My Five Year Old Found a Five Finger Discount

     I picked my son up from preschool yesterday and on the way home we stopped by a store I like to peruse for journals. On a "clearance" table, Max found a toy dinosaur that was out of its package. Of course, he wanted it, but we weren't there for him, we were there for me! Alas, I took him over by the toy section to see if there was anything he might like for his upcoming birthday. After leaving the clearance table, he had asked three times, "Can we go home now?" Not an unusual question from any of my children when we are patronizing a store that isn't named "Toys R Us," but he was persistent about wanting to leave. As we got in the car, I noticed he put something on the side of his booster chair in a manner that tipped me off that he did not want me to see it. I asked him what he had. "I don't know." I insisted on seeing what was beside his chair. Sure enough, it was that dinosaur. No wonder he wanted to leave so badly, he had just ripped off the joint! "Max! We didn't pay for that! That's called stealing!" I told him we had to give it back. He didn't like that idea. We walked back inside and I made him give the toy to the customer service person and say he was sorry, which he did, but as soon as we turned to leave, he erupted into tears.
     As soon as we got home he went straight to his room completely on his own and got under the covers of his bed. I followed him in there so we could discuss what happened. I put my arm around him and explained what stealing was and how the Bible teaches us that we shouldn't steal and how we need to be pleasing to God if He tells us not to steal. "Did you like going back in the store and giving that dinosaur to that man?" He shook his head. "That wasn't fun, was it?" Shook head. "Are you ever going to do that again?" More head shaking. Then I hugged him and said we weren't going to talk about it the rest of the night.
     At dinner, the girls brought up the random items Max had been bringing home from school saying friends or teachers had given them to him; a bell, a coloring book, an old-school fisher price bald headed man toy... little did we know he had been lifting things from his classroom for weeks. I told him when I dropped him off the next day that we were going to thank each person that had given him these gifts. He didn't like that idea.
     Later, I asked Max if he had taken those items without permission. And he fessed up. So, he will return each "gift" and make it right just like he had to do at the store, and I'm praying he has learned a lesson. But I think I was learning just as much as he was, about flying by the seat of my pants as a father when I clearly didn't remember this chapter in the parenting handbook they gave me when my kids were born. After all, no one caught me when I took the little gun out of an opened Star Wars action figure package in Payless Drugstore, but those guns were so easy to lose, you have to understand...

The Two Sweetest Words I Ever Heard

     I'm not what one would call a natural athlete, but as a kid, I would play touch football with the other  kids who lived on the street. I was even down for tackle when we would move the game to the grass in the park. On Reimche Drive, no one made fun of me if I fumbled a pass or dropped a pop fly, mostly because I was under the protective wing of my brother who was the king of the neighborhood. I wasn't a natural, but I could be taught.
     In 6th grade, of my own volition, I signed up for the lunch hour softball league. I thought it would be fun. I thought wrong. There was a kid named Steve who obviously didn't understand what being a team was. We were supposed to be teammates, but he saw me as the weakest link, so he made lunch hour baseball miserable for me. One day I hit a triple. Was Steve happy about it? No. There weren't any "good job" comments or atta boys. I just got lucky, or at least that's how Steve looked at it.
     After my lunch hour league experience, something inside me shut down when it came to organized sports, which made gym class in Junior High the worst period of the day for me. And just what were those PE teachers paid for? All they did was tell us to do some jumping jacks and then would have the same "cool kids" be captains to pick teams for whatever sport we would be playing that day. Then they would disappear, leaving us to fend for ourselves. Whenever we would play softball, I would usually get picked last (and on good days, second to last), and then find myself out in right field. In Junior High, right field was reserved for the least of all players on the team.
     One day a pop fly was coming my way, and I ran for it. I held out my glove and somehow that ball ended up not on the ground. Did I get a "Nice catch, Couch"? Not exactly. Instead, I heard a very sarcastic, "Happy Birthday!" Needless to say, I was ecstatic when I had completed all my PE credits and never had to go to "gym" again.
     When I was in my late 20's, I decided I wanted to play on the church softball league. This was a big risk for me. I was putting myself out there just like I did in 6th grade, trusting that people on a Christian league wouldn't judge my abilities. Our team had a great captain who took our practice times very seriously. He actually taught skills and I learned a few things, one of them being  how to hit the ball pretty good and far.
     Our annual church Memorial Day picnic came around and some of the guys were getting a softball game going. After being in the Christian league for a while, I felt safe enough to play in that setting. When it was my turn at bat, I noticed a youth kid in centerfield who was on his high school baseball team. Was I going to be intimidated by this official baseball player who was right in my line of vision? The ball was pitched, I swung, and I watched that ball soar over that kid's head. He had to turn around and chase it. Ironic that I got a triple out of it, just like in 6th grade, but there was no "Steve" around on this day. I was playing softball and I was enjoying it.
     A few innings later, it was my turn at bat again. As I stepped up to the plate, I heard two of the sweetest words ever uttered: "Back up!" Really? My presence in the batter's box caused someone to shout out "back up"? Well, okay! Once again that ball flew over that same kids head resulting in another triple.
     When the game was over, someone said to me, "You're a natural!" Not really, but he didn't need to know that.

