27 Books? 27 Acts of Faith, Hope, and Love

A confession: I really loved the movie 27 Dresses. Jen and I have watched it twice. (Okay, three times.) I'm a sucker for romantic comedies--so much so that once, my four brothers and I all wanted to hang out together and catch up on life in our different worlds. So, what did we do? We went to see The Wedding Planner when it was in theaters.

Five guys saying, "Excuse me" as they walked around a variety of couples out on their first or second dates.

(And we loved the movie.)

But tonight, Jen and I witnessed something far more spectacular than a solid romantic comedy. We told our two sons, Tyler and Ben, that they could have a little extra Brother to Brother Reading Time tonight. They responded with giddiness and proceeded to their bedroom to choose their books.

Jen and I proceeded to ours to sit and talk together after a day's journey hike at the Broad Meadow Brook Conservation Area in Worcester, MA, and a spontaneous stop at an incredible local bookstore, Enchanted Passage, in Sutton. (Keep active and busy as we wait for baby number 3 to arrive is our mantra each day).

Brother to Brother Reading Time began, and continued, and continued, and...

After an hour, Jen and I realized that it was almost 10 pm, and bedtime had long since passed. As we entered they room, we saw a massive stack of books, and Tyler was delighted to show us the mountain.

Ben said, "We read A LOT of books!"

Tyler proceeded to count every single volume, and the tally? 27 books.

There's a lot said about books being sources of hope in dark times--about books being acts of resistance against fear and cruelty, and books serving to light the way for our feet when the path ahead seems treacherous and unknown.

And I believe in all of it.

I believe in the power of books to change lives because it has happened in my life over and over again--at every stage of my growth. The most recent volume to grab make my heart swell and my mind focus is Just Mercy by Bryan Stevenson--a nonfiction account of one lawyer's quest to seek justice for the wrongfully accused and for children serving life sentences for unequal crimes, sentencing when they were young and locked away because of a society that values wealth more than it values love.

Back when I was in the third grade, I remember reading a book called Luke Was There by Eleanor Clymer, and I clutched that book to my chest and took it to bed with me at night and cried with it and believed in it and loved it. It's the story of a young boy, Julius, struggling as his stepdad leaves home and his mom becomes seriously ill. Julius is put into a group home, and he believes that no one cares for him; life is completely hopeless. Enter a Big Brother of sorts--an African-American volunteer named Luke--who helps Julius see that love is possible, and that some people can be trusted.

Man. When I see the cover of that book, my heart still beats fast.

So, yes: I believe that books can change lives, help us see and feel and believe and hope things we might otherwise never have known.

And tonight, when Jen and I walked into our sons' bedroom and saw that stack of 27 books, my heart swelled. That's 27 acts of faith; 27 chances for connection, and compassion, and laughter, and hope.

And love.

Gratitude for Puddles

Going on Day Seventeen of a Ten Day Forecast for Extensive, Hard, Seldom-Ceasing Rain--and today: I love it. Even though I've watched Jennifer tuck her jeans into her boots ("wellies") quite a few times, today was the first time I actually tried it myself and with Tyler. Our plan: a stop at the Lollipop store and then a jaunt to the little Fulford Library. But the rain, relentless as a dog who has to urinate, wouldn't let up. So I realized that it was high time Tyler and I got with the jeans-tucking-in program.

And--who knew!?--it really is an incredibly effective program. I stuffed the ends of my jeans into my black, given-for-free-from-a-neighbor wellies, and helped Tyler stuff his jeans into his newly-bought-pink-strawberry wellies (self chosen, and yes: Jen and I are totally loving the fact that he loves pink boots.)

En route to the lollipop store (where lollipops make up actually only about 4% of Val's little corner shop) Tyler and I manged to find every single puddle that lay between us and our destination. No puddle could escape our masterful gaze. Nor was any puddle too deep, too shallow, too muddy, too clear, or too wormy for our cataplutative leaps.

I am going to run through this one super fast, Daddy, watch me do it LOADS of times! Tyler's roars escape from a visage that knows a few drops may even reach its height. But the Tuck In Jeans Program protects Tyler like a miracle, and the pink boots are the recipient of about 96% of the splashed water.

