tailed organ grinder wasn’t even looking when I took off for the inner-tube.  My dive was close to perfect as I launched myself into the tube and felt the momentum propel me upwards.  I smiled at how smoothly my plan was working and how easy it was to trick a primate whose brain was much smaller than the mangos he was dodging.  At the same time, I could hear loud snorting coming from the enraged orangutan running as quickly over the cable as his hairy arms and legs would take him.

I grabbed onto the treehouse and began a mad scramble for the metal food dish.  That’s when I swore I heard the little ape let out an evil laugh.  He had purposefully moved his food dish to a little crook in the tree and was closing in fast.  He was almost close enough for me to see some mango dripping of the left side of his face.

Panicking, I tried to reposition myself in order to grab the dish.  To do so, I had to slide my waist out of my perfectly aligned center of gravity position inside the deflated rubber tire and wiggle out to where my thighs were holding me in place. My outstretched fingers were just beginning to close around the metal food dish when the evil monkey leapt off the cable and disappeared in a nose dive.  I temporarily lost sight of him, but I could hear his Tarzan like yell as the pulley wheel whizzed and he thumped his little chest.

Then, to my horror, the gorilla suddenly came swinging up holding onto his Tarzan-like chain and then let go in a perfectly timed move the Flying Wallenda’s would have applauded.  The flying furry fanged beast was hurling straight at my face which caused me to not only let out a bloodcurdling scream, but also let go of my grip on the treehouse.

I remember thinking how much faster I was going down than going up. That’s also when I remembered I had wiggled out of my perfectly aligned center of balance position in the inner-tube.  As the rope swing pulled me away from the crazed gorilla, it also released me to fight gravity all by myself.  Fortunately, I landed on a rather large and rotten mango which sufficiently softened my fall so I only broke the two bones in my left forearm.

Later, as the emergency room doctor was putting a cast on my broken arm and pulling mango out of my hair, he asked if I could once again tell the story of how my monkey broke my arm. But this time, he asked if he could invite a few of his fellow staff members to listen.   Apparently, I was his first patient to have his arm broken by a little two-and-a-half pound monkey.

My arm healed and I stopped throwing mangos at Reepicheep and over time, we made up.  He bit me a few times after that, but never again broke any of my other bones. Thankfully our rope swing remained, but we were no longer allowed to use it to “speed feed” the monkey. Even so, Reepicheep and I never fully trusted each other again.  He, for one, lost his appetite for mangoes, and I lost my desire to be an Acapulco cliff diver.  Perhaps it was all for the better.

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World’s Greatest Dad

Perhaps you have heard of a man named, Dick Hoyt.  Many have described him as, “The World’s Greatest Dad,” and for good reason.  His son, Rick, suffered severe brain damage at birth and was diagnosed with cerebral palsy.  Understanding the tremendous difficulties that lay ahead, doctors encouraged Dick and his wife to put their son in an institution. “He will be a vegetable all his life” they explained.

If you know their story, you know that Dick and his wife paid no attention to that advice.  In fact, they did the opposite.  Although their son could not speak nor use his arms or legs, they raised him just like any other child. Rick not only graduated from a public high school, he also graduated from Boston University.  Today, he lives in his own apartment aided by personal care givers.

Team Hoyt

What makes their story even more remarkable, however, are the almost impossible to believe feats they have achieved together. They are known as “Team Hoyt” and I encourage you to watch Mary Carillo’s “Real Sports” special called, “Labor of Love” regarding this father and son. You can find it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=roZrT_tciKA

Their running together began some 32 years ago in a 5 mile charity race to help a paralyzed boy in their community.  Rick wanted to be an encouragement to others like him and got his dad to push him in a modified clunky stroller. Most assumed “Team Hoyt” would simply get to the corner, turn around, and come back. But when they got to the corner, they kept going.  They didn’t stop until they finished the entire 5 mile race coming in second from last. (They have never finished in last place.)

When they got home that night, Rick wrote on his computer, “Dad, when I’m running, it feels like my disability disappears.”  Dick was so moved by the joy his son experienced during the race that from that point forward he told his son, “I’ll be your arms and legs.”

The lengths to which Dick Hoyt has gone to fill his son with joy are truly remarkable.  To be more precise, Over the last 30 plus years, Dick has pushed, pulled, and carried his  son in close to 1,100 races — most of them being marathons, triathlons and ironman events.  If you are able to watch the video, you will see how their story has touched and inspired thousands of others — especially those whose children suffer from disabilities.

