So I am once again making some additions to this blog thing. The last 2 months have been trying. Oct I was afforded an opportunity to replace about 500 square feet of floor. Now Dec I am afforded an opportunity to replace our heating and air conditioning system. Needless to say it is weighing on my mind and my wallet. It would be so easy to just "walk away" to let it go and ignore the issue but that is a skill I have never developed.
After the last two month the ability to walk away would have been wonderful, at least for a time. The reality would catch up to me, and worse not just me but the family as well. My inability to stay the course would have made life miserable for all. Not sure I could do that to them, although some feel I make there life miserable too much as it is.
As appealing as dumping and running is I am aware it is short term solution to a long term issue. It is also the start of a habit that would greatly reduce the ability to see and do many things. So I endure. I live out the adage "When the going gets tough the tough get going" and I endure the pain of life. So hang in there with me. This adventure is not easy, sometimes not even fun but it is also not a result of quitting.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
A time to recover
When I was growing up most of our family would go to church. This is a great way to start a story about the Walton’s however we were not the Walton’s. My mother would take us to a Lutheran church about 15 miles from our house. We went here because the church allowed kids to be in attendance without their parents. By accident I learned much about the bible and God in this church. I also learned about tradition and doing things because they had survived the test of time.
Years later as I was walking my own walk down faith road I would make mistakes. Given the chance I would redo some of those choices. For example you cannot question a Pentecostal pastor. They are on a direct feed from God. To question that is to question God. I have never been to a Pentecostal church since. Although I must admit I have wondered how the pastor turned out. Hummm.
During our walk of faith these many hear I have never “dropped” my kids off to a church and gone off to whatever was more important than my kids and their faith. Because I believe there is nothing more important than my kids and “their” faith in the promises of God. I have tried to lead by example. Staying the course. Doing the hard things. Ensuring that my family knew that faith in God was more than just a weekly trip to a building.
The past four years we have been attending “our” church. We started there because we had some connection with the pastor from years gone by. It was never as good as the “other” church. However it was a start and we could adjust, or so I thought.
I heard from ALL members of the family during the past four years about the shortfalls of that body of gathering people. So two weeks ago in what had become a routine event one of the members of my family and I had it out. The issue got so bad I insisted on being let out of the vehicle at the next stop and I was going to walk home. It was only about 16 miles I would be fine. For years I pushed on, moved ahead, tried to encourage and effect change from the inside. I know in my heart of hearts change can only come from within. It didn’t work. One of my children had left the church almost two years ago, another would have liked to. I pressed on..
So the last two weeks we have been “church hopping ”. It is not fun. It would be much easier if my parents were just dropping me at the front door of a building again and coming back in an hour or two. Not the case. The hardest part is that for all the reasons we left no one is willing to adjust or change in new churches. They keep comparing the “new” church to the one we recently left. The members of my family have gotten accustomed to being “uncomfortable” in a gathering of people waving the “Christian” flag, and have become very “comfortable” about complaining about that church. I am there with them.
So what am I to do. In my heart of hearts I know that the path of following Jesus us the right path. That core faith has held me together in times of great stress. That core faith has held this family together. That core faith has made my life much different than many in my family. To not be in a weekly gathering does not set well with me. Maybe I was dropped off one too many times to the Lutheran church. Maybe attending became more of a “tradition” rather than an act of faith. Who knows?
I do know this. Next Sunday I will be camping. I will find peace in the woods. I will leave the campsite to just enjoy the opportunity to be close to the hand of God. I will not stay around those who complain but have no solutions. I will not stay around those who complain but will not try something different. I will not scrap my faith because of those around me. It is what has made my life what it is. To dump my faith would be an admission of a lifelong error.
I know that no matter where I go on a weekly basis that faith in the promises of God start with me. I know that I have got to be open. I know that to start in a new church that looks like the “old” church will likely get me the same results in a year or sooner. So off I go.
I will not drop my children off and go do other “important” things. There is nothing more important than ensuring they are grounded in faith the promises of God. They too will have hard times in life, in their families, in their jobs. They too will reach a point where they press on only because their faith is carrying them.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Food
I have no idea why this morning the topic of food is on my mind but it is. I usually walk out the door with a couple of apples and a couple of bananas in my hand and that is my food for the day. I fly a desk I don’t need much. This morning I was not able to take my usual as we were out of the apples. So I grabbed the two bananas and off I went. After being at work for an hour or so I needed something. So off I go to the cafeteria and grab a bacon, egg toast sandwich. Well worth the walk, it hit the spot.
It occurred to me that there were good things in my youth, contrary to what might be inferred by my postings. God knows there were many not so good things as evident by the general attitude of the family members.
Food is one of those things that were generally done well. It was not an easy task to cook for a dozen people so meals were prepared “restraint” style. The primary cook for years was my dad. He had meals preparation down to a fine art. He was the person I learned to crack eggs with one had from. He was the one who taught me the importance about having the “right” pan for the job. He had an egg pan that was only used for eggs. It was older than dirt but a dab of butter and you could cook any egg in the world in it. He was the one who told me of the importance of cast iron for cook. The heat was more even in cast iron pans and after being “seasoned” the pans lasted forever. My dad’s meals were simple. His meals were filling. His meals were good. To this day I remember the winter breakfast meals. He would come home from delivering papers or cleaning bar rooms and get the breakfast prep going. Some mornings it would be oatmeal, others it would be cream of wheat, others it would be hot chocolate and English muffins. From my dad I learned that English muffins should be toasted on a griddle, not in a toaster. He would prepare a couple dozen at a time and put them in a big stew pot. At the bottom of the pot was a deep plate placed upside down and water about a half inch deep on the bottom. Water was heated, steam was made, English muffins were always warm and fresh. Mind you we often got “day old” English muffins but you could not tell. The hot cocoa was made from scratch. It started with the Nestle unsweetened cocoa powder, milk, a little vanilla extract and sugar.
His method of cooking was to the untrained eye untrained, low skill. To the trained eye he knew what a teaspoon of this or that looked like. He knew what a cup of this or that looked like. He knew what the right consistence of a mix was to be. He had the official “tools” but he knew well how to use the simple tools. Like a carpenter. The best saw in the hands of an unskilled operator never produces the same results as a simple saw in the hands of a master.
The meals were simple. Macaroni and cheese, from scratch. Scalloped potatoes from scratch, Swiss steak from scratch. Soups and chowders from scratch. The meals required lots of work. I remember peeling 5 then 10, then 20 pounds of potatoes at a time. I remember the big pots with used for the potato salad or the long deep pans used for the scalloped potatoes. We had good meals, often simple but good. During the summer there would be the barbeques fresh corn, on occasion steak, hot dogs and such. Again always good.
