life

10 Habits to Break (and NOT live by) :: routine.

Antarctic-Plateau We live in circles and lines defined more and better each day in routines, in habits.  The habits we tolerate shape our pace through life and weave together the perspective in which we gaze out at the world alive around us.  In similar fashion, we fail to perceive or even recognize the panorama of what could be when we become hemmed in by habits.

If we always return home the same way everyday, we may never become aware of a shortcut, a better way home.

There comes a time when ascent flattens and pace slows to life less than extraordinary.  In youth, we excitedly run with risk absent of consequence as we pursue dreams unhinged to plausibility.  Call it youthful exuberance or recklessness, but there is an invigorating vitality in running through each day with a hunger for more and a thirst for tomorrow.  As a result, we grow exponentially in youth, not because of the mere pace of our going, but our openness to new experiences and investigative curiosity in all surrounding us.  Naturally, we slow in our lean into adulthood as we take on responsibility and schedules.  The pace of yesteryear cannot be maintained in the same way as we draw circles of priority and lines of direction.  

But plateauing should never be our resigned position; learning and experiences are necessary to our growth and development as professionals, parents, spouses and friends.

When each day fades into undisturbed routine and the rush of wind pushing against our face as we pursue life more calms to barely whispering breeze in our halted stance, we reach stasis - the point where things will be as they will be and dreams are excused as insubordinate and unwise fantasies.  In our circles and lines, we drown in deadlines, goals and schedules and the panoramic disappears leaving only what’s immediately in front of us.

For me, walking outside the lines of routine holds high priority and considered an absolute necessity to continual growth.

Across the board, I violate lines appropriated safe by responsibility.  This is how I escape routine reigning as sacred in my life.  My violations are subtle, but transformative to how I value life and what really matters.  As an example, my schedule isn’t allowed as much value as what I’m actually doing.  So if one part of my schedule requires more time to do it well, the schedule bows to the activity.  Common within my scheduled writing time are moments when the words don’t fit together like they should in order to give proper voice to what I’m writing - in other words, writer’s block.  Instead of moving on for the sake of sticking to the schedule, I push through the block and closer to mastery.

Even more important than writing and routines, family holds a much higher regard.  Just last night, I sat up an hour later than my oldest’s regular bedtime to hear her heart and set right insecurities festering within her emotions.

I believe we develop far deeper and much more stable in our pursuit of life in moments outside the lines rather than holding to patterns and routines boasting safety.  And I believe God invites us to run outside the lines and deems it befitting of His immeasurably sufficient, unconcerned with safe grace alive in each of our days.  Sacred and safe routines are means of preservation and reek of a me-centric attitude void of God’s leading as primary.  Regularly, I remind myself that God rarely seems to be concerned with safe, but instead provokes curiosity and ideas of ahead within us.  Consider the apostle Paul’s positioning of God in Ephesians chapter 3:

“Now to him who is able to do far more abundantly than all that we ask or think, according to the power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, forever and ever. Amen.”

In every opportunity, may we reach outside the lines to grasp life well strengthened by a power alive and at work within us, and may we resign routine a lesser priority unable to threatened what really matters.

*(image: Ross Anderson)

A Deeper Family :: tipping the scale.

The day never holds enough minutes and moments. It never seems enough; the effort given, the time split, the little sacrifices made here and there, the want for more quality time, all feel like sand slipping through fingers.

Life.

It always moves faster than we think in the moment.  One day we are holding a tiny newborn nearly too nervous to even move with them in arm.  The next we find ourselves chasing them as they pedal their bike down the sidewalk and reviewing rules when readying them for sleepovers at friends’ houses.  And before we have time to be fully ready, they will be driving themselves around, shaving their faces or their legs, or both and be talking of college, career, dreams or even marriage.

Time doesn’t wait, not for you to learn how to get parenting and family right nor for you to grow unselfish enough to see or catch up to opportunities fleeting.  Like sand sliding through the skinny of an hour glass, time is constantly going.  And so are the days with it.

