Not quite like any other day...

It was easy to become a father. It took a lot more to become a dad.

I wasn't always a very good dad. In fact, I often (and truthfully) proclaim that Joseph and Matthew turned out so well in spite of me at least as much as because of me. Joseph and Matthew got their best traits from their Father. Not their weak earthly father; no they have blossomed under the blessings of their Heavenly Father. It is a joy to look at them today and see the men they have become. The husbands they are learning to be. 

I know God used me in their lives, but the biggest impact I ever had on their lives was that I started praying for them before they were even born. I prayed constantly for them and for their future spouses; whomever they may be.

I prayed; and I cried.

I cried tears of joy when each of the boys were born.

I cried tears that were a mixture of joy and sorrow when we left each of them at college for the first time.

I cried tears that were a mixture of joy and pride as I watched them walk across the platform at Bob Jones University to accept their hard-earned degrees.

I cried tears of joy as I watched each of them commit themselves in marriage to our wonderful daughters-in-law.

I cried tears of fear as I came to grips with the doctor's words that Matthew had cancer.

I cried tears of relief as I watched Matthew respond to the treatment.

I cried tears of joy and pride as I witnessed Joseph being ordained.

Somewhere, sometime, in the midst of all of those tears I became a dad.

Father's Day this year will not be a day when I look for accolades or gifts. 

Father's Day is so much more. 

It's the day for me to look back on all that went into becoming a dad instead of just a father.

Some Day...

Just when is Some Day, anyway? I keep looking for it and never seem to find it.

I saw a Facebook post recently that listed the seven easy steps to improve your attitude. They were simple steps:

1. Stand Up
2. Stretch
3. Take a Walk
4. Keep Walking
5. Board a Plane
6. Fly to Alaska
7. Never Return

That looked like pretty good advice to me. In fact, I even added a comment saying, "I've been telling my wife, Diane Brader, this for years!"

Diane replied, "Some day!!!"

Not, "I wish," or "It would be great if we could do that."

No, she said, "Some day."

People say that a lot.

Maybe some day this.

Or maybe some day that.

Some day.

There are so many things we talk about doing Some Day. Some of them are all in fun; others, are dreams we would love to see fulfilled. Life seems to intervene, though, and make Some Day seem farther and farther off. Something else consumes the time or forces us to rethink our budget.

I imagine I'll run out of days long before Some Day ever comes.

First Serve!

Our church used to rent out a small racquetball club periodically for a late night Friday activity. We would all show up at 10:00 when the club closed, pay a small fee and have full use of the facility until 2:00 AM. It didn't matter whether you were a first time player or an experienced tournament competitor; everyone had fun.

My friend Arturo was at the upper end of the competence spectrum. I, on the other hand, resided on the other end. We played anyway; often doubles to level out our skill levels. Occasionally, though, we would play singles. Arturo regularly beat me. In fact, Arturo regularly shut me out. I felt like I had won the match if I managed to score even a single point.

This friendly rivalry turned into a bit of entertainment for the rest of the folks. They would stand at the viewing window and watch Arturo toy with me for a while before smashing a shot for a point. One night, Mr. Stewart - a man from our church who also happened to be a police officer in our community - stopped by during his shift to visit with everyone. Somehow - and I remain unsure of how this little escapade started even to this day - someone challenged that Arturo could beat me with handcuffs on.

I laughed, but soon realized that they were serious. They were asking Mr. Stewart to handcuff Arturo (in front, of course, since even I could probably beat him if his hands were cuffed behind his back) to see if he could still beat me.

Momentum built for this little escapade until virtually everyone was huddled around the main court (with lots of glass to allow spectators to observe the heated match) pushing for the combatants to accept the challenge.

Like an idiot - I did.

Mr. Stewart, although technically Officer Stewart at the time, pulled the handcuffs from his belt and proceeded to apply them to Arturo's wrists. They played around with them a bit to make sure he could still swing his arms albeit they would have to swing together.

We entered the court to begin the match that would put us on a level playing field; Arturo in handcuffs and me handcuffed only by my own lack of ability. One set of cuffs would prove to be the root cause of a loss.

We volleyed a little to allow Arturo to get the feel of playing while handcuffed and then started the match. Arturo, perhaps a bit overconfident, offered to allow me to serve first without volleying for serve like we normally would. This was a bit of a new thing because I don't believe I had ever served first. In fact, in some matches I didn't serve at all.

That was about to change! I was serving first to a man in handcuffs.

I assumed my position between the service lines as Arturo moved to the back wall.

I had a plan.

The ball rocketed off the front wall as it angled back toward the corner that would force Arturo to manipulate his cuffed hands to execute a backhand shot from very close to the back corner. I faced the front wall; not really expecting to see a return come from behind me. He was, after all, in handcuffs and having to pull off a pretty good shot with very little room to maneuver.

But there it was! The ball rocketed across from behind me to hit the front wall just inches away from both the floor and the opposite wall.

A man in handcuffs had just taken serve.

He never gave it back.

More Than I Can Chew?

I have been accused of over-analyzing everything. I am one of those measure ten times and still purposely cut it slightly long to give me room to tweak it people. I often worry when taking on a new project that I will bite off more than I can chew and be left with an imperfect result.

I have a problem with that.

For example, the only way we could afford to build our home twenty years ago was for us to handle the roofing, siding, electrical, painting, staining and finish carpentry - including installing 1200 square feet of wood flooring. It was certainly more than I could chew.

