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My little town isn’t so little anymore. Its population has boomed in the last twenty years from about three thousand to right around ten thousand people. The old two-lane road is now four. The lone stoplight we used to have has somehow given birth to five more. And there seems to always be a new subdivision being built in an old cornfield.

Ask the business owners, and they’ll say all this growth is a good thing. Ask the old timers, and they’ll tell you that it isn’t so good. The town’s growing, they say, but the community is shrinking. There’s a difference, and it’s a big one. I used to have to drive down Main Street with my hand perpetually stuck in the wave position. Not so much anymore. There are a lot of people I don’t know. Which means you can be surrounded by people and still feel lonely sometimes.

Many have come from the south and west in search of work, but most have come from the north. That fact alone was cause for concern for a lot of people here, those old in both age and ways and who still smart from the last time the Yankees invaded. But those times are over. These new Yankees do not have violence on their minds, but retirement. They’re tired of the cities and the noise. They want the peace and quiet of the country.

So they come. They buy their houses and settle in with the expressed purpose to slow down and take things easier. To force their lives not to be so hectic. “We’re always moving,” one of them told me the other day. “It’s just this constant state of having to do something. We hated it. So we came here. We just wanted to slow down and stop.”

I tried not to smile, but I did anyway.

This once-sleepy town is no Nirvana. It offers much, but not stoppage. Because the fact of life is that it’s busy and we’re always moving.

It doesn’t seem fair, really. As children, all we want is to go. Doesn’t matter to where or for what or how long, just as long as it’s somewhere. But the years wear on us. There are responsibilities. There is work and family and goals and dreams and we’re in the middle of it all, running. Moving. We long to slow down and stop not because we’re lazy, but because we’re tired. And because at some point we begin wondering if this is really all life has to offer, just more moving and more doing and never any rest.

I’ve wondered that myself lately. And I think that maybe the answer to that is no. Maybe that’s all life is. Movement.

I read the other day that the Earth spins on its axis every twenty-four hours at a speed of 1,000 mph. Pretty fast, isn’t it? Not as fast as this planet’s speed around the Sun, though. That’s 66,000 mph. So technically speaking, that means even though you think you’re sitting still and reading this right on the other side of a computer screen, you’ve traveled six hundred miles since you began reading this paragraph.

No wonder we’re always so tired.

I suppose that from the universe’s standpoint, not only is there not much we can do about our constant moving, we should be thankful there isn’t. Moving means life, and life continuing. It means that the Earth spins and the sun shines and all is well. It means that the cosmic dance continues unfettered.

Maybe that’s how we should look at our hectic lives. Because no matter who we are, it’s hard to slow down. Those precious moments of rest and nothingness are precious because they’re so few. I think that’s how it should be.

We can’t help but to move, but we can help how we move.

We can make sure our comings and goings are ordained by God Himself, that our actions, however small, are made as a prayer to Him and a help to others.

Yes. That’s it. That’s what we need.

Not less moving, but better moving.

That the cosmic dance continues unfettered.

There is always a tree of course, usually positioned in front of the living room window. At least one tree in the front yard will be adorned with lights. Battery-powered candles may or may not be lit in the windows, but a wreath will always be on the front door.

And there is always the Nativity scene.

Always.

At least it’s that way at my house. 

The Nativity is the centerpiece of Christmas for us, represented in physical form by forty dollars worth of plastic bought at Walmart. We have lights and candles and a wreath, we have a tree in the living room window, but it’s still not Christmas without a 60 watt bulb making Baby Jesus shine.

You can imagine the alarm, then, the sheer panic, that resulted when our Baby Jesus went missing last week.

To hear the story, jump on over to katdish’s blog. And if you happen to have your own Nativity and live in a place that is rather windy, take my advice–make sure you don’t let it all blow away…

He knows that a crying fit will likely get him nothing but a slap on the rear, and he knows he can sweet talk his mother into just about anything he wants. He also knows his father is a much tougher sell. I’m not much on sweet talking. So with me he tends to approach things from a more practical standpoint.

“Dad,” he said the other day, “I think I need a knife because you have a knife and I wanna be like you.”

So he got a knife. Plastic, of course. But still one that’s worthy of both his father and MacGyver.

He’s slick, I tell you. Very.

The way to deal with God has come much harder for my son, mostly because he can’t seem to figure out how to get what he wants. I’ve spent the last few weeks as a spectator to this getting-to-know-you process. I’m not butting in. Not yet. Some things are best learned on your own, even when you’re a kid…

I’m at highcallingblogs.com today, and if you’d like to read more, just follow this link. I’ll see you over there. Have a great day, everyone!

“You know that brush is wet, right?” my wife asks.

