Non-Fiction

My thoughts about things, mostly from a spiritual perspective. Some of this material could be considered creative nonfiction.

Thinking about Genesis…

/ Clay D. / 1 Comment

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As I sat in the Easter service this past Sunday contemplating the miracle of Jesus’ resurrection, I had a thought. What if God gave us the creation account as the first story in the Bible so as to set the bar for the entire rest of His narrative? It makes sense to me.

If we know nothing about the Bible and the first thing we do is pick it up and start reading at the beginning with Genesis — BAM! it hits us right in the face.

You mean God created the whole universe from nothing? He just spoke it — and the world was formed?

The Genesis account is no doubt difficult for human minds to grasp, especially our western, educated, logical minds.

However, if we can wrap our heads around what the Bible tells us regarding the world’s creation, or even just suspend trying to understand it at all and just accept it on faith, then we allow ourselves the possibility to believe the rest of the miracles in the Bible.

Surely, if we accept that an eternal, timeless God created the world from nothing just by speaking what He wanted, then surely we can go on to believe that He can part the Red Sea and allow His people to escape to freedom.

Surely if we we’re OK with the fact that God created the first woman from a rib taken from the first man, the we can accept something small such as His son turning water into wine.

Healing leprosy? That’s nothing compared to populating the entire animal kingdom at will and then saving it by sending a male and female of each kind to seek refuge from a worldwide flood aboard a huge ark that, incidentally, took 120 years to build.

Of course, there is no way to prove my theory, but maybe if God has a Q&A session in Heaven, I’ll get an answer.

 

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Jesus is Just Alright, or Which Came First — The Easter Bunny or The Black List?

/ Clay D. / 4 Comments

undercoveragentAt the very end of “The Black List” recently, Liz lays her head on Red’s shoulder. Acting as a father figure, he holds her and gently places a kiss on the back of her head. She cries from the unimaginable facts she has recently discovered about her husband.

Red has just completed building a music box for her. It plays the same song as the one her father gave her when she was a little girl. Liz realizes that just as her father played it for her when she needed someone there for her, Red has made it so that it would be ready for her when she finally reaches the point where she would have to face the facts about her husband.

It was touching. At that moment she was completely cared for, completely protected. Red knew what Liz needed and he had prepared for it in anticipation of what was to happen.

Out of nowhere I realized that is exactly what I wanted:  to be a little boy again, held in the arms of my mother when all the world seemed against me. When all I wanted to do was ball my eyes out, she would hold me, stroke my hair, and tell me everything was going to be OK. I didn’t have to be strong at that moment. She was. My father was. They provided for me and protected me. It was a strong, solid safety net — one that kept me from certain tragedy (or so it seemed to my young mind).

I’m beginning to see how God is that safety net for us, His children. I’ve known for a long time that He wants to be our Comforter, our Protector, but it’s taken me an even longer time to turn that head knowledge into heart knowledge — to accept the fact that He really is there, no matter what. He longs to have us rest in Him: “You keep him in perfect peace whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you” (Isaiah 26:3).

I recently heard Timothy Keller of Redeemer Presbyterian Church in Manhattan, teaching on Jesus’ ascension. One of the verses he references is John 10:17. Here, Mary Magdalene has just discovered that Jesus has risen from the dead. He says to Mary, “‘Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father; but go to my brothers and say to them, ‘I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

As Keller explains, Jesus tells Mary not to hold on to Him, that He must go. The ascension was a good thing, because only by ascending is Jesus able to sit in His place of honor, at the right hand of the Father. After His resurrection, but before His ascension, he walks the earth just as any ordinary man might do. By ascending to Heaven, however, He is able to assume the role He was always intended to hold.

Because Jesus is in His seat of power at the right hand of the the Father, He watches over us continually, interceding for us, no matter what.

Certainly, Jesus had power when He was in human form. After all, He was still King of Kings. However, all the final pieces fell into place when He assumed His intended role.