I had this terrible thought recently.  I only have about 8 years until my oldest daughter moves into the world off to college or work, chasing dreams and meeting love.

Continue reading my new post at A Deeper Family...

be parenting.

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“What does kindness mean?”

My question hung in air between us for a bit as they knew exactly why I was asking.  Most nights seem to require at least a quick emotional melt down right before bedtime.  With consistency, it’s as if my announcement that bedtime has once again arrived is received by their ears much differently than my rather practical intent.  The message somehow jumbled and transmitted to their brain, “hurry up, fight, argue, instigate, you’ve only got a few minutes left in this day!”  

Little exception to this every evening phenomena.  Someone is bound to lose the race up the stairway.  No fewer than three times a week does one of them rush upstairs to lock the bathroom door leaving the other two pounding hard demanding in.

Some times tears happen, too.  Actually crying is relatively normal and at times, a rather dominant expressed emotional response.  Perhaps if someone uninvitingly rearranged the dolls I had taken 5 minutes out of my schedule free day to set up at a tea party in my room, I’d crumble into tears and pieces too.  Or maybe if my little sister didn’t really understand the pretend scenario that I instantly created, details lacking and changing, I’d take it deeply to heart and fall apart.  “You just don’t get it, Dad.”  My thought, “thank God I don’t get it.”  We’d be a fiery mess of emotion and tears if I did get what they get.

Maybe it would be weird if at least one of the girls didn’t have a good cry at some point in every day.  What amazes is how quickly those tears can dry.  They dry fastest when they get what they want.

I love my daughters and am utterly committed to loving them just as completely as I know how and can learn to.  But even with the assistance of my mom interpreting their often indiscernible emotion code, I’m lost in those little moments when tears fall quickly and emotions blare out.  I’m just not that emotional of a person.  Especially when I look at the array of quick emotions they can shift through.

I know that they love each other, too.  Siblings fight and argue as a natural part of establishing who they are and working through life as they grow into it.  As a man, I imagine it might be easier to break up a physical squabble between boys.  But I don’t have boys.  I am fathering three girls who only have a dad.  I’m learning how to relate and find my pace with them in these emotional times.

So back to our bedtime question, “What does kindness mean?”

“...love.” “...nice.” “...happy.”  (One guess at who this last response belonged to.)

“All good answers, girls, but not fully right.”

“Awwww!” said the one who answered ‘happy’ as she rolled around on the bed only half invested in the question.

“Kindness means being kind.”

One of the most important things to me as a father is teaching my daughters not simply about life, but precisely how to live it.  I want them to be thought of as kind because they are kind in the way they act and treat others.

Rightly connecting the information with behavior and action is the key that unlocks them.  Otherwise, I reduce myself only to an authoritative voice.  A parent’s place and opportunity in the child’s life is not merely authoritative, but more so as teacher and guide.

If I want them to be, I must be.

“So what can you do tomorrow to be kind to someone?  Pick someone, one person, who you will be specifically kind to?”

Their little responses were as seedlings opening up in the soil of their growing hearts.  Learning to live, to be, in little ways.  That defines and validates parenting for me.

down the trail.

[gallery link="file" columns="5"] Same mistake ...again.

Words, emotions, actions, all lit by the heat of the moment.  Right there.  Right in front of us both.  Regrets pile high once dust settles and calm returns.

Losing sight of who they can be and how to get there with them easily falls victim to all busy schedules, sticky details and chunky events of life unfolding. She lied again.  Again.  

Didn’t she learn from the last time I punished her and raised my voice emphatically?  Apparently, what I say does not matter enough to direct her to making the right choices.

What else would be the cause? She doesn’t respect me anymore.

Standing there looking back at me lying again.  In her eyes rest a distance.  I’m not getting through to her.  Control her every more and response.

“Stand up straight when I am talking to you!”  “Don’t you walk away from me!”  “Sit still, right there.”

In the immediate, I am blinded.  Nothing behind or ahead hold value, only now right there in the heat of the moment.  And there I lose touch with her.  That is the reason a distance rests in her eyes standing there looking back at me.  We stand apart in two different locations, a gap ever widening.

