Little Hakims, Growing in Wisdom, Stature, and Favor with God and with Man

Hint 1: They're Not My Children, pt1

2009-09-17T07:52:00.001-05:00

Actually, the title of this hint doesn't go quite far enough. It might be better to begin with, "As a parent, I'm not even my own."

I'm created. I owe my entire existence to my Creator, and I don't have a "right" to anything.

I'm redeemed. Not for a single moment has my heart really lived up to the previous paragraph. Every moment, my best righteousnesses, are polluted filth before God. I am a cosmic rebel, everything I have ever done being an attack upon His throne, competing for His authority and glory. I have never had a motive that was not at some level mixed with a desire to exert my will and advance my praise. Even in our corruption, we understand that treason against a human king is worthy of death; what then eternal treason against an infinitely good King whose right is absolutely unquestionable? And the cost at which He purchased my escape from the consequence, AND my deliverance from the condition of being enslaved to that, AND the guarantee that this deliverance SHALL BE complete in my being conformed to the image of His Son... was His own blood.

So, I'm not my own.

I don't get to set my agenda. My desires are only valid insofar as they follow His revealed will. I have neither the right nor the need to know everything that He is doing; nor could I begin to comprehend it, as the briefest glimpse would break my mind and burst my heart. He has told some of that agenda in broad brushstrokes, and there are many particular details in Scripture, but these all send me the more to defer to His wisdom, to rest in His power, to rejoice in His love.

I don't get to pick the methods. If the secret things belong to God, how much gladder I am that the revealed things are for us and our children that we may do all the words of His instruction! It might be maddening if He had told us nothing. And we are certainly insane if after He has given us instructions, which He Himself has declared sufficient for every good work, we set about carving out our own.

I don't get to depend upon myself. All parental anxiety is sin. That's a hard one to swallow. And, at this point, I suspect that it's a lifetime in learning to practice. Anxiety is a symptom of self-dependence, self-sufficiency. Anxiety is unbelief, presenting itself through the emotions. Can you imagine carrying your child up the stairs to lay her in bed, and her constantly wringing her hands about whether she might fall and break her neck. What would that communicate about her confidence in your ability to the task? Our anxiety is like that to God but infinitely worse.

I don't get to take any credit. Suppose that God sets the goals, God gives the methods, and God does all the sustaining; and then, suppose that some of it goes well. Does it make any sense at all to puff up with pride when someone remarks at "how good" my children are? Is it not sheer madness to look down my nose at another parent?

I do get all the blame. Every particle of their sin is attributable directly to me. It is my nature that they have inherited. And I have done nothing but compound that with foolishness and continued sin of my own since they were born.

The cross and the resurrection are everything.

The cross is everything, because I don't just deserve for me to go to Hell. I deserve for my children to go to Hell. And they deserve it too. We both deserve for them to remain dead in their sin. We both deserve for them to just get better and better at exerting their will, as opposed to Gods, at living for their own pleasure and praise. Without the cross, this is the only possible thing that could happen to them. But praise God that we are not without the cross. Praise be to His wonderful name that I have a sure hope that God may be perfectly just, and treat me and my children as Christ deserves, rather than as we deserve.

The resurrection is everything, because it shows that the cross worked. The resurrection is everything, because it is the guarantee and the demonstration of how everyone who is in Christ must end. The resurrection is the answer to every "I can't" that escapes my heart or my children's lips in this long process called parenting. The resurrection presents the only acceptable goal of parenting, and the guaranteed end of every instance of parenting that God is pleased to bless. And the resurrection is evidence that God is in fact pleased to bless.

To paraphrase the first two questions, and quote the first two answers, of the Heidelberg catechism:

"What is your only comfort in being a parent?" That I, with body and soul, both in life and death, am not my own, but belong unto my faithful Savior Jesus Christ; who with His precious blood has fully satisfied for all my sins, and delivered me from all the power of the devil; and so preserves me that without the will of my heavenly Father not a hair can fall from my head; yea, that all things must be subservient to my salvation, wherefore by His Holy Spirit He also assures me of eternal life, and makes me heartily willing and ready, henceforth, to live unto Him.

"How many things are necessary for you to know that you in this comfort may parent happily?" Three; the first, how great my sins and misery are; the second, how I am delivered from all my sins and misery; the third, how I am to be thankful to God for such deliverance.

For further reading:
Deuteronomy 5-6, Deuteronomy 29 (esp. v29), Romans 1-8
Duties of Parents
Hints for Parents

New Series of Parenting "Hints"

2009-09-17T07:07:00.000-05:00

One individual has encouraged me to write some "hints" on family, parenting, and homeschooling. So I've decided to write a series at this blog that will hopefully be just that: hints. I don't think I have the time or skill to do much more than that, and I probably am not self-reflective enough to produce a cohesive whole. But I think it will be a good exercise for me to think through the components of where Heather and I are at, and maybe even some of how we got here.

Why I Work Hard to Keep My Life Uncluttered

2009-08-06T11:19:00.004-05:00

I try very hard to keep my life uncluttered, because I'm a husband and a father, and this means that my primary vocation is to disciple a family. In our house, this means four 15-minute worship services a day, in addition to intentional and personally tailored discipling interaction with each member.

For instance, today, I'm thinking about my current approach with Emmet.

I'm trying to teach Emmet to quit himself like a man. Recently, in the application in a sermon, I noted that we cannot begin to be diligent until we "don't feel like it," cannot begin to build strength until "it's too hard," and cannot begin to build endurance until "I'm too tired." So, I've set out to give my children a vision for relishing as great opportunities those tasks that they don't feel like doing, that they find difficult, and for which they simply don't have the energy. Not only are such circumstances the prerequisites for building diligence, strength, and endurance; but, they are also wonderful opportunities to confess and exercise our necessary and continual dependence upon grace in both earthly and spiritual things.