For months, Diane would prepare dinner, pack it into a cooler, pack up the boys and meet me at the house after work each night. I would work until dark; and then much later once we had electricity in the house. We spent countless hours at the house each Saturday and Sunday after church. The boys, quite young at the time, were troopers. They wielded hammers and "helped" with many tasks around the house.

To this day, I really only see those things that turned out less than perfectly and wish I could just tear it out and re-do it. Time and money have kept me from doing that, so I look at the glaring mistakes around the house each day.

Diane says they are not that bad.

To me, though, they are daily reminders of having bit off more than I could chew.

The next project around the house is to do a minor reconfiguration of our kitchen. This will involve removing the countertop and disassembling several of the base cabinets in order to re-install them in new places. Then we'll install a new tile countertop and backsplash with hickory trim to match our cabinets and the top of Diane's new island.

Not a big deal for someone who knows what they are doing.

A lot of stress for the one who fears he has, once again, bitten off more than he can chew.

The work itself is not that complicated. There's no structural work involved. There will be time pressure, though, because we will be without a kitchen sink and food prep area from the day I pull off the countertop until everything is complete.

That's stressful for a measure ten times kind of guy.

I just hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew again...

HOCKEY'S BACK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

It has been 117 days.

That's 2,808 hours.

Or 168,480 minutes.

Or 10,108,800 seconds.

But today, the wait is over!

I have been waiting 117 days since Gary Bettman (BOO!!! HISS!!!) handed the Stanley Cup to LA Kings captain, Dustin Brown (BOO!!! HISS!!!).

One hundred and seventeen days since the puck hit the ice in a game that mattered.

But that ends tonight!

At 6:07 Central Time tonight, the puck will hit the ice at the Air Canada Centre (Centre rather than Center because it is in Canada, after all) and the Montreal Canadiens and the Toronto Maple Leafs will kick off the 2014-2015 NHL season. Just twenty-five hours later the action will be repeated at the Scottrade Center as the St. Louis Blues take the opening faceoff of what will certainly be their Stanley Cup winning season.

I have missed the sights and sounds of the greatest sport on Earth.

But that ends tonight!

Hockey's Back!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Welcome to my world.

There are some phrases that are just so annoying that they should never be spoken again. I nominate, "Welcome to my world," as one of those phrases to be banned.

We've all heard it, I'm sure. One person mentions a problem they are dealing with and the response is an oh, so compassionate, "Welcome to my world," as the listener discounts any issue or concern with the claim that they are forced to deal with that - and worse - on a regular basis.

Perhaps no situation provides a better example of why this should be banned than a conversation recently recounted by a co-worker. As a bit of background, we have been extremely busy at work this year. No one is complaining about being busy (that does, after all, mean we are successfully marketing and selling our products as we head toward a record year). Being this busy does mean, though, that some of us don't have time for our normal tasks because we are periodically summoned back to help in the shop. It's all just part of working for a small company.

Anyway, several weeks ago one of my co-workers reported going home after work and mentioning how tired and stressed he was at work because he was behind on his normal tasks to his wife - who doesn't work outside the home and spends much of her time shopping with her daughter and daughters-in-law or spending time with her grandchildren.

Her reply?

"Welcome to my world!"

What?!?!?!?!?!

She went on to say she could hardly keep up around the house because her life was so busy.

Welcome to my world????

Now I realize that being a wife is a lot of work (especially for Diane who goes to great lengths to take care of me), but it's not like someone who chooses to spend her day doing "fun" things (shopping and little kids don't sound like "fun" to me) really has the right to complain that she can't keep up at home. There's only the two of them at home and my co-worker is absolutely anal about everything being in its place, so it's not like there's a lot of cleaning up after him. Yet, somehow, she feels like her husband's stress is just a tiny window into her daily life.

I've heard the phrase, "Welcome to my world," many times. From my own experiences, I would say that most of the time, the person uttering those words has no clue. Not only are they exhibiting a total lack of empathy and compassion - two traits I have never been known to be very strong in myself - but they often also have an unrealistic view of their own situation.

Shopping and spending time with grandchildren does not equate to the stress of falling further behind on normal tasks at work because we are in a particularly busy period.

We know that we'll eventually get caught back up at work; whether because the pace returns to a more normal one or we decide to add staff once we determine that the higher workload warrants it. But for now, the stress levels at work are pretty high. Hearing, "Welcome to my world," reveals a certain selfishness and cluelessness.

As such, it should be banned.

The Old Drum

A mix of hickory and cherry smolders in my smoker; wisps of a blueish smoke rising gently from the exhaust holes. The aroma overwhelms my nose as I step from the garage.

Yes, the sweet smell of true slow-cooked BBQ is hard to beat.

My home-built smoker started life as a plain old 55 gallon steel drum. I picked it up from one of our suppliers at work and, with a little work and some plans from the Internet, turned it into a UDS, an Ugly Drum Smoker. And ugly it is...

The outside is rusty and dented; the inside well seasoned from many hours of smoking.

To the casual observer, it's just an old drum.

But to me, it's a masterpiece.

I don't know who came up with the original UDS plans, but it really is a marvel of BBQ. A crude, homemade basket holds the smoldering coals a couple of inches off the bottom of the drum. A grate sits on supports near the top. The only other parts of the smoker are three intake holes near the base that I open or close by sliding magnets over part of the holes to control the temperature and several exhaust vents in the top from which the sweet smelling smoke wafts.

The design is ingenious. The temperature typically stays within a couple of degrees for hours with little adjustment once I get it set up.

Two hundred and forty five degrees.

Pretty much locked in.

We'll be feasting on savory pulled pork sandwiches in another eight hours, or so.

Slow cooked in an old drum.