A big thing in our house right now is the History Channel series America: The Story of Us. Our recent home-schooling experiences have taught us the value of history told in unique and creative ways. We keep recording these programs and getting sucked in by the “I-never-knew-that” factor upon which these types of series seem to be built.

Yet despite the flashy reenactments and deep-voiced cinematic narration, there’s still no substitute for first-hand experience.  My children learned this on a recent family trip to Logan Jr. High School, the historic institution where my wife attended kindergarten, first, and second grades.  I should immediately point out that my wife is in no way historic.  The school, however, is.  In fact, it’s not even a working school now, but rather a community center safely in the hands of local preservationists.

Logan Jr. High School is an unassuming, ancient structure with tan rock walls and hardwood floors that bare witness to years of young feet finding their way through life. Thanks to the afore-mentioned preservationists, almost every detail of this facility is still in tact, right down to the trophies displayed proudly in glass cases along the main hallway.  Fading class photos chronicle a legacy of neatly posed children sitting in ordered rows of desks. Of the few classrooms, most are large and designed to accommodate more than one class at a time. According to my wife, her second grade classroom and its teacher were shared by an entire other grade – at the same time.

The large rooms still have all the trappings, including the manual pencil sharpeners and chalkboards of solid and dashed parallel lines.  But perhaps the most intriguing fixtures are the small hallways hidden behind each of the classrooms.  These narrow spaces, called cloak rooms, are lined with wall hooks and low shelves.  Designed for quick one-way traffic, cloak rooms facilitated the in and out rush of children as they hurried to beat the bell or were saved by it.  It’s not so odd, even now, to find an area of a classroom devoted to coats and books.  But this space was different.  It’s placement, it’s design, it’s feel were all oddly reminiscent of Little House on the Prairie.

I’ll spare you the true historical facts surrounding the school.  Suffice to say that it housed more than one generation of the local community.  Even older family members touring with us remarked several times how much smaller things were than they had remembered as a child.

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As we strolled through the dark halls (apparently the preservationists are also energy conservationists), my wife began to laugh.  She told our girls about a particular morning when she decided NOT to go gentle into that good school.  After being dropped off, she cried and kicked and screamed and employed all sorts of unorthodox diplomacy.  Her teacher, unyielding, tightened her grip and hauled her into the school.  My wife’s subsequent protests turned to kicking which resulted in the unfortunate flight of one of her shoes.  The flight ended when the shoe struck the principle in the forehead.

As she laughed, she told us that neither she, nor her teacher, nor the principle were laughing at the time.

She could have shared that story sitting in our living room.  But now my kids have touched and smelled and felt what it was like for their mother to be a kid in school.  They’ve walked those halls, seen those pictures, and heard those stories, even as they stood in the very spot where that history was made.

And so, on a Sunday afternoon, in a little town from which we get the name of our third child, our family gained a true understanding of, and perhaps even an appreciation for, one episode of The Abbotts: The Story of Us.

In 1998, Dr. Spencer Johnson released a book about change and how we respond to it.  The book, Who Moved My Cheese, was an instant success.

In 2010, Darlene Abbott discovered that someone had in fact moved her cheese.

When she finally found it, she was reminded of the dramatic change that entered her life just three short years before.

That’s when Logan, the cheese monster, came to live with us.

I know. Scary, right?  Welcome to our world.

Yard sales never cease to amaze me.  People really will buy anything.  And my wife will be happy to sell it to them.  Once, I saw her sell dirt.  Really.  This week, it was a used water bottle festively wrapped with a colorful scarf.  Look, 25 cents is 25 cents.  And somewhere tonight, there is a man feeling great about the incredible deal he found on his new plastic fish tank and authentic Argentinean garb.

I’m also amazed at the generosity of people.  The poster taped to the back of a folding chair read “All proceeds to support mission trips to Uganda and India.”  Because of that poster, we frequently received $1 for a 50 cent kitchen utensil, or $5 for a $1 shirt.  At the end of the day, these heart-felt contributions added up to a three digit blessing for both families involved.

So to the one who now sits upon our tired old couch, to the proud owner of that half-used box of tea bags, and of course to the procurer of the now infamous Fiesta Water Bottle, thank you for helping get us closer to our trips to Uganda and India.  We can’t believe you bought it, but we’re so glad you did.

Recently, I was with a group of guys who were sharing some of their worst DIY disasters. As I  recounted my own misadventures, I tried hard not to sound too pathetic. But, honestly, getting stranded on one’s roof while seized by fits of acrophobic paralysis doesn’t necessarily get you any holes punched in your man card if you know what I mean. (Thanks for talking me down, Darlene. I might still be up there if it weren’t for you.)

Others had similar stories—plumbing turned deep sea diving, electric furnaces exposed as gas-powered imposters, auto repairs that ballooned into something only TARP funds could fix. And like most responsible young men, we placed the blame for our failures squarely where it belonged—on our fathers. They didn’t teach us enough. They didn’t pass down the right genes. We’re talking generational malpractice of epic proportions! But, in the end, we all knew it wasn’t their fault.  After all, stupid is as stupid does. At least that was what Dad said.

