(You should now be hearing two notes, a half step apart, played by the low orchestral strings, slowly beginning to speed up. Just in case you weren’t sure).

I begin my post with this musical interpretation to describe what I hear in my head as this week nears. You may feel it must be a foreboding moment I am anticipating – a dentist appointment, perhaps, or a project I’ve been procrastinating on that has an approaching deadline. I do have each of those situations on my horizon, but they are not the source of the scary music playing in my head. Rather, it is tomorrow, or for those reading at a later time, April 30, 2012.  What is this doomsday date signify, you ask?

No, it is not the last day on a South American tribal astrological calendar.

It is the last official day of our current homeschool academic program.

Yes, dear reader, the fear I am facing is the same fear that grips most homeschool parents around this time (and I’m sure grips other public school parents, but with the reprieve of a month or two more of school to shield them); the ever-present question of “What are we going to do this summer?”

It always amazes me that, as homeschoolers, despite the popular portrayal of being sheltered and secluded in our homes, we are very, very connected to our social and academic programs outside of the home. That, of course, is one of the strengths of the homeschool movement – the freedom to move in and out of various educational programs without the hindrance of compulsory school attendance to prevent certain schedule or lifestyle choices. However, there remains the inevitable moment that all these programs break for the summer, and just like our public school counterparts, we stare at these once ‘busy-beaver’ children and swear by our graves that they will not become couch potatoes for 3 months. Even as we speak those words, the fears in our heads swirl like little tornadoes, wrecking havoc on any hope that some program will appear that will keep them busy and out of educational lethargy.

This is the quandary I find myself in every summer. This, despite the fact that most summers my children find their way out of my now-non-existent hair and into their grandparents’ home, where they can both vegetate and receive plenty of allowance – ready work around the house to earn money for their church camp and other summer necessities. Every year I preach the same message to my kids about “lifelong learning” and try to fight their insistent plea that they must have total separation from anything even remotely educational. You would think after 8 years of homeschooling that I would be fully prepared for this season every year. You would, however, be disappointed in your optimistic thoughts of my preparedness. I find myself so consumed with finishing the “year” strong that I usually neglect to remember that our academic “year” is barely more than one-half of the calendar year. 22 of the 52 weeks of our year are non-scheduled, non-programmed – dare I say it – “unschooled” weeks.

And so, my emotions and intellect convene on that first of the 22 weeks to remind me that I have two choices. Either I can surrender to the panicky thoughts of lackadaisical children filling their heads with Playstation 3 and iCarly for hours on end, or I can be intentional about keeping the “R”s in my kid’s summer. Not the colloquial “Reading, ‘Ritin’ an ‘Rithmatic’”, but instead, Rest and Retention.

The key of this seasonal schedule is to keep both rest and retention in focus. Too much or not enough of either can lead to stressful summers. No matter how far behind a student is, rest is important, despite worries about ‘time off’. Without rest, the children would become totally unwilling to focus on their studies when they are necessary, and totally unable to prioritize their ‘downtime’ appropriately.  Therefore, to use the analogy of our homeschool ‘program’ being a car driven 8 months out of the year, we as a family have to take our foot of the accelerator of our homeschool vehicle, park it, cover it neatly, and let the academic engine sit in the garage for a bit. However, I’m not so quick to settle into relax mode without remembering to take the car out for a spin to make sure the wheels are still turning properly. So a math course for my daughter, or an online study in business for my son will find its way into the garage for proper maintenance. This retention strategy is not just about keeping information in their heads, but more importantly, it is about retaining their learning lifestyle. I want to foster and encourage an attitude that does not shut off their desire to learn based on the current month of the year. Keeping a healthy balance of rest from academic studies, and a plan to retain our learning lifestyle is my ultimate summer goal.

So after the last tutoring session is done, the testing complete, and the portfolios reviewed, I’ll wistfully wave goodbye to this academic year like a familiar face on a ship bound for places unknown and never to be seen again – well at least until August. Then I will square my shoulders, march back into the family room where my kids will likely have either a YouTube video about a hyperactive chipmunk-sounding teenager on their iPods, or yet another insanely ridiculous cartoon on the TV that I cannot find funny for the life of me.  I’ll then look them in the eyes and say the words that they hate to hear.

