Jean and I were at a birthday party last week. While we dined with the adults, the boys were in another room with their peers enjoying kid-friendly food and games. One of the after dinner activities for the children was playing with a Wii (pronounced “We”). That’s the hot new video game console offered by Nintendo. As I learned, what sets Wii apart from other video games is a wireless controller that senses motion. This allows the gamers’ hand movements to interact with the on-screen action.
I don’t know her name. I’ve never met her. But her story captured my heart. With trembling hands, she held the test results hoping against hope there was some mistake. Although too young to drive a car, a pair of blue lines indicated she was old enough to get pregnant.
The reality rocked her world. Now what? Fear overwhelmed her to the point of tears. She was afraid to involve her parents. She didn’t want to be pregnant, yet she was scared of having an abortion.
Last Saturday I was running errands around town with the boys when I had to stop and remember the date. You see, I found myself standing in a forest of artificial lighted Christmas trees, assorted inflatable snowmen, and plastic reindeer on display in one of the stores. Christmas? Already?
Last time I checked we were in October.
Remember when the race to find the perfect gift used to be a sprint? You know, the Friday after Thanksgiving use to mark the day when “happy” shoppers tackled their gift-giving lists.
I don’t remember the exact date, but the events of that night I’ll not forget. After all, I was almost killed. This would have been back in college during finals week. I was cramming for an exam with six friends. We were sitting at the kitchen table at a friend’s apartment, hitting the books well past midnight. A welcomed evening breeze floated through the open windows, exchanging the lingering smell of pizza with much needed fresh spring air.
My father was an alcoholic and a horse gambler. And, while he was a natural athlete and coached little league with an unmatched passion, my father never made the time to teach me how to play baseball . . . or even have a father-son catch. Due to a lifetime of poor choices, Dad missed out on the bulk of my childhood. In the end, he lived a hard life, lost everything that was dear to his heart, and died alone in an abandoned warehouse.
Several weeks ago I was invited to share part of my story in a chapel setting at Focus on the Family. Each month our staff is encouraged by outstanding music and an inspiring guest speaker. From the inception of Focus, Dr. Dobson believed these regular gatherings were an important component of equipping the team as they strive to serve others with excellence and staying healthy spiritually. I invite you to eavesdrop on that message delivered September 7th (see audio player below).
On September 4 and 5, I had the opportunity to share a little bit of my childhood story on the Focus on the Family broadcast. In case you missed that program, my family life put the “D” in dysfunctional. Evidently, those broadcasts touched a nerve with listeners. I thought I’d give you a sample of just one of the many letters we’ve received echoing the invaluable role of mentors in the midst of a traumatic childhood.
Like many dads, I’m always on the lookout for fun, creative ways to bond with my kids something I rarely experienced with my own father. However, this particular “great idea” backfired big time.
I had just dropped off my wife Jean at the Denver airport and was returning home with the boys when a stroke of inspiration struck me like a freight train. Come to think of it, a southbound train adjacent to the interstate sparked the idea.
Over the weekend, I took the boys for a treat. They helped me in the yard and they were thirsty. We popped into a coffee place. The boys, ages six and four, love cold vanilla milk with whipped cream. As we’re getting out of the car, my oldest says, “My hand is stuck in my pocket!” I looked over, and sure enough he seemingly could not remove his hand from his pocket. I said, “Why can’t you pull your hand out?”
Still sitting in the van, he explained how he put some chocolate in his pocket a few days before.
Tonight I arrived home at about 6:00 PM. My boys, Trent and Troy, ages 6 and 4, were ready for action. We started with a quick game of hide and seek and then outside for a jump on the trampoline. They love the trampoline. I remember one night arriving home from work and the boys were sitting quietly in the living room. Trent turned his head, and I saw the darkest bruise on his chin. “What happened?” He responded, “Mommy’s knee hit me in the chin.” I then saw Troy limping across the floor.