Icees are my white flag of surrender. In the days before parenthood, I had no idea what breed of father I would be. I knew what I wanted to be. The kind who made up elaborate games that his children would play for hours on end. The kind who explored the backyard with his kids.
At most, I can probably translate 10 words. I should have taken Latin at some point. Still, the old wording of the Nicene Creed hangs on a four-feet by four-feet frame in my study. I look at it just about every day. The creed mystifies me. Every word and phrase of it was debated, some
I clearly did not think this through. Back at the beginning of the summer, I decided to break away from the Revised Common Lectionary and preach a series of sermons on familiar stories from the Old Testament. It would be fun, I thought. Everyone loves a good story, especially kids. What a great way to
I want to be the kind of man who can wear boots with a suit. That may sound like a rather low aspiration in life. But hey, expectations change the older you get. Besides it doesn’t have anything to do with fashion for me. It’s more about the message you send when you can rock
I didn’t plan on staying for dinner. Then again, I was the one who brought dinner. A generous soul with a big heart prepared the casserole and told me to pack it in my checked luggage. “Oh, we’ve done that lots of times,” she assured me. “You won’t have a problem.” I wasn’t convinced. Apparently,
I glanced at my watch halfway through the meeting – 7:35 p.m. The expected pain was absent, and in its place, a slow and simple ache. For the first time in his life, my infant son went to bed without hearing me say goodnight. I’m sure he slept better than I did that evening. Too