Day 6: Echoes of Powerful Voices

When you spend time reflecting on the people that shape your childhood, the biggies are easy to see. The elementary school teacher that first engaged you in your love of history, the coach that would not let you quit and the piano teacher that withstood endless excuses for why you did not practice, all shape your journey in clear ways. There are also the less obvious voices. The ones that said or did something that they probably don't even remember, but you will never forget. Three of these came to mind as I recalled my preparation for life.

The first was a man by the name of Mr. Mendenhall. Every Sunday, I would walk into church and he would be standing in the narthex (that's a fancy church word for the foyer) with the bulletin of the day. He would hand the adults a paper and if you were a little too small to read, he would reach into his pocket and produce candy. I can remember that candy acquisition like it was yesterday. It was the hard candy with the loud wrapper that could get you into some trouble if you waited until prayer time to open it, but he never gave us instructions, only a smile. As I got older, I graduated to acolyte duty. He was always there, lighter in hand, to make sure we did not engulf the flowy robes or each other in flames. I don't remember one time that I heard correction in his voice. He was the most endearing man. He taught me from a very early age the value of consistency in serving.

When I was in junior high, I had a Sunday School teacher by the name of Gary Smith. In this moment, I must pause and give thanks and praise for all of the wonderful souls that have ever taught a junior high class. This is a special age. One that requires laughter and love and very thick skin. Mr. Smith was the right guy for the job. He showed us how to read the Bible. He answered all of our stupid questions. He let us awkwardly try to navigate the woes and pains of junior high life and he did it all with a smile. My favorite memory was the day he invited us all to his house to make chili for the church chili cook off. God. Bless. It was a train wreck of female hormones and drama and a far cry from cooking. But not one time did he ever treat our ideas as anything but brilliant. He encouraged us to be ourselves and we were better off because of him.

When I think about the people that embodied grace and love, one man immediately came to mind. My high school Sunday School teacher, Tom Beasley. I have tears as I type this thinking about the way that he endured numerous RIDICULOUS conversations that we incited. There was not a passionate big haired, Houston area, Jesus loving teen of the early 1990s that did not have all of the wisdom and revelation thanks to the fact that God Listened. We knew it all. And on more than one occasion, we enlightened Mr. Beasley with our profound revelation of Biblical truth. Let me share his grace - he never, not once, told us we were wrong. He was a brilliant man, well read in matters of science and business and faith, and yet he made us feel like we knew more than he did. He would help us search the Scriptures and listen to our musings and never preached. We would bring in an idea or topic and he made us feel like our small insight was original truth. His patience and kindness and excitement for us was unmatched, and I am better for it.

As I reflected from an adult vantage point on the gifts these men offered me, I was struck by a common thread. None of them had kids my age. None of them did their 'job' for glory or fame or a pay check. They all served the kids and teenagers that were placed in their path like it was the most important job on the planet. Even more impressive, they made every single one of us feel like we were important. There is no doubt in my mind that the gifts that leaders like this gave me in my personal advent are the reason that I am who I am today. They formed in me the desire to reach deep and share my life with others in ways that they will never know. For these gifts, I am indebted.

Day 5: The Advent of My Faith

Being raised by two parents that love Jesus and believe in the Church is undoubtedly a piece of my story that deserves an early and significant place in the story of my preparation. One cannot begin to develop the priority that I place on a community centered around faith in a vacuum. I don't remember a time in life that our schedule, priorities and energy were not committed to the work of Christ in the world. I felt more at home in Sunday school classrooms than I did at school or on the sports field or even at Pipe Organ Pizza. The church of my childhood was as much a part of my development as my DNA. I was educated in friendship, jealousy, heartbreak, joy, laughter and despair by experiencing the fullness on life with my faith community.

We lived in the neighborhood behind our church and on the short drive, we passed most of our best friend's houses. Both of my parents, as well as my friend's parents, served the church. Whether it be as choir director or board chair, finance committee leader or capital campaign chair, we found ourselves playing in the hallways while our parents were "working" most weeks. Looking back on it, this was a brilliant parenting strategy. This commitment to church life provided the parents time together and a nursery worker to lasso their wild offspring. There was nothing that could make me happier than the announcement that we were eating Happy Meals at the church tonight.

This was my family. We vacationed together. We played together. We went to each other events. We watched our parents support each other. We saw how much fun our parents had together when they sat on the beach or by the lake or in worship or played cards or even walked through hard seasons.

My parent's closest friends belonged to a Sunday School named The Explorers. Almost 40 years later, I could pick up the phone and call anyone in that group and not only would they be there for my parents, but they would be there for me, my spouse or my kids. This is the kind of preparation I had in the advent of my life when it came to finding your people. We can go years without seeing each other, but when we do, it is like we are instantly transform into 8 year-olds hiding from our parents on the metal folding chair racks because we don't want to go home.

I never felt shamed. I always knew I belonged. I believed that I was included. I saw the adults in my church give of their talents and time and sleep to impact our lives. This happened in the church building on Westheimer Rd., but it also happened in my living room and in the back room at Los Tios. It happened in the car on the way to camp and as we were jumping off cliffs in central Texas. I don't remember a single "Jesus said not to..." lecture and I still know every word to Psalty's songs and "We Like Sheep". In the advent of my faith, I was blessed to have the engrained words of a song that I still sing on hard days, because it is so true.