Good Grief Support

     I don't know if I would consider myself an expert on loss and grieving, but I've lost and grieved quite a bit. When I was in Junior High, my family had to say good-bye to a close family friend, my cousin, my grandma, and our pet dog (who was not on the same level as the humans we lost, but it still hurt). A few years later, my brother tragically died at the age of 21, and more recently, my parents passed away within three months of each other. Feeling support in times of grief is essential to weathering the trauma of loss, but some support is not as helpful as others. Based on my experiences, when people don't know what to say, they tend to say too much. Words aren't always the most helpful when someone is grieving. I wanted to offer a hand guide for those who want to help but don't know what to do when tragedy occurs in a friend's life. Keep in mind everyone grieves differently so their needs will vary, but here's some advice (take it or leave it) from someone who's been there...

• Avoid Christian cliché's. For some, statements like "You'll see him again in heaven someday," or "She's in a better place," don't bring comfort. It may be very true, but in their very emotional state, they may not want their loved one in heaven at that moment. They want them here and that's all their broken heart desires. Remember, even good solid Christians can become irrational when they're grieving, and that's allowed. These kinds of phrases can possibly cause confusion for the person. They may feel they're a bad person because they want their loved one here on earth and not in heaven, or that they don't trust God.
• Don't recommend songs. Certain songs may have brought you comfort in your trying times, but it doesn't necessarily mean it will to your friend. More than likely, a song isn't going to take care of the raw emotions someone's feeling. If they find a song on their own that comforts them, that's one thing, but to suggest one or quote one implies, "This song will make you feel better," but it might not. 
• Don't say, "I know how you feel, I lost my..." and then proceed to tell your experiences. It's not about you in that moment. I know hearts can be in the right place and a common ground is trying to be found, but very often, for the one grieving, your experience isn't going to compare with their present loss. When my brother died, someone tried to tell me they understood how I felt because they lost an uncle. It did not equate in my mind. I heard a priest say at a funeral to the devastated parents of the deceased that he knew how they felt because he had lost a nephew.  Even if the details of your loss are similar to your grieving friend's, it may not feel the same to them. Save your experiences for later when they are ready to dialogue. 
• "If you need anything, just call." Again, a very heartfelt offer, but not very practical for someone who's in mourning to follow through on. They're not going to call. Instead, if you see a need, meet the need. Organize a schedule for dinners to be taken over for the next couple of weeks. Arrange to pick up their kids from school. Clean the house. Do the shopping. There will be needs as life continues to move around them so anticipate them and then meet them. I'll never forget our pastor coming in our house the day my brother died with bags of groceries for us. That was very helpful and made a lasting impression.
• If you have to say anything, say "I'm so sorry. I love you. I'm praying for you," (again being careful of Christian-ese and sensitive if they don't believe in prayer). Better than words is being there for them if you're a close enough friend. Cry with them (which is huge). Hold them if they want to be held. Laugh if they want to laugh. Talk about the departed if they want to. For some, it may be too painful to mention their loved one by name, but others may want to reminisce about the departed. Follow their lead. 

     As I mentioned, everyone grieves differently, so my advice isn't carte blanche, but I believe it will help you as you desire to support your friends and family who are hurting. 