“Pass me the remote.”

I’ve always been a fan of self-improvement and leadership books. From age 16, when my dad promised me $100 if I would read Stephen Covey’s “The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People”, I’ve found my reading material always includes something that would inspire me to be more proactive, or to set goals, or any other flavor of motivation I could get my hands on. Of course the distance between theory and action is the space we live in daily, so I can attest that I haven’t followed through with much that I have read. But the wisdom of those words is always only a look away, and when I view those words habitually, I start to form my habits around those words.

While listening to a motivational audio program, I thought about all the times as a teen and young adult that I found myself at critical decision points, and when I should have followed a wisdom point. That led to ruminations about my kids and all the words they are surrounded by. I am blessed that they have many wonderful influences and people to speak into their lives, including our beautiful church family and the wonderful homeschooling support groups we are a part of. But there are always times that those words of life and empowerment are needed, and there may not be a kind soul nearby to speak them. They must be hidden in the heart for their power to be applied when necessary.

We live in a time that we have access to all kinds of apps and games, but do we access the words that we need to make wise decisions? I know many times I haven’t. To combat this,  I’ve recommitted myself to memorizing verses of Scripture. My new goal is to memorize all of Romans. I’ve only made it to verse 7, chapter 1, but the exercise is reminding me how every word matters when you study and apply it to your life. The book of Phillipians speaks of meditating on whatever is pure, lovely, or has any good report. Proverbs, the ultimate wisdom book of the Bible, mentions a word fitly spoken being like a apple of gold. Even my church has a new “Words with Friends” evening dedicated to sharing God’s word in small groups. If my heavenly Father knows the power of words, I must be sure as a earthly father that I’m accessing the same ‘word power’ and implanting it in my family.

It seems my wife was on the same wavelength as me without even us discussing it. Around the same time that I was considering this ‘word’ emphasis, she came home with stencils for placing quotes on the walls, and I came home to find them already adorning our living room and kitchen. Needless to say, I’m grateful that she understands the power of positive words.

Each time I look at these words, I remember what’s most important about our family – that we are together, that we dream, love, and pray together, and that we support one another. These concepts are simple, yes, but never are they more precious and sacred than when the pressures of life try to steal the power of making them a priority.

One of the pastors at my church’s recent men’s conference stated this quote: “The choices you make make you.”  When talking with my son on the ride home, he said that those words impacted him the most. So in effect, the words he has chosen to believe and maintain in his heart will then make his choices, and then those choices will make him. All the more reason for me to make sure that the words that he hears, that he sees, and that he will live by are always words of life, of meaning, and of eternal value.

My wife and I have always emphasized independence in our children’s learning styles. From the beginning, it was their responsibility to own their own education. By allowing them to determine their own schedule, giving them the choice type of projects they would present, and keeping  a “hands off” approach unless it was clear our kids needed direct assistance, our children became aware of the fact that our role as parents was to facilitate, not to dictate their learning.  Over the last 8 years, this strategy seems to have fostered the correct attitude in them. They study, they research, and they write for themselves, not for us.  This independence has given them a sense of confidence when approaching challenges, one I would not trade for any amount of personal satisfaction in solving their problems for them. 

However, at times I’ve used this independent streak as a crutch to excuse my own lackadaisical approach in keeping my kids accountable. It becomes very easy to allow their self-directed mentalities to cloud my judgement about when I should, in fact, step in and make adjustments. Examples include when assignments mysteriously have not been completed for a month, or a test unexpectedly is barely passed. The “why didn’t you ask for help” response rings hollow when I know for a fact that I was not pro-active in checking on their studies. I realize this may seem a good problem to have for parents that have less than motivated learners, but it has become a systematic issue in our learning journey, and one I can only attribute to my ‘big picture’ view of education becoming too big. 