My mom did cook on occasion. Spaghetti sauce was her recipe of choice. The amount of time she spent in the kitchen was not as much as my dad’s but as we all got older her time in the kitchen increased and his time decreased. Today she does most of the cooking and has become quite skilled at it as well.
As I commented in a previous posting on this blog meal times we not like those seen on the Walton’s TV show. The issues, emotions and personalities and the food were two different things. The time, effort and genuine concern that meals we good tasting, good for you and there was a good quantity was always apparent. There were things done right in my youth, meal preparation was often one of them.
It occurred to me that there were good things in my youth, contrary to what might be inferred by my postings. God knows there were many not so good things as evident by the general attitude of the family members.
Food is one of those things that were generally done well. It was not an easy task to cook for a dozen people so meals were prepared “restraint” style. The primary cook for years was my dad. He had meals preparation down to a fine art. He was the person I learned to crack eggs with one had from. He was the one who taught me the importance about having the “right” pan for the job. He had an egg pan that was only used for eggs. It was older than dirt but a dab of butter and you could cook any egg in the world in it. He was the one who told me of the importance of cast iron for cook. The heat was more even in cast iron pans and after being “seasoned” the pans lasted forever. My dad’s meals were simple. His meals were filling. His meals were good. To this day I remember the winter breakfast meals. He would come home from delivering papers or cleaning bar rooms and get the breakfast prep going. Some mornings it would be oatmeal, others it would be cream of wheat, others it would be hot chocolate and English muffins. From my dad I learned that English muffins should be toasted on a griddle, not in a toaster. He would prepare a couple dozen at a time and put them in a big stew pot. At the bottom of the pot was a deep plate placed upside down and water about a half inch deep on the bottom. Water was heated, steam was made, English muffins were always warm and fresh. Mind you we often got “day old” English muffins but you could not tell. The hot cocoa was made from scratch. It started with the Nestle unsweetened cocoa powder, milk, a little vanilla extract and sugar.
His method of cooking was to the untrained eye untrained, low skill. To the trained eye he knew what a teaspoon of this or that looked like. He knew what a cup of this or that looked like. He knew what the right consistence of a mix was to be. He had the official “tools” but he knew well how to use the simple tools. Like a carpenter. The best saw in the hands of an unskilled operator never produces the same results as a simple saw in the hands of a master.
The meals were simple. Macaroni and cheese, from scratch. Scalloped potatoes from scratch, Swiss steak from scratch. Soups and chowders from scratch. The meals required lots of work. I remember peeling 5 then 10, then 20 pounds of potatoes at a time. I remember the big pots with used for the potato salad or the long deep pans used for the scalloped potatoes. We had good meals, often simple but good. During the summer there would be the barbeques fresh corn, on occasion steak, hot dogs and such. Again always good.
My mom did cook on occasion. Spaghetti sauce was her recipe of choice. The amount of time she spent in the kitchen was not as much as my dad’s but as we all got older her time in the kitchen increased and his time decreased. Today she does most of the cooking and has become quite skilled at it as well.
As I commented in a previous posting on this blog meal times we not like those seen on the Walton’s TV show. The issues, emotions and personalities and the food were two different things. The time, effort and genuine concern that meals we good tasting, good for you and there was a good quantity was always apparent. There were things done right in my youth, meal preparation was often one of them.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Trial by fire
It is strange how things trigger memories. This past weekend has been hot and humid and I have not felt 100%. While sitting around and just kind pushing through the plans for the weekend I deiced to tackle something that needed doing but my knowledge of the requirements were unknown. The event that triggered a memory was my of installing a replacement stove in our kitchen.
I had memories of my aunt’s kitchen. It was really small, and my aunt’s family like mine was really big. We often spent time at my aunt’s house as it was close and for the most part my mom actually got along with her sister (my aunt) and her family. I am sure you have heard the phrase “boys will be boys” well that is so true. As often occurred when our two families got together we found creative ways to occupy our time, not always in the best interest of the community. I forget how old I was but I know it was pre-teen years and as such I was all too happy to follow the “older” brothers and cousins in whatever amusement was being pursued.
There is not a boy out there that is not intrigued and amazed by fire, we were no different. We would find opportunities to “play” with matches and start “camp fires”. I think by and large we were safe about it. I have memories of some of the fires being built with a ring of rocks. Some fires were built in the top of old trash cans because they were made out of the really heavy metal, not the plastic of today.
I do not believe there were any “innocent” people attending these little fires training sessions. But as I was to find out time and again there is little difference in just looking and actually doing. Guilt by association was a very real event in my house. I am not sure of the details but I do remember my aunts stove as it was the instrument used to “teach” me a lesson. Somehow “we” the group of boys had been found out and our fire fascination was out of the bag.
I was never very good a convincing my mom I was innocent and as such I often received punishment regardless of my guilt, again guilt by association, was sufficient. We had been caught my older brothers, my twin and my cousins, one older, one younger, all caught red handed. I had not had an active role other than watching but that did not protect me from the punishment. In fact I was the point person for the punishment because I was not good at looking innocent or casting blame. That and the adults had there “favorites” who were seemingly incapable of wrongdoing.
This lesson would be like many others in my youth, harsh. We were all herded into my aunt’s kitchen and the stove burner was turned on. In what would be typical fashion my mother wanted the “guilty” person to explain why they committed the crime. The problem is I was more often than not the guilty person because of the guilt by association. As I was to find out my family was all too willing to “throw me under the bus” in order to avoid the punishment they and I knew was coming. I understand now as the punishment was often very severe in fact that kind of treatment today would be called abuse.
This crime of playing with fire could only be “cured” by fire. So I remember all of us saying it was not “my fault” then one of my older brothers stumbled upon a technique that would be my ticket for about 95% of all the punishment for the rest of my time home. My older brother was the first to accuse me and that was all that was needed because everyone else in the group agreed with him, I was guilty. My mother took my hand and placed it over the burner and held it there long enough to cause reddening and blistering on the tips of the fingers, that was one hell of a lesson in a lot of ways.
There were lots of lessons learned that day. My brothers all learned the best thing to do is be the first to accuse someone else, it did not have to be truth, it did have to be quick. My brothers also learned that it is best if they supported the “other” accusers safety in numbers applies. If everyone pointed a finger at me, then it had to be true I was guilty. I learned that the truth had no bearing on the issue; it was a numbers game, and as fate would have it I never would get in front of the numbers.
