The Joy of Being "That" Family

It wasn’t like we were stepping foot in a “Higgins” boat, preparing to storm the beaches of Normandy on D-Day. We weren’t boarding the ill-fated Titanic. We were, however, on the precipice of what could be an extremely frightening situation—boarding a plane with three kids under the age of five.

Eyeballs locked on us like we were terrorists as we first made our way down the undersized aisle. Ashley was carrying our three-month-old drooling baby (Owen), and we also had our four-year-old (Avery) and two-year-old (Sophie) in tow. I noticed that people began fervently praying as we approached. I initially thought we were carrying a strong anointing, but then I realized people were praying that they wouldn’t be stuck next to us.  One older gentleman even said, “Keep walking.” In that moment I realized we were “that” family.

We did keep walking—more like shuffling—as we made our way to aisles 25 and 26. Unfortunately, our seats were split between two separate rows (3 in row 25 and 1 in row 26). Ashley displayed heroic courage as she said, “You sit behind us, and I’ll sit here with the kids.” She planted herself in the middle seat, placed Owen on her lap, and instructed Sophie to sit on her left and Avery on her right. I watched from a safe distance as one person after the next walked by and did a double-take. I also witnessed others sitting near us, who apparently were stuck with the bad luck stick, each pull out their saucer-like- headphones. I guess they came prepared.


Ash doing her thing--without even looking.

I could have pulled out my own headphones and slipped into “nap-land”; However, better judgment prevailed as  I remembered I didn’t desire to sleep in the garage or live a life of married celibacy. I poked my head over the seat every few minutes, at first asking how I could help, and then just trying to catch a glimpse of greatness. I was in awe of watching Ashley navigate the situation. She looked like she had 8 arms as she changed diapers, pulled out snacks, gently stroked the side of Sophie’s face, picked up Owen’s pacifier after it had fallen for the hundredth time, and even found time to hand me some food through the cracks of the seats. What a gal.

There were moments when the kids teetered on the verge of a breakdown, but Ashley pulled hard on the yoke each time to prevent the spiraling nosedive.  People continued to stare, but I think she was slowly but surely winning the affection of those in the surrounding rows.

The flight was out of Washington D.C., so it was naturally filled with political lobbyists, aids, and others who maintained a frenzied pace in life.  Many appeared to be single and ambitious—which meant they had extra large headphones. They were people who understood “juggling”, but their juggling was designed to achieve career and political goals, not prevent child tantrums. When they weren’t staring at us, they were staring at their computer screens trying to beat some approaching deadline.  It reminded me of something Walt Harrington had written:

“I worked in Washington, D.C., for fifteen years. It’s a city that has arrived where the rest of America wants to go. It had the highest average household income in the country, the highest proportion of male and female professional workers, the highest percentage of people with college degrees. Yet it’s a city where people don’t have friends—they have associates. It’s a city of frenzy, with working husbands and wives racing to day care before the dollar-a-minute late charge kicks in at 6 p.m. It’s a city that honors work and achievement over all else, where people live for future ambitions without relishing present accomplishments. It’s a city where people seem incapable of living in the moment. It is a city without memory. And Washington is America’s future.”

While this isn’t true of everyone who calls D.C. home, it’s still a scary picture. I looked around the plane and saw the flame of ambition burning brightly. As I watched people momentarily pause from their work in order to watch my family, I wondered if they had any desire to have kids of their own. Were these up-and-comers in the political and corporate world wrongly praying that God would spare them from the sheer terror of having kids and becoming “that family?” Perhaps they’ve sat on too many planes with crying children, and they’ve shopped in too many grocery stores filled with red-faced-open-mouthed-screaming-kids.  They think they know better.

I admit that having young children will try you at the depth of your soul.  My kids have been the red-faced-open-mouthed-screaming-kids on more than one occasion. Just recently, they were all three screaming in unison. It sounded like a bad Dwight Yoakum song, and I wished I could have pulled out my own satellite-dish- sized-headphones. The challenge of raising kids is easy to see—and hear. Anytime kids have a meltdown, eyeballs are naturally attracted to the unfolding scene. People seem to enjoy watching kids meltdown, as long as those kids don’t share their last name and are not sitting next to them on the plane.

What’s harder to see for onlookers is the joy of being “that” family. It’s the joy of having your young daughter wrap her little arms around your neck and give you a kiss on the cheek. It’s the joy of watching a two-year-old trying to learn how to wink.  It’s the joy of seeing a three-month-old baby light up the room with a smile.  It’s the joy of seeing a 30-year-old pretty little blonde gal wink at me through the seats. It’s the joy that results from doing life together as family.

