Week Thirteen: "Christ is risen! Let's go to Arby's!"

Easter is here!  It’s one of my favorite times of year.  There is an energy in the air and winter dormancy explodes into new life.  Christ is risen!  He is risen, indeed! But He still isn’t buying anything at the Dannemiller house.

One of our favorite Easter traditions comes from Mexico.  In the towns along the US border, people make cascarones (pronounced “kahs-kah-roan-ays”) around the holiday – hollowed out egg shells filled with confetti.  Tradition dictates that families gather to honor the agonizing death of Jesus and his triumphant resurrection by breaking the eggs on each others' heads, much like the disciples did at the Last Supper.  At least that’s what I read in my Jerry Lewis Standard Edition of the Bible.

In years past, we purchased a few dozen of these eggs at HEB, the famed grocery store in Texas named after Henry E. Butt.  This year was a different story.  Unable to buy the cascarones, we spent the better part of five weeks watching my cholesterol spike and eating eggs every day for breakfast.  We must have looked like the most OCD bunch of chefs in the world.  Tap-tap-tapping on the pointy end of the egg with a pearing knife until breaking through like a baby chick, then gently prying off a small piece and violently shaking the egg out into a bowl.

Several were victims of cascarone research and development, but a couple dozen hollow casks made it to the top of our refrigerator where they dried until March 29^th.

The next step was coloring the eggs.  I need to talk with my mom to see if I nearly drowned in a large vat of Paas color solution when I was a kid, because the thought of taking on this type of messy craft project with children who have yet to master their opposable thumbs gives me the shakes.

Due to my phobia, I left this part of the work to Gab and the kids.  My job was to take a blow dryer to get rid of any moisture in the shells once they were done.  By the time I was finished styling them, every single egg could have supplanted Trump’s toupee.

Rather than buy confetti, we finely chopped some old chunks of tissue paper that Gabby had miraculously saved from some long-ago craft project.  It’s good to know we’re prepared in case we need to coordinate a parade after the Apocalypse.

We combined the tissue paper shavings with finely diced financial documents we had recently put through the shredder.  We thought this was worth the risk, given that it would take a really nasty person to steal your identity on one of the holiest days of the year.  Still, we spread each document evenly among each egg to minimize our exposure.  The finished product was awesome, and it was a fun, shared family experience we would have missed out on had we not been tackling our Year Without A Purchase.

* Scott topping off the cascarones.  Audrey used water colors to paint all our faces.  Good times.

The Easter Bunny was a different story.

While Santa has sweatshops full of elves to assist him in toy production, the Easter Bunny is a loner.  The poor guy has to rely on Target to fill the baskets.  But this year, no can do.  Our bunny can’t buy any stuff.

In years past, we put small toys in the baskets and some knick-kacky needs.  This year, in lieu of toys, we stuffed the baskets with more shredded mortgage docs to act as Easter grass, and threw in some plastic eggs from Gabby’s stash in the garage.  Apparently it’s her substitute for a change purse post-Apocalypse.

We crammed  the eggs full of jelly beans and fun size Snickers bars to appease the kids’ sweet tooth.  We tried to think of what else they might get fired up about that’s not stuff.  After some debate, we decided to get Audrey a gift card for an Arby’s roast beef sandwich and Jake a gift card for a Cool Ranch Locos Taco from Taco Bell.

We sincerely apologize to the First Lady for our poor choices.

When Easter morning arrived, we sent the kids searching through the house for their baskets.  Knowing that they were likely to notice the lack of toys, we didn’t even mention the Easter Bunny by name.  Didn’t want to throw the poor fella under the bus.

Little did we know, the simple pleasures are the best.  They must put moon dust and Fun Dip on the shell of the Cool Ranch Doritos Locos taco, because Jake can’t stop talking about ‘em.  And Audrey?  That’s another story.

She looked at her gift card and said,

“Can I take Nana out to lunch?”

Holy cow.

We gave her the phone.  Of course, my mom accepted.  I’m not sure who was more excited.  Both of them nearly wet their pants.

When the day came, Audrey picked out a special outfit.  Nana came over to pick her up.  They went to Audrey’s favorite restaurant and sat across the table from each other, sharing roast beef sandwiches, curly fries and a mint chocolate shake.  “It was delicious!” she shouted.

And she paid for the whole thing.

You can’t plan this stuff.  It never would have happened had we filled those baskets with a mountain of trinkets.   I know it’s a tiny victory.  But it’s a big deal.  And just a small taste of the selfless connection that can happen when you clear out the junk and focus on what’s important.

Happy Easter!

Week Twelve: "Spring Broken"

This past week was Spring Break for the Dannemiller family.  The term “spring break” normally conjures images of sun-drenched beaches in Florida, infested with college kids being held up by their ankles enjoying a few mellow cocktails sipped through a funnel and some plastic tubing.  It’s a chance to get away from it all and enjoy an exotic destination.  Not to be outdone, we embarked on our own epic journey to the hotbed of spring break activity.

Madison, Wisconsin.

I know what you’re thinking.  How in the world did you find an available hotel room?

We are lucky enough to have some very dear friends that recently moved from Nashville to Madison to take a new job at the University of Wisconsin.  This was our opportunity to spend some quality time with them and point out anything remotely unattractive about their new hometown (too cold, too flat, too much cheese) so they move back.  We’re generous like that.

Little did we know that our trip was doomed.  Jake caught a stomach bug the night before we were supposed to leave.  So, we delayed our departure and stayed at home to do our taxes.  Gabby and I combed through receipts and 1099’s for the better part of the extra day. We made sure to yell at the kids every now and then to make sure they felt included.   

The romance was electric. 

Jake still felt bad the next day, but, like any good parents, we packed the kids into the car anyway.  We pumped him full of saltines, gave him a big green barf bucket and all of the DVD movies he could ever want to watch.  By the time we had watched three rounds of Tom & Jerry’s greatest hits, we made it to Indianapolis where my sister and our nieces were in town for a volleyball tournament.  After a couple of games, we all went to have pizza while poor Jake was sprawled out in the booth holding his gut.  He has a flair for drama, but we called it quits early and spent the rest of the night in the hotel.

The next morning, Jake felt better, but I was nursing a bit of anxiety due to a potential conflict at work.  Yes, I said potential conflict.  The mere thought of hanging up on a telemarketer gives me mild intestinal discomfort, so you can imagine what truly disappointing someone I value and respect might do to my insides. 

By noon, the conflict was over, but the churning in belly was not.  My stomach became a petri dish for whatever Jake was harboring.  One hundred miles into our day’s journey, the rush hit me.  We made an emergency stop at a McDonald’s in the middle of nowhere.  By virtue of a small miracle, I was able to wait until the bathroom cleared out before erupting into a volcano of bad vacation food.  I barfed up Technicolor Crunch Berries from breakfast.  I barfed up supreme pizza from the night before.  I barfed up a piece of Fruit Stripe bubble gum I swallowed back in the third grade.

It was bad.

After the McFlurry of activity in the bathroom, I stumbled out to the car, three shades whiter than normal.  Gabby issued an immediate quarantine.  We called and cashed in some hotel points so not to infest our friends’ house.  By the time we got to Madison, I was a shivering, writhing mess.    I climbed into the hotel bed and had nightmares of Cap’n Crunch forcing me to swab the deck in rough seas.  Five minutes later, I woke to the sound of Audrey planting her face into the green bucket for her own fireworks show. 

It was looking very much like the aftermath of a Florida spring break party.

To the casual observer, our trip was a bust.  We had planned on going sledding, skiing, taking in 3-4 museums, indoor water parks, eating fun foods, and touring around Wisconsin.  No purchases, but tons of fun experiences.  Instead, we spent a lot of time puking and feeling queasy.  Our eight hour drive home turned into twelve hours.  Even the car got sick, flashing its “check transmission” from Indiana to Nashville.  And we ignored it, in much the same way we ignored Jake’s symptoms on the drive there.  It cost us $432 to get the flashing to stop.

But as we look back on the journey, we now see that the experience we planned would have largely been a distraction.  Case in point:  While the rest of us were quarantined in the hotel, Gabby was able to go out with one of her best friends ALL BY HERSELF.  Those three hours of uninterrupted conversation and connection never would have happened if not for puke-fest 2013. 

* My hot wife with her awesome friend Tiz and her little boy Nathan.  At the time of this post, Nathan is now up-chucking all over the house without the aid of a bucket.  So much for the quarantine!

And another blessing.  Rather than go out to dinner, our kids got to experience an honest-to-goodness Passover, celebrating a Seder dinner at the Goff’s house while I writhed in the hotel bed.  When I asked Audrey what her favorite part was, she said, “I liked the puppet show best.”  Wondering what kind of kid-friendly puppet show would commemorate the smearing of lambs’ blood on the doorframe and the death of every first born Gentile child, I asked, “There’s a Passover puppet show?  Is that tradition?”

Gabby then explained to me that our hosts wanted to spice up the discussion of the ten plagues (Locusts, wild beasts, rivers of blood, etc.) so they found some really fun, non-threatening finger puppets the kids could hold up.  Gabby was happy to be a part of the action and do her Christian duty, happily brandishing the worst of the plague puppets so none of the other guests would be offended at being handed, say, the “First Born” plague.    

And let’s not forget the blessing of our sickness.  Had Audrey and I not been puking like fraternity pledges, we probably would have been at some indoor theme park.  Kids scattered like roaches in a brightly lit room, completely distracted by shiny objects.  Instead, the two of us were locked in suite 207 at the Residence Inn for a full day.  Drawing pictures.  Tracing hands.  Watching old Disney movies and sharing a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle.  Meanwhile, Jake and the rest of the kids threw snowballs at each other and played in the basement.  Not a parent was in sight, and they got to swing like monkeys on some makeshift trapezes Pete had hung from the rafters.

It was fantastic.

And that’s when I realized that “busy-ness” is a close cousin to “stuff”.  Both often breed expectations that are rarely met, leaving us feeling just a bit emptier than before.  Because the kids complain during the movie.  The new sweater doesn’t fit like you thought it should.  The lines are too long at the theme park.  You get tired of washing the new car. And the hotel doesn’t look anything like the brochure.  So the present moment is ruined by the impossible perfection of the vision in our heads.

But today.  The ordinary.  The here and now.  That’s something special.  It’s the only thing God guarantees.  And appreciating what you have is the key to unlocking the joy.  Whether it’s the Clark Griswold-like vacation, or the house in which you live.

So today I begin my appreciation challenge.  Waking up every day for a week and naming five things I am thankful for.  I’m interested to see what, if any, changes it brings about in me.  But I’m not expecting anything in particular.

Because that could be dangerous.

Week Eleven: "A Long Strange Trip"

I went to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia to teach a class this week. No.  That’s not a lie.

I was doing work with the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Center.  They had conducted a web search and stumbled across some information about a Critical Thinking workshop I teach.  They invited.  I accepted.

*A group of hospital leaders working through a critical decision

To say Riyadh is conservative is an understatement.   Outside the Embassy walls, there are no movie theaters, bars, or dance clubs.  There’s no alcohol to be found.  The flight attendants on the plane took it away from everyone once we crossed into Saudi airspace.  Women and men are not allowed to accompany one another in public, unless married.  There is almost no crime.  The customs admission form includes a graphic of a skull and crossbones declaring drug traffickers will be subject to the death penalty.

I kept my allergy medicine in the hotel just in case.

Most everything that a typical westerner might call “fun” has been wiped from the community like a muddy footprint, save for one thing.  Shopping malls.    While retail represents 7.9% of the entire Gross Domestic Product in the US, in Saudi Arabia, it’s 17%.  You can’t throw a kabob without hitting a Bath & Body Works.   I’m stereotyping here, but Saudis visit the mall so much it’s as if the entire country was made up of 13-year-old suburban girls jonesing for a fro-yo.   I wondered how such constant exposure to commercialism might impact the culture here, causing there to be an imbalanced focus on acquiring stuff.

Wanting to experience it for myself, I went to the mall on my first night there.  The place was filled with window shoppers.  Women out for a girl’s night.  Families with kids in strollers.  Guys hanging out and chatting.  I noticed some familiar stores such as Victoria’s Secret, which seemed quite out of place to my untrained eye.  But you quickly realize that the long, black abaya worn in public by every adult woman is simply covering up clothing that fashionable ladies are sporting the world over.  Public and private lives are very different in Saudi Arabia.

* Methinks Victoria has lots of secrets underneath that black robe

Around six o’ clock, I was getting hungry when I heard an unfamiliar sound.  It was the Muslim call to prayer being broadcast over the mall loudspeaker.  Storefronts closed.  Most men disappeared.  Women gathered in close-knit groups.  Seeing that it would be another 20 minutes before I could go to McDonald’s for my McArabic (an actual menu item), I took a break.

I wandered over to a bench and pulled out my two-day-old USA Today.  I made it through the first paragraph of an article skewering the latest Steve Carrell movie when I got the unsettling sensation I was being watched.  I turned around to see a rather large mall security guard standing behind me.

“You cannot sit here.”

I quickly panicked, as I often do when surprised.  My mind drifted to the skull and crossbones as I wondered if reading a colorful newspaper was against Saudi law.

“Oh.  I’m sorry.”

“Go to Starbucks.”  The man was intimidating, speaking in broken English.

“Starbucks?”

“Let me show you.”

He walked me to the elevator, pressed the button, and escorted me into the elevator.  We spent an uncomfortable half minute riding to the second floor, neither of us making a sound.  When the doors opened, he curtly gestured toward the Starbucks which was also shuttered during prayer.

“Go there.”

I did as I was told.  I sheepishly walked to the coffee shop and stood there like a frightened puppy, afraid to even glance at my newspaper.  Is Starbucks just a holding pen for unruly Americans?  Others were walking around and window shopping.  But I stood still.  I didn’t want to see the guard again.

After fifteen minutes of people watching, the storefronts opened, and I took that as my cue to move.  International incident averted.

The next day in class, Latifah, a housing manager approached me during a break.

“How are you enjoying your trip?”

“Very much,” I replied.

“It’s very different from the U.S., no?”

“Yes it is.”  Her face was covered by her head scarf, but I could see the smile in her eyes.

