Hooked on Daddy

A recent Father's day activity at a day care facility created a great opportunity to share this next post with you all.
 
They created Hooked on Daddy keepsakes for the children to present to their fathers when they were picked up today.  Here are a few pictures of the keepsakes they made with just some drawing paper and washable Crayola Kid Paint.  To their Fathers, I have no doubt they were all priceless masterpieces.

The activity reminded me of the times when I went fishing with my step-father in Galveston Bay, Texas. I think I was about six or seven. It sticks in my mind because it was the day that I caught the ugliest fish I had ever seen. I know my dad must have been laughing his heart out on the inside after the struggle I had landing what I knew had to be a prized trophy fish.

I was using an old Zebco closed face reel that to me seemed to only be good for creating bird's nests.  It always got hung up on the crud that dwells on the bottom of the Bay.  I learned my first lesson on why trash cans are located on the banks of fishing areas.  I also learned that humans apparently thought throwing stuff in the Bay was much easier than throwing it in the trash can about five yards away.

Any way, there I was with my rod almost doubled over.  My eyes were big as walnuts as I tried my best not to lose my balance and end up with all the trash.  And then, success.  I never would have dreamed fish would look like this one.  I thought it had suffered from radiation poison or more likely been weaned on several barrels of West Texas Intermediate crude oil dumped by some of the barges lightering some of their bilge bottoms.  My step-father said he thought it was a dog fish.  If it was, I thought, it must have been hit by an ugly stick.

I found a picture of a dog fish online and it was a species of shark.  This did not look even remotely like a shark.  These two are the  closest pictures I could come up with.  At left is a Snakehead fish, at right is what someone wrote was a Red Irish Lord.  Make it more slender and that was it.  I think you get the picture.  Naturally, I wouldn't even take it off the hook.  But, my step-father took it in stride and called it "bait."

Father's and sons going fishing are opportunities to bond and explore.  They are also opportunities for fathers to share the Gospel with their sons.  I pulled a bunch of Scriptures that I could have posted.  The Scripture about becoming fishers of men seemed perfect.

Matthew 4:18-20

18 Now as Jesus was walking by the Sea of Galilee, He saw two brothers, Simon who was called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea ; for they were fishermen. 19 And He said to them, "Follow * Me, and I will make you fishers of men." 20 Immediately they left their nets and followed Him.

And then a friend of mine passed on a YouTube video that literally brought tears to my eyes when I heard it.  I will post it here for you to enjoy.  (Click on the link if you have trouble seeing the video  God Loves to Talk to Little Boys While They're Fish'in).

 

Fathers, enjoy your time with your sons, raise them in the way they should go and they will not depart from it when they reach that age when they prefer to make their own decisions.

Stuttering: DDDDeeply DDDDisturbing Atempts tttto CCCCommunicate

A friend recently asked for my advice, ideas, and help in dealing with a six-year old child’s problem with stuttering. “Wow! Poor child, especially if those adults involved are trying to deal with the problem by using the misinformation available in the public Internet domain,” I thought.

Painful Memories

My mind flashed back to me in my 6th grade Reading class room, embarrassed with eyes beginning to tear up, as my insensitive, imbecilic teacher demanded that I read the next paragraph of a story we all were reading out loud in class. “Don’t help him!” he said to a student behind me who tried to read on my behalf. I was thankful that I had students around me who tried to help me through my troubles. I have read many, many stories of stuttering children being the object of ridicule and teasing.

“We will wait all class if we have to, but he will read it by himself,” my Reading teacher said coldly. Still, I could not get the first word out of my eleven year old mouth.

Everyone takes the word I was having trouble with for granted, “The,” but it was the most difficult word for me to say in the world at the time. Out of my mouth, it became “ThThThThThThTh.” I could not close the word with the long “e” sound.

I was unable to get past that first word before the end of the class came.

In Spanish class that same year, our teacher told us that we could not say anything in English and that the only way we could answer the attendance was by saying “Presente,” Spanish for ”Present.” It tried it once or twice, but I could not get the word out.

After getting chewed out a couple of times for not following her rules, I remembered a little of the Spanish I had remembered from growing up. As the teacher called the attendance all students dutifully answered the way they were supposed to. When my name was called, I shocked her and every student in the class by saying, “Aqui,” which is “Here” in English. She held me after class and I explained that if she wanted me to answer in Spanish I had to answer the way I did because I simply could not say the word she wanted me to say. That is the way I answered attendance from that day forward in Spanish class.

The next year, seventh grade, the Reading teacher chose to classify my stuttering as a reading deficiency and placed me in a remedial reading class. He evidently did not care that I was in all accelerated classes. He thought I lacked reading ability and comprehension. He misread my stuttering by thinking I was trying to sound out words as an early childhood reader would. I suffered through my stuttering problem for another year. Then, my eighth grade teacher recognized that my reading speed and comprehension had inexplicably increased so much that she quickly had me placed back into an accelerated reading class.