A Psalm of Shane

Lord, I'm angry at ______________ (feel free to customize this Psalm and make it your own prayer, rant, whatever). You're probably going to say something like "Forgive __________ because they do not know what they are doing," but I want to argue that. Yet, I know you're right. You're always right! How annoying is that? If it's annoying at all then I'm an idiot because, logically, which I'm not being completely right now, I wouldn't have it any other way. Me being right and You being wrong would be a disaster. I want to set _________ straight. I want to yell at ____________. But that wouldn't do anybody any good. That would only serve the justice-oriented side of me, which is basically flesh. And I am commanded to walk according to Your Spirit, and not my flesh. Sigh (I'm allowed to write "sigh" in my Psalm because it's my Psalm). Now that I got that off my chest, may I focus on the good in my life, the blessings You've given, and teach me to not expend energy on things I have no control over. You are good. Your mercy endures forever. Selah (whatever that means, just seemed like a good way to end a Psalm).

Man vs. Chips

     When I worked in the grocery store I occasionally had to take a night shift, 11PM to 7AM. And when the customers tapered off, it was shelf stocking time. On one particular evening, the night manager rolled out a pallet stacked with cardboard boxes containing potato chips. The boxes reached towards the ceiling towering over me and I was immediately intimidated by the visual. "How am I ever going to get through all that?" I thought. The task at hand seemed impossible to finish. There were way too many boxes, that stack was unbelievably high, and the potato chips seemed unconquerable as they silently taunted me: "You'll never finish, you'll be here all night, look how tall and mighty we bags are in our impenetrable boxes. Just keep gawking because that's all you can do in our presence." The night manager must have noticed my expression at the sight of the chips because he pulled a box down, emptied the contents on to the shelf in about 2.5 seconds and said, "They break down pretty fast," and walked away leaving me to finish the job. I was done with the pallet in about 15 minutes.
     Certain tasks in life are like that pallet of potato chips. They seem impossible to complete. They're intimidating. They look way harder to conquer than they really are. And we stand there gawking at them, allowing them to make us feel inferior and useless. Yet, here's what I learned from the potato chips:

• It's always helpful to have someone who knows what they're doing get you started. All I needed was the night manager to show me how to do one box and I was on my way. That whole men don't stop to ask for directions thing because they're men... that's garbage. If you need some help, ask for it. 
• Take your task one box at a time. You only have to start with one box out of the stack.  The important thing is you start it, then chip away at it. 
• Your "Rome" does not need to be built in one day. I wasn't going anywhere that evening. I was on the night shift. There was plenty of time to finish the task at hand. Completing tasks takes time, some more than others, but you'll get the job done quicker if you just start rather than wasting time thinking how long it's going to take you to finish. 
• Potato chips aren't the enemy. Insecurities, self-doubt, past failures and fear of risk-taking are the enemy. These foes live inside of us, but only if we feed and nurture them by dwelling on them. Forget the past and focus on the task at hand. 

     I'm facing another pallet of potato chips at this juncture in my life. And maybe you are, too. Let's start just one box at a time. I'm sure we'll discover they break down pretty fast. 

     

Love On a Budget

     As it is for many, money is tight for the Couch's, but holidays will not go un-celebrated in this household. One of Marty's love languages is gift giving so there are presents to be distributed on days like these. I wouldn't be surprised if one of these Arbor Day's she gives me a shrub of some kind. Over the years, I've learned to speak her language, and when we're pinching pennies, I've learned to be creative. This was Marty's first Valentine's Day gift for 2011...

  
      ... a cheap box of chocolates.  When I was a pre-teen, I used to walk the Valentine's Day aisle at Payless Drugstore and admire the biggest heart-shaped box of chocolates they displayed. I thought to myself, "If I had a girlfriend (and the cash), I would buy her the fanciest heart-shaped box of chocolates this store had." Of course, in the early 80's, chocolate came in large, gaudy packages. So, to show my love to my bride this year, I bought her the largest, gaudiest heart-shaped box of chocolates I could find.

     Gift number 2...

  
     ... two weeks worth of laundry washed, folded and completely put away in dressers and closets. Not a stitch laying around, all done. Of course, laundry is my job every Monday, but when expressing your love on a budget, two weeks worth qualifies as a Valentine's Day gift.

     And finally...