Did I play with matches as a kid, sure I did. Does playing with matches warrant first and second degree burns? I don’t think so. Was an attitude of true truth fostered in my home? Not in the least. As I would find out years later there was much done in my house and “hidden” because the response from my mother would be extreme. Fortunately for me many of those “hidden things” occurred while I was not at home for. I would also find out years later that the habit of pointing fingers at the other guy forced many in my family to play the blame game. The blame game would be the ruler of their lives. And many have found it a challenge to accept responsibility for their actions and work through the consequences.
Except for a small scratch on my thumb the stove installation went fine, all burners work and it looks nice in the kitchen. It is my hope to only cook food on it. Oh and the small scratch on my thumb is my fault, not my families.
I had memories of my aunt’s kitchen. It was really small, and my aunt’s family like mine was really big. We often spent time at my aunt’s house as it was close and for the most part my mom actually got along with her sister (my aunt) and her family. I am sure you have heard the phrase “boys will be boys” well that is so true. As often occurred when our two families got together we found creative ways to occupy our time, not always in the best interest of the community. I forget how old I was but I know it was pre-teen years and as such I was all too happy to follow the “older” brothers and cousins in whatever amusement was being pursued.
There is not a boy out there that is not intrigued and amazed by fire, we were no different. We would find opportunities to “play” with matches and start “camp fires”. I think by and large we were safe about it. I have memories of some of the fires being built with a ring of rocks. Some fires were built in the top of old trash cans because they were made out of the really heavy metal, not the plastic of today.
I do not believe there were any “innocent” people attending these little fires training sessions. But as I was to find out time and again there is little difference in just looking and actually doing. Guilt by association was a very real event in my house. I am not sure of the details but I do remember my aunts stove as it was the instrument used to “teach” me a lesson. Somehow “we” the group of boys had been found out and our fire fascination was out of the bag.
I was never very good a convincing my mom I was innocent and as such I often received punishment regardless of my guilt, again guilt by association, was sufficient. We had been caught my older brothers, my twin and my cousins, one older, one younger, all caught red handed. I had not had an active role other than watching but that did not protect me from the punishment. In fact I was the point person for the punishment because I was not good at looking innocent or casting blame. That and the adults had there “favorites” who were seemingly incapable of wrongdoing.
This lesson would be like many others in my youth, harsh. We were all herded into my aunt’s kitchen and the stove burner was turned on. In what would be typical fashion my mother wanted the “guilty” person to explain why they committed the crime. The problem is I was more often than not the guilty person because of the guilt by association. As I was to find out my family was all too willing to “throw me under the bus” in order to avoid the punishment they and I knew was coming. I understand now as the punishment was often very severe in fact that kind of treatment today would be called abuse.
This crime of playing with fire could only be “cured” by fire. So I remember all of us saying it was not “my fault” then one of my older brothers stumbled upon a technique that would be my ticket for about 95% of all the punishment for the rest of my time home. My older brother was the first to accuse me and that was all that was needed because everyone else in the group agreed with him, I was guilty. My mother took my hand and placed it over the burner and held it there long enough to cause reddening and blistering on the tips of the fingers, that was one hell of a lesson in a lot of ways.
There were lots of lessons learned that day. My brothers all learned the best thing to do is be the first to accuse someone else, it did not have to be truth, it did have to be quick. My brothers also learned that it is best if they supported the “other” accusers safety in numbers applies. If everyone pointed a finger at me, then it had to be true I was guilty. I learned that the truth had no bearing on the issue; it was a numbers game, and as fate would have it I never would get in front of the numbers.
Did I play with matches as a kid, sure I did. Does playing with matches warrant first and second degree burns? I don’t think so. Was an attitude of true truth fostered in my home? Not in the least. As I would find out years later there was much done in my house and “hidden” because the response from my mother would be extreme. Fortunately for me many of those “hidden things” occurred while I was not at home for. I would also find out years later that the habit of pointing fingers at the other guy forced many in my family to play the blame game. The blame game would be the ruler of their lives. And many have found it a challenge to accept responsibility for their actions and work through the consequences.
Except for a small scratch on my thumb the stove installation went fine, all burners work and it looks nice in the kitchen. It is my hope to only cook food on it. Oh and the small scratch on my thumb is my fault, not my families.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
The boot
One of the disadvantages of having a large family is the limited bathroom space. It is even more of a challenge when you are frequently being watched by being in a very controlled environment. OK I guess I will get right down to it. One of the methods my mother used to “babysit” some of us was to put is in a room and lock the door. Sever of the bedrooms had the latch and eyelet hooks on the outside of the door. Sound like no really big deal until you look at the potential for problems. What if there were an emergency? With a big family there is always the potential for issues and it can be a really challenge to watch a large number of kids, especially if your heart is not in it. I was very young probably ten years old when the “babysitter” was in place and we could not get out of the room. We had windows and they did open but they were high off the ground and we had no way of getting back in if we chose to jump the four or five feet to get to the ground. There were some times when we would be locked in our room for many hours at a time. I learned early on not to make a great deal of noise about being locked in the room. We were on the other side of this old farm house which had been set up as a duplex. So you could not be heard unless you were screaming at the top of your lungs. If you got my mother attention the attention she gave you was not good. Fortunately for us it was upstate NY and as such there were long winters and with winters came boots, not just warm boots but in many cases waterproof boots. Mind you it was not winter for this particular memory in fact is was a beautiful sprint or summer time and we did not want to be in this locked room. I don’t remember how long we had been in the room. It might have only been a half an hour it might have been four. But regardless there was an emergency and my mother was not hearing the cry for help. So the emergency was an incredibly full bladder and no relief in sight. We could not get out the door to the very next room which was the bathroom. We Could not jump out the window because we could not get back in. We could however unload the closet of winter cloths and find the boot. It is amazing the relief the boot provided. The beauty of this approach was once we were released from the “babysitter” we could secretly relieve the boot of its cargo and a little rinse and dry time and it was as good as new. We did not have to use this approach often but considering the door was latched from the outside more than once it was nice to know we had some relief with us.
Pain and how to get it and avoid it
I don’t remember how old I was but I was probably in my mid teens. We lived in a small town in upstate NY and I was trying hard to see what was outside my immediate family environment. My mother allowed us to ride bicycles into the local town which we did as often as we could. It was a way out it was something to do it was fun. The bikes were not new but they were functional. I did get a new bike for one of my early birthdays. It was purple and had a purple banana seat one it. Not sure what happen but my next oldest brother got a hold of it and things were not the same.