My turn Tyler-Man! Here's comes Daaaaddddyyyyy! My shouts aren't feigned or exaggerated to help enhance his joy. They're actually an authentic part of my own joy at the newly accepted Tuck In Jeans Program.

When we finally get a lollipop from Val and end up at Fulford Library, we're dry. We are remarkably, miraculously, and can't-touch-it-like-Ryan-Gosling's-smile dry. We choose 16 picture books--including the perennial favorite The Pink Bicycle by Gill Lobel--and load them into my backpack.

En route home, we embody the Tuck In Jeans Program with glee. It's becoming a part of us--thanks to the tutelage of my wife and the glory of Rain. After seventeen days, I finally find myself looking up at the sky, waiting--no, hoping--for more puddles tomorrow.

One Minute Longer

As writers, we sometimes fall prey to that most venemous of frogs (or dragons): it ain't gonna happen. The doubt. The nagging, incessant doubt that tries to slowly convince us of its truth.

When I was a high school senior, many (many!) years ago, I recall that our Superintendent of Schools in Windsor, CT was being "asked to resign."  I don't remember much about why, but there was loads of controversy, and when he gave his last speech to us seniors as we prepared for graduation, I remember a single line of his: the person who accomplishes what they set out to do is often the one who can hold on for one minute longer."

One minute longer.

When it comes to writing and publishing, 'one minute longer' might more accurately be translated, 'one month longer,' or 'one year longer,' or even (yes, even) 'one decade longer.'

When we first open our notebooks with a smile on our faces, saying to our husbands or wives, "I've got this cool idea for a book," the journey we begin is nothing like a walk to the park. Or a walk to the center of town to make a stop at the local library.

It's more like the Appalachian Trail or a jaunt up Mount Everest.

To see our scrawled bubbles go from notebook pages to hardbound or paperback books is nothing short of a miracle--a miracle which sometimes seems and feels as though it will never happen.

Last night, our son Tyler took an unusual nap around one in the afternoon. He slept for an hour as Jennifer and I walked into the city center of York. We felt the inner angst as we confided in one another, Yup, tonight may be a tough night to get the T-Man to sleep. Very tough. May give new meaning to the word 'tough.' Step aside, Stallone. We're gonna have one heck of a ride trying to get our guy to fall asleep. But we'll stick together. It will happen.

So we enjoyed the hour of magnificent conversation--sharing dreams, discussing our latest story ideas and ups and downs, and considering the journey we're on.

Tyler woke happy. His words were literally bubbles that floating out of his mouth into an open sky all day. We saw some famous people get married at York Minster. (Well, we didn't actually see them get married; we watched them exit the church along with the rest of the large crowd. We don't know who they are. or how they;re famous. But the mob seemed to think so.)

When seven o' clock came, and bedtime along with it, Tyler jumped into his Bob the Builder themed bed, and the saga began.

Story time--which usually consists of a five minute story told by me about crane trucks, ice cream, lollipops, and various friends of Tyler's--stretched itself into about twenty minutes.

Song time--which usually consists of a five minute litany of ice cream, lollipop, crane truck, and Christian songs sung by Jennifer--stretched itself into twenty minutes.

Ten more minutes of lollipop stories by me.

Ten more minutes of lollipop songs by Jennifer.

It seemed that sleep would never come. But then another thought dawned on me. Tyler is tired. He needs sleep. He will sleep. Sometime.

And then I remembered: one minute longer.

It's usually just when we're about to give up that things break loose. Really give up, I mean. When our hearts tell us, Nothing, man. I got nothing. And our souls say, Dude, I'm spent. And our bodies and brains echo the refrains--then it's right at that moment that stuff happens.

And in life, stuff always happens when we wait long enough, focus our hearts on what matters rather than what we think matters, and when we keep the faith.

In writing and in publishing, it may seem like it might never happen. But it will. With enough heart, love, authentic passion, and diligence, it will.

