It's Time to Get Up!

"It's time to get up!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up in the mor-ning!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up today!

Oh, you don't want to get up?

Well, you just have to get up!

Oh, you don't want to get up?

Well, get up any-way!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up in the mor-ning!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up!

It's time to get up today!"

(sung quickly and to the tune of Reveille)

With songs like this and many others like it, I woke up our three boys each day for school. Swinging open the door to their rooms, often intentionally singing off key and as loudly as I could, these moments came to be as much dreaded as they were anticipated by the boys. When I didn't wake them up 'abruptly', it wasn't unusual for one of them to find me and ask if I was alright. Seldom did any morning go by that the boys wouldn't seek me out at the dining room table where I had already gone to eat breakfast and read the paper, give me a big 'good morning hug' and an 'I love you" before heading on to get their breakfast ready and their day started . . . . and, this morning, Nancy reminded me that I wouldn't have to sing to the boys anymore. They have all left home.

I had mentally noted the end of this particular, peculiar tradition on Wednesday, June 23, the day Ched left for the Air Force Academy, yet this morning as Nancy headed off to teach, the reality hit home and the silence of the 7:00 a.m. hour resonated loudly. The doors to their rooms were already open, their beds were neatly made, and the incredible stench of athletic shoes has long ago dissipated from their closets. Much like the teacher who retires in May, yet doesn't really experience retirement until the school year reconvenes, I had seen this coming, but couldn't anticipate how it would feel. Today I know and my heart aches for their laughter, chastisement, hugs and voices. They are each on their journey.

Though I would never wish any of them back to the rooms of their childhood for a moment, I do miss having 'our boys' at home, bringing to mind the words of Genesis 2 echoing across the generations to my heart today (as Adam first sees Eve, created as she was from one of Adam's ribs): "This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh . . . ." (2.23a NRSV) There is something deeply connective beyond the brick and mortar of residence and geography which binds our souls together and causes us to care and long for each other, regardless the time or place. What began as just Nancy and me became three times deeper in the birth of each of our sons. How much more is that so for the God who births us all?

Last evening, as I held our newest granddaughter, Norah Caroline, in my arms and felt her tiny fingers squeezing mine it was as if she were assuring her Papa that the connection continues, the flesh and bone of family is deepened, the heart of life itself pulses even more vibrantly. Though tears may flow in the morning for songs no longer sung, laughter and hope fills the evening in the breath of a baby cooing assurance, the gift of the One who knows our days.

My prayer for you, as for each of our sons and their children after them, is that you know both, the fullness of a home resounding with, " . . . . bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh . . . ." and the bittersweet awareness of silence echoing in the hallways as that which is 'of you' seeks their own future in the presence and goodness of God. Traditions may change, habits are meant to be broken, patterns of living will be transformed, but that which is of us will remain in us as a gift of the Father who knows all the children as, ". . . . bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh . . . .". Thanks be to God.

Your servant in Christ,

Pastor Don

Superman

++Author's note: As many are headed to colleges and vocational training in these days, it seems appropriate to re-print this article from 'Pastor Don's Corner' of the St. Paul UCC "Caller", September 2004. I pray those parents who read this find it helpful in pondering the deeper feelings of your child maturing - and that those children reading this,trying to understand their parents in these days, will find some measure of patience and peace with those who love them so.
In Christ's service,
Pastor Don


Pastor Don’s Corner . . .