I call this “blimp” schooling as opposed to the oft-mentioned “helicopter parenting”, the latter phrase referring to parents that hover too close to the child, not allowing them freedom to fail or to express their own abilities without interference. My problem is that I tend to look at the big picture (“they all learn at their own pace”…) to the point that I lose sight of the day-to-day quandaries that they may face educationally.  My blimp soars too high when all I can see are specks of activity on the educational roads my kids travel, when in fact there may be a pile-up on the expressway that needs an immediate infusion of intense interaction. It doesn’t help that they are, in fact, fiercely independent and resist when I bring the blimp closer in to observe their work in a more detailed fashion. Whether they resist or not, I know my role has to encompass both a long range and a short range view so they can reach their goals.

I’m sure there is a happy medium between the helicopter and the blimp mindset. I want to be able to keep a view from the long range of my children’s development, while having the ability to look close at any time and zoom in on the particular problem or skill that they need to develop.  Whatever that ‘aircraft’ looks like, I am making a new effort to become an expert pilot as I guide my children to their destination as learners and leaders. 

• That my marriage is stronger than it was at the start of the year, despite challenges and obstacles, and that my wife and I have now been celebrating our love for 15 years. 
• That our leap into the Classical model of education has been successful, and that my kids are continuing to grow and mature in their faith and self-awareness. 
• That our long battle with selling the house came to an end, and we found a new place to call home. 
• That my church family continued to provide real relationships, inspire new levels of faith, and challenge me to live up to the potential I was imbued with from my Father. 
• That despite all that could have gone wrong, we are more inspired, more prepared, and more empowered to handle the challenges of 2012 because of the lessons of 2011.

I pray that you can look back on the past year and see more blessings than burdens, and look ahead to 2012 and see more possibilities than problems. 2011 was a tough year for many of us, and yet, we are still here, and He is still able. 

Happy New Year! 

“He had an excellent constitution of body, was of middle stature, but well set, and very strong; he was ingenious, could draw prettily, was skilled a little in music, and had a clear pleasing voice, so that when he played psalm tunes on his violin and sung withal, as he sometimes did in an evening after the business of the day was over, it was extremely agreeable to hear. He had a mechanical genius too, and, on occasion, was very handy in the use of other tradesmen’s tools; but his great excellence lay in a sound understanding and solid judgment in prudential matters, both in private and publick affairs.” 

 

Later Franklin describes how his father would bring guests of the community over for dinner and engage them in deep conversations to “improve the minds of his children.” It is apparent that much of Franklin’s interest in ideas and his desire to improve the society around him began at the dinner table, listening to the conversations between his father and their guests.

Upon reading these words, my memory returned me to my childhood and the dinner table. Perhaps my father didn’t invite the local thinkers of my hometown over to dinner, but there was certainly an exchange of ideas at every meal. Like Franklin, I remember much more of the conversations than of the meals themselves. Science, philosophy, humour, and morality were all fair game. And I realize that much of what I try to instill in my children doesn’t take place at the homework desk, nor in the sunday school class, or even on the couch. It’s what they catch from our sharing at the table that seems to stick the longest. Even now they can recount conversations and laugh-a-thons we had at the table even more readily than they can remember some vacations or big trips. It’s an inducement for me to continue pouring in knowledge at the table, as I pour the gravy over the mashed potatoes, or pour the Sprite in the glasses as we share a Friday night pizza.

Franklin takes the time to write down the inscription on his parents’ gravesite, they each having lived to their late 80′s. I’d find this a fitting tribute to my life if my kids can say this about their parents one day (minus the amount of children).

Without an estate, or any gainful employment, By constant labor and industry, with God’s blessing, They maintained a large family comfortably, and brought up thirteen children and seven grandchildren reputably. From this instance, reader, Be encouraged to diligence in thy calling, And distrust not Providence. He was a pious and prudent man; She, a discreet and virtuous woman.