Last night, Tyler finally fell asleep amidst a thousand songs of all his favorite things. And maybe, just maybe, that's what it's all about: learning to tell stories and sing songs--holding the faith amidst the wait. No matter how long it takes.

The Safety of Libraries

Today, we've seen switches from sunny skies to thunder storms and then back again. This afternoon, Tyler and I left home to walk to a playground about a mile from home. While I usually am of the mind not to prepare much and to just set off on an adventure, today, I brought the massively oversized umbrella.

Just in case.

After buying two lollipops at the local corner store for six pence a pop, we headed to the playground to swing. Tyler noticed a variety of aircraft wheeling through the sky, and I sang songs about eating lollipops and noticing aircraft wheeling through the sky.

The sunny, blue sky.

And then clouds almost as massively oversized as our umbrella somersaulted into our day. And with the clouds came the rain. And with the rain came the thunder and lightening.

And then the hail.

Tyler and I launched the umbrella, providing a completely new world under which we could walk the five minutes to our tiny Fulford Library.

And this is what I expect Heaven to be like: running from a hailstorm, holding hands with someone you love, and entering into the safety of a place filled with books.

Free books.

Covers which call out stories of hope, betrayal, forgiveness, love, redemption, pain, loss, and joy.

Characters which beckon one to listen, if only for a week or two.

Plots which point back to our hearts.

Rushing into the Fulford Library today, closing our umbrella and leaving it soaking in a corner of the small safe haven, it was difficult not to theorize.

And I think theorizing is a valuable activity if your feet and pants are soaking through and small balls of ice are hanging onto your sandals and socks like the nettles of a pricker bush. Theorizing in a state like that usually leads to joy.

As Tyler and I rushed the children's section, the books indeed beckoned us in. Come on! Warmth! Friends! Hope! Possibility!

Shelter from the storm.

C.S. Lewis once said that "we read to know we're not alone."  I think he's right about that one. We read to find the shelter of the stories of other souls, who travel paths not unlike our own.  We read to find a place of refuge in which to rest our weary feet, dry our soaking, sometimes threadbare clothes.

At every turn of my life, it seems a library was always waiting to welcome me no matter what storm I find myself facing. Whether it was the John F. Kennnedy Elementary School library of Windsor, CT when I was seven and confused and unsure of who I was (and still sometimes am at 30), or when we first arrived in York and knew of no where else to go on a rainy, cold day other than the city center library--the safe haven of warmth and stories has always been there for me.

Words that make warmth wring out my wet life, and lend hope in the midst of hail. Always.

On Finishing

Finish. To finish. Finishing. The more I type and say this word, the more I think of a Finnish man pulling a large trout out of the water, which is an immensely gross and biased interpretation of what Finnish men (or women) actually do. (Please feel free to enlighten me, any Finnish readers!)

But the word is now rumbling around in my brain since I just put the last touches on a manuscript and sent it off to Teachers College Press. A Call to Creativity: Writing, Reading, and Growing with Students in an Age of Standardization (working title) is a manuscript whose pages are filled with all that my students taught me, and so many of the goofy, silly, meaningful, growing, and (yes) weird experiences we forged through together.

And in finishing (at least until the major revisions come back from the editor), there is a certain feeling of lightness, of hope, of belief that maybe something in the book will connect with other teachers who will then use the material with their own students (who will hopefully connect with something, who will then...). In a stage like this--where a manuscript is semi-finished and nothing more can be done until revisions arrive--the room for hope and possibility is large.

It's like arriving at a buffet and looking at the massive table of food while feeling one's tummy groan in gleeful anticipation. Or it's like looking out at a large field before you decide to run wildly across it, pretending first to be an ogre, second to be a superhero, and third to be yourself, strangest of all. Or it's like drinking a very tall glass of water and then putting the glass down on the table in front of you and watching the tiny drops that fall back down the sides.

Finishing feels good. Certainly.

But the learning curve I'm on lately admonishes me to not focus too much on finishing. The character arc in which I find myself in this chapter of life has me headed towards: Focus on delighting in the present, in the journey of the work, the play, the complexity, the hope, the possiblity rather than the finishing of something.