So yesterday afternoon, I brought Emmet to the office to set up tables for prayer meeting; he'd had four immunization shots in the morning, and his arms were really hurting, but he winced through carrying the other end of tables that weigh more than he did. At one point, after we set one down, he looked up it me with a big satisfied smile, and said, "Did Giddo ['grampa' in Egypt] teach you to build endurance when you were five years old, dad?" He woke up extremely sore today, but a good sore. I'm just so pleased with the child. And I let him know it.

Don't get me wrong--he's a spectacular sinner (gets it from dad) to the point that he often ends up weeping in my arms that his heart just seems to be full of sin and Satan seems to have such an easy time with him. But even those moments are such gospel opportunities to point Him to the Holy Spirit who doesn't just perform spiritual improvement on messed up souls but spiritual resurrection on dead souls; and, to Jesus Christ, who doesn't just fill in where our obedience is lacking, but who provides in Himself the entire righteous obedience that earns our favor with God, and whose sacrifice is so infinitely valuable that there is no sinner for whom it is not rich enough to ransom from Hell; and, to our amazing Father, who lovingly gives us both Son and Spirit as the greatest gifts and fills all of creation and our entire life with other blessings to keep us constantly mindful of His loving provision.

Yes, this means that sometimes one discipline "moment" takes 10 minutes: (1) biblical instruction specific to the heart issue of the incident (2) prayer for God's forgiveness and blessing (3) application of discipline (4) conversation, evangelism, sometimes more prayer... BUT these 10 minute chunks are some of the most important ministry that I do.

And sometimes each of my children need a few of these in a single day. This means that just in the discipling of my children, I might need 2-3 hours of "flex time" in a day!

There may be men who can regularly engage in leisure activities and social activities and service commitments and clubs and projects and still be able to pour themselves into discipling their families. I'm skeptical of the idea, but they may exist. I am quite certain, however, that I am not one of them. And so I work hard to keep my life uncluttered.

And this means that when people ask me what my hobbies are, or favorite tv show is, or something along those lines, there's often an awkward pause while I try to figure out how to not spend a half hour saying I don't have the spare half-hours to give to those things :)

Can We Sing Again?

2009-05-18T11:21:00.002-05:00

After breakfast reading this morning, we closed the meal with song, and I asked the children what they would like to sing. Kessedi selected Psalm 100, Emmet selected Psalm 1, and Karissa also asked for a song--"God." I was pretty sure that she meant the doxology, and desiring to encourage her to actively participate (not just be respectfully quiet) in our family worship times, I announced that we would sing the doxology, which Karissa had chosen.
As we sang it, she looked from one face to another around the table with laughing, dancing eyes. When we finished she asked, "Can we sing again?" I said that we could but that she must sing with us.
We did. And she did. She sang quite well, actually, to the point that Kessedi and Emmet both encouraged her afterward with praise for how well she had sung.
Immediately, she asked, "Can we sing again?"

Can You Teach Me the Bible, Daddy?

2009-05-18T11:09:00.002-05:00

At breakfast today, we went on into the lunch reading, which is currently in Isaiah. In Isaiah 17, Kessedi's attention was captured by the roar and the dust as the army from the east was coming in judgment. Emmet wanted to know why Syria and Israel were being judged, so we looked at the immediate context to see that they had joined together in creating worship that they enjoyed, and looking to their own kind of worship--and that God says that when we don't delight in worship as something He has given us to do according to His instructions, we aren't really looking to Him but to ourselves. So, I explained, God was bringing this army to kill and capture almost all of the Syrians and Israelites as a judgment.
Emmet then asked, "but when we die, that won't be a judgment, right?" I explained to him that for those who trust in Jesus nothing--not even their death--is a judgment, because Jesus has taken all of our judgment. I referred him back to last night's sermon and how for those who are in Christ, we know that all things--even their deaths--work together for the good of their being made like Jesus and enjoying God forever. Emmet's eyes lit up, and he was satisfied with this explanation of the deaths of believers.
Kessedi then piped up, "Daddy, will you teach us the Bible?" To which I answered, "that's what we're doing right now." To which she answered (perhaps from an application that I made in the morning sermon yesterday), "I mean the whole Bible. Can you teach us the whole Bible in one day?" I explained to her that I didn't think I was able, but that with God's help I intend to teach all of my children the whole Bible as often as God makes me able.
These are the moments that make a believing father's heart sing. I'm so grateful to God for giving me such a moment at breakfast this morning.

Emmet the Engineer, 15-May-09

2009-05-18T10:54:00.002-05:00

Emmet has a precious toy--an ambulance that once belonged to MJ's son, who died in childhood. He doesn't understand the sentimental value the way that Heather and I do, but he does know that it's an expression of the depth of MJ's love for him--and he loves the sounds it makes. Well, it hadn't been making those sounds for years, because it uses C batteries (expensive, non-rechargeable). Well, Emmet had a theory. He thought that the battery enclosures looked like they were the exact same length as AAs. Though the enclosures were wider, Emmet thought perhaps a AA battery carefully wedged in would do the trick. He was right! His reward for his experiment was hearing those beloved sounds for the first time in a long time, and a exhibiting an ear-to-ear grin.

A Christian Husband

2009-05-14T11:56:00.002-05:00

On the way to evening worship, Lord's Day, May 10, Heather and I were discussing what a blessing it had been to be part of Mark and Mary's Christ-centered wedding and to see their marriage bring two godly families together. After hearing us speak for a while about how only marriage in Christ is truly blessed, Kessedi piped up from the back seat: "Daddy? When I grow up, would you please find me a Christian husband?" God grant that it would be so!

