My Dad and Martin

Happy Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, everyone.  I have looked up to Dr. King ever since I was little.  The first non-fiction I ever read was his biography (a treasured find from a school book fair).  I've had a photograph of him holding his Nobel Peace Prize as long as I can remember, framed on my wall over the years.  But I remember one instance when my faith in his Dream was first tested.  I was too young to remember much of the details surrounding the incident, but fortunately my father had the courage and wisdom to speak up and ask, "Why?"

Today, in honor of one of my heroes, I thought I'd abstain from preaching my own feigned wisdom and instead quote another hero of mine.  The following was taken from his Letter to the Editor for the Tucson Citizen Jan. 21, 2004.  Thanks Dad.

 

King’s Message Ignored

Another Martin Luther King Day has come, and Tucsonans have taken notice along with the rest of the country. But have we really honored King’s legacy?

When I moved my family to Tucson three years ago, I was pleased to see that the Tucson Unified School District had “magnet” schools – schools that supposedly specialized in certain curricular areas.

It was an opportunity, I thought, to let my children focus on their individual talents. Yet, when I contacted the district, I was told quite bluntly that my son would not be welcome at the school we were interested in. Why? Because he’s the wrong color.

The magnet schools aren’t and never were about specialized curriculum. They’re about a government-enforced system of racial discrimination. If your skin is one shade, you’re welcome here; if it’s another, you’ll just have to go somewhere else.

My son keeps a picture of Martin Luther King on his wall, and we’ve read his biography together more than once. I had to tell this boy, who holds Dr. King as one of his greatest heroes, that right now, in America, our local government refuses to judge him by the content of his character, and will consider only the color of his skin.

Some will say there’s nothing the district can do, since this system is the result of a judicial edict. Can’t go against the judge, can we? But wait. Weren’t there judges, and police, and even governors enforcing racial discrimination when Dr. King stood against it? What did he teach us? When the law is that wrong, we have a responsibility to resist.

Where are the school administrators, the parents, the local government officials, and the ordinary citizens, who are willing to stand, nonviolently but firmly, as Dr. King did, against this government-sponsored system of racial discrimination?

Where are those who are willing to pay a price to make a change? Where are those who are willing to truly honor Martin Luther King?

DONALD BUGG

Part Two: the march to March

I mentioned earlier a rough review I got for a draft of a novel I'm trying to write.  The prologue was decimated as categorical proof of my shortcomings as a writer.  Then there was the first chapter.  I still haven't gotten feedback on that yet.  I've written and rewritten over 20 drafts of that first chapter.  They say the most difficult parts of a story to write are the endings and the beginnings.

Last month before I became enslaved by the indoor lethargy of finals and freelance I got back into running.  A year ago I used to regularly jog anywhere between 5  to 10 kilometers but have since opted for shorter interval sprints to build up my cardio endurance and ease up on my joints.  Yet always, without fail, the hardest part of any run regardless of the distance is that first part.  That transition from a sedentary state to runner-mode.  This usually only lasts about half a mile, never longer than a full mile.

Why is it so hard to get to Part Two?

You start with such vigorous optimism, your hope bright and new.  This time you'll do it!  You'll lose those extra pounds, make more time for family, shoot for that promotion, start that small business, run that marathon, finish that book, discontinue that netflix account, learn that recipe.  You are finally going to sweep out those cobwebs of complacence and start your life with a clean start.

January's frosty chill can't deter your willpower.  You wake up early and get out there training, breaking old habits, establishing new patterns of living and hitting the refresh button on your day to day. You are the picture of dedication.  Days soon build into a week, then two.  By week three the novelty of your new life begins wearing away, revealing that remaining discomfort of missing out on the "good ol' days," patiently waiting for you to succumb to its embrace.  You make excuses, a day missed here, a little slip there, and before February ends, those gym passes you got as a new year's present to yourself sit gathering dust, you're back to the sleeping in, fat, lazy, uncultured, illiterate netflix-binger that disgusted you in last year's mirror.