It’s certainly messy and challenging, and at times embarrassing, but it’s beautiful. I can’t think of a better way to spend my life. I can’t think of a better legacy to leave. 

The stares became less frequent as the flight went on, but I started to notice a different stare. It was the gaze of a four-year-old named Avery, with big blue eyes looking out upon a big blue sky. She said, “Wow. That’s a big world out there.”

Yes, it is Avery.

But it’s a lot more beautiful because of children like you.

Deep Water Book Intro

I've been in the process of writing a book for quite some time. It's been a difficult journey, not just because writing a book is hard, but because God isn't interested in watching me pass on rote information. As I've worked on the book, He's worked on my heart. I thought the book would  exclusively be for the benefit of others, but I was very wrong. I now see how much it was meant to be a fresh invitation for me.  I'm almost done with the project, and I've had several people ask what the book is about. I thought it would be easier to provide the introduction for the book so you get the idea. I'm sharing this on the blog, because you have been the readers that have encouraged me to press on with this writing thing...So, thank you.

--The name of the book is: DEEP WATERS


I’ve been dreaming about this moment for a long time. I’m standing on the shore of the Pacific, looking out upon the endless miles of expansive ocean. The sound of the waves brings a smile so large that it rivals the stretch of the horizon. I take my first step into the frigid waters and every cell in my body is called to attention. I didn’t expect the water to be this cold, but the adventure that calls is worth the temporary feelings of discomfort.

The ocean floor is a gradual slope leading to a steep drop off several hundred yards off shore. That’s where I’m headed, but the sting of the cold water only intensifies as I venture deeper. I glance back at the beach to see several people gathered. They’re not carrying boards; they just came to watch. They seem to be comfortable, smiling, carrying on in conversation as they watch thrill seekers chase waves.

As a young boy growing up in the land-locked state of Kansas, I could only dream of what it would be like to ride upon the power of the ocean, to surf. The only waves in Kansas are waves of golden brown wheat oscillating in the wind. Today my opportunity has finally arrived.

Less than twelve months ago, I compiled a list of ten desires that I want to see fulfilled this year. Near the top of my list was surfing. I prayed a simple prayer and asked God if He would provide the opportunity. I had all but forgotten about this prayer when my brother called a few months later to extend an invitation to join him on a surfing weekend near Monterrey, Ca.

Excitement filled my soul as I realized my prayer was being answered. I booked my plane ticket, followed by a quick internet search of prime surfing locations near Monterrey. I wanted to see the waves for myself, so I typed in surfing near Monterrey on You Tube. The first video that appeared was from a local news station, and the story was about a man who had just been attacked by a shark in the very waters we would be surfing.

That story is replaying in my mind as I sit on the board with my legs dangling into the murky ocean. I am now in fairly deep water, and I can’t see anything that may be swimming around me. My imagination is kind enough to start playing the JAWS theme song. The chattering of my teeth reminds me I’m still cold. Perhaps the spectators gathered on the beach were the smart ones. I force my attention back on the waves and remind myself why I’ve come. After several minutes of letting smaller waves pass beneath my board, I decide to go deeper. I’m paddling through thick sea weed, but the allure of the larger waves beckon me to keep going.

Now I’m in the ideal spot. I turn my board around and look over my shoulder, waiting for the power of the ocean to sweep me up, and with a smile on my face and hair blowing in the wind, gloriously usher me to shore while the gallery of spectators cheer me on.

I see my wave and start paddling. I let out an excited holler as I feel the initial surge, and I try to pop up on my board, but I quickly lose my balance and smack my face hard against the water. Not exactly what I had in mind.  I can picture the gallery laughing. Perhaps that’s why they sit on the beach—they want to see others wipe out.  It’s ok, though, because I’m in deep water. This is where adventure happens.

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For years, I was a spectator on the beach. I watched others live with great faith and follow Christ into deeper spiritual waters, but I was comfortable in about knee-deep water. This was just enough to make me feel like I was a Christian, but I still maintained complete control. Anytime God beckoned me to go deeper, the sting of discomfort and the fear of the unknown re-focused my attention back to shore and the pleasant activities I enjoyed.

All this time on the beach was creating a sort of sunburn—I was having fun in the moment, but I didn’t realize I would experience the pain of the burn later. In order to create my own entertainment, I started living a lifestyle that wasn’t congruent with what God wanted. This provided momentary bliss as I forgot about the dull ache in my soul, but I couldn’t run forever. I finally hit my knees on a cold, January night and came face to face with the reality of my life. I surrendered to Jesus. I told Him that I can’t live this way anymore. The days of calling myself a Christ follower but rejecting the reach of His hand were over. Take me deeper, Jesus was my simple prayer.