Superman has left the house.
We took Raymond to the University of Kansas last Sunday and helped him move into his new room. Six round trips of about a quarter mile each way to bring all of his earthly possessions to the dorm, then up five flights of stairs with each load, joining with about a thousand other students and their parents (just in his dorm building) to set up a new way of life uniquely designed to last only nine months. Somehow, there just must be a correlation between the nine months of pregnancy and the nine months of the school year, but right now I’m just too tired to think about it.
We were ready to make this trip, after all it is the school of Raymond’s choosing. It is his dream, his ambition to play basketball for the KU Jayhawks and to get a quality Division I College education . . . so, Nancy and he sorted for weeks through a lifetime of accumulation and storage to cull it all down to what would fit in our Explorer for the trip to Lawrence, Kansas. Necessities were determined, addresses were changed and people were notified, a computer was purchased, a telephone plan was laid out, and a transition was made ready. We left on Saturday afternoon for the five and a half hour journey so that we would be fresh for the move-in on Sunday morning.
Tearful good-byes and good-lucks were exchanged between Raymond and a multitude of relatives, friends and well-wishers, and promises were made on every front to ‘keep in touch’ or, as in the case of his big brother, requests were made for tickets to KU basketball games (There’s nothing like a Rock Chalk Jayhawk Basketball game!). But, just the same, I knew I was ready to ‘drop him off’ and ‘clear another one out of the house’ and had told an unknown number of people exactly that . . . and was ready to do so as though it wouldn’t make any major difference in my life until that moment in the Explorer when he asked me for the fobs off of his key chain.
You see, Raymond has been driving the Explorer pretty regularly and one of the Explorer key chains was his to use. Raymond had placed two Superman key chain fobs on his key chain and everyone in the house knew that was ‘his’ set of keys. Knowing that we were not leaving the Explorer in Kansas for him to use, Ray turned to me while we were driving down a Lawrence, Kansas street and said, “Since you are taking the Explorer home, why don’t you give me my Superman fobs for my key ring here at Kansas.”
And, don’t ask me why but, with those few words it suddenly hit me, Superman has left the house and Metropolis will never be the same.
This young man who grew up in three different towns in eighteen years, whose super-powers include impersonations, telling jokes that can make the dourest person laugh, caring more and deeper than a person his age should know how to, a passion for basketball that is matched only by his passion for the Christ of his faith, and a solid belief in family and love . . . this young man who may not be faster than a speeding bullet, nor mightier than a powerful locomotive, nor ever leap tall buildings in a single bound . . . this young man, like his older brother before him and his younger brother after him, has my heart. And, like every parent who loves their children, I believe he will make the world a better place to live, will be able to address the evils of our generation, and give men, women and children of every background a reason to hope and smile. This man of steel is human and may make his share of mistakes, but I know his heart is in the right place and his passion for Christ and others will see him through every crisis. He is our son and, though I hadn’t known it until that moment, to me he will always be Superman.
And Superman has left the house.
As Nancy and I drove the five and a half hour trip back to Lebanon, and as I struggled with this huge lump of parental joy and sadness in my throat, and as tears streamed from sunglass covered eyes, my thoughts turned to God . . . and to just how God does it with each one of us. I mean, think of it, God is the ultimate parent: God births every one of us into life, gives us roots to grow, space to spread out, a place to know we are safe, is always putting food on the table, is constantly encouraging us to follow our passion in faith, and assures us that, when we are ready, our wings will carry us swiftly and strongly onward. God knows the path will not be easy, that dreams are often shattered by the cruel fist of a reality that is mediated by others, and that the choices we make would not always be the choices God would make. Yet, God sets us up for success anyway and sends us forth in love and joy.
I wondered: as God drives away from the ‘dorm’ of our new journey, is it as hard on God as it was on us, to watch ‘Superman’ walk away across the heat soaked asphalt parking lot, a mere mortal preparing to engage in cosmic combat? Do the words that God hoped to say just before leaving get stuck in God’s throat the way mine did? Is God grateful for the opportunities that God’s children have, all the while secretly hoping that they will not wander out in those opportunities and forget they have a home to return to? Is it possible that God sets us up for success, freedom and self-reliance, all the while praying that we will know that we will never fully outgrow our need for God and God’s love and care? . . . . . . Just how hard was it to drop Jesus off in Bethlehem and watch him grow up to walk all the way to Jerusalem? And, if God has it this hard, what makes us think it should be any easier for us here today?
Maybe we should take our cues from the One who defines parenthood for every generation: Superman has left the house, but he will never leave the home of our hearts. Whether his journey takes him to the heavens above or the earth below, our love goes with him, above him, below him, around him and through him. Metropolis may never be the same again, but it will always be profoundly better for his having been with us for a while.
Fly high, be strong, strive for justice, truth and mercy, and know that we wait with the world in breathless anticipation of what God is yet to do in you, through you, and with you, Superman.