Learning to Be a Better Son

2008-04-05T10:05:00.003-05:00

The sensation of the afghan being stretched across my shoulder was a little unusual. The little hands that were doing it most certainly did not belong to my dear wife. When she blankets me, she has this delightful way of flinging the covering in the air and allowing it to settle just where its whims take it. No, this wasn't she.

There was care involved, but labored care, the care of one for whom stretching something over me, laying as I was on my side on the oversized couch, required the employment of tiny tiptoes. Afghan number one having been arranged as well as possible under those difficult conditions, some calculating must have occurred in a small brain near me, because the procedure was now repeated for my legs with afghan number two.

Even in my near unconsciousness, I noted that there was a square inch here or there that wasn't quite covered, but my sheer exhaustion wasn't the only thing that kept me from making any adjustments. After such monumental effort, could I really risk doing anything that might be heard or seen as "that wasn't good enough"?

My reward, far better than the most perfect coverage in the history of blanketing, was a hushed, almost whispered, newly-four-year old voice, "there you go, dad." The warmth of affection, the delight in having had an opportunity to serve me, from my son Emmet could have kept me warm if that forty-mile-per-hour Iowa wind had been on this side of the family room windows.

Do I view my heavenly Father like that? Does joy fill me when I recognize an opportunity to serve Him? Do my mind and body strain to perform that service as well as I can? Am I willing to spare everything--even my second blanket--in the process? Does my heart swell with satisfaction when the job is done, and I have given Him my very best?

I don't know if I have ever loved and served and delighted in my heavenly Father as well as my earthly son did me on that day.

It took four men and a specially constructed dolly to get the old, 56" upright piano into the garage, over the little bumps, through doorways, and around corners on its way to its new home in the rec room of our basement. One four year-old brain was perplexed by the inefficiency of it all. As we began the process, he announced to the one whom he perceived to be in charge, "Daddy could lift that whole piano all by himself!" Knowing that evidence must be marshalled for claims to such superhuman strength, Emmet punctuated his incontrovertible proof with a dismissive gesture of the hands,"When we get stuck in the snow, he just pushes the whole van just like that." Certainly, it would be evident that it was as easy for daddy to push a five thousand pound minivan as it was for him to push air.

Though Emmet's grasp of the limits of my power may be poor, I believe that on principle it's a very good thing for him to have such an opinion of his father. But I wonder, do I have such an opinion of my heavenly Father?

When I view some task as difficult, almost undoable, am I not failing to realize the strength of the One who is with me? If I had the faith of a good son, I could just do whatever my duty is and trust that the result is in the hands of a Father whose limitless power can do impossible things more easily than I can push air.

It's been interesting, being a human father. I had hoped that over time, being a father would teach me how to be a better father. I hadn't understood that one of the best parts of being a father would be...

learning to be a better son.

Increase Your Primary Vector

2007-07-27T04:43:00.000-05:00

I grinned as I watched her shoot across the creaking bridge. Thud, squeak, thud, squeak, thud. The separate planks, loosely held together by chains, are designed to disorient and challenge the child who traverses them.

Now one might think that I was enjoying my daughters pleasure in our excursion to the park. Or perhaps one might think that it was a little fatherly pride in the hearty, victorious laughter that she enjoyed upon completing each successful trip across. But in either case, one would be giving me too much credit.

My grin was one of pleasure with myself, part of the continuous stream of self-approval that we humans like to give ourselves. Yes, you may pause in your reading to pray with me against my pride, but please continue. It gets better.

You see, I was pleased with myself because on our previous trip to the same park, I had been teaching my four year old daughter some first semester college physics, mechanics to be precise. She had been attempting to cross the same bridge slowly, cautiously—and without much success. So I had advised her to increase her primary vector.

I had explained to her how vectors have both direction and speed, and that the bridge was adding horizontal and vertical vectors to her forward vector. So, if she wanted to maintain her balance, she should increase the speed of her forward vector, that the addition of the others would not change the cumulative vector by much.

To put it differently, build your forward momentum(mv), and the significance of applying horizontal or vertical momentum will diminish. Upon the end of our impromptu class, I summed it up: the faster you get yourself going and keep going, the easier it will be for you to get across the bridge.

And there she was, two weeks later, applying her well-learned physics lesson. And there I was, two weeks later, crediting myself with the title “instructor of Applied Mechanics” and wondering whether it would be a bit of a stretch to add it to my resume.

Pride is a hard thing to kill. Like other sins, it attacks from every direction, often giving a pretty good jolt in that direction. And as I realized what was happening to me, I came to think that what is true of physical vectors is true of spiritual vectors as well.

Life is full of those spiritual bridges, where sin or temptation of one sort or another jolt you side to side or up and down. The more speed you maintain in a forward direction spiritually, the less impact these jolts will have upon your overall vector when they come.

To put it in words that a four year old understands and remembers: the faster you get yourself going and keep going spiritually, the easier it will be for you to get through moments where sin threatens to waylay you.

Don’t ease into a program of ending some sin, planning to “cut back” carefully and cautiously. Like my daughter’s first cautious attempts at the bridge, that is a recipe for disaster. There is some truth to the “crawl before you walk” analogy of spiritual maturing, but watch an 8 month old crawl sometime: they put their whole being into it.

It’s no wonder that the Bible uses such vigorous language to describe how we should approach spiritual growth, and particularly how we are to engage our sin: words such as strive, struggle, fight, wrestle, kill, run, pursue, beat up, etc.