     ...one dozen roses. I don't have a picture of said flowers because they're dead. I bought them last month, under the guise of an "early Valentine's Day present," when roses still cost $9.99. When love is being expressed on a budget, one would not think of making such a purchase in February.

     To be honest, I could have saved even more money. When I picked up that box of chocolate, I was tempted to wait for the day after the holiday when it would be marked down 50%, but I didn't want to be sleeping on the couch the night of February 14.

Have You Hot Sauced Your Kids Today?

    

     There's a news item going around about a mother of 6 in Alaska who was at her wit's end with her adopted 7 year old son and poured hot sauce in his mouth for lying to her about pulling three discipline cards in class. She made him hold it in his mouth as she continued to berate him for lying, and then proceeded to put him under a cold shower to punish him for his bad behavior at school. Before she carried out her bizarre forms of discipline, she interrogated him in the hall and asked him why he lied to her about pulling the three cards at school. Through his sobs, he said "Because I did not want to get in trouble." Then she asked him what is the punishment for lying. "I get hot sauce." And what is the punishment for pulling cards at school? "A cold shower." I watched in horror as she not only made him hold the hot sauce in his mouth, but even told him to swish it around. Then my heart broke as I heard him cry as the shocking cold water hit him in the bath tub while his mother continued to yell at him and make him repeat what his offenses were. And all filmed by her daughter!
     Did this mother ever stop to think that her unusual way of punishing her son was probably more of a cause for his behavior than a deterrent? What seven year old boy goes to school and thinks, "Now I don't want to pull a discipline card today because that means I'll get a cold shower at home. And if I do happen to mess up, I better not lie about it because then I'll get hot sauce on top of it." If that kind of terror was waiting for me at home, I'd do whatever I could to avoid it as well. Seven year old boys mess up sometimes, but one sample of this kind of discipline would make any kid start telling lies. That's all he knows to do to protect himself.
     I couldn't fall asleep after viewing that atrocity last night. Yet, in a way, I was glad I saw it, as uncomfortable as it was to witness, because it made me reflect on my own parenting. I'm not trying to paint this particular mother as a monster. I get frustrated dealing with my three kids at times and I know I haven't always handled discipline exceptionally. But the image of that boy is not going to leave me any time soon, and it has made me analyze those times I've lost my temper and raised my voice and I will think twice the next time I'm facing a frustrating scenario with my kids.
      As a result, my kids, especially my son, were getting extra hugs and kisses this morning.

I'm Sorry

     Marty once asked me about growing up in my family and if anyone ever apologized to each other. Of course, she was asking knowing I'm not a natural apologizer and was trying to figure out why. I thought about it and the answer was no. I did not hear the words "I'm sorry" coming from the lips of my parents or siblings. How sorry is that?
     I've since had to learn to apologize and not just say the words, but mean them and feel remorse and convey true repentance. I know I've said "I'm sorry" to my wife during our marriage, but after starting recovery it took on a whole new meaning.
     When I found the strength to confess to her my addiction issues, I wrote her a letter bringing everything to the surface. Several months later as I was working on making amends in my steps, I re-read that initial letter and noticed that I didn't ask for her forgiveness in it. So I wrote her another, this time including those very important words. And as we continued down the road of recovery, I found that saying I was sorry once wasn't my eternal "get out of jail free" card. I was in the process of learning how to apologize.
     Typically, apologies usually followed excuses or a great defense, or a head-spinning turning the tables moment, if an apology came at all. I have since learned that if I need to ask forgiveness, then that is what I simply must do, not try to make Marty feel bad for me or try to get her to take care of me, I need to own up, humble myself and do what's right.
     It is so hard for a person who's not a natural apologizer to say those two agonizing words, but learning how to do so has made me a better man. I'm not sorry about that.

If My House Was On Fire, I'd Save My Kids, My Wife, and Then...