*chatting it up with participants

“Can I ask you a question, Latifah?”

“You just did.”

Good one.  We both laughed.

“I was in the mall last night during the evening prayer.  I sat down on a bench to read my newspaper, but a security guard quickly approached and ushered me off to Starbucks.  Is it illegal to read during prayer time?”

She paused, then laughed out loud.

“No, Mr. Scott.” she responded, still smiling at the worry on my face.  “As a form of respect toward women, it is customary to leave them a place to sit.  Especially during prayer time.”

The only law I had broken was being a jerk.  Like the guy who steals a subway seat from your grandmother.  The security guard was just trying to salvage what little chivalrous honor I had left.

* A good shot of the classroom.  Falah is in the back with the white head scarf.

Falah, a fellow student and the hospital’s media relations rep, caught the end of our conversation.  He was wearing his keffiyeh, a long robe and with a white head scarf.  He asked,

“What is the perception of Saudis in the United States?”

Haifa, a research lab technician, interrupted him.

“He’s not going to tell you!”

Before he could respond, I answered.

“Sure!  I’ll tell you.  Many people in the United States are fearful of anything in the Middle East outside of Dubai.  Very few people would want to travel here willingly.  They think it might be dangerous.  My mother, for example, called me just before I got on the plane to say her ‘final goodbye’. I think it’s a product of what they see on TV.  Bombings.  Terrorist groups.”

Someone else, I forget whether it was Latifah or Haifa said, “My family was scared for me to go to New York.  Very dangerous.  People get shot all the time.  According to the TV programs.”

Apparently CNN and Law & Order don’t do anyone any favors.    Media manipulation distorting reality.

Falah continued, “Mr. Scott.  You seem like a really good guy.  Are you interested in falconry?”

“Falconry?”  This may be one of the most obscure questions I’ve ever been asked.

“Yes.  Hunting with falcons.  I have written nine books on falconry, and run a falconry club here.  If you come back, I would love to take you out to the desert with my bird.  We could hunt.  See some camels.   It would allow you to see an entirely different side of the country.”

Haifa added, “We actually have hunting camels, too.  They snatch birds right out of the air.”

My eyes were wide until I realized she was pulling my leg.  Showing how quickly reality can get distorted. She smiled.   Falah handed me a copy of one of his books, and his personal contact information.

“I’m not kidding.  I would love to take you out.”

“I will call you.  Most definitely.”

Later that evening, I took one final trip to the mall before my midnight flight.  I was laughing at myself.  My misconceptions.  The night before, I remembered wondering how such constant exposure to commercialism might impact the culture here, causing there to be an imbalanced focus on acquiring stuff.  Heck, even on this second trip to the mall, I found myself wanting to break the Year Without A Purchase vow.  I’m half way around the world!  I gotta’ bring some shiny junk back for the kids, right?  How can anyone stay connected to what’s important when you’re surrounded by the unimportant all the time.

As I was about to walk into a leather goods store and browse the luggage, I heard the sound again.  Over the loud speaker came an atonal voice singing the adhan – the call to prayer.

Storefronts closed.  Most men disappeared.  Women gathered in close-knit groups.  For the next twenty minutes, people left their everyday distractions behind and re-centered on God. Me included.  I put away the newspaper and focused on what’s important.

For three minutes, anyway.

But there was nothing else to do. And here, it happens five times per day.

Before sunrise.  Fajr.  Remembering God.

At noon. Dhuhr.  Asking for guidance in your day.

Late afternoon. ‘Asr.  In the midst of daily stress.  Pausing to remember God’s greater meaning in our lives.

Before sundown. Maghrib. Thankfulness for a day well-lived.

After sundown.  ‘Isha. Remembering God’s presence, mercy and forgiveness.

How beautiful. How consistent.  Connecting with God as part of a routine.  Like bathing or breathing.  Simple and powerful.

I went to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia to teach a class this week.

But learned far more than I taught.

*the gang's all here!  Me and my new friends.

Week Ten: "True Confessions"

The holy smoke came out of the chimney of the Sistine Chapel yesterday morning, reminding me of my Catholic upbringing and signaling a new Pope is in the big Pope chair.  I was never a very good Catholic, otherwise I would have remembered the formal name for His Eminence’s fancy seat. In fact, I may be the only Catholic child to get “held back” in Sunday School.  Most kids do their first confession in the third grade.   I was so nervous about confessing my sins to the priest that I came up with every excuse imaginable to miss out on the Sunday School lessons where they taught you the proper way to rat on yourself in front of a holy man.  I had to remediate many years later.

As a freshman in high school.  I was the Catholic Billy Madison.

This created some real angst for me.  By the time I finally mustered the courage to release my face-to-face tell-all biography to Father Mikliska, I had moved way past lying to my parents and into regularly taking the Lord’s name in vain and entertaining a constant stream of impure thoughts about the varsity cheerleading squad.  I may be the first sinner on record to ever have to pay a security deposit on the confessional.  The first 15 minutes are free, but each additional quarter hour will cost you.

After my first confession, I never went back.  I piled up sin-after-sin for another fifteen years or so before visiting Europe on a trip of self-discovery.  The year was 2001 – the Jubilee Year.  Every fifty years or so the Catholic Church celebrates its Jubilee, and opens the special doors on St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome.  The belief is that anyone who walks through the Jubilee doors is automatically absolved of his sins.  You don’t even have to do anything to receive the forgiveness.  It’s kinda’ like walking through the turnstile at a Major League Baseball game on a big promotional night.  Only instead of a Derek Jeter bobble head you get total absolution.

I went through three times, just in case.

Now a real-life priest and friend from college (see Fr. Stuart's comment below this post) informs me that both my tour guide and Wikipedia have misinformed me.  Walking through the doors isn't enough.  It still requires a sit-down with a holy man.  Looks like it's now been over twenty years since my last soul cleanse.    So, today, as readers of the Year Without A Purchase blog, you shall be my priest.

Forgive us readers, for we may have sinned.

The rules state we will not buy anything this year.  We haven’t technically broken these rules.  We’ve just found some loopholes.  So, we need your judgment to determine if we need to do penance of some kind.

The first one is a minor sin.  Jake is playing catcher for his little league team, and the coach suggested he get a cup to protect his nether regions.  That’s not something you typically want as a hand-me-down.  And, while I’m sure we could have used a recycled yogurt container or something, we bit the bullet and bought one.  I think it qualifies as a need.

Next up, Jake’s shoes.

Last week’s blog mentioned that we made Jake wear his summer swim shoes when his regular tennis shoes became more hole than shoe.  Well, the elastic cord on one of those shoes snapped, leaving the shoe floppy and slipping off whenever he ran.  We checked with a few relatives for some hand-me-downs.  Finding none that fit, we bought him a new pair.

One Hail Mary.

Then there is the lunchbox.  I am fortunate enough to have married a woman who knows the exact location of the receipt for any purchase she has made since Milli Vanilli won a Grammy.  We were able to take Jake’s broken lunch box back to Costco and receive a refund, which we used to purchase a replacement.

Three Our Fathers.

And finally, there was the Scholastic Book Fair last week.  Jake was very excited about it, and it was promoted all over school.  He kept talking about wanting a new sports almanac book – the new version of last year’s book which he read cover-to-cover hundreds of times.

So, we let him use his Christmas money (before the Year Without A Purchase, mind you) to buy a new Almanac at the book fair, with the provision that we could read it together.

Two Rosaries and bring the main dish to the next parish potluck.

* Apparently, some of us still like new things.  "The Pre-Year-w/o A Purchase 2012 Santa made me do it."

I know our rationalization sounds a bit like, “I know the sixth commandment says ‘Thou Shalt Not Kill,’ but that guy was a total jerk!”  But this is a learning process for us.  We intentionally went a little crazy with this manufactured wackiness at the risk of looking patronizing to those who live the Year Without A Purchase reality every day.  But Gabby and I know that we’re not the type of people that can just say “we need to get more focused on what’s truly important” and stick with it.  We’ll just backslide.  Or worse yet, do nothing at all.  In many ways it is a selfish pursuit for us.  My cousin summed it up best in a recent email.

“So the Dannemiller family consists of highly educated, healthy folks in their prime in the wealthiest nation earth has ever seen ... and you still find a way to make challenges!  Bully for you!  Ain't it fun?”

So, we shoot for the moon and then fiddle with the rules.  Maybe even fail.  But sometimes brokenness speaks louder than perfection.  We’ve heard from a lot of people that our little adventure, both successes and failures, has made them think a bit more about their own lives.  Maybe even alter a perspective or two.  But most importantly, it has stirred changes in us.  Some are too hard to name or describe at this moment.  That will come with time.  But we do know this:  Every time we see something we want to buy, we’re reminded that connecting with those near and far is more important than the object of our desire.

So our penance is continuing the journey.  Day by day.  Learning and growing.

Week Nine: "The Worst Parenting Advice You'll Ever Receive"

Hey parents out there.

Yeah.  I’m talking to you.  The ones who said you would never let your kids eat McDonald’s in the back seat.  Or listen to kid music.  Or do that cliché’ discipline tactic where you yell, “I’m going to count to three and then I’m going to (insert horrible, irrational, overblown punishment here).”

Well, stop scrubbing that ketchup stain on the upholstery, mute “The Wheels on the Bus,” and shut you’re your big yapper.  Because I have something to say and you’d better listen up.

I’m serious.

Turn the music off.

Now.  Don’t make me say it again.  I’m going to count to three, and it better be off or you’ll never have candy ever again.  For the rest of your life.  Never.  I don’t care if the whole world blows up and the only food left is candy. You’re not eating it. You hear me?

One…  two…

OK.  That’s better.  Now that I have your attention, I’m gonna’ lay some wisdom down on you and not even charge you for it.  Here goes.

Stop protecting your kids. 

You heard it right.  Stop. Protecting. Your. Kids.

Before I start sounding like an overbearing know-it-all, please realize that I am actually talking to myself.  Any resemblance to your own neurotic parenting style is purely coincidental.

This past week brought a perfect storm of challenges to the Year Without A Purchase.  All of them child-induced.  And all had us questioning whether this whole ordeal is making us bad parents. 

For starters, Jake’s tennis shoes are on life support.  The soles are ripping off, and the side is developing a gaping hole, as if my son has the feet of an 87-year-old man with huge bunions and an extra pinkie toe protruding out. 

He asked, “Can I get some new shoes after school today, daddy?”

I replied, “But son, you HAVE other shoes.  The black ones.”

“But I don’t like those shoes.”

“You don’t have to like ‘em.  The job of shoes is to protect your feet.  These are shoes.”

 “But they aren’t the right shoes.  They are summer shoes.”

“Summer is coming fast.”

“Not until June.  June 21^st.  You said so.”

Even though my son remembered the correct date of the summer solstice like he was channeling Rainman, we did not reward him with a new pair of sneakers.

Besides the shoes, the zippers on both his backpack and lunch box broke this week.  The school requires an insulated pack so kids don’t eat room-temperature turkey sandwiches and turn the place into a salmonella factory.  His is barely functional.   He wants to leave it half-zipped until it finally falls apart.  Luckily, we have another one he can use.  The problem?  It’s a lovely paisley-floral print.

I hope he’s ready to set some new first grade fashion trends.

As for the backpack, it’s a goner.  But we have a backup.  Gabby got it at a trade show over twenty years ago.  How do we know the exact age of the pack, you ask?  Because it has the date written right on it.  1989.  I stuffed it full of his school gear and laid it in the hallway.

He asked,“What’s this?”

“It’s your new backpack, son.”

"But I didn’t pick it.”

“I know.  Mom did.”

He pointed to the clover-like graphic between the words "Yak-Pak" and asked, "What's this funny shape?"

"I don't know."

After twenty questions about the coolness of the pack and the definition of the word “new”, he lost interest in arguing the point and changed the subject.

But the topper this weekend was the March Madness basketball tournament.  No, not the one that generates squillions of dollars of revenue and makes Vegas oddsmakers giddy.  We’re talking about the no-holds-barred basketball slug-fest at Montessori Academy in Nashville.  The one pitting first-grader against first-grader to establish worldwide bragging rights for generations to come.  NBA scouts in attendance.    Corporate sponsorship deals going down in the hallways.

Or so you might think if you saw me yelling like an idiot in the stands.

As a fun way to celebrate the end-of-season tournament, the other kids’ parents had purchased these really cool red camouflage Air Jordan socks for their players.  Gabby and I struggled with the decision.  Do we get some for our kid?  Sure, we have $13.  We don’t want him to feel left out.  But it’s not part of the standard uniform. 

So Jake wore white.  The only one. 

We carried around some heavy guilt over these decisions.  I asked myself, “Is this cruel?  Have we gone overboard?”  I didn’t respond to either question.  I’m not sure I want to know the answer.

Because we’ve all lived through childhood and know how cruel kids can be.  We’ve all shed tears after taunts, left feeling inadequate.  You didn’t have the latest shoes or the latest style.  You looked different.  Acted different.  Laughed different.

And it sucked big time.  We all wear the scars.

So the question is, if you have the ability to buy a few things and protect your child from this heartache and choose not to, are you the one doing the scarring? 

The answer is, “No.”

Stop.  Protecting.  Your.  Kids.

By protecting our kids in this way, we only help perpetuate the idea that what you own is a measure of who you are.  We cover them up with so much shiny junk that it’s virtually impossible to see the person inside. 

And we drown out the God-voice inside each and every one of them.  The voice that says I’m uniquely and beautifully made.  The voice that doesn’t hear the put-downs and taunts because it’s too busy shouting,

“I love you”

“I made you.”

“You’re more than enough.”

When we protect our kids in this way, we deprive them of disappointment.   Disappointment that forges faith in something bigger than today.  Bigger than the present or the presents.  A resolve that bubbles up from deep within, making us stronger day-by-challenging day.

Because Jake got used to his summer shoes.   His friend Yusuf said his backpack looked like a “leprechaun bag,” but went on playing with him anyway.  And by the time the next basketball game rolled around, stubborn stains, stinky kids and laundry schedules had all the other players in mis-matched pairs once again. 

I realize that we may be simply justifying our own lunacy.  Rationalizing away the guilt of watching our kids struggle.  