The February mark is a tough reality to face.  Fact is, very few New Year's Resolutions last beyond two months.

What makes Part Two so seemingly unattainable?

Honestly, I think it's because as much as we like to think we know our heart's desires,

we don't know what we want. 

I don't mean that our desires are necessarily changeable, although that can often be the case.  I mean we don't know how badly we want what we want.  How much are you willing to put into your goals?  What desires take top priority?  What is still worth the effort when your new habit is no longer new, just uncomfortable?

Often these priorities reveal themselves organically.  Is the misery of that first try, first lap, first draft worth trudging through?

Absolutely.

Kara's Flowers' debut album flopped before they reformed as Maroon 5.  Coldplay once went by Starfish in the bumpy first lap of their career.  Even the founding fathers had to go through a first draft flop of legislation (those darn Articles of Confederation) before they drafted the Constitution.  Very rarely will you succeed on your first go.  2013 was filled with lessons on what not to do in my life.  Next year will have plenty of those, too.  I'm just trying not to repeat them.  Don't give up on your first lap.  Don't put down the pen halfway through the prologue.

Let's get to March one step, one page, one lap, one brilliantly dazzling mistake at a time.  Join me in my march to March 2014. 



S

Painted Morning

A few days ago I had an unusual morning.

Startlingly different from many of the others surrounding it.  First of all, I was already on my way to full consciousness when my alarm finally pushed me off the edge into wakefulness.  More of a brotherly nudge than a prankster's shove.  Second of all, the morning seemed brighter.  More light seemed to emanate from the high windows of our cozy basement apartment.  I thought I might be running late, that the morning had slipped away from me and darkling dawn had rushed into day without my consent.

I had worn long sleeves to bed and for the first time in weeks didn't have a chill, maybe I was just unaccustomed to waking up with good blood circulation.  But as I sat up and stretched and yawned I realized it was more than a mere change in pace or renewed health or vigor that made this morning stand out.

God was with me this morning.

Now, I suppose this should happen every morning every day.  I'd like to pretend my life is that perfect.  But to be honest, those few bleary-eyed mornings when I do remember to begin my day with prayer, that prayer too often resembles the exhausted half-baked thoughts and unfinished ramblings of someone still treading water in slumber, not quite ready to leave the REM pool.

 But today, it seems He came to me.

This has happened a few times before, and it startles me every time.  I often find that if we want God we have to meet him halfway.  But perhaps on occasion He gives us a break and puts forth some extra effort on our behalf. 

There was nothing particularly spiritually urgent about it.  No heavenly call, no voice from the sky, no eleventh commandment that I'm aware of.  Just a vague feeling of closeness.


I think sometimes God just misses us.

And so he paints a day just for us. Or at least a morning.


My morning had a fresh chill to it.  Not biting, but a gentle nibble to remind you you're awake.  A sky painted from a Robert Frost poem.  Clouds overhead keeping the cool sheen of the last night's rain slick on the ground.  Darkened cement trying in vain to dry to a brighter shade of gray. A dampened world for dampened souls.  That muffled hush clouds seem to give the air.  Somehow our thoughts speak more clearly, louder in contrast to the quieted world.

Writers live for days like these.  I praise God for quieting the world for my mornings.

S

Get It Out There

A good friend of mine inadvertently gave me some really good advice.  He was talking about his own music career but I took it to heart as a writer, a hat I haven't been able to wear much lately. 

I'll admit it people.  I've fallen off the wagon.

Geez, a month?  What's wrong with me?

Well, exactly what my good friend was talking about when he posted an explanation on facebook about his recordings.  They were great songs, but admittedly not the best quality recordings.  Certainly not professional studio-grade.  But I still enjoyed them.  I raved about them, I saw through the fuzzy recording and saw the potential for great, moving pieces of music.

My buddy relayed some advice he had received from another musician.  Just start recording.  Get your stuff out there.  You're not going to be great right off the bat.  No one is.  Get over it.  Get used to being imperfect, especially in front of your audience. 