Sometime during my youth I was out for a ride and I had managed to build a ten speed road bike. No small feat when your brothers are attempting to do the same thing and your parts may become their in the blink of an eye. I had built this ten speed bike complete with racing road wheels and curved handlebars, the works.
I lived in the part of the county that had oiled dirt roads. Needless to say they were not smooth and they certainly were not good for thin tired racing bikes. I had been on the county road which is paved and I made a right onto one of the side dirt roads, which was not paved. Try as I might I could not get the bike to complete the turn. I made it about sixty degrees into this ninety degree turn and that was it. I lost control and hit a rock that stopped me dead. Next thing you know I am airborne and flying head on into a rock used to line the lawn of this house. It is safe to say it hurt. BAD. I remember feeling chucks of shattered front teeth in my mouth. I spit out the chucks and lots of blood and reached up with my tongue to where my front teeth use to be and hit the two raw nerves that were still there and had not been ripped out from my remains of front teeth. I had all kinds of new pain on top of the pain I already had.
You may be thinking I must have immediately sought help, you would be wrong. My mom and I never really had a good relationship, not sure why but it wasn’t good. I will accept half of the blame but only half. I really had no choice but to go home. So I picked up my now very wrecked bike and headed back to my house. For many years there was always a babysitter at my house. My mom chose to work and pay a baby sitter to stay with us. I can only guess how things might have been if my mom did not work and stayed home instead of paying someone to do that part of the mothering thing. The sitter didn’t notice anything at first and I as able to avoid her probing questions. My mom came home and I was in good shape as she never did ask much in the way of questions. I got lucky that night as my mom was in a good mood and I was allowed to go to bed without big issues. Mind you the nerves are still hanging you and hurting like hell. I woke up the next morning and got ready for school. Breakfast was interesting as I had to open my mouth very wide, insert the spoon of cheerios low, flip it swallow everything and withdrawal the spoon without hitting the nerves, lots of fun. I made it through school with no issue as I was not mister popularity and for at least that day it was ok. I got back home and there was the babysitter. This time she had notices my interactions were not the same. She drilled me and finally got me to open my mouth, literally and that was it the word was out. My mom came home and she was told. My mom asked why I had not told her sooner. My reply was I did not want the punishment that was to come whenever I did something that she did not like. That reply left her quiet for several long seconds. Then she told me to my coat and get in the damn car. It was a calm response from here and one I have not forgotten. It is my hope that I have not passed that trait on to my kids. I can only pray that in a time of need they would feel safe approaching me. I was more concerned with the typically beating that occurred when “wrong” things were done than with the pain of two raw nerves hanging out. I made it one day, I might have gone longer, I will never know. But I intended to avoid the punishment at all cost. The loss of the teeth and the bike were enough, I did not want punishment on top of that.
Sometime during my youth I was out for a ride and I had managed to build a ten speed road bike. No small feat when your brothers are attempting to do the same thing and your parts may become their in the blink of an eye. I had built this ten speed bike complete with racing road wheels and curved handlebars, the works.
I lived in the part of the county that had oiled dirt roads. Needless to say they were not smooth and they certainly were not good for thin tired racing bikes. I had been on the county road which is paved and I made a right onto one of the side dirt roads, which was not paved. Try as I might I could not get the bike to complete the turn. I made it about sixty degrees into this ninety degree turn and that was it. I lost control and hit a rock that stopped me dead. Next thing you know I am airborne and flying head on into a rock used to line the lawn of this house. It is safe to say it hurt. BAD. I remember feeling chucks of shattered front teeth in my mouth. I spit out the chucks and lots of blood and reached up with my tongue to where my front teeth use to be and hit the two raw nerves that were still there and had not been ripped out from my remains of front teeth. I had all kinds of new pain on top of the pain I already had.
You may be thinking I must have immediately sought help, you would be wrong. My mom and I never really had a good relationship, not sure why but it wasn’t good. I will accept half of the blame but only half. I really had no choice but to go home. So I picked up my now very wrecked bike and headed back to my house. For many years there was always a babysitter at my house. My mom chose to work and pay a baby sitter to stay with us. I can only guess how things might have been if my mom did not work and stayed home instead of paying someone to do that part of the mothering thing. The sitter didn’t notice anything at first and I as able to avoid her probing questions. My mom came home and I was in good shape as she never did ask much in the way of questions. I got lucky that night as my mom was in a good mood and I was allowed to go to bed without big issues. Mind you the nerves are still hanging you and hurting like hell. I woke up the next morning and got ready for school. Breakfast was interesting as I had to open my mouth very wide, insert the spoon of cheerios low, flip it swallow everything and withdrawal the spoon without hitting the nerves, lots of fun. I made it through school with no issue as I was not mister popularity and for at least that day it was ok. I got back home and there was the babysitter. This time she had notices my interactions were not the same. She drilled me and finally got me to open my mouth, literally and that was it the word was out. My mom came home and she was told. My mom asked why I had not told her sooner. My reply was I did not want the punishment that was to come whenever I did something that she did not like. That reply left her quiet for several long seconds. Then she told me to my coat and get in the damn car. It was a calm response from here and one I have not forgotten. It is my hope that I have not passed that trait on to my kids. I can only pray that in a time of need they would feel safe approaching me. I was more concerned with the typically beating that occurred when “wrong” things were done than with the pain of two raw nerves hanging out. I made it one day, I might have gone longer, I will never know. But I intended to avoid the punishment at all cost. The loss of the teeth and the bike were enough, I did not want punishment on top of that.
I was wrong. What a relief
One of the things I have never really gotten over is the fact that through all the challenges of my youth I cannot recall my parents admitting they were wrong. I was looking at a ten year old photo this afternoon after being outside working all day. I was of my wife and children right as I retired from a twenty year career in the Army. My oldest is quite reserved and in many way secretive and I regret that. I suspect I am a significant cause of his reclusive interaction with me and to a lesser degree with the other members of the family. My daughter catches the worst of that as she is much like her mom, caring, empathetic and concerned. My next youngest son is more like me in some way and more like his mom in most. That is a good thing; He is outgoing, fun, full of life. He can also be stubborn and has a hard time accepting that not all things are as they appear. My youngest son is unique as are all the others. He has challenges as a result of development issues and I regret not understand and accepting those earlier in his life. There were times I took my mother approach and just assumed his actions were out of choice and not out of natural inability to comprehend.
