a parenting must.

Once again, deeper there on the trail crowded by overgrowth and choked by dust, I felt the responsibility in each of their little vulnerable steps.

“Dad, I can’t.” “Trust me, you can.  Just put your foot right where you feel my hand.”

A few minutes earlier, we came to a small clearing right off the trail that gave glimpse to a waterfall.  The sound of water rushing.  The cool of mist hanging in air.  They had to see it.  The beauty of nature demanded attention.  Between us and the sight to behold, a small rock face and a ledge to balance on.  With little thought of anything going wrong, I started down the rock face determining our path.  The descent, not much more than 20 feet, a bit precarious for their little legs and tense hearts, but necessary to see the waterfall completely.  And in my mind, they absolutely had to see it.

I am father to three amazing little daughters.  They have no other parent now.  Just me.

I have little idea of how to raise daughters on my own.  All the shifting intricacies and suddenly swelling emotions.  I second guess myself and hesitate at least a handful of times most days.  They cry huge girl tears which fall unexpectedly and unpredictably.  I worry.  What’s wrong?  Before I can catch up and figure out what’s going on, they’re done.  The moment behind them.  Tears get lost in laughter.  And they talk way too much by my account.  Don’t get me wrong, I love hearing them talk about the day, their experiences and how they are seeing the world, but sometimes our conversational thresholds are very, very different.

Being dad rests as a huge responsibility in each day and decision.  So much more than ever before or imagined.

Together, we crash landed onto the shores of life now and new.  The wreckage of the life we knew still ablaze and in sudden disarray.

“DAD, you’re here!!!” they yelled with excitement.

Leaping hugs ensued as they engulfed me with energy building during the week we were apart.  For a moment, I was raptured back to the world I knew when they would run to greet me as I returned from work.  That world and the loving memories of it vanished with the words that followed.  “Where’s mommy?” asked Elizabeth, our oldest daughter.  “When is mommy coming home from the hospital?” asked Chloe, our youngest with anxious excitement.  I could not even swallow to say something.  This was so much more terrible than I could have ever imagined.  Emily, our middle daughter, was quiet.  I could tell she knew something was wrong, very wrong, as she backed into the shadows of her heart trying to not be part of what was happening.  My heart crumbled and quaked inside of my chest.  They had no idea yet exactly how dark the day was and how different their lives had become.  As their daddy, the one person walking this Earth set to protect them, their words were like someone violating the sacredness of our family, our togetherness.  It felt as though someone stabbed me in the heart with the dullest knife, maybe a spoon.  And I swear I could see life dim a little in their eyes as they saw the loneliness present in  mine.

“Let’s go outside.  I need to talk to you, girls.”

That is how this together started; me and the three of them.  A conversation about death and tragedy, what’s no more and unknown ahead.  Together, in the middle of two very different days, all sinking and me trying to keep our heads above water rising.

Before their mother’s death, we were five together.  Life was tamed by love and dreams to chase after.  In so many countless little ways, life laid out far less complex and with comforting ease.  Life made sense.  God existed always measurably good.

I never imagined living life as a single parent.  So much responsibility.  Most of the time, details slip past me and dates fall through the cracks.

Here’s the thing: parenting is much more privilege and much less about responsibility.

It has to be.  Otherwise, you’ll raise robots, rebels or aging dependents.  It is not your responsibility to make your kids succeed in life.  It is your privilege to lead them along treacherous paths and be a part of revealing the panoramic ahead.

Responsibility is a to do list, a weighted must; a burden lacking discovery, heroism, courage and love.  Your kids will always remember moments you lifted them, times you saved them and whispers of greatness planted in the soil of their little looking hearts.  The scariest thing I’ve ever had to do as their dad was let go.  Responsibility hangs heavy in weighty apprehension.  Do this.  Say that.  Allow this.  Never that.  Responsibility will keep you running to little fires with an always leaking bucket of maybes and overreactions and weak second guesses.

I can no more save them than I can myself.  I had to let go of responsibility as priority in parental definition.  It is a parenting must.

More than father to my three little beautiful daughters, I am a son made to belong where I shouldn’t by a forever loving Father who just does not quit.  Loosening my grip on responsibility as king didn’t make me less responsible, but more responsive to their growing needs.  The privilege of being dad to Elizabeth Marie, Emily Anne and Chloe Grace opens me to lead them wherever life turns and towards the women they will soon one day be.