Though he lived long enough to see many of his son’s achievements, Ben Franklin’s father probably never imagined what an impact those conversations and his leading a life of learning would have on the history of our country. Neither can I predict what great things my kids may do one day as a result of some wisdom I may, by God’s grace, pass on. But I plan to continue giving my children every chance to see a man working hard to become a better man, as Franklin’s father did. I hope every father reading this feels, and then does, the same. Our country will be the better for it.

Quotes from Franklin, Benjamin (1994). The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin (Kindle Locations 133-153). Public Domain Books. Kindle Edition.

For the last year, I was a tutor in a Classical Conversations community here in Miami. (For the uninitiated, Classical Conversations is a classical Christian curriculum that supports homeschool families by connecting them with tutors that model the classical method) My kids were already excited about their curriculum choices, which I allowed them to help choose, so I was hesitant to switch them into the new curriculum. So instead, I let them accompany me to my classes, get to know the kids, and help out with my preparation for classes. Now, after having checked out the program from the inside out, I’ve decided to put my two younger children in the program next year. It is a bit scary. After all, our entire homeschool journey started with the outright rejection of any single curriculum. I’ve called myself an unschooler, a unit studies homeschooler, an electic homeschooler, a family learning homeschooler…I have attempted to place so many labels on my educational philosophy that if I were to put them on name tags, my whole upper torso would be covered in “Hello, My Name Is…” stickers.

As we complete our 6th year of “family learning” (That fact is sooo hard to believe), we have come full circle. My eldest, public schooled son has completed his first year of college and my younger two homeschooled children are now nearing the high school grades. It brought me to a point of contemplating our efforts so far. Had they been adequate to prepare them for a treacherous economy and job market? Was my hands-off approach to education helping or hurting them? In all my deliberation,  I had to remind myself that no matter what label I wanted to maintain for myself, the priority was that my kids have a complete and strong push through high school to prepare them for anything the educational world and the workforce would demand of them.

So did I run to the Classical method immediately? Absolutely not.

What made me sure that this was a good fit for my high school age kids was not necessarily the accountability or high expectations of the Classical Conversations program, although those were highly important features. No, what drew me was the realization that the paradigm of the Classical method fit my particular view of how I wanted my kids to develop as thinkers. I certainly can’t say I’ve been a diehard adherent of any one philosophy, but I can say that I agree with any educational program whose goal is to end the supposed divorce between real life and knowledge. This particular program allows me the greatest chance to continue to remind my high-school age children that you can’t separate what you learn from how you learn. If they get the former without that latter, they will have no chance in their future endeavors to know how to better themselves on their own. But homeschoolers in general understand this principle no matter what method they choose. Keeping our children’s individual needs in the forefront, and ensuring that they have the proper view of why education matters, virtually ensures that our curriculum choices will eventually prove effective.

Learning, in the truest sense, can’t be limited to a label. Although there will always be differing methods and strategies for each person, the end goal is not to define a philosophy of education, but to refine a mind. That’s something I’ll have to keep in mind even as the requirements of my kids’ education become more and more specialized. They may not remember everything I teach them, but my only desire is that they remember how to learn. If that happens, which I believe it will, our family learning experience will be a resounding success.

But as I looked at everything I had worked so hard to accomplish, it was all so meaningless—like chasing the wind. There was nothing really worthwhile anywhere

It is pretty predictable now.

The feeling always follows a great moment. Perhaps a successful client meeting where a sale was closed. A home project that had bedeviled me for months, finally completed. A big church event, planned for months, concluded with a rousing applause and smiles on the faces of the congregants. Then follows the high fives, the hand shakes, the smiles and pats on the back from passerby or well-wishers. The tired but grateful walk to the car or the falling into the bed with exhaustion partnering with gravity.

This is when the question floods my mind when I should be enjoying the moment.

“Now what?”

Perhaps some dads out there can relate to the all too fleeting moment of accomplishment and completion, only to hear a voice telling you that you really haven’t accomplished anything. That whatever project, duty, or goal you have achieved is destined to be followed by another one, promising to be harder and more frustrating than the last.