There is Hope for Recovery

By the ninth grade though, I had completely controlled my speech such that I successfully addressed a six hundred student filled auditorium. Indeed, I had students standing and cheering in the aisles for me after one of my speeches. I became a student leader, President of my class, class favorite and president of many extracurricular clubs. After graduating college, my job required me to give presentations to corporate executives and boards. I became an executive interviewer and a high school mathematics teacher which required my speaking constantly all day long.

How I Conquered My Stuttering Problems

What happened to me? What did I do to become a silver-tongued devil that could have stood in for Johnny Carson or Jack Parr?

After I was humiliated by my Reading and Spanish teachers, I learned what I am about to disclose to you about what I did to overcome stuttering. Sure, when I let happen to me what I know now that caused my stuttering, I find myself on the fringes of stuttering now and then. But, I simply practice what has become normal for me and I’m OK. My hope is that sharing what I did for myself may help someone out there struggling with the same problem.

What the Research Says is not Very Helpful

In my research about the affliction I learned some facts that I did not know, and it would not have done me much good to know them had I learned of them earlier. In fact almost none of what I learned about what the so called experts said or prescribed would have helped me. Here are some facts I learned that were interesting, but not very helpful:

• Stuttering affects about four percent of children. 
• Stuttering generally develops between the ages of two and five. 
• Stuttering occurs four times more often in boys than in girls.
• Girls are more likely than boys to outgrow stuttering.
• Between 75% and 80% of all children who begin stuttering will stop within 12 to 24 months.
• Almost half of all children who stutter have a family member who stutters.

Some people say that stuttering starts with a major humiliating or highly emotional episode similar to what I experienced. Perhaps there is some truth in that. But I don’t think those events are the root cause. In my case, I cannot recall stuttering much in my early school grades. In fact, I think I spoke quite well even though English was my second language.

In second grade I remember being in a school play. My role was that of the narrator. I opened and closed the play and provided the audience with some background information now and then during the play. That is a pretty hefty role for a six year old to play. Speaking to a cafeteria of parents did not seem to bother me. I did many things right instinctively, like wait for the audience to stop talking before I started talking. Even though I was cued to talk, I did not try to talk over the audience. My teacher gave me a pat on the back for recognizing that I couldn’t be heard above the noise they were making.

Mainly a Mind Problem

So, what happened to me during the time between six and fourteen years of age? What went on in my mind during that time? I said the word “mind,” because that is the only place I could think of where the source of my stuttering came from. It was not a physical thing that could have been surgically corrected. I didn’t have a malformed larynx.

I know now that my home environment was probably the root cause of my stuttering problem. So, I will try to describe the environment I remember to give readers a reference against which they can compare their environment.

Examine the Environment

I had a three year old brother and a six year old sister when my mother married my step-father. Prior to the marriage, our mother tongue was Spanish. But, I had forgotten most of my Spanish by the time I entered first grade having gone to nursery school for a year just before my mother and step-father married. My mother and brother and sister and I moved into my step-father’s house to a new neighborhood across town. I would describe the neighborhood as middle class suburban. The three bedroom, one bathroom, one car garage was palatial compared to our old house. None of the houses sat on cinder blocks like the house in the barrios from which we moved. I did not know anyone in the neighborhood, and they all only spoke English.

My step-father and mother went through an adoption proceeding when I turned six so that my last name would be the same as my step-father’s last name. My new last name was seven letters longer than my original last name. I could not pronounce the name much less spell it, though eventually I did indeed learn to spell it.

I stayed in the house mostly, as it took some time before I developed any neighborhood friends beyond my school classmates. Inside communication always seemed emotional and fast-paced. My step-father did not really say much, perhaps because of a naturally meek character and because he left the parenting up to my mother. Mother was pretty domineering. But, with a new baby and three very young children in the family, anything that came up in conversations had to be dealt with quickly and with finality. Speaking with authority and rapidly became her communicating style. There was a great deal of chaos, whining and crying in the house.

Still, I do not remember stuttering during that time. A year or so after my younger brother was born, the family made another move to a new neighborhood. My mother’s attention was enormously split, and I again knew nobody in the neighborhood. I was in fifth grade with a relatively small social circle, and I still do not remember stuttering during that time period.

Then I experienced some tremendous environmental changes outside of the house. I transitioned from elementary school to middle school. Elementary school children are much more socially sheltered than middle school children as they only have one class of 20-25 school children each day. Increasing the number of classes from one to seven from one year to the next increased my social situation by a factor of seven as well. Mother also had a nervous breakdown and the family had to do without her abilities or skills.

Imperfect Communication Skills

My brothers and sister and I did not have the communication and negotiating skills to make decisions and solve problems ourselves; there was a vacuum of authority. We would talk rapidly, as we had to when speaking with our mother, but we resorted to talking over each other becoming emotional when we could not resolve problems. This resulted in many arguments and bad communication habits.

The Root of My Stuttering Problem

I noticed my stuttering problem after starting sixth grade in my final months as a ten year old. I think the bad communication habits developed in our house coupled with the rather large increase in my social environment reduced my self-confidence. Therein, lays the root of my stuttering problem. Since I had little or no control of my environmental factors, stuttering became a mind problem.