I don’t. Not till then. I smear the blue against my jeans, thinking that if I had bought them at the store like that, it would have set me back about a hundred dollars.

“Is he sure he wants to do this?” I ask.

“He said he did,” she answers.

“Do you believe him?”

She pauses then says, “I don’t want to.”

“Me neither,” I say, “but it’s his room, right?”

Another pause. Then: “Right.”

We had painted the Winnie the Pooh mural when our daughter was born, and she had slept beneath it for two years until she had to move out to make room for our son. But at five, he thinks Winnie the Pooh is for kids. And he is no longer a kid. My task today is to erase it. To paint over it and cover it up with pictures of Derek Jeter and Lou Gehrig.

I do not want to do this.

So this morning I painted the trim, the doors, and the other three walls, trying to postpone the inevitable. But with everything else done, the inevitable is here.

It’s just a stupid wall, I tell myself. But it’s not, and I know that. This is a symbol. A memory of the fear and joy of becoming a parent for the first time.

You battle the passage of time with your children. You fight to keep them small and innocent and on your lap. And even if you know they will soon be big and experienced and on their own, you fight anyway.

Painting over this feels like surrender. And I’m not quite ready to wave the white flag.

My eyes gaze around his room, and I catch myself wondering how much longer my son will be in it. He’ll start kindergarten next year. No doubt it’ll seem as if he’ll start high school the year after that, graduate from college the year after that, and the year after that I’ll be holding my grandchildren.

Somewhere in between, my son will realize something. He’ll find the truth about his old man. He’ll discover that I’m really not the superhero cowboy he thinks I am. That I might be tough on the outside, but I’m pretty soft on the inside. That I can’t fix everything, don’t know anything, and fret over a lot more than I let on.

He’ll have his own life with his own family. I’ll have to let him go so he can find his own way.

Such is the constant churning of life, ever forward and never backward. And though we plant our shoulders to the gears of our days and beg them to stop, they roll on anyway.

But just as I am ready to surrender after all, I spot something on my son’s dresser that makes me smile. Sitting there beside his Lightning McQueen lamp is my father’s wallet, left by him just a few hours ago. My normally steady hand seems to disappear whenever I’m painting trim, so I had called him for a little help.

And he answered. Just like he always has.

My thirty-seventh birthday is a little more than a month away. A lot has changed in my life since I was my son’s age. A lot hasn’t, too.

Still, after all these years, my father is there for me. There to help me fix the truck or cut some wood or tend the garden. There for advice or wisdom or to shoot the breeze.

Just…there.

The fact that I have my own life and my own family, the fact that I’ve found my own way, hasn’t changed everything. Time doesn’t always break our bonds. Sometimes it grows them deeper.

I move from my son’s bed to the tray of paint next to the wall, pick up the roller, and begin. Gone is the leafy tree, pouty Eeyore, Piglet, and Tigger. Gone is Christopher Robin and the unknown book he’s entertained his friends with for over seven years. And then, finally, Pooh is gone, too.

And that’s okay. Because as I paint I have in my mind a far-away picture of another man’s house and another child’s dresser. And I think of that man sitting upon the edge of that child’s bed, staring at my wallet.

My daughter is sick.

Stomach ache, fever and all general malaise. Usually an inconvenience for parents of small children, but a big deal to us. Our daughter is diabetic, and anything as small as a cold can either send her blood sugar through the roof or through the floor.

The presence of a fever requires a glucose check every two hours, so to stay awake I have a stack of papers on the nightstand beside me. Hidden among the local and national news is an article from ABC News that I printed off the internet. “Researchers Use Embryonic Stem Cells to Treat Diabetes,” it says.

On March 9, President Obama signed a bill that increased government funding for embryonic stem cells, which can morph into any cell and could theoretically cure a number of diseases and handicaps from Alzheimer’s to paralysis. And diabetes.

These cells are considered by many a potential gold mine for medical advancements. They could both save millions of lives and give life back to millions.

And to this father of this child, it would be an answer to countless prayers.

Of all the traits my wife displays in her life, the one I try to emulate and make my own is what she calls the black and the white. To her, life in this world is either/or. There is no middle ground and no tightrope to walk. Either you do good, or you do evil. Either you do right, or you do wrong. You either stand with the angels, or you don’t.

It’s a way of life that has served her well over the years. If I would have followed her lead earlier, my life would be missing many of the regrets I carry every day. But as I follow her lead now, I’m working on it. Trying.

For instance: my faith states that using embryonic stem cells, even for noble purposes, is wrong. To me and millions of others, these cells are life. And to manipulate them in any way cheapens that life, which is something that happens in our society enough as it is. One of the biggest reasons why there is so much violence and hate in this world stems from the fact we no longer honor life. That it is no longer considered holy and sacred.