We inched down the rock face, my hands and words guiding each step.  Together we took in the view and felt the mist lightly spraying about us.  We shared a small victory, their little hearts grew stronger and I learned more about parenting in that moment than most others before.

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the gospel, giggles and cuss words.

“...and it was even grosser and uglier than that.  The Bible says that he was beaten so badly, to the point that he didn’t really look like himself anymore.” We sat on the floor of our living room surrounded by enough chocolate and candy to satisfy a little army of children.  The sugar rush seemed to take hold instantly mixed with the releasing anticipation of Easter morning finally arrived.  My kids, as I imagine most kids, light up with excitement and a particular joviality belonging only to a few days positioned throughout the year: birthdays, holidays and the onset of summer.  I absolutely love it, too.  They are particular little celebrators who like to take in the moment and deliberately ease into the cause for grande occasion.  Routines, habits, traditions, all honored and revered in their little hearts.  It makes my heart sometimes rushed by responsibility and dampened by ‘reality’ slow to their pace and come alive similarly.  No rushing through presents or traditions or out of what they’ve waited as patiently as they can for.  

I especially love these moments with them.  Our time together in memories creating and lasting forever.  They’ll look back to our time together, when it is no longer just us, from a time ahead when they are doing the same with their own little families and draw from our experiences happening now.

And in the midst of celebrating holidays, all excitement, anticipation and happiness involved, I make sure to plant deeply and water the cause for such spectacle.  I try my best, at least.

This particular Easter morning we woke to skies clouded and rain falling, presenting the perfect opportunity.  After getting through the exhilaration of our morning egg hunt where no nook or cranny inside of the house was out of bounds or off limits and them finding new fishing poles laid out as family gifts next to their Easter baskets, we sat, ate more candy and talked a bit longer than usual.

“Easter is all about grace, God making everything wrong with us right and okay.”

Even though my daughters are young, they understand more than I often give them credit for.  This time the morning rested lazy and easy.  Rather than oversimplifying our conversation, I read more than two chapters straight from my Bible as they sat nearly spellbound despite sugar rushing through those little veins of my own.

They asked about the gory punishment inflicted on Jesus, sat still both captivated and horrified by the details of crucifixion, wondered aloud why people were so mean to him and wanted to know what happens when they do wrong ...if they keep doing wrong.  We’ve talked about grace before, but our morning conversation then presented a more concrete understanding.

A seed planted now being watered.  I pray roots dig deeply into their hearts and fruit of understanding and grace, action and choices, hangs ready on their growing branches.

“God wants you, and everyone, to go to Heaven.  That’s why he allowed Jesus to die for us, even though he knew we’d all make mistakes and do wrong.”

Grace :: favor rendered by one who need not do so; exemption; a reprieve.

I want them to understand grace deeply.  An infinitely important goal determined in my life as father to my little girls is to establish grace and acceptance in their lives.  I never want God misunderstood in their minds and unaccepted in their hearts as a distant judge somewhere in the sky just waiting for them to mess up.  He's right there in our mess.  He wants all to have heaven.  All to receive grace and everything wrong with us right and okay.

Grace and acceptance will mature only as I continue cultivate the soil of their hearts and nurture their stretching branches that will bear and hold fruit.  I think of parenting as I think of my own heart.  A garden needing constant attention.

As questions slowed and our conversation widened, my oldest asked, “What about bad words?”

“You know, the ‘sh’ word and the ‘b’ word,” she knowingly stated. “Gotcha.  And the ‘f’ word, right?” “Whoa, NO!!  That’s horrible, dad!!!”

Funny how kids zero in on what they deem the most important.  Not murder or cheating or stealing or lying, but bad words.  This is why I love these times so much.  They give time for their hearts to readily open and just pour out.

“Those are just words used to mean bad things.  The words themselves aren’t bad.  It is the way we use them and how we use them.  It all starts in our heart.  The words don’t matter as much as why and how we use them.”

So to further teach them, we read from Matthew 5:22 and talked about the power of how we use words.  To top it off, I said one of the cuss words my daughter alluded to out loud.

Deafening silence, eyes wide and jaws agape.