I single out dads because I believe many of us feel the struggle of setting high standards for ourselves and our families. Even in this post-modern era of modified family roles and gender equality, there is still a social and internal pressure placed on the fathers to ‘make things happen’ in the home. We are the thermostats of the family, and if the home is cold or uncomfortable, we bear the responsibility of changing the atmosphere. The danger of this truism is that we feel the job is never done. We can work for years to reach a goal, and when the moment is reached, there is no release or reward. We don’t stop to smell the roses, or even realize there was a rose on the side of the road at all.

It occurred to me today, when I was in the midst of one of these doldrums, that this sense of accomplishment is probably the most fleeting of all senses for me. We all use our five senses constantly to keep track of where we are, what is around us, and how we should proceed and act. Our senses make us aware of our surroundings. Some call the mystical ESP the ‘sixth sense’. Wikipedia tells me that the sixth sense is the sense of equilibrium. But I think the sixth sense for dads is the sense of accomplishment. It tells us that we are on the right track, that we’re worthy of a moment of satisfaction in who we are and what we are working toward. It may be that we have to force ourselves to stop in the midst of all the family, work and school activities and simply wait for a different voice, one that sometimes doesn’t come from another person. It has to come from a different place, one that resides on the inside. A voice that says, “Good job.”

So I’ll try to tap into that voice even when I hear those other voices telling me that I didn’t do well enough, or accomplish enough, or that someone else was better for the job anyway. There’s only one dad God selected to do the job I’m doing, and I’ll take his selection as a sign that I’m able to finish the task of raising great kids, being a great husband, and finding contentment in being the best man I can be.

Those words, written on my first teaching evaluation, were probably well-intentioned, and likely a valid statement, but they remain, for better or worse, anchored in my consciousness to this day. For what I heard in my head when I read those words sounded more like this:

“Tolerance will not be tolerated.”

I was an intern music teacher in my first assignment in an elementary school, having just been manhandled by a group of twitchy 4th graders that read my fresh-faced demeanor as an excuse to tune out of my fun lesson on quarter notes. After all, I’m sure they were aware that for once, they were not the ones being graded – the teacher was. How much fun that must have been to know this collegiate wanna-be teacher was at their mercy, like a laboratory where the mice are in charge, and gleefully drop the scientist in the maze. I’m not sure whether the problem was that I didn’t recognize the rambunctious nature of the children, or that I tried to soldier on through the lesson without using the “Classroom Management Techniques” drilled into me by my teaching textbooks – names on the board, positive reinforcement, eye contact, redirection – all given for the express purpose that I should exert my will over the classroom. Whatever my reasoning or judgement, my supervisor was clear in her assessment. I had let the kids get away with too much.  I had not, in her view, provided the proper amount of consequence for the perceived offenses of the group.

To which charge, if carried over the 14 years since, I must plead guilty in more than one case of educational anarchy. Most of my life, I’ve been either blessed or cursed, depending on ones view, with a propensity for giving people a second, or third, or fourth chance. My children, of course, would beg to differ with this assessment. They see a dad that makes decisions and judgments long before they have finished their appeals, and I’m sure they chalk that up to a lack of patience on my part. If only they knew (and now obviously know if they are reading this confessional themed section) that I agonized over each and every decision and always felt a sense that a punishment or decree could warrant another look. I’m very aware that this sometimes has been a negative factor in my adult life. No matter how many books and websites I’ve researched on assertiveness and leadership, it hasn’t made it any easier for me to draw a line in the sand.

Therein lies my dilemma. I know that tolerance can, in the extreme, be a cowardly decision to avoid confrontation and excuse wrong behavior. However, on the opposite side, I’ve seen where a long-suffering and patient attitude toward people has been a beneficial asset. I feel many of the relationships I’ve forged with friends have stood through difficult seasons because I simply refused to take the final offense. Although it hurt deeply at times, I chose to believe that the good in the person would always shine through the bad choices, and except in some extreme circumstances, I made an effort to provide a place of reconciliation. I’m sure I was not always correct in my judgment of when that was the proper course to take, but that’s where the real crucible of friendship and relationship is – in the choice whether to use the torch of compromise to lead the way to a bridge between two seemingly incompatible views, or to use the torch of decision to burn the bridge.

