how cooking saved us.

“I love you, Daddy.” Those four words uttered unprompted and purely spoken from the heart, not simply the mouth, sets my world on ablaze.  Everything is alright then.

No argument is too thick to separate, no struggle too tangling, no misunderstanding too alienating, no hurt too deep; in the hearing and in the give and take of those words, all is set aright, and I’m reminded that we are okay again.

Parenting requires full effort. I should be clear.  Effective parenting demands full effort.

And, of course, prayer ...lots of prayer.

:::::::

When I became a single parent, I no longer had a choice in how much effort I’d give.  The girls looked to me for everything.

“Dad, what should I wear?” “What should I get my friend for her birthday?” “Can you do my hair?” “Can we go and get a manicure?” “Can you meet my friend’s mom so she can sleep over?” ...the friend, not the mom:) “Dad, I think I need a bra?” “Dad, what is sex?”

The first few months as a single dad felt like an absolute whirlwind.  I was widowed and they were half orphaned.  Emotions ran deep and erupted frantically at times.  Many of those early days were spent just getting through the day to find any space to feel comfortable in our own family.  An obvious void rested heavy, them motherless and grieving with an inexperienced single father.  Granted, I had the enormous support from my mother who has been nothing short of amazing, but at the end of the day and in the settling dust, I am my daughters’ only parent.  It is both my privilege and responsibility to show them the way, teach them how and lead them into tomorrow.

I say to them often, especially in tougher times when they are hurting or frustrated, “God gave you me and me you.  And he didn’t make a mistake.”

Honestly, I was as lost in parenting as I was in grief.

So I went for a walk and under a starlit sky, glowing alive, I lost that part of me dying and came back a different man.

I wasn’t a dad, and I wasn’t single.  I was, and would be from then forward, a parent, open-hearted to life with my three beautiful daughters through the pain, the hurting, the confusion and the lonely.

The stars just made perfect sense in a whole new way that night.  The way they hung perfectly, positioned precisely and shined brightly millions of miles away, as if broadcasting a message of hope in the endless panoramic expanse of the night sky, whispering order and security and future, raptured me from living as a victim in a day I felt I didn’t belong to.  Instead, I felt closer to God that night standing under the stars, his stars, and asked simply of him to just help me build the family that we, my wife and I, once started together.

Slowly over the next few weeks, we began to grow again.  I wasn’t as concerned with how to necessarily raise three little girls however little girls should be.  I would raise them in the exact context we newly lived in.

I introduced them to adventure to keep their hearts curious and growing.  We attacked our weaknesses together.  I learned how to do a pony tail, and they learned how to fish.  They taught me how to paint nails, and I showed them how to scout a hiking trail.  Our life together will always be my most beautiful treasure.  I absolutely adore it.

Tonight, as on most Wednesday evenings, we continued on with one of my favorite new family traditions: family cook night.  It’s quite simple of a tradition.  We cook, together.

For us, the kitchen is definitely an adventure.  Our measurements are generous, and each of us thinks we really know what we’re doing.  Emily’s a pro at cutting anything; Elizabeth expertly dabbles in everything; and Chloe can stir like a boss.  Honestly, it’s crazy stressful watching it all happen, but the payoff is magic.  Our hearts are open, conversation flows freely, music typically plays in the background and we just go at it celebrating our togetherness in a new family way.

When the kitchen lights are turned off and the sink is full, half of dirty dishes and half clean, those four words find me, and again, I’m reminded that we are all okay.

:::::::

Not many parenting techniques will pay off quite like the simplicity of simply being together fully in the moment.  Everything thick and troubling is cut right through.

As parents, time is a commodity that we sometimes don’t have much of, but the more you generously give of the time you have, fully invested into the lives of your children, the greater and more fruitful of a payoff you’ll share in the years ahead.  Together.

[gallery link="file" columns="5"]

A Deeper Family :: Grief, 3 little girls and God somewhere.

Recently, I received an invitation to join a team of storytellers focused on drawing back the curtain on family by sharing pieces of life both lived through and learned.  I'm quite honored to be part of such a talented team of writers.  Diversity runs rampant between us, but one thing weaves consistent through us all: God.  And a few virtues we feel endearing and necessary: honesty, vulnerability, grace and tomorrow. Below is an excerpt from my first post for A Deeper Family.

