Our son, Kyle, was probably nine years old when we went out for a rare steak dinner. His kid’s meal came complete with ice cream. Why is it that the kids always get the good stuff?
Naturally, dad wanted to sample his booty. Without a second thought, I reached for a dad-sized scoop. "No," he said, defending his ice cream with a spoon. "It's mine!"
Surprised, I said, "But didn’t I pay for it?”
"Then buy yourself some," he retorted.
We had some good-natured banter, but I it troubled me. After all, I was the one who had paid for his meal. Asking him to share it seemed like an appropriate expectation, and would have been grateful gesture on his part.
Yes, as he indicated, we could just have easily bought some ice cream for ourselves. But that wasn't really the point. It was his selfish attitude which concerned me more than my need for ice cream.
Which got me thinking.... Aren't we as selfish and short-sighted as my son when we refuse to share our resources with others?
Selfishness is a sinister character trait which eats away at our self-hood and self respect. Hoarding diminishes us. On the other hand, selflessness makes our sense of self grow.
Jesus understood this truth when he said, "Give, and it will be given to you," and in another place, "It is more blessed to give than to receive."
God is the source of so much blessing in our lives. Giving a portion of those blessings back to him is a great way to say "thank you," just as it would have been for my son to say, "Sure, Dad, have some." Both of us would have enjoyed the ice cream a lot more!
My experience with Kyle reminded me of an event from my own childhood. I was probably eight years old. We were getting into the car when the subject of ice cream came up.
"I'll buy some for everyone," my little brother volunteered. (I guess we had all just been given money from Grandma or something.)
"Better him than me," I remember thinking. "He doesn't understand the value of money."
"Jeff, you've bought ice cream for the family before. Does anybody else want to volunteer?" my parents asked.
Awkward silence.
My Dad said to me, "Steve, how come you never offer to treat the family to ice cream?"
I'm sure I didn't tell him that I was too selfish to share. In my heart I knew it was true (as did my father, no doubt). I wanted ice cream as much as anyone, but I didn't want it to cost me anything.
Unfortunately, there are a lot of people like me. While grateful for God’s blessings, we find it difficult to express our gratitude through sharing with others. We’d like to be nice, but we don’t want it to cost us anything.
When this is the case, we prove an inconvenient truth: we love ourselves -- our comfort, our convenience, our ice cream -- more than we love others, for true love invariably leads to willing sacrifice.
Awkward silence.
I make many sacrifices for the sake of my family. Why? Not out of obligation or duty. Not out of fear that Child Protective Services will knock at my door. Love motivates the sacrifices I make for my family, and while it is sometimes painful, I wouldn't have it any other way.
It’s tragic, really. Churches struggle to make ends meet while their members begrudgingly give them the scraps from their checkbook. Worthy organizations resort to bake sales and begging in order to accomplish their mission.
May I offer a suggestion on this Valentine's Day? While you’re giving gifts to the loved ones in your life, give a gift to an organization you respect. Don’t do it to earn spiritual brownie points or to promote good karma. These are selfish motivations. Do it out of gratitude and love.
Go ahead! Share a little ice cream with someone you care about. You'll both be blessed.
Happy Valentines Day!
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
BemuseDad
I looked at my cell phone. The screen said, “Kurt.” Answering with a bit of hesitation, I said, “Hi; how’d it go?”
“I passed,” he said.
“Congratulations! Are you driving right now?”
“No, but Mom’s taking me to get a wallet.”
And so it is that another chapter of parenting comes to a (screeching?) close. For the first time in 23 years there is no child who needs us behind the wheel in order to drive somewhere.
I know, it’s only a permit; there are still five months of semi-dependency. But still….
Our youngest is now our tallest. Seems only yesterday that he was the smallest. And wasn’t it only a last week that he would fall asleep in the high chair while still chewing food?
Today he’s a strapping young man with four inches on his dad, excelling in soccer, in school, and most importantly, in life. Tomorrow I suppose he’ll follow his siblings to a southern California university.
And we’ll be alone. Our nest will be empty. Although we imagine it someday multiplied with new sons, daughters and grandchildren, this chapter is winding down. The book of our lives is likely past its midpoint.
As our children have grown up and out, the joys and sorrows of parenting have grown deeper and richer. The stakes are higher: the pain of a failed test in grade school can’t compare with that of a failed marriage. But the rewards are greater too: there’s nothing like watching your adult children make great life choices while beginning to make their own mark in the world.