Just put it out there.

Sounds easy enough, right?  But how many of us have little side projects or dreams we keep pocketed until we can find that imaginary "free time" we need to polish up and really become impressive?  It's not like I forgot about this blog.  In fact, I had some friends ask about it, a high school buddy gave me a shout out and let me know he enjoyed reading.  I even had drafts ready.  Right now there are about six or seven unfinished posts I've started since my last post.

I just never could get them polished.  I never thought they'd be good enough.  I needed more time, better wording, illustrations would really make it pop.  The excuses go on.  Point is, I wanted the impossible.

I wanted them to be perfect.

I've had some posts I'm really proud of.  I've posted others that you can't find anymore, forever deleted out of shame.  I'm still working on this and not everything I write is going to be "studio-quality."

There's a kids book I'd like to do someday when I feel more like a good writer.  An idea I've had growing and morphing in my imagination for over ten years now.  I sent a few sample chapters to some trusted editor friends.  One got back to me with his review.  It was brutally honest, exactly what I knew I could expect from him.  And after rereading it through his eyes, I realized even more of my own foibles as an amateur author.

Elitist intellectual tone.
Alliteration happy.
Poor sense of suspense.
Confusing narrative.
No fluidity in the story.
No connection to (presumably juvenile) reader.

And that was just the prologue.

But I needed to hear it.  I knew he wouldn't pull any punches.  I see my flaws for what they are.  And I'm better for it.  Granted, I haven't touched the book since, but that's mostly because of my schedule constraints.  Although I'll admit, all the condensed criticism was a lot to stomach at once. 

My point?

Don't let perfectionism paralyze you.

Take a leaf from the book of Mrs. Frizzle. Just put it out there.  That's what my rock star friend is doing.  And that's what I'm going to do.  If my posts seem to ramble, tell me.  If an illustration would really accentuate a point, I probably already know.  Leave comments, tell me how to write better.  This blog began as a way to chronicle our lives as newlyweds, but its more than just a cutesy scrapbook.  This is personal.  This is our lives.  A window into our marriage, our careers, our struggles to work out our bug(g)s and be better for each other and for the world.

I'm back, people!



What are you holding back until you can polish and perfect it?



S

27 Days

Renowned composer George Frederic Handel gave us one of the most influential pieces of classical music in history:  The Messiah.

Anyone who has heard the famous "Hallelujah" chorus - in whatever context - knows his work.  The twinkling harmonies of "For Unto Us a Child is Born" is a staple of traditional Christmas music.  His gift changed our ears forever.

Not only is his daunting musical genius echoed in its frantic interwoven melodies, but also his speed and efficiency.  A professor of mine told me a few weeks ago that Handel composed the entire oratorio celebrating the birth of Christ in less than a month.  I asked him why.  Was it really just that easy for him?  Was he a musical savant of sorts?  Did the music spill out of him as if written by the hand of God?  Was he but a conduit for angelic choruses in heaven?

What prompted him to bless us with such an enduring masterpiece in record time?


Debt.



Handel wrote The Messiah in 27 days to avoid debtor's prison.




Why do some of us crumble under pressure when others excel?

Some of us prefer to take a nice leisurely pace through life, school and work, planning things out methodically so as to never be caught unprepared or unawares.  My sister is like that, always scheduling out her assignments so as to never be behind.  Ever the perfectionist, she thrives on staying ahead of the curve.

Others, however, don't mind putting things on the back burner, only to turn up the heat at the last moment.  I'm afraid in many cases I fall into this latter category.  I've stayed up late working on enough papers due the next day, blowing the glue dry on my way to school on a diorama I'd known about for weeks (sorry, Mom), I even pulled an all-nighter for a project my freshman year of high school.