Partial Remedy: Word/Sound Substitution

One of the things that a stutter can and does do to compensate for stuttering is to recognize their most troublesome words and avoiding those words. I realized rather quickly that I had tremendous problems with words that began with predominately hard consonants though words like “the” and “that” or “When” and How” were problems as well. I also had trouble with words that began with “st,” such as “still” or “steak.” I had few problems with those words, however, if they did not begin a sentence. So, if the sentence started with a vowel or a word that started with a vowel once I established a speaking pace, I was OK for the whole sentence. If the next sentence started with troubling consonant, however, I stuttered again.

Many who stutter being sentences with an “A’” when the first word starts with a hard consonant. For example, they would say, “Athe” or “AQuickly.” The “a” sounds more like “uh.” Those wanting to help someone who stutters can begin by helping them figure out which words they can say without compensating and what kinds of compensating strategies will help them deal with their more troublesome words. Do not however, make them engage in oral exercises practicing the very word that give them trouble.

Workarounds Hide But Do Not Solve Stuttering Problems

I figured out compensating strategies on my own because I tried to hide my stuttering problems, I did not know anyone well enough to seek their assistance or to trust them enough to help me.

Breathing is Out of Sync

Any speaking requires your breathing out. The breath goes over the vocal chords to become sound waves. I also found that most stuttering words were those that required more breathing out to say. This included the words “hi,” “how,” “the,” “that,” “who,” “what,” “where,” “when,” or “why.” So, stuttering was influenced with the breathing when a word was said. I often felt out of breath when I was stuttering.

I had no problem with any words if I sang them regardless of the type of letter with which they began. It took me a while to figure out a work-around the breathing problem. The singing was my clue. I realized that singing involved a consistent pace and pattern. Also, everyone sings at the same pace and pattern and nobody interrupts you when you sing. That last observation, “interruption,” was my last clue.

Interrupting Someone Can Trigger Stuttering Bouts

I realized that I had to regulate my speaking in such a way as to breathe regularly, establish and maintain a consistent pace and pattern, and not be interrupted. I became very aware of these variables and I sought to control them. I found that I could not control them as well when engaged in an argument or when the communication setting was in a heightened emotional state of mind. That placed the burden of controlling my speaking pace and pattern not only on me, but also on those with whom I was communicating.

How Others Speak to You Has a Major Impact

It is for this that I disagree completely with some of the so called authoritative researchers of stuttering. One thing that I think that is absolutely wrong is their counsel to mothers and fathers that their son’s or daughter’s stuttering is not their fault. This is wrong and designed to soothe feelings of guilt, sell books and justify the cost of speech pathologists and therapists. Mothers and fathers, as well as everyone else with whom someone who stutters speaks play a major role in the degree and duration of the stuttering.

Want to Help Someone Who Stutters?

• Do not tell them to slow down.
• You might try to speak a little more slowly
• Do not excite them
• Do not give them the impression that they have to talk fast to you.
• Speak one at a time
• Let them speak as fast or slow as they want.
• Let them finish what they are saying
• Try not to interrupt.
• Do not try to complete their sentences.
• Build their confidence and trust.

A Stutterer May Withdraw and Lose Self-Confidence or Self-Esteem 
 
The hectic communicating environment in our home convinced me of this. Everyone was always speaking over each other, never one at a time, and it was always in an argumentative or emotional manner because they each wanted to be heard and to have their own way. I lost self-confidence in my being heard and I developed an extreme dislike for arguing about anything. This lack of self-confidence in being heard spilled over into my social environment outside of the family. I also began to withdraw from my own family.

Between seventh and eighth grade, I took a summer speed reading course which seemed to not just boost my reading speed and comprehension, but it also boosted my self-confidence. I seemed to be able to think more quickly on my feet and to identify and verbalize sentence punctuation more quickly. This enabled me to present or argue better and to develop patterns in reading and saying sentences. The art of speaking and writing kind of merged in my mind.

At school or at home, I resolved much of my stuttering problem by implementing word substitution strategies and by making sure conversations I held with anyone were as they were supposed to be, one person speaking at a time, and without interruption unless absolutely necessary. I also slowed down my speaking speed dramatically and filled it with punctuation pauses and breathing opportunities. Even if I was interrupted or if I interrupted while speaking, proper manners and etiquette was maintained. For example, I would almost always ask a person interrupting me to let me please finish or politely ask to interrupt by asking for permission, or to politely apologize for the interruption.

Helpful Article Links:
Walled Off-Stuttering in the Family
Stuttering in Children
Stuttering Risk Factors
How to Help A Stuttering Student

A Dose of Glory

One of the greatest things a father can do for his son is to encourage his son by promoting his son's accomplishments.  Sons need to feel proud of what they have achieved, not to become prideful about them, but, rather to know they did something good and right and that it was worthy of sharing it with others.  Fathers can join in their son's accomplishments, but, it must be clear to the son that it was his accomplishment, not the father's.  Sons need a throttled dose of glory.