And this is especially difficult for me because I absolutely love finishing. I love getting to the end of something and embraces that feeling of satisfaction that arrives. (Cut to scene: Satisfaction and I run towards one another on a beach, lit by the setting sun, while a powerful yet not too intense instrumental piece comes on background; a lone seagull shoots across the wavering waves of sun-heat; Satisfaction and I embrace.)

But I am seeing more and more that Satisfaction doesn't often linger long. Even though I try to persuade Satisfaction to hang out longer, offering him a cup of coffee, some green seedless grapes, or some yellow construction paper, he always makes some excuse and says he must be on his way.

And then finishing doesn't feel so good. Then, finishing feels more like leaving the buffet, feeling far too full and wondering why you went up for that last plate of green Jell-O. Or it feels like tripping over an unseen mound of dirt hidden by the tall grass of the field through which you were so movie-esquely running. Or it feels like inquenchable thirst even after that tall glass of water.

Once Satisfaction departs, the old longing to finish something else arrives. That inexhaustable voice of What Now?

So into this realm of finishing-related-emotions-and-thoughts, I was deeply grateful for the interruption of Dallas Willard. Not the writer himself, of course (though that would indeed be fantastically cool to receive a call from a great writer who began our phone conversation by uttering, "Hey, Luke, I just thought of calling you because I wondered if one of my ideas might offer you some food for thought in this character arc of your current journey...").

But Willard spoke nonetheless thorugh his volume, Revolution of Character. In an insightful chapter entitled, "Educating Our Emotions," Willard offers the insight that pleasure is fleeting; satusfaction arrives and is connected only to specific events, actions, or circumstances. As soon as those circumstances change, said pleasure and satisfaction changes, too. (Read: finishing!)

However, Willard continues, joy is something much more definite, much more associated with perception and permanency than with circumstances and situations. Joy is characterized as the choice to see the good. To see the good. Love, then, becomes the decision to act for the good of another outside yourself. (Whoa! I'm just trying to get beyond the circumstantial satisfaction of finishing, and here you are bringing up LOVE?!)

Joy doesn't fluctuate. Its life is more like the trunk of the tree than its leaves. Seasons come and go, but that stable body looks the same no matter how much snow or sun surrounds it.

When I watch my son Tyler, I see something of joy in him. Beyond the momentary and characteristic toddler tantrums (which, I am learning are indeed an important part of human-being growth, thank you to Mike Dunn!), Tyler displays an uncaany abillity to not care in the least about finishing something.

If Tyler is digging in the soil, he doesn't remark how good it will feel when all of the soil is finally dug up and he can go inside and sit at the kitchen table with a nice, cool drink.

If Tyler is cutting paper (as Jen has so expertly taught him to do), he doesn't discuss how wonderful it will be to finally cut all of the paper stocked in our entire home so that he can finally be done cutting paper and instead sit down and kick up his feet.

Finishing means nothing to my toddler. Not a thing. (Including such items as Finish your dinner! and Let's finish changing your poopie diaper before you jump on the bed!)

So, as I sit here having sent off my manuscript to the press, I'll conscientiously work to not feel too good about simply finishing it. Instead, I'll be trying to see this state as a step along the journey towards seeing what is good. A step in the journey of joy. And, God willing, this is how I'll respond tonight should Tyler wake up at two a.m. screaming because of a nightmare, or gas pains, or growing pains, or any number of other indecipherable reasons why a toddler wakes at two in the morning.

But I'm not finished with my need to work on re-defining finishing. Not by a long shot.

And hey, maybe that's a good thing after all.

Defiance

It seems like the word should be the name of a cologne, or a perfume, or a mixture of both. Defiance: the new smell for men and women who like to live defying everything, and for men and women who like to live defying defiance, even. From Calvin Klein. And from Other Famous People who Create Smells that are Encapsulated with One Word Nouns with Super-Strong Ties to Verbs.

But no.

I must defy that possibility of today's theme. Defiance, I am learning, is instead the name of the game when raising a toddler. Tyler is now just about 2 and 1/2 years old, and Defiance has emerged in all its glorious, confusing, hair-raising, skin-tingling, tear-producing manifestations.