So, how are things with you, spiritually? Are you moving timidly and hesitantly while calling it “caution” or “being careful”? Or perhaps you have ceased to move forward altogether. Learn the lesson of the four year old on the bridge at the park.

Get yourself a full head of steam and rush forward all at once. Or as someone else (read: God through Paul) has put it: forget what is behind, strain forward to what is ahead, and press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.

Increase your primary vector.

Because It Is Right

2007-03-27T20:15:00.000-05:00

Just now, I was sitting in my chair eating something sloppily. In the interest of preventing self-incrimination, I shall purposely withhold what "something" is. But I was getting nearly as much of "something" on my fingers as I was into my mouth.

Enter the world's most darling drum major. Kessedi floated down the stairs. I'm not sure if it was because she was stepping lightly, or simply because her room-illuminating smile naturally draws the eye away from her feet, but she really seemed to float.

Baton-spoon in hand, she stepped and twirled around the room to music that only she could hear. The soundtrack of her life seems so pleasant and playful that I sincerely hope that she learns to compose later in life. Whatever that music is in her head, it is a treasure that should be shared with the world.

With a little added flourish, she ended a twirl right in front of me and handed me the spoon.

"What are you doing?" I asked with a curious smile.
"Marching!" she announced, as if marching was something she had invented a moment hence.

Remembering my messy fingers, and too lazy to get up myself, I asked, "Could you please go get daddy a napkin?"

Kessedi never does anything without overdoing it (where did she learn that?), so she returned with the entire napkin holder and an even bigger version of the Kessedi grin.

I assumed, of course, that it was affection for her earthly father that had fueled this cheerful, excellent service. But it was something even better.

"Thank you for being such a good helper," I said.
Her entire face beaming, she looked up at me and said, "Being a helper is right."

It was no secret between us that it was pleasant for both of us to have her so gladly help her daddy. But there was a better reason for her to do it. A greater Father for her to please.

This is a lesson that so many "evangelical Christians" just don't get. We hear all about how pleasant various aspects of obedience are, as if we must be convinced of our self-interest in it. Without turning this into a piece about how (very!) spiritually dangerous it is to rely on such reasoning, let me just urge you to learn the lesson that my four year old daughter seems to have begun absorbing: Don't obey just because it is pleasant. Obey

because it is right.

Planting Seeds

2007-03-07T13:03:00.000-06:00

Kessedi loves flowers. We cannot even walk the dog together without frequent flower-picking pit stops. When I found seed packets at the Dollar Tree(R) for 10c ea, I couldn't resist. We purchased seeds for sunflowers, snapdragons, morning glories, zinnias, marigolds and more.

Where we live, the growing season is long--in fact, there are two of them. So the pretty little charts on the back of our flower seed packets indicate that it's planting time.

After taking rakes and hoes to the back bed for a while yesterday, it was more than ready to receive it's near-weightless cargo. It's amazing how much life can be in such a small and seemingly insignificant thing. I had seed planting on the brain, after this morning's preparation of tonight's Prayer Meeting devotional from 1Cor 3:5-9. So there we were, Kessedi and I, poking holes in the dirt, 1/4" deep, 2" apart, depending on the seed type.

As we were placing seeds in the holes, Kessedi asked, "Daddy, is God going to make the seeds grow?" I told her that we would ask Him to send sun and rain and to make them work to make the seeds grow--that He could make them grow all by themselves, but He liked to use sun and rain to do it and that He also liked to do it in answer to our prayers.

She simply answered, "Yeah, He's going to make the flowers grow for Kessedi."

I don't know how much she understood from that about God's absolute sovereignty, how He exercises it graciously, how He uses means, how He is pleased to work through and in response to the prayers of His people. You can join me in praying that God would be pleased to make these truths bear fruit in her heart. Like the Corinthians passage says, I can plant and water, but God has to provide that growth.

When we were almost done with the bed, Emmet came up behind us and was playing, "shoot." "I'm gonna shot you; you need to die, Kessedi!"

Of course I corrected him on the proper use of firearms and verified that outside of the little fantasy game he was playing, that really he loved his sister and would protect her at any cost to himself. But then, as I try to make a habit of doing, I took the conversation to the cross.

Me: "Kessedi actually does need to die and go to Hell, because of her sins. But Who has already died and taken her Hell?"
Kes (beaming): "Jesus!"
Kes (a little more thoughtful): "I don't want to go to Hell when I die. I want to go to Heaven."
Me: "Then trust in Jesus, honey. No one for whom He died will ever go to Hell."

Kes (after several moments of silence, and noticing that I was standing up and brushing off my knees): "What are you doing daddy?"

"Planting seeds."

Confident That He Loves Us

2007-03-02T23:23:00.000-06:00

This morning, Emmet afforded me what is one of the highlights of my life to this point.

I had been up, on and off, all night with intestinal issues, so i didn't go to work early, and he ended up waking up before either I or Heather.

He crawled into bed between us and laid down, waiting for us to wake up. That's right. My two year old son was considerate of our desire to sleep longer and decided to wait patiently for us to finish our slumber. Now, that's evidence that he loves me, but it wasn't my life-highlight. He has actually done this before.

He had his back to me, so I gave him a couple pats and a caress on his back, at which point my Heavenly Father granted me one of the most treasured moments of my brief existence. Emmet whispered to heather, "Mommy! Daddy loves me VERY much!"

Emmet has told me that he loves me dozens of times, but hearing his confidence in my love for him was ten times as good.

So, let's learn from Emmet and strive to delight our Heavenly Father. Let's not be satisfied to demonstrate how very much we love Him. Let us be fervent to demonstrate how very much we are

confident that He loves us.