I had a portfolio review the other day.  This was super important.  Like life-changing, career-affecting kind of important.  It determined when I would graduate, what classes I would take, etc.  I had to include about 20 images of my best work.  I have known about this review for over a year.  I had to print out all of my projects and mount them on mat boards to make them look more professional.  I had worked on several paintings and other illustrations months ago.  But of the 20 images I chose to include for review, I finished putting the final touches on, printing, cutting and mounting about 14 of them.  How's that for preparation?

B. and I have both been known to be up until 3am working on papers and paintings, respectively.  We both seem to thrive when the heat is on.  Grace under fire, efficiency under pressure, we're deadline folks.  I wonder what we could come up with in 27 days if we had prison looking us in the face?


Where do you fall?  Do you have grace under pressure or are you always prepared?

What could you do in 27 days?


S

In the Long Run

B. is a fantastic swimmer.  She has this innate ability to hop into a lane at the pool and just slice through the water; it's stunning.  I, however do not swim well.  My legs just don't propel me like they should, the kick has never been right for me.

I much prefer to run.  Or bike, but that's another story.  I discovered the joy of running the same way I discovered numerous hobbies and habits as a teenager:

There was this girl...

There was a girl who liked running.  I liked her, so I only thought it appropriate that I should like running.

Now, just to emphasize how truly whipped I was, I had sworn off running a couple of years previously; I didn't see the point to it.  You sweat and exhaust yourself by literally going in circles, how could anyone enjoy doing this?  But I tried it again and again, I got a cheap little 1GB MP3 player from Wal-Mart to keep me from getting bored of listening to my own breathing which helped improve things tremendously, and I started running further and further.  I would finish my loop, only to discover that I still had a little more energy left in me, and expanded my route to cover more ground.

I grew to love it.  I still love running.  I love challenging myself, stretching and improving my body, racing against the ghost of my best time or longest distance.  I'm not super tall, my legs aren't long and spindly, I won't be winning any track medals anytime soon.  I'm no athlete, but that's ok; running has become more than just a healthy past time for me.

There is something a good run will do to clear the mind.  I go on therapeutic runs sometimes.  If I'm stressed and not too exhausted, I'll often be out running a 5k to clear my head and refocus.  It's more than just mental maintenance, though.    

A really good run does something to your soul I think.  Pushing your body to new limits, coming to peace with your own thoughts are wonderful byproducts of a good run.  But I run for deeper reasons than that.

Why do I run?


Luke 24:12
Then arose Peter, and RAN unto the sepulchre; and stooping down, he beheld the linen clothes laid by themselves, and departed, wondering in himself at that which was come to pass.


I love Peter.  His impulsive impetuous soul was so flawed, but Christ entrusted him with much.  It really gives me hope that I can make something of myself.  When steered in the right direction, Peter was a fearsome force for good.  He worked on impulse; he didn't wait for the others to come and see the sepulchre.

He arose and ran.  

I run because Peter ran. 

Because I hope to be running towards a greater goal, a better day, a land of promise, a mansion prepared for me in the house of my Father.  I know it's there waiting for me, and I can get there if I live right and rely on the mercy of Christ.  I know it's there.  That's my finish line.  Why wouldn't I want to hurry?

Why wouldn't I run?

Because in the long run - in this long run - that's what matters most.


What are you running towards?


S

All I am or hope to be

I love Washington, D.C.

I was blessed to live close to the capitol for a few years and took advantage of the opportunity to soak in the history, the grandeur of the heart of America. I've stood inches from the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence.  I've walked past the White House.  I've beheld memorials of great men and great deeds done.

D.C. also has a more personal importance to me.  It's where I proposed to B.  I also have many fond memories of touring the capitol with my family.  There was one day in which we had an impromptu picnic by our car before trekking out to several Smithsonians.  Our crumbs were ravenously attacked by hordes of pigeons - none of us remember what else we saw that day, it's just referred to as The Pigeon Day now.  I've walked where Dr. King walked.  I've stood on the exact step before the Lincoln Memorial where he told the world about his Dream.