And I will confess: I wasn't ready for it.

I was still patting myself on the back a bit for a semi-smooth switch to stay-at-home parenting and writing instead of making my way into the public school each day to work with my lovely seventh graders. I missed teaching--yes, deeply--but I was ecstatic to have such intense time with our son. To watch him laugh, smile, dig, point out uptrucks, point out colors, point out people, point out people's hair, and point our people's various, multi-colored shoes.

Enter Defiance.

Where our days once progressed with ease and the (only) occasional refusal to comply, they now progress with multiple battles proceeding in ever-more-embittered struggles for power. Where once the marvelous technique of distraction could be employed to swiftly overcome most any problem--Oh, you wanted to wear a diaper on your head? Hey, look at that dog walking down the sidewalk, let's go see it!--now Distraction has been bypassed for, yup, Definance.

Then: Oh, you want to eat lollipops for dinner? Hey, check out all this ketchup we can put on your Veggie Nuggets! Whoa, Dude! Ketchup everywhere, quick, eat the Veggie Nuggets before they drown in ketchup! [Problem solved]

Now: Oh, you want to wear the same Thomas the Tank Engine shirt that you have been wearing for two days straight and which is now covered in a mixture of dirt, various sauces, mucus, and pesto? Hey, check out this SUPER cool Bob the Builder shirt you can wear instead! No? Really, no? You sure you don't want to wear this BOB THE BUILDER SHIRT while I pick you up and swing you around while I sing the theme song for BOB THE BUILDER and then jump up and down pretending to be a kangaroo who is looking for lollipops in the MAGICAL FOREST?

No?

Really?

Did you hear all the things I said?

And so, Defiance has entered the game. It was a late substitution, as I honestly thought we were going to skate through the toddler stage with our greatest difficulty being a few borken bananas here and there that we could not glue together.

But then the buzzer sounded, and the opposing team put in the sub from the end of the bench. He's a little guy, but the thing is that he's that kind of player who will dive for loose balls, smash his head into the bleachers to keep the basketball in bounds, and toss up a shot from half-court to send the game into overtime (and swish it.)

Defiance is a scrappy player.

And he lets nothing pass, no matter how small.

You want to take a bath?

No.

You want to take a shower?

No.

You want to take a bath and shower at THE SAME TIME? SO COOL! RIGHT?

No.

All the parenting books I have been reading (and there are a lot of them out there) tell me this is completely normal. They say that every toddler has to pass through this stage where they want independence but they don't really want it, no, yes they do want it, no, actually, they don't. No, yes, they do. I mean they don't.

The books assure Jen and I that this stage will pass, and that the important thing is to remain calm, to be firm but loving, and to try not to make a big deal over small things--to let go of the battles that really aren't that important. The books tell us that not fighting your toddler over every little thing will help the stage pass more quickly, and things will begin, again, to resemble that peaceful euphoria for which I had been on my kness praising God.

So, My List of Things of Late That We Have Chosen to Not Fight:

1. Spaghetti sauce in the hair (What's the worst that could happen? It will come out in the bath, later, right?)
2. Spaghetti sauce in the nose (Hey, maybe it smells good)
3. Granola Bars (Cranola Bar! I want one Cranola Bar! Hey, there's some good protein and carbs in those things, right? So, logic goes to figure that TWO or THREE of those things will have twice as many good carbs and protein...right?)
4. Clothes (Okay, you want to wear pyjamas all day? Fine. On second thought, I'll join you.)

My List of Things That We Have Chosen to Fight For:

1. Sleep
2. Sleep
3. Sleep
4. Sleep

I now take a breath, dive into some more reading in Toddler Taming by Dr. Christopher Green, and I will continue to hope that memorizing 1 Corinthians 13 (the "Love" chapter) will help sustain a calm but firm stance amidst this new stage.

(And I'll also be hoping that Defiance soon becomes a cologne. Or perfume. Or a mixture of both.)

