Home?

It's funny the places we call home. Right now I am at a hotel in Sarasota FL. I am about six or seven miles from the hospital in which I was born and maybe twenty-some miles from the home where I grew up... and I am staying in a hotel. My grandmother's funeral is tomorrow so it is kind of like an impromptu reunion. There's not a large group of us, but all that can are congregating tomorrow to stand at the graveside as they lay the body that used to contain my grandmother into the ground.

So, we are home. Today my family and I visited my old high school, favorite beach and the house my parents built in Nokomis. I had to sneak through the woods on the edge of the property just to see what my old "home" looked like under new ownership. After some time in the afternoon sun at North Jetty, we ate pizza at one of my old favorite spots and told the boys that we would be home (our hotel) before long and that we needed to get ready for bed quickly because we had a big day ahead.

Home. Florida? Yes. Colorado? Yes. North Carolina? Yes. Where the heart is? Yes. But maybe it's more than just the heart. Maybe home is where the soul connects. When I am on vacation, home is the place I can recharge. Sleep. It's where whoever you are with can gather and talk about the things that happened that day. It's where laughter and loose muscles come easier and I can walk around barefoot without feeling like I am being watched. Home is a deep breath.

Tomorrow will be a sad day. It will be a happy day. It will be a long day. A hot day. Tomorrow I will be one of the people carrying the casket that contains my grandmother's body to a big hole in the ground. Tomorrow we will smile as we talk about Grammie going "home". Maybe home is simply an earth place that lets us see a piece of the heaven place. I think that tomorrow in a hot graveyard in Lake Placid, FL, the family will be home. Crying, laughing, hugging and sweating... a little bit of home. Until one day we all get to be home with Grammie too.

Life, Death and the Smell of Cinnamon Rolls

It is summer time and I am sitting in a Lazy Boy chair in the sunroom. It is almost 4:00pm and I have yet to go to work, but I am exhausted. For a teacher, summer means time off, second jobs and selling everything you own to pay the bills during the long hot months. For me it means working on the house and babysitting. Though I love this special time with my boys, something about it just wears me out. I find myself grouchy and a bit unkind at times and more often than not, I find myself in a situation that warrants a heart-felt apology and a plea for forgiveness. Especially today.

My grandmother died the day before yesterday. My mom, dad, and my wife Laura, all spent the day at her bedside listening to her labored breathing for many hours before we finally kissed her goodnight and headed home. We weren't sure if she knew we were there or not, but we really didn't care, we just wanted to be with her as she threw off her rusty, yellowed earth stuff and headed to heaven. In the end, we all missed her final trip, but I think she wanted it that way. She never wanted to get in the way, always sweet... too sweet to let us see her take her final breath.

Today my mom, the boys, and I began going through her stuff. Six years ago she downsized to a one bedroom assisted living apartment, so there really wasn't that much to go through, but it still felt painstakingly difficult. Boxes full of pictures, Bibles stuffed with tissues, notes and newspaper clippings, and a desk crammed with stuff that hadn't been looked at since my grandfather died fourteen years ago were just a few of the things that made up her meager belongings. Grammie was a quiet person, who spent most of her life taking care of my larger-than-life diabetic grandfather. When he died, she spent the better part of most days watching old movies and eating Cheatos, and spent the night hours in a recliner, even though the bed was just steps away. The thing about her was that it wasn't about her. Everyone knew that Bobbie's heart lay with the people she loved, and every visitor was greeted with a wide-eyed, false toothed smile. She was Bobby Klaus. WWII Veteran and mother of three. Her in-laws called her "The Klaus Angel," and I am certain that Jesus is hugging his angel right now. Just having Grammie's smile in a room, just seeing her hands formed in the "I love you," fingers let you know you were special. Grammie was the smell of fresh cinnamon rolls waking you up in the morning. Right away you knew you were loved, and were about to experience something sweet.

So here we are. 4:17pm. My oldest son playing with his Kindle in a bean bag chair and me typing on my laptop. I am tired. Sad. Happy. Strange. When someone dies, it's like the earth is breathing differently, trying to get accustomed to the missing soul. We divide the dusty and the forgotten, and we go on; not like nothing has happened, but more like something incomprehensable has occurred and we are just not sure what to do with it. A mortal who knows Jesus dies, and immortality is reality. At death, the eternal is finally recognized as truth, and lived as real. Maybe that is the heart of all of this. Something has happened. Something extraordinary, and we all are getting used to the change.

I realized tonight that I didn't have a picture of Maxwell on my blog yet - - here he is. My future mountain bike buddy wearing the helmet he got for his birthday... he wouldn't take it off. That's my boy!

And I can't forget Jonathan with his first mountain bike - - - it's gonna be fun!

Stolen Hugs

I am a dad. I have two boys, Six and Two. Even to write the word dad is still a relatively foreign thing to me when speaking of myself... but here I am. Sometimes I wonder if the hugs I steal are felt the way they are given. I want to hold them and squeeze them so hard that they cannot help but know that I can never fully express how much love I have for them. They break my things - I get mad - I hug them and ask forgiveness. They do amazing things, I hug them and tell them I am proud. They wake up in the morning - I hug them and tell them good-morning. They are just there... just sitting there - I look at them and I hug them. I never want that to stop. I want them to grow, but I want them to stay the same. I long to see them become men but don't want to loose the child I have been given. Hugs for my boys are like water on a dry tongue.

Stolen Hugs
you don't know my forearms are feeling your breath
you don't know the skin next to my eye is feeling your cheek
you don't know my head is feeling your hair
you don't know my life is breathing your voice
you don't know the blood in my veins knows the word
Daddy

The Perpetual Joy of Normal

Tonight is dark and cold, but I am not dressed in heavy clothes. The house is warm and the outside glass of the windows is covered in the black paint of the night sky. There is a thin layer of blown snow on the worn wood deck just beyond the window reflections and I can't be certain, but I think the dogs have pooped in the basement... again.
What happens when normal is what brings the widest smile? What happens when happiness becomes a habit and positivity a lifestyle? What do we do when an aching back reminds us that spring will soon be here and a scar makes us hug our children tighter?



I just thank God.

What Is

I've got a feeling
that everything that is
came from what was
and what was
came from what became
which is what now
has become
as a result
of what is

And I'm pretty sure that
I am now
what I was then
but tried not to be
and was not
because I wouldn't let
what was me
be what I was
until now

If this is true then
where we are
is where we are
because of where we were
when we were
where we were
even when
there
wasn't yet here

today

the moment I am in
is the spot
where all is not
what it shouldn't have been
I can not comprehend
or expect
what is next
or stop the spin
of the earth