I've looked up to Dr. King since I was a child; he's my hero.  But what I think I often forget is that our heroes have heroes.  King admired Lincoln.  I admire him, too.  Standing in front of the massive statue seated at the Memorial, surrounded by towering pillars, it's an overwhelming sight.  Etched into the walls of the Memorial are the words of the Gettysburg Address.


But those inspired words aren't what comes to mind today.

Instead I remember another passage penned by our 16th President:

"All I am or hope to be I owe to my angel mother."


Today is my mother's birthday.  Another year has passed in which I have taken advantage of her presence, her advice, her caring and listening ear.  Right now she's on a much-needed and well-deserved vacation in French Canada with my dad, celebrating their years together and the years mom has graced this world with her presence.



Mom,

I know all of the endless hours and years of patience, tolerance, kindness, and hardy determination that went into teaching and raising me.  I know I should have turned out a lot better considering the work put in, but I try a little harder every day to honor the years of sacrifice you put into not just me, but five other children who all love and adore you.  I remember the months when you bore the burden of leading the family while dad was deployed.  I've always admired your faith, your courage, and your natural capacity to love.  You are so sensitive to the needs of your family that often you know what we want before we do.

I smile remembering the times I made you laugh.

I ache for the tears I caused.

I live for the days I make you proud.

I am proud to have something in common with a man as great as Abraham Lincoln.  My mother is an angel.

All I am and all I can ever hope to become is because of you.


I love you Mom,



S

 

Max

Last summer B. and I took a trip to the exotic land of Battle Mountain, Nevada. 

We went for the annual Rogers Reunion, back to B.’s old stomping grounds.  It was fun for me to visit as the new husband, the new in-law, to be initiated and inundated as one of the family.  We made the mistake of bringing our then-1-year-old niece.  Needless to say, it was a long drive.

The trip reminded me of one of my many homes as a military brat: Clovis, New Mexico.  It wasn’t exactly a thriving metropolis of employment opportunities (of which I was in desperate need at the time) but my time there made an indelible mark on my soul.  I got to really see and experience firsthand a sense of tightknit community among neighbors, friends and congregations.  It was a small ranching community attached to a newly revamped Air Force base.  There was one high school.  They should have built a second high school to help stem the tide of students, but they just built a separate freshman campus, an annex to the main high school.  Why?  Because the town closed down on Friday night; high school football was THE event every weekend.  Everyone seemed to know everyone.  Everyone supported one another.  

New Mexico is called the Land of Enchantment.  And anyone who has lived in one of those small towns, rubbed shoulders with those salt of the earth, wholesome folks, or stood side by side with them and bathed in the natural fireworks display that is a New Mexico sunset knows where the enchantment comes from.

But Nevada has its own enchantment to offer. Battle Mountain is a small mining town out in the middle of the desert.  It has one McDonalds.  It has two grocery stores.  It has one pharmacy.  It has a pizza place.  It has a Mexican restaurant.  It has two hotels.  One of these hotels is attached to a casino called the Owl Club.

A few weeks ago you could have walked into the Owl Club to see a kindly old soul bossing people around, telling wild stories to make the workers laugh, and just make you feel right at home.  This man, Max Rogers, is the reason B. and I made a last-minute trip to good old BM, NV over the holiday weekend.  Grandpa Max’s health had been deteriorating for years.  He and his beloved wife Lorna have battled cancers, illnesses, griefs and sorrows innumerable.  And at last, Max is getting a well-deserved break.

We got the call this morning, and somehow I know there will be a little less color in the sunset tonight.

The world is a little colder, grayer, and more barren for losing Max.  He leaves behind a distraught wife of nearly sixty years and a whopping thirteen children.  Max and Lorna were blessed with a total of 15 children over the years; they didn’t have a family, they had a village.  The Rogers clan is a tribe in the truest sense, and there will be a lot of people to mourn him.

But I try to take comfort in who’s been waiting to greet him.  Two of his children have passed before him and I know, now that his pain is finally over, he’s had quite a welcome.