As a single dad and only parent to my three little daughters, I have become much more insecure.  With all of my heart, I only want them to grow healthy and robustly from little girls to young ladies secure in who they are and into loving and wise mature women set on a purposeful course in life.  The fear of not getting them there tangles and trips me.  The fear is now.  It is all I see.  And that is precisely the problem.  I react quickly and out of context losing sight of my ultimate desire.  In quick reactionary parenting, I am just being bounced between little details isolated and void of the overall beauty and full potential holding instead of seeing those little details as not isolated but parts of the whole and opportunities to get her there.

A few months ago while racing down a single track path through a wide open prairie on my mountain bike, I severely misjudged a turn.  Over the handle bars and through the air I tumbled landing squarely on my head and sliding through the dirt and dry grass on my back.  In the adrenaline rush, I popped right back up to my feet.  Everything blurry and spinning.  My stomach tightened and knees weakened as I reached for the ground both signs of a concussion.  After a couple minutes, I climbed back on my bike, cracked helmet and bleeding, for three more miles to finish the course.  The wreck and the injuries incurred were my doing.  One of the most dangerous things to do while mountain biking is to look down right over your handle bars.  In doing so, you miss what is right ahead.  The path is only right there, but there is so much ahead.  And you need to see the whole path ahead to anticipate response.  Turns, logs laying in path, roots, creeks, switch backs, hills and more all ahead on the course.

The danger of looking only right at the moment is to get lost in the immediacy of details unfolding and forget all ahead.  Life holds only immediate value.  Preoccupied and controlled by the moment only, you are left to only reacting.  Life is about much more than flinching, wincing and reacting.  So is parenting.

When I stare into the moment and lose sight of who she can be and will be, all ahead fades into the distant forever.  Both of us sink into a moment rushing, emotions running high and now bleeds like forever.  In this way exactly, parenting shares a parallel with mountain biking.  Life intersecting life.  Truth pedaling and parenting.  In both, eyes must lift out of moments heated and sticky and stay fixed ahead.

I am learning to securely parent my three little daughters in looking down the trail, anticipating response and proactively participating rather than waiting to react in moments and details.

God in context.

I went away alone for a four day writing weekend to make progress on finishing my book, the first one that I’m writing.  60,000 words or so all dripping with life, mine.  A view fixed from my eyes at life all around and life all within.  Memories resurface bringing great comfort and pain and irreplaceable joy and sadness still.  These words piece together only fragments of my life still unfolding like tiny picture scenes positioned carefully to make a bigger picture standing at a distance.  And what you begin to notice more than anything else is God.  In everything.

My brother died at age eight.  Me being five, I didn’t really get it.  God.  Finding God through fear in high school.  My hero dad leaving my mom in the slowest, clumsiest way, God.  Off to college lost and drifting, God.  Meeting the one who would become the one and the joy and finding involved, God.  Defying my odds and yet somehow landing where I always thought I would in ministry as a pastor.  God.  Family.  God.  The birth and acceptance of the three greatest treasures in my life.  God.  Learning to be a father.  God.  Leaving all to pursue the thinnest of dreams together as a family.  God.  The death of my wife.  God.  Life collapsing.  God.  Holding my daughters breaking in the dust settling.  God.  Awakening to a new day.  God.  Finding new life.  God.  Writing.  God.  Epilogue to Prologue, ending to (re)beginning, in the most precise redemptive strokes and causing all to meaningfully making sense.  God.

Below is an excerpt from a chapter that I am writing.  It is not finished.  Maybe it never truly will be.  As of now, the chapter is tentatively entitled, “A Crumbling Wall”.  In writing this chapter, I have a specific vision and imagery guiding the words and their piece together.  A wall battered down, eroded by life and circumstance, especially loss and grief, and how these served to rebuild and reform faith and trust stronger and more solid than before.

