MuddyPuddles

I have had the pleasure to spend the last few days with my sweet grandson, Trapper.  He came to visit on Thursday and left this morning.  We did a lot of the usual things.  We went to the tank and caught little fish (down below the dam) with our nets and transferred them to the tank.  We skipped rocks on and swam in the crystal clear water.  We shot the bb gun and rode his dad’s four-wheeler.  (I love to see and feel his little arms and hands next to mine on the handlebars as we navigate through the pasture.)  Except for a few ant bites and mosquito bites and some stinging nettle it was pretty awesome.
We also played all the usual games in the house.  And, as usual, we looked at all the knives in my knife collection.  He asked me if he could have a knife so I took one of the small pocket knives and wrote on the back of it with a sharpie pen “To Trapper, From Pa, 9/1/07”.  It is now stored with my other knives for his future use when he gets a little older. 
And, as usual he spotted the rocks that I have on a shelf in my office.  We talk about them every time he comes---about why I have them and where they came from and the fact that they are “special”.  I’ve got a few rocks that I brought back from Colorado on some youth back-packing trips.  I’ve got a couple of rocks that came from foreign countries.  I’ve even got a couple of concrete chunks that came from the Berlin Wall.  But the favorite rock I have (his and mine) is a white marble rock which came from the same region (and possibly the same quarry) where Michelangelo got his marble to do the statue “David” (which is my favorite art piece of all time.  It just blew me away when I saw it in Florence ). 
He asked me if he could have it and I said he couldn’t take it right now but that I would let him have it some day.  I picked it up and wrote on the bottom of it with a black sharpie the story about the rock and that I was going to give it to Trapper and that I loved him.  Later, when his dad came to pick him up, I let him take it downstairs to show his dad.  As he came back up the stairs I met him as I was going down.  He paused and teared up a little and asked me “why can’t I have it now, Pa?” 
A couple of weeks ago I listened to a speaker talking about our possessions.  He made the point that we only use about 20% of the clothes in our closet but it’s just not hardly in us to get rid of the 80%.  And we are kind of like that with all of our possessions.  We really cling to them.  He said that not only was it good for us to live with less, but that it was so healthy for us to give away something that was valuable to us.  It is good to give away something that is a favorite of ours. 
As Trapper had kept asking me to give him that rock and as I saw him standing there on the stairs so innocently with his eyes welling up with tears I thought about how much I love him.  And I thought about how good it is to give away something that is precious to you.  So I gave him the rock.  I told him he could take it home.  Relief and joy and excitement swept across his face.  I scooped him up in my arms and carried him into the den where he joyfully told his dad that “Pa” said he could keep the rock.  And then we went outside to look for a few more “special” rocks that were small enough to put in his pocket. 
I don’t know if I’ll ever see that rock again.  I hope so.  It truly is special to me (now more than ever).  I hope that it somehow makes it through his childhood and stays in his possession.  It will now be associated with two great memories and it will be a reminder of how much I love him and how much I treasure his love.

I bet God feels the same way about me as I feel about Trapper.  And the gift he gave me was a million times more precious than anything I’ve ever given to anyone.  And when I partake of the bread which represents the body of his son, and when I partake of the fruit of the vine which represents his blood that was shed for me I am so thankful for a God that loved me so much.  In light of that gift, what would I be willing to give to him?  What do I have that is precious that I would be willing to give?  I pray that I’m up to it.  I pray that you are too.  May God bless us as we live for him.  Sincerely,  Dennis        

Twenty-five years ago today when I got in from work I had a message on my answering machine that would impact my life forever.  I wrote about that message and its effects in 1994.  The following, with a few minor modifications, is that writing.  I wanted to share it with you today in honor of my dad.  It follows: 

I heard a tape today that talked about how important it is for a father to spend a lot of time with his kids.  Quantity of time is as much if not more important than the quality time.  This is partly true because you cannot always plan the quality time.  It just arrives unexpectedly and if you don’t spend quantity of time, you just miss out on the quality times that could have been.

The tape also talked about how important it is to touch your children and to make physical contact with them.  The man speaking related how his 12-year-old son still liked to sit in his lap and to be near him and to even kiss him.  That brought back memories of one of the last times I saw my dad.

One Tuesday afternoon in 1982 he had a heart attack.  When I got in from work, I heard a message on my answering machine from Mom saying Dad had a bad heart attack.  We packed up and went down to Llano that night.  When I came into that room I could see that he was in a lot of pain.  I came over and hugged him and cried.  We had such a good visit - it was all deep - no shallowness there - no small talk - no chit chat.  With life hanging in the balance, the walls and shells around us were stripped away.  He said he was ready to go if it was his time.  (I think he even preferred it). But he said he was going to try to make it for Mom and my brother still at home.  He said he didn’t know a body could hurt so much - so much pain.  Near the end of our conversation he asked me to kiss him.  I leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.  He said “on the lips.”  I leaned over and kissed him again - on the lips.  I think he knew he was going to die.  And I think he wanted to show me and tell me in no uncertain terms about how much he loved me.  This kiss was heart to heart with no paraphernalia - just pure love - no facades, no inhibiting pride or pretense – just a deep and abiding expression of love. 