It’s been a difficult journey for me, trying to grasp how much God truly loves His children. Even though the analogies we might make through stories like the ones on “The Black List” can spur us toward thinking about God’s vast love for us, these comparisons can never begin to illustrate all that He has in store for us. “But, as it is written, ‘What no eye has seen, nor ear heard, nor the heart of man imagined, what God has prepared for those who love him’” (1 Corinthians 2:9).

My belief is that we’ll never really under God’s immense love this side of Heaven. We simply have to trust in Jesus, patiently waiting until we’re able to worship Him in person and experience His full glory.

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Something to think about…

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

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I’ve always been troubled by the idea that two equally God-fearing, God-worshipping individuals could have such radically different opinions theologically, politically, and socially. For this to be possible, it seems almost as though God’s system is faulty. The truth should be clear and easy to discern.

Could it be that God designed things this way? Perhaps He wants it to be easy to grasp the fundamentals of the Christian faith (Jesus is Lord, He was crucified for our sins, and then was resurrected). This possibility leaves other, outlying details subject to interpretation, based on what kind of and how much importance each of us places on individual tenets of the faith.

If this is true, then we, as believers in Christ and earnest seekers of truth, never give up our quest for knowledge. We never quit thinking, never quit debating each other, never quit refining our own beliefs, never quit being sharpened by our fellow believers (Proverbs 27:17).

For example, I may place great emphasis on complete and total surrender of everything in my life to God, keeping for myself only enough material goods for a meager sustenance and lifestyle, allowing me to give generously to others and lift them up. Another person may cherish the freedom we have in Christ to buy, sell, and turn a profit,  thus creating a more lavish lifestyle for himself.

One individual may emphasize the social aspects of the gospel, crusading for justice and equality for all mankind. Another individual’s mantra may be based on a capitalistic interpretation of God’s word — “If anyone is not willing to work, let him not eat” (2 Thessalonians 3:10b).

Is any one of these approaches completely right or wrong, or are they all a part of the greater whole of God’s word and will?

I don’t have the answer to this question. I believe, however, that having such differing opinions is valuable to us as believers in Christ. As we keep searching for truth in the Scriptures, may God’s word become sharper and clearer to us, as we become more and more unified in our faith in Jesus.

 

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In Support of Kids!

/ Clay D. / 1 Comment

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Recently I was chatting with an acquaintance of mine. He is one of those guys who has a lot of friends. Countless times I’ve heard him mention something about “this buddy of mine”.

My acquaintance (I’ll call him Bob for simplicity) and I were talking about divorce, as he went through a divorce recently and has a young daughter. We had been discussing child support in terms of the mandatory court-ordered kind, but our conversation had drifted more into supporting a child in general.

Bob mentioned something to the effect that a child is the gift that keeps on giving — meaning not something positive, but in the negative sense in that it is something you have to keep paying for. “I’ve only got 8 more years though, and then that’s it,” implying that his financial obligation would be over when his daughter turns 18. To be fair, I’m not sure if he merely meant the monthly child support payment he makes, but it came across to me that he meant his entire obligation would end at that time.

As if that weren’t bad enough, a few moments later in the conversation Bob referenced “one of my buddies who got this ol’ girl knocked up.” He said, “I told him not to marry her just because you got her pregnant. Just look at it as another payment.”

Of course, Bob was talking about the assumed child support payment the father would take on.

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How can you look at a child as “just another payment”. Certainly, the father should take financial responsibility for the child, ensuring that his or her needs are adequately met (not to mention those of the mother).  However, true responsibility for the child goes far beyond buying diapers, clothes, or school supplies. Children need a father just as much as they need a mother.

According to statistics recently released by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention , almost 41% of all births in 2012 were by unwed mothers. More shocking, at least to me anyway, is the statistic from the U.S. Census Bureau that 62 percent of women aged 20-24 who gave birth in 2011 were unmarried.

These figures are hard to digest. No wonder kids these days are suffering — emotionally, intellectually, mentally, and physically.

I realize many people in the world believe that it is old-fashioned to insist that a child be reared with one mother and one father, especially given today’s wide range of acceptance for what is termed a “normal” family.