     20 years ago this month I started a journal. I have no idea why, I just did. Maybe it had something to do with the date being January 1. No one modeled it for me, no one advised me to, I just had an empty spiral bound notebook and wrote "journal" on it, and it was so. The entries were very titillating: "Got up today. Went to Math. Went to chapel. It was good. Ran into Scott S. and we hung out for a while. Went to lunch. Did some homework. Ugh (as in caveman grunt)." THAT journal is certainly no piece of great literature! But over the years I kept writing, and I began to appreciate writing and notice how authors spun a tale. I began to write about the EVENTS of my day, not the mundane routines. Prayers and revelations from my Bible study found their way in there. Memories I wanted to keep fresh, romances I had (there's a topic that spared a few trees' lives), my love story with Marty, and a journal always accompanied me when I was fortunate enough to travel the globe.

     When our babies entered our world, I had a whole new reason to write. I had to get down my feelings about them, the funny and poignant things they've said, my mistakes in raising them, my cries to God to help me parent as He does...

     52 journals later (and still counting), they have now become my legacy. I cherish the thought that when I'm gone, my kids will have answers to so many questions that I'm not able to ask my own parents now that they're gone. I'm not afraid of them discovering just how imperfect I was, as long as they see that I still had a heart for God and tried very hard to please Him, admittedly failing here and there... and there, and there... I imagine that corner bookshelf that holds them in one of their houses, and when they get together for the holidays, Ella, let's say, will ask Julia for the next journal of mine to take home and read, maybe to her kids. Maybe the one where my sweet second daughter was born because the details of that day were recorded in great detail and Ella will always know exactly how I felt about her from the day she was born.

     So here's to 20 years of journaling. Stay tuned and you may just hear about my first book getting published!

Heres that infamous first "journal."

Some uber-cool ones I can't wait to fill! Superhero and peanuts journals rank high, especially if they're nostalgic. 

Some favorites. My youth kids thought I looked like Dwight from The Office (ouch!), so my wife bought me a Dwight journal (double ouch!).

More favorites, Peanuts, classic Loony Tunes (from the defunct WB store), and Animaniacs.

Dad Wounds

     It seems there's a lot of books out there written for men that talk about the wounds we received from our dads. He was absent, he was cold, he criticized, jab, jab, jab... if you're a man, you have Dad wounds, there's no way around it. Some authors made me feel that if I didn't have Dad wounds and Braveheart wasn't my favorite movie, then I really wasn't a man. Okay, I admit it, I have Dad wounds.
     I don't remember ever being close to my father. He was a truck driver, worked odd hours, slept in the day, got up at night to go clock in. We never really bonded. This was evident in a story he would tell practically every holiday around the dinner table. "One day I came home from being on the road and you were sitting in front of that TV watching Sesame Street. I walked in the door, you looked at me then turned right around and kept watching TV." The older I got, the more I despised that story. That's not how it should have been. As a three year old kid, I should have ran to my dad and jumped in his arms when he got home. He absolutely should have won over Sesame Street. But he didn't. As I approached fatherhood I vowed it would not be that way with my kids.
     As time passed things never really changed between us. I respected him, honored him as a good Christian son should, but didn't call him for advice or even just to chat. There were private moments when I got very angry with him, asking the four walls why he wasn't around when I was a kid, grieving the fact that we weren't close, and feeling like it was much too late to do anything about it now that I was an adult, a husband and father myself. Talking to him about it, or yelling at him for it would only make him feel guilty and he would bear that burden until the grave, so I never addressed it with him.
     Shortly after Dad died, I was reading one of those man books I mentioned. It got me thinking about my relationship with my dad and helped resolve a lot of frustrations I had about our lack of closeness. I realized I was very thankful for my dad. I know he wanted certain things for me like being able to fix my own car. He wanted to pass that mechanic's gene on to me, but once he saw I just didn't have that affinity, he never made me feel stupid about it. Dad never made me feel stupid about anything. He never berated me or belittled my interests. I think the harshest thing he called me was "ding ding," which is Oaky for "ding dong" which my family shortened to "ding." But that certainly never made me feel stupid. I took piano lessons and he never objected because it wasn't sports. In fact, he would always ask me to play "Joplin," meaning Scott Joplin's "The Entertainer." Looking back at my life with him I realized others have suffered much more severe "Dad wounds" than I did.
     I know Dad's greatest desire for me was to do better than he did in life. And I know he was very proud of the man I became. A year before he died I was very angry and bitter about how he parented me, but now I'm very thankful for the good, kind, hard working and gentle man he was.

  
     This is Dad serving in the U.S. Navy during the Korean War. I think he looks very cool.