God surely answered that prayer, and it’s been quite a journey. I had no idea what I was missing out on, the richness of life and the abundance of joy and peace that are available through a deeper relationship with God. This book was birthed out of a simple desire to help others discover the same. Whether you’re still not sure about the idea of faith, or if you’ve been walking with Christ for decades, the call is still the same: come deeper.

My prayer is that you don’t read this book like you would a recipe book, looking to be told exactly what to do in order to create a deeper relationship with God. Your walk with Christ was never intended to be a cookie-cutter journey that looks exactly like someone else’s. God is far too mysterious for that kind of simplicity. But, there are some overarching ideas that are true about your journey as well as mine.

First, we’re invited to know Jesus intimately. We are not called to simply know about Him, but He wants us to know Him. This is actually possible. He wants us to learn to recognize what He’s doing in our lives on a daily basis, to learn to hear His voice, and to possess a radical obedience as we set our sights on following Him. This is the focus of the opening section of the book.

As we follow, He’ll surely lead us into the deep water of the Father’s heart, which is the focus of the second section. Jesus always has been and always will be passionate about revealing the Heavenly Father. He wants you to experience the same love He experienced. This love originates in the heart of the Father, and Jesus wants to take you there. We’ll discover a matchless level of love that can’t be adequately translated into words—we’re just left to experience it. We’ll find a generosity and level of kindness that draw us even closer to God. We’ll discover more and more of the wonder and privilege of being called sons and daughters of this perfect Father.

As the great Scottish writer George MacDonald stated, “Because we are sons of God, we must become sons of God.” The third section probes how Jesus leads us into the deep water of our own hearts. This journey is designed to lead to a greater revelation of our identity. He’ll help us align our lives to reflect the truth of what we carry in our redeemed hearts. After all, we’ve been created to bear the image of a Glorious God, and we most glorify Him when we live from the heart.

Lastly, the fourth section will explore how Jesus guides us into the deep and living waters of the Spirit. He wants us to drink from the only fountainhead that can truly satisfy—the Spirit of God. He wants to see us become people marked by His distinguishing presence and living lives of power and purpose.  

This is the heritage for the people daring enough to push off from shore and follow Him into the deep.

Won’t you come along?

Victoria's Real Secret

This is a follow up to yesterday’s post about a recent Victoria’s Secret commercial that played during a football game this weekend. The mostly nude model “confidently” walked the catwalk while striking different provocative and suggestive poses. At the same time, my wife walked into the room wearing pajamas, she had a burp cloth draped over her shoulder, and she was holding our drooling two-month-old baby. Read the post here for the rest of the story.

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I think we’ve all seen Victoria’s Secret ads from time to time. They work hard at making them hard to miss. Whether you’re walking through the mall with your children, or you’re simply trying to enjoy a football game on a Sunday afternoon, these exposed women seemingly appear out of nowhere. The flesh bombardment typically leaves parents in an awkward position where they do whatever they can to distract the innocent eyes of their children.

The recent commercial episode left me thinking about how thankful I am for my wife. She’s real. She’s present. And she’s a beautiful person inside and out.

I also started pondering the following question about the model: What would make a woman stand up before millions of people, wearing something minuscule, and flaunt herself in such an attention-seeking manner?

Perhaps it’s in part to the paycheck, but I think the real driving force is something much deeper. In fact, I think if Miss Victoria’s soul were laid as bare as her body, a surprising secret would surface—“I’m really insecure.”

You may correlate the model’s actions with confidence, and maybe she is confident in the moment, but I believe the motive behind the action is laced with insecurity. If I had to guess (obvious generalization because I don’t know her unique story), she is probably still searching for the answers to the questions that reside in the hearts of all young girls: Am I lovable? Do I matter? Do I have what it takes?

These questions are central to a girl’s story, and I believe the father primarily carries the answer. My daughters are crazy about my wife. She gets most of their love and affection, but I’ve noticed they bring their questions to me. I was awake for about 4 minutes this morning before the questions started flying.

Avery lifted her arms out to the side, tilted her head, and said, Daddy, what do you think of my clothes? That was just the beginning. It’s common to hear the following at our house: Daddy, watch me dance. What do you think of the picture I colored, daddy? Will you play chase with me, daddy? Do you want to dress up as a prince, dad?

