“Help me, daddy, I’m stuck!”

Anyone who has ever had a meal with us in our home knows just how adventurous that can be. Everyone has a story to tell, perhaps a grievance (or ten) to air, and a belly that needs filling.

Sometimes I joke that there’s so much activity during mealtime, we eat like we’re about to flee the country. 

Right now our two-year-old twins have seats we actually buckle them into. It’s a ginormous saving grace. One of the twins, Marceau, actually decided he was quite finished with the buckle seat, thank you very much, and was ready to experience the “growned up seat”. We experimented a bit, and the results were disastrous.

Spills, falls, chaos, regrets…like turning a drunk person loose at a wedding reception. There aren’t enough paper towels in the world.

So, it was back to the buckle chair for Marceau. As his chagrine level hit record highs, he got clever, and started playing the sympathy card.

At random moments he’d cry out, “Oh no, daddy, oh no!” I’d run to his aid, ask what the problem was, he’d point to the straps and say, “I’m buckled.” (As if it were by some dark conspiracy by the universe he ended up there.)

Since that didn’t work, he came up with a few new ones, but my favorite is this: “Help me, daddy, I’m stuck!”

Nice.

We’ve tried lots of answers, but a few days ago, I said something back to him that made me stop and think.

“You’re not stuck…you’re safe.”

It didn’t completely satisfy him, but he did go back to eating his snack.

But that idea lingered (and continues to linger) with me.

Not stuck…safe.

So many seasons I emote to God about why exactly nothing seems to be working. I’m trying to move…but I can’t. And I don’t want to be where I am anymore, I want to be somewhere else, doing something else…but I can’t.

So, I let God know…”Help me, daddy, I’m stuck!”

Over and over the voice from Heaven speaks back, “You’re not stuck…you’re safe.” Because I’m like Marceau, testing the limits of grace in my child-like faith, as God gently and patiently lifts me from my falls and spills, and sets me back in my safe place. The place where I learn what I need to learn for right now, and trust the Spirit to lead when it’s time learn what’s next.

As Henri Nouwen writes, “A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us.” 

The stuck place isn’t always the most comfortable, but it often turns out to be the most hopeful. It gives us pause to breathe, process, even enjoy what’s happening around us.

I’m convinced without the stuck seasons, we’ll never learn how to live well the seasons of freedom.

—–

Are you stuck right now? How do you handle the challenge of waiting?

Why should anyone ever have kids?!

Someone asked me the other day why anyone should have kids…especially since it can be so difficult, painful, and challenging.

They asked me this question on a particularly difficult day as a father. Ten different kinds of off-spring related disasters happened. We have five…almost six children (yes…we’re crazy…and any other adjective you can think of to describe us), and on this particular day my wife and I had just had enough. It doesn’t matter how much of a genius you may be at parenting (and trust me…while I may be an expert and MAKING children, I have miles to go in cultivating them), sometimes everything just falls apart.

Disrespect, disobedience, cranky attitudes, spills, messes, injuries…and a litany of questions numbering somewhere between a mountain and incessant.

This was a Murphey’s Law day from start to finish. And I had just had it. Finally, I just said, “What the heck is wrong with our kids?!”

It prompted me to post this on Twitter and Facebook:

“Real talk: parenthood just might be the most painfully challenging job on the planet. It can only be by grace any of us make it.”

It got lots of reaction, mostly from parents who identified with the statement, but then someone asked me on Twitter: “Can you explain why someone would want to get into that?” That’s like asking someone who just had six teeth pulled without pain meds what they think of a dentist.

Fortunately, before I answered, I paused. Of course I love my children. They’re each so unique, passionate, creative, and thrilled with so many simplicities I became numb to years ago. My frustration mostly comes from the expectation that they already understand all the things I want them to…and their frustration comes because they don’t

They’re broken…just like me.

Still discovering…

Still exploring…

Still embracing wonder…

Obviously each family has to develop its specific culture, but it’s so easy to mistake pure curiosity with a breach of Chambers family culture. My friend Paul shared a quote with me…neither of us could ever figure out where it came from…but it goes like this:

“Grace isn’t a tightrope, it’s an open field where you run until you find the fences.”

When I finally got around to answering the “Why should ANYONE ever have kids?!” question, several things occurred to me. I can’t experience grace, hope, love, or joy unless their opposites also exist. I know what love is because I have also been hated. I know what healing is because I’ve been hurt. I know what grace is because I’m a sinner.

Parenthood is a gift because we have 24/7 miniature reminders to constantly pour out our very best. We don’t always pour out our best (in fact, sometimes I’m haunted with the idea that the reason my kids may react a certain way is because they learned it from me), but again…that’s why grace exists.

For us…and for them.

—–

Do have children? What is a lesson you’ve learned along the journey?