I grew up in a very high achieving family of six children.  Our composite family was made up of three boys and three girls fused together by my father, who died early in my life, my step-father and my mother.

While the oldest son, I was shamed into a lot of behavior.  Guilt was used to direct and control me in my family.  Family members who did that were focused on how they would be viewed by friends, neighbors, and other extended family members.  Everything I did was examined in the worst possible ways that it could reflect on them in the family, even when others recognized things I did as honorable and at times excellent and praiseworthy.

I was not a gifted baseball player, born for stardom or for being drafted into the professional ranks.  I worked hard, practiced batting during endless hours of blazing hot Texas summer days, ran hundreds of laps, and lifted weights; I forced my body into being stronger and having more endurance.  That is what it took and that is what I did.

I want to share some true baseball stories with you to show you the difference between crushing a son's spirit versus elevating his spirit by allowing him some throttled glory to give him a sense of accomplishment and positive self esteem.

The team I was on my final year of Little League came in second place.  That was OK, I did not lose sleep over it, as I played the best I could.  But I had batted over .600 and was chosen the All-star catcher by the first place team coach.  I was one of only two players from the rest of the whole League chosen.  The coach chose me to be his starting catcher even over his own catcher.  I was truly honored.  However, I was instructed by my family member to be humble so as not to appear to be prideful or boastful.  My own family never even said they were proud of me.

After the season was over, the team got together for a picnic to hand out trophies for just being on the regular team.  After everybody got their trophy, we ate to our heart's content.  The coach quietly took me into another room, just the two of us alone.  He gave me another trophy and said, "I want you to have this and I did not want to embarrass the others, so I brought you in here to give it to you.  You had an incredible year.  It is very rare for a player to have as high a batting average as you did.  In fact, you had the highest average in the League, and I wanted to tell you I was proud of you and that I and all the other coaches recognize your accomplishment."

Wow!  I didn't really care about the trophy.  I almost cried.  I cherished the words of encouragement and confirmation that my hard work and dedication paid off.

Another time, I was told by a family member that mothers in the bleachers were concerned that I might hurt their sons with my aggressive play.  I was confused by that because my coaches and fathers of other players were all saying, "Way to hustle," and admiring my attempt to play the game the way it should be played.

One game, I slid into third base for a triple, which for me was harder than a homer because I wasn't that fast of a runner.  I did not slide in with my spikes high, in fact, my cleats went under the base.  Unfortunately, they came out the other side where the third baseman was kneeling exposing his knee to my spikes.  And of course my spikes found his knee.  I was appropriately apologetic to the player, helped him up.  As he was being escorted off the field to get stitches at the hospital, I told him I was sorry he got hurt.

After the game, the opposing team's coach took me quietly aside and told me something that did not diminish his player's injury, but encouraged me to continue playing as hard as I could.  He said that he had talked with the hurt third baseman and that they both agreed I was not at fault; that his third baseman should not have been kneeling, and that if he had kept his feet, he may have been able to get out of the way.
 
When I got home, all my family member could say was, "The people in the stands said you play too rough; that you like to hurt people when you play."  I was devastated by that comment.  I never set out to hurt anyone, and to say that I liked it crushed me.  I did not sharpen my spikes like Ty Cobb or hope to get an opportunity to slice and dice opponents; it was an accident; people get hurt playing sports; I got hurt playing sports; I had many players slide into me at homeplate and I have the scars in my knees and thighs to prove it.  I didn't cry about it or blame others for it.  Even though I shared what the coach told me, my family member chose to ignore what they had said.  I felt abandoned.

Where was my step-father?  Well, I don't blame him for staying out of things.  Actually, he was what I would consider the epitome of meekness.  Not weakness, rather meekness; the kind you read about in the Bible.  I admired my step-father for the strength he had under control silently.  To his credit, he did not make me feel guilty about playing baseball well.  All he told me was that he was never very good at the game.  I respected that more than I respected those who tried to tear good players like myself down to make it easier for their not good enough sons to play.

I don't care what others think, it is never good to build somebody up by tearing somebody else down, especially when it is not true.  I substituted the encouragement other fathers, coaches, and players gave me for the snub by my family member. But it sure does hurt when your own family isn't behind you.

To this day, I find it difficult to accept compliments and take encouragement for fear that my family member would think I was becoming prideful.

More recently, my youngest brother found a newspaper clipping of me sliding into homeplate that he emailed to me and my sisters.  The press had put my picture and name in the paper for scoring the winning run in a championship baseball.  I remember finding the picture in the local paper, cutting it out and showing it to a family member.  Their answer upon seeing it was, "You shouldn't play so rough."  I quietly put the picture away into a box that my brother found recently.  Here it is, by the way; pretty rough, huh?

I explained to my brother that I was eleven years old, and the picture was taken 49 years ago.

Now, I have nephews, and whenever any of them do anything worthy, I want them to know it.  I don't go around bragging about them.  But, I do tell people that they are even better than I was and that I am very proud of them.  I want my nephews to know they are doing things right and worthy of sharing with others.

So, I want to proudly display the most recent accomplishments of a grand nephew and two of my nephews.  More postings will come.

