A Gift

 There once was a child who was given a gift. It was wrapped in colorful paper and his heart leapt when he came downstairs as saw it. He placed it on a nearby shelf and sat looking at the present. He imagined what it was and gave thanks for being given a gift in the first place.

“Well,” said his mother, “aren’t you going to open it?”

“I’m scared,” he said. “What if it’s a soccer ball and I don’t know how to kick well enough? What if it’s a football and I can’t throw it high enough? What if it’s a book and I’m not smart enough to understand what it says?”

With a smile, his mother replied, “You’ll never know unless you open it. Gifts are meant to be opened. Gifts are meant to be used. Even if you struggle at first, you’ll learn whatever you need to in the end. Eventually, it will become such a part of your life you’ll forget it was even a gift.”

The boy listened to his mother but waited until she left the room. Then he reached up and took the package from the shelf. It felt more real in his hands. Slowly untying the ribbon and removing the paper, he paused before lifting the lid. Taking a deep breath, he reached down and took hold of the lid with both hands. In the box he saw his gift.

It was freedom.

Father's Day 2021

I once had an amazing art teacher. Yes, she was an accomplished artist in her own right, but what made her amazing was how she responded to our artistic efforts. No matter what we created, she was able to see something in our art that was to be celebrated. If the perspective was off, she’d point to the wonderful use of color. If our values were screwy, she’d see something special in our composition. I didn’t know what the word “grace” meant at the time, but she helped me know how it felt.

I’ve been thinking a lot about my art teacher recently. Her innate way of finding something good is particularly helpful on Father’s Day (or Mother’s, or any other Hallmark Card invention). Today, we could look at the fathers we had, or the fathers we’ve been, and see only the mistakes and shortcoming, but, instead, we could be like my art teacher and look beyond to the things that are unique and worthy of celebration. Among the imperfections are special moments or characteristics that are to be remembered and treasured.

If we can focus on them, today becomes a day of grace, and that’s worthy of a holiday.

More

I didn’t see it coming. Surrounded by Wyoming mountains and covid-free air, I closed my eyes and gave thanks. Little did I know a storm was on its way, a storm of my own making, I suppose, and I’m happy to write this having weathered it, but only barely.

You see, I have a disease. There are many names for it, but the one that fits best is what someone described as “the disease of more.” Built on the sand of my own insecurity, fueled by a wild and uncontrollable imagination, I’ve always lived a discontented life. Blessed with more than a person deserves, I’ve always looked to what lies beyond. Whether in a career that had wonderful chapters, relationships made up of remarkable people, or possessions stacked high above my rooftop, I’ve always moved from deep appreciation to longing for more with lightning speed. I’m embarrassed to admit it but need to for my own sake and for the sake of those who’ve found themselves locked in the same prison.

It wasn’t enough to bask in the beauty of the west; I wanted to have a beer (or many) to make the experience even more spectacular. It wasn’t enough to meet wonderful people; I had to compare their lives to mine which, of course, did not measure up (I thought). And it wasn’t enough to spend time with family; I had to think about those who were not with us.

Jesus said to consider the lilies of the field. I think he did so to remind us of the insidious disease of more which makes us anxious and feeling like we need to toil when all we have is all we need. He also spoke of our captivity ending. Flying home, I couldn’t help but hope that day would come to me, and everyone like me, one day. May it’ll come today.