“Daddy, what is sex and being gay?”

Are you serious?!

My wife had literally just stepped foot inside the grocery store to pick up a few staples, and I was driving circles in around the lot with our five kids in town until she emerged again.

Everyone was in a fantastic mood, the music was on, the kids were singing…and then…out of nowhere came “The question.”

“Daddy, what is sex and being gay?”

Awesome. It was a double question about two subjects that are cousins content-wise, but don’t live in the same room.

By the way – if you’re reading this post hoping I’ll give you a magically simple way to share with your kids about sexuality…sorry, I haven’t figured that one out yet. (But please let me know if you come across one.)

But that question got me thinking. We’ve always endeavored to be as honest as possible with our children about the way things are in the world. Obviously we do that with age-appropriate verbiage. Sometimes I think we might have been “too honest”, but on the other hand, there’s a terrible habit I’d really like to avoid:

Lying to “protect” them.

Have you ever done that? Has anyone ever done that to you?

I’m guilty, and I’ve been on the receiving end multiple times.

We’ve often joked about how every Christmas we have to remind our kids not to run around telling all their friends that Santa Claus doesn’t exist. We don’t have anything against the Santa narrative, but pretty early on our oldest two just figured it out. It didn’t mess them up, and they love the story of the real St. Nicholas.

There’ve been several stories we’ve been a part of recently where one spouse didn’t share the whole story about a situation with the other spouse simply because they didn’t want them to be hurt. Or they just wanted to avoid a difficult conversation altogether – but when the whole truth finally came out, things were much, much worse.

I’d really love to avoid that kind of scenario with my wife, children and people I interact with, and I wager that most of the family story lines known as “deep dark secrets” are actually people wanting to avoid sharing an awkward moment.

Lying to protect is like a paper cut. It might seem tiny and insignificant, but it’s potentially much more painful than you realized.

My kids are like detectives. They can tell when I’m giving them the run around. An they don’t like it…they want the truth. Even if the truth is, “Hey – at some point I promise I’ll share that with you, but right now isn’t a good time,” that’s what they’re after.

When we don’t give someone the whole story, if makes them feel as if we care more about covering our own butts than being honest and open with them. That never ends well.

There’s plenty of trial we each have to face without adding to it by not answering honestly when a difficult question comes our way. 

The most interesting point in all this is, I don’t remember all the people who’ve been honest with me along the way, but I certainly remember the people who lied. Not in a “and I still hate them to this day,” sort of way, but in a strange, “I wish they’d just told me,” sort of way.

As C.S. Lewis wrote in The Last Battle, ”And then she understood the devilish cunning of the enemies’ plan. By mixing a little truth with it they had made their lie far stronger.”

My kids deserve to hear the truth from me (heck, everyone does). Even if I fumble around with the best words, I must make sure what stumbles out in the end is the truth.

And that’s the truth.

—–

Have you every told a lie or been on the receiving end of a lie that was told to “protect”?

“But Dad, I only punched him because he stole my Bible!”

I could hear the stampede of flip-flopped feet bounding toward the front door. I knew it was only a matter of seconds before my tranquil few minutes on the porch swing with our 2-year-old, Eden, and 5-year-old, Jude, would be all shot to hell.

“HE TOOK MY BIBLE! Dad, dad, daddy, daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad!”

The glass storm door flung open and our two oldest, Tobin and Josiah, burst onto the porch, red-faced and ready for a battle to the death. Clutched in Josiah’s white-knuckled hands was a tiny, pastel blue New Testament.

I calmly walked over, asked for the Holy book, and told them both to go wait for me in the living room.

Then it happened…

WHACK!

As Tobin walked by Josiah he connected a well-placed right hook that would have made even Chuck Norris nod in approval. As you can imagine, there was weeping and gnashing of teeth, and all eyes were now on me to “fix it”.

If only there was a book with eternal words of wisdom that could help me communicate a solution to this complicated aberration to our family dynamic…ah yes! I still had the Bible in my hand.

I quickly thumbed my way to the Gospel of St. Luke chapter 6, and had Tobin read a few lines, then Josiah read a few lines…

“But love your enemies and do good…”

“Be merciful, as God is merciful…”

“Condemn not…”

“Forgive…”

We talked about how to be generous with one another. About not turning every tiny frustrating event into World War 3. About how there’s never a good reason to haul of and punch your brother in the face…especially over the Bible!

I was on a roll, and my fatherly monologue was going swimmingly until Tobin interrupted and said, “But dad, I only punched him because he stole my Bible!”

And…back to square one.

But as I fumbled around with where to go next, a powerful reminder suddenly dawned on me: sitting next to me on the sofa was an 8 and 7 year old wading through an enormous amount of life-discovery. I can vaguely remember it was about that time that I began wondering how all types of things worked…especially justice. Unfortunately in this situation, justice was administered, but it was the wrong kind.