Or maybe…

Just maybe…

We’re taking their lives out of our own hands and placing them in God’s. 

Back where they belong.

Week Eight: "The Better Half"

Not buying stuff forces you to focus on other things.  For a moment there, I was focusing on stuffing my face with as much junk food as it would hold.  A single step on the YMCA scale told me that my energy was misplaced.  Perhaps I could find it in the same place I left my self-restraint. Time to refocus on the important things.

Last week, Gabby and I vowed to eat dinner as early as possible, so we would have some quality with the tiny people in our house before we finally put them in their cages to bed for the night. After all, this year is about building connections, and we should start with those closest to us.

So last week we sat on the couch as a family every night and read The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe cover-to-cover.   You see, we’re still keeping our kids in the dark about this whole Year Without A Purchase thing.  So Jake and Audrey don’t know they’re “deprived” yet (a minor miracle), but the Scholastic Book Fair at school might blow this whole thing wide open.  We hoped a little C.S. Lewis would be enough of a draw to make them forget about any other literary works they might desire.

* a typical storytime, minus Gabby

It worked!  Each night, Gabby would chide me when I forgot to use my lion voice, the kids would beg for “just one more chapter”, and we would torture them with a cliffhanger.  When we finally finished, we got to discuss the deeper meaning of the book.  It’s amazing the concepts a young mind can absorb.

I upped the ante on “togetherness” the very next day when I picked Jake up from school.  I had to run some errands, and used them as an excuse for us to spend some one-on-one time with him, just chatting.  He independently strapped himself into the car seat.  No help needed.  Another sign that we are one step closer to the days when I will be a social anchor around his neck, holding him back from fun with his friends.

But innocence remains.  We jumped out of the car and he grabbed my hand as we walked into the post office.  I smiled.

* enjoying it while it lasts

Our six-year-old sports statistician was grilling me about Kevin Durant’s shoe size when we were quickly interrupted.

“Hey buddy, you got a second?”

I looked down and saw a man sitting on the curb.  His eyes were tired, like half-drawn mini blinds.  A woman sat beside him with her head in her hands.  I got that familiar feeling.  A body split in two.  One half wanting to hear the man’s story, and the other wishing I had chosen the other entrance.

The sliding doors opened, but I didn’t slide through.  My other half wanted to, but my better half was attached to a six-year-old compassionate anchor who knows the meaning of the word “ignored.”

Quality time.

I turned toward the couple, “Sure. What’s up?”

The woman started coughing into her lap, deferring to the man.  He explained, “My wife and I sell papers.”  He gestured to the lanyard around his neck, displaying a badge that says he works for “The Contributor”, Nashville’s homeless newspaper.  “We’ve been really sick, so this morning we went to the clinic.  The doctor says we both have pneumonia.  By the time we got back, there were no more papers for us to sell, and we don’t have enough money for rent.  Can you help us out?”

I let go of my anchor, but stayed in place.  Because my anchor knows that I have money in my wallet.  And I would much rather my better half explain to him that we should help people no matter the circumstance, rather than have the other half explain the meaning of the word “cynical.”

My better half reached into my wallet and pulled out the only bill there, while the other half wished that ATM’s spit out cash in much smaller denominations.

I said, “God Bless” as I handed him the bill.  He thanked us profusely, and I quickly blurted, “No problem.”  Unable to fully accept the gratitude knowing the turmoil I felt inside.

Jake and I talked a bit about the couple on the way home.  Always the fact-finder, his questions were mostly about details.  “What’s pneumonia?” and “What’s rent?”  I answered with the best Webster’s dictionary response I could, happy to be having a good conversation with him.

That night at dinner, as we rounded the table with our Thorns and Roses discussion, Jake chimed in.

“My turn!”

“OK buddy, what do you want to start with?”

“A thorn.”

“So what’s your thorn for today?”

“We didn’t get to go out at recess because it was raining.”

“And what’s your rose?”

“We got to help people today.  They needed money to pay for their house and we gave it to them.”

Quality time.  Well worth the effort.  An opportunity to reconnect.  Because they say “integrity” is what you do when no one else is watching.  I say “teaching” is what you do when your kids are close at hand.

And my other half is doing the learning.

Week Seven: "I Love You"

“I love you.” Her words pierced through the silence.  I looked over at Gabby in the passenger seat.  She was smiling and looking me in the eye.

“I love you, too!”

My mind had been racing.  Jumping from “What should we eat for dinner?” to “How should I redesign my company website?” to “Who wrote the 80’s classic ‘Safety Dance?’”  Gabby’s unsolicited, unexpected words of affection brought me back to reality.

A few miles down the road, she said it again.

“I love you.”

I stared at her, both hands on the wheel.

“That’s nice, honey.  I love you, too!”  I glanced up and corrected my steering, coming back into the passing lane.

“No.  I really love you,” she said.

I reached across the console and grabbed her hand.  We continued our drive to church, connected in silence, but knowing the deep bond between us.

And so it went for several weeks.  Three simple words, “I love you.” Spoken as frequently as one might say “Hello” to an acquaintance or “Put on your shoes” to a four-year-old prior to leaving the house.  I’m not sure what I had done, but Gabby showered me with an avalanche of affectionate words, and I was happily buried.

Then came Easter.

On our way home from church, Gabby turned to me and asked, “So, do you want to know what I gave up for Lent?”

“Huh?”

“I never told you what I gave up for Lent.  The past forty days.  Do you want to know what it was?”

“Sure.”

“Well,” she hesitated.  “You know how I always criticize your driving?”

“Yes.”

“Well.  For Lent, every time I wanted to comment about your speeding, or not signaling, or whatever else, I decided to say ‘I love you’ instead.”

I nearly rear-ended the Toyota immediately in front of us.  To this day, anytime Gabby says “I love you,” my first response is to scream, “Driving on the shoulder is perfectly acceptable in 43 of the 50 states!”  Probably not the result she was looking for.

As we enter another Lenten season, we church-goers are looking for something significant to “give up” for Lent.  So, what’ll it be?  Sweets?  Reality TV shows?  Facebook?   I’ll make you wait until the book is out to hear about the hilariously crazy “no new stuff” action I have taken to kick off the Lenten season this year.

But Gabby had it right.  Lent is less about “what” you choose to sacrifice, and more about “why” you choose to sacrifice.  For Gabby, she realized a simple behavior in her life was getting in the way of genuinely connecting with someone important to her.

Too often, Lent becomes an exercise in delayed gratification.  We choose to deny ourselves of something we love so that we can truly appreciate it when we have it once again at Easter.  And, there is a certain spiritual truth in that.  On the Earth, we can get disconnected from all things God.  And one day, God willing, we’ll get to ride that grand escalator to the sky where we finally meet our Creator and bask in the heavenly embrace.  I’m sure it’ll feel just like having your first Pop Tart after going carb-free for six weeks.

But it’s so much more than delayed gratification.  Lent is a time of pruning.  Cutting away the shoots that have grown over time.  The ones that clutter, and choke, and prevent healthy growth.  And feeding and caring for the branches that really matter.

And we hope that is what comes from this “Year Without A Purchase”.  Our stuff and the energy we put toward its acquisition can distract us from what’s truly important.  Time with family.  Deep conversation.  Service to those on the margins.

We hope that this won’t be a one-time thing, or an opportunity to binge on January 1, 2014.  It’s not about saving money.  It’s about saving ourselves from the distractions by consistently asking, “What is this purchase for?”  “Will this purchase help to build a connection with others or with God?”  “Or will this purchase just be something else to take care of.  Something else to worry about?  Something that gets in the way of people seeing the real me?”

While we’ve been successful in not purchasing any new “stuff” in seven weeks, we are still short of this larger goal.  A permanent change.  A lifetime of “I love you.”

And so we press onward.

Week Six: "Thorns and Roses"

Last week as I was preparing dinner,  I was reflecting on how easy this challenge has been thus far.  Aside from washing some socks in a hotel sink and schlepping around a lavender suitcase, it’s not nearly as hard as I thought it would be.  I imagined I would spend each day craving stuff I couldn’t buy, but that hasn’t been the case. When I finished cooking, the kids washed their hands, we set the table, said a prayer, and everyone sat down to eat.  I had heard a story earlier in the day about how the Obama’s have a dinnertime ritual.  They play a game called “Thorns and Roses” where everyone shares a thorn and a rose – a bad part and a good part of their day.  While my thorns and roses may not be as exciting as those of the leader of the free world, I thought the Dannemillers could try the game.  After all, this year is about focusing on what’s important, and this seemed like a great way to invest some quality time with the kids.

The game turned out to be a smashing success.  The usual bickering of “Stop staring at me, Audrey!” and “You’re not the boss of me, Jake!” was replaced by thoughtful commentary on the happy and not-so-happy parts of our day.  I was amazed at how such a simple game could help us reconnect as a family.  Audrey even added the categories of “Volcano” and “Tree.”  “Volcano” is something sad, (Ex:  Audrey is sad because her stuffed animals aren’t real), and “Tree” is something funny (Ex:  Audrey says she farts in the bathtub on purpose because she likes the bubbles).

When we finished eating, the kids asked us if they could have dessert.  After such wonderful dinnertime behavior, we couldn’t refuse.

Jake asked, “Can we have some ice cream, Daddy?”

“I don’t think there is any left.”

Audrey chimed in, “But what about the pink stuff?”

“That’s cherry ice cream, Audrey!” Jake clarified, waging his continued war on ambiguity in our house.

“Yeah honey, that’s all gone.”

I looked over at Gabby, and her mouth was wide open in disbelief.

“But Daddy!  We just bought it!”  Audrey spoke as if I had intentionally ripped the stuffing out of Dumbo.  “I only had one scoop!  How can it be gone?”

Gabby interjected, “You’re going to have to ask your dad about that one, kids.  All I say is, if you’re ever trapped on a deserted island with your dad, you’d better keep a close watch on your sweets.  It’s every man for himself when he’s around.”

“Well Jake,” I reasoned, trying to sound like the dad from the Brady Bunch, “sometimes Daddy gets hungry after you guys go to bed, and I have a snack.”

Jake, once again citing the family rule book, “Ice cream isn’t a snack!  It’s dessert!”

Gabby jumped in to save the day, “It’s OK kids, we still have some Rocky Road.”

I made a guttural noise.

Gabby turned to me and shared her Look of Mild Disapproval. ^TM  “Don’t tell me…”

More grunting.

“But that’s my favorite!”

“Sorry?”

Gabby stood up, pointed at me and shouted,

“THORN!”

The kids are half-laughing, half-crying.  As Gabby moved toward the freezer to verify, I said, “Gabby, that’s not how the game works.  I don’t think Michelle Obama calls Barak a ‘Thorn.’”

“She would if she folded all his laundry and he paid her back by eating all the ice cream!”

Gabby found half a scoop of Rocky Road left in the carton.  The ultimate slap in the face.  Then she went to the pantry where she pulled out a gallon Ziplock bag, once filled with an assortment of oatmeal raisin goodness.  “Why do we have a bag full of crumbs in the pantry?  Where did all the cookies go?”

She knew the answer.  I hid my head in shame.  Gabby used it as an opportunity to hold a family meeting and teach the kids a new word called “Self-control.”

The next morning I went to the gym.  Prior to picking up lots of heavy things while trying not to soil my pants – A.K.A. Scott’s strength training session – I stepped on the scale.  I put the large sliding weight at 150lbs.  Then I slid the smaller one along the beam toward the right.

A little more.

A little more.

Wait.  That can’t be right?!

I juggled the big weight to make sure it was firmly set in the 150lb. slot.  It was rock solid.  I kept moving the little weight to the right until the scale finally balanced.  But the reading was incorrect.  WAAAAAAAY off.

It must be weighing heavy today, I thought.

Time to recalibrate the machine.  I hopped off the platform and zeroed out all the weights.  With me off the scale, and the weight set at zero pounds, the scale was perfectly balanced.

Hmmmmm.

I noticed the sweat towel slung over my shoulder.  Figuring it was made of some ultra-dense, five pounds of cotton fiber, I threw it on the ground.  I stepped on the scale again.  It continued to lie to me, telling me my five-pound towel only weighed four ounces.

Later that morning, Gabby said,

“I think the scale at the gym is broken.”

“Me too!”  I echoed.  Happy with her validation.

“Yeah.  I think it’s two pounds off.”

“That’s all?  Just two pounds?”

“Or maybe three.  All I know is that it can’t be right.  There is no way I lost three pounds last week.”

“LOST three pounds!?”

And then it hit me.  I now understand why this Year Without A Purchase challenge has been so easy for me.  Apparently, every time I wanted to buy something new.  A shirt.  A drill.  Socks.  Pants.  Suitcases.

I ate them instead.

I have gained seven pounds since our challenge started.  The pleasure rush of new purchases has been replaced by a gluttonous snack-tacular gorgefest that can only be described as disgusting.  I ate two half-gallons of ice cream in four days.  Three bricks of mild cheddar and two boxes of Wheat Thins in a week.  Prior to our toaster oven meltdown, I consumed three bowls of cereal topped with two Eggo waffles as an after dinner nosh.  If I keep this up, I will begin to resemble the USDA’s nutrition pyramid, with the “cinnamon roll and French toast” food group giving me a wide-yet-jiggly foundation.

The good news is, I can blame God.  After doing a bit of research, I found that the Creator of the Universe made our brains in such a way that they crave this substance called dopamine.     Dopamine is released in our brain when we experience pleasure.   Such as when we eat an entire sleeve of Thin Mints.  Incidentally, dopamine is also sent into overdrive when cocaine enters the blood stream.  I think it’s time we took a good hard look at the list of ingredients in Girl Scout cookies.

We also get a shot of dopamine when our expectations are met.  The bigger the expectation, the bigger the shot.  This is the reason shopping can be so addictive.  We crave something and imagine ourselves having it. This creates a bit of tension that we resolve with some retail therapy and a Visa card.  The bigger the craving, the bigger the release.  But notice the big lie here.  Your brain doesn’t actually want the object of your desire.  It wants the chemical release.

It wants to end the wanting.