So I spent some time thinking about my father and the lessons I have to show for our time together. What did I miss? What did I gain? Who would I be if things had been different? Genetics aside, we are who we are largely out of our experiences and our relationships. And when it comes to my father, I can say there are certainly things that are different because of our journey together, the one we took and the one we never got to take.

Unlike some of my friends, I didn’t have the advantage of growing up with a dad in the house. While I certainly never lacked for any parental guidance, love, or care (thanks, Mom), I did face the reality of chasing after a distant, if not elusive, paternal relationship.

I loved my Dad. I didn’t know him or understand him, but I loved him. Yet, like most sons, I seemed to instinctively need his instruction and approval. Other men were present in my life (most notably my sainted grandfather) and worked hard to provide that male influence for me. But there were still things I felt should come from my dad alone. When I was sixteen, my hope for these things ended when Dad lost a long fight with heart disease.

Obviously, Dad and I didn’t share a close day-to-day bond like some fathers and sons. So his passing, while tragic and difficult, wasn’t necessarily devastating for me. But now, as a father myself, I seem to be missing him the most.

I want so desperately to be a great father, yet I have no road map for raising a son, no practical lessons or experience. And unlike some funny DIY disaster story, this kind of home improvement deserves to be done right. I can’t screw this up.

One friend told of his botched experience installing a light fixture. As it turns out, his type of fixture needed to be installed in reverse order. This is a fact he discovered only after he had nearly completed what should have been a quick job.

“I turned around,” he said, “and there was my wife holding the part I should have installed first, along with the manual. She said, ‘Forget something?’ So, I took it all apart and put it back the right way.”

Wives are good like that. The other day, I was talking with Darlene about Dad. She said, “You know, I watch you with our son, the fun you two have together, the way he clings to you and loves you so much. It’s almost like God is giving you what you never had with your Dad, only in reverse order.”

I know! Right? I was a puddle in the floor. Right there in Bone Fish Grille. I just fanned my face and shouted, “Man, those Bang Bang Shrimp are HOT!” But there was no recovery. She had uncovered a great truth of God’s love and faithfulness in my life, and my cup simply ranneth over.

So when I look back on what I did or didn’t have with my father, whatever lessons I failed to master, it’s almost as if I can see God quietly allowing me to build my life the best way I know how.  And now He’s standing there with a missing piece and the instructions saying, “Forget something?” And I did. I forgot my father—my Heavenly Father.

Could it be that the lessons I thought I had missed I’m actually learning right now? So, I guess I’m going to take it all apart and put it back the right way. The good news is: I’m not alone. I do have a Father, one who loves me and can teach me any lesson I need to learn.

How thankful I am for my wife, for my children, for a mother, and for grandparents who taught me how to love and to be loved. And how thankful I am for a God who seeks to be my Father and walks with me, no matter how big a mess I make of things.

Stay tuned. Much to say.

 ”Yes, ma’am.” 

“How many years is a person when they start to get old?”  I glance at her in the rear view mirror.  Her posture is perfect as she sits atop the last car seat she’ll ever need.  Her head is tilted inquisitively.  Loose strands of angel hair dance in front of her face, glowing in the afternoon sun.  My last little girl is growing up so fast.  She smiles, awaiting an answer to her question.

“Well, it depends,” I offer. “Some people get old very early.  Others really never seem to get old.  I guess it just depends on the person.”

She considered this for a moment.  I am proud of my response.  Not too much information, but enough to answer the question accurately.  It is a secret aspiration of mine that my kids will one day look back and reflect on the great wisdom of their father.  I bask in visions of the three of them as adults sharing Thanksgiving coffee around the family table, marveling at how good ole’ Dad could take even the most complex of subjects and put them in terms that even a child could understand.

“Dad?” RileyGrace interrupts my delusions of grandeur.

“Yes, honey.”

“How many years were you when you got old?”

Clearly I have done my job.

To Lead Like Thunder
I didn’t know until recently that Jesus called James and John the “Sons of Thunder.”  Apparently, these two brothers earned that name by being bold and head-strong, even to a fault.  They were movers and shakers, leaders among their peers, make-it-happen kind of guys.  We all know people like this, people who are really good at getting results but that are so goal-oriented that things like sensitivity, or fairness, or . . . oh, I don’t know . . . other people,  just seem to get in the way.

The Sons of Thunder were famous for tripping over their own goals.  There’s a great story in Matthew 20 where James and John use their mother to approach Jesus with a special request. In verse 21 she says, “Grant that one of these two sons of mine may sit at your right and the other at your left in your kingdom.”

Stop the truck!  What?  When I first read this, I thought,”That sounds just like a couple of God Squad wannabe’s.  Always trying to sit next to the most popular guy in school.”  I mean, really.  They can’t even ask for themselves?  They have to get their mother to do it?  And when the other disciples weren’t around?  How calculated!  Then I looked in the mirror. 