As a father, I couldn’t help saying “thank you” to the Lord for healthy children as I watched the video.  I also couldn’t help but wonder to what extent I would go to for my children.  And then, I couldn’t help but consider the unimaginable extent to which my Heavenly Father went for me…and you

“Since He did not spare even His own Son but gave Him up for us all, won’t he also give us everything else?” (Romans 8:32)

I remember a conversation I had with my dad about Lazarus.  We wondered if he was upset when Jesus called him back from the dead (see John 11).  Lazarus’ loved ones were, of course, overjoyed.  But Lazarus?  And then Dad said something I’ve never forgotten, that “…Lazarus had to die again.”  Now that would stink!

Dad then went on to discuss with me how Jesus came to save us, the real us, our souls — not our weak and broken bodies.  Lazarus didn’t need or want that broken down body anymore.  In my minds eye, I think of him going privately to Jesus and saying, “Hey man, thanks, but did you really have to bring me back?”

So I rejoice with “Team Hoyt” and the inspiration they bring.  But just like us, the only ending to their story that will make it all worthwhile is knowing the one who brought Lazarus back to life just by calling his name.

The truth is, as strong as we Dads would like you to think we are, we are very weak, imperfect people with all sorts of issues.  There is only one Father we can truly rely upon.  And this Father loves us so much, He didn’t spare His own Son so that we could live with Him…forever!  There is no other competition.  He is the World’s Greatest Father!

Happy Father’s Day!

Shocking!

I remember as if it were yesterday.  It was a hot summer day and as usual, I was shirtless and shoeless. My little five-year-old feet carried me into our small storage room where I was determined to find out why my Dad had warned me; “Never stick anything into a wall socket.”  I had a screwdriver in my hand.

Two small steps led down to the cement floor storage room where the wall socket stood, waiting, next to an old refrigerator. Light shone through the open door illuminating the 110 voltage receptacle of electrons and protons.  It was calling to me. I walked over and slowly moved the long flathead toward the socket.  “Yes, yes,” it whispered.  A trickle of sweat ran down my face as the tip of the screwdriver entered the small hole. Nothing.  “Further,” it called to me.  I gripped the screwdriver tight and pushed.

The next thing I knew the outlet reached out and grabbed my hand and violently squeezed so tight I thought my hand would crush.  At the same instant, proton and electron minions flew out of the outlet with an evil laugh and started jabbing my arms, shoulders, and legs with millions of tiny needles.  I tried to let go of the screwdriver, but the wall socket just sneered and shook me so hard my teeth rattled.

I tried to scream, but the protons had zapped all the air out of my lungs.  At the same time, the electrons opened a valve without my permission which allowed a rapid flow of a certain fluid to exit my body.  I would later try to blame the dog for that particular mess, but my soiled pants and frizzy hair told a different story.

After what seemed like several hours but in reality was only a few seconds, the evil socket simply let go and slunk back into the wall.  The angry protons and electrons sat around pricking my skin for a while, but finally left leaving behind wobbly legs, ashen skin, and glazed eyes.  When I was finally able to catch my breath, I let out a blood curdling scream that caused my Dad to leap some 10 feet into the air before running to my rescue.

I don’t remember much else about that little experience, except thinking I was surely going to be in big trouble for disobeying my Dad and almost electrocuting myself.  Instead of being punished, however, I remember lots of hugs and kisses that day.  Even, I think, an extra scoop of ice cream.

While I learned my lesson and am pleased to say I have never again stuck anything into a wall socket, I still find myself standing there “holding a screwdriver.”  It’s just that today, the “wall sockets” calling to me are completely different.

God provided us a list of 10 rules to live by and to paraphrase said, “Listen to me, my child.  I’m telling you this because I love you and know what will happen if you disobey.  Don’t have any other god but me. Don’t misuse my name or try to replace me with some worthless idol. Don’t murder or commit adultery. Don’t steal or lie or even covet what someone else has. Honor your father and mother and remember the Sabbath and keep it holy” (see Exodus 20).

The notion that God’s rules cramp our lifestyle or keep us from enjoying life “smells like smoke,” as my old pastor was fond of saying.  The truth is, God knows exactly what happens when we stick screwdrivers in wall sockets. He gave us His rules because He loves us, wants to protect us, and wants the very best for us.