I hate to say it, but as long as our culture believes it is acceptable to ignore God’s plan for the family, we will all continue to suffer.  He defines what a family should be in many places throughout the Bible.

Genesis 2:24 says, “Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother and hold fast to his wife, and they shall become one flesh.”

Mark 10: 9 expands  on the idea of husband and wife remaining together: “What therefore God has joined together, let not man separate.”

I’m not naive. Certainly, I understand that there are unavoidable circumstances where children cannot have both parents — a married male and a female — to raise them. I have all the compassion and sympathy in the world for single moms (and dads), and I know quite a few of them. I also realize that children are capable of thriving in a less-than-ideal environment. But why put our kids at risk for a lifetime of struggle and hardship if it’s not necessary?

Summing up my argument, as much as it is possible we should strive to create the ideal type of home as God set forth for us — a matched set of married parents living together with their children (and, of course, a chocolate lab).

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My Apologies to Susan Sontag

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

“I believe…that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap.”

How much of what we believe is based on few actual facts or, worse yet, no facts?

Recently I realized that the whole of my opinion on Susan Sontag has been based on the quote above from the the movie Bull Durham. I haven’t even seen the movie, other than a couple of famous scenes, including the famous Crash Davis rant from which this quote was taken.

I often stumble upon Sontag’s name on the various websites I frequent, where she is held in high regard. Some part of me has always dismissed her as a feminist who wasn’t worth taking time to learn more about. Finally, after the umpteenth time of coming across a reference to her or something she wrote or said, the idea of her remained in the forefront of my brain long enough for me to realize that I had never personally researched her or read anything she’d written.

I thought a bit longer about my opinion of her. Sure, I knew her name, but that was all I knew with certainty. I had formed my entire opinion of her based on one line from one character in one movie that I had not even bothered to watch in its entirety. I never realized how thin my actual knowledge of her was, and had been for 15 or 20 years.

What’s even worse is that the impression of Sontag I had in in my mind was all formed subconsciously. Even though I couldn’t have even come close to reciting the quote from Kevin Costner’s character, its disparaging remark about her had left a negative, distasteful impression of this woman with me, causing me to dismiss her immediately as an “unworthy” feminist every time I ran across any mention of her.

And I’m not even sure how I got that she was a feminist out of the character’s statement; there was no mention of feminism at all, only self-indulgence. All these years I had remembered that there was a quote about her in the movie, but not at all what the quote actually said — only that it was negative.

How many other beliefs and opinions in my life have I formed from flimsy information, perhaps on a subconscious level without realizing it?

Perhaps this should be a lesson to myself to take time occasionally to pause and reflect on my values and beliefs, making careful note as to where I’m getting my information and what criteria I’m using to form my opinions.

It’s the small things…

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

Contentment

Just like I’ve done thousands of times before, I got out of my car this morning and began walking toward the door to my workplace.

This time something caught my eye, however. A fresh dent on the left front fender of my car — not too bad, but definitely visible. It was up higher than another car would have caused; it was perhaps done intentionally, perhaps not.

I may try to fix it myself, or I may just leave it alone to avoid making it look worse. It’s not that big a deal in the big scope of things.

After I got inside the building to begin my work for the day, I remembered what I had just been listening to on the radio before parking my car. Chuck Swindoll had been teaching on the book of Ecclesiastes; this morning’s topic dealt with the folly of riches.

He gave an illustration of a welder who was perfectly content in life because his concerns consisted of getting out of bed, going to work and welding whatever was put in front of him, going home and spending time with his family, watching TV, and going to bed. He didn’t have an abundance of wealth that he worried about losing.

I thought of Ecclesiastes 5:12: “Sweet is the sleep of a laborer, whether he eats little or much, but the full stomach of the rich will not let him sleep.”

When I recalled the teaching on the radio, I remarked to myself how that verse in Ecclesiastes is indeed very true. I wasn’t really worried about another dent in my car because it’s 18 years old and already has other dents. What’s another small one? If I owned a brand new car, I’d be fretting about calling my insurance company, possibly filing a police report, etc.