To this day I truly do not know why my mother had such a deep dislike for me. She did the “required” things. I had what was needed physically; emotionally that was a different thing. I never understood why, I never received an apology; I never heard the words I am sorry. For my children who might sometime read this. I admit to having gotten much of this fathering thing wrong. I was not right in all things and I am paying for those choices now. A child who is withdrawn, one who pushes the limits whenever it fits, one whose emotions were delicate and I did not treat accordingly and one who is facing challenges because of real issues not out of choice. For all of you I was wrong and I am sorry. It will not fix anything but I don’t want you to carry useless baggage with you throughout your life as I have mine.
To this day I truly do not know why my mother had such a deep dislike for me. She did the “required” things. I had what was needed physically; emotionally that was a different thing. I never understood why, I never received an apology; I never heard the words I am sorry. For my children who might sometime read this. I admit to having gotten much of this fathering thing wrong. I was not right in all things and I am paying for those choices now. A child who is withdrawn, one who pushes the limits whenever it fits, one whose emotions were delicate and I did not treat accordingly and one who is facing challenges because of real issues not out of choice. For all of you I was wrong and I am sorry. It will not fix anything but I don’t want you to carry useless baggage with you throughout your life as I have mine.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Doing the hard things
There are many things that come to mind when I think of the term commitment. I have served in the military for twenty years that was commitment. I have been married for over twenty five years, that is commitment. I have four kids that is commitment. I have had faith in the saving grace of Christ for longer than I have been married, that is commitment.
I think I received the ability to commit from my father. He did things that you just don’t hear about anymore. My dad smoked Salem cigarettes when I was little. He was very methodical in his smoking. While he was smoking he was trying to complete a National Radio Institute home study course for Television Electronics. He was also assembling heath kit equipment as part of his studying. He would open the NRI books and read a few pages and then pull a cigarette out of the green and white pack and then place the ashtray in arms reach then light the cigarette. I remember him taking the first pull on the cigarette and I remember him putting it out. I don’t remember him actually smoking the entire cigarette. When he finished that cigarette he was done, no more that night.
My dad use to drink. On occasion he would drink to excess. The school he worked for use to have “clam bakes” during the late spring, early summer season. And mom and dad attended them as a rule. I am not sure what happened one night as my mother was not with my dad for this particular clam bake. We drove up to the VFW post behind the bus garage, where the parties were always held. My mom parked the car and left, we did not follow. Sometime later my mom returns and my dad is in tow, literally. We are in the inside of the car and my mom and dad are yelling at each other on the outside of the car. They both finally got in the car and commenced to argue more. I am not sure which one of us kids had the gall to interrupt the “discussion” but I will take the blame. I don’t remember the question I do remember the response, it was not good. In the end you could have heard a pin drop in the back of the car and not another word was said until the next morning.
The next morning was different to say the least. It was one of a very few times where I remember my dad leading what could almost be a family discussion. He had all of us in the kitchen and announced that his conduct “last night” was not right. He announced that he would never do that “again”. In fact he would never drink again. To the best of my memory he has stuck to his word, that is commitment. During the discussion he announced he would not smoke again and he never did, that is commitment.
I learned from my dad that if you say you’re going to do something then you’re obligated to do that thing. I believe members of my family learned something else, they learned not to commit to things because the challenges of committing are often larger than expected.
I think I received the ability to commit from my father. He did things that you just don’t hear about anymore. My dad smoked Salem cigarettes when I was little. He was very methodical in his smoking. While he was smoking he was trying to complete a National Radio Institute home study course for Television Electronics. He was also assembling heath kit equipment as part of his studying. He would open the NRI books and read a few pages and then pull a cigarette out of the green and white pack and then place the ashtray in arms reach then light the cigarette. I remember him taking the first pull on the cigarette and I remember him putting it out. I don’t remember him actually smoking the entire cigarette. When he finished that cigarette he was done, no more that night.
My dad use to drink. On occasion he would drink to excess. The school he worked for use to have “clam bakes” during the late spring, early summer season. And mom and dad attended them as a rule. I am not sure what happened one night as my mother was not with my dad for this particular clam bake. We drove up to the VFW post behind the bus garage, where the parties were always held. My mom parked the car and left, we did not follow. Sometime later my mom returns and my dad is in tow, literally. We are in the inside of the car and my mom and dad are yelling at each other on the outside of the car. They both finally got in the car and commenced to argue more. I am not sure which one of us kids had the gall to interrupt the “discussion” but I will take the blame. I don’t remember the question I do remember the response, it was not good. In the end you could have heard a pin drop in the back of the car and not another word was said until the next morning.
The next morning was different to say the least. It was one of a very few times where I remember my dad leading what could almost be a family discussion. He had all of us in the kitchen and announced that his conduct “last night” was not right. He announced that he would never do that “again”. In fact he would never drink again. To the best of my memory he has stuck to his word, that is commitment. During the discussion he announced he would not smoke again and he never did, that is commitment.
I learned from my dad that if you say you’re going to do something then you’re obligated to do that thing. I believe members of my family learned something else, they learned not to commit to things because the challenges of committing are often larger than expected.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Pop, Cops, Fuzzbuster
It was in the early 1970’s that I got to see a side of my dad that I had not noticed before. Well I noticed I just did not give it much thought. My dad worked three different jobs in an effort to keep the family afloat. He was still working as a janitor at the local school district. He had also recently taken a job as a news paper carrier. He was also cleaning two bar rooms in the nearby city. All three of the jobs required him to drive.
On to the problem my dad was on his way into the city to clean the two bar rooms. This occurred at some ungodly hour in the morning three days a week. By this time he had been making the trip for many years and I suspect more than once his body was on autopilot for the entire trip. There is a requirement to cross a fairly good sized river to get from our house to the bar rooms. The bridge is long and arcs upward toward the middle the back down. My dad is making this run in his 1968 yellow Plymouth Fury-III. Big car, big engine, lots of potential to speed. But that was and still is out of character for my dad, he does not intentionally speed. This particular morning my dad capped the top of that bridge arch and on the other side of the bridge was a police officer with a radar speed detection device. In the early 70’s they were anything but portable. My dad is clocked doing seven miles per hour over the speed limit. There is no arguing with a cop, could not do it then, cannot do it now. They are right and you are guilty until proven innocent. So my dad took his ticket, caught by this new technology called the speed checking radar.
