The Zen Of My Sons On A Beach

The boys have a two-week spring break every year. It's great. Long enough to do something special, as well as rest and refortify.

This year we chose to drive to Anaheim, California, and hit some theme parks. The drive was only nine hours with Leadfoot Ross at the helm. Chris and I have become pros at delicately balancing nutritional needs with dehydration while on the road to minimize needless bathroom breaks. The kids are fine.

My fears about having a "caboose" child were vividly realized on this vacation. I always wanted to have children close together to avoid the "Space Mountain vs. Tea Cups" dilemma. Oldest Boy [12] and Middle Boy [10] had a blast riding thrill rides with their father. Four-Year-Old-Boy and I spent a lot of time perusing gift shops, buying trinkets and toys he didn't need, and eating over-priced snacks. He was completely overwhelmed by the noise, the music, the characters and the intensity of all things animated and robotic.

The sun even seemed to shine painfully brighter for the four-year-old. He selected a pair of pink, bejeweled High School Musical sunglasses that he now wears all the time.

 

We were in California for a week and managed to hit Disneyland, California Adventure, SeaWorld and Universal Studios, in spite of the fact that we were all battling a virus. The same virus I'm certain attacks all families as they embark on a much anticipated and valued family vacation. We medicated. Problem Solved.

[A medicated family is a happy family!]

We spent our final day of vacation on the beach. Even though it was cool and breezy, the boys enjoyed flirting with the water and playing in the sand. I sat on some rocks, taking a few photos and video, and minding our things. I occasionally irritated all four of my white fellas when I interrupted their fun to reapply sunscreen, or remind Oldest Boy to check his blood sugar, snack or reattach his pump for a quick bolus of insulin.

My interruptions didn't affect them for long... 

[Chris and the boys - JOY!]
 

As I sat looking at the ocean and smelling the air, I looked up at the sky and thought of my grandmother. She passed away in August 2009.  Before she died, she promised that if she was able [without scaring me], she would contact me after her death to give me the real scoop. I summoned her, sitting there on those rocks. Can you hear me, Mamaw? Please answer me. I've been waiting for months. Where are you? You promised. There are so many things I need to talk with you about...

I waited, and still, nothing. I miss her. I need advice about some specific issues, and her thoughts on some general ones. Sitting on those rocks, my mind meandered and bounced. I thought about the past, the present, the future. I continued to knock on Heaven's door...seeking Mamaw.

Then...I think I heard something. It was probably my own voice, but allow me to pretend it was her's. She gently said, Shhh. I'm watching those wonderful boys play on the beach. I suggest you do the same.

Priorities - Spring Break 2010 from Chris Ross on Vimeo.

True Love

A very long time ago, a 17 year-old girl and an 18 year-old boy fell in love. They married, probably too soon and adolescent by most people's standards, but I have to assume the passion was intoxicating, as it always is in young love. They were joined by a baby girl shortly after.

There was a war that separated the young lovers, but they managed to conceive another baby girl. The young father didn't meet his second daughter until she was two years-old. Not uncommon for war babies.

After the war, the boy, now a man, returned home full of ambition and purpose. Very intelligent, he was accepted to the Thunderbird School of Global Management, which at the time was a prestigious new school. He graduated, began working for a global company, succeeded in climbing the corporate ladder, and moved his wife and daughters to Manila, Philippines, where he assumed a significant leadership role for a large corporation.

A son was born in Manila. The family was happy, healthy, and wealthy. They wanted for nothing. There was a maid, a driver, a gardener, a houseboy, even people to sew haute couture dresses for the girls as they began attending formal parties. They were able to travel the world and see sites with personal guides. Life was good.

Then again...life was life. Things happen. People make mistakes. There were parties and drinking and more parties. It was glamorous to have a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other. One thing led to another and the man began an affair with his assistant.

The girls grew into young women and returned to the United States to attend college. The mother and her son eventually followed. There was a divorce. The man married his assistant. The woman remained single, although fielded a proposal or two in subsequent years.

Life continued. Even though he'd married another, the man still loved the woman, and she him. He returned to the United States with his new wife, battled heart disease and other demons. The new wife seemed to understand where she fit into the hierarchy of his love.

Sadly, the still single woman, now a grandmother—my grandmother—developed esophageal cancer. She lost her fight in a small Indiana town at the age of 69. In a large California city, the married man, now a grandfather—my grandfather—followed her fight and was deeply saddened to hear of her loss.

I grew up hearing about the love affair that was my grandparents'. It was difficult for me to understand why they just didn't run back into each other's arms. My grandmother told me stories dripping with adventure, love, passion and heartbreak. It's complicated, she would say. Even at a young age, I began to appreciate this.