Having an old car eliminates all that concern. Sometimes I lament that my car is not newer, but at times like this, it really is a sweet blessing.

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Sags and Bags

/ Clay D. / 1 Comment

Looking back through old high school yearbooks is always fun for me. Taking time to sit down and revisit old memories is one of the things I like to do best. Usually it happens when I’m not expecting it. I’ll be cleaning out a closet or going through some old boxes, and all of a sudden this wonderful book of memories is in my hand.

I’ll see an old friend’s picture and I’ll think, Boy, he looks really young. Nowadays he looks old and wrinkled, telltale signs that he is losing the battle with time and aging. He’s got the same face as he had then, but it is definitely more complex now — more wrinkles, lines, and sags. Underneath is still that fresh-faced teenager, except that the passing years have added baggage to it.

It reminds me of using Photoshop to enhance a photo or drawing by adding layers to it. The original image of the person, landscape, or object is still there, only now it has been deepened with additional features.

I believe that the process and experience of writing is similar to the way a person ages.

Periodically I will take time and look through old journals of mine that I keep safely locked away in an old suitcase I bought at a yard sale. Some of the entries date back almost 30 years, but the most interesting ones I wrote in my high school and college days.

In particular, I have an old, blue, single-subject Mead notebook that we were required to journal in for my English class my senior year in high school. We would write in them, and every couple of weeks the teacher would collect them, read them, make comments, and return them to us.

The content of this particular journal is not nearly so personal as most of my other writings, due to the fact that I knew someone else would be reading it. Our teacher told us over and over to “write what is personal, but not what is private.”

Richard Nordquist does a wonderful job here of explaining the difference between public and private writing. He also tells us how keeping a journal can be therapeutic and gives us a few suggestions on how to get started. His article would have been helpful to me back in high school,  as I was often stretched in trying to find suitable topics to write about, something that was interesting to me and that I thought the teacher would find worthwhile.

Every time that I go back and read through my old Mead notebook I am amazed that some of the thoughts, feelings, and fears I had as a 17- or 18-year-old are still there, bouncing around in my brain.

I was so worried about the future back then. Many entries detailed my fear at choosing the right college for the following year, and what my life would be like one year from that day, and about girls that I liked but were too afraid to ask out. I still think in much the same way as I did then; many of the fears I have now fall along similar lines, although with more adult themes..

Even though a lot of times the subject matter I write now is very similar to what I wrote as a teenager, my emotions and my writing style are more mature, more elaborate now than when I was younger. I may write the same things I did then, but hopefully I write them better now, with more layers, more depth.

Same face, more wrinkles. Same writing style, more depth.

My years of life experience — with all its pain, sadness, happiness, and tears — makes this added dimension possible. It is something that can not be substituted with something else, nor can it ever be taken away.

  When I sat down recently to read through this treasured old notebook, I noticed a couple of very intriguing things. After a long fall and winter of lingering, grinding depression, in March of 1987 — the latter part of my senior year — I wrote down four occupations that interested me:  Air Force pilot, drummer, psychologist, and writer.

I don’t know exactly how I came up with this list, and I don’t really recall wanting to pursue any of those occupations back then (except maybe writing, but that would have been a far-fetched idea at the time).

I suppose that I did dream of these others, however, because the ink on the page still can’t lie even after all these years.

The interesting part of this story is that of the four occupations I had written down so many years prior, in the weeks leading up to this last re-reading of the journal, I had spent time thinking about three of them (the Air Force would never have let me fly with my eyesight).

It’s amazing that after all these years, and all the jobs and careers I’ve experimented with, I still return to this same core of interests.

I’ll be forever grateful to my English teacher that year, Mrs. C., for requiring us to maintain a journal. Rereading it periodically over the years since graduation has been a wonderful source of joy and inspiration.

I recently found this blog entry from Mya. It’s amazing how similar her experience is when she looks through her closet and sees clothes and accessories dating back over the years and decades. She calls it “my window to myself”. This perfectly describes how I feel about my high school journal.