Romans 7:7

2007-01-29T13:34:00.000-06:00

It's amazing how our hearts work. We are so willing to desire anything and everything that titillates our curiosity. Just hearing the name of something new makes that old man inside us want it for himself. Just this afternoon, Kessedi provided me with an amusing illustration of this.

Often, when Kessedi picks up either my or Heather's cell phones, and begins to press buttons, her mother will tell her, "Oh, no, Kessedi! Don't call China!"

Now, Kessedi is a bright girl for 4, but she has no concept of who or where China is. And yet, just hearing the prohibition has created in her the desire.

A few minutes ago, she entered the room, just as I was ending a phone call from Heather. Kessedi approached me with her most winsome smile and said, "May I please call mommy...

or China?"

"I would not have known coveting if the Law had not said, 'You shall not covet.'"
Romans 7:7

Missing The Point

2006-08-28T23:21:00.000-05:00

A short while ago in family worship, we came upon a verse (Titus 2:12a) on mortification. I know what you just thought, and it might make you feel better to read that my two year old son also does not know the term for the doctrine that genuine believers put their sins to death.

That’s why I was explaining it by pointing at my own chest, talking about when my heart wanted to sin, and telling them that whenever that happens, we must tell ourselves a loud “No!” to sin. Emmet, especially seemed to catch on, repeating “Nope!” in between my examples. I thought that he had caught the point, and I was beginning to swell with confidence in my teaching abilities. After all, if you can teach mortification to a two year old, God has gifted you for teaching.

However, a little ‘cross’-examination deflated any delusion that human teaching skills were responsible for the little “Nope!”s passing from Emmet’s lips. I wanted to make sure that he was really comprehending, so I asked him, “Nope what?” And he responded with, “Nope! Emmet’s not gonna die!”

Now I was certain that he had not learned the lesson on mortification for the evening; furthermore, I was a little concerned, so I proceeded with a follow-up. “Well, I certainly hope that Emmet’s not going to die, but why would Emmet die?” You know how parents who send their children to a school with four first grades hope, weasel, and bribe their way to getting that one really great teacher for their children? Emmet’s answer bore the mark of the Teacher that each of us hopes to get for our children for life. I quote:

“Emmet’s not gonna die! Jesus died on the cross, so Emmet’s not gonna die any more!”

Of course, like every good Christian parent, I’ve explained double imputation to my toddler on several occasions—that glorious exchange where Jesus gets our sin, death, and hell; and we get His righteousness, life, and glory.

While I had been working with Emmet on mortification, another Teacher had been working with Him on double imputation. I don’t know whether the boy is converted yet or not, but for the first time in his short life, I had some reason for hope that he might be. And that hope made his young father’s heart swell with joy. I couldn’t have been more delighted that Emmet did such a good job of

missing the point.

Kissing Mommy's Tummy

2006-07-31T08:17:00.000-05:00

The beaming face looked up from its basic morning fare of Islandberry Crunch® and orange juice and announced, “I kissed mommy on the tummy.”

My dear wife has had abdominal discomfort for the last 12 hours or so, and her three year old physician couldn’t have been more delighted to help. Now, I know that you’re thinking that it’s cute, but kissing doesn’t really make anything better, but you couldn’t be more wrong. A kiss from those dear little lips immediately removes half the pain of whatever ails mother, or father, or brother.

In fact, this is one of the lessons that rushed through my mind: this is often how God deals with me in the midst of discomfort. He loves me too much to remove the pain and the benefit to my good and His glory that it brings. But, when I cast my cares upon Him, I find that something akin to a kiss from my Savior has lightened more than half the load, without removing any of the problem.

Then there was the lesson of my daughter’s delight. You see, for her three short years on earth, Kessedi has had to be on the receiving end of mommy’s service, with little to do in return. Whenever she has an opportunity to return in kind some service, some demonstration of affection, some obedience… she seizes the opportunity with joyous alacrity.

Now, however small Kessedi’s service to her mother might have been, our service to God cannot help but be smaller. After all, His complete self-sufficiency corresponds perfectly to our inability to do anything of value in which He is not sustaining us anyway.

When we look at the cross—how the Father gave the Son, and the Son offered Himself up, and the Spirit sustained the Son in His human nature—how the entire Godhead gave itself for us, that the Son might pour out His blood for the propitiation of the wrath that we so completely deserved… when we consider what our Lord has done for us, do we not yearn to return to Him some demonstration of love and gratitude?

“If you love Me, you will keep My commandments” and “In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.” Considering the cross and responding to it—that is love. But who of us has anything to offer God?

That’s why I’m glad for the law in the way my daughter is glad for mommy’s tummy to hurt. Because it offers me an opportunity to return love to my Savior. If He hadn’t said, “this is what I desire,” I could have nothing to offer; but, when He gives me specific things that I can do to demonstrate love for Him, I must respond with the same joyous alacrity of my three year old daughter…

kissing mommy’s tummy

Emmet's Lelloh Froggy

2006-06-20T23:23:00.000-05:00

Kessedi does very well with her memory work and other aspects of performance in Sunday School, but the point of this article is not to brag about her. Well, ok. It is. But it's to brag about something even better than that.

Yesterday morning, as we were leaving for Atlanta, Kessedi was playing with two little rubber frogs, one purple and one yellow, that she had earned in Sunday school over the past few weeks. Emmet, looking wistfully at them, was whimpering his obvious desire to join in the fun.