And there, in our living room, I found myself in their shoes. I could hear myself very clearly in their words…

“But, Dad, he messed with my stuff…he took my stuff…he got too close to my stuff…”

How dare he/they.

Our stuff.

We love our stuff. Territory. Ideas.

When people begin to encroach or breach our stuff fortress, we hastily dub ourselves the administrators of justice and go forth, leaving a wake of much unnecessary pain, frustration, and hurt.

I looked back at the two wide-eyed boys on the couch, and all that came out was this:

“Tobin, I understand he stole your Bible, and I can handle Josiah, but we have to make sure we love each other more than we love our stuff.”

That line echoed off the walls of my heart into all sorts of compartments…

“We have to make sure we love each other more than we love…politics…”

“We have to make sure we love each other more than we love…theology…”

“We have to make sure we love each other more than we love…nationality…”

“We have to make sure we love each other more than we love…social status…”

“We have to make sure we love each other more than we love…holding grudges…”

This list could go on all day long. It’s never-ending. We all know exactly which barriers to loving people show up when someone steps across our personal threshold.

So, next time you’re tempted to punch someone (figuratively, verbally, or physically) for messing up your stuff, I hope you’ll remember my two sons. Instead of running around figuring our clever ways to justify getting revenge, or gaining the upper hand, let’s extend our hand instead. There’s no triumph in beating down one who steals our stuff. In the end, it’s still just stuff, and people matter way more.

The time-wrending words of Jesus are present and convicting:

But love your enemies, and do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return, and your reward will be great, and you will be sons of the Most High, for he is kind to the ungrateful and the evil. Be merciful, even as your Father is merciful. Judge not, and you will not be judged; condemn not, and you will not be condemned; forgive, and you will be forgiven… // Luke 6.25-37

May our lives be marked by these truths.

The time I prank called…the police…

Shortly after my father finished seminary, we were living in a small apartment complex in  Texas. Most of the memories are pretty vague for me, but while we lived in this particular apartment, I carried out two of the craziest stunts of my pre-five-year-old life.

1. I fell out of the second story window one day pretending to be SuperMan. (I’ll save that story for another day)

1. I made a prank phone call just before my mother and I left to wash clothes at the laundromat that led to this…

We returned, laundry baskets in hand to a parking lot filled with police cars and several cops staking out one particular apartment…our apartment.

You see, the number I had dialed was 911 (or 999 in the UK…or 112 in the EU…and honestly, I have no idea what the equivalent is elsewhere). Now, at that particular time in our 1980s period of history, things were handled a bit differently. After we left the apartment, the 911 operator tried calling us back several times. When no one at our apartment answered, they sent someone to check. When no one came to the door, they called for backup.

At this point, I’m thrilled social media didn’t really exist, or else I’m sure there’d be a YouTube video of the whole ordeal.

After some convincing, I finally admitted to making the call, my mother explained we had gone to wash clothes, and everything was fine. Nevertheless, the police still insisted on escorting us back to our flat, and inspecting it thoroughly before letting us back inside. (They were already there, might as well check it out.)

I’m sure I faced some sort of punishment which has been blocked from my memory, but one thing that’s always confused me was the overreaction of the police department.

People had been evacuated, and they were ready to go in, guns blazing…simply because no one answered the phone or came to the door. Somewhere up the chain of command, a decision was made to confront a situation that really didn’t amount to much in the end.

I’m not sure about you, but a huge struggle I have is with overreacting to situations that really don’t amount to much in the end.

If there’s an emergency, I’m steady as a rock…under pressure, I’m cool, calm and collected…

But if one of my kids spills their drink or won’t fall asleep as quickly as I wanted, I overreact. I convince myself if I come at them like a giant wave, that’ll fix everything, but really everyone just gets wet and frustrated.

It’s so easy for me to laugh about how the police overreacted when I called 911 as a small child, but completely justify my own overreactions all the time.

I suppose that’s because it’s much more convenient to overlook my own hypocrisy.

The challenge is to emulate the call of God…to react to situations (even incredibly frustrating ones) with the spirit we read about in the Biblical poetry of Psalms and Proverbs…

We read things like:

But you, O Lord, are a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness…(Ps 86.15)

Whoever is slow to anger has great understanding, but he who has a hasty temper exalts folly…(Pr 14.29)

Whoever is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he who rules his spirit than he who takes a city….(Pr 16.32)

Good sense makes one slow to anger, and it is his glory to overlook an offence…(Pr 19.11)

Slow to anger…abounding in love. This doesn’t necessarily work for the police force…but it works for me.

My heart is to learn how to rush into situations not with guns drawn, but with arms open.

Because all I really need for spilled milk is a paper towel.