For me, parenting sometimes requires slight risks and complete honesty.  To ensure they understood why I cussed out loud, we briefly looked up the meaning and definition for a couple of the words.  They learned that those words actually do have real meaning, but due to misuse and bad intentions, those words hold bad meanings.  I explained that I don’t use those words because of how they are commonly used to mean bad things and because I simply do not need to, there are far better words to use.

My aim in this teaching was deep and far reaching.  It was a matter of beginning to set right understanding in their hearts, that Christ died for them specifically and grace redeems their hearts affecting their actions.  Not the other way around.  All too often, the mistake of our actions making us acceptable to God lingers and holds prominence over grace freely given and capably finding.

The only way to grace is through the mess.

“Any questions, girls?”

They looked at each other for a moment and then simultaneously burst into infectious giggles.  It will stand as one of the best conversations we’ve had to date.

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.

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

affectionately known as mumzi.

:: by Marguerite Delcambre

We all grow in the soil of family cultivated and nurtured around us.  In that soil we stretch out, push into the dirt and feel life all around.  There are rocks and weeds and roots that we must move around, grow through and deal heavily with.  Regardless, it is in that soil that we flourish or flounder.  As a parent, it is my duty to nurture the soil my kids are growing in and keep it healthy.

In planning for this series of guest posts, I felt it would be lacking without one.  I would like to give you the slightest glimpse into the heart of my mother.  She is a woman who with an unassuming, quiet strength has made a way for me.  Constantly tending to the soil of our hearts in ways lasting, my sister and I grew healthy despite rocks and thinning soil drying in sun.  Death of a child, her firstborn, when I was only five.  Marriage suddenly no more after years of happy and whole.  Her faith strained undoubtedly, but in that straining, grew unmistakably deep loosening soil richer.

And as the soil in my life thinned, she arrived.  I will forever owe a debt to her that she will never accept for pausing her life to see that ours resumed.  Quietly cultivating soil.

I asked her to simply write a letter addressed to my daughters speaking into their future words that would carry.  I also asked my grandmother to write letters to my girls.  Maw maw Lucy is well into her nineties and she like my mom is still tending to the soil.  I am who I am largely due to these two remarkable ladies, my mom and my grandmother.[gallery link="file" columns="5"]

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Dear Elizabeth, Emily and Chloe,

I love you all so much, and I want God's very best for you.  You've already felt more pain in your short lives than most girls your age, but I see you as winners.  I love the young girls you're becoming.  I know you are who you are because you have had such a strong foundation laid by your daddy and mommy.

I have been praying for you from the time I heard the good news that you would be born.  I prayed that you would be safe, beautiful, smart, talented.  I'll always pray for you.  My prayer now is that you will follow Jesus all the days of your lives.  Then you will make wise choices. Choose to be honest in everything you do.  You'll make mistakes, but admit those mistakes and choose not to make the same mistake again.  You'll  feel so good about yourself and others will respect us.

Choose to love your sisters, watch out for each other, help each other.  When you think of Mommy and it hurts and makes you lonely, sad, or even angry, remember that your sisters feel that way too sometimes.  Be kind and loving to each other.  Friends will come and go but sisters will always be sisters.  Choose your friends wisely.  Having a few friends who believe in the same things you believe is better than having lots of friends who are untrustworthy friends, who may try to get you to do the wrong thing.

Choose carefully who to date...  My prayer is that your future mate will love Jesus first, then you, that he will be the leader and provider in your home, that he will honor and respect you.  First get to know the young man you fall in love with by dating him, become engaged, marry... Then have a home together and have babies.  That's God's plan for you ...in that order. Choose wisely.  You may hear lots of people say "its ok, everyone's doing it."  That's a lie.  There are some who choose being different from the crowd because the crowd may be doing the wrong thing.  Listen to that still small voice in your heart who wants to lead you the right way.

Remember that I'll always love you.  I hope that no matter what you face in life, you will always know that I am here for you.

Love you forever, Mumzi

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Thanks for reading this week.  And a lasting thank you to the amazing women who were my guests: Rachel McGowan (@_rachchristine) ||  Meshali Mitchell (@meshali) || Felicity White (@felicitywhite)

gold, not glitter.