I think that is the only time in my life that I kissed my dad on the lips.  I shall never forget it. 

My dad knows he did a good job raising me.  He knows that although I sometimes drove the whole family crazy, that he did instill in me a sincere and honest heart.  I am a weak person, no doubt, but my sincere desire is to be a man after God’s own heart, full of integrity and sincerity and patience and love.  I thank God for my dad.  Of all the fathers in the world I was so blessed that mine was that man.  I hope I can instill some of those same qualities that my dad instilled in me, into my two precious boys.  If I can do no more than that, my life would be a success. 

My dad made it through that night and felt a little better the next day.  We decided to move him to Austin where the medical facilities were better.  He would be more vulnerable during the trip, but would have a better chance of surviving once we got there.  Dad made the trip just fine and slept well that night.  The next morning, Dad felt wonderful.  It was so good to see him feeling good.  We saw him quite a bit that day but had to be careful not to get emotional because the heart monitor would go crazy.

Mom’s brother, N.D., came up from Hereford to see Dad.  In many ways, Dad had been like an older brother or a father figure to him.  The heart monitor really went crazy when he came in.  I never really appreciated how deep their relationship was until that moment.  They were both speechless because of their inability to keep from breaking down and crying.  That made me love and respect N.D. more than I ever had before.  That also, as well as many things N.D. told me about later, made my love and respect for my dad grow deeper. 

I cried a lot that night.  Everyone else seemed very happy.  Although Dad had been through a good day, the doctor never would show a lot (or even a little) optimism.  We wanted him to so badly and we tried to convince ourselves that things were better, but he just never would paint any bright pictures for us.  I think I knew – way down inside - that he was not going to make it.  The uncertainty is so draining.

The next morning, while waiting for the visiting hours (15 minutes) to come, a nurse came out to tell us that “he’s not quite ready yet” and to “wait a few minutes”.  Near the end of the visiting time, I asked the nurse if we would get to extend our visiting time since we had missed out on the regular time.  She said “yes”.  When the regular visiting time was over the nurse came out and said, “Y’all can come in now.”  Instead of leading us to his room, she asked us to wait in a vacant room because the doctor wanted to talk to us.  Shortly, the doctor came in and told us that early that morning my dad had either extended the existing heart attack or had a second heart attack and they had been working on him all morning trying to revive him and that there was nothing more they could do.  Those words were so hard to believe.  My dad had always been there - my whole life - he can’t be gone.  We all cried and held each other in disbelief.  I asked if we could see him and the doctor said yes.

We walked into his room.  It was so obvious that his spirit was gone.  His body was there but he was not.  We cried some more.  We held each other some more.  We talked about this wonderful man that lay before us, some of the crazy things he did, the quality of his life.  Laughing and crying, rejoicing and weeping.  The mystery of the heavens and earth had taken place in this room.

When we got back to Mom’s house, I went out into the shop where Dad’s tools were.  I put my hands on the handles of all the tools I could find.  My dad held these tools last.  I wanted my hands to be where his had been. 

The funeral was special.  Since it was delayed a couple of days while we were waiting for my sister and brother-in-law to get in from South Africa , we had time to come to grips with what was happening.  My brother-in-law preached the sermon.  “Can you imagine James growing old?” he asked.  And we couldn’t.  He also talked about the many wonderful memories that we could cherish because of this man – the nostalgic memories, the crazy things he did (sometimes on purpose and sometimes not).  But most of all he reminded us of the Christian heritage this man had left us.  His goal in life was to see his family grow up to be Christians and to lead Godly lives. 

That was more important to him than making a lot of money or having a lot of power or impressing his friends.  In that, he succeeded.  He had five kids who are all faithful Christians to this day (even in 2007).  They all have strong Christian families and are passing the legacy on down to their children and grandchildren. 

I thank God for blessing me with this awesome man as my father.  I feel compelled to make a difference in other people’s lives because of that blessing.  My father died 25 years ago on April 30, 1982 at the age of 56.  In 10 days he would have been 57.

---I will always love you Dad!!! ---

God Bless!

Dennis

I am intrigued by this concept of putting my thoughts down on this screen before me with the possiblility of it being viewed and read and commented on by anyone on the planet within seconds.  Just in the past 24 hours I've read blogs from Malaysia, Singapore, Ireland, Georgia and who knows where else. 

I've gone on "YouTube" and watched some short videos that have been seen by as many as 40 million viewers in the last few months.  I've ordered a book from Amazon.com and sent spreadsheets and pictures to friends via email.  I've used "Consumer Reports" online to compare the quality and value of headphones.

I've posted a computer problem online and it was resolved by a friendly individual, from Boston, in a matter of minutes---for free.  I've read news articles and examined travel deals and paid bills online. 

It's an amazing thing.   Now I'm reaching out to you, a stranger, and we will just see what comes of it.  Maybe you'll be my new long distance friend too.

Now if I can just get this pencil sharpener to work . . . .