The Rogers family is a sizable tribe to say the least.  Everyone knows them, especially in a town like Battle Mountain, where they dedicated so many years to growing and helping the community.  I was shocked at how many lives they have touched, at how many people knew and loved Grandpa Max.  The scope of his influence is worthy of a Capra film.  Family members were given free drinks at the bar, baggers at the grocery store offered condolences to us.  Everyone knew.  Everyone worried.  And now, everyone grieves.

I’m just glad we got to say goodbye.

We got to join other family members in preparing for the hard separation.  When we got there he was still coherent enough to talk with us.  B. cried a lot.  I told him we had such a good time visiting him at the hospital on Memorial Day this year, we figured we should drop by again on the 4^th of July.   

“You’re the only way we know how to spend a federal holiday,” I joked.  

 He smiled weakly.  B. sniffed. 

I was glad I could get that smile out of him.   

It felt good to do something, anything to help or contribute.  We left Saturday morning to go back to work and school, pleased but also nervous that he was still holding on for something.  We knew it was getting close.

All of his living children had been able to visit with him and say goodbye except for one son living in Washington state.  He and his wife were finally able to make the long drive down and give their regards on Saturday.

He passed a day and a half later.

I’d like to think that his life wasn’t really in God’s hands until Max put it there, that he was holding out to see his last child, regardless of what God had in the cards.  That’s the kind of man he was.  He wasn’t Godless, he didn’t pick fights with God, but I think if they ever came to a disagreement, he had enough tenacity and will to put up a hell of a fight until the very end. 

I tease B. about her humble stomping grounds sometimes.  Battle Mountain has been jokingly referred to as the armpit of Nevada.  But this second visit gave us time to really tour around.  Every block had a memory for her.  B. told me countless stories about her childhood there.  We know it’s a small Podunk town in the middle of nowhere, but it’s her home.  It’s where she grew up.  It’s where Max decided to set roots and build a family, a home, and a legacy.

A whole town is mourning the loss of a great man today.  I’m just happy to join the ranks of those who knew and loved, however briefly, Max Rogers.

We love you Grandpa.  We miss you.

S

The Happy Few

I'm proud to say I come from a military family.

My father joined the United States Air Force when I was ten.  He left for three months to undergo the hell that is Officer Training School (OTS) in Montgomery, Alabama.  In the summer.

In Alabama.

Many of his fellow squad members confided to him that it was much worse than basic training (through which they had previously gone).  Late that August he was sworn in as a Second Lieutenant.  Thirteen years later he has moved up in rank, in responsibility, and in area of professional expertise.  He has been saluted and called Lieutenant, Captain, and now Major Bugg.

He has had to leave his family from time to time.  He has missed the birth of one of his sons while assigned to legal training in another state.  He has missed Christmas.  He has been deployed to the Middle East and was fortunate enough to avoid any harm.

His service to his country has been both taxing and rewarding.  The military has uprooted our family, shuffled us from place to place, house to house, school to school; we've had to adapt to making new friends quickly and expecting every relationship to come with a shelf life.

But this has also forced us to rely on each other and our abilities to make the bumpy voyage as smooth as possible.  We've banded together to pack up quickly, load moving trucks, organize our household, tag team dinner and painting the living room.  The years have gone by as a whirlwind of boxes, carports, bunk beds (military housing isn't always made for a family of eight people), lawnmowers, airshows, and wonderful, supportive neighbors who understand and empathize with the friction of the lifestyle taken on by our troops and their families.



In 2006 I was a pallbearer at my grandfather's funeral.  It was the most involved I had ever been at a funeral and the only one I had ever been to where I personally knew the deceased. I think of that as my first brush with mortality, my first time joining the ranks of my fathers and brothers and taking my place in the generational chain.

My father wore his uniform to the funeral.  During the memorial service he explained his choice of dress blues over traditional mourning black.

My grandfather served in the military as well.   He joined the Navy once he reached the proper age and took an oath to serve his country.


The war ended before he finished basic.


He finished out his tour of duty behind a typewriter in Guam and went home.  But at his funeral there was still a color guard who draped a flag over the casket.  The Navy - the armed forces - still honored his service.