:: by Felicity White

Because I have three daughters, I often find myself shopping for little girl things.  And sometimes this is frustrating for me because it appears that the clothing and toy designers of the world would like to cover you in glitter and fake fur and colored plastic, and I’d like to drench you in sensible wool or cotton instead.  And I know that isn’t very exciting.  But here’s my deal.

You don’t want to be glitter; you want to be gold. You don’t want to be lightweight and made of painted plastic and used to make cheap things look expensive. You don’t want to be, as one definition for glitter describes it, “used in craft projects, especially for children, because of the brilliant effects which can be achieved relatively easily.”

The truth is, brilliant effects are never achieved easily.

A real piece of gold shows this.  First the gold is extracted from the ground, usually with a lot of work from deep underground mines and caves.  Then it is sifted and washed to separate it from all the dirt. Then it is melted and shaped into thick bars.  A jeweler takes those bars and melts them down again, this time shaping the gold into beautiful chains, rings, etc.  It’s a long process, but it’s worth it.  This is why we pay so much for even a small piece of gold.

This is also why we make you take piano lessons and teach you to run or dance for exercise.  This is why we encourage you to be kind to your friends and respectful to your teachers.  This is why we don’t let you quit because something gets hard.  This is why we make you apologize when you’re wrong.  This is why you yell at us and call us mean. But doing any less would be to treat you like glitter and we won’t do that because we know you are gold.

Glitter is a cheap way to try to make something look better than it really is.  Glitter is used to simulate gold.  I want you to be authentically awesome people, not cheap fakes.  Our world, though, is steadily trying to convince us both that glitter is enough. Look at a comparison of Glitter and Gold and see for yourself:

1. Glitter is mass-produced in factories; Gold is a rare mineral found in the earth. You were created for more than boyfriends, parties, and sparkly nails.  You come from the earth and are created to make it a better place.  Remind yourself with the lines of this poem: “My frame was not hidden from you, when I was being made in secret, intricately woven in the depths of the earth.”  You are an individual and should be proud of all that means.  Never do something just because everyone else thinks it’s okay.

2. Glitter has barely any weight; Gold is sold by its weight. To have a voice in this world, you’ll have to prove you have something worthwhile to say. You do that by learning and becoming an expert.  You don’t have to know everything, but you should know a lot about at least one thing.  You can be whatever you want to be, but be prepared to work for it if you want to do it well.

3. Glitter is cheap; Gold is expensive. It’s okay if people accuse you of being picky when it comes to men (and other major life decisions).  Wait for the man (or the college or the job) who is willing to meet your standard.  He should respect your parents, share your moral and faith code, promise to care for you always (and prove it now), and be your truest most faithful friend.  You don’t have to give yourself away to the first guy who shows up.  Be choosy.  You are worth it.

4. Glitter symbolizes temporary fame or glory; Gold is the symbol of eternity. In all of this, remember where you come from and what you were made for: God himself. Your Creator, your Savior, your Friend.  This life He gives is a blessing and a gift, but it is also full of pain that comes from many ages of the world rejecting this truth.  Things will go wrong and you’ll have to decide how that fits in your thinking.  I have a baby girl in Heaven named Ellery and, because of her, every day I remember that this life is only temporary. Someday, because I believe God is who He says He is, I’ll be in the best place ever and all the problems and troubles of this life will be gone.  Until then, I use the problems of this life to make me stronger and more dependent of God’s grace.  Anything here can be taken away from me (even the people I love the most); only He is a constant.  I can have Him now and I can have Him then.  I hold on.  I hope you will, too.

The world will try to treat you like glitter, sister, and you’ll have to remind them that you are gold.  Sometimes you’ll wish you could be glitter because it looks so much easier.  But resist the crazy of the masses and be rare instead.

Don’t settle for the cheap ways of glitter - be real gold!

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Felicity White teaches spiritual formation and literature courses at Heartland Christian College.  She is also a perpetual student - always reading, researching, and connecting.  She makes a home with her musician husband, Dan, and four perfectly imperfect children.  She feeds the dog because it's the right thing to do.  Her blog, Rare Rocks (www.felicitywhite.com), focuses on the challenging but worthwhile work of pursuing virtue and beauty even in the earthy places and phases of this life.

web :: www.felicitywhite.com twitter :: twitter.com/felicitywhite