I want to believe that some people have a "love of their life". As I've talked with the women in my family and some mature female friends, it saddens me to know that a few have experienced life's one true love, but it had escaped them, for a variety of reasons and circumstances. But many managed to make a life with someone they loved.

In 1990 I traveled to Indiana for Grandmother's memorial service. I had been married less than a year. When I arrived at my aunt's small apartment, where Grandmother died, there was a beautiful bouquet of yellow roses. It was from Grandad. The card read, Goodnight Sweetheart. I'll see you in my dreams.

True story. Happy Valentine's Day.

The Dangerous Post About Religion

Politics and religion. I've purposely not written much about either subject. Not my expertise or my schtick. Until now.

Organized religion fascinates me. I'm drawn to rituals and traditions. As a child raised in a small midwestern town, I watched neighbors faithfully attend various churches every Sunday. People streamed like little ducks into the Methodist Church, some the Lutheran, and some to the nondenominational Main Street Christian Church—the church where my family made an occasional appearance [usually on amateur night...Christmas or Easter].

When I was 11, I asked my mother if she believed in God. She said it wasn't important what she believed, what was important was what I believed. She told me all she knew for certain was that there was something deep inside of her—a feeling—that helped her discern the difference between right and wrong. She said some other things too, but she supported me when I wanted to attend church, Mass or synagogue with friends, learn about Campus Crusade for Christ, or join the Fellowship of Christian Athletes. Most of my friends had a tangible family religion. I wanted one too.

I tried. I kind of felt it, but I also faked it. I tried again. I prayed. I meditated. And I felt it—and faked it—again.

Christianity Seemed To Be The New Black

After the birth of our first two sons, Chris and I felt compelled to give them religion. Having been raised in an agnostic household like I was, Chris struggled with me on how to accomplish this. We attended a Unity Church in Kansas City for a brief period. I cried a lot when we went, especially when we sang. Church—corporate worship in general—typically moves me. It was okay, but still not right for us.

While enduring a very difficult and heartbreaking time with one of our young sons, a Christian friend and neighbor encouraged us to attend church with them. Although I'd referred to myself as a Christian since I'd been a child, I REALLY jumped into Christianity with both feet. I read The Good Book many times, as well as the works of Christian apologists, went to bible studies, conferences, and saw Josh McDowell speak. I wanted to understand, know and feel what everyone else seemed to so comfortably embrace.

I was there. I got it. Chris got it. We believed. It made perfect sense, even with the leap of faith that is a part of all religions...at least it made perfect sense most of the time. In hindsight, there was a little bit of faking it, and an abundance of trying and smiling.

No Need To Debate

My goal isn't to change anyone's belief system or disprove a religion. On the contrary, I would never presume to convince anyone of something that I'm not 100% certain of myself. I haven't rejected Christianity in total; I simply can no longer fake...anything. We've met some nice people through the churches we've attended, but I can honestly say that none of those people remained close to us when our church attendance began decreasing. An all-or-nothing approach to social activities and relationships that were rooted in the church began to feel...not right...for us. Not that it's a bad thing, because clearly there are many, many people whose lives revolve around their faith, and it's a positive thing for them. I live in Utah. Remember? I understand.

I tried it on. I wore it until the weight of the fabric became too heavy for me. I unbuttoned a few buttons, shed a few inches from the hem, and finally stepped out of my dress. For me, I could breathe again. Ironically, many of my friends describe that feeling when they step in to their faith. I'm truly tolerant and accepting of the beliefs of others. I don't judge my devout, or non-devout, friends. I suppose because I'm human, I'm prone to a bit of judgment, but my intentions are to understand.

What It Looks Like Now

We don't attend church as regularly as we used to. The boys have a foundation in Christianity, but we were beginning to feel like we were brainwashing them. It was time to back off...for us. Not completely turn the bus around, but slow down. Way down.

When I say I'll pray for you. Know that I will. Usually with Chris and the boys. Without exaggeration, we get on our knees every night as a family, give thanks, pray for the needs of others and for ourselves.  We talk to God. Together. I also talk to God when I run, when I do dishes, when I'm walking through the mall.

The new phrase seems to be "reverently agnostic". Maybe that's what I am. I'm not sure. Maybe a quiet, questioning Christian. Maybe a phony, maybe not.

We named one of our sons James, although he doesn't go by James, Jim or Jimmy. James is a short book in the Bible. I've always liked it. Probably because it was short and easy to understand. I'm also a huge fan of James Taylor. What's not to like? Our son's name will forever be a reminder of the beliefs I straddle and struggle to understand.  

In this moment, I find myself spiritually fed by this...