Bullfrogs and butterflies, they've both been born again.  

If you have been around the Church very long, you know that not every experience is this much fun. There were rocky roads ahead. But when I look back on the formational years of my life, I have no doubt that the preparation for my calling and love of the Church was rooted by a group of 30-somethings that said that they needed Jesus and each other to get through life.

The Best Birthday Present

My phone rang at 6:47am with a song and one of my favorite voices. He giggled though the annual recounting of the fact that if I am 42, that makes him REALLY old. He enjoyed the fact that after all these years, I still don't want to talk or listen to him sing pre-dawn. And then he asked me, "Hamdi (that is dad speak for 'favorite'), what are doing for your birthday?"

This seems like a very normal question to ask someone, but today it felt loaded. I had no extravagant plans. I had nothing on the agenda that separated this day from any other. 42 years ago today, I came into the world. I love a good gift. I adore a fitting celebration. But somehow 42 seems less than monumental. So today's calendar included carpools and yoga and errands and kid's activities.

Between the errands and the afternoon carpool, I decided that repairing the two colors of toenail polish that were currently chipping away would count as my present to myself. The salon was empty. I sat in my chair and quickly tuned out the world. I was 10 minutes into a lovely and rare quiet moment when a gentleman came in. He made arrangements at the front counter and was quickly ushered to a nearby pedicure chair. His striking silver hair caught my eye and he met me with a friendly, "You don't mind if an old guy sits next to you, do you?"

No. I didn't mind at all. His inflection, presence and humor immediately reminded me of the voice that woke me this morning. He sat in his chair and it was quickly apparent that he was a regular customer. I listened as he visited with his attendant about his children and grandchildren. He fumbled with his iPhone to show her recent pictures of his granddaughter that is 13 going on 20. He was beaming. Taken by his adoring love, I wanted to know more. When he looked in my direction, he offered to show me her picture. It was flat adorable.

"I would give anything for my dad to come and enjoy a pedicure like you are today," I spoke up.

"What makes you think that I am old enough to be your dad's age?" he said with a smirk. Yep. This WAS Frank Bain!

Were no longer strangers. For the next 45 min we chatted. I explained to him that my dad suffered from neuropathy in his feet and I always wondered if this would be relaxing or excruciating. He shared with me about how he was diagnosed with Parkinson's 5 years ago and prior to that he cared for his nails weekly.

"Eventually I reached the point that I could not do it anymore, so I began coming here." he said.

It was at this moment that I wanted to sob. I wanted to feel all the feelings that were welling up in my heart and eyes, but I just listened. I shared with him about my dad and mom and their 46 years of marriage. He and his wife have 3 kids and 48 years...creepy familiar.

We talked about the number of pills he takes every day and how ridiculous the cost are. He told me about his 97 year old mother-in-law that lives up the street, and how she, his wife, his daughter and his granddaughter all come to this same salon. He was carrying a golf magazine. I asked him if he played.

"I always thought that I would play golf everyday in retirement, but I had to quit playing. My disease has taken my coordination. It's just hard." I could tell he really missed it. He told me about the 340+ courses all over the world that he played. We talked about his favorites. We talked about his memories of playing with his dad. It was wonderful. As we finished visiting, he asked me to type a website on my phone. I willingly opened my browser and followed his instructions.

"Tell your dad to check out this page. A friend of mine designs golf courses and I just know your dad would love to see some of these. They are amazing." And, so I did.

We finished our pedicures and our chat and I wished him well. He wished me a Happy Birthday (as apparently I added that to the conversation without remembering) and I left. I closed the door to my car and my eyes filled with tears.

You see, while I was getting my pedicure today, my Daddy was in his oncologist office. He's just finished his second week of chemo and my heart is especially tender in the dad zone. If you know my dad, you probably don't even know that he is in a treatment cycle. He cannot be stopped. He still makes and drives lunches to the homeless, coaches 8 year old machine-pitch softball, cheers on his swimmer at meets and attends school programs. He meets weekly with a high school senior that he has mentored since he was in the 4th grade. He participates in Sunday School, drives to hear me preach and fusses around the house. Just last week, he drove my mom to scout our Cousin's Camp Road Trip location for the summer and then went on to see his sisters in East Texas.

And, he plays some golf. He loves to get out on the course, even on days when he can't feel his feet, and swing a club. The cart path is his best companion. Energy and sunshine willing, you will find him there on Sundays with his best friend, Tuesdays with Senior Men's and usually at least one more time on the driving range. Golf is his escape from doctors and pills and nagging daughters with suggestions. It's a place where he can enjoy bantering over $3 and sharing a meal with those he loves and remembering great stories of adventures with his son. Oh, and that hole in one that he loves to recall.

I had no idea that a conversation about golf over a pedicure would be one of my best birthday gifts. I could not have planned it. It also made me ever so aware of the greatest gifts. My people are my world. The love I have for the many deep friendships and co-journeyers that this life has given me is unmatched. So. Much. Great. BIG. Love.

But for the man that has celebrated all 42 of the last April 25th's with me, there really are not enough words. This big, tough, strong headed bull of a girl is mush when it comes to her Daddy. He one of my greatest encouragers and there are not many places in the world that are as special to me as his lap. And, yes, I still fit.