It’s been two years since my wife drew her last breath in an ICU room after five days of being supported by medicine and machines, and finally I feel as though we are just beginning to level out.  You could imagine the polarized difference between a household balanced with two loving parents being reduced to half and the weight it would add.  Add sorrow and grief into the mix and the emptiness of daughter without mother.  And now add the emotional differences of three little girls and a hollowed out, shell-shocked dad.  That’s a recipe for implosion, full meltdown.

Continuing reading at A DEEPER FAMILY

you write the days.

Everyone has a story. Each day, a page in a chapter; your life written in words that hold more of the form of action than letters.  We lose sight of one day certain ahead when our lives sealed up by time will no longer be.  It will happen despite all effort given to keep it at an appropriate distance.  Every day the distance closes and we move every bit closer to the end.  But don’t lose value in the finiteness of life when death is remembered.  Much of life and living is discovered in death, the fine reality that one day we will reach the end.  Whether we are prepared or not, every story reaches resolve, or at least the end.

Greater treasure lies in death spied ahead than in life alone.  Trust me. ::::::::

Earlier in the week, we spent the evening running through a fairly normal routine.  The only difference being a camera following and documenting our activity both mundane and extraordinary.  The videographer planned to collect our family story on film for an organization that has become a tremendous shelter in our lives.  That organization is called, GriefWorks.  Hours of film documented our movement and recollected words guiding the story from grief to grace.

He observed through lens our family cooking night.  Tower pizza, one of our apparent specialities, on the menu.  We all pitch in.  At least that’s how the cooking adventure begins, with all of us assigned to jobs preparing food.  Ten minutes in, it’s me in the kitchen lost and guessing measurements.

Even sharing the meal was documented.  Several times throughout, I dreamed of hiring the videographer to film every meal we eat together into the foreseeable future.  I’m not sure I’ve ever seen the girls on that level of behavior.  Maybe the fact that they asked if the filming was sort of like a reality tv show.  At yes, their behavior and advanced conversation morphed into angelic attention and Brady Bunch like coordination.  Amazing...truly.

I loved watching them interact with his questions during their interview together.  They sat on the couch and waited and joked about being tv stars.  I love seeing them smile easily.

Right as the videographer was set to begin, he looked at me once more to make sure I was okay with the questions he prepared for them.  He didn’t know, but we’ve been deep in conversation bathed and drowned in tears.  They’ve shared hurts, questions and fears and given space for grief to exist.  In turn, healing blooms in their hearts like rose buds among thorns.

But still, I appreciated his concern.

:::::::

Easy questions first to prime the pump and set the stage and work out all of the squirming and laughter, mostly.

Then onto heavier words.  They talked about the day Marianne was rushed to the hospital.  It was interesting hearing them talk to someone else.  I just sat out of camera frame, on the side lines, listening and watching how they spoke about easily the most devastating occurrence of their lives.

“Our mom died and we didn’t really know at first.  We waited for her to come home from the hospital and made treats for our whole family.  On one bag we wrote, ‘Mom and Dad.’”

I sometimes forget that for five days while she laid moving between life and not that my girls lived in one world still where all was alright, while I moved into another where my wife disappearing.

The girls shared descriptions of their mom both funny and adoring.  Smiles drew across their faces and mine as each described characteristics found in their lives, her indelible imprint.  I will forever love those characteristics planted deeply within them.

“How is life now with Dad?  Could you describe it?”

And then one of the greatest affirmations of my life ensued.  Their words shifted from past to present and tomorrow.

Fun.  Happy.  Crazy.  ...adventurous.

And there it was ...clouds parting, sun shining, hope rising, day passing from one to another.

“We’re okay, I thought.  Much more than I give credit for.”

:::::::

Adventure was my number one goal in starting life new just me and my girls.  That is what they will remember.  They do now.  Not getting everything right or playing it safe, but moving onward and out boldly.  Treading heavy on the ground soaked in tears stained the color sorrow.  We left one life behind moving swiftly because that day disappeared as all days behind do.  Staying there would mean so would we.