This explains why my daughter spent a whopping 12 minutes playing with the stuffed poodle that had been on her Christmas list for 8 weeks.  She didn’t want the poodle.  She wanted relief from the wanting.

You read that right.  Relief from the wanting.

And we get stuck in an endless loop.  I get a new car.  I enjoy it for a time.  But I want something newer.  Why?  So I can ultimately end the wanting.  Then I’m happy with the new car until I start fixating on another.  Then the wanting starts, and I won’t stop until I get it.  It’s lunacy.

So, time to go “cold turkey” on the wanting.  Or find an alternative.  It’s time to break the cycle.   Just as soon as I eat that last scoop of Rocky Road.

THORN!

Week Five: It's In The Bag

Disclaimer:  The following rant highlights how trivial our first world problems are.  Feel free to be disgusted and annoyed.  In fact, it’s expected. Well, we’re five weeks into this little experiment and things are getting lost and broken at a record pace.

Gabby lost her favorite travel cup.  The insulated one with the straw and the screw top.  Since our house has no shortage of containers with which to hold ice water, she’s out of luck.

Jake lost his basketball, too.  He loaned it to some kids at school who didn’t return it.  He was devastated, thinking they had pitched it into the woods.  He even searched there after school with no luck.  It turns out a Good Samaritan had spotted it and taken it to the lost and found in another classroom.  Thankfully, Jake and the ball were reunited, and I didn’t have to play the role of dream crusher by saying, “Sorry, we can’t get another basketball Jake, because your parents are psycho-idiots who don’t think they should buy any new stuff for a year.”

The old fridge in the garage is on the blink as well.  As further proof of global warming, it is only cooling our food intermittently.  Since I am a complete and utter failure when it comes to appliance repair, we’ll be knee-deep in leftover chili and half-frozen peas if it goes.    A second refrigerator is definitely not a necessity.

Then, last week at breakfast, a blinding light erupted from our toaster oven.  I thought it might be an angel of the Lord, coming to settle the spontaneous debate between Jake and Audrey as to the gender of her stuffed animal.  Imagine my disappointment when it turned out to be a blown heating element.  Not only will I never know whether Crushie the turtle is a boy or a girl, but now it takes four minutes per side to brown a slice of bread.  I called Cuisinart for a replacement part, and they simply said,

“That’s not a fixable item.  I think it’s time for you to buy a new unit.”

Apparently, they don’t follow the blog.

But the most troubling loss was my rolling suitcase.  She’s like a family member.  A rich brown color with four fully-articulating wheels and a pleasant disposition.  She has a telescoping handle with extra length to accommodate taller folks like me.   Always at my side - every week for business travel.  Happy to carry my burdens without complaint.

But I pushed her too far.

Irritated after a long wait on the jetway, I yanked her handle a bit too hard.  The handle cracked, and one of the telescoping arms ripped right out of its channel in the back of the suitcase.  Shoving it back in was a bit like trying to shove a Twinkie back into its wrapper - requiring patience and lots of mumbled four-letter words.  I was able to get the suitcase back into semi-working order, but I knew it wouldn’t hold up under duress.

I looked for other options.  Gabby had purchased a beautiful new red rolling suitcase last year.  It’s clean, and uncluttered.  She caught me eyeballing it and said,

“No way, mister.  That’s my suitcase!”

“But we’re family.  Families share.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because your version of sharing involves you using my stuff, breaking it, and then giving it back to me.”

She has a point.

So I dove into the bowels of the closet looking for an alternative.   Ideally, I would find a very small suitcase that might fit in the overhead bin of the tiny jet I was flying this week, allowing me to avoid the long wait at baggage claim.  After some rummaging, I found what I was looking for.  The perfect-sized suitcase.  A bag that could meet the simple requirement of holding my garments and keeping them safe and dry.  But there was just one problem.

It was purple.

And no, we’re not talking royal purple.  Not even violet.  This suitcase is lavender.  If this bag had a scent, it would smell like an infant Liberace wearing your grandmother’s perfume.  No self-respecting businessperson would dare be seen with a bag like this.

But I have no self-respect.

And I’m not buying anything this year.

So I packed the bag and prepared for my trip to Denver.  I stuffed it full of workout gear, business casual clothes, and socks.  Yes, I remembered the socks.

I got to the airport and cleared security.  Everyone seemed to glance at me, then glance at my bag.   Their eyes would then scan the area for a thirteen-year-old girl.  Finding none, they would avert their gaze to save us both the embarrassment.  It didn’t help that I was humming a Justin Bieber tune that was playing in the airport shuttle van just minutes earlier.  Damn that kid and his catchy lyrics!

As I was standing in line to board the plane, I heard a voice behind me.

“Excuse me, sir.”

I turned to see a businessman in his mid-forties.

“Yes.”

His eyes were burning a hole in my suitcase.  He continued,

“Please tell me I’m not the only one today to give you $#*! about your purple bag.”

“You’re the first to verbalize it.”

“Good.  I was just checking.”

I didn’t know what else to say, so I boarded the plane and looked for my seat.  I quickly shoved the bag in the overhead along with my coat and settled into 14B.  I fell asleep not long after we took off.

I awoke as we were landing.  The plane made its way to the gate, and, as usual, everyone jumped to their feet as soon as the doors opened.  A blonde woman in the row in front of me gestured to the man standing behind me.

“Could you hand me my bag?” she asked, pointing toward the overhead bin.  “It’s the rolling suitcase right next to you.”

Without missing a beat, the man reached up and grabbed the purple bag.

“Sorry.  That’s mine.”  I said.

“Really?”  He stopped and stared at me in disbelief.

“Yes.”

“Nice.”  He said, before grabbing the appropriately-toned black bag next to it and handing it to the blonde in 12C.

It was another moment that affirmed for me how much our “stuff” can define us in our culture.  I actually found myself wondering if I should let my client see my little purple suitcase.  As if the quality of my work is somehow reflected in the color of my luggage.

I only have to look to myself for the answer.

How many times have I discredited someone’s worth based on the clothes they choose to wear, the car they drive, or the things they choose to buy?  I’d like to think I see past all of those things, but I’d be lying if I said such judgments never crossed my mind.

So I hope that is a little side benefit of this challenge.  That I will re-learn what I knew as an infant.  Our worth is not wrapped up in what we own.  Our worth is guaranteed.  Our life is our currency.  And it’s up to each one of us to choose how we spend it.

Week Three: "A Tale of Two Socks"

“Come in here, honey!  I have something to show you!” Gabby was calling me from the playroom.  Her voice was excited, like she had just received a letter from a long lost friend or read an article proclaiming bowling shoes were back in style.  I immediately got up to see what all the hubbub was about.

“Look what I have for you!”

When I rounded the corner, her leg was extended toward me, and she was waving her toes in my face.  With no bowling shoe attached.  And no letter.

Her foot was covered with a paper-thin sock with a gargantuan hole.  It looked like it was 10cm dilated, due to give birth to a bouncing baby heel at any moment.

“I need you to fix my sock.”

“I don’t think so.”

“But honey, you said that you would repair at least one item of clothing this year – maybe even darn a sock.  So here’s your chance.”

“But I’ve never darned a sock before.  I gotta’ start small.  And look at that thing!  That’s like asking the school nurse to do open heart surgery.”

“You gotta’ learn somehow.”

And so started the week.  I haven’t yet attempted the sock repair.  I’m still protesting.  When we say one of our family mission promises is to “own what we have,” that means we need to repair things as they break – not resurrect them from the grave.  Gabby has not upheld her end of the bargain on this one.  This sock looks like it was worn by Wilma Rudolph when she won the 100m gold in the 1960 Olympics.  The hole developed shortly thereafter.  At the medal ceremony.

But Gabby is right.  I will darn a sock this year.  I don’t even know what darning entails.  I thought it was just sewing up holes in socks, but my dad informs me that he used to watch his mother darn socks while she watched Lawrence Welk on TV.  It involved weaving thread together to essentially build a patch in a hole.  This sounds difficult, but it was a necessary evil in his house.  With twelve kids, you didn’t have the luxury of buying anything you wanted. He had to fight for a seat at the dinner table.   To this day, my father has never had his own room.  Though, I’d bet my baseball card collection that my mom has been more than willing to give him his own wing of the house on occasion.

Me?  I’m far more fortunate.  I want for nothing.  It may be a while before I attempt to darn a sock, and for that, I should be grateful.  My underwear drawer is nearly overflowing with matched pairs.  Well over twenty of ‘em without a hole.

Unfortunately, none of them made it into my suitcase on my three-day business trip this week.

Sure, Gabby had given me her mental checklist as I was leaving the house.

“I love you.  Do you have everything?  Your belt?  Your computer?  Underwear?  Socks?  Pants?...”

This list goes on and on, but I argue that she’s almost too good at reminding me.  It’s such a part of my business trip process that the instant she starts running through the list, my ears transform her voice into a muffled trombone sound akin to Charlie Brown’s teacher.  It’s too familiar.  I just don’t hear it.

Fast-forward six hours.  There I was, outside of Omaha, ruffling through my suitcase as if I had lost my passport, looking for a three pair of dress socks that were still in Tennessee.

My first thought was, “It’s only 8:30pm.  I still have time to run by Target and buy some socks.”

Then I remembered our “Year without A Purchase” rule that states that, even though they are a “wear item,” we can’t buy clothes unless we don’t have any.  This is a test!

As I looked down at my feet, I had to admit that my socks hadn’t disintegrated.  They were perfectly fine.  Save for the fact that they smelled like the dirty laundry basket on a Deadliest Catch crab boat.  And I’ll be damned if I am going to bail out of this year long challenge in mid-January!

So I did what my grandmother would have done.  I filled the sink with shampoo and got to scrubbing.  It only took three minutes and 300 calories of elbow grease to eradicate the stink.  But the ambient temperature in my room was chilly, and I knew the socks weren’t going to dry by morning.

* The wash cycle

So I grabbed the hair dryer.

I felt a bit foolish styling my socks with a Vidal Sassoon 1500 Watt blaster.  So, in an attempt to make it a more masculine activity, I turned on SportsCenter.

Didn’t help.

Then, I noticed the heating vent.  I cranked up the air temperature in my room to 77 degrees.  The heater kicked on.  I wedged my socks into the grates and waited.   A half-hour later, sweat was beading on my upper lip.  I went to check the socks and they were dry on one side.  Another thirty minutes and I had some fresh kicks.

* the dry cycle.  Set to "delicates"

Sure, I probably wasted $15 worth of the hotel’s energy and two tiny bottles of shampoo over three days.  But this year isn’t about money.  It’s about stuff.  And, as I sit in seat 3A on my way home from Omaha, I am wearing the same well-worn socks I had on when I first left my house.

Wait.

Is that a hole I feel?

Week Two: "The Year of The Goat?"

Jake came home from school this week with an invitation to a birthday party.  The girl who invited him had chosen to have her bash at a local karate school.  The kids will spend an hour or two in a giant, padded room, rolling on the floor, punching foam-filled bags and beating each other senseless.  Sounds a lot like a room I would like to build in my house, but I would add a big drain in the middle, so we could just throw food in there at mealtime and then hose the thing down once the kids had stuffed their pie holes.

But we’re not buying anything this year.  So I’ll either have to let my dream die.  Or build it out of garbage.

I digress.

Meredith’s party is in a couple of weeks.  At breakfast this morning, Gabby mentioned that we needed to think of a gift that Jake can give the birthday girl.  This had totally slipped my mind, as most details do.  Luckily Gabby does the advance planning for us.  If I was a single dad, I wouldn’t remember a gift until we were in the parking lot.  Meredith would be receiving some pocket lint and a bag of ketchup packets we have crammed in the glove box. 

But what do you get a kid when you can’t buy any stuff?  This is something we didn’t think of ahead of time when we created our rules for the year.  The rules state that “gifts must be in the form of charitable donation or ‘experience gifts’ to build connections and memories.”

But that’s not what most six-year-olds want. 

I started thinking of the reaction Jake might get if he gave her the gift my folks got us at Christmas – a donation to Oxfam, the proceeds of which are used to buy a goat for someone in a developing country.  We loved the gift.  It's such a great concept!  But I could see our little guy sheepishly (pun intended) handing a card to little Meredith.

“What’s this?” she would ask.

“It’s a goat.”

“No it’s not.  A goat can’t fit in an envelope.”

“It’s a card that talks about how I bought you a goat.”

“Where’s my goat?”

“He’s not here.”

“When do I get him?”

“You don’t.”

“Why?”

“He lives with some other guy.”

“Why did he take my goat?”

“He didn’t take it.  I gave it to him.  My dad says he needs a goat really bad.”

“So for my birthday, you gave me a goat, and then stole it back and gave it one of your dad’s friends.”

“Pretty much.  Happy Birthday!”

* Is this a b-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-d gift?

I would be shocked if our son didn’t receive a wedgie within ten minutes.  I hear they teach that at karate school now.  My brain is starting to awfulize this scenario as we speak.  It starts with giving a goat.  Then the wedgie.  Then he’s not picked for the dodge ball game.  Next, no one will accept his invitation to prom.  He drops out of school.  Can’t get a job.  Moves back in with us.  Refuses to shower.  Starts collecting cats.  Not figurines, but real cats.  Dies sad and alone at 58, found sprawled out on his couch wearing dirty sweatpants and eating a bag of generic cheese curls watching Wheel of Fortune reruns.

It’s a slippery slope.

Another option is to go with an “experience gift.” But that’s not a simple as it sounds.   A movie ticket doesn’t cost much, but it fails the “build connections” piece.  A trip to a children’s museum is good, but it’s pretty expensive, and I’m cheap.  And, is it really a gift to give someone a ticket to something that requires their parents to buy two or three more tickets at twenty bucks a pop to accompany their kid? Sure, Meredith could go it alone, but I think Child Protective Services frowns upon that sort of thing.

A third option is no gift at all.  I’m sure Jake wouldn’t mind.  The funny thing is, Meredith probably wouldn’t notice either.  Those of us with children know that kids can hardly remember what gifts they received last Christmas.  Heck, we adults can hardly remember the gifts we received last month.