“It’s a bird, it’s a plane . . .” it’s a child of God soaring to new heights. Be careful on your journeys, Superman, and know that, in the home of our hearts, you have a place and are loved always.
Love you,
Dad

Norah Caroline

"Happy is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in the Lord's ways.

You shall eat the fruit of the labor of your hands;

you shall be happy, and it shall go well with you.

Your wife will be like a fruitful vine within your house;

your children will be like olive shoots around your table.

Thus shall the man be blessed who fears the Lord.

The Lord bless you from Zion.

May you see the prosperity of Jerusalem all the days of your life.

May you see your children's children.

Peace be upon Israel!"

Psalm 128 NRSV

At 7:30 pm last evening I received 'that call' for which we had been waiting: "Dad, the contractions are about 6 to 7 minutes apart and the Doctor told us to go to the hospital. We'll see you there."

'That call' was Ray letting Nancy and I (Nana and Papa) know about Kara and the imminent arrival of Baby Wagner. 'That call' was a blessing of God about to make her grand entrance into this world. 'That call' was an invitation to be immersed in the happiness of the Lord, to " . . . . eat the fruit of the labor of your hands . . . ", to witness the wonder of a ". . . . fruitful vine . . . ", to see ". . . . children like olive shoots around your table . . . .", and to ". . . . see your children's children." 'That call' was to share the journey with our children as now they formally welcome their first child into the home of their hearts. 'That call' was Norah Caroline, child of God, disciple of Christ, member of the Body of Christ, whispering God's love into my ears and, like Grandfathers in every age, I turned to my wife and said, "She's coming!"

Ray and Kara had attended worship with us that morning in celebration of my birthday, after which we had sat at our dining room table and feasted on 'Wagner beef', T-bones from the farm, twice baked potatoes and salad, complimented by a Double Chocolate Chocolate Cake and lots of wonderful conversation. Though Kara appeared to have 'dropped' quite a bit, she said she still felt very comfortable and enjoyed the feast. They left around 2:00 in the afternoon . . . and that drive started the journey: about half-way home the labor pains began.

Though Baby Wagner was projected by the Doctor to arrive on August 11, I had long been telling folks I thought she would arrive on August 8 and share my birthday with me. Now, it seemed, God and Baby Wagner agreed with me . . . . yet, as always, God has a wry sense of humor. Without going into all the details, Norah Caroline arrived at 12:02 a.m. on August 9 or, for those of you into such coincidences, 08-09-10, and has her own day, her own celebration, her own integrity in God's laughter at my chagrin . . . and I could not be happier.

Kara is an amazing woman and our son, Ray, is blessed to be married to her. The two of them will be wonderful, faithful parents who will raise their daughter in the joy and wonder of God - and that shown through both of them as they tenderly cared for each other throughout the labor and delivery process. For a Grandparent, I cannot imagine a more humbling, tear-evoking, heart-filling moment than when your son walks out of the delivery room smiling and says, "She's here and she's perfect!", then gives you 'that hug' which is the final benediction to 'that call' received earlier in the evening.

Nancy summed it up best as we got into the car sometime around 2:15 in the morning after having held our newest granddaughter while shedding the baptismal tears reserved for such holy occasions: "We are so blessed and Norah is such a gift of God." We offered a prayer of thanksgiving, then pulled onto the highway, each swimming in the baptismal waters of our gratitude and love for what we were privileged to see and adore.

Norah Caroline joins her cousins, Mary Cailin and Ava Isabel, in declaring the power and imagination of God - and promises, I'm sure, to give us all a run for our money, but I could ask for nothing more. "Happy is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in his ways . . . . your wife will be like a fruitful vine . . . your children will be like olive shoots around your table . . . . May you see your children's children." And if someone as simple and human as I can be so much in awe of new life, how much more is God delighted in what now is birthed for the world to see?

