Year: 2014 (Page 19 of 37)

The Joy of a Father

June 15, 2014 / Michele Minehart

I’ve read all kinds of statistics on why kids need dads. A huge portion of prison inmates lived fatherless childhoods. Risk of teen pregnancy increases. Grades drop. The risk of poverty nearly quadruples. My children, growing up with JJ around, have a much better shot a lives without detrimental risk factors. But that’s not the heart of my gratitude toward their father.

Because of JJ, they will live more joy-filled lives. I have zero doubt of this. Not just because without JJ I’d be a weepy, useless mess – but he is the partner that brings out the real joy.

Last summer we arrived home somewhat late – definitely after bedtimes – and he decided to let the big two stay up until dusk to catch fireflies in jars. I busied myself putting away laundry and other work of the home and I could hear the laughter and cackling out the window as the two first experienced a childhood milestone. That’s joy they wouldn’t have otherwised experience if mama had just put them to bed.

They will experience true joy because their father takes great joy in their lives. We’re in a season where H-boy LOVES to fish. All. the. time. JJ, not the avid fisherman, bought his license and started digging for worms. He joins his son by the dock and teaches what little he knows about tying knots on hooks and releasing the catch back to the lake. While H-boy gets great joy from his experience of fishing, the fact that his father takes great joy in it for no other reason than the love of his son means the joy is multiplied. It’s not a mathematical fact (because numbers make me dizzy), but I believe it in my gut. This is the work of love, the backwards economy of the gospel at work.

I wish for every kid to stay out of jail, eat healthy meals, not feel the need to give into societal pressures of negative influences and all those father-factors. But I also wish the kind of joy that comes from knowing this grown man loves you, protects you, encourages you and finds great joy in your existence.

When you give the sick a hand gun

June 12, 2014 / Michele Minehart

One of my family members suffers from a significant mental illness. It debilitates him to the point that he cannot work, even at a fast food joint, and the state agreed. He receives a small amount of money for living expenses, namely to pay rent because the state did allow him to live outside of direct monitoring. His parents kept a good eye on him, checked in regularly and felt they had a grasp on his condition and whereabouts.

About a year ago he was taken to jail. He somehow laid hold of a handgun. It made sense to him to practice, so he went into his back yard and shot off several rounds. His neighbors, just a few hundred feet away, freaked out (rightly so) and called the cops (100% justified. We’re thankful!).

Our family was shocked and scared. Everyone was thinking the same thing: How the HELL did he get a gun?

We. Don’t. Know. (He has since been put back into the care of his parents).

He lives in Hardin County, where guns are as common as dogs. Perhaps he picked it up at the lemonade stand on the corner. Or he traded an X-box for it. We really don’t know. If he did go to a legal source for firearms, we’ve got a bigger problem because this individual is legally deemed unable to function as a normal citizen of society.

So, we’re left with: where did the gun come from?

One day I was perusing the Miami County Online Rummage Sale. This is what pops into the feed:

Yes, an online garage sale. And let’s note why the interested party didn’t follow through.

Gun control is a complicated issue, not easily resolved in a single blog post, though several of us have tried. I realize that we have a population of responsible gun-owning citizens (full disclosure: we have guns in our house, in a locked safe). The majority reports to the correct authorities when they buy or sell a weapon and follow proper procedure (or what there is).

Yet the mentally ill can easily navigate their social context – or even Facebook – and find what they’re looking for. Sometimes, it even gets delivered to the newsfeed.

I know little about the last shooting. I don’t have statistics or figures about gun violence or deterrence. I don’t even have solutions. I have a mentally ill family member able to get his hands on a pistol scaring the BeJebus out of the neighborhood.

Some advocate for our right to carry, but no number of gun-carrying citizens stopped him from shooting in his back yard. Praise Jesus, because I can only imagine his response. More guns is not the answer. No guns is not an answer.

Caring for the mentally ill might be an answer. Monitoring the loose methods of buying and selling firearms might be an answer. Really, I think we have an open space of possible answers if we simply decide that the current mode of operation simply isn’t working.

And kids are kids forever

June 9, 2014 / Michele Minehart

I could make a list of a million things that are hard for me about parenting. Cleaning up puke when I already feel queasy. The 23rd question in a row. Having a meaningful discussion with an old (or new) friend while a toddler reminds you she needs to potty at an obnoxious volume. Anything involving the hours 2-5am.

Top on my list of parental challenges is dealing with my kid when s/he is a jerk. Specifically, to me. I can mostly deal with jerkish actions toward others because those are an opportunity for growth and we can talk about how others feel and work through other ways of dealing with the situation.

When my kid speaks rudely or, as seems our new normal, completely ignores instructions to go to bed, my feelings get hurt. Not just the “I’m a bad parent, they never listen, they’ll grow up to become delinquent by age 11” kind of head hanging. It’s not just my pride that hurts but also my feelings.

I realize, and I sometimes I repeat to myself over and over, that “I’m the mommy. I’m the mommy. I’m the mommy.” (If I don’t, I’m tempted to fight back like the 4 year old, to resort to immature and unfavorable methods because she did it first.) Because of my position in the hierarchy (and yes, in this house there is a hierarchy. I’ve mentioned we don’t operate by democracy around here), I don’t see myself as an “equal” to my children. I strongly believe I’m not a friend to my children, I’m first and foremost their parent.

But they sometimes make me cry.

Just because I’m the parent doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings. My children and I spend all of the hours of all of the days in close proximity and who wants to spend so much time with jerks? Who enjoys those who give little regard to the people with whom they share space? I don’t. Which is why I take seriously my job to help raise up thoughtful, kind and brave people.

In the process, it’s hard to lovingly forgive words said out of hunger or tiredness. We serve as the target for all the emotions these teeny-tiny brains are trying to develop. If we don’t, they could be aimed outward where the armor of love doesn’t protect hearts and minds and more damage could result. Part of the responsibility I bear in our relationship includes absorbing and redirecting the hurt that could be thoughtlessly targeted elsewhere.

So I put on my big girl, mommy pants (likely made from a lycra-spandex combo). I set the example. I might shed tears, but I turn to my husband to remember I am valued and loved. I don’t let bedtime get the last word because it’s not the time of day when we’re at our most beautiful. Just because a moment may be the loudest doesn’t mean it holds the strongest voice.

In the words of a wise woman, Carry On, Warrior.

Year: 2014 (Page 19 of 37)

The Joy of a Father

And kids are kids forever

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