There are few things that make a father's heart gladder than cheerful, immediate obedience, especially when it comes with cheerful unselfishness. Remember, Kessedi is a three year old. So when "Kessedi, could you let Emmet play with one of those?" was answered by the immediate, cheerful delivery of the lelloh (that's 'yellow' in kes&emmet speak) frog to Emmet, it was clear evidence of grace in the young girl.

I naturally described to Kessedi the godliness of both the action and the attitude, expressing my delight in both. Naturally, my fatherly heart swelled with pride and gratitude for the grace that had done this in her. But I was in for an even better treat yet.

When we piled into the car this morning, something caught Kes's eye, and she dove under the seat in front of her to get it. Just as I was about to reprimand her for scavengering something off of the floor, she announced, "Emmet's lelloh froggy!," and with delight she handed it to her obviously pleased two year old brother.

In case you didn't catch it, Kes hadn't just shared her prized toy. She had given it away. Cheerfully.

How thankful I was to God in that moment! The dear girl had misunderstood the request made of her the day before and still complied happily. What she hadn't missed was lesson after lesson about how to use our earthly possessions. while most parents try to teach their children to share, we have been trying to teach ours generosity, selflessness, and self-sacrifice. We don't just take turns or let others use what we don't really want for ourselves. We use what God has given us to look out for the needs and happiness of others more than ourselves.

So, when I had asked Kessedi if Emmet could play with one of her frogs, not myself considering that she ought to part with one of her favorite toys that she had gained in such a praiseworthy way, Kessedi did better than her dad the pastor. She knew the Biblical standard. And her heart was glad to follow it.

She's not a perfect child; this is not always the case. But as love covers a multitude of sins, you won't see any complaints about either child here. And even if it were not the case, how could I? The evidences of grace are so many and so rich that I would be ungrateufl and petulant to complain. So the next time I even have the inclination to do so, I'll just remember

"Emmet's lelloh froggy!"

Kessedi's Ouch Bites

2006-06-14T16:30:00.000-05:00

This is a crosspost from the family blog, but I thought it fit here as well. Sadly, there are a half dozen or so posts that should have gone here in the past couple months, but just never made it. Although fully written in my mind, they are now lost for all time... unless I find the time and energy to do them again. Anyway, enjoy...

Kes was watching me work the garden this afternoon when all of a sudden she flew to the house screaming. I thought she had been stung by a wasp. I wish she was.

When I caught up with her, the culprits were still in a swarm on her right leg. She had been standing in a fire ant colony while watching me. I brushed as many off as I could then threw her over my shoulder and made like an ambulance into our breakfast nook--poor, terrified Emmet, who had started screaming when Kessedi did, following closely. It is with not a little fatherly pride that I note that he seemed to cover the space in half the time in which a normal 2 year old boy is able.

A pillow retrieved with one arm and placed on the breakfast table, the other arm quickly laid the girl down, her head resting comfortably, and I began to administer treatment. 8 hours prior, we had scrambled eggs on this surface; now, it was my brave daughter's operating room.

"Brave" is actually an understatement. No words of reassurance from me could comfort her brother; normally a sensitive boy, his empathy for his sister now shot him through with wave after wave of sympathetic pain. But she, who by all means should have been sobbing, looked up at me as I killed the remaining stragglers and began applying the first layer of medicine (hydrocortisone), and simply asked, "Is daddy fixing the ant bites?" Talk about faith like a child.

I assured her that I would and that we would ask the One who heals all of our infirmities to do so with these. A quick, simply worded prayer, and then Kes turned to her little brother, and from her 17 month advantage in experience and wisdom said, "It's o.k., Emmet." It was like someone flipped a switch in the boy. He became almost cheerful and started asking, "Kessedi, ouch bites? Kessedi, ouch bites?"

He's a practical boy. A few weeks ago, when he had some of his own, he decided that they were "ouch" bites, not "ant" bites. It wasn't that he heard it incorrectly. It was that he determined "ouch" to be more central to the character of the wound, and therefore more appropriate to the name. Who am I to argue? His I.Q. is definitely higher than my own.

The next three layers applied (benadryl, triclosan, and benzocaine), we promptly went for a swim. After a shower, the treatment was repeated on the couch, and Kes's favorite dressing applied: a pair of daddy's socks, inside out so that the smooth side is in. They go up to her knees, but they keep her from scratching, and they breathe wonderfully because of the disparity in size.

Please pray for Kessedi's ouch bites.

Kessedi Destined For Pro Wrestling

2006-04-18T21:26:00.000-05:00

There's actually an entry concerning an incident with cheese, but it's just too precious to write after 9pm. I'll do it tomorrow at some time when I can give it the proper attention.

For now, however, I wanted to relate one of the best incidents in my short life as a parent.

Recently, I began discipling the children in private worship. We have been having family worship for years and I even blog it now for the church, but Kessedi is getting to that age (3), where she needs to develop personal and private habits of spiritual discipline. So, each night after family worship, we turn out the lights, and I lead each child in a few moments of private worship (not entirely private; assisted by daddy).

One at a time, we kneel at the child's bedside. With Kessedi, sometimes I hear her prayers, and sometimes she asks me to help her (by which she means that I pray her prayer a phrase at a time, and she repeats the phrases, adding her own input as we go along. This is basically what I do with Emmet).

It has become my habit to then put the child in the bed, lay my hand upon her or his head, and pray for the child individually.

Tonight, I did so, and as I said, "Amen," I found myself in a headlock. Kessedi had wrapped her arm around my neck, pinning my face to her chest, and proceeded to plant a series of kisses on my cheek, interspersed with pronouncements of "I love you, daddy."