The truth is, this dilemma is more about Gabby and me.  We want to live out our values as best we can, knowing we are a walking contradiction.  Stuck in our own heads.  Wondering how others might react.  Wanting to do the right thing, but not wanting to force our values on other people.  Trying to overcome the pull that “stuff” has on us, and the meaning we give to that “stuff.”

But back to the gift.

Still not sure what we’ll do.  Make a gift?  Do a science experiment with the kid?  Make a balloon animal for her?  Other ideas are welcome.  Maybe a certificate for an ice cream cone at Baskin Robbins?

Yeah.  Ice cream.  A great "experience" gift!  Unless you're with me. I may be getting good at not buying stuff, but I stink at sharing.

Week One: "The Rules"

Many of you have been wondering, “What are the rules for this ‘Year Without A Purchase?’”  It is also a question Gabby wanted clarified prior to January 1^st.  In fact, we chatted about it in mid-December. * A somewhat retouched photo of Gabby and I reading the Sunday paper and ignoring ads of crap we can no longer buy.

“So, are we doing this thing or not?” she prodded.

“Yeah.  Let’s do it.” I replied, flippantly.

“So what are the rules?  I know this was my idea but now I’m getting cold feet.”

I continued to flip channels on our new LED TV, waiting for Gabby to decide, therefore freeing me from any responsibility or accountability.

“Hello!?!?!  You gotta’ engage here, Dannemiller.”

“OK,” I say, not taking my eyes off the TV.  “If you can eat it, you can buy it.”

“What about toilet paper?”

“OK,” still half-awake.  “Food and toilet paper.”

“You’re killing me Dannemiller.”

“OK.  We can buy hygiene products. ”

“What about cleaners?”

This item had slipped my mind, as one only cares about cleaners if one actually cleans on a regular basis.  I think for a minute.

“Didn’t we use vinegar and water as cleaner before?”

“Yes.  That’s an option, but you gotta’ let me know ASAP what’s on the list and what’s not, so I can stock up by the 31^st!”  (Gabby’s editorial comment:  she knows that hoarding defeats the purpose of this self-inflicted challenge)

I decided to postpone the “what’s on the list” decision until January 3^rd -   the day we embarked on a road trip to visit family in Ohio.  With the kids occupied in the back seat, Gabby and I had plenty of opportunity to chat about it.  I opened the conversation by telling my lovely wife all of the things that should be off-limits for her to purchase, not realizing that we were now confined in a tightly-enclosed space for the next seven hours, and the time for “stocking up” had passed.

Well played.

The result was something like taking a sharp stick and poking a beautiful swan -a swan that likes lots of advance notice.  Initially very pretty to look at, but you don’t want to be around when the feathers get to flying.  In this moment, I learned that when you tell the world via a blog that you and your spouse have committed to something without said spouse knowing what she’s committed to, she might not react with the kind of caring, understanding heart you’ve grown to know and love.  There was a lot of back-and-forth debate.

I started with a question.   “What are the essentials? ”

Gabby answered with the obvious.  “We have to buy groceries.  We can’t live off our summer tomatoes for a year.”

“True.  But what about gifts?  You like to give gifts.”  I hit her where it hurts.  She ruminated for a moment, then came back with an idea.

“Maybe we set aside some money for gifts throughout the year?”

I countered, “No.  We can’t buy gifts.  That’s the point.  We make ‘em instead.”

“But you have to buy stuff to make it with.”

“No you don’t.  You can use stuff you can get for free.”

“What do you mean?”

“Stuff that’s free that’s just lying around.”

“I think they call that garbage.”

“No they don’t.  There’s lots of stuff you can get for nothing.”

“Right.  It’s called garbage.  I haven’t bought Christmas gifts for your niece and nephew yet.  You’re going to make them gifts out of garbage?”

“Maybe they’d like a singing telegram?”

“Great idea.  Every high school and college-aged kid I know loves a singing telegram.”

After some discussion, and the kids wondering “why does daddy look like he might start crying?”, we finally negotiated the terms.   What helped us most was getting clear on why we were doing this in the first place.  Sure, it’s about defining needs vs. wants, but that’s not the main point.  We lived for a year without a washing machine, dishwasher, heat, or clean running water.  We now know that these are not basic human needs.  The only true needs are food, shelter and clothes to keep you warm.

It all came back to our family mission statement (I know – it’s cheesy, but we like it).

To tirelessly seek God’s will by living lives of integrity, owning what we have, growing together in faith, and serving God’s people to build a world without need.

We’ve tried our best to operate under this mound of cheddar for the past 9 years.  The problem is, we recently noticed that we were drifting.  Allowing our posessions to define us.  Buying new stuff instead of owning and appreciating what we have.  And through this, losing an honest connection with people.

Admittedly, this set of rules is not so outrageous.  We know that well over half of the world’s population would consider it a luxury to live like us this year.  We’re no Mother Teresa.  Not even close.  But it’s our plan to try and live in the world and not of the world.  Because we could all try to live exactly like Jesus, but that would require wearing sandals and a tunic everywhere, and learning how to make table and chairs without the aid of power tools.  That’s just plain bananas.

The Rules – Simplified

1. Don’t buy “stuff”

The Rules - Detailed

1. We can buy stuff that can be “used up” within a year.  Groceries and gas.
2. We can’t buy clothes.  We have plenty.  If there truly is a “need” (ex: not a single pair of our kids’ shoes fit without causing irreversible toe damage), we will find hand-me-downs.
3. We can fix stuff that breaks.
4. We can use cell phones and internet, since they are both (conveniently) required for our work-from-home jobs.  (There will be a “technology free” challenge at some point during the year.)
5. Gifts must be in the form of charitable donation or “experience gifts” to build connections and memories (i.e. go to dinner together, visit the zoo, travel to visit friends/family etc.)
6. Eating out:  still working on this one.  We probably won’t cut it altogether (at least initially), but will limit.

We’re still not sure what we’ll learn from this, but it should be an interesting ride.  Now, do we tell the kids, or just let 'em figure it out?

The "Year Without A Purchase"

Last night, Gabby and I settled into bed.  The kids were sleeping, and the Holiday hustle had subsided.  Finally time to exhale.   I set my book on the nightstand.  Optimistic, I was wondering what the first night of 2013 might hold for this husband.  Would we begin with some romance?  Half-smiling, Gabby turned her head toward me and looked into my eyes.

Definitely romance.

Then she spoke up.  Our first “pillow talk” of the New Year.  Her lips parted and she let loose the phrase,

“It’s only January 1^st and I’m already irritated with you.”

“Why?”

“This year is going to be a lot harder for me than it is for you.”

And thus begins our “Year Without A Purchase.” 

Several months ago, our Sunday school class did a study on giving the firstfruits of your labor, and “The Power of Enough.”  The book wasn’t exactly a page-turner, but it reminded us of our year in Guatemala. 

Back in 2003, we lived with a beautiful Mayan family, made $130/month, and experienced an indescribable level of purpose and fulfillment.  When we returned home, we were what Southerners call a “hot mess,” arguing over whether or not we truly needed Scotch tape, and curling into the fetal position at the overwhelming choices available in the cereal aisle of the neighborhood groceryplex.

Since then, we have adapted back into life in the USA as our definition of needs vs. wants has slowly morphed into something suburban.

“I need a new pair of dress pants,” I say.

Am I naked from the waist down?

“We need to renovate our bathroom,” we say.

Are we allergic to linoleum?  Have people died from exposure to 20-year-old squeaky toilet seats?

I don’t think Mirriam Webster would agree with our new definition of needs and wants.  So, a few months ago, Gabby posed the hypothetical question, “What if we didn’t buy anything for a year?”

“Are we talking hunting and gathering?  Don’t think I could do it.  I have terrible aim with a staple gun (our family’s only weapon) and can only grow tomatoes.”

“No, I mean the essentials.  I don’t know what essentials are, but it’s less than what we buy now.”

So, we mulled it over during the fall and winter, and agreed we would try to go a year without buying anything.  And now Gabby is irritated with me.  And rightfully so.  It will be harder for her.  Last night she caught a glimpse of my swiss cheese boxer briefs and realized that men tend to buy big ticket items and avoid the everyday needs such as soap and underwear.  Women, on the other hand, make small purchases to make life easier and to nurture their children, but can live without the full-size recreational vehicle converted to backyard smoker capable of turning a full-grown buffalo into 34,000 tasty Beefalo burgers.  Perhaps this paradigm will shift once my underwear slowly disintegrates into the world’s first boxer brief thong.  Until then, my crazy business travel schedule will make her life as a “single mom” much less convenient during this experiment. 

And, we do realize how elitist our challenge is.  The majority of the world faces this same challenge year-after-year out of necessity.  The fact that we are talking about it outwardly is downright offensive.  Still, we think it will be a worthwhile venture to see if a recalibration is possible.  We’ll be posting every week or two to keep you up to date on our lunacy.  Will this truly be the “Year Without a Purchase?”  Or will it simply be “The Year Preceding Our Divorce?”

Tune in to find out.

Meantime, help us out.  How would you define needs vs. wants?

Mommy Porn: Fifty Shades of Reality

Portions of this post have been read (with appropriate background music) on a St. Louis radio station morning show.  Click the link to listen, but beware ladies, you may need a cigarette afterward. I was reading through our Nation’s McNews last week (thanks USA Today!) and caught a glimpse of one of their famous stat boxes on the front page of the Life section.  There in the bottom left-hand corner, they had listed the nation’s best-selling books.  The top three spots were held by a woman named E.L. James whose novels, judging by their sales, must be the greatest thing since pop-top beer.

Further into the Life section, I saw an article about Mrs. James.  She’s a British author, former TV executive, wife, and mother of two teenagers.   And apparently, her books are causing quite a stir.

The article called it “mommy porn.”

* or... do not read unless you have ever had kids under the age of 17.

I don’t exactly know what “mommy porn” is.  I’m not sure whether I should feel embarrassed or grateful about that.  What I do know is that these books allegedly make the average housewife sweatier than an hour-long stint with a ThighMaster.

Since today is my wife’s birthday, and she is an avid reader, I thought about buying her a copy of the first book in the series.  Then I realized what a risk this would be.  It is well-known that I have very little of my manhood left, thanks to two years of high school show choir where I learned to do a pretty mean jazz square.  But giving Gabby a copy of “Fifty Shades of Grey” would require me to place my male ego in a vise grip, go out in public, physically grab this book, and walk it to the front of the store.  There is no doubt in my mind that the girl at the register would be some trainee who would have to call on the loud speaker for a price check, giving a detailed description to avoid any confusion.

“Price check on register 4!  There is a tall, gangly, pasty dude here humming a show tune from ‘Guys and Dolls’ trying to discreetly buy one of those mommy porn books.  And he’s using a coupon!”

Send me to Kroger to buy a box of Kotex any day.

So, rather than buy her the book, I decided to write some “mommy porn” of my own.  After all, handmade gifts are far more sentimental, right?  Ladies, please let me know if I’m on the right track.  And Happy Birthday Gabby!

Note:  The following story must be read aloud in your most sultry, sexy voice.

Fifty Shades of Reality by Scott Dannemiller

The look on her face was utter shock, but the sensation in her soul was pure bliss.  He was doing things she had never before dreamed.  This was virgin territory.

“Is this how you like it?” He asked, a grin growing across his cheeks.

“That’s right.  Just like that.”  She answered, still trying to hide her surprise.  “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

“Don’t I know it!” he added.

Then, he gingerly grasped her panties between his thumb and forefinger.  She leaned back and relaxed, breathing a heavy sigh.  As she settled into the couch, he brought the delicates to his chin.

Tucked them underneath.

Folded them in half.

And placed them into the laundry basket.

A rush went through her body, climbing her spine and erupting out the crown of her head.  As he grabbed her socks, it didn’t take long for her to realize he had done this before.  He didn’t just ball them up like other guys.  No.  He took his time.  Laying one sock on top of the other, and lightly folding them over.

“So precise!” she marveled at his technique.

“I learned this from an older woman,” he confessed.  “My aunt Edna.  She says it keeps the elastic from stretching.  Don’t worry.  I’ve got this.  I can fold all night.”

Her core filled with ecstasy.  She watched as the neatly folded stacks of laundry rose higher and higher.  Socks.  Underwear.  Shirts.  Shorts.  Reaching their peak.  And just as she thought they might topple over, he moved each of them to the basket, arranging them by family member so to efficiently distribute them to their final resting place.

“I’m going to leave you alone for a moment.  I need to go put these things away.”

As he walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, she watched his tight buttocks sway back and forth, disguised by his baggy gym shorts.  Her eyes were distracted by something on the right hind pocket?  What could it be?  And then she remembered…

Just this morning, she awoke to a sun-drenched room.  There were squeals of delight coming from the kitchen.  Yes, her prince had risen before the children and whisked them off to the breakfast table.  There, he had lovingly prepared a meal.  Toast.  Milk.  Fruit salad.  And yes, the oatmeal.  Oh, the oatmeal.  And not the kind from the paper pouch.  No.  He was too much man for that.

These were McCann’s Steel Cut Oats.  The kind that required warm water, heated to boiling.  Heat.  Hot heat.  Then turned down to a simmer to bubble and roll.  Full of fiber and tasteless.  Nutritious.  With some Craisins and brown sugar.  And he had somehow encouraged the kids to eat them.  To eat them all.  All except the blob that his daughter had dropped in his chair.  The blob that now adorned his rounded haunches.  Rugged and beautiful.  Like the freshly cleaned kitchen cabinet doors he had left gleaming, scented with Clorox wipes and Endust.

As she paced through the living room and into the dining area, bleary-eyed and foggy from a good night’s sleep, his voice cut through the clutter.

“Your coffee is on the table, just how you like it.”

She glanced up at him to see his strong hands wrapped firmly around the shaft.  The shaft of the mop.  Sweat covered his brow.  He was moving gracefully.  Back       and       forth.  Back        and       forth.  To the rhythm of beautiful music.  Like Norah Jones singing the theme song to a LifeTime movie starring Meredith Baxter-Birney as a woman scorned, then finding love again after fifty.

As she watched, his graceful movements increased to a quickened tempo.  Back     and     forth.  Back   and    forth.  Back  and  forth.  Back and forth. Back n forth.  Backnforth.  Bcknfrth.  The music now more Beyonce than Norah.  His movements strong, yet controlled.   The sweat dripping off the end of his nose.

