A few days ago, Timothy seemed to realize he couldn't move his hand like his Pops. No problem, I gave him the assist.
Last night at bedtime, Timothy decided he would assist himself, thank you very much. Looks like I'm out of the picture . . .
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMPMdlF4teg
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tonight's Bedtime Prayer
(Lights go out. Bed time.)
Timothy: Dad, we forgot to pray.
Dad: OK, buddy. You pray first.
Timothy: OK. God, thank you for my dog, thank you for chicken
coops, and thank you for Jesus. Amen.
(I don't even bother asking anymore.)
Timothy: Dad, we forgot to pray.
Dad: OK, buddy. You pray first.
Timothy: OK. God, thank you for my dog, thank you for chicken
coops, and thank you for Jesus. Amen.
(I don't even bother asking anymore.)
Thursday, July 15, 2010
The Dreaded Day And The Grace Therein
Shortly after Timothy was born and we learned of his genetic condition, I almost immediately began dreading two days in the future. The first was the day Timothy would realize he could not physically do something others could. The second was the day Timothy was picked on by someone else. I was convinced the first day would put a tear in my eye, and the second day would leave me slugging someone in the eye.
Although I suppose these are natural concerns any father would have after learning his newborn son has some "disabilities", I've since learned that living out of these concerns leads no where other than sinful worrying. There's no point in fretting about what might be, as I'll only end up missing the grace of what is.
That being said, one of those days has arrived.
On the nights I'm the one who puts Timothy to bed, the two of us will lie on our backs next to each other looking up at my fist raised in the air. Slowly, beginning with my thumb, I will then extend each finger one-by-one until my fist has been fully opened. As each finger extends, I will say these words: Jesus - died - for - my - sins.
Five fingers. Five words. Just as these words transform a closed fist into an open palm, so too, the truth of those words transforms a closed heart into a freed life.
After saying these five words and opening my hand, I'll once again close my fist. This time, Timothy will grab each of my fingers and straighten them one after the other, saying the words as he goes.
Jesus - died - for - my - sins.
If there is one truth I want my son to know, that is it. Hence, our little routine . . .
But last night, our routine changed.
Rather than helping me open my fist one finger at a time, Timothy decided he was going to open his own fist one finger at a time.
And he couldn't.
He had a hard time extending his thumb. When he finally did, he wasn't able to hold his other fingers down. His fist seemed to burst open, yet none of his fingers could fully extend.
Timothy intently studied his own hand as if to be thinking, "Why doesn't my hand do what my daddy's does?"
His wheels were turning, and my heart was sinking. I knew what was coming . . .
In his dimly lit room, Timothy turned his head toward me and said, "Daddy, I can't do it."
Oh how I hurt inside, yet outwardly I didn't seem to hesitate.
"Here, let me help you."
And with that, he made a fist, and I opened his fingers for him one by one.
Jesus - died - for - my - sins.
Since last night, part of me has avoided thinking about that moment, and yet part of me has been chewing on that moment (if that makes any sense). While I still ache inside, I'm struck by the grace of that moment.
Timothy's "I can't" was instantly met with "Jesus - died - for - my - sins." It's as if Timothy's disability was eclipsed by the reminder of Christ's ability. Timothy caught a glimpse of something he couldn't do at the same time he was hearing about what only Christ can do.
Timothy, little buddy, what you can or can't do . . . in the end . . . is not important. Christ has done what you and I could never do. He lived the life we were to live and didn't. Through his death and resurrection, he earned for us the forgiveness we couldn't. My greatest prayer is for you to trust in the Savior who died for your sins . . . and that despite what you may or may not be able to do . . . you will rest in what he has already done.
Until that time, I suppose our routine has changed. Rather than having Timothy open up my fingers, I'll gladly help him open his. Besides, it somehow seems more fitting that way, as with each finger, we'll together say, "Jesus - died - for - my -sins."
Although I suppose these are natural concerns any father would have after learning his newborn son has some "disabilities", I've since learned that living out of these concerns leads no where other than sinful worrying. There's no point in fretting about what might be, as I'll only end up missing the grace of what is.
That being said, one of those days has arrived.
On the nights I'm the one who puts Timothy to bed, the two of us will lie on our backs next to each other looking up at my fist raised in the air. Slowly, beginning with my thumb, I will then extend each finger one-by-one until my fist has been fully opened. As each finger extends, I will say these words: Jesus - died - for - my - sins.