I wish I could express in English the joy that I felt at that moment, but my heart was truly too full for words. I did eventually beg mercy to be released, when she declared her intention to hold me like that all night, but it reminded me of just how much the mercy of God has generously overflowed to me in every area of life, particularly in my family.

Lament. 3:22-23 (ESV)
The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;
his mercies never come to an end;
they are new every morning;
great is Your faithfulness.

Every evening too.

The Strong-Willed Adult

2006-04-12T16:07:00.000-05:00

Daddy, this is obedience!

The bright voice rang through the house as Kessedi raced down the stairs.

And so it was. For the third time in the space of two hours, Kessedi had been going somewhere or doing something, and I had commanded her to stop. That in itself is probably something. The concept of command is conspicuously absent from current culture.

Why was Kessedi so excited? Because her will had been thwarted.

She wanted to do one thing, and I wanted her to do another, and this brought joy because it brought an opportunity

to be obedient.

To her fathers, on earth and in Heaven, this brought great joy. As I tell her often, God loves obedience. But what she taught me that afternoon was that I should love it too. Don't get me wrong; I have always loved it when she obeyed. But as she landed at the bottom of the stairs and beamed a smile up at me, I couldn't help but think that she had exposed me as failing to be a true lover of obedience.

After all, shouldn't I be thrilled when my will is providentially thwarted, because it is an opportunity to resign myself to His will? Isn't this what I would do if I really loved obedience?

How about you? Can you consider your trials pure joy, not just because they produce character, faith, perseverance, and hope, but also simply because your will has been thwarted?

Or are you like me... a strong-willed adult.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm."

2006-02-22T12:57:00.000-06:00

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

Ordinarily, this noise coming from deep inside Emmet sparks an appreciative smile on my lips and minor skirmish against pride in the great battle against this the greatest of my indwelling sins.

This time, however, Emmet’s onomatopoetic outburst struck a chord of deep joy in me. You see, Emmet had been sick. Very sick. 5 days straight vomiting, 4 days straight diarrhea, and precious little eating. It’s not that we were starving him. He just had no appetite.

That’s how it is, when you’re sick, isn’t it? Physically or spiritually. You just have no appetite. Even the thought of food makes you dread the next meal. When you eat, it doesn’t taste good, and no sooner has the meal begun that you wish you were anywhere else but here. Emmet is ordinarily such a great eater that it broke his father’s heart to see him push away plates, frown at bowls, and make uninterested or even sour faces at forkfuls of what ought to have been his delight. The reason that it cut me to my soul was because this was evidence of just how ill my son’s body was.

But it’s not an unfamiliar feeling to me. My heart as a pastor knows this feeling all too well. Too often, I look at one whom I love from the flock that God has given me—push away offerings of more Bible, frown at the idea of more worship, and make uninterested or even sour faces at the helpings that he or she does ingest. The reason that it grieves me so is because it is evidence of just how ill my friend’s soul is.

And even worse, my heart as a Christian knows this feeling. Do I not often have my private or family worship and “just not feel anything”? Do I sometimes even preside over worship, only to be relieved when it is over, rather than find in myself an increased appetite for more? Was it not very long ago that I could go from one Lord’s Day to the next without hearing good preaching and not find myself very hungry at all in the interim? If I do not take good care of my soul, giving it a healthy spiritual diet and requiring of it vigorous spiritual exercise, it might not be long until that is true once again! And oh what grief it will be, for that lack of appetite will show me that my soul is quite ill indeed.

You see, my joy at Emmet’s rediscovered appetite was great, but not close to that joy when during family worship some evenings he sings with gusto, recites his catechism with enthusiasm, pays careful attention to the reading and explaining of the Bible, and follows closely while we pray, repeating some of the phrases himself. Now that’s an appetite I really love to see.

How’s your appetite?

Are you perhaps a little ill? Perhaps more than just a little?

Start eating right and exercising, and take regular visits with the Physician, and you’ll be sure to bring joy not just to your pastor’s face, but especially to your Father’s when once again soon, He hears you say,

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

Daddy's doing his numbers! Gooood Joooooob!

2006-02-13T08:15:00.000-06:00

"Oooooone, Twoooooo, Threeeee..."
The words come out in grunts and groans that emerge from under a mist consisting of sweat, mingled with spittle blown throw tightly pressed lips.
A sprightly voice joins with delighted exclamations, “Four! Five! Six!”

When the oddly paired duet gets to “Twenty,” the weights fall with a dull thud onto the vinyl floor of my basement, and my singing partner chimes out in the musical tones of her young speech, “Daddy’s doing his numbers! Gooood Joooooob!”

Before “No honey, daddy’s lifting weights” can escape my lips, the realization that she is correct silences them. I was doing my numbers. Of course, I was doing much more, but I was counting and I did do it quite well. To her young mind, counting correctly from 1 to 20 seems like a substantial feat.

She doesn’t know about things like increasing strength, lowering body fat, toning muscle, lowering LDL, increasing HDL, lowering blood pressure, increasing basic metabolic rate… all of which I was hopefully also doing.

Kessedi’s commendation was not unlike when many Christians say of some recent trial, “But this is what the Lord was doing…” God may be gracious to show us the tiniest bit of what He is doing in a situation, or He may not. Even at the end of the book, Job didn’t find out about the contest between Satan and Yahweh.

God holds all things together at all times. He ordains it all, in mind-boggling, comprehensive scope, and each part in its minutest detail—and with reference not just to space but to time. He knows and ordained how the quark in the neutron in the carbon atom in the molecule in the blade of grass under the thicket where the ram was caught to provide the substitute sacrifice for Isaac in Genesis 22 relates to the subatomic particle, as yet undiscovered by man on a planet in a galaxy, invisible even to Hubble, millions of light-years from earth, in 2006.