25 Pence (!)

About 34 cents, if Google's currency exchange is accurate. It was the price, recently, of the movie The Shawshank Redemption at a charity shop in the center of York.

I was in town to have a morning coffee and get as much writing done on a new project as I could. I woke excited, revving those writer engines of Just Get It Down On the Page and You Can Always Revise Later! As I opened up my tiny, (miniature, really, but I love it) e-book and began where I left off in Microsoft Word, I was already relishing the second-hand book-store crawl I knew was coming.

Three hours later, I breathed deep, rubbed my eyes, leaned back in my cafe chair, downed the last of my coffee, and re-saved (for the umpteenth, yes, obsessively umpteenth) my work.

Then, it was off to the bookstores.

I found Zadie Smith's White Teeth, a novel I have wanted to read for a while, and was delighted to see it for 2 pounds. Then I found Selling Your Father's Bones by Richard Scofield, a non-fiction volume about the flight of the Nez Perce against the onslaught and terror of the Westward Expansion in America. At the next shop, I found the social justice rallying Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger by R.J. Sider (had heard of this from Jim Wallis's The Call to Conversion and was excited to find it waiting on the shelf for a couple of pounds) and also Equal to Serve, about the quest for women's equality within the Church. At the last stop, I found a puzzle for Tyler, and four films, including Shawshank for 25 pence!

Last night, as Jennifer and I heard the beautiful lines about hope narrated by Red (Morgan Freeman), it was hard not to realize that when we cease to hope, we cease to live. A powerful reminder for only 25 pence (or, rather, 34 cents!).

Not Exactly a Snowman

Last night, a coating of snow crawled across the grass in our backyard (and everyone's backyard in York, for that matter). So, this morning, after Tyler and I had eaten our Fruit 'N Fiber cereal, done a few puzzles, and practiced a new dance he affectionately called The Uptruck Dance, we layered up and went outside to build a snowman.

Well, not exactly a snowman.

Me: T-Man! Let's build a cool snowman!

Tyler: No, no, no, no, build, build Gruff-a-lo!

Me: You want to build the Gruffalo instead of building a snowman?

Tyler: Yay! Build BEEEEG Gruff-a-lo!

And so, we set to work, rolling three large balls that would make up the body of our Gruffalo. In case you're reading this entry, wondering what in the heck a Gruffalo actually is, then you're in for a treat.

A real treat.

I'm talking about the kind of treat that makes your mouth water.

Your knees tremble with ecstacy.

Your jaw plummets in wonder and awe.

Your arms flap wildly as if you were a bird trying to fly far far away from wherever you are, now.

Your legs bounce rapidly as if you were a kangaroo, bounding across the terrain of sheer beauty, while a light rain drizzles softly on your cute kangaroo-head. (You cutie, you.)

See, we were introduce to an amazing little picture book written by Julia Donaldson and illustrated by Axel Scheffler, entitled The Gruffalo. (Check out the book here.) We hadn't heard of it until we moved to England, but when we first read it, it was all Tyler wanted to talk about, think about, read about, or consider. Indeed, the Gruffalo became a close confidant, and helped us navigate the meaning of life for at least a month.

the phase is now passing, but this morning, as we heading into the new snowfall, Tyler--for whatever reason--longed to bring the Gruffalo back to life again.

Maybe he missed that old purple-prickled, green-warted monster; or maybe the snow inspired him to ask himself, What truly amazing thing can we build? A snowman is too easy! Far too easy! let's make it a Gruffalo!

Whatever our two-year-old son was thinking, as we rolled those large balls of snow, he was excited. He relished the chance to build something with his mittened hands. And when we took a short break to kiss his mommy and the love of my life goodbye as she headed off to work, it was hard not to smile and think to myself, Isn't this a small part of what it's all about? In life, we create things that, hopefully, keep creating. And we sometimes stand back and say, sweet.

Granted, the snow-Gruffalo we built this morning looks basically like a glorified snowman with two large feet attached the his bottom ball.

But in Tyler's mind, it's one heck of a Gruffalo.

Okay, fine, you got me: it's a Gruffalo in my mind, too.