Of course, not all issues of patience have to do with putting up with people. However, in this essay I’m deliberately not speaking about the patience needed to see a goal through, or to endure a trial or season of testing. I’ll refer to that type in a future post. (Thus the Part I addendum to the post title.)  To be patient with people is more difficult, because I believe we view relationships more as commodities than companionships. We hear regularly about the need to cut ties with those that disappoint us, as if a person is a faulty piece of equipment to be discarded when it malfunctions. Because of this perception, I feel the price of being ‘too patient’ with people has been the appearance of weakness –  of a sense that I’m unwilling to call out and hold people accountable. However, while I readily accept the fact that sometimes boundaries must be set and standards upheld, I look to another example for comfort when I feel I’m doomed by my tolerant disposition.

Picture God watching mankind, His most precious and greatest creation, utterly forsaking Him for alternative gods and denying that He ever had anything to do with bringing them into existence.  Imagine the disappointment. Now, we acknowledge readily that God reaches a point of finality where judgment is enacted – the Flood for example – and no one is accusing God of not enforcing the standards He demands. However, the patience of God ends up having a high price – the price that people begin to think that He isn’t serious. Those people alive at the time of the Flood might have been more prone to believe Noah’s warnings had God allowed a river to burst forth somewhere. Even now, in this post – modern world, a common view from skeptics about God is that if He were real, He wouldn’t put up with people not recognizing Him. Still,  He exhibits patience and seems to allow things to get worse even as time seems to be growing short. So is God too tolerant? Should He put up with as much as He did, and continues to put up with? I doubt anyone, no matter how desirous of seeing the complete vindication of good over evil, would accuse God of being too patient. In truth, the full price of His patience was exemplified in the sacrifice of His Son, because a patient God decided losing a Son was better than losing any sinner that had a chance of repentance.

So is it dangerous to be patient with people? Yes. Is it worth the price of the appearance of weakness and excessive tolerance? In my theological example, I would have to say yes. However, it is harder for me to accept that answer as a father and man who deals with the dilemmas that patience brings. There is no easy answer, no one magic bullet that solves the patience problem. Patience has its perfect work, James claims in his epistle. I don’t think for a moment that means we perfectly understand why certain people require more patience, but I do believe that when we look back from the other side of heaven, we’ll see a complete picture of how God has been patient with us, and how that patience has been transmitted through us to others.

I’ll continue wrestling with this perception for the rest of my life. What I don’t have to wrestle with, however, is the fact that I know while I may give too many chances at times to students, children, or colleagues, God has never felt like He gave me one too many chances. I appreciate that, and I’ll pass it on as best I can. And to that student in the 2nd row in Ms. Buddy’s 4th grade music class that talked out of turn and wouldn’t keep your hands to yourself – I saw you. And you’re welcome.

I saw my daughter’s plant starting to wilt this morning.

When we bought the little plant, it was in a peat pot, and that peat pot was in a plastic container. Gardeners know that we normally would have taken the plant out of the plastic pot, dug a hole, and then placed the plant in a garden or something similar outside. However, having bought the plant just for a short science experiment with soil, we never moved the plant outside. My daughter was content to water the plant and stick it close to the window sill, where the sun would shine on it every morning, and she looked forward to lovingly caring for it every day.

The plant grew pretty well for a while. It had lovely little purple blooms, and soon was overflowing the pot. However, we still never took the time to replant it or prepare the outside ground for it. So it remained on the window sill.

Now despite the leaves growing over the side, I can see the yellow streaks on the leaves, the drooping of the blooms, and the lack of firmness in the stems. It seems even with the best of care, the plant has lost its desire to be all it was capable of being.

It is obvious that without intervention, the plant will die. Not because she’s not watering it, or because it’s not receiving adequate sunlight. It’s because its purpose is beyond the pot. No amount of loving tender care will change the fact that it was never designed to stay in the little container it started in. And by trying to force it to stay in the pot, we are only dooming the plant to a short flourish, followed by a long, desperate and dreary decline into death.