I hate to say it, but my reflection looks an awful lot like this story.  I too have been concerned with where I might sit in the grand scheme of things.  I too have become so goal-oritented and ambitious that I failed to see the big picture – a picture that included the feelings of those around me.  But I still can’t say that my actions have ever been purely selfish.  Nor should we assume this for James and John.  Who wouldn’t want to spend eternity next to Jesus?  These guys were being who God made them to be.  They were seeking their place.  And they felt they had found it next to Jesus. 

Unfortunately their actions, like my actions, sound an awful lot like thunder.  Loud, but that’s about it.

To Drink from the Cup
Don’t get me wrong.  To lead like thunder can be effective.  But sometimes it’s only in the lonely echoes of failure that the whisper of Truth can be heard.  This Truth is as humbling as it is powerful.  When it speaks of leadership, it makes no promises of success, or acceptance, or of thrones at the right hand of God.  Instead, it warns that to lead is to be misunderstood, distanced, or even despised.

What does Jesus say to James and John’s request?  “You don’t know what you are asking,” Jesus said to them (not to their mother). “Can you drink the cup I am going to drink?”

Can’t you just see James and John standing there like Forrest and Bubba in front of Lt. Dan?  They look at each other, then back at Jesus, blank stares and blind confidence, nodding ”Uh huh.” 

The scene had to be similarly amusing for Jesus at first.  But I can’t help but wonder if His face grew sad with the thought of what was to come for these Sons of Thunder.  I say this because as He was setting them straight on who makes the seating chart in Heaven, He also says to them, “You will indeed drink from my cup.”

Fourteen years after this story takes place, James becomes the first of the disciples to be martyred.  His brother John, while living longer, does so in exile on a remote island, a prison camp, where he sees how the world will end.  The true cup of leadership is often not at all what we envision.  It is more a responsibility than a privilege.  And its taste is often bitter at best.

It’s later in this story that we find one of the most profound statements of leadership ever recorded in history.  Speaking to the disciples of James and John’s request, Jesus says, (28)  “. . . the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many.”

And so for modern-day Sons of Thunder, there is a profound lesson to be learned here:

Leadership is not about where you sit.  It’s about the cup you drink from.

By the end of the semester, I had managed to pass Music History (through much prayer and fasting).  It was instead Speech 101 that presented the biggest challenge.  In the end, it was Dr. Bellows, a walking globe with headlight-sized horn-rims and a hair cut reminiscant of Nicholas from “Eight is Enough” who almost failed me, and in doing so taught me perhaps one of the most important lessons of my young adult life. 

The speech was on the business of song writing.  Being a music business major, material on the subject was plentiful.  The delivery was artful, if I do say so myself.  It had humor.  It had drama.  It earned me a standing ovation.  Excuse me while I move to the head of the class.  That’s right.  State Public Speaking Champion coming through.  Yes, it’s a gift.  No, I’m not sure autographs are appropriate right now.  Perhaps after class.

Now, I’m being silly.  I actually only gave one autograph after class, and that one just basically committed me to bring something salty to the next Band Social.  Shortly thereafter, I made my way to Dr. Bellows, who was seated on his axis at the rear of the room.  I had yet to receive his certain praise, and I swelled at the prospect.  What wonderful words might he use to describe my eloquence, my mastery of the oratory?  Perhaps he would even ask me to teach the class next week while he took some time off for that long overdue visit to the barbershop.

“Mr. Abbott.”  He beckoned me forward.  “Have a seat Mr. Abbott.”  Wow, this was gonna take some time.  I must have been better than I thought.

“Brilliant speech, Mr. Abbott.”

“Thank you, sir.”  I said, waiting, hoping for more. 

“You’re clearly the best speaker in the class.”

“Thank you, sir.”  Man, I love that part.

“I almost hate to fail you on this speech.” 

My mind hit the rewind button.  For a moment, I thought he said “fail.”  No, he must have said, “hail,” as in “hail you as the magnificent speaker you are.”

“I’m sorry?” 

“Mr. Abbott.  You can’t BS a BS’er.  Your delivery was wonderful.  But no one cared, because you said nothing.  I actually know less now that I did before I heard you speak.  Your reliance on rhetoric is alarming.”

The gaping whole that was my mouth invited all manner of flying things to enter at will. 

“Next time, Mr. Abbott, I want you to remember one thing.  How you speak will mean nothing unless you actually have something to say.”

I turned 34 the other day. And like my age, real life has descended upon me like Sitting Bull on Custard.  Yet as I reflect upon the sweet chaos that is my world, I have started seeing things I’ve never seen before.  I hear sounds I’ve never heard before.  I feel weights I’ve never felt before.  And from all of this I am learning (thanks to Dr. Bellows) how to say things I’ve never said before.  I have finally stopped obsessing over how I speak.  I have finally started focusing on what I say.

And to my surprise, I really do have something to say.

McKenzie (9) :  “Hey RileyGrace, I bet you don’t know the capital of Japan.”

RileyGrace (6) : “Yes I do!”

McKenzie: “OK, smartie pants.  What is it?”

RileyGrace: “J.”

For more profound statements from RileyGrace, read this and this.  For those of you who are too embarassed to ask, the capital of Japan is in fact Tokyo.  (Yes, I had to look it up.  What’s your point?)