During my young years my dad rarely got angry or made a lot of noise about issues. He made some noise about the radar ticket. He was not happy years of traveling the same route doing the same thing had been declared wrong by technology. In NY then and now it was and is illegal to operate a radar detector while in a motor vehicle. But my dad was offended and was not going to be defenseless in this technology war. Radar speed checking stations were big and cumbersome. Radar detectors (Fuzzbusters) were not the small compact things we have today. My dad purchased one of the first generation fuzzbusters. It was big, heavy and expensive. It was just a little smaller than a Kleenex tissue box. That gave my dad and idea for camouflaging the “illegal” fuzzbuster. I cut out the front (long side) of a tissue box and stored the fuzzbuster inside. He then placed some of the tissue over top of the fuzzbuster and closed the front, sort of like a flap. So to the untrained eye it looked like a box of tissues on the dash. Keep in mind most eyes were untrained at that time as no one had the “radar guns” or “radar detectors”
This is where a side of my dad came through I had never seen before. After installing the “tissue box” and plugging it in my dad went for a drive. He went looking for police who were set up for radar speed control. It took some time but he found a radar team and drove by them. Under the speed limit of course. He then drove past them. This occurred several times as he had to “calibrate” the fuzzbuster for maximum performance. Once done the fuzzbuster gave out a loud signal and a big red light to alert you to the presence of a “speed trap”. From that time forward whenever my dad was driving the fuzzbuster was on and when alerted he would do the obvious, check speed, but more important he would declare with his delight that he saw the cops before they saw him. My dad for many of my early years was not afraid of technology in fact he would often be in front of it. My dad could also be frustrated and when he was he had no problems figuring out a way to resolve the source of frustration.
On to the problem my dad was on his way into the city to clean the two bar rooms. This occurred at some ungodly hour in the morning three days a week. By this time he had been making the trip for many years and I suspect more than once his body was on autopilot for the entire trip. There is a requirement to cross a fairly good sized river to get from our house to the bar rooms. The bridge is long and arcs upward toward the middle the back down. My dad is making this run in his 1968 yellow Plymouth Fury-III. Big car, big engine, lots of potential to speed. But that was and still is out of character for my dad, he does not intentionally speed. This particular morning my dad capped the top of that bridge arch and on the other side of the bridge was a police officer with a radar speed detection device. In the early 70’s they were anything but portable. My dad is clocked doing seven miles per hour over the speed limit. There is no arguing with a cop, could not do it then, cannot do it now. They are right and you are guilty until proven innocent. So my dad took his ticket, caught by this new technology called the speed checking radar.
During my young years my dad rarely got angry or made a lot of noise about issues. He made some noise about the radar ticket. He was not happy years of traveling the same route doing the same thing had been declared wrong by technology. In NY then and now it was and is illegal to operate a radar detector while in a motor vehicle. But my dad was offended and was not going to be defenseless in this technology war. Radar speed checking stations were big and cumbersome. Radar detectors (Fuzzbusters) were not the small compact things we have today. My dad purchased one of the first generation fuzzbusters. It was big, heavy and expensive. It was just a little smaller than a Kleenex tissue box. That gave my dad and idea for camouflaging the “illegal” fuzzbuster. I cut out the front (long side) of a tissue box and stored the fuzzbuster inside. He then placed some of the tissue over top of the fuzzbuster and closed the front, sort of like a flap. So to the untrained eye it looked like a box of tissues on the dash. Keep in mind most eyes were untrained at that time as no one had the “radar guns” or “radar detectors”
This is where a side of my dad came through I had never seen before. After installing the “tissue box” and plugging it in my dad went for a drive. He went looking for police who were set up for radar speed control. It took some time but he found a radar team and drove by them. Under the speed limit of course. He then drove past them. This occurred several times as he had to “calibrate” the fuzzbuster for maximum performance. Once done the fuzzbuster gave out a loud signal and a big red light to alert you to the presence of a “speed trap”. From that time forward whenever my dad was driving the fuzzbuster was on and when alerted he would do the obvious, check speed, but more important he would declare with his delight that he saw the cops before they saw him. My dad for many of my early years was not afraid of technology in fact he would often be in front of it. My dad could also be frustrated and when he was he had no problems figuring out a way to resolve the source of frustration.
Friday, May 7, 2010
A Thanksgiving to Remember
I often have heard that the holiday seasons bring out the best and the worst in folks. As I am thinking back on many of my holidays I understand why. I was six years old and the family size had increased again. We were now up to eight folks in the house. We were also frequently sharing life with our extended family. My mother’s sister also had a large family and they would frequently visit. By and large the visits were always welcome because the kids would have each other to play with and the parents would do the parent thing. For many years the parent thing involved loud conversations about their work, the government, and the people they did not like. The kitchen was the social center of the house it was the room that had access to food and beer. As I remember Genesee Cream Ale (Genny) was the beer of choice and it would be involved in a lot of my memories. As the visit wore on the talk got louder and us kids found ways to occupy our time. In my younger days my grandmother would also visit. Her name was Ella and she was never a happy person. She had her favorite children and grand children, I was nowhere in the running. My grandmothers first husband died before I could remember him. The second husband smoked cigars. I remember him as being a good balance for my grandmother. The house was full with grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins.
It was Thanksgiving 1970 and again we had our family and our cousins over for a visit. Feeding a large family is an undertaking on a regular day. To make a “feast” as is the requirement for a proper American thanksgiving is a task. To create the feast for two large families and grandparents required significant work. As long as I can remember my dad was the primary cook, and he was good at it. There are meals that were staples and it was ok because they were good. My parents had spent a significant part of the day preparing for the “feast”. We kids spent a significant amount of the day being a pain in the side of the parents. I do not think it was intentional it just was. Upwards of a dozen kids in the age of ten and below is a pain. As such we were often pushed into another room to the baby sitter, otherwise known as the television. I will talk more about the television later.
It was mid to late afternoon and the dinner was ready. Making the dinner was one thing. Getting the dinner distributed was another. It was a rare thing for the entire family to sit around the table. Typically table space was reserved for the really young kids and the adults. The various foods were set on the table and the “kids” started at one end and worked their way around the table. There were many of us to get around the table and I was not the first in line. My time arrived and I did as all before me had done, piled the plate high with the various dishes available and exited past the refrigerator and bathroom door to the living room. I found a place on the floor because there was not seating for ten kids and began eating. I had food, the television was on, and I was good to go. During a program change or commercial break I decided to go for round two of the dinner.