I won’t insult your intelligence by insinuating that you, the reader, are the plant. Suffice it to say, that some pots are self made. We make our own plastic pots, take great care of the plant, place the plant where we think it will be secure and safe, and think the plant will be happy. But nothing that is designed to be free can last under the boundaries of the pot. The plan for the plant must come to pass, if the plant is to ever make any progress.

I would love to say we are preparing a place outside for the plant. That is not the case. This particular plant has to deal with my daughter. But in my own life, I’ve learned the secret. The smell of rain is drawing me. I’m digging up places that once seemed like they should remain untouched, and I’m preparing to move from the pot to the garden. No longer will I be safe, but wilting and wasting away on the window sill, being cared for but not being consumed with my true purpose. While there may be weeds, storms, and other prettier plants in the garden, at least I’ll be where I’m purposed to be. And that is all I could ever ask for.

Photo By Luis Argerich

So teach us to number our days, That we may gain a heart of wisdom. Psalm 90:12 (NKJV)

Four thousand nine hundred sixty-five.

Of course, you just read that numeric expression with no reaction whatsoever. Without knowing what it represents, any number – from one to a billion – is simply that – a number. Many attempt to assign significance to certain numbers, whether in Christianity, where numbers like three and twelve are often pointed to as divine quantities, or in terms of celebratory moments like the sweet sixteen, the big  4-0, or the 50th anniversary.  But the majority of numbers live  in obscurity, having no reason for being celebrated, held in  high esteem, or remembered for anything else than being  passed by in an accounting of some unnoticed pile of objects, or  maybe a passing mention on a stock sheet or a store receipt.

So why is my number significant today? Perhaps some  background from a song I’ve heard would help explain. I  believe it’s from the musical “Rent” – a piece called “Seasons of  Love”.  The lyricist obviously did his homework, having  calculated that every year contains five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes. He then wraps that number in  the query of how we measure a year, whether in the quantity of  time, or in the opportunities we have to share love with our  friends and family. A great question, for sure.  And one that I  found myself asking last night as my upper eyelids began to  hover just above my lower ones in a vain attempt to stave off their magnetic attraction.

It had been a restless evening, one in which I was unable to focus on any particular problem at hand, – a new job offer, our impending house sale, my son’s entrance into college in two weeks – all standing in front of me like bowling pins in an impossible split configuration, daring me to take the correct mental approach and roll my problem solving ball in a way that would knock them all down in one improbable swoop. Lacking the skill or the understanding to do so, I tried to turn my thoughts to the things I should be grateful for.

Now math is not the normal path I would take for a mental exercise in thankfulness. But having my wife at my side inspired an equation, a simple one I know, but one that the mind that got a C- in Algebra could handle. I thought about our 13 years of marriage, and tried to calculate how many nights I have had the privilege of laying down with this beautiful lady at my side, in the hope that by God’s mercy that I would not wake up the next morning alone. So the easy answer was multiply the 13 years by 365 days.

No, I couldn’t do the mental math on that one. But the thought was sobering as I estimated the number was in the thousands. Thousands of nights spent, and what could I show for it in terms of love shown? Of problems that could have been overlooked in favor of sharing a hug, a kiss, a contented sigh and glance at the love of my life? Just how many of those thousands of evenings and mornings did I really make count? The number fades in significance in comparison to the emotional bond and depth of connection that could have been attained if I just stopped thinking of what’s missing, and remembered what was there all along.

So today the formulation was done, the leap years accounted for, and the current year added (I’d love to turn it into an algebraic equation to prove my mathematical mettle, but I digress), and the solution to the equation is the number at the  beginning of this entry. Yet, already it has passed into the recesses of my mind, again insignificant, again lost to the heap of inconsequential facts. For the most important thing is not the number of days and nights I’ve had opportunity to touch and show love to my wife and family. It’s what I do with the current one. #4,965  is today, and I intend to make the best of it. My wife and kids may not know the number of the day, but they’ll know who was there in the midst of it.

Unto the hills,

HsD