There was a street performer that I would see most times I visited the French Quarter as a kid.  For some reason, he made me think about God.  He was a mime in the character of a robot.  His movements were odd, mechanical, precise and a bit predictable.  Even in the sweltering heat and heavy summer air, he dressed in a full suit painted silver from head to toe.  As both natives and tourists passed him by, he never broke character.  It may have been his commitment to character or his quirky, precise gestures that caused me to think of God.  Then again, it could have been his silence and distance from people moving closely all about him and the way in which his actions and movements were cause for attention, but not direct interaction.  And of course, maybe it was the brilliance of his silver skin, suit and hat, that glowed and stood out in the unbelievable heat and humidity of the New Orleans day and how it never affected him that reminded me of God and what I perceived him to be.

Many people are enchanted by God and the thought that He is out there somewhere, somehow holding it all together and keeping the world from tilting too far out of control.  Comfortable with the distance yet calling to somewhere in the sky when in need.  Some are disillusioned by him and his perceived and felt inactivity in broken and horrific parts of their lives.  God exists exactly within the context of your life.  It is in the awakening to God as you are, just where you are, that you find him.  Or more precisely put, God finds you.

 

The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world was made through him, yet the world did not know him. He came to his own,t and his own peoplet did not receive him. But to all who did receive him, who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God, who were born, not of blood nor of the will of the flesh nor of the will of man, but of God.  (John 1:9-13)

 

 

I pushed her into the water.

Clean. Pure. Sacred.Water, a symbol of new.

Our hearts, no matter how young, dirty with old bearing the weight of choices as old as humanity.  Sweat dripping from brow returning to the dust from which it once came living under a heaviness blurred into the background of life.  No matter how hard we try, how much we drink or the great lengths we go, it is never enough.  An unquenchable something.  We work for satisfaction believing it to be found in what we can get for ourselves.  It’s crafty in deflecting.  Sin. It chooses us before we reach for it and know of it.  It yearns in the wailing of a babe mixed in with innocence laced right into desire.  Each of us born into a world not of our choosing affected by sin shaping.  Hearts dimmed before they are even tried and tested.

Dimmed. Dirty. Damned. We all are.  Some no longer.

Redemption eclipsing, an invite to new.  Welcome home.

Water baptism is very important to me and adherence to the faith I cling to.  I remember myself young nervous to be pushed into the water.  We stood in a pool.  Just days prior, I swam and played in those waters thinking nothing of God or sin or wrong.  Everything right in the moment lost in play and the pool.  But standing that day beside the pastor and witnessed by faithful onlookers, there I waited to be ‘dunked’.  He said some words that I’ll never recall but I remember them to be affectionate.  My hand held my nose shut.  And into the water I went.  Only mere seconds under the surface led me home.  Walking out of the pool to clapping and cheering that for whatever reason I understood.  Dripping water, I belonged.  Not to the church or to a man or teaching.  Something discovered me.  Redemption with a plan stretched much farther than day or age or understanding.  I’ll think fondly of that pool forever.

From Eden crumbled and a garden of peace and common dwelling with God hidden, one man’s choosing of sin then draped over all of humanity to come.  Even more historied than man’s choosing is God’s.  His of us.  Jesus came that we might live.  He came so that she would live.  And so into these waters stirring ancient, belonging to prophecy, made alive by the shed blood of Christ she disappeared only to resurface clean, new, redefined.

Two weeks ago in conversation, Emily decided to be water baptized.  She asked me.  That’s how I knew it was time.  So much of parenting is leading them in the right way to the point that wherever they are, the opportunity to choose is clearly presented to them.  If I do their choosing, they will never develop strong in choosing correctly.  Our talks lead us through her understanding the significance of water baptism: an outward expression of the faith growing in her heart.

I had the greatest privilege of baptizing her myself.  No sweeter moment shared between us than holding her in the water, praying with her, looking into her understanding eyes and then pushing her into the water of her choosing to surface discovered and decided.

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The priest is not made.  He must be born a priest; must inherit his office. I refer to the new birth—the birth of water and the Spirit.  Thus all Christians must became priests, children of God and co-heirs with Christ the Most High Priest.   - Martin Luther

Daddy's standard.