God bless you Norah Caroline! You are far more than your parent's daughter or your grandparents granddaughter: You are an ongoing announcement of God's Covenant, God's vision for all that can be in faith, hope and love. May your days be filled with all the joy I feel in this moment and, yet, so much more, that in your time you may sing the ancient song of the Psalmist and savor the meaning of the words, pondering them in your heart as well.

In the praise of God: Abba, Son and Holy Spirit!

Papa

Thank You

Two simple words never carried such meaning and resonated in my heart with such power as when I heard Ched say, "Thank you."

We had traveled to Colorado Springs and the Air Force Academy to see Ched advance from 'Basic' to 'Cadet' in rank on Acceptance Day and it was an impressive parade and event. Four thousand Cadets marching across a rain soaked parade field, a U-2 fly over, the Air Force Academy Band playing stirring marches, a legacy class ('74) presentation of 'Contrails' to Outstanding Cadets representing their squadrons and then, of course, the presentation of shoulder boards to the newly 'accepted' Cadets. It was the first time we had been able to be with him since we dropped him off at the St. Louis International Airport on the 23rd of June - and those have been long weeks and days. For two hours we delighted in being with him as, first, the Commandant and Flight Commander of his Squadron attached his boards, then as we walked with him to his room, ate with him at a picnic we provided, and enjoyed the company of his newly-made friends and colleagues. Time seems never to have flown so quickly.

Then, with about 25 minutes to go before he had to report in, he and I carried the few items he could have in his room the half mile, up hill (no kidding), back to the dormitory, while Nancy, Ashley and our friend, Harvey Haynes, cleaned up the remnants of the repast. On the way he and I just talked 'talk', the kind of father/son stuff that only happens when no-one else is around . . . and the kind of which you will never hear in such an article as this, if for no other reason than it is sacred talk, much like the prayers we speak to God. It was a holy moment. Yet, it wasn't in that talk that it happened.

No, it happened as he escorted me back across the Terrazzo, back to the place where he would have to return to his dorm as I would move on towards our car. It happened at the door where our journeys would divide and it caught me so unexpectedly: This strong young man in blue, with newly attached shoulder boards marking endeavor and accomplishment, turned to me and gave me the biggest hug and whispered, "Thank you." He stepped back from me, then embraced me again and said, "I love you. Thank you." Oh my God, what a humbling moment!

With tears running down my face, I mumbled the words of fatherly pride and love that were, at the moment, all that I could manage, even as I told him we would see him in a month at Parent's Weekend, then I turned and headed to the steps before my emotions got the best of me. Pausing for a moment on the steps which would lead me away from him, I watched as he turned and began his walk of the marble pathway back to his dorm, the marble pathway of Doolies, and I quietly answered him through the wind, "Thank you, too, Ched."

Struggling to swallow the rising tide of emotion on the walk back to the car, the words he spoke kept echoing in my mind until, at the gate where visitors are stopped, it struck me like the lightning which had been passing through the region that day, "He is not a boy anymore." In those simple two words Ched was telling me, 'Thank you for getting me this far', 'Thank you for the faith you have placed in me', 'Thank you for your love and support', and, 'Thank you for never, ever just dropping me off anywhere.' But now, 'Thank you' also meant, 'I'm ready to be on my own.'

Oh, I know Ched will still need us for one thing or another (especially to pay the bills for the airline tickets back and forth from Denver on his times of leave), but now I also know he is at a point in his life when he is listening ever more intently to a Greater Voice who leads him on into the future God intends. Ched prays to, and trusts, God. As he held me and told me 'Thank you', he wasn't dismissing me, he was taking his place in God's future for him and owning his responsibility to follow God's call. Ched was acknowledging the love of his father as he endeavors to live into the Love of the Father. Is there anything more a father can ask?

Those two simple words have been rolling around in my heart for the last 48 hours - and I doubt that they will ever leave me, I pray they never do. Thank you, Ched, for being the man you are becoming and for the faithfulness you express in caring the way you do. May the Air Force Academy live into the gratitude you offer in your journey of life and may this father always cling to the power and transformation two words have had in him.

Thank you, Ched. I love you.

Dad