The questions behind the questions are extremely important, and we must tune our ears to hear them.  What do you think of me, daddy? Am I loveable? Am I adorable? Am I worth pursuing?

Fathers have the capacity to deliver an answer that will establish identity, strength, security, and success. On the other hand, they also have the capacity to deliver an answer that can lead to a life of searching. Too often, for a variety of reasons that may include busyness, distraction, or the reality that a father never received love from his father, fathers answer this question with a thundering silence that leaves a chill in a girl’s soul for years to come. The question can be ignored and pushed into the deeper regions of the heart, but it can also smother and suffocate. A girl will seek an answer, whether it’s from her prom date, college boyfriend, or captivated computer screen audience.

I recently watched a fascinating interview of a woman who spent numerous years as an “actress” in the adult film industry. She shared her story and the true secrets of her heart. The truth was that she despised the sexual acts required of her job, but she kept coming back for some reason. In a moment of candid honesty, with tears in her eyes, she shared the story of how her dad rejected her and kicked her out of the house at age 12. The questions of her heart were surely answered, but they were devastating answers. She spent the next twenty years seeking a different answer. It was a quest that ravaged her body, soul, and spirit.

I’ve seen these same questions surface on numerous occasions while I've provided counseling at a women’s medical clinic. I’ve listened to some tragic stories. I’ve witnessed rivers of tears. And I've realized that the questions don't die, whether she's in her teens, thirties, or sixties.  

I’ve also watched as many women have received a new answer from a Father they never knew existed. I’ve had the privilege of introducing them to their Heavenly Father, a Father that showers them with love and acceptance on a daily basis. I’m convinced that He desires to reveal this truth to each of His daughters, and I believe He will do it in a way that is deeply personal.

I’m also convinced that fathers have been given a weighty responsibility. I carry a conviction that if I fail to answer the questions of my daughters’ hearts, I will watch them set foot on a path they were never intended to travel. It’s a path of loneliness, heartache, unhealthy and damaging relationships, and possibly even appearances in embarrassing television commercials.

For many dads, you have already been showering your daughters with affirmation. Keep going! For others, the thought of engaging your daughters in this manner brings a knot to your stomach. I encourage you to push beyond the fear. Get on their level, look into their precious and twinkling eyes, and tell them how much you love them. Then, wake up tomorrow and do it again. It’s one of the most important things you can ever do.  

And perhaps at the end of your life, your daughter will look into your fading eyes and deliver some powerful words of her own:

Dad, you’ve always been my hero.

Have You Heard?

I often find myself springing off the couch and diving across the living room floor on Sunday afternoons during NFL games.  It’s not because I’m wildly celebrating the latest Broncos’ touchdown, nor is it because I’m reenacting the circus catch my eyeballs just witnessed. I’m actually just trying to get to the remote control in order to change the channel during commercial breaks so my kids aren’t subjected to the onslaught of vulgar commercials.

I was watching a game this weekend when the network quickly cut to break. The next sight was of a scantily clad woman strutting down a catwalk wearing next to nothing. The commercial, of course, was for Victoria’s Secret lingerie.  At the exact same time, my wife walked into the room wearing pajamas, she had a burp cloth draped over her shoulder, and she was holding our drooling two-month-old baby. It was a perfect picture of fantasy versus reality.

Ashley glanced at the commercial, and said, “Who can compete with that?” It was a good question, and I’m sure countless women have pondered the same thing—especially in a culture where provocative commercials seem to be the standard tool for marketing. 

In this case, Victoria was hardly whispering a secret. Her message was loud and clear (as with all commercials of this nature). The not-so-subtle message being declared with ear piercing volume was that YOU NEED THIS TO BE SATISFIED.   In essence, they want to capture your attention in order to plant a lie in your heart that you are missing out.

I assured Ash that she doesn’t have to “compete” with the illusion on the television screen. In fact, it’s actually quite the opposite--Miss Victoria Secret can’t compete with my pajama-wearing-burp-cloth-sporting bride.  Reality ultimately trumps fantasy every time. There is substance and joy in reality, but there is nothing but empty promises and harsh consequences with fantasy.

We see this truth clearly portrayed in the Garden.  Didn’t Satan come against Adam and Eve with the same essential lie that he’s telling today? “God is holding out on you,” he snarled, “You need this to be happy.” They turned their backs on friendship with God in order to pursue something that appeared to be pleasing to the eye. In the end, they were left with heartache, shame, and continual frustration.