Five fingers. Five words. Just as these words transform a closed fist into an open palm, so too, the truth of those words transforms a closed heart into a freed life.
After saying these five words and opening my hand, I'll once again close my fist. This time, Timothy will grab each of my fingers and straighten them one after the other, saying the words as he goes.
Jesus - died - for - my - sins.
If there is one truth I want my son to know, that is it. Hence, our little routine . . .
But last night, our routine changed.
Rather than helping me open my fist one finger at a time, Timothy decided he was going to open his own fist one finger at a time.
And he couldn't.
He had a hard time extending his thumb. When he finally did, he wasn't able to hold his other fingers down. His fist seemed to burst open, yet none of his fingers could fully extend.
Timothy intently studied his own hand as if to be thinking, "Why doesn't my hand do what my daddy's does?"
His wheels were turning, and my heart was sinking. I knew what was coming . . .
In his dimly lit room, Timothy turned his head toward me and said, "Daddy, I can't do it."
Oh how I hurt inside, yet outwardly I didn't seem to hesitate.
"Here, let me help you."
And with that, he made a fist, and I opened his fingers for him one by one.
Jesus - died - for - my - sins.
Since last night, part of me has avoided thinking about that moment, and yet part of me has been chewing on that moment (if that makes any sense). While I still ache inside, I'm struck by the grace of that moment.
Timothy's "I can't" was instantly met with "Jesus - died - for - my - sins." It's as if Timothy's disability was eclipsed by the reminder of Christ's ability. Timothy caught a glimpse of something he couldn't do at the same time he was hearing about what only Christ can do.
Timothy, little buddy, what you can or can't do . . . in the end . . . is not important. Christ has done what you and I could never do. He lived the life we were to live and didn't. Through his death and resurrection, he earned for us the forgiveness we couldn't. My greatest prayer is for you to trust in the Savior who died for your sins . . . and that despite what you may or may not be able to do . . . you will rest in what he has already done.
Until that time, I suppose our routine has changed. Rather than having Timothy open up my fingers, I'll gladly help him open his. Besides, it somehow seems more fitting that way, as with each finger, we'll together say, "Jesus - died - for - my -sins."
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Dancing In The Minefields
My wife and I met when I was 19 and she was 21. She's always quick to point out she's only 14 months older than me. I'm quick to point out she started out dating a teenager. Either way you spin it, our 16 years of marriage are nothing more and nothing less than a testimony to God's radical grace.
I love my wife. I am proud of who she has become and who she is becoming, particularly as we walk this road with both or our children.
As I watched the video release of Andrew Peterson's new song "Dancing In The Minefields" (off of his upcoming album Counting Stars) I couldn't help but think of where we've been, where we are, and ultimately . . . where we are heading.
Enjoy . . .
email subscribers, go to http://youtu.be/NtTa81LyuQM)
I love my wife. I am proud of who she has become and who she is becoming, particularly as we walk this road with both or our children.
As I watched the video release of Andrew Peterson's new song "Dancing In The Minefields" (off of his upcoming album Counting Stars) I couldn't help but think of where we've been, where we are, and ultimately . . . where we are heading.
Enjoy . . .
email subscribers, go to http://youtu.be/NtTa81LyuQM)
Monday, July 12, 2010
Friday, July 09, 2010
The Boys Of Summer
As I was leaving for the store the other day, Timothy came running up to me in the yard.
I casually asked, "What' going on, big man?"
His reply: "I'm just throwing poo poo but it's too mushy."
I don't even want to know.
Oh to experience summer as a little boy.
Always dirty. Never wearing shoes. Falling asleep exhausted.
While I can't recall taking part in the past time of poo tossing (which doesn't mean I didn't) . . . I do recall spending many hours playing with my Star Wars action figures. Seeing this video brought back some of those memories (with a rather updated twist)!
I casually asked, "What' going on, big man?"
His reply: "I'm just throwing poo poo but it's too mushy."
I don't even want to know.
Oh to experience summer as a little boy.
Always dirty. Never wearing shoes. Falling asleep exhausted.
While I can't recall taking part in the past time of poo tossing (which doesn't mean I didn't) . . . I do recall spending many hours playing with my Star Wars action figures. Seeing this video brought back some of those memories (with a rather updated twist)!
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