The first is a post of my grand nephew Jordan.  Jordan was rewarded earlier this year for the best workmanship on a pinewood derby car.  His father, my nephew Roger, summarized the event and experience as follows:

"We were really excited about racing in the Awanas Pinewood Derby. The car we made was a replica of Thomas the Tank Engine. Jordan advanced through 7 heats but got beat out on the last few races.

I looked around the gym and saw there were big trophies and only blue ribbons on the awards table. I thought - 'Oh no, he won't get anything because we didn't win the races and I don't want him to be disappointed'. So, I told the leaders of the event that we would be back before the event was over. [Roger wanted to recognize Jordan's participation with a trophy, a nice throttled dose of glory.]

I drove [to as many places as I could and] called a bunch of trophy shops. They were [either] closed [or] didn't have any trophies. I was so bummed that Jordan wouldn't get anything, but I knew we needed to get back to the event because it was almost over.

When we got back to the event everyone was packing up and saying their good-byes. The head leader told us that they already gave out the awards. Then, he said, "But we are glad you made it back because Jordan won an award." We turned around and saw that Jordan won [a big] first place [trophy and a blue ribbon] for best design for his pinewood derby car!
 
He was amazed that it was his trophy and that he could actually keep it. It was his first time to win anything, which is a big deal for a 5 year old. It was a great lesson to learn that God has a reward for us even when we least expect it and it looks like we lost the race."

His father, Roger, was even more excited than Jordan.  But, when Jordan was given that blue ribbon and trophy, Roger could tell how wonderful he felt.  There was not one ounce of pridefulness or boastfulness in Jordan's eyes.  He knew he had been blessed with the right amount of throttled glory to make him feel successful and esteemed.

Here are several pictures of Jordan soapbox derby experience.:

Here is YouTube video of his receiving the award (click on the following link if you cannot see the video (Jordan's Pinewood Derby Award  :

I am very proud of you, Jordan, and of you, Roger, for doing such loving and caring things with your son.

This post is of my 4th grade nephew, Michael, who won recognition for writing a piece of what music meant to him.  I made a document that could be downloaded and emailed it to his mom and dad so that they might print and post it for him and everyone to be proud of.  Here is a picture of his written piece and a picture pointing out Michael:

 Here is the email I sent his mom and dad:

"I saw where Michael wrote what music was to him and was honored as the best in his grade if not his school. I read his piece and was so impressed that I copied it onto a sheet of parchment paper. If you print it out in color, it should be suitable for tacking up or framing. I called his written piece "Music To Me," as it was without title...

I also wanted to share a song that I have come to have a lot of joy in about the origin of songs called "Jesus Put This Song Into Our Hearts." And I put that on parchment as well. I included a link to You Tube of the song on the parchment that you might share it with not only him but Jack and Katie as well. Give them the message that Jesus also put the words to Michael's piece in his heart just like He did the song I have included.

I have attached both of them to this email.

Give Michael a congratulations hug and my love,

Uncle"

Here is the song I sent them to show Michael:

And here is the video of the song on YouTube (click here if you cannot see the video Jesus Put This Song Into Our Hearts )

Michael's mom and dad emailed back that they had printed Michael's poem out and posted it on their refrigerator.  She said that Michael was so happy about my email and that the entire family sang the song all the way to school.

This next post is of my nephew Daniel, who is about to graduate high school.  It is of him pitching to clinch first place in his school district.  Earlier in the year, he pitched a no-hitter for his team.

Here is a a YouTube video of him pitching. (click here if you cannot see the video  Daniel Pitching to Clinch District )

Here is a picture of a clipping from the newspaper of his pitching to clinch his school's district.  I don't want Daniel to put it away for 49 years like I did.  I want him to have a dose of throttled glory.

Oh, and Danny, while you are a pitcher, I hope you enjoy this YouTube clip for how it shows the historical thrill of playing the game well!!! (Click here if you cannot see the video Put Me in Coach, I can even play centerfield)

I am so proud of you Jordan , Michael and Daniel. Roger, Roger and James, you fathers are doing a wonderful job in how you are bringing them up.

Thank You Louis

For those of you who do not know, Louis is my deceased brother. Louis was two years younger than I am. He dropped out of high school before completing his first semester of ninth grade. At 14 yrs of age, he became ensnared in drugs that almost killed him. But, by the grace of Jesus Christ, turned his life around to garner a G.E.D only two years later and then went on to marry and become a Bible thumping preacher.

Louis and I were as different as brothers can be, but we were good friends. I was the Big Man on Campus (BMOC), athlete, class favorite, teachers' pet, decent student, well groomed. So over-powering was my shadow to him as we were growing up with only two years of age separating our growing up that I did not realize that he was suffocating as a younger brother over my reputation.

So anxious was Louis to be noticed that he opted for being everywhere and anywhere I wasn't present. I was well groomed, Louis refused to cut his air when hassled by coaches who had expected Louis to be a mini ME. He would have nothing to do with that expectation.  Louis smoked cigarettes in junior high school and fell into a group of so called friends among whom he would be noticed. And when derided by my coaches for his anti-hero mannerisms, Louis rebelled and refused to even consider getting a hair cut.