The apple may change from person to person, but the lie surely remains. The enemy of your soul is terrified of the possibility that you may actually discover true and lasting joy. This is important for numerous reasons, but mainly because the joy of the Lord is your strength. He fears a joyful and strong version of you, so he continues to play the same deceitful card time and time again. He wants you to neglect what you currently have. He wants to distract you and cause you to look over the fence.

I'm reminded of the old saying: If the grass is greener on the other side, it's probably because you're not watering your own grass. I think there is a lot of truth in that simple statement. Watering our own grass requires work and intentionality, but it is surely the path to happiness. The happiness and joy that God desires for you to experience.

The happiest people I know are those who have embraced this truth.  They are faithful in their marriages. They are engaged with their kids. They are intentional in their friendships. They are content with their work.  They have discovered that they don’t need a hotter spouse or a bigger house, but they just need to appreciate what they already have. I see it in the contentment and joy that appears in their countenance.  It’s almost as if they know something the rest of the world hasn’t figured out yet.

I guess you can call it a secret.

Field of Dreams

I’m currently leaning back in my squeaky chair and looking out my second story office window. It’s a great view that overlooks a local school’s football field, and further up on the ridge is the western boundary of a partially scorched Black Forest.

A little more than three months ago, I watched out this same window as helicopters armed with giant buckets tried desperately to squelch the hellacious flames that were roaring out of control in the forest, less than two miles from where I was sitting. It was a scene right out of a movie, and unfortunately a scene right out of my memory.

Twelve months prior—almost exactly to the day—I watched as a different wildfire rudely barged into our city limits and left a path of destruction that left hundreds of people without homes. It was a sight I had hoped I would never witness again, but sadly my eyes were viewing something that seemed to be an instant replay from the previous year. 

Today’s window view is quite different. I just watched as a young boy (probably 3^rd grade) dressed in a red polo and tan khakis, ran with a football, dodged imaginary tacklers, and did a spin move into the end zone. He spiked the ball with as much strength as he could muster, and he lifted his arms in celebration as the imaginary crowd chanted his name. He thought nobody was looking, but I gave him a standing ovation from my office. It was, again, a scene right out of my memory.

Watching the young boy dream about making would be tacklers look foolish reminded me of my childhood. I would often ride my bike to the local football field, put on cleats that were two sizes too big, and pretend I was suddenly orchestrating a historic fourth-quarter comeback in front of 75,000 screaming Notre Dame crazies. 

I’m assuming khaki boy and me aren’t the only two who have ever acted out such audacious dreams. I recently went on a run and witnessed a young boy playing basketball in his front driveway. He dribbled between his legs and attempted a turn-around buzzer beater—which he missed badly.  He was quick to allow room in his imagination for one more second on the clock in order to sprint to the hoop and kiss the ball off the backboard for the real winning bucket. He, too, threw his arms in the air and celebrated—and then tried to act cool as he realized somebody had actually witnessed his heroics.

His dream wasn't about to end in failure.What kid dreams of coming up short? Not once did I get tackled short of the goal line as time expired in my dreams--nor did I see the young boy today get flattened by an imaginary Brian Urlacher. He scored every time, and he celebrated with vigor after every score.

 Isn’t it interesting that kids have a natural capacity to dream big? Not only do they dream, but they dream about victory and beauty. Little boys dream about being the hero and little girls dream about being the beautiful princess.  

And then they grow up.

Don’t get me wrong—adults still dream. We still harbor in our hearts a picture of what the future will look like, but the nature of the picture changes drastically as we get older. Beauty and victory often disappear, and instead the colors become more dark and dreary. It’s almost as if the paintbrush changes hands and a new artist begins his work.

Mark Twain once penned, “I have lived through some terrible things in my life, some of which actually happened.” 

Isn’t this easy to allow? We buy into a picture of the future that gives far too much room for fear and worry. Somewhere along the way we subconsciously ask the Master Artist to put down His paintbrush, and we allow the enemy to paint a safer picture that doesn’t require faith or hope. 

It feels safe because we all know that hope is risky business. Hope involves jostling your heart from its slumber and putting its neck on the line. And besides, this is hostile territory. Tragedy strikes. Houses burn. Jobs vanish.  Relationships crumble—and so do city walls. 

The Bible tells a story about a courageous man who carried a big dream in the midst of tragic circumstances. Nehemiah heard the report that Jerusalem’s walls had been broken down and its gates burned. When he heard the news, he sat down and wept for days. He mourned and fasted, and then he prayed and began to dream about rebuilding a wall and a city.

I’m intrigued by his ability to seek God’s vision after such a tragic event. His heart didn’t retreat to the basement of his soul. He was not about to allow the artist of destruction to paint the final picture in this story. 