Now…if we would only just listen.

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Male-icure

Until this past weekend, I had never really questioned my manliness.  I am a happily married, relatively athletic, ESPN addicted male who donated two knees to his college football team and have watched almost all of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s movies no matter how absurd. Plus, I drive a pick-up truck.  If that doesn’t scream “all male,” what does?

David, Ed (center), Jenn

I have gone 50 years without a “male-icure” and was planning on going another 50.  Then, my daughter, Abby, came home after graduating from college.  She simply batted her beautiful eyes at me and all my tough manliness melted into some strange mango peel exfoliating sauce.

Here’s what happened: we were enjoying a lovely Sunday afternoon on our way home from church when we passed a nail salon.  Before I could say, “microdermabrasion,” my wife, daughter, and mother were climbing out of the car and dragging my manly son, David, and me into the salon.  I was anticipating handing over my credit card enabling the ladies in my life to indulge in a feminine nail clipping session while we men strolled over to Home Depot to look at chainsaws and bolt cutters. But then Abby batted her eyes.

The next thing I knew, we were sitting in one of those fancy massage chairs like the ones at Brookstone we men sit in while waiting for our wives to finish their shopping.  But these massage chairs had a little foot Jacuzzi.  We were quickly de-shoed, pant legs pulled up to the knees, and then our feet were placed into a warm, jet propelled whirlpool of delight. Then, a tiny lady sitting on a stool made for short three-year-olds, held up a bottle of something indicating she wanted to add it to the Jacuzzi.  My daughter gave a reassuring nod so in it went.

The pleasant odor mixed with the Jacuzzi jets and pulsating massage chair forced a gentle sigh to escape my lips.  I leaned back into the knuckles of the massage chair and couldn’t help but think, “What have these women been keeping from me all these years?” along with, “This chair would look great in front of the big screen TV at my house.”

I was dangerously close to entering REM sleep when the tiny lady gently lifted my right foot out of the Jacuzzi and began a deep tissue foot massage. This caused my left foot to be extremely jealous and impatient for its turn, which finally came, but only after many delight filled moans caused raised eyebrows from several other salon patrons.

I have no idea what “paraffin wax” is, but I like it.  My feet and calves have never felt better than after she put that wax stuff all over them and wrapped them in hot towels.  The only real problem I had was with the “glycolic foot peel” and callous removal.  As it turns out, I have rather ticklish “glycolics” and just about knocked the tiny lady sitting on the little stool across the room with a karate kick I didn’t know I had.

The final bit of nail snipping and cuticle repositioning wasn’t as bad as I was expecting, but I suspect it was due to the calming effects of the paraffin wax and salt scrubs.  I was therefore a bit sad when my pedicure came to an end.

Placing my feet back into my Sperry’s didn’t seem quite as right as the women walking out with Japanese styled flip-flops and toe spacers.  Onlookers would instantly know they just had a pedicure and would be green with envy.  My tingly toes, on the other hand, would remain hidden without giving the faintest hint of calluses scraped or glycolics peeled.  Of course, neither my son nor I, will ever tell.

But next time my wife heads off to the nail saloon, I just might slide my “man-card” out of my wallet and sneak out with her to enjoy a special ladies day out.

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The Ed Thompson 2012 Family Christmas Letter

I fondly remember a special family-time earlier this month. I was on “Dad’s sofa,” Jenn was curled up in her favorite spot on the other sofa, and Matt & Laura were cuddled up on another sofa. Abby was on a sofa that used to be a part of my favorite sofa, and David was sprawled out on the chaise lounge sofa making strange noises requiring periodic pumps of Febreze.  I couldn’t but help think, “That’s a lot of sofas.”

Of course, our sofas were spread out in several different zip codes, but Google+ chat brought all our sofas together enabling us to enjoy a nice family night together without any regard for time zones, distance, or Febreze.  What a world.  With all our social media outlets, sometimes it seems like the kids haven’t moved out at all…and their rooms stay much neater.  Even so, no matter how many Instagrams or Tweets, nothing compares to a real hug and smile.  So while we relish our “real time” together, here’s a quick review of our 2012.

Matt & Laura:  It was two years ago this month, Matt & Laura said “I do” and began their lives together.  Sadly, however, I must report that while they remain deeply in love, their home is tragically divided…at least for one Saturday during football season.  Matt, very wisely and properly, roots for the Miami Hurricanes while his beautiful and well meaning wife cheers for the Seminoles.  Yes, it’s very sad.