The tendency to romanticize the past has always been a significant weakness of mine; it goes hand and hand with my depression. I read in my blue journal that even as an 18-year-old I was longing for a simpler time.

In my journal I recalled camping out in my backyard with my best friend when we were in fifth grade. I was nostalgic for the movies and music of that wonderful summer. Reliving those childhood days, if only in my mind, helped me deal with the stresses of facing an unknown, potentially harsh future after high school graduation.

Nowadays my writing as an adult often reflects a longing for the simpler days of high school, when my biggest concerns (as recalled almost three decades later) were homework and girls — not a mortgage, kids, health concerns, and a job that is less than glamorous.

It seems I’ve never been satisfied with my present life.

I continue striving to take joy in my life on a daily basis. Maybe I just need to listen to God a little more closely.

Church Depresses Me

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

DISCLAIMER/WARNING:  You have probably heard everything in this post somewhere else before, maybe several times.

Church is hard for me. Not the worship experience itself, but being around the other worshipers.

If your parents were like mine, when you were a little kid they probably made you dress up in your best clothes for church. When I was 4 or 5 I had a solid white suit that I wore with a solid white shirt, solid white tie, and solid white shoes. I don’t know why, but I loved wearing it. Too bad I kept growing.

Even though many people wear casual clothes to church these days, it seems they still try to look their best and act their best when they show up for church.

Here’s where the hard part comes in for me. It begins when I drive into the parking lot and see streams of people headed toward the door.

Wow! They look really good! Nice clothes, nice shoes, nice hair, nice makeup (on the ladies).

Then I look across the parking lot at all the cars.

Nice new SUV’s, nice clean minivans. Hey, that’s a nice BMW!

And then I look at myself.

OK, I guess I look alright on the outside. Not too bad I suppose. But look at my old Toyota. It’s got dents, a few scratches, and it could definitely use a bath.

I go inside the church to the huge auditorium. All around me are smiles and laughter as people reunite with friends after a week’s absence. Everybody looks so happy.

I don’t feel so happy myself. How am I going to make my mortgage payment next week? My wife and I had a huge fight this morning. The kids are sick. I stepped in cat puke on my way out the door. I’ve got to go back to work tomorrow for another long week. All I really want to do right now is go home and go back to bed.

Do you see the difference in the two approaches? I’m not in any way being fair to myself. I can only see the outside of the guy sitting next to me, but I know everything going wrong in my own life. I’m comparing his outer best with my inner worst. There’s no way I’m going to feel like I measure up to others taking that approach. It’s no wonder that most Sundays I feel depressed within a few minutes after getting to church.

I can’t continue these kinds of thought patterns if I hope to approach church in the right frame of mind. If I truly want to be there to worship God, then I must change the way I think.

Realistically, the way these people look may be the best they look all week. Today, they’ve got nice clothes on and are all shiny, smiley, and happy. Tomorrow morning at 9:00, they may be wearing a drab uniform or a business suit and tie they hate, have a scowl on their face and be dreading dealing with their awful boss all day.

I have no idea what is going on in the lives of all the other people seated around me at church. Logically, I know that every single person in the room has some sort of struggle that they’re dealing with. Nobody has a perfect life. The following quote is sometimes attributed to Plato, but nobody seems to know for sure who first said it:   “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”

I applaud whoever came up with it, because it certainly makes sense. We never really know what pain somebody may be hiding just to keep up appearances on the outside. When it’s all said and done, we’ll all in the same boat.

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Memories of a Wonderful Old Building

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

The huge doors creaked as if squealing for mercy every time they swung open. Once passing through the old doors into the dim foyer, the darkness seemed almost comforting. How many times did I cross that threshold? I could probably do some quick calculations and come up with an answer, but it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that the old Methodist church was a significant part of my childhood, playing host for many wonderful experiences of the first 15 years of my life. These memories will remain with me the rest of my life.