A hairdo that had grown into a two foot diameter afro hair cut had brought the ire of the entire school district  to bear on his decisions. Louis was expelled before even completing the first 9 weeks of his freshman year of high school. I did not realize that Louis had also been targeted by police and have been arrested and burdened mom and dad with his legal fees.

It wasn't until my brother had been brought home from a hospital emergency room where he had been dumped in an unconscious state by his so called friends and drug junkies on a sidewalk outside the ER entrance circle that my relationship with Louis changed dramatically. These so called friendly hands into who Louis entrusted his life, did not even enter the ER to let the hospital staff know that an unresponsive comatose patient had been brought in.

I was home from college visiting when my mother called on the telephone to inform me that they had been at the hospital where Louis had been saved from his drug overdose induced coma. She told me that he had almost died and she said she needed my help in to bring him into the house when they arrived. I became morose in my thinking that Louis had almost died and I never knew his life had spiraled down to such an extent.

Mom and dad arrived from the hospital, came into the house and mom asked me to help bring Louis into the house. I walked outside and helped Louis get out of our car. He had to lean on the car as he was still high, weak-kneed and unsteady. He and I did not say a word to each other as I helped him out of the car. A wet dis rage was the only way I could describe Louis' stature.

My relationship before that moment had been one of berating Louis for being such a burden to the family. A sudden sadness came over me when I saw my younger brother. I started to cry as I embraced my little brother of thirteen. I recall my first words to him after that moment when I realized that he had almost died; they were the first words of love and care that I had ever expressed to him:

"Louis, Oh Louis, I am so sorry I wasn't there for you. Louis, you don't need me to discipline you, I'm your brother, not your judge. What I do want you to know is that I don't want you to die. Please don't kill yourself; I love you so much."

We exchanged hugs so powerful and intense that nothing else needed to be said, as I helped him from the car to the house.

I went on to college as mom and dad helped Louis maintain an apartment. Mom had told me that Louis had decided to visit our Aunt and cousin in Albuquerque, New Mexico. It was all sort of mysteriously hush, hush. I asked her how I could get in touch with him and she said that she didn't know and only added that Louis was going into exile and getting away from his existing environment. She said that she did not know his plans because he didn't know them and that he would call us when he gets to where he is going.

It was a couple of years later that I finally heard from Louis. He had ended up in Portland, Oregon where he was sharing an apartment with a friend of his who had fled there ahead of him because he had family there. Louis had never gone back to our local school and still refused to cut his hair. But, he had apparently cleaned up his life and kicked the drug habit. The next thing I heard about Louis was that he managed to get his high school equivalence certificate at 15 years of age. He had not even needed to go to public school to graduate. And what I heard next floored me.

Mom told me that Louis had turned his life around and enrolled into Multnomah Bible College. A year or two after that I heard that Louis had moved to California, where he had met a divorced lady friend who had a young daughter and that Louis had asked her to marry him. And shortly after that I learned that they were moving to Boise, Idaho.

Shortly after that, Louis called me directly to ask me if I would be his best man. "Of course," I said. After he and his bride to be set their plans, I flew up to meet with them, It was the first time in about six or seven years that I had an opportunity to talk with Louis about his life since he had gone into self-exile.

Louis explained what his life was like from the last time he and I saw each other. He said that he went into self-exile to get away from the drug trafficking that he had fallen into. Without getting into details of why he felt he had to flee, Louis shared the story of his last evening before he left on his first leg of his exile journey. He said that he had been pursued by drug traffickers and the law and that the only safe place he he could sleep was in his truck while listening to a religious station that mom had turned him on to. Even more memorable was his mentioning that he parked his truck in a church parking lot under the shadow of a cross cast on his truck.

I knew from what he told me that Jesus had a huge hand in his life. I did not need to know anything more than that. His wedding was wonderful and Louis and I spent his last evening single in a wonderful loving embrace as we gave thanks to the Lord for saving his life.

I went on to a business career and ultimately to change my focus in a more mission minded manner by subsidizing my ministry by teaching high school mathematics. Shortly after mt teaching career started, Louis called me to ask for advice. He explained that he had been diagnosed with Hepatitis C, and that he had been put on the liver donor list.  His doctors had given him six-months or less to live. IT broke my heart to see his frail copper toned skin as he struggled to breathe with his oxygen bottle as he met me at the airport when I came to visit him and his wife and child. It was my first visit since the wedding.

Louis died before being able to get a new liver. Only one or two years later did the medical industry find a treatment and ultimate cure for Hepatitis C. Louis had asked that I give the eulogy at his funeral. I wrote the piece below as I was taking a graduate course in my study to become a certified high school mathematics teacher. It ultimately became the basis for my eulogy to Louis at his funeral. And in testimony to the power of its memory, it became a favorite to all of the students I read it to.

I think my students enjoyed it so much because it was a true story and conveyed my excitement of something my brother Louis introduced me to before he became mired in drug trafficking. Louis turned me on to model rocketry.