Matt is the Marketing Manager for the nation’s largest musical theater and youth training program: CMT San Jose.  As their graphic designer, videographer, print media creator, website designer, promoter, and marketer…he stays just a tad busy.  Laura, meanwhile, is the Online and Profile Support Representative for the Peak Travel Group, a corporate travel agency.

While her title may be hard to fit on a business card, the San Jose climate seems ideal for her love of running.  So while Matt encourages her from nearby Starbucks while sipping Frappuccinos and eating banana nut loaf slices, Laura tackles 5Ks, 10Ks, and half-marathons with ease.  While not at all opposed to using guilt-trips to try and coax them to move back to Miami, for now, they are making their home in Silicon Valley and truly enjoying the beautiful landscape.  They have found a great church and are making life-long friends.  Of course, if they really want to live there instead of in Miami where they can look after their aging parents, then I guess we’ll struggle along as best we can.

Abby: Not only is she stunningly gorgeous, she is smart, can cook, and thanks to a judo class, is quite capable of throwing you through a window.  Now, as a new FSU college graduate, she can join the tens of thousands of other graduates and start filling out job applications.  Her Exercise Science degree offers many different avenues to pursue, but working with autistic children remains a high interest.  Internships and then a Master’s Degree in Occupational Therapy are in her future.

To the chagrin of a host of would-be suitors, the only other male allowed in her life besides her Dad and brothers is her faithful wiener dog, Bentley: the world’s largest miniature Dachshund. Bentley would usually drive during their frequent trips back and forth from Tallahassee so Abby could catch up on sleep.

Actually, Abby did fall in love with two boys while she was at FSU; one was four and the other two.  Nanny Abby loved her part-time job caring for Rhett, Lucas, and little Ava, and they loved her back…they were even willing to move to Miami to be with her…as long as their mom and dad could tag along.  Daddy Ed, however, can hardly stop grinning now that Abby is back home while she navigates to the next phase of her adventurous life.  This is especially true because every time she leaves, I fuss, and cry, and pout until she comes back home again.

David:  Back on National Signing Day (Feb. 1), David eagerly committed to the University of Miami to play both football and baseball.  All he had to do to get there was say “No” to the New York Yankees who had a second round draft pick with his name on it…which he did. They went ahead and drafted him in the 38th round anyway, but by then, he was already taking classes at “The U” and studying the enormous Hurricane football playbook.

All was going well until an MRI revealed a torn labrum in his right (throwing) arm.  Sitting in Coach Al Golden’s office along with head baseball coach Jim Morris late in June, Coach Golden said, “Let’s get you ready for baseball.”  As Coach Morris tried to hide his grin, our admiration and respect for coach Golden grew immeasurably. Three days later, he began the recovery process from shoulder surgery which took him completely out of football before the season began…a medical redshirt. Even so, he attended every practice and meeting and now knows the playbook cover-to-cover.  Meanwhile, with a lot of hard work including daily rehab and therapy, he should be fully recovered and ready to go when the baseball season begins in February.

David ended his high school athletic career with a rather impressive resume.  He now owns the Florida career record with 55 home runs and was an Under Armour All-American playing third base and batting third in a nationally televised game at Wrigley Field in Chicago.  He was also a Semper-Fi Marine All-American QB playing in another national televised game at Chase Field in Phoenix, Arizona. To top it off, he became the first three-time Athlete-of-the-Year winner in the Miami Herald’s 55-year history of the award.  All this while maintaining his high-honor roll status at Westminster Christian.  Not bad.  Yes, I know what you’re thinking, and yes, he is my son.  Thankfully, most of him is full of Jenn’s genes.  But now, he starts all over again and must earn his positions at a much more difficult and competitive level.  Needless to say, we’re cheering him on.

Ed & Jenn:  This year, we both turned 49…again. Amazingly, however, Jenn has more energy than most 20-year-olds.  She’s like that old Marine slogan, “We do more by 9am than most people do all day.”  That slogan just made me want to take a nap. Jenn is overseeing a complete elementary school makeover at Westminster Christian.  The old classrooms and buildings were knocked down and the new buildings are going up.  She organized everyone into portables for this school year and under her direction, everything seems to be proceeding like clockwork. And yes, she does do more by 9am than I do all day.  She also looks very cute in a hardhat.