::  by Rachel McGowan [gallery link="file" columns="5"]

The reason I have such high expectations in my future husband is because of the way my daddy loves me.

I am my father’s first born, his only daughter, a full-blooded daddy’s girl, and the second most important woman in his life. When I was little, he used to call me “pumpkin”, and I loved it. It still slips out from time to time.

Days after I was born, he wrote a song for me on the guitar. It’s a sweet little melody that rocks my soul to sleep and fills me in the best ways.

From the start, my daddy has loved me well. He tells me I am beautiful at every opportunity. He always answers my questions, and he laughs at my jokes. He calls me to say hello and remembers the details of my life when I tell him. He fights for me against all odds; he would take any bullet for me, just to know I was safe and happy.

He supports everything I do. When I went off to college in another state, he helped me get there, so that I could have the opportunity of a lifetime. When I worked in a restaurant, he frequently asked me about work, so that I could feel purpose behind what I was doing. When I wanted voice lessons, he paid for them in an instant, so that I could grow my passion for music.

But the most important thing my daddy has every done for me is pray for me.

In the song I mentioned he wrote, my daddy asks God to keep me safe, to watch over my life. My daddy submitted me to the Lord before I was even cognitive enough to know it. And as I grew, he discovered my heart, and showed me where it aligned with God’s promises. He showered me with prayer, in any situation. He led the family in a way that put God first, above everything. He so passionately delighted in praising God, that it compelled me to know Jesus deeper. He pursued my heart over the first 24 years of my life in subtle and consistent ways that I am only now beginning to realize. And he never stopped getting to know me. He still takes my heart’s corners and points me back to God’s promises.

I wish I had known that if a boy couldn’t hold a candle to my daddy’s love for me, then he wasn’t worth a second of my time.

As I look back now, I can see ways in which I am sure I broke my daddy’s heart. I spent time with boys just because they were cute, boys who did not understand guarding my heart or preserving my purity. Of course he knew better than I did, but I did not listen to him. So he graciously and gently allowed me to expand the spectrum of my experiences, and allowed life to teach me lessons that only life can. He was there for me when my heart was broken; he stood up for me at all cost.

I have met the man I want to spend the rest of my days with, and I am not surprised that he reminds me of my daddy.

He is kind to all, giving to all, and loving to all. He supports whatever I do and he cherishes me as incredibly important in his life. He values my purity, and is a consistent source of grace, joy, and love. Our relationship is so sacred, so patient, and so focused on God’s promises.

But the most important thing this man does for me is pray for me.

He wraps up our evenings or our conversations in a prayer. He loves Jesus so furiously and passionately, that I am compelled to know Jesus deeper. His love for God inspires me. His showers of prayer strengthen me, and point me back to the meaning of it all.

My standards for a man were set long before I knew it. They were set before I even knew I wanted to get married. Before I knew what I would need in a relationship, before my heart would be broken by boys who were undeserving of my attention, before I undoubtedly recognized my own inner beauty, my daddy instilled those truths within me. My daddy planted deep-rooted seeds in my heart that harvested good fruit in my life. With constant, “I’m proud of you, exactly how you are.” moments, my heart knew what kind of ground to stand firm upon.

I know my worth because my daddy never let me believe I was anything less than wonderfully made; cherished; lovely; enough.

A girl is worth a daddy who resembles the steady love of Jesus, and she is worth a husband who reminds her of that love.

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Rachel is a writer, reader, laughter, dreamer, shower-singer and car-dancer who lives in Dallas, TX and works with hundreds of college students who are figuring out life. She is passionate about women’s issues, the struggles of faith, and is seeking ways to give a voice to the untold stories that have the potential to change lives. She believes in the healing powers of authenticity, acoustic music, and whole bean coffee.

She blogs at www.sincerelyrachelchristine.com and you can keep up with her here:

Twitter:: @_rachchristine Facebook:: www.facebook.com/whistlingrachel