I don’t know with certainty how old that building really is, however, I believe it dates back to the late 1800’s. It always was dark and musty-smelling, especially in the basement. The familiar “chonk” every time the old basement door from the outside would open or close still rings fresh in my memory.

When I was very young, maybe four or five years old, the church sometimes held potluck dinners in the basement. Specific memories of the food have faded over the years, but I do remember having a great deal of fun playing with my friend Dana. In fact, at that time she and I were the only kids our age who attended the church. While the adults were gathered in the fellowship hall, we would sequester ourselves in one of the Sunday school rooms down a short hallway. We alternated eating and playing with the assortment of toys stashed in a toy box.

One dinner in particular never fails to give me a chuckle every time I think about it. Dana and I were playing with a fire station with a crank handle on top that produced a very loud fire engine noise. It was my favorite of all the toys. I loved grabbing hold and spinning it for all I was worth. During this particular dinner I chose to do just that during the pastor’s prayer to bless the food. I’ll never forget the almost total quiet of the building, all except for the pastor’s gentle voice, being broken by the wail of the fire engine. I couldn’t help but start giggling. I’m sure Dana was laughing as well, although she at least attempted to shush me so that we wouldn’t get into trouble. I don’t remember if any adults came in to scold us, but it would have been worth it just imagining the startled reactions on their faces as their quiet thanksgiving was interrupted by a shrieking siren from the next room over.

When you’re not even 10 years old, it is difficult to imagine that whatever environment you find yourself in is not only typical of its kind, but is actually the best there is. This was the case with that dank old church. It was a tiny congregation; we had maybe 20 or 30 people on any given Sunday morning service. The attendees took up but a fraction of the huge sanctuary upstairs.  We tended to spread out over the rear half of it. For me, it was as natural as anything to have three or four empty rows of pews between you and the next person.

For all its dark mustiness, both in the basement and up in the sanctuary, it was a beautiful old building. The high ceiling of the upstairs foyer supported a large chandelier that helped light the otherwise dim entryway. Rows of large, colorful stained glass windows adorned both sides of the sanctuary, filling the room with the natural light of each Sunday morning.

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Two gently sloping aisles led down to the front of the sanctuary to a table with a candelabra in the center. Just as worship service would begin, two people would slowly walk simultaneously down either aisle with brass candle lighters in hand to light its two candles. At the end of the service, the same two individuals were responsible for extinguishing the candles. Dana and I had this privilege on a number of occasions.

Behind the pulpit and the choir loft, in the very front of the sanctuary, hung a picture of a long-haired man in a white robe. I remember one of his hands was lifted slightly as if making a point. One Sunday I asked my mother, as only a small child can do, if that was a picture of God, or of Jesus. I guess she told me Jesus, because from then on it was clear to me that Jesus looked like any other man.

Two sets of creaky stairs, mirror images of each other,  ascended from the basement to either side of the foyer. When going upstairs for the worship service, I usually chose the set on the left, the ones just past the only restrooms in the church. They felt more homey, more like they were “mine”. Maybe this was become they emerged nearest the side of the sanctuary that my family always sat on. Dana and her family generally used the stairs on the right, which were situated over the top of a storage room. As one might guess, her family sat on the opposite side of the sanctuary, almost directly across from us. I suppose we’re all creatures of habit; I seldom used the stairs on the right. Even at that young age, something about it just didn’t seem right. Those stairs were foreign to me in a way, not comfortable like “mine” were.

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A balcony sat above the rearmost part of the sanctuary. From my earliest memories of the church, I recall that my older brothers played in the band that perched themselves in the balcony during worship. One brother played the trombone, while the other played the trumpet. One of Dana’s older brothers was also in the band, as were a few of the other older kids in the church. My sister often played the organ downstairs in the front, behind the pulpit. I guess after a while interest in the band waned, because in later years, the only instruments we had were the piano and organ. Sometimes I would take the stairs leading up to the balcony, just to see what treasure I might discover up there. The only things I ever remember seeing were a few stands to hold sheet music, and maybe various other odds and ends. No treasure was to be found anywhere.

