“They want me to tell you that their houses are gone but it’s okay. The church is still standing.” The crowd smiled and nodded. Jeff kicked at a rock and shook his head. We saw children who subsist on food they’ve scrounged from the dump, kids with hollow eyes and bloated bellies. We helped feed them and saw what child sponsorship can accomplish. When we said good-bye, it was amid tears and ample hugs. Jeff hugged Bernard.
“I’ll miss you,” said Bernard.
“Me too,” said Jeff.
If you were to ask me about my happiest moment of fatherhood, I might mention the night soon after we returned. Jeff’s marks were up a little, hovering near the passing mark. I hadn’t heard him fight with his sister or grumble about a thing. Not yet. And the laughter was back—not the hyperventilating kind, but his vital signs were good. He was making himself a snack in the kitchen along about midnight, and I could smell it from our bedroom, so I crept out to see if he would share.
The boy had cracked half a dozen eggs into a bowl, along with a pound of shredded cheese, and thrown an entire package of Canadian bacon into a sizzling frying pan. As he stirred the eggs and cheesetogether, he said to me, “Dad, I’d like to sponsor a kid in the DR. It’s thirty-five bucks a month, right?”
I tried not to let him see my tears, then decided it didn’t matter. I’d just watched my son go from talking about Christianity to doing it. From following those who follow Jesus, to following Jesus for himself. I guess hope always catches us a little by surprise.
Dear Lord, never let me
be afraid to pray for the impossible
.
D OROTHY S HELLENBERGER
T he earth is divided into two groups of people: those who like
The Lord of the Rings
and those who don’t. Ask my eldest child which book of earth is his favorite, and he won’t skip a beat. Ask him about a moment when his prayers seemed silly, and he just might smile broadly.
Without a doubt, Steve’s favorite book is a story of hobbits and Bilbo Baggins. All 23,000 pages of it. To my utter amazement, he had read all three books in the Rings trilogy by the age of ten. Before we celebrated his fifteenth birthday he had read them thrice and was gearing up for a fourth voyage.
Crazy
; I thought. He should be cleaning my car. He read them between playing basketball and ice hockey and table tennis. He read them in the evenings when he should have been studying. He read them late at night when he should have been snoring. The day I informed him that Peter Jackson was bringing the stories to life on the silver screen, he ricocheted around the living room, pumping his fists.
The filmmakers should have used my son as a consultant. From beginning to end, he can tell you more than you want to know aboutMiddle Earth, about hobbits and goblins, about the “one ring to rule them all.”
Shortly after we attended the first movie together, Steve turned sixteen. This is an age when fathers and sons have whispered conversations about life and love and being all grown up. One night during one of those discussions, I spoke to him about the importance of reaching this milestone of manhood. How, like his favorite hobbit Frodo, he would be faced with great temptations and great opportunities as he journeyed through the darkness of this earth. I said I would like to present him with a small gift as a covenant between him and me that he would walk the way Frodo had walked, choosing to do the right thing, though it cost him everything. I talked of putting God first. Of faith. Of purity. He nodded his approval.
“What’s the gift?” he asked. When I told him, he smiled.
The next day I ordered the first item I’ve ever ordered on the Internet. Scary thing for me. Even scarier price.
On the evening the package arrived, we convened for a family ceremony. The children leaned in, wide-eyed, as I opened a small box. “Hey! It’s a Callaway golf ball! Just kidding,” I said, then pulled out a wooden box.
“I’ll miss you,” said Bernard.
“Me too,” said Jeff.
If you were to ask me about my happiest moment of fatherhood, I might mention the night soon after we returned. Jeff’s marks were up a little, hovering near the passing mark. I hadn’t heard him fight with his sister or grumble about a thing. Not yet. And the laughter was back—not the hyperventilating kind, but his vital signs were good. He was making himself a snack in the kitchen along about midnight, and I could smell it from our bedroom, so I crept out to see if he would share.
The boy had cracked half a dozen eggs into a bowl, along with a pound of shredded cheese, and thrown an entire package of Canadian bacon into a sizzling frying pan. As he stirred the eggs and cheesetogether, he said to me, “Dad, I’d like to sponsor a kid in the DR. It’s thirty-five bucks a month, right?”
I tried not to let him see my tears, then decided it didn’t matter. I’d just watched my son go from talking about Christianity to doing it. From following those who follow Jesus, to following Jesus for himself. I guess hope always catches us a little by surprise.
Dear Lord, never let me
be afraid to pray for the impossible
.
D OROTHY S HELLENBERGER
T he earth is divided into two groups of people: those who like
The Lord of the Rings
and those who don’t. Ask my eldest child which book of earth is his favorite, and he won’t skip a beat. Ask him about a moment when his prayers seemed silly, and he just might smile broadly.
Without a doubt, Steve’s favorite book is a story of hobbits and Bilbo Baggins. All 23,000 pages of it. To my utter amazement, he had read all three books in the Rings trilogy by the age of ten. Before we celebrated his fifteenth birthday he had read them thrice and was gearing up for a fourth voyage.
Crazy
; I thought. He should be cleaning my car. He read them between playing basketball and ice hockey and table tennis. He read them in the evenings when he should have been studying. He read them late at night when he should have been snoring. The day I informed him that Peter Jackson was bringing the stories to life on the silver screen, he ricocheted around the living room, pumping his fists.
The filmmakers should have used my son as a consultant. From beginning to end, he can tell you more than you want to know aboutMiddle Earth, about hobbits and goblins, about the “one ring to rule them all.”
Shortly after we attended the first movie together, Steve turned sixteen. This is an age when fathers and sons have whispered conversations about life and love and being all grown up. One night during one of those discussions, I spoke to him about the importance of reaching this milestone of manhood. How, like his favorite hobbit Frodo, he would be faced with great temptations and great opportunities as he journeyed through the darkness of this earth. I said I would like to present him with a small gift as a covenant between him and me that he would walk the way Frodo had walked, choosing to do the right thing, though it cost him everything. I talked of putting God first. Of faith. Of purity. He nodded his approval.
“What’s the gift?” he asked. When I told him, he smiled.
The next day I ordered the first item I’ve ever ordered on the Internet. Scary thing for me. Even scarier price.
On the evening the package arrived, we convened for a family ceremony. The children leaned in, wide-eyed, as I opened a small box. “Hey! It’s a Callaway golf ball! Just kidding,” I said, then pulled out a wooden box.
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