Meanwhile, I continue my work here at LOGOI Ministries where I usually arrive by 9am.  One fun project we’ll be unveiling in 2013 is becoming the Spanish voice of Steve Brown’s popular You Think About That 60 second radio spots.  LOGOI continues to help, equip, and encourage thousands of Spanish pastors each month and it blows my mind that God would let me be a part.  We put a pretty cool letter together from one of my Dad’s favorite Christmas sermons that will be a great encouragement to you if you’ll read it: The Best Christmas Gifts…Ever!”  You can even make a Christmas ornament out of it.

We wish you a very Merry Christmas!

Ed, Jenn, Matt, Laura, Abby, & David

Your Turn

A year ago today, everything was ready and Jesus came and got my Dad so he could be where He is (John 14:3, NLT).  Awesome!

It’s been an interesting 12 months.  I have watched my mother grieve as she feels the intense pain of loneliness and separation from her beloved husband of 50 years. I have also watched as her tears have turned from grief to a peaceful understanding that all is well because God’s truth and promises are rooted deep within her heart.

I have watched as dozens and dozens of family and friends have offered cards, phone calls, emails and time to reflect on how Dad had touched their lives in various memorable ways.  Some with laughter, some with tears, but all with gratitude to a life very well spent.

I miss my Dad.  He was a rock for me; my “life coach” if you will.  We shared corner offices at work and meals on the weekends.  We planned and dreamed together and attended countless ball games together.  I was constantly encouraged by his faith and strengthened by his wisdom.

In the hospital room, shortly before he died, Dad looked me in the eyes and poignantly asked, “Are you ready to let me go?”  I think of that moment quite often.  Sometimes it wakes me up at night. My answer was a very honest and heartfelt, “No!”

Dad didn’t say anything after my reply. He was very weak and just held my hand as firm as he could.  He simply looked deep into my eyes as if to say, “Better get ready. It’s your turn”.

I have never thought of myself as being fearful. After all, I know 2 Timothy 1:7 by heart, “For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline”  I can even give a fairly good Bible study on the topic.  The truth is, however, I am fighting fear.

Fear that I will never live up to the stature of my Dad. Fear that I seem light years away from the spiritual maturity he exemplified.  Fear that God, who is acutely aware of my weak and straying heart, will tire of my empty promises.  I could go on.

Father & Son (2007 in Chile)

But if Dad were back in the other corner office reading this, he’d have a twinkle in his eye, a smile on his face, and a big laugh working its way up from his Santa Clause-ic belly.  He would remind me–and you–that the Bible is rather full of stories of God choosing unprepared and unfit people for particular tasks.  It seems, in fact, to be His modus operandi.   “I know,” Dad would say, “because I was one of them.”

With that, he’d give me a big abrazo (hug), pat me on the back, and say, “Enjoy the ride, son, it’s your turn!”

Surviving the End of High School Athletics

When it comes to recalling my athletic exploits, the axiom is true, “The the older I get the better I used to be”. The truth is, however, most of my athletic memories involve hospital rooms, casts, crutches, and Extra Strength Tylenol. I had a heart for football but knees for X-box.

My wife, Jenn, never actually saw me play football when we were students at Wheaton College. She did, however, visit me in the hospital where I slightly embellished how I sustained my season-ending knee ligament tear.  If memory serves, it was whilst tossing a perfect 127 yard touchdown pass between 8 defenders while being tackled by 14 rabid linebackers, the opposing team coaches, and a few cheerleaders.  It was quite a play.

David surrounded by family on Senior Day

I exchanged my football cleats for a seat in the bleachers long ago.  And what a great seat it has been.  Front row and center for the past twelve years; a constant barrage of football, soccer, basketball, volleyball, baseball games and practices.  But then, in an instant, it came to a jolting stop.  Our youngest played his last high school game and suddenly, it was all over.

We knew this day was coming.  It had to.  It took a slow, inevitable route beginning with our oldest.  I distinctly remember his last high school football game and the slow, agonizing walk off the field. Shoulders were slouched giving way to heavy sobs.  And my son wasn’t doing much better, either.

But when our eldest son’s high school athletic career came to an end, we still had two more to cheer on.  That meant our calendar remained full of football, soccer, basketball, volleyball, and baseball.  Then suddenly, my daughter’s soccer games were over; then her volleyball.  The writing was on the wall the entire time, but with one kid still in the system, the busyness continued.  Then, on a normal day, our last high school game was played and just like that, it was over.

