Bare Spots

We had several pretty beat up sections of lawn as the boys grew up. They served as the pitcher's mound and home plate for Wiffle® Ball home run derbies, or as the bases for pickle games. Time waits for no man and the boys eventually grew up, left for college and began their adult lives. It took quite a few years, but the bare spots in the side yard were slowly reclaimed. It was always a little sad to see the grassy patches and listen to the deafening silence where little boys had grown into men.

That all changed this weekend, though. For the first time in nearly three years, the whole family was together and healthy for a any length of time. It took Joseph and Matthew no time at all to dig through the old toy barrel in the garage to find some old Wiffle® Balls and a bat. They were old and cracked, so they made the trek to Walmart to buy new ones. We also ordered a bag of balls from Amazon for Saturday delivery so they would have enough to play.

The home run derbies began again in earnest; only now it included their wives, too! We spent hours over the five days we were all together creating new, stressed areas in the lawn for the pitcher's mound and home plate. Our yard was, once again, filled with the sounds of the whack of plastic bat on plastic ball and the joyous laughter that went along with it. There were cheers for the hits that went all the way across the street and jeers for the swings and misses or ground balls.

The kids headed off their separate ways yesterday, but the sounds of our little boys at play still echoes in my mind.

The Measure Of A Man

If one measured a man only by the number of people who call him friend, then Ron Kilkenny was an amazing man. When measuring by the number of people who call him their best friend, he exceeds measure.

Ron was taken from us far too soon. His sudden and untimely death has left many who called him best friend shaken. Facebook quickly filled with tributes to Ron as word spread of his death; many of the writers telling their story of why Ron was their best friend.

That is a remarkable man, indeed.

I, too, called Ron my best friend for 43 years. He changed my life and his passing will forever leave a hole in my heart.

We met as twelve year olds. Neither of us had a brother, so we became brothers from different mothers. From his consoling me just a few weeks after we met as I mourned the sudden death of my dad, to his loving concern for my son as he fought Lymphoma - twice, Ron was someone who cared. He was never afraid to demonstrate his love for others.

Ron was the first person to ever share the Gospel with me, and his example of Christian love was instrumental in my ultimate decision to commit my life and eternity to Jesus Christ.

We fought plenty through the earlier years; as brothers tend to do. We also got into a fair amount of trouble together. I'm sure his dad would have been horrified if he had known how Ron and I used to wander through the campground convincing people that I was Deaf and used that to garner sympathy - and snacks - from the other campers. Whether it was getting caught jumping off the garage roof or racing our go-karts down the hill on Ranch Drive when we weren't supposed to be out there or playing in the flooded creek, Ron and I were in it together.

Even distance couldn't destroy the special bond we had. Although we weren't able to get together often, it was as if we saw each other every day whenever we were together.

Our talks in recent years changed to talking a lot about our kids. Ron was immensely proud of Andrew, Ellen and Ryan - and for good reason. I could almost hear his chest swelling with pride over the phone as he told me about their lives.

Ron was a man of great character, and will be missed as the best friend of many of us.

Recently, Ron and I began ending our calls or messaging by saying, "I love you," to each other. I don't remember exactly when it started, or who said it first, but it became a regular thing for us.

I wasn't always the friend I should have been, but Ron was always there, ready to forgive and move on. I take some tiny measure of comfort in knowing that he knew I loved him, and I know that he loved me. I take great comfort in knowing that Ron now sits in the presence of his Savior, and that I will see him again.

Back to a Simpler Time...

Saturday was one of those days that made me think back to a simpler time. Not an easier time or even, necessarily, a happier time.

Just a simpler time.

Diane and I decided to head down to the Gurnee Mills Outlet Mall Saturday. We've been there quite a few times, but not for quite a while. We've always parked by the entrance to the Bass Pro Shop and Diane and Joseph or, in later years, Diane would head out into the mall while Matthew and I perused Bass Pro Shop's offerings. We were diligent about meticulously going through the boating, marine, fishing, fly shop, guns, hunting, knife and camping departments. We'd spend hours talking about the goodies we saw - and wishing we could buy them all.

This time was different, though. Joseph and Anna live in Florida and Matthew and Shelley live in Pennsylvania. This time, it was just Diane and me.

Diane wanted to look through Bass Pro's clothing department, so I wandered off to my normal routine only, this time, it wasn't normal at all. I constantly caught myself looking at some new (or old) thing and thinking, "Matthew would love this," or, "Matthew would get a kick out of this," or, "Matthew would laugh at this."

Diane and I wandered around the mall a bit after she finished checking out at Bass Pro. I found myself looking at the sports memorabilia stores and thinking how much Joseph would have enjoyed poking around in there as a boy.

It was all kind of hard, and it made me think back to those simpler times.

Those times before Cancer.

Those times before the boys were called to other parts of the country.

Those times before...

I'm not saying I want to go back to those times; although, it would be great if we could skip over the Cancer parts. But going back would also mean we would miss some of the most wonderful times of our lives...

Times like college graduations.

Times like getting to know the wonderful young ladies God brought into the boys' lives.

Times like their weddings.

Times when we laughed and times when we cried.

It's just all part of life moving on. I suppose I tend to look back through rose-colored glasses.

Maybe those days weren't really simpler at all, just different.

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...