It was a stubborn stain.

Grape juice?  Spaghetti sauce?  A smashed pea?  No one could be sure.  But what was certain is that he was dominating this kitchen floor.  Unleashing his power.  And she surrendered to it.  Submissive.

She felt a warm breath on her ear lobe, waking her from her flashback of the morning.  The clouds parted ever so slightly.

“Lift your legs,” said the deep baritone.  It was almost a whisper, hardly registering in her sleepy haze.  She hesitated.  What was he asking?

“Just for a moment,” said the voice.  “Then you can relax.  Please.  Lift your legs.”

She had fallen asleep in the afterglow of the laundry, reprising the morning.  Fading into the couch like spilled sippy cup.  So much had happened since then.  But she did as the voice commanded.  As she contracted her abdominals, finely honed by Zumba and Ben and Jerry, her feet broke free from the carpet.

It was like an orchestra.  As she moved, so did he.  Finely tuned movements.  Sliding the great machine under her heels.  The sight made the hair on her arm stand on end, like the nap of the carpet each time he withdrew the vacuum.  The pattern he left on the rug was pure perfection.  Abstract art with a purpose.  With each pass, more dirt was being sucked up.  Eons of pet hair and foot falls disappearing in an instant as the high traffic area in front of the sofa was tamed.  Her muscles were burning, but it hurt so good.

“Please don’t stop.  Don’t stop!  Don’t stop!” she wailed.  “That looks so good! “

“I have to.”  He replied.

“But why?” she asked.  “You were almost finished.”

“Oh, I promise I’ll be back.  But I have to go.”  Anticipating, almost as if he was channeling  Radar O’Reilly in a scene from M.A.S.H., he moved toward the hall bath.   A tiny voice cried out, “Mommy!  Wipe my bottom!”  It was in that moment that she knew why he couldn’t finish.

He bounded to the bathroom, still sporting the oatmeal tattoo, prepared for something dirty.  Very dirty.  She knew it well.  She scanned the house to find herself firmly ensconced in Camelot.  Every room had been scoured.  The wood floors were shining.  The dust had all been wiped away.  There was a crock pot simmering on the kitchen island.  What could it be?  Pot roast?  Gumbo?  Chicken and dumplings?  It could be dishwater seasoned with floor sweepings for all she cared.  She hadn’t lifted a finger all day, and it was nearly dinnertime.

The rest of the evening was a blur of activity.  She was like the queen bee, with everyone buzzing around.  Food was eaten without complaint.  Dishes were washed and children bathed.  Bedtime stories were read while she watched HGTV in the other room.  She sat alone in her happy home, marveling at the man who made it all possible.  Her heart swelled like the giant blister that now covered her husband’s mop-pushing hand.

“You coming to bed?” he inquired.  “I’ve got something planned just for you.”

Her spine tingled.  She looked in his direction.  He had showered, shaved, and smelled like Irish Spring.  Not the old fashioned scent, but one of the new, fancy smelling-kind.  Somewhere between Old Spice and Axe body spray.

“Oh yes.” She delighted.  “I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She changed into a tank top and slipped on her favorite sweat pants that she’s worn since her days as a Kappa Delta.  She turned toward the bed and saw him.  Ready.  Waiting.  Willing.

She slipped between the sheets and turned away, unable to look into his piercing hazel eyes.  She felt a hand on her back.  It moved slowly southward, then northward again, with a subtle pressure.  A squeeze of the shoulder, a tease of the neck.  Fingers through the hair.  For fifteen minutes his hands moved all over her, from waistline to necklace, relieving the tension brought about by the everyday.  She let herself go.  Free to enjoy the backrub.

A backrub without a future.

He slowly slid over and kissed her shoulder.

“I have a headache,” he whispered.  “I love you.  Goodnight.”

“I love you, too.’ She echoed.  And, along with her gorgeous, hunk of a man, she drifted off to sleep.

Smiling.

Spooning.

Satisfied.

An Open Letter to My Daughter on Her First Date

Dear daughter of mine.  You reached a milestone tonight. Your first date.

Every dad dreads this day.  And, I must admit, I am very much like every dad.  So, to ease the sting of the first date and assure you were treated like a queen, I took matters into my own hands.

I asked you out.

The good news is you enthusiastically accepted.  No doubt my probability of success was buoyed by the fact that you believe I am a superhero, capable of throwing your giggling, 36-pound body into the air to unspeakable heights, and catching you again before you konk your head on our food-splattered wood floors.

And who wouldn’t want to date a superhero?

Don’t get me wrong.  I am certainly not naïve enough to think that my doorstep will never feel the heavy boots of a scarily-dressed, angst-ridden, mouth-breather intent on breaking curfew with my little girl.  No.  I know that day is coming.  And, sadly, I also know that you’ll look into that bumbling dolt’s eyes with the same sense of wonder that currently meets my gaze every time I miraculously untangle My Little Pony’s long-flowing, strawberry-scented hair from the whirring wheels of your Zuzu Pet.

But this first date was about planting a seed.  And I hope that our first night on the town burns into your memory with the intensity of the sun’s rays condensed by a magnifying glass.  Because tonight, at four years old, you were everything your future self aspires to be.  And since your little fingers and limited knowledge of spelling are only capable of cranking out .014 words per minute, allow me to capture your current life philosophy for your future self to ponder.

So here goes.

Someday, Audrey, you’ll hear a voice.  It might be the voice of your friends.  Maybe a shout from a picture in a magazine.  Or, Heaven forbid, a comment from your boyfriend.  And that voice is going to tell you that you don’t have the right clothes, the right makeup, or the right face.

And when you hear that voice, I want you to put on your green Christmas dress in the middle of April, don a bright red hair bow, and clip a frilly pink flower to your collar.  And with a love-stained, faded Toasty blanket draped over your shoulder, and a sparkling pink and white unicorn tucked under your arm, I want you to tell those voices that, in your world, beauty cannot be seen.  It must be felt.  A confidence that springs forth from deep within heart and soul and bone.    Both breath-taking and life-giving.

And no doubt there will be even more voices.  Maybe your friends.  Maybe a talking head on TV.  Or, Heaven forbid, a comment from your own father.  And that voice is going to tell you that material things matter.  It will tell you to make practical life decisions based on bank accounts and buying power, because money gives you the ability to acquire not only the good things in life, but the good life as well.

And once you’ve listened to their advice, just like today, I want you to pick a dandelion out of the grass and give it to them.  With a sincerity and smile born of your generous heart.  Ask them to turn down the radio and tell them a story about a stuffed elephant named Geraldine who flies through the air on the back of a magical horse.  Then make silly faces in the mirror at a fancy restaurant, and fill up on two loaves of free bread.  Show us how delightful it is to dip your spoon into the perfect bowl of macaroni and cheese.  Because there’s a reason it’s called comfort food.  We distracted people tend to forget. It’s the simplicity that makes you feel that way.

Finally, one day you will hear a voice coming from inside your head.  A voice with the same tone and inflection of yours.  Using words you recognize.  A shout that only you can hear.  Confusing.  Because that voice will be saying mean and hurtful things like cannot, will not and should not.  Telling you not to dream.  Not to try.  For fear of standing out and looking foolish.

And like your first date, I want you to silence that voice and listen to the music of your soul instead.  The music that tells you to dance and twirl in the middle of a crowded restaurant.   To spin.  All eyes on you.  Not once.  Not twice.  But seven times.

Until you fall down dizzy.

Because you will fall.  Onto the cold, hard floor strewn with dirt and crumbs of cheesecake crust.  And when you fall, I want you to do just as you did tonight.  I want you to stand right back up.  And against all better judgment, I want you to pick those crumbs off your dress.  Look at them.

And eat them.

Then keep right on spinning.  Because it’s not about the messes you make.  It’s about enjoying the sweetness of the journey.  My daughter, always know that who you are is who you were made to be.

Truly.  Deeply.  Loved.

- Dad

Chapter One: The Chicken Killer

*** OK... Rather than write a blog post, I started with renewed fervor this week working on a book about our experience as missionaries in Guatemala.  It's been several months/years in the making.  I'm about halfway finished.  So, this blog post is a "cheat."  Just posting Chapter One of the book... happy for any feedback you might have... good, bad or otherwise.***

Chapter One:  The Chicken Killer

“I killed Graciela’s chickens.”

The confession poured forth from my mouth like something from an episode of Law & Order.  I nervously paced across the floor of our tiny adobe casita.

Taking off her hiking boots, Gabby turned toward me.  With that look of half-contempt and half-curiosity that wives throughout the ages have mastered, she repeated my statement, phrased as a question.

“YOU killed Graciela’s chickens?”

“Yes.  I killed her chickens with my vomit.” 

Minutes ago my wife and I had been munching on a dinner of  hand-patted corn tortillas, rice, beans and watered down instant coffee with Martin, Graciela, and their six kids – the Guatemalan family that had adopted us for a year.  Huddled around a large, unsteady table, we ate silently as the family conversed. 

Though we’d been in Guatemala for seven months, it felt as if our Spanish fluency was hovering somewhere between Antonio Banderas and Larry the Cable Guy.  Still, as Graciela told her story, her intonation allowed us to get the gist of things.  She spoke in the slow, gentle, vowels-last-for-an-hour brand of Spanish that is typical of Mayan women who learned Spanish as a second language.

“Los pollitos murieeeeeeeron de la enfermedaaaaaad.  Toooodos!  Ya saaaaabe es la eeeeepoca.”

“The little chickens died of “The Sickness”.  All of ‘em!  It’s that time of year, you know.”

I nearly choked on my frijoles.

I’m no chicken farmer, but I have a hard time believing that there exists a very consistent, predictable “Chicken Sickness” that comes along every year at tax time and wipes out every clucking hen within the borders of a Central American country.  I’ve heard of the Plague of Livestock from Exodus, but I believe chickens received some sort of “white meat” exemption, right? 

Harder to believe was Graciela’s tone.  She was surprisingly nonchalant about the chicken deaths.   For most of us, hearing the word “chicken” conjures up images of The Colonel and a bucket of extra crispy.  To Graciela and poor Guatemalans like her, the chickens represent much more.        

In her community, women are second-class citizens.  After months of eating our body weight in rice, beans, noodles and tortillas, we had come to learn that meat is expensive and scarce for poor Mayans.  A woman who raises chickens and generates income for herself and her family is a big deal.  The chickens that Graciela cared for were a living, breathing business for her.  The chickens represented good fortune.  The chickens were hope, covered in feathers.

And I had killed them with my vomit.

“How do you kill chickens with vomit?”  Gabby asked, getting ready for bed, back in the confines of our casita.

“You heard her!”, I barked.  “It’s gotta’ be my fault.  Not Colonel Mustard - in the Library - with a CandleStick.  Nope.  It’s Scott - By the Chicken Coop - With Puke.”

“But how?” she pressed.

I continue.  “Remember when I got that stomach bug last week when my parents came to visit?”

“Yes, I remember your parents coming to visit,” she confirms. 

“Well I wen…”  I try to move on, but Gabby interrupts.

“But I don’t remember the stomach bug.” she says, making mocking air quotes in my direction. “What I do remember is you being sooooo nervous about your mom having to maneuver around chicken poop, eat mysterious food, and pee in a hole in the ground for three days that you made yourself ill.”

Caught off-guard, I consider defending my intestinal fortitude until I realize that she is probably right.  I am an expert worrier.  If worrying was a martial art, I’d be a 10^th degree black belt.  I gloss over this blow to my manhood and carry on with the story.

“Whatever.  Late that night, I felt my stomach churning, and knew I was in trouble.  I ran out of the casita toward the baño"  (our term for the concrete seat over a large hole in the ground) "and realized I probably wasn’t going to make it, especially since I had forgotten the flashlight.  So, I ran over to an open space and… well… got sick.”

I looked at her.

“So?”  she questioned.

“The open space was the chickens’ ‘area.’  The coop!  I contaminated their space!  They probably died ‘cuz they caught what I had.  By exposure to my puke.  Or eating it.”

“You’re disgusting!”

“Well!  They’re kinda’ like free range birds!  It’s not like they’re sitting there ordering off a menu, making sure they eat equal amounts of protein and carbs!  They just eat whatever is on the ground, and that ‘whatever’ was really bad!  I know I killed them.”

“Scott.  You’re overreacting.  I sincerely doubt you killed the chickens with your vomit.”

But I couldn’t get this idea out of my head.  What kind of missionary kills a poor woman’s chickens!?  Her livelihood!  The guilt was heavy.  Such a thing is not very Jesus-like.  As we lay there in the dark, I tossed and turned on our makeshift twin bed.  This obviously kept my wife awake.  Noting my genuine concern, her words cut through the blackness,

“If you’re really that worried about it, I think you should just talk to Graciela about it in the morning.  What can it hurt?”

The next morning, I woke to the sound of a rooster crowing.  Not our rooster, mind you, but someone else’s.  It appears Foghorn Leghorn survived the “great plague”.  This only solidified my theoretical position.  I’m a chicken killer.  Not some “Chicken Sickness.”  Me.

Gabby and I walked from the casita, across the dirt patio, to the cinder block structure that served as the kitchen.  We entered the room and found the table set, our breakfasts ready as usual.  The meal consisted of a few corn tortillas and leftover rice and beans from the previous night.  Most of the rest of the family had eaten before we even got out of bed, so it was just me, Gabby, Graciela, and Josesito, our two-year old host brother.

We ease into breakfast conversation, and I gingerly approach the subject.  My insides want to come out and confess, like some made-for-TV-movie.  I want to shout “I did it!  I killed your chickens!  I never meant to hurt anyone, but I was just so nervous and careless!  I puked all over them!  Take me away!  Lock me up and throw away the key!  Tear up my missionary card – the laminated one!  It’s in my wallet!  I’m not worthy!”

But I can’t think of the Spanish word for “laminated.”

Instead, I ask,

“Graciela.  Tell me again what happened to your chickens?”

She tells the story again.  No frills.  Just the facts.  Same as yesterday.

“So this happens every year?”

“Sí”, she continues.  “The chickens just start moving slowly, or not moving at all.  Some people give them treatment.”