In my heart, adventure was the key unlocking a new door.  I needed courage so I took it.  The man my little daughters came to know in the wake of death and tragedy was a man pulling hard at life and God, cutting deep a path for their feet to walk.  As much as I could, I stretched.  I spent more money investing in experiences together.  We stayed out later, drew new lines, created new traditions and took on new challenges.  Not only did they see me more adventurous in a cavalier way.  They felt me lean into them more in shared fears, broken hearted moments and uncertainty.  But so far, we’ve kept moving.  Together, we jumped two-footed into every challenge.

I had to remake us.  I had to write our days.

:::::::

Undoubtedly, you have been and will only continue to be tossed around by the swelling tide of life and circumstance.  But more lasting than the ugliest moments in your life is the horizon swallowing the sea.  When all settles, and trust me, it will at some point, you will see hope as it burns ahead.

You write the days.  Cling to promise and love and faith through tossing waves both crashing and threatening.  Not one of them is as big and lasting as the God painted horizon ahead.

in the way she should go.

“You must earn the right to quit.” And with those words floating wisely across the room finding only a lonely stare in my daughter’s young eyes, I returned to the corner of the room and the lotus position from which I came.

Another parenting stroke of genius gently leading my daughter from a place of despair and desolation to perspective as the ocean deep and endless sky sprawl.  One day she’ll look back with forever adoration thanking God for gracing her life with such magnificence.

That’s what it looked like seconds after I spoke a Confucian smoke screen hung with ornate words that impressed only me.  It was one of those lines spoken valued so good that repetition was a must for certainty that the hearer surely missed the glory.

She just sat there unaffected by my words, despite repetition and rephrasing, overwhelmed with emotion and armed with countless reasons to quit.  I miss the mark in my parenting relationship with my daughters.  It happens quite often.

I say the wrong things and do the wrong things every day, but I am convinced that perfection in parenting is a misdirected illusion cutting the legs out from under many parents sinking in mistakes.

:::::::

My oldest is growing into her own faster than I can count days.  Before I know it and much sooner than I care to even entertain at the moment, the day will come when she hugs my neck in a hurry on her way out the door to cut her own path in life.

Already behind us are those days when I carried her and ruled righteously in her life with a firm and unquestioned ‘yes’ or ‘no’.  Life was simple.  That was then.

Now and in the days ahead, she is beginning to (and will continue to) push boundaries, question my judgement and reasoning and stretch out the legs strengthening beneath her.  This is an important formative process that must happen, but also must be shaped by the parent.

“Train up a child in the way (s)he should go; even when (s)he is old (s)he will not depart from it.”  - Proverbs 22:6

And hear me clearly when I say that this, her stretching, pushing, objecting, protesting, is all good.

:::::::

Our conversation was more than simply my words being spoken to her, or at her.  A milestone now sets behind us marking her maturing.

You see, training your child to go at life the right way happens in the smallest of opportunities.  This particular opportunity came in the form of a conversation about giving up because of rejection and difficulty.

Elizabeth has been a dancer for over 5 years now.  She’s learned the basics in several different forms of dancing as she’s been a part of two different dance schools.  Dancing is simply a regular part of her identity as a young girl.  As the new session began, Elizabeth chose to enroll in an advanced ballet class, one that would surely push her ability beyond anything that she’s aspired to accomplish as of yet.  After the first class, I could tell she was frustrated and sinking into a bad attitude.  Then her new teacher suggested she move to a more basic ballet class where she could master base techniques.

Suddenly in her own mind, Elizabeth couldn’t dance.  She wouldn’t.

Vanished were the years of dance behind her.  The recitals, the classes and all accomplished, gone lost in her perceived rejection and difficulty.

In the grand scheme of circumstance and reality, her difficulty seems minute and insignificant.  That was my initial evaluation of it, but I undervalued a great struggle for her; a tension between do and don’t, try and quit, win and lose, significance and perseverance.

She made a handwritten list detailing no less than ten reasons why she would quit dance.  With that list written in the little handwriting that I helped teach, she had my attention.