I’m even more intrigued by God’s ability to turn a blackened canvas into a masterpiece. He’s quite good at creating beauty from ashes. God, through the obedience and faithfulness of Nehemiah, made sure the wall was completed and hope was restored—even in hostile territory.  

God is still doing this today. He knows the plans that He has for you, and they are plans for hope and a future. He's rewriting your script and painting a new picture. As we allow God’s dreams to become our dreams, we will experience the arrival of hope and passion. Perhaps the kind of passion that once resided in us as kids.

Why shouldn't we recover our ability to dream the right kind of dreams?  Let's allow our hearts to be the field in which God plants the seeds of His dreams. And when the shot doesn't fall and we are forced to taste a dose of reality, let's not hang our heads and give up, but rather let's leave room for one more second on the clock.

I just started praying this over my own life, and my eyes naturally shifted from my computer screen to the window again. The clouds are hanging over the ridge in a way that is eerily similar to the smoke plumes from last summer. If I squint, I can even see the torched trees that remain. An ugly reminder of reality.

  

But, I can also see the field. 

A reminder to dream anyway.  

A New Script

This post is from the archives (2011). It's also one of my personal favorites, but I'm re-posting it because the message is as true as ever.

There are defining moments in every person's life. Those moments that make you smile or cry each time you replay them in your mind’s eye. Perhaps it is a song that triggers the memory, or a picture, a smell, or a movie. Whatever it is, I'm confident that each person has experienced defining moments that have strongly influenced who you are today.

I grew up around the sport of wrestling. Some of my earliest memories are from spending Saturday mornings in a gymnasium watching my "heroes" wrestle. Many people who hear "wrestling" and "heroes" probably think of Hulk Hogan, Sting, Andre the Giant, and the rest of the crazed men who once sported a Speedo and face paint. I am actually talking about names like Degood, VanDyke, Lampe, and the other young men who endured the excruciating work needed to become great high school wrestlers. I was young, but I took notice.

As I watched these guys wrestle, I began dreaming of the day I would compete and wrestle in front of a packed Gross Memorial Coliseum at the state tournament. My ten year old squirrely body would often—in the privacy of my own bedroom—rehearse my response to hearing the final buzzer sound in my imaginary state championship match. I would get up, throw my arms in the air, and thank God for the victory. I had no idea if I would actually ever experience this in real life, but it was a dream.

The small spark that was initially lit from watching great high school wrestlers compete when I was a young boy was fanned into flame by my dad. He spent countless hours helping young men become great wrestlers—over thirty years coaching the sport. He saw my dream, and he was equally committed to helping me attain it.

When I was in sixth grade, I attended a wrestling camp at the University of Iowa. In addition to driving me to the camp—it must have seemed like eternal distances driving across the Midwestern plains--my parents shelled out hundreds of dollars to pay for the camp. I walked around the campus amazed at the men I was encountering. “Wow”, I thought to myself, “There is Dan Gable!” I was star struck. Similar to a teenage girl at a Taylor Swift concert, I was in awe of seeing these people whose pictures appeared on posters that were hung all over my bedroom wall. In the midst of collecting autographs, I also managed to learn a few new moves. Most importantly, I jotted something down in a little notebook that would serve to motivate me for the next ten years. In messy sixth grade hand writing, I wrote, "My goal is to be an All-American."

I had a lot of dreams as a kid. Many of them were a little "out there." I proudly announced at my sixth grade graduation that my life goal was to become the middle linebacker for the Denver Broncos. That dream didn't quite pan out. Apparently, the scouts weren't looking for a 150 pound professional football player. But, the dream of becoming an All-American never faded.

Being an All-American is attained by placing in the top eight at a national tournament. My mom and dad were faithful to drive me all over the country during my high school years to give me the opportunity to accomplish my goal. In fact, it was common for them to drive seventeen hours only to watch me lose two matches and come home. Lord, bless them.

I had success in high school at the state level and eventually became a state champion. As sweet as the victory was, I couldn’t forget about my sixth grade goal of placing at a national tournament. I took the plunge and decided to wrestle in college. It didn't take long for me to realize that college wrestling is a different animal.

Halfway into my freshman year, I called my dad to announce I was quitting the team. His response was something that I can still hear ringing in my ears. "Son", he said, "You need to finish what you started." Being in college put me in a position where I didn’t technically have to listen to my dad’s advice. However, he had earned my respect as a man and as a coach. I chose to heed his advice and continued grinding along. I managed to barely qualify for the national tournament, and sure enough, my parents endured the marathon drive to Minnesota to support me. The result was the same as previous years. I found myself beat up, discouraged, and quickly out of the tournament after losing two matches.