Something went wrong. To this day have no idea whether I ate too much in one sitting or if I had consumed something that did not agree with me. The end result is as I was going to the table for my second round my first round came back with a vengeance. I was aware something was not right and set the plate on the end of the table and made a mad dash to the bathroom which was off to the right of the kitchen. I almost made it, almost. As a result there was a mess and there was confusion on my behalf. I had no idea why I was losing dinner but I was. There was a significant mess in the bathroom. There was significant disruption to the thanksgiving “festivities” and I was the cause. In short order my mother was involved and not at all happy. In fact she was unhappy to the point of being out of control.
Between the bathroom and the kitchen was a refrigerator. On the refrigerator handle was a leather belt. It was long and wide. It was one of those later 60’s “hippie” style belts with 3 holes across so yes it was wide about three inches wide. It was placed there for ease of access for my mom and for a constant waning to us kids. That was the first out of control beating I remember. I had gotten sick, I had made a mess and I had received a beating that would never forget. There were belt marks across my legs and lower back, for being sick. I have never forgotten that beating. I have also never been sick again. Once it is in there is only one way it is coming out.
Many years later I would be frustrated at my youngest and he would receive a whipping from me that would leave marks on him, and as I write they are still on me. Sometime later I would understand that my son did not understand as I or normal folks understood. I apologized to him. I am not sure he understood the apology. I have struggled to make sure I did not repeat the errors of my parents. My kids have been sick, it is ok. They have spilled things it is ok. They have been kids it is ok. I have not always replied to more serious offenses with a calm level head. But with the exception of the one time with the youngest I have never beat them when I not in full control of my actions.
There have been many thanksgivings since that one. But that one stands out because of the total contradiction the day represented. I was thankful for the ending of the beating and not much more.
It was Thanksgiving 1970 and again we had our family and our cousins over for a visit. Feeding a large family is an undertaking on a regular day. To make a “feast” as is the requirement for a proper American thanksgiving is a task. To create the feast for two large families and grandparents required significant work. As long as I can remember my dad was the primary cook, and he was good at it. There are meals that were staples and it was ok because they were good. My parents had spent a significant part of the day preparing for the “feast”. We kids spent a significant amount of the day being a pain in the side of the parents. I do not think it was intentional it just was. Upwards of a dozen kids in the age of ten and below is a pain. As such we were often pushed into another room to the baby sitter, otherwise known as the television. I will talk more about the television later.
It was mid to late afternoon and the dinner was ready. Making the dinner was one thing. Getting the dinner distributed was another. It was a rare thing for the entire family to sit around the table. Typically table space was reserved for the really young kids and the adults. The various foods were set on the table and the “kids” started at one end and worked their way around the table. There were many of us to get around the table and I was not the first in line. My time arrived and I did as all before me had done, piled the plate high with the various dishes available and exited past the refrigerator and bathroom door to the living room. I found a place on the floor because there was not seating for ten kids and began eating. I had food, the television was on, and I was good to go. During a program change or commercial break I decided to go for round two of the dinner.
Something went wrong. To this day have no idea whether I ate too much in one sitting or if I had consumed something that did not agree with me. The end result is as I was going to the table for my second round my first round came back with a vengeance. I was aware something was not right and set the plate on the end of the table and made a mad dash to the bathroom which was off to the right of the kitchen. I almost made it, almost. As a result there was a mess and there was confusion on my behalf. I had no idea why I was losing dinner but I was. There was a significant mess in the bathroom. There was significant disruption to the thanksgiving “festivities” and I was the cause. In short order my mother was involved and not at all happy. In fact she was unhappy to the point of being out of control.
Between the bathroom and the kitchen was a refrigerator. On the refrigerator handle was a leather belt. It was long and wide. It was one of those later 60’s “hippie” style belts with 3 holes across so yes it was wide about three inches wide. It was placed there for ease of access for my mom and for a constant waning to us kids. That was the first out of control beating I remember. I had gotten sick, I had made a mess and I had received a beating that would never forget. There were belt marks across my legs and lower back, for being sick. I have never forgotten that beating. I have also never been sick again. Once it is in there is only one way it is coming out.
Many years later I would be frustrated at my youngest and he would receive a whipping from me that would leave marks on him, and as I write they are still on me. Sometime later I would understand that my son did not understand as I or normal folks understood. I apologized to him. I am not sure he understood the apology. I have struggled to make sure I did not repeat the errors of my parents. My kids have been sick, it is ok. They have spilled things it is ok. They have been kids it is ok. I have not always replied to more serious offenses with a calm level head. But with the exception of the one time with the youngest I have never beat them when I not in full control of my actions.
There have been many thanksgivings since that one. But that one stands out because of the total contradiction the day represented. I was thankful for the ending of the beating and not much more.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Remembering Teddys arrival
So I was outside today pushing the lawn mower. It was hot, I was sweating and I with thinking random thoughts. And it occurred to me that I have not done a great job sharing my history with the family. That history has shaped me. That history has made me into the person I am. That history is shaping my family now. I can not say it is always say it was for the good. I will try to keep theses post in chronological order but no guarentees as I believe it is more important to get them down than to make the time frame line up exactly. So here goes
I was four or five years old in 1968, 1969 and it was Christmas time. At that time the family consisted of a set of parents, two older brothers, a twin brother, two younger sisters, and a new born younger brother. Yes the math is correct eight in all. The oldest was eight or nine, the youngest was new born.
Mom was a bus driver, Dad was a school janitor, a bar room janitor, and any other thing he could do to bring in money for the family. Bus drivers and janitors do not make big money now they made less then.
It was Christmas season and there was a tree. Not much else, but a tree there was. The holiday "spirit" was not all that present. We had recently moved into a bigger house that was built in the mid 1800's. It took most of the money my folks made to keep some heat in the place. There was little expectation of something special.
It was getting really close to Christmas time and a guy I did not know but have never forgotten showed up at the house. His name was Louie Miller and he was old. He came in the front door which deposited people right in the middle of the kitchen. Big table to the right the rest of the house to the left. Louie was carrying two green trash bags. They were filled with toys, none new, but all in good shape. It did not matter because it was certainty more than we were expecting to receive.
As I remember back I was not very polite in my approach. I like all the others was truly looking for what I could get. I got my chance to dig into the bag and was happy with the present I grabbed from the bottom.
It was a stuffed teddy bear that I named Teddy. Yeah I know not an original thinker. Teddy was old and showing signed of wear but he was mine, and I was happy with him. You will hear about Teddy through out these posts. He is with me today forty years later. He has had some loving attention by my wife of twenty six years and he brings back memories. Some good some not. But those will be for another time.
We were poor, dirt poor. Our needs were met as best as possible. I learned early on to be grateful. Thank you Louie for Teddy and for being willing to give to a family in need.