She was shrinking, giving up without giving greater effort in heavier circumstance.

:::::::

“If you quit now, what will you be?”

...silence, but her eyes said everything.

With a hushed voice she nearly whispered, “A quitter.”

:::::::

As a parent, I never want my kids to feel forced to do anything that they do not want to do.  If she really wants to quit dancing and move onto other activities, she’s free to do so, but she has to earn the right to make a mature decision, to quit.

For the sake of her future standing in wait for her, I made her commit to a mature decision.  She would have to commit to three more weeks of her new ballet class, trying hard, giving full effort and having a positive attitude.  Then once she completed three weeks, we would revisit the discussion.

As kids grow, so must parenting techniques and relationship.  The mistake I observe in parenting is to try to parent the same way as kids grow older and face more mature situations.

We prayed simple words and committed to simple action.  Packed into the cryptic statement that I began our conversation with bathed in her tears, was truth far simpler and greater than I originally intended.  She understood that she couldn’t just quit because a habit would be given room to grow and that life required perseverance through difficulty.

I’m convinced that a good portion of any parenting success with me is due to a sort of subconsciously driven dumb luck pulling wisdom and experience from my past into their present.

After I picked her up from her new class, she smiled almost slyly like she learned a new secret, and told me that she loves her new ballet class.

Gone were the worries that convinced her she should quit.

a sacred haunt.

His eyes.  They hang in those moments between words, lost.  Nowhere do they find rest or comfort, or even familiarity. He shifts constantly for new position in his seat never settled for more than a handful of minutes.  He’s not nervous.  He’s hiding, moving back and forth to break the emotion looking to free itself from his holding.  He shifts again as not to cry as stories of survivors and victims, the only thing familiar, are brought forth in memoriam and confession; recountings of their loved ones dead.

The wedding band still wraps around his finger.  “She’s only been gone since June,” he struggles the words out.  And then he fades back into the chair and the stories shared from the others sitting in the circle.

:::::::

It’s been awhile since I’ve listened to someone new in our grief support group speak of their loss so recent and fresh.  Usually, their words are few and plain, partly guarded and mostly numb still.  Two emotions gripped me in the six grueling words he shared: familiar and sadness.

I know the road he has suddenly found himself on.  I remember, all too well, the disoriented feeling to every day, how my feet ambiguously shuffled forward because the day behind ripped through me, how my thoughts sank even in smiles and words rattled safety because I didn’t really want to be found.  No day stretches too far to forget and no night rests soundly in dreams giving harbor to relentless grief.

It’s a sacred haunt, one lurking in memories and love and life belonging to a day that has come and gone without approval and despite a fight.

He’s in a bad spot.  But at least he’s here.

What I want to tell him as my chance to speak in the circle draws near is that he’s okay, more than he can know right now.  He’s not forgotten.  He’s not alone.  And most of what he thinks right now is untrustworthy; he will make it.

He’s gazing at the floor most of the time, but I notice his eyes break and look up briefly as the each person shares of their loss.  At least he’s listening.

Rather than tell him what and where he’ll be one day soon as he continues his grief journey, I tell the group humorous stories of my struggles (and surprising progression) learning to do my daughters’ hair, painting fingernails and shopping for clothes.  I then reminded them that this month marks two years since my wife’s death.

He’ll get there, here and further, if he only continues through pain and loneliness and the deepest of sadness.

:::::::

On the drive home from our grief support group, I talked to the girls about what they learned and discussed in their groups.  They talked about memories.  So many of their memories of Marianne are amazing ones.  Dancing in the living room until they were too tired to have fun, summer days lazy at the pool, cooking cookies at night, friends sleeping over waiting giddy for Marianne to inspire another hair brained scheme of adventure, bedtime jokes and prayers...  Some are haunting and even undefined.  They speak of those more and more infrequently at night, but I know those haunting thoughts exist.  They must in order for their hearts to heal.  It’s a sacred haunt that I can help them and support them in, but they, too, must continue through into a day new.

Do we ever stop grieving?

To a large degree, I don’t think we do.

Grieving is growth through the greatest pain and rising from the deepest loss.

I really hope and pray I see him again next time.