About 13 years ago, when my wife and I were visiting my mom, I borrowed a key to the church so I could reminisce for a while. Everything seemed smaller than I had remembered it, but much was still the same: the beautiful stained glass, the old Sunday school rooms, and of course, that old musty smell. One Sunday school room looked like it was being used as a catch-all for whatever didn’t have a place. In it I discovered a few of the old toys I remembered playing with (alas, the fire station was nowhere to be found); that truly took me back to preschool days. Then I glanced up at a cork bulletin board hanging on the wall. On it was scrawled my name just as I had written it long ago, and judging by the way it looked, not long after learning to write in cursive. I ran my fingers across the letters, amazed that it was still there.

All these elements of the old Methodist church– the Sunday school rooms, the stairways, the sanctuary, the balcony, as well as the members of the congregation — still make regular appearances in my dreams. Of course, the dreams don’t recreate the exact church experience as it was back then. The time frame is almost always in the present, often with people or elements from my adult life overlaid on those old childhood memories inside the church. What does this say about me as an adult? Is my subconscious brain hopelessly nested in the distant past?

I was sad when my sister told me recently that the church is closing its doors. I guess as members of the small congregation aged and died, without many (if any) new members coming in, it just became a matter of economics. I wonder what will become of the old building now.

Flying the Coop

/ Clay D. / Leave a comment

ImageMy wife and I have spent a good deal of time recently preparing our son to leave the nest; for the first time he’s moving out from under our roof.

As I was explaining to my wife earlier, I see it as the end of an era. Our firstborn has lived with us for just over 20 years now. In August of 1993 he was just a tiny baby, only a few weeks into his life. I remember those days vividly. The Friday afternoon I brought my wife and him home from the hospital we were so exhausted that the three of us fell asleep on our bed. Our new little family was all together in our home for the first time. Yes, I know that’s a big no-no. Parents should never let their baby sleep in the bed with them, as the child could end up getting crushed and/or suffocated. I’m very thankful that after a much-needed nap, my wife and I woke up to find our little guy safe and sound.

Long nights of limited sleep followed his arrival, but those were times I wouldn’t trade for anything in the world. It was mostly I who got up with him in the night. My wife was still recovering from an emergency Caesarean section, so to help her out I slept lightly and got up when I heard our son’s cries over the baby monitor.

Our son had been three weeks past due — we always kid him about his not wanting to come out. He replies that he was content to stay where he was. My wife’s doctor finally decided it would be best to induce labor, so after we checked into the hospital bright and early on that sunny Tuesday morning, her nurse gave her Pitocin to begin the induction process.

After a long day of waiting, around 7:00 that evening our son’s heart rate dropped for the second time to an alarmingly low 40 beats per minute. The doctor promptly rushed her into the operating room before there were any further complications. He said that most likely our son had come down the birth canal so fast that his head and neck were turned at such an angle to cause his pulse rate to drop so dramatically.

In the operating room I stood just behind my wife’s head and, as she drifted off from the anesthesia, I prayed for a safe delivery. The C-section went off without a hitch and we welcomed our healthy baby boy into the world a few minutes later. Well, I did anyway — it would be several hours before his mother would be alert enough to hold him.

Pitocin, it seems, may not be a wise choice when it comes to a baby’s health. I recently read of a number of studies making a connection between autism and mothers having been given Pitocin during the delivery process. While many healthcare providers maintain that Pitocin in no way harms the baby, results of various studies would seem to indicate differently.

Pitocin, derived from the pituitary glands of cows, is a synthetic form of the natural hormone oxytocin. Oxytocin plays a crucial role in delivery by stimulating uterine contractions, as well as in facilitating social and emotional bonding. Before and during labor, Pitocin is often given to moms-to-be to make the contractions stronger, longer, and more frequent.

Because a significant number of autistic children have abnormally low levels of oxytocin, one theory put forth is that flooding the fetus with a synthetic form of the hormone may damage or reduce the number of oxytocin receptors in the brain. Several years ago Dr. Eric Hollander of New York’s Mount Sinai School of Medicine reported that 60% of the autistic children he was treating in his clinic had been exposed to Pitocin in the womb.