Considering how deeply attached I am to my children, I can’t understand why people act as if God is an absent landowner, or a mean uncle, or even a benign grandfather. We’re his children, aren't we? We're his creation, his joy, his delight (Psalm 149:4)
He feels the depths of our pain, and shares the heights of our joy. As I would give my life for my children, so He would (and did) give his life for us.
When we call to him, he comes running. When we run from him, he comes calling.
Even when I don’t understand him, I can’t help but trust him. Even when he makes me angry (and he does!), I can't turn my back on him.
Anyway, I'm feeling both proud and old this evening. It's hard to believe that my children are mostly grown. I'm wistful thinking of those days when all three of them spent every night under our roof. When they came to visit recently, there was something deeply satisfying about spending the morning together just as we did for so many years. (No wonder God is homesick for us to be with him.)
But they don't need me as much as they once did, and that's a little hard. Whereas we once were the youngest parents among our daughter's friends, we are now the oldest parents of our youngest's friends.
This evening my daughter called from California. She coordinated a program to provide free dental care for 500 children in forty-three of the offices owned by her company. It’s an adult-size challenge with all the commensurate headaches and responsibilities.
Under her leadership the program has more than doubled in size in the past year. I couldn’t be more proud of her.
Tomorrow’s the big day. She will drive hundreds of miles on LA freeways visiting dentist offices, encouraging workers, doing interviews, and documenting this important community and company event.
The thought of her driving alone in LA still gives me shudders. Didn’t she just get her permit yesterday? I remember it clear as a bell. “Daddy,” she said as she sank in the driver’s seat, “Which one of these two pedals makes the car go?”
“I passed,” he said.
“Congratulations! Are you driving right now?”
“No, but Mom’s taking me to get a wallet.”
And so it is that another chapter of parenting comes to a (screeching?) close. For the first time in 23 years there is no child who needs us behind the wheel in order to drive somewhere.
I know, it’s only a permit; there are still five months of semi-dependency. But still….
Our youngest is now our tallest. Seems only yesterday that he was the smallest. And wasn’t it only a last week that he would fall asleep in the high chair while still chewing food?
Today he’s a strapping young man with four inches on his dad, excelling in soccer, in school, and most importantly, in life. Tomorrow I suppose he’ll follow his siblings to a southern California university.
And we’ll be alone. Our nest will be empty. Although we imagine it someday multiplied with new sons, daughters and grandchildren, this chapter is winding down. The book of our lives is likely past its midpoint.
As our children have grown up and out, the joys and sorrows of parenting have grown deeper and richer. The stakes are higher: the pain of a failed test in grade school can’t compare with that of a failed marriage. But the rewards are greater too: there’s nothing like watching your adult children make great life choices while beginning to make their own mark in the world.
Considering how deeply attached I am to my children, I can’t understand why people act as if God is an absent landowner, or a mean uncle, or even a benign grandfather. We’re his children, aren't we? We're his creation, his joy, his delight (Psalm 149:4)
He feels the depths of our pain, and shares the heights of our joy. As I would give my life for my children, so He would (and did) give his life for us.
When we call to him, he comes running. When we run from him, he comes calling.
Even when I don’t understand him, I can’t help but trust him. Even when he makes me angry (and he does!), I can't turn my back on him.
Anyway, I'm feeling both proud and old this evening. It's hard to believe that my children are mostly grown. I'm wistful thinking of those days when all three of them spent every night under our roof. When they came to visit recently, there was something deeply satisfying about spending the morning together just as we did for so many years. (No wonder God is homesick for us to be with him.)
But they don't need me as much as they once did, and that's a little hard. Whereas we once were the youngest parents among our daughter's friends, we are now the oldest parents of our youngest's friends.
This evening my daughter called from California. She coordinated a program to provide free dental care for 500 children in forty-three of the offices owned by her company. It’s an adult-size challenge with all the commensurate headaches and responsibilities.
Under her leadership the program has more than doubled in size in the past year. I couldn’t be more proud of her.
Tomorrow’s the big day. She will drive hundreds of miles on LA freeways visiting dentist offices, encouraging workers, doing interviews, and documenting this important community and company event.
The thought of her driving alone in LA still gives me shudders. Didn’t she just get her permit yesterday? I remember it clear as a bell. “Daddy,” she said as she sank in the driver’s seat, “Which one of these two pedals makes the car go?”
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