This is what I believe.

And yet here we are, so technologically advanced that a few tiny cells could conceivably cure my daughter’s disease. Could give her the new life that her old one was, one without finger pricks and insulin shots and keytones and carb counting.

Do you know what it’s like for your child to look at you through tears and say, “I just want to go to heaven with Jesus, Daddy, because then I won’t feel so bad anymore?”

I do. And it hurts.

Faith is supposed to take care of that kind of hurt. It’s supposed to prop you up when you feel you are about to stumble. It is supposed to be your constant. Your First.

It is exactly that for me and my life, with perhaps the one exception of the little girl in the room next to mine. Trying to live by black and white is a noble task, I think. It’s good to know where you stand and what you stand for. But it’s also a hard thing. It’s hard to live by black and white in a world clouded by gray.

Because even if I feel that what our president has done in furthering embryonic stem cell research is wrong, a part of me now has hope. And I just don’t know what that says about me.
Because the day may come when I will be forced to answer this question:

If this can cure my daughter’s diabetes, will I withhold it from her because of my faith?

Or will I grant it to her because of my love?

(this post was published as a column in the Staunton News Leader on 5/8/09)

I have had the hiccups for two days now. Not kidding.

It started as I was putting the kids to bed. One little hic, followed by another, followed by a double: hic-hic.

To my children, this is the funniest thing they have ever seen. Because these are not the sort of tiny urps you can keep to yourself. No, these are violent, thrashing inhalations that scramble my insides and cause the people around me to stare. And aside from a hour or so here and there of blissful calm, they will not stop.

I think I may be going insane.

Hiccups is technically known as singultus. “A quick, involuntary inhalation that follows a spasm of the diaphragm and is suddenly checked by closure of the glottis, producing a short, relatively sharp sound.” So says my dictionary.

Caused by “many central and peripheral nervous system disorders, all from injury or irritation to the phrenic and vagus nerves, as well as toxic or metabolic disorders affecting aforementioned systems.” So says Google. And if you can figure out what exactly that means, please let me know.

As far as cures go, it seems medical science is a little lacking. Drugs, of course, are an option. And also something called “digital rectal massage.”

I’m not sure what that means, either. But no…way.

The tried-and-true cures of holding my breath and getting scared haven’t worked, though my son continues to run up to me and shout “BOO DADDY BOO!!”

Undaunted, I am now studying the possible causes of my condition:

Lack of water. No, that can’t be it.

Eating too fast. A possibility, given the hectic nature of a normal day. But as this began in the peace and quiet of home, I don’t buy it.

Being hungry for a while. Another possibility. But as we had dinner just a few hours before this all started, I’d say no.

Laughing vigorously. A very good possibility.

Talking for too long. Me? No.

Overstretching of the neck. Huh?

Not much help there, either.

So here I sit, trying to type, hitting the backspace whenever my body convulses and renders “type” to “tyyype.”

Still, it isn’t all bad. Charles Osborne had the hiccups from 1922 to 1990, a record sixty-eight years. Since I’m competitive by nature, I now have something to shoot for. And I am slowly building a remarkable set of abs.

Besides, I would much rather have this sort of hiccup than the alternative definition: “To experience a temporary decline, setback, interruption, etc.”

Oh, yes. I’ve had plenty of those.

The interesting thing is that the causes of physical hiccups are the very same as the causes of spiritual ones:

Lack of water. Not the liquid kind. The other: “Everyone who drinks of this water will thirst again,” Jesus told the woman at the well, “but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him shall never thirst; but the water that I will give him will become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life.”

Eating too fast. And not just eating. We judge and condemn and speak and live too fast as well. How much beauty and joy do we miss in this life because we simply won’t slow down? Too much.

Being hungry for a while. Not a good thing for your body. Worse for your soul. Because if you’re hungry enough, even poison tastes good.

Laughing vigorously. Yes, life should be enjoyed. And yes, it should be fun. But let’s not forget that we’re here to make this world a better place. That takes work, serious work, and a lot of it.

Talking for too long. As my Grandma said, “God gave you two ears and one mouth so you can listen twice as much as you talk.” Our words are precious things of mighty power. Use too many of them, though, and both the preciousness and power wane.

Overstretching of the neck. This one hit me particularly hard. I’m always trying to crane my neck to get a better view, whether it’s to where I’m going or where I’ve been. But it’s more important to pay attention to where you are. The best way to make sure tomorrow will be fine and yesterday won’t matter is to take care of today.

How this will end is anyone’s question. But I know this: I would rather hic like this in my gut forever than hic one moment in my life.