I was four or five years old in 1968, 1969 and it was Christmas time. At that time the family consisted of a set of parents, two older brothers, a twin brother, two younger sisters, and a new born younger brother. Yes the math is correct eight in all. The oldest was eight or nine, the youngest was new born.
Mom was a bus driver, Dad was a school janitor, a bar room janitor, and any other thing he could do to bring in money for the family. Bus drivers and janitors do not make big money now they made less then.
It was Christmas season and there was a tree. Not much else, but a tree there was. The holiday "spirit" was not all that present. We had recently moved into a bigger house that was built in the mid 1800's. It took most of the money my folks made to keep some heat in the place. There was little expectation of something special.
It was getting really close to Christmas time and a guy I did not know but have never forgotten showed up at the house. His name was Louie Miller and he was old. He came in the front door which deposited people right in the middle of the kitchen. Big table to the right the rest of the house to the left. Louie was carrying two green trash bags. They were filled with toys, none new, but all in good shape. It did not matter because it was certainty more than we were expecting to receive.
As I remember back I was not very polite in my approach. I like all the others was truly looking for what I could get. I got my chance to dig into the bag and was happy with the present I grabbed from the bottom.
It was a stuffed teddy bear that I named Teddy. Yeah I know not an original thinker. Teddy was old and showing signed of wear but he was mine, and I was happy with him. You will hear about Teddy through out these posts. He is with me today forty years later. He has had some loving attention by my wife of twenty six years and he brings back memories. Some good some not. But those will be for another time.
We were poor, dirt poor. Our needs were met as best as possible. I learned early on to be grateful. Thank you Louie for Teddy and for being willing to give to a family in need.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
The Boss Is Away
So I am at day 2 of my normal work week and the boss is away. He was scheduled to be gone all week, who knew? Not those who work for him. By and large he is a nice guy. He is however a task master. He does not an empower those under him. Did I mention he is a nice guy? That said only a select few knew he was going to be gone, in fact they are with him. As such there are several of us sitting around waiting for the tasks from the task master.
Yes I work for the government because only in the government are task masters promoted to the level of my boss. Sure it happens in business but not to the degree of the government. Why is that you may ask? I have a theory is has to do with basic economics. The government does not have to make a profit, in fact is forbidden to do so. Business on the other hand can only go so long with a red bottom line before they are no longer.
The boss has never been comfortable with delegating and empowering the subordinates under him. I does not make a difference if you do great work or no work at all, the trust is not there. Furthermore the drive of new folks is quickly beaten down leaving the worker bees wasting time waiting for the next task. Business rewards innovation, drive, accomplishments. Government rewards obedience. Business rewards those things that increase the bottom line. Government hides those things so that they can ask for more money to burn.
So here I sit. Watching a beautiful day go by, I could be on the motorcycle, camping, fishing or dare I say actively engaged in “earning” my pay. But alas I am a government employee. I am to do as I am told, no more, no less. Here I sit waiting for the boss to tell me what to do next. No wonder we hate government employees. But take it from one who is.. Much of the problem is the leadership or lack there of.
Yes I work for the government because only in the government are task masters promoted to the level of my boss. Sure it happens in business but not to the degree of the government. Why is that you may ask? I have a theory is has to do with basic economics. The government does not have to make a profit, in fact is forbidden to do so. Business on the other hand can only go so long with a red bottom line before they are no longer.
The boss has never been comfortable with delegating and empowering the subordinates under him. I does not make a difference if you do great work or no work at all, the trust is not there. Furthermore the drive of new folks is quickly beaten down leaving the worker bees wasting time waiting for the next task. Business rewards innovation, drive, accomplishments. Government rewards obedience. Business rewards those things that increase the bottom line. Government hides those things so that they can ask for more money to burn.
So here I sit. Watching a beautiful day go by, I could be on the motorcycle, camping, fishing or dare I say actively engaged in “earning” my pay. But alas I am a government employee. I am to do as I am told, no more, no less. Here I sit waiting for the boss to tell me what to do next. No wonder we hate government employees. But take it from one who is.. Much of the problem is the leadership or lack there of.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Pray: Calm during the storm
My youngest son has epilepsy. Period..
My wife has referred to the seizures as storms of the brain. That said it is not an easy thing to see someone you know and love not in control of their body. Last night my son had a seizure. Again he has epilepsy, it is what it is. As my wife and I watch making sure our son was ?safe? all that could be done was pray. My wife told my 16 year old to have the other kids pray for my youngest. I am not sure if my 16 year old did as he was told but that is not the point here. The praying represented calm in the storm. And it was calm for those on the outside of the storm. The storm raged on for my youngest but on the outside there was calm in the storm as a result of prayer. Some of it was spoken aloud, some of it was internal just each of us and God. All of it was in an intercession for my youngest.
Was the epilepsy cured? beats me. I am sure that will mean I do not have sufficient faith to a group of ?believers?. Did the prayers have an effect on my youngest, beats me, only my youngest can tell for sure. Did the prayers force a calm to settle on what could have been a storm that revenged all of us? You bet they did. If we pray for no reason than Gods calming hand on us as we watch someone else?s world turn upside down then it has immediate value. I have faith that my God can do miracles. I also know that I have to lean on God for calm and understanding even if the miracles I desire are not provided. Thank you God for being the calm in the storm. It will be neat to see how you comfort my youngest in his storms.
My wife has referred to the seizures as storms of the brain. That said it is not an easy thing to see someone you know and love not in control of their body. Last night my son had a seizure. Again he has epilepsy, it is what it is. As my wife and I watch making sure our son was ?safe? all that could be done was pray. My wife told my 16 year old to have the other kids pray for my youngest. I am not sure if my 16 year old did as he was told but that is not the point here. The praying represented calm in the storm. And it was calm for those on the outside of the storm. The storm raged on for my youngest but on the outside there was calm in the storm as a result of prayer. Some of it was spoken aloud, some of it was internal just each of us and God. All of it was in an intercession for my youngest.
Was the epilepsy cured? beats me. I am sure that will mean I do not have sufficient faith to a group of ?believers?. Did the prayers have an effect on my youngest, beats me, only my youngest can tell for sure. Did the prayers force a calm to settle on what could have been a storm that revenged all of us? You bet they did. If we pray for no reason than Gods calming hand on us as we watch someone else?s world turn upside down then it has immediate value. I have faith that my God can do miracles. I also know that I have to lean on God for calm and understanding even if the miracles I desire are not provided. Thank you God for being the calm in the storm. It will be neat to see how you comfort my youngest in his storms.
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