So when God is gracious enough to let us see a little piece of how it all fits together, when He shows us some good that has come out of our suffering, by all means, let us praise Him for it and thank Him for it, but let us all keep in mind that we are essentially saying,

“Daddy’s doing his numbers! Gooood Joooooob!”

Who's That?

2006-01-05T13:25:00.000-06:00

Ever since I told her that her uncle Mark is arriving in an airplane on Friday, Kessedi has been keeping a keen eye on the sky.

Whenever she spots an airplane, she turns to me and asks, with all sincerity, "Who's that, James?"

It makes me smile, of course. My daughter's trust in me is such that she has extrapolated my knowledge that, God-willing, Mark will be on a particular airplane some time in the future, into the assumption that her father knows every passenger on every airplane at all times.

She's right.

But not about her earthly father. You see, the One who entrusted her to me for these few years knows the end from the beginning, all things at once, and each of those things to its most intricate detail. Her Father does know every passenger on every airplane at all times. Hopefully, long after she has discovered that her father knows very little, barely anything at all, the knowledge that her Father knows all things will continue to sustain her.

Now, the question remains. Am I humble enough to learn this lesson in trusting my Father's complete knowledge and wisdom from my daughter? In order to remind myself, I think from now on, when I see an airplane overhead, I'll just ask myself the simple question:

Who's that?

Good Joooooooob!

2005-12-29T09:01:00.000-06:00

I wake up, trudge into the bathroom, sit down, and do some business. "Good Joooooooob!"
I put Emmet on the changing table, swap out his diaper with a quick wipe in between. "Good Joooooooob!"
I crack an egg into a small, butter-sprayed frying pan. "Good Joooooooob!"
I set the table, tuck the toddlers into their chairs, and return thanks. "Good Joooooooob!"
I sit down and write a thank-you note in the best handwriting I can muster. "Good Joooooooob!"
I address the envelope in B I G B L O C K C A P I T A L S and place the stamp exactly in the corner. "Good Joooooooob!"
I wipe off a couple scrambled-egg-covered faces and brush two sets of tiny teeth. "Good Joooooooob!"
I disappear upstairs and return with socks and shoes for two unshod children. "Good Joooooooob!"
I first shoe the boy then help the girl finish up. "Good Joooooooob!" (half to herself and half to me)

And so it goes all day long. My little encourager shines a ray of the sunshine onto every completed task, no matter how small or mundane, with her approval. She does it for me, she does it for Emmet, and she does it for herself.

In so doing, Kes is doing me an even greater kindness than brightening every day (she really does brighten them, doesn't she?!). She is reminding me of what a life lived unto God is like. From teaching through Ecclesiastes in Sunday School this year to teaching through Colossians 3 in family worship this week, I've seen it all over the pages of Scripture in recent memory. But, here is the principle now also in the delighted praise of my precious daughter. Even the greatest human enterprise is small and mundane if not done unto the Lord. And even the littlest thing, done to the best of my resources and ability for my Savior Jesus is a

very

"Good Joooooooob!"

The Race

2005-12-28T12:22:00.000-06:00

Until recently, I had a distinct advantage in the race: I was the only one running. You see, the Grand Marshall couldn't talk very well, and only someone as familiar as I with his seemingly indistinct verbalizations and perplexing hand motions even knew when the race had begun.

But all of that has changed, for Emmet has been working hard on his vocabulary, particularly those words that help him communicate when he needs something, and he has honed his non-verbal communication to a skill that would probably earn him a semester's credits at the Southern School of Hand-mimes (SSH!).

Not only have I lost my advantage, but I must concede that I'm in the midst of a doozie of a losing streak. I suddenly realized how bad it had become when this morning I lost for the God-only-knows-how-many-eth time in a row, and that in humiliating fashion. Emmet had just dropped the green flag with a declaration of "chewwwwwwwwwsssssssss?!" (juice) and a pointed jab at the fridge, when I froze at the sight of the pink blur that had shot back and forth, covering the span of the room twice.

By the time I took my first step toward the cupboard to retrieve a clean, dry, non-spill cup, my opponent was completing her victory with a post-race interview. "Juice for Emmet! This is a [sic] sharing," Kes was explaining, giving her recap to the invisible sideline reporter. As she spoke, my eyes followed her finger, extrapolating a line to where her cup, filled not twenty minutes prior, sat pressed to Emmet's happily drinking mouth.

Overdone biblically alluding metaphors aside, she spoke with a genuine thrill of victory. She had seen an opportunity to do good and seized it with all her might, before daddy had retrieved juice for her little brother and robbed her of her chance.

As we often see at races, the loser struggled to hold back his tears. The defeat was too much. What father's heart wouldn't well up with joy at the thrill of such defeat?

Hebrews 12:1-2
1 Cor 9:23-27
Romans 12:10

Say What We Mean

2005-11-08T07:11:00.000-06:00

We were just standing on the front porch, like we do every weekday morning.
And Heather pulled out in the van, like she does every weekday morning.
And the horn honked, like it does every weekday morning.

But then instead of yelling, "bye bye!," like He does every weekday morning, Emmet, whose words are rarely identifiable cried--more with as much authority as he could muster than in distress--out,

"NO! Come back!"

Odd. After the day I had with the kids yesterday, that's almost exactly what I was thinking, as the mud-covered rear end of our once-forest-green Kia Sedona disappeared over the hill to the east, stealing my wife and only real help that I have with the children.

It's one of those things that I have learned from my children--not so much in an "ah-hah" moment as in a recurrent theme since they began to speak. Life would be a lot simpler if we could all just

say what we mean.