“Treatment?” 

I imagine a little chicken hooked up to IV antibiotics.  Laying in a motorized bed made out of hay.  Watching a TV that’s mounted on the wall.  Graciela hovering over him with a chart in her hand.

“Sí, tratamiento.  Les dan asi tambien o fin.”

In my head, I am translating her words.  Literally, they mean “Yes.  Treatment.  They give them like that also or the end.” 

Is this some weird saying that makes no sense out of context?  All languages have them, right?  Like in English, we say silly things like “knocked up” to refer to getting pregnant.  The literal translation makes no sense, but if you know the lingo, you understand.  So, I run the last four words through my brain again.

Asi.  (like this/that)

Tambien. (also)

O. (or)

Fin.  (the end/final)

Nope… still means “like that also or the end.” 

Scott no comprendo.

“Graciela.  What do you mean by ‘asi tambien o fin?’”

Graciela giggles and covers her mouth to hide her embarrassment caused by the fact that what once was a “prom queen” face has been aged by hardship and a few missing teeth due to a lack of access to dental care.  Her laughter means one of two things.  Either I just told a joke, or completely misunderstood her.

“No!” she says, still masking a grin.  “Una palabra.  Acetaminofen.”

“Oh!  One word!  Acetaminophen!”

She nods in agreement.

Now I’m laughing.  Not so much for the miscommunication as for the image that is now in my head.  What once was a chicken on IV antibiotics is now a chicken struggling to open a tamper-proof bottle of Tylenol.

 “So how do you give a chicken acetaminophen?” I ask.

It appears that the image in my head is not too far from the truth.  Graciela went on to explain that she and the kids would chase the chickens around the yard, corner them by the woodpile, and wrap their arms around their flapping wings to keep the mayhem to a minimum.  Once a chicken was in hand, Graciela - whose name literally means “grace”

Sweet Graciela.

Lovely Graciela,

Would pry open the chicken’s tiny beak and shove a couple of big pills down its throat with her index finger.

Well.  That oughtta’ fix ‘er right up!

My guilt fades as I warm to the idea that it was likely not my queasy belly that caused the great “chicken deaths”, but rather, the Tylenol.  I’m no doctor, but I think 500 milligrams per bird exceeds the chicken dosage instructions listed on the bottle by about a million percent.  It’s a poultry OD for sure.  Like giving a grown man a Big Gulp full of liquid Robitussin.  It’s a comic beginning to a day that is faded around the edges by reality. 

Here is a woman who had spent hard-earned money on a few chickens, hoping only to turn that investment into a few more Quetzales.  Money she could use to buy some shoes for her two-year-old, some thread to mend a blouse, or some school supplies for her daughter.  Instead, her poverty - a product of decades of bad government, bad education, bad luck, and bad choices – keeps this tiny dream from becoming a reality.  And it’s in this moment, as with many moments, that I grasp the magnitude of the task before me. 

This is all part of being a missionary.  Starting with a desire to save the world, only to realize that the world is not yours to save. 

So what’s the point?

And how did I get here in the first place?

Falling Down

“My car has a favorite speed.  It wants to go this fast!”

At least that’s what I told myself as the wobble in the steering wheel subsided upon reaching eighty-two miles per hour.  I’m pretty sure it’s written somewhere in the 2000 Acura Integra User’s Manual.  Right after the page that explains that driving through a heavy downpour is equivalent to detailing your car.

But I had to get to the sports complex. 

I had just landed in Nashville after a three-month stretch of business trips that left my wife feeling like a single mom and my kids feeling like Monday-Friday orphans.  And today was Jake’s first time on the ice as part of the Nashville Predators’ GOAL program.

Kids in the south have about as much interest in hockey as they do the economic situation in Khazakstan.  So, taking a page from the tobacco industry marketing handbook, the local NHL team has adopted the “get ‘em hooked while they’re young” strategy.  Their program will give your five-year-old a helmet, gloves, pads, pants, skates, a jersey and a hockey stick, and provide four group hockey lessons absolutely free of charge.  It’s genius.  Since Jake had recently shown an interest in all things sports, Gabby signed him up.

I arrived at the rink ten minutes into the first practice.  Gabby was standing in the bleachers, laughing to herself, with her camera phone pointed at the ice.  I turned my eyes toward the rink and saw what looked like a huge mix-up in the wardrobe department at 20^th Century Fox.  Every single Oompa Loompa in Oz was mistakenly outfitted with a Transformers costume and turned loose on the tundra. 

There were dozens of little kids scattered from one end of the rink to the other.  Some were skating like old pros.  Others were upright, gingerly making their way from one coaches’ station to another.  And a good number were laying flat on their backs like beetles with their limbs flailing.  Helpless.

I approached Gabby and gave her the usual kiss hello.  Still smiling, she pointed to the center of the ice.

“He’s right there.  In the red leg warmers.”

And there he was.  A newborn deer in spring.  Wobbly knees and all.  He would try and lurch forward, only to find his legs splay out like a wishbone, sending him flopping to the ice.  Face-first.  Head-first.  Butt-first.  Over and over again.  Coaches would come by from time to time, get down on the ice, say something to him, and then skate away. 

I felt horrible for him.  I knew how excited he was for this first practice, and he was spending the entire time falling down.  And he wasn’t alone.  As I scanned the rest of the rink, it looked like a scene from beneath a bug zapper.  There were bodies strewn about.  Kids crying.  Reaching into thin air, hoping for a rescue.  Coaches would come by at random times and hold out a hockey stick.  A kid would grab on and the coach would skate away, dragging  the blubbering husk of a hockey player and sliding them across the ice toward the exit.  For others, the rescue never came.

Hockey can be a cruel sport. 

Then there was Jake.  Like the rest of us, he can get pretty frustrated when things don’t go his way.  I waved toward him to get his attention.  After a couple more flops I finally caught his eye.  I expected tears streaming down his face. 

Instead, he picked his head up off the ice, sat upright, extended his arm, and me a thumbs-up.  When he smiled, his eyes beamed and his lips parted to reveal a bright green mouth guard. 

Pure joy.

The coaches set up different areas for kids to rotate through, practicing stick handling or footwork.  Falling, crawling and sliding, Jake would finally make it to one of the stations.  By the time he’d finally get there, everyone would dart off to the next location, leaving him scrambling to catch up.  He face-planted and butt-busted the ice well over a hundred times in the span of 45 minutes.  The final whistle blew.  I met him at the rail.  He was one of the last ones off the ice.

“Did you have a good time, buddy?”

“Yes,” he answered, slobbering through the mouth guard.  “I want to go again.”

 “Really?  You must have really liked it.  What were they teaching you out there?”

“How to get back up.”

“How to get back up?”

“Yep.”

There were about half as many kids on the ice at the second practice.  Hockey Darwinism.  For some reason, Jake was still loving this sport that was 90% ego-bruising and 10% gliding grace.

By the time the third practice rolled around, Jake could skate.  Sure, he still fell plenty of times, and he wasn’t setting any land speed records.  But he could also weave through cones.  Even swatted the puck into the net a couple of times.  When he did, he thrust his arms into the air in triumph.  I couldn’t help but join in the celebration.

In moments like this, you feel the joy of parenting.  Seeing your kid fall in love with something.  Watching them fight through adversity to find the satisfaction that comes from hard work and determination.  It makes you feel like you must be doing something right as a dad.

And then you’re reminded that such moments, while thrilling, are also fleeting.

Like last week when my young Wayne Gretsky chose to wake me with a scream at 2:30 in the morning. 

“I can’t breathe!  I can’t breathe!”

I ran into Jake’s room to see what was the matter.  He was sitting up in his bed, red faced, and yelling like mad.  We had house guests that night, so Audrey was sleeping in his room with him.  She had this incredibly worried look on her face.  I would have been very concerned, were it not for the fact that my son was breathing just fine.

And screaming. 

Waking up the whole house. 

I hustled him out of his room and into the master bath.  There, amidst the chaos, I tried a remedy that had worked to calm him down in the past.  I turned on the hot water to create some steam, leaned over the sink, grabbed a towel, and draped it over both of us so we could breathe in the makeshift sauna air.

But this time, it wasn’t working.  Both of us had hot, sweaty faces, and he was still howling like a banshee.  The kid has a flair for drama, which he inherited from me.  I was trying to calm him down by saying, “You’re fine!  Don’t worry!  Just take some deep breaths!”  It was no use.  He still wouldn’t chill out.  Instead, he yelled back,

“I can only breathe in!  I can’t breathe out!  I can’t breathe out!  It’s not working!”

And that’s when I lost it.  Parenting fail.  I grabbed my son, and pulled his face two inches from my own.  I then shout-whispered biology facts at him.  At 2:37 in the morning.

“You’re being ridiculous, son!  You cannot produce sound from your mouth unless you are exhaling air across your vocal chords!  It is technically impossible for you to make the noise you are making without being able to breathe out!  There is nothing wrong with you!  Now CALM DOWN and GO BACK TO BED!”

Gabby, hearing my little science lesson, came to the rescue.  She walked in to the bathroom, politely asked me to get him a cool drink of water, and gave the boy a hug.  When I returned to the room with the water, Jake was already half asleep.  I, on the other hand, was wide awake.  And angry.

In the morning, Jake felt a bit warm.  So, we took his temperature. 

102.

When he complained of a sore throat, we grabbed a flashlight to take a peek.  The kid’s windpipe was red and swollen.  Inflamed.  It looked like it hurt.  Next, I checked the mailbox, where I found a letter declaring that I was voted Runner Up in the America’s Most Heartless Father competition.  Bested only by that guy who put his kid in a weather balloon as a publicity stunt. 

There’s always next year.

I wanted to rewind the clock back to 2:30am.  Erase the mistake with a hug and some will-timed compassion.  Unfortunately, I’m not Marty McFly, and there is no flux capacitor.  So, I did the next best thing. 

I took Jake’s hand and walked with him to the couch.  I looked him in the eye as he plopped down next to me. 

“Hey buddy.  Last night, I didn’t do such a good job taking care of you.  I didn’t realize you were sick. I messed up.  Sometimes dads make mistakes,” I told him.  “I’m sorry.” 

 “That’s OK.”  No fanfare.  Just a quiet voice telling me that it’s not the end of the world.

Then Audrey came in, book in hand.  She crawled next to me on the couch and said, “Read it.”

She handed me the book and I settled back into the cushions.  As I turned the first page, they both shimmied in close.  I started to read.  Jake grabbed my arm, lifted it, and placed it around his shoulder.

Teaching his dad how to get back up.

Penmanship Counts (Merry Christmas!)

I began collecting notes back in the fifth grade.  The obsession was born from a deep-seeded desire to be noticed.  I’m sure a trained psychologist would diagnose it as an acute case of narcissism which presents as numerous symptoms.

• Loud, girly laugh. 
• Blathering storytelling at gatherings involving four or more people. 
• Blog posts exceeding 1500 words.

Warning:  There is no cure.  There’s a team of doctors in Switzerland working on a remedy, but they can’t get the control group to shut up long enough to get ‘em to pop a placebo.

The notes I collected are probably tucked away in a box somewhere in my attic.  I’m not exactly sure.  But I don’t need to find them, because I have vivid memories of them.  Many of them folded with care in intricate shapes, much like the pegged jeans of my 80’s upbringing.  Call it suburban origami.

My favorite notes were the ones I would receive from girls.  I still marvel how anyone ever had interest in me, as my head encompassed half of my body weight.  My silhouette was that of a rubber mallet. 

Reading every note was like panning for gold.  Inevitably, the object of my affection du jour would ramble on and on about the trivialities of the day.  Mounds and mounds of silt.

     “Mr. Myers farted in gym class again.  Some of us laughed, some of us gagged.”

     “I had nachos and a chocolate milkshake for lunch.  Was totally bummed that they were out of Nutty Bars.”

     “Mrs. Henley smells like a blend of freeze-dried Folger’s crystals and Virginia Slims.”

But sometimes, I would find a gold nugget that would bring a smile to my face.

     “I like your spike hairdo.  It’s awesome.”

     “Are you going to Brad’s party?  I hope so!”

     “You’re cute.”

But it wasn’t just the words that meant something.  It was how they were written.  If Christi dotted her “i” with a heart, I knew it was special.  And, anything written in a glitter pen meant that first base was on my horizon. 

If not matrimony.

So, as a force of habit, I panned for gold when I received a note a few weeks ago.  As a happily married man, I no longer look for signs of an impending wedding or a confirmed acceptance of a Sock Hop invitation. But I still look for the meaning behind the message.

The email was from a woman I met while working in Saudi Arabia.  Meshael had given my family a wonderful gift.  A total surprise, as I wondered if it was even appropriate for me to have a one-on-one conversation with her, since she was a conservative, burka-clad, married Muslim woman. 

I had written her a note to say thank you for her generosity.  And, to keep the thank-you chain alive, she responded in kind.

Now, I’m not a militant against the term “Happy Holidays.”  And writing the word “X-Mas” does not punch your one-way ticket to H-E-double-hockey-sticks. But I am sensitive to the fact that Christmas has become so commercial that we sometimes forget that the whole reason for the celebration is to remind us how  Jesus came to Earth to be with us as a baby boy.  Showing us peace, love, and compassion.

So, I was blown away to receive this note from a woman of another faith.  A woman who some might say was put on the planet to threaten Christianity itself.  Her photo alone would strike fear in the hearts of some of us.  But it’s not just her words.  It’s the care she took in crafting them.  A virtual glitter pen and heart-dotted “i.” 

A golden nugget to show me that, in a world divided, there are people who understand the value of bringing us all together, no matter the season.  No matter the religion.

So, to those near and far, here’s hoping you have a beautiful, multi-hued Holiday, and a very Merry Christmas.

Those People, That Person

Apologies to my follower (singular intended) for taking a three month break from the blog.  The combination of a horrendous work schedule and an overactive laziness gene was too much to overcome.  But now I’m back, writing with a renewed sense of mediocrity. I’m currently on my way home from one of the most eye-opening business trips of my short and illustrious career.  My work took me to Saudi Arabia, home to the King Faisal Specialist Hospital and Research Center.  Apparently, they wanted some training in critical thinking and problem solving.  How they got my name, I’m still not sure.  I think my application to Saudi Arabian Idol must have been mis-routed.