It wasn't looking good for me to attain my goal, but I decided to wrestle for one more year. I had mediocre success during the regular season, and although I didn't earn an automatic bid by placing in the top 3 at the qualifying tournament, I was still afforded the opportunity to compete at nationals due to being named a wildcard selection. I obviously wasn't ranked and certainly wasn't expected to do much at the national tournament. To be honest, as bad as I wanted it, I really didn't expect it to happen either.

I remember distinctly how that tournament felt different than all the others. It wasn’t because I fully expected to attain my goal of placing in the top eight, It was simply because I realized that this would be my final tournament of what had been a seventeen year wrestling career.

I always got nervous when I heard my name announced through the booming loud speakers indicating that it was my turn to grapple. With extreme butterflies in my stomach and a less than confident look on my face, I started walking towards my assigned mat. When I arrived, I looked over and evaluated my competition. He appeared to be bigger, stronger, and more confident than I. He was nationally ranked and expected to be an All-American. Most people who knew the sport expected him to cruise through his first match--yes, against me.

 I looked across the coliseum and spotted my dad who had worked his way into a front row seat. Seeing him gave me confidence. The look on his face communicated that he really expected me to win. What was wrong with him?! Had he already forgotten about all of the other years? Did he really expect that this year would bring a different outcome?

I walked on the mat, shook my opponent’s hand, and within the first minute found myself flying through the air only to experience an abrumpt thump as my head bounced off the mat. Worse than the pain was the reality that I was on the verge of being pinned--and humiliated. I half-heartedly fought off my back and considered giving up. My mind instantly started replaying the same old thoughts: Here you go, again. It's not going to happen. Give up and get this over with.

Somehow I managed to fight off my back and even scored a reversal as we went off the mat. As I walked back to the center, I heard something that will forever be with me. It was the sound of my dad's voice as he yelled, "Come on, son. Fight." I can't explain it, but something inside me came alive. Confidence flooded my soul.

I was taken aback by his boldness. I think the entire section of the coliseum heard him. How embarrassing it would have been for him to boldly support me only to watch me come up short again. He believed in me, and it did something in me. The words that carried across the floor of the coliseum and overpowered the voices of hundreds of other fans ignited something that needed to be lit.

The faded dream of becoming an All-American suddenly became clear again. With a renewed sense of direction and passion, I fought back to pull out an upset win, 8-7. This was a defining moment in my life. My eyes were opened to see that the story doesn’t always have to follow the same ship-wrecked script.

I won my next match 10-8, which put me one win away from becoming an All-American. I can't explain the feeling I experienced when it dawned on me that this may actually happen. I got away by myself and prepared for the most important match of my career.

I was nervous but optimistic as I stepped foot on the mat. I didn't have a chance to see where my mom and dad were seated, but I was confident I would soon hear my dad—and so would the rest of the fans in the arena.

The first two periods were close and hard fought, but I trailed the entire time. I was a man on a mission in the third and final period, but my opponent defended well. He simply had to hold on for ten more seconds in order to seal the victory and crush my dreams.

In what felt like a miraculous moment, I snapped him to the mat, and shucked him by to score a last second take-down. My coach went crazy, and so did I, but the thing I remember the most was the speed in which my dad sprinted down from the upper seats, picked me up, and gave me the greatest bear hug of my life. Tears were freely flowing as we both embraced this moment that had eluded us for years.

It's been twelve years, and I still think about that moment often. As much as I wanted to become an All-American, that’s not what I think about or remember. Instead, I recall the joy of making my dad proud. He was delighted, and because of it, so was I.

I am convinced that it would not have happened if I hadn’t heard his words during my first match. I was defeated and on the verge of giving up, but my dad's belief in me was unwavering. He spoke courage to me when I needed it the most. In reality, he demonstrated the nature of our Heavenly Father.

I have since learned that this is how God operates. He believes in you whether you believe in yourself or not. The script that He's writing for your life doesn't include timidity, fear, or continual failure. As your Heavenly Father, He's speaking courage, life, and power. I believe He's daring you to believe that things can and should be different. Lean in and listen to His inspiring words, the very words you most need to hear.

And muster the courage to believe in the reality of a new script.

One Wild Ride

I’ve never experienced anything that compares to the intensity of childbirth. Our latest (two weeks ago) chewed me up and spit me out…and I had the easy job.

It started on Monday afternoon when we arrived at the hospital. They checked us in and assigned us to our own spacious room. Ashley changed into a breezy hospital gown and began to nest in a less than comfortable bed.