My father explained:  The oath you take when you join the military is that you will lay down your life for your country if called upon.  Neither my father nor his father have had to die for their country.  But they laid down their lives for it.  They were prepared to give their all.

That is the sacrifice they honored at the grave site.  His willingness to serve was enough.



Joining the military is a life-changing event.  My wife and I consider it as a viable career option at times (just as my father did), but I'm hesitant to make such a drastic step.  I've lived that life - and it is a crucible and a forge for both soldiers and the wives and children.  I honor their sacrifice, but I don't envy it.  Regardless of whether or not you are deployed or if you serve on the home front, you place you family's location, your children's schools, the map of your life, into the hands of strangers.

I love my country.  If called upon - if our enemies threatened our borders and a draft was instituted -  I would, like my grandfather, volunteer to protect my home.  But for now I believe I can better serve my country putting my talents to use as a civilian. I have seen the caliber of men enlisted in our defense, and I am awed.



To those of you who have joined the ranks of my fathers before me, thank you for your service.

To your families, thank you for your sacrifice.  I know only in some small degree the lonely path you tread.


To my dad.  To my grandpa. To all the men and women who protect us with their lives and deaths.

To you few, you happy few, you band of brothers,


From the bottom of my heart,

Thank you.

Aimer

aimer. (v.):    1. to like.
                     2. to love.

This French verb always left me a little frazzled.  I took 3 French classes in high school and I could never figure out why the language didn't allow for any discrepancy between the two (in my opinion) drastically different actions.

I love that about English.

You can like something.

You can love something.

A friend of mine gave me a bit of insight into the need for this distinction years ago.  We stopped by her house before going to a rehearsal so she could pick up some things.  She briefly introduced me to her mom, grabbed the stuff and we left.

On our way out the door, she hollered:

"Bye mom, I like you!"

An echoed response came down the hall,

"I like you, too!"

Confused, I inquired on our way to the car, "... Like?"

Smiling to herself, she explained.



"Everybody loves their family," she said; that's a given. "You don't always like them."



My friend is so awesome.  I've looked up to her for a long time, she's an inspiration as a woman of faith, as a writer, and just as a genuinely good person who always leaves you feeling better than you were before.  She has kept that trademark candid honesty, contagious optimism, and love of life - as evidenced on her own blog.  Check it out!

True, our loved ones can drive us crazy sometimes.  We don't always like what they do, but we always love them.  I spent most of my childhood loving but not necessarily liking one of my brothers (we've since become really good friends).  It's important to celebrate and savor those moments when we don't just feel that obligatory familial bond, that genetic tie to our loved ones, but also those instances when we genuinely like them.  We don't just put up with them because they're blood; we can really enjoy their company and seek it out.




How often do you like the people you love? 


And for that matter, when was the last time you were likable?


S

Hey Kiddo

Hey Kiddo,

It’s Father’s Day, June 16,2013.
  

No, you’re not in our family right now.  I’ve thought about this little project and I realize it’s strange to blow the dust off of it after so long on today of all days, so I guess I should explain.
 

By the time my dad was my age, he was a father.  Now, I’m not a dad yet.  Not planning on being one for a while.  But I’ve seen the way my relationship with my dad is differs from my siblings’ relationships with him. 

Your mom tells me time and time again that I’m my "father’s son."  I’m never fully sure of what she means by that, but I take it as a compliment as often as I can. 

My point is, your uncle Dallin’s version of my dad is very different from mine.  He’s being raised and fathered by a Judge Advocate General for the United States Air Force in his forties.  I got to see my dad as a young kid trying to figure out how to provide for his new family – a situation that drives very close to home right now.  Many of my younger siblings only know my dad, the Major; I knew my dad when he’d just graduated from his major. 
  

I don’t know if/when God will see fit to send you to us, kiddo.  So in the meantime, I’m going to try to recollect as much as I can, so you too can know your father as a young man.

Love,

S