Needless to say, my trip to The Kingdom caused my nervous mother to wear out a mountain of Rosary beads praying that I wouldn’t be arrested, abducted, or put into indentured servitude as the King’s personal ear hair trimmer.  I must admit, I had a bit of anxiety, too.  I’ve never traveled to the Gulf, and had no idea what to expect.  My limited information comes from a mild recollection of scattered news reports and conversations with other Americans who have never been there.

Research is not my strong suit.

Before my trip, I read a couple of websites to beef up my knowledge and avoid Saudi prison.  The consistent theme was that Riyadh is the most conservative city in the country.  Sounds like a perfect place for a bleeding-heart liberal like me.  Some of the do’s, don’ts, and punishable offenses included:

1. Never be seen with any woman who isn’t related to you.
2. Don’t touch people with your left hand.
3. Don't eat with your left hand.
4. No alcohol (not even beer with pizza).
5. Don’t point the bottom of your shoe toward anyone else.
6. Do not eat in the family section of the restaurant.  Men must sit only with other men.
7. Don’t take pictures of women or government buildings without permission.

While learning these helpful tips might make the average person feel more confident, it had the opposite effect on me.  I’m not a guy who’s known for being good in a crisis.  When danger calls, I can be found flailing my arms and telling people they’re probably going to die.  It’s not my most attractive quality.  I now realized I would be spending a full 18 hours standing in front of a Saudi audience, teaching, telling stories, and offering amusing anecdotes.  The odds were pretty good I was going to cross a line of appropriate behavior at some point.  Pair this with my lack of planning, and it was a recipe for disaster.  “Those people” might flog or stone me.

Gabby must have noticed my heart palpitations, because she quickly put me in touch with a Jordanian friend of hers who, as luck would have it, had recently taken a job in Riyadh.  Raed and I arranged to meet on the day of my arrival.

Coming out of the airport, any hopes I had of blending in were quickly dashed when I met my driver, Octavio, surrounded by dozens of men dressed just like him.  It reminded me of my college days when I was the only white guy in the University of Tulsa Gospel Choir.  I could sing as soulfully as anyone in the room, but I could never figure out how to sway in the right direction.  A dead giveaway.

*  The driver, Octavio

I met Raed later that afternoon in my hotel lobby after a short nap.  He had arranged for a Saudi friend of his, Mohammad, to give me a taste of life in The Kingdom.

We drove an hour outside of the city where the Saudi’s had turned a bunch of sand dunes into a virtual weekend amusement park.  Families in 4x4 pickups and Ford Crown Victorias were racing around the mountains of dust while four-wheelers darted in between.  Though none of us had ever piloted anything more risky than a ten-speed, we convinced each other to rent some ATVs and try it ourselves.  It was a blast.

* Raed (left) and Mohammad (right) negotiating with the ATV rental guy, who is saying "how do I know that gangly white guy isn't going to trash my four-wheeler?"  As you can see, they had no response.

* if you're not distracted by my crazy ATV hair, you can make out the faint image of people driving like maniacs on the dunes in the background.

At dinner afterward, covered in dust, I asked Mohammad to teach me about Saudi culture.  He started by ordering way too much food, and serving me until my gut busted.

Saudi hospitality.

Then he gave me the low-down.  He wears the traditional garb (a thobe) to work, but dresses like you and I do on the weekends.  He has two kids (4 and 2) who talk back and give him fits.  He and his wife like to watch TV to unwind in the evenings.  On weekends, they go to a family “cabin” outside of town and listen to music, play cards, and chat.  His wife wears an abaya in public, but wears whatever she wants in the home.  He’s a devout Muslim, but sometimes skips out on the sermon because “it’s kinda’ boring… and one time, I caught the imam repeating the exact same message two weeks in a row!”

I asked him about my class.  What should I be concerned about?  What should I avoid?

“Just be yourself.”

Wanting more direction, I worriedly asked, “What about the classroom participation?  Will the women need to be segregated?  Will they even speak?  Do I need to be concerned about how I break up the class into small groups?  Is it OK to tell jokes?  Show videos?  Tell silly stories about Gabby and me?”

“No problem!” Read chimed in.  “Maybe don’t call on people directly and put them on the spot.  Might make them uncomfortable.  Especially if they don’t speak English very clearly.  And don’t force groups to work together.  Let them pick which small group to join.”

That sounds a lot like the rules I use in the U.S.

“But most important is just be yourself.  Saudis love learning, and love learning from westerners.  So, you already have that working for you.  If you have passion about what you’re teaching, that’s really all that matters.”

Surprised.

“And the women will love you.  You just wait!”

Double-surprised.

So I taught the class.  Two full days.  I survived.  It was an experience, to be sure.

* A group of hospital leaders coming up with ideas to make patient education more efficient and effective.

* This leadership team is working on ways to encourage pediatric cancer patients to follow their treatment regimen when they leave the hospital.

When asked about trips overseas, it’s sometimes tempting to tell people all of the ways that “they” are just like “us.”  Fostering  the belief that we’re all the same deep down.  Part of one big happy family.  And it would be partly true to say that, because I heard the Saudis say a lot of things in Riyadh that I might have heard coming from an American in Rhode Island.

• “We need to improve our employee satisfaction.”
•  “I’ve never ridden a camel.  I just don’t see the appeal.”
• “The employees here often have great, innovative ideas, and some leaders are fantastic… but some managers and leaders don’t listen very well.”
•  (whispered to me before class)  “Dr. Ibrahim is a well-respected leader, but he can be loud and overbearing, and take over conversations.  Just be aware of that, and try to encourage comments from others. (pause)  And mix up the groups a lot so none of us has to work with him the entire time.”
• Mohammad:  “’Everybody Loves Raymond’ used to be may favorite show.  Now it’s ‘Modern Family.’  My wife and I are just like the Dunfy’s.”

  Faryal: (wearing a burka) “I love that show, too!  The old guy and his wife are hilarious!”

But as common as these statements are, there are distinct differences in people and cultures.  We’re not all alike.  I was at the restaurant eating dinner with Raed and Mohammad when evening prayer time came (maghrib).  The shades were quickly drawn and the doors were locked.  We were stuck inside for 30 minutes while everyone on staff went to the back to pray.  This happens five times per day.

There’s a “singles only” line and a “families only” line at Mc Donald’s. Though this probably doesn’t sound so foreign to those looking for lunch in Alabama in 1966, the year my sister was born.

And it was an adjustment for me to tell some of the women apart who were wearing a full face covering, with only their eyes showing.  It sure makes it easy to call them “those people” when they are all dressed exactly the same.   Although I do note the irony in writing this as I sit here wearing Aeropostale jeans and an Old Navy shirt also worn by ten million other guys in the U.S.

But most profound was the lesson I learned from Meshael.  She was the one who helped me coordinate travel arrangements and other logistics.  Meshael is probably 30 years old.  Married.  No kids.  Wears an abaya with face covering, only her eyes peeking through.

When the first day of class was finished, she walked me through the maze of hospital hallways to the area where I could catch my ride.  I waited alongside all of the female employees, clad in black, waiting for their rides home, as they aren’t allowed to drive themselves.

I made small talk with Meshael.  We talked about the weather.  Family.  The city.  The hospital.  Restaurants.  My desire to try authentic middle eastern food.

We had a pause in conversation.  Maybe twenty seconds.  She turned toward me and asked,

“Mr. Scott, would you like a date?”

“Excuse me?”  I flashed to the comment from Raed.

The women will love you.  You just wait.

My face revealed confusion and panic.  This is highly inappropriate.  Arms beginning to flail.  What to do?  I’m a happily married man!  What is appropriate in this culture?!

“Dates.  Do you like dates?  We are famous for our dates here.”  Meshael clarified.

“Oh!” I said, realizing this was not a love connection, but rather, a continuation of our food and restaurant discussion.  “I don’t know.  I don’t eat a lot of dates.”

“I will bring some tomorrow for you.  A gift for your wife and family.  We have all kinds.  They are very delicious.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“No.  I will bring them.”

“That would be wonderful.  You are far too kind.”

The next morning, I walked into the classroom to prepare for the day.  Meshael had arrived early.  She held a big red bag in her hand.

“Mr. Scott.  Here are the dates.”

She handed me the bag.  It weighed about four pounds.  I opened it and pulled out two large containers.  One a gold tin, and another with a clear lid revealing the contents.  The candied dates were all arranged perfectly.

“There are dates dipped in chocolate,  Dipped in honey.  Rolled in sugar.  And here are some plain ones.  You must sample them all.”

Her letterbox-framed eyes were sparkling.

I looked back at her, wishing I could see her face.  So hard, when “those people” are donned in the same black flowing obscurity.  What does she look like?  Is her hair black?  Or colored?  Curly or straight?  What about her ears?  Does she wear earrings?  Lipstick?  Freckles?

But I’ll never see her face.  Never know what she looks like on the outside.  But perhaps that’s the way it should be.  Because in my mind I imagine a beautiful, genuine, radiant smile.  Honest.  Authentic.  Warm.

Finally seeing “that person” for the first time.

*image from asianews.it

An Open Letter to My Son on His First Day of Kindergarten

Dear Jake, I’m writing you this letter because you still think I know something.  In fact, you think I know everything.  I would tell you that you’re mistaken, but you’ll come to that conclusion on your own in about 8-10 years.

At that point, you’ll think I know nothing.

Then I could tell you you’re mistaken too, but you’ll come to that conclusion on your own 8-10 years after that.  At which time, you’ll know I’m just a guy.  A guy who happens to be your dad.  The one who occasionally gives you money but won’t let you move back into our house.  But while we’re still in that magical place where you see me as a superhero, pit crew chief, doctor, pastor, and professional athlete, allow me to share a few words of wisdom with you.  It’s important stuff, so pay attention.

No, I’m serious.

Put that down.

And get your finger out of your nose.

I mean it.

One… two… th-

OK.  That’s more like it.

 

* Jake's excited...                          Audrey?  Not so much...

Today is your first day of school.  Ever.  For a short time, your success will not be measured in grades.  Instead, you’ll know it’s been a good day when you come home exhausted, smelling of stale milk and kid sweat.  It’s a beautiful thing.  Enjoy it!

You’ll have some choices to make today.  First things first, you’ll want to make some friends.  My advice?  Choose carefully.  But don’t judge a book by its cover.  The kid in the corner eating Elmer’s glue is probably the kind of friend who would give you the shirt off his back, the best thing in his lunchbox, and would tell you when you were about to do something stupid.   He also wouldn’t rat you out when you did it anyway.  That’s the kind of friend I hope you grow to be.

What about the kid who knows all of the cool new words for private parts?

He might be good for a few laughs.  He might even teach you how to put a mirror on your shoe so you can look up Amy Clifton’s skirt.  But beware.  He’ll also try to rope you into the mix when he gets caught stealing a pack of Now & Laters at the Itty Bitty.

Again.  Choose carefully.  I know the kind of guy you are.  You’ll know character when you see it.

While we’re on the subject, someday you and one of these new friends might decide it would be funny  to bake chocolate chip cookies and put Kibbles n Bits in some of them.  Then you’ll think it would be even funnier to play a joke and feed them to that weirdo in class who is always getting into trouble.

You’ll do it.  And the other kids will laugh.  Hard.  But the weirdo kid won’t.  He’ll play it off like it’s no big deal, but you’ll be able to tell by the way his smile doesn’t quite curl like it should that he’s crying inside.  You’ll feel so bad about it later that you’ll eat one of those dog food cookies.

And another.

Just to try and make it right.

But it won’t work. You’ll have to do something harder.  You’ll have to apologize in person.  Right to his face.  Tell him how horrible you were, and horrible you feel.  And he’ll still be crying, inside and out.  Because sometimes words can’t fix everything.

Trust me.  It’s better to never make the cookies in the first place.

And one day, I’m not sure when, some adult is going to tell you, “It’s better to give than to receive.”  Take this one to heart, because they are absolutely right.  But please note the following exceptions to the rule.  Sucker punches, atomic wedgies, and haircuts with safety scissors.  With these, you should avoid both the giving and the receiving.

Also note that you will be measured from this day forward.  We adults like to do that kind of thing.  Makes us feel smarter, I guess.  You’re a pretty sharp kid, so my guess is you’ll be put in the Red Robin Rockets reading group or something like that.  But remember, just ‘cuz you’re there doesn’t make you any better than all the kids in the Brown Barn Swallow reading group.  Trust me.  There are Brown Barn Swallow groups all over this world, and sooner or later you’ll belong to one of them.

As you’ve probably already learned, Ms. Pilkinton is the one who hands out smiley faces.  There are lots of Ms. Pilkintons in the world, too.  I recommend that you always go for the smiley face, Jake.  Not because Ms. Pilkinton likes it, but because it feels good to work hard and do the right thing.  If you do this enough, you’ll build up a strong muscle called integrity.  It’s right in the middle of your chest.  You’ll need this muscle for the times when some other person who doesn’t smell like roses and cake (like Ms. Pilkinton does) offers you a smiley face to treat someone else unfairly.  This is a tricky one, but you’ll know by then what’s a real smiley face, and what’s just a yellow circle with some dots and a curvy line.

And now for the most important thing of all.

Make mistakes.

Lots of ‘em.

But don’t make the same one twice.

You’ll learn more from your mistakes than you will during the 15,210 hours your little tush will be sitting in a classroom between now and your high school graduation.    That’s what they call “growing up.”

(And, in case you’re wondering, I used math to perform the “tush in seat” calculation. Did it the old-fashioned way.  Paper and pencil.)

Time to go now.  You woke up forty minutes before your alarm clock went off this morning, fueled by a love of learning and a burning desire to break in your new, monogrammed backpack.  I love how you get so excited about the little things in life.  They always seem to bring you the most satisfaction.  Paper airplanes.  Stomping puddles.  Lightning bugs.  One day you’ll forget how cool these things are.  And when that happens, I pray that God sends you a 48-pound savant filled with sage wisdom and corn syrup-laced snacks to remind you.

I love you, buddy,

Dad