Several years before I wrote it, as a Deacon and Bible study teacher to 20's and 30's singles, I realized the impact model rocketry had had on my life. I shepherded many single parents with marriages shredded by divorce or death of their spouse who struggled to direct their sons and daughters to something that held their interest and help them focus on the wonders of God rather than on their circumstances.

I turned my model rocketry hobby into a Bible study by inscribing scriptures on streamers packed inside the rocket body tubes. The rockets would go up and the streamers would pop out enabling the rockets to gently return to earth. The kids ran and ran to catch the rockets before they touched the ground. To their amazement, they noticed the streamers and unbeknownst to them the scriptures written by their parents. They saw how they were singed, as though having gone through fire. To them, they had just gotten God's attention.  In fact, that is what the Bible study was called, "Getting God's Attention."

The knowledge that God is present in your life and will answer the prayers of those believing in Him is something all fathers should impart to their sons.

I hope you enjoy the paper I wrote.

 

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Thank You!

The crowd of wild-eyed, mesmerized little boys chanted in unison, "Six! Five! Four!" I felt my heart pounding as though it would leap from my chest. "Three! Two! One! Ignition!" My finger pressed the button, and an electrical current traveled through two small wires. "Liftoff!" Swish! The slender tube streaked skyward with a cloud of smoke. I thought of, my brother, who had introduced me to these flying marvels that had held my interest for over 45 years. I said a silent prayer.

Forty-five years ago, had it been that long? It seemed only yesterday that I dove into the intricacies of designing, building and flying rockets. I even tracked them and used my newly learned trigonometry to determine how high they went. My high school physics teacher talked me into entering the district's first-ever interscholastic rocketry meet when I was a senior. I entered five events, four for which I received first-place ribbons: spot landing, egg loft, high altitude, and glider. I had a lot of memories in those rockets when I went off to college.

I confess; I wanted to be an astronaut. Bitten by the bug to see the earth from space and to float weightless in the black vacuum I had only read about, I could feel myself pressed back in the capsule seat as I swished off into imaginary orbit with every flight. What a rush!

Once I had moved out of the house and into the dormitory at college, mom boxed up and stored my rockets in the garage. One weekend visit home, mom roused me from my near vegetative state in front of the television. 

"George, George, George!" she exclaimed. "What!" I answered back.

She pointed to the yard and continued to exclaim, "Your, your, rockets! The, the, the boys!"

I caught a glimpse of her concern, as I followed her finger out the window. I saw little balsa wood fins popping off the rockets which two little boys twirled. A little boy I didn't recognize had joined our eight-year-old neighbor boy, Jason, in a jig of destruction. I felt this overwhelming sense of indignation swell up inside of me as I saw the empty storage box lying nearby.

I darted outside, not really mad, just kind of mindless. Jason bolted away like a scared rabbit as he saw me approach. But, the other little boy just continued twirling Big Bertha, a rocket I had so painstakingly birthed and proudly flew. (Big Bertha, a blue-ribbon-winner, carried an egg aloft and brought it safely back several years before, by the way.)

I could hardly contain myself. I sprinted through the den, out the door, and over the patio fence, like an untamed stallion, racing toward this little boy. All the while I could hear mom in the background saying, "Don't hurt them, George, please don't hurt them!"

Off popped another fin, as I arrived out of breath. Then, I stopped abruptly, bridled short as a master bridles his horse. I can't explain how, but, suddenly, I saw myself as that little boy. Three feet from him I dropped to one knee, and with a shaky voice, I asked, "Hey, buddy, what're you doing?"  

The wild-eyed, smiling face of a mesmerized little boy looked at me.  Still spinning my prized rocket at speeds that would destroy even the space shuttle, he said, "I'm, I'm flyyyinggg!

I mustered up control from somewhere, slowed him down to warp speed, gently took the rocket from his careless fingers, and asked him, "Don't you know that this thing can really fly?"

I don't think eyes could get any wider than when I asked if he wanted to fly it with me.

"OH, WOW!" he exclaimed, "SURE!"

Off we went to fly the rocket. 

...
 

About ten years passed. My dream of becoming an astronaut faded away when a naval flight surgeon discovered a heart murmur fluttering in my chest. The last step prior to enlisting in the Navy's Aviation Reserve Officer Candidate program, the flight surgeon pulled down his stethoscope and said, "The Navy won't take you. You might as well just accept that and move on." So, instead, I completed college and entered the ranks of oil tycoons.

...
 

Living a thousand miles away in Florida then, I once again came home to visit the folks. I went outside. As I stood by the side of the house, a young man obviously of high school age, but nobody I recognized, walked up to me.

Tentatively, he said, "Hi. I don't know if you remember me or not. But, when I was eight years old, I was in your yard playing with rockets. You took me to fly one of them."

I had only a vague recollection of the incident.

"Anyway," he said, "I have been interested in rockets ever since. In fact, I studied everything I could learn about them. I'm about to graduate from high school, and, making pretty good grades, I got an appointment to Annapolis. You see, I am going to be an astronaut. Well, I just wanted to come by to thank you for getting me started."