Erma Bombeck said she took a very practical view on raising children.  She put a sign in each of their rooms which read, “Checkout time is 18 years”.

My wife continues to remind me that our job as parents is to prepare our children for “checkout time.”  As custodians of God’s prized possessions, we hope and pray we’ve filled them with confidence, dreams, determination, and faith and trust in a loving God.

When checkout time arrives, the ones with the biggest adjustments are often us parents.  We go from years of whirlwind activity to the unfamiliar territory of calm and quiet.  Suddenly, it’s just the two of us again and that’s both exciting and a little scary, too.

As it turns out, hanging out with my wife is pretty awesome.  And to my great relief, I think she likes hanging out with me, too.  So, it appears we’re going to survive the end of high school athletics. And if our recent trip out west is any indication, this new chapter  in our lives is going to be rather fun and exciting.

Today, highlighted on our calendars, are those wonderful college break visits and vacation days.  And of course, just because they’ve “checked out”, doesn’t mean they won’t be visiting.  After all, right next to that “checkout” sign is another sign that reads “welcome home”.

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P.S.  To our great delight, our youngest (David) is continuing his athletic career at the University of Miami.  We have many football and baseball games yet to enjoy.

National Signing Day: A Father’s Lesson

February 1^st is “National Signing Day.”  It is the first day in which a high school senior can sign a binding Letter of Intent to play football in college. After months and sometimes years of recruiting, the hype and drama culminate on this special day as millions of deeply devoted college football fans tune in to learn which athletes have officially committed to their favorite school.

To be honest, I haven’t paid a whole lot of attention to National Signing Day in years past.  But I certainly have this year.  You see, my youngest son is part of the hype and drama. CBS Sports (MaxPreps) lists him as one of the top pro-style quarterbacks in the nation.  He is also projected as a high draft pick in the Major League Baseball draft this June.  But first, on February 1^st, he will excitedly sign his letter of intent to play football and baseball at what we affectionately call, “The U.”  This is very good news for me. Half my wardrobe has the “U” on it.

To both my wife and son’s chagrin, however, it appears I have gotten caught up in all the hype.  There are at least a dozen or so fan-based websites devoted to University of Miami athletics and dozens more dealing with the MLB draft.  Few articles or discussion boards where my son is mentioned go by without coming to my attention.  And while the vast majority of articles and comments are very positive, a tiny few are negative. And what is a father to do when uninformed nincompoops make disparaging remarks about his son?

Well, in the way of a confession, I’ll admit that I have cleverly disguised my name and relationship to my son and have responded in anonymity to a few of the comments made by knuckle-headed bloggers and fans.  Using my highly developed skills in sarcasm and derision, I not only put those misanthropes in their places, but questioned their very intelligence for even thinking something negative about my son.

Then, and this is where I blew it, I proudly showed my wife and son some of the blog posts and comments (without revealing my cleverly disguised message-board name). I was confident they would be pleased how a total stranger was coming to his defense

To my great surprise, however, they were both able to instantly determine each one of my blog-post replies despite my cleverly disguised name.  Then, after reading my acrid comments, they would turn and look at me with an eye-narrowing “what is wrong with you?” glare.  “What?” I answered, trying in vain to look innocent.

After a brief discussion where various degrees of my intelligence were questioned, a beautiful moment took place, one I will long cherish.  My son put his hand on my shoulder, looked me in the eyes and with an assuring and loving smile said, “It’s ok, Dad.  I can take it.”

It’s a beautiful thing to see your child grow up with steely fortitude ready to face a hostile world.  It’s that much more amazing to realize they are willing to step into the brutal world of college football where one can turn from hero to goat in an instant.  I have watched in admiration as Jacory Harris, the University of Miami quarterback these past years, has skillfully and graciously managed such a hostile environment.  “It comes with the territory,” is the common view.

And now a new wave of aspiring athletes will face the glaring spotlights and the roar of cheering or jeering fans.  As a Dad, I can’t imagine ever overcoming the sense that I have to protect and defend my children. There are, after all, a few loud cynics out there who like to drag as many people as they can down their sad and lonely road.  But for now, with ample threats from my wife and son, I have retired my clever pseudonyms.  And when I feel that desire to set another pundit in his place, I’ll remember that assuring smile, “It’s ok, Dad. I can take it.”