Pitocin’s possible connection with autism aside, the contractions it produces may put undue stress on the unborn baby as he moves through the birth canal. Stephanie Marohn, author of The Natural Medicine Guide to Autism, likens the intensified contractions to “using the child’s head as a battering ram to force the pelvis to reshape to accommodate it.”

ImageOver the following weeks and months, I continued as primary caregiver during the night shift. I remember this time fondly, and feel sorry for those dads who are not able to have this wonderful experience. I was able to bond with my baby boy in a way that I never would have if my wife had been the one heeding his nocturnal calls. She, of course, was with him all day while I was at work. At night, however, it was my turn. Countless times I got out bed and stumbled into his room half asleep.

First I would check his diaper — it would almost always be wet (or worse!). I knew if I changed him first, as he fell back asleep I could gently return him to his crib and head back to bed myself. After a fresh diaper, I would prepare a bottle of formula for him and settle in on our sectional couch, cradling my pride and joy in my left arm, while holding the bottle in my right hand. It was pure joy to watch him take it in his tiny mouth and receive instant gratification; his needs were so simple then. His crying would stop almost immediately and his little face would begin to relax. Soon, his eyes would be barely open, as he would continue gently sucking on the bottle. When it was empty, or when he was asleep, I’d remove it, slipping a pacifier into its place. Most of the time he would sleep contentedly at this point. He really was a good baby.

I feel so blessed having the opportunity to spend that time with him. Yes, it was a little hard on me, having to get up for work the next morning. I’m grateful, though, that the job I had at that time allowed me the luxury of waiting until 9:00 to arrive.  I have many, many wonderful memories of those days. It was truly a golden time in our lives.  Image

Now our baby has become a man and is moving out into the world on his own. Naturally, he’s excited about the experience, but with seven guys in a five bedroom house, I’m not sure I would if I were him. He’s very responsible and mature, and my wife and I have few concerns about his leaving. He’s serious about college, plus he and the other guys are all active at the Christian fellowship on campus. For the second year in a row, he will be one of the leaders for their weekly get-togethers for food and worship. We are truly very proud of the godly man he’s become.

His new home (I hesitantly use that term, because his home will always be with us) is only across the railroad tracks and a few blocks over from my first apartment away from my parents’ home. After living in the dorm my freshman year at the same college our son attends, a friend and I moved into a third floor apartment beginning my sophomore year.

In the last 20 years, much has changed in the area around the apartment building. What was once a large grass field next to our building has been turned into a looming parking structure for the university. Old houses have been torn down, replaced by gleaming new research and office buildings. Across the tracks and nearer to my son’s house, a strip mall and a few restaurants were added several years ago, replacing a barn and another field.

I’ve taken both our kids to that old apartment building, just to show them where their mother and I lived as newlyweds. After living with my friend for two years, I moved into a one bedroom apartment on the first floor of the same building, where I lived alone for a year until we got married.

The best part of it all is that about a year later this 400 square foot apartment is where our son was conceived. Whenever we happen to drive by the old building, I always jokingly remind him of that. “Right over there is where it all began for you.” Even though he’s a little grossed out thinking about that, I think he probably gets some satisfaction in knowing some of the details of his heritage.

Today we were out looking for ideas and materials to use in customizing his new bedroom. We grabbed lunch at a little hole in the wall restaurant not far off campus. Afterward, when we were driving near our tiny old apartment, I said to him, “How does it feel…” I paused for effect, then continued, “coming full circle back to your roots?” I was referring, of course, to the fact that the old apartment and his new place are geographically quite close. He just rolled his eyes at me and kept driving.

Everyday I try to be thankful for what God has blessed us with — two vibrant kids who are healthy, happy, and well-adjusted. Even though our son’s entrance into the world was dramatic and a little frightening, he is a thriving man of God today. His younger sister is equally as amazing in her own right, making my wife and me two very proud parents. We fully expect them both to be world-changers.

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