The young man turned and walked away, never having told me his name. But, that didn't seem to matter to me. I realized that I had just received a blessing I would remember for the rest of my life, a firsthand confirmation of the influence I had on a person. I walked away in a daze saying a thank-you prayer that I hadn't backhanded the little kid for destroying my rockets.

Today, as I think back and re-tell this story to my students, I add to it the knowledge that I would not have had the pleasure of this experience if my brother had not introduced me to rockets. My dream of flying into space lives on in this young man.

...
 

The little boys scampered, almost uncontrollably; chasing after the rocket that had just streaked into the sky. "I see it," one said. "I'm going to try to catch it," said another.

I looked heavenward. Tears streaked my cheek as I said a silent prayer, "Louis, I love you and miss you and I know you're on your knee before Jesus' cross. Thank you for sharing your rockets with me. I have always been interested in them since then. I thought you might like to keep your eye out for an astronaut circling the Earth now and then, and ask the Lord to watch over him. He enjoyed the rockets you showed me so much that he decided to ride one personally."

IF by Rudyard Kipling

There is no better way to start a blog about fathers and sons than starting with "IF," by Rudyard Kipling.

I was in sixth grade when I was introduced to the poem by my Reading teacher, Mr. Lewis.  I didn't really get the meaning because Mr. Lewis' primary objective was for all of his students to merely copy it from the board without any erasure marks or even so much as a scratch-out on our papers.

"This will be a snap," I thought, "All I have to do is copy it."  Those were my famous last thoughts as I finally completed one copy without any mistakes.  It took me eight re-writes.  In retrospect, that was one valuable lesson in perseverance.  It was a few years later that I read and began to understand the poem's meanings.

Fathers play a special role in their sons' lives.  Somehow over time, be it by modeling, leading, teaching or sometimes just outright demanding force, fathers help their son be a man.  Rudyard Kipling sums up the description fairly well.

Sons frequently put their father on such a pedestal that they often are puzzled when their father's nose starts to bleed from the height of the pedestal they have placed him on.  It hits sons hard to realize that their father is not the biggest, the best, the most or any other "est" suffix word you want to put in there, in the world.

I believe the poem leaves one thing out that all fathers should incorporate in their sons' tutelage.  Humility.  I'm not talking about the humility of winning or losing or of the humble nobility of privilege.  Those notions are in the poem if you examine it closely.  I am talking about the humility of not being God.  Fathers should show their sons their willingness to be the first to bow before our Lord Jesus Christ.

My suggestion to all fathers is to start doing this as soon in your sons' lives as possible.  You will be amazed at how everything else falls into place.

Here are two video renditions of the poem that both struck me viscerally with hope and dreams of what it means to be a man.  (If you do not see the YouTube videos, click here IF-Rudyard Kipling-Six Elements and here IF-Anthony Clohesy-Pachelbel's Canon)

Lend A Hand / Take A Hand

This blog that is dedicated to building father and son relationships will be a challenge for me. You see, I am neither a father nor do I have a son. Of course, I was fathered. But, my father died in a car accident when I was three. Though my mother remarried and remained married to my step-father for about 40 years, and he really tried hard and remained committed to the family until he died in his 80’s, as is sometimes the case, I did not feel fathered as his son.

Don’t get me wrong, though. This blog is not a pity party about that. Quite the contrary, I have been raised by the Greatest Father there is, Jesus Christ, and He continues to guide me. That spiritual connection transcends circumstances and exposes each of us to the miracles of His creation. Many, many fathers do not ever get that across to their sons.

So, I took my cues from the Lord and fathers and sons around me. I isolated the types of fatherly traits I felt were meaningful to me and vowed to avoid traits I deemed less than conducive to the fabulous relationship a father should have with a son. I explored and used those modeled fatherly traits as a son, brother, uncle, teacher, and friend. I used those traits in my own schooling, in my practices in business, as a volunteer baseball coach, mentor, Bible study teacher, brother, brother-in-law, nephew, cousin, grand uncle, deacon, mathematics teacher, and now a retiree.

I have often wondered how I would do as a father, I don’t know if I will ever find out. But, if and when I do, I know I won’t be perfect. It has been my observation that trying to be perfect is one of the major things men get wrong about being a father.

The father-son relationship is more about committed and consistent love, honor, trust, friendship, promoter, learning how to learn and how to teach outside-of-school requirements of life, respect, responsibility, noble obligation (noblese oblige), and duty. It is a relationship of shared learning of all of those things for both father and son. It seems to me that the most successful fathers have this teacher-student relationship as they experience these things in their lives. Fathers and sons mutually share opportunities to proverbially lend and take each other’s hand.

Indeed, this teacher-student relationship is something in which I have a great deal of experience. This blog, then, is a sharing of experiences that have molded my life and may help build father-son relationships. I want to share experiences about growing up, fishing, hunting, learning, worshiping, designing cars and rockets and coming up with all kinds of McGyver-type solutions to problems one may encounter.