My first task was to run down the hall and fetch a glass of water. After walking back into the room and squeezing past the nurses who were helping her get comfortable, I handed Ashley the gigantic jug of ice-cold water. What I unknowingly failed to do was secure the lid. The next moment had Ashley looking like a coach who had just won the Super Bowl—she and her newly formed nest were drenched. She let out a polite squeal, and the nurses looked at me as if to say, Did that really happen?

I assured them I would only get better.

Ashley endured the next thirteen hours of contractions before deciding it was time for an epidural. The anesthesiologist arrived and began to set up shop while ordering me to get in front of Ashley and push down on her shoulders in order to create the optimal body position for the insertion of the large needle. Speaking of large needle, where do they get those things? It looked as if Godzilla ripped off the lightning rod from the Empire State Building and gave it to the anesthesiologist.

Even though I couldn’t see her face, I could tell she was crying as I assumed my position.  I tried to encourage her while applying great force upon her shoulders, but I also noticed my head was beginning to spin. The nurse noticed I wasn’t doing well and encouraged me to sit down, but I refused to leave my post. The spinning intensified, I started sweating profusely, and my ears started ringing before I finally decided it was time to heed their advice.

The next few moments were embarrassing to say the least.  My job was to encourage and support Ashley through this process, and there I was half-passed out on the couch with a cold rag draped over my forehead. Not exactly the picture of a confident coach.

I eventually started to feel better and sheepishly returned to her bedside. I spent the next few hours holding her hand and trying to find the right words to comfort, support, and encourage her to press on.

I’m certainly not complaining about the role God gave men in the birthing process, but I do think it feels a little strange to stand there as the woman does all the work. What’s a man really supposed to say to his wife during labor? Come on, honey…Push HARDER! Let’s GO!

The truth is it’s hard to know what to say, because we have no idea what it’s like. At one point when Ashley was 40 weeks pregnant, she said, “Gabe, I just wish you knew what it was like to be this pregnant?” I tried to sound as polite as possible, but I responded, “I’ll just take your word for it, babe.”

The only thing more uncomfortable than carrying a large baby in your womb during the sweltering heat of summer is actually pushing it out. As Ashley was huffing and puffing, she gave me the look again: I wish you knew what this was like! I wasn’t about to say anything this time, but I grimaced as I recalled Bill Cosby’s words: “I think the only way a man can experience the pain of childbirth is to grab his bottom lip and simply pull it right over the top of his head!”

I tried my best to not act like a football coach during the seventeen hours of labor.  Instead, I held her hand and occasionally reminded her that she looked beautiful (she paused to reapply lipstick just before the baby was born!). I didn’t know what else to say or do. I honestly can’t remember a time when I felt as helpless as I did in the moments leading up to the birth.

As I stood next to Ashley, I started thinking about how proud I was of her. She was handling labor with such grace, strength, and courage—despite my less than inspiring performance. I also started reflecting upon how challenging it is to speak words of encouragement and strength to someone without knowing what they’re experiencing.

It’s easy for anyone to stand on the sideline and offer encouragement and advice, but words become more powerful and meaningful when they leave the mouth of a person who has walked the same path. Words that carry weight come from a person who knows what the other person is experiencing, and authority and trust are often extended to people who have successfully navigated the same experiences well.

If this is the case, how much more should we trust the words of Jesus? I’ve learned He has plenty to say about my life, and He is ultimately the only one who truly knows what it’s like to walk in my shoes. He understands what we’re experiencing because He became flesh and made His dwelling amongst us. For God so loved you that He refused to be contained within Heaven’s boundaries.  He put on skin and faced every temptation known to man, but he remained without sin. He experienced the depth of humanity and handled it in a perfect manner.  Because of this, He has earned the right to speak into our lives.

He understands precisely what you’re facing, and He cares more than you can even fathom.  He doesn’t want to stand on the sideline and offer a few cliché words of encouragement. He wants to join you in the midst of the struggle, take you by the hand, and lead you through the valley.

For Ashley, the “valley” ended the moment she held our son, Owen Michael, for the first time. He was born at 9:11am on September 10^th, and we’ve enjoyed every moment we’ve shared with him since. He’s an indescribable gift to our family. In fact, the name “Owen” actually means “gracious gift of God.”

For me, holding Owen has only deepened my understanding of our Heavenly Father’s love towards us. It’s also deepened my understanding of how painful it must have been for the Father to give His one and only Son.  

Talk about a “gracious gift of God.”