by Andy Wood on September 7, 2009
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I’ve long since retired, my son’s moved away
I called him up just the other day
I said, “I’d like to see you if you don’t mind”
He said, “I’d love to, Dad, if I can find the time
You see my new job’s a hassle and kids have the flu
But it’s sure nice talking to you, Dad
It’s been sure nice talking to you”
And as I hung up the phone it occurred to me
He’d grown up just like me
My boy was just like me
-Harry Chapin, “Cat’s in the Cradle”
He’s an old man now. His physical vision is virtually gone; his heartbeat will soon follow. His spiritual vision? That’s another story. It’s still bright and filled with fire and hope. But it’s a vision that now sees through the eyes of other men. He has no children of his own, but does have a relationship with a man who may as well be. He’s one of those blessed individuals who knows his time is up, and who faces eternity with no regrets. And now he writes the man he calls his son in the faith. His future looks bright; he can only pray the same for Tim.
Stand steady, and don’t be afraid of suffering for the Lord. Bring others to Christ. Leave nothing undone that you ought to do. I say this because I won’t be around to help you very much longer. My time has almost run out. Very soon now I will be on my way to heaven. I have fought long and hard for my Lord, and through it all I have kept true to him. And now the time has come for me to stop fighting and rest (2 Timothy 4:5-7, LB).
A decade before I became a father myself, Harry Chapin sucker-slapped dads everywhere. [click to continue…]
by Andy Wood on October 24, 2008
Somewhere in the back story of the drama that is your life, you are rehearsing a Cinderella story. One that transforms you from zero to hero, from reject to regal. You imagined it as a kid in ways that were unique to you. This dream may have been fed by caring parents, or it may have been an escape from the harshness of your world.
Simply put, you dreamed of glory.
Not vainglory, mind you. Something more. An image that said you mattered. Belonged. Were wonderfully adequate for the role you’d been chosen – for your quest.
Then came the collision. Dreams were broadsided by disappointments. You never quite figured out how to translate that high school stardom into a career or a destiny. Or worse, you actually found your place in the world, but stared in the mirror at a fraud. Maybe you got what (or who) you’d always wanted, and you bombed. Maybe you just settled into paying the bills and keeping house, and woke up a generation later wondering what happened.
Sometimes I think our greatest fear or vulnerability isn’t the evil we’re all capable of. What we most dread or most grieve is that we’re just so ordinary. [click to continue…]
by Andy Wood on September 30, 2008
This is about a talking doll house.
No, I’m not referring to a cartoon, and no, I don’t need a trip to the you-know-what. This doll house didn’t come with audible voices. It was a symbol for about six months – an imposing, silent, unfinished structure that would sit in front of me and remind me of unfinished business. Here’s the story:
Somewhere around Carrie’s eighth- or ninth-grade year, she became really interested in doll houses and all things miniature. So we loaded her up one Christmas with the house, furniture, shingles for the roof, and other assorted stuff. Over time, she lost interest, and needed space in her bedroom for other pursuits. The unfinished doll house wound up in a room we used as both study/office and a family room of sorts. It was en route to the attic, but was apparently on the scenic route to get there.
For months the doll house sat there, looking like the result of a tornado that ripped through Dollville. (Truth is, Joel had knocked it over one day, and just crammed everything back into it. So the bathtub sat, along with the bed, in the living room near the toilet.)
Children have passing interests that they outgrow; that’s part of living. What haunted and taunted me was what the doll house didn’t have. [click to continue…]
