Birds, Bees, and Burgers

Strange terms, fresh imaginings, embarrassed moments and puzzled looks. And for some extra intrigue, a batch of fried pickles. 

My son and I spent some time this past weekend in the quiet of a county park. On a grassy knoll (no, not that one) under a budding oak tree we talked about (drumroll, please...) sex.

We also talked boundaries, purity, dating and exclusivity. For fun we tossed in marriage, commitment, and self-control. We discussed allurement and our curious minds. We were honest about beauty and wandering eyes. It was entertaining to observe my boy’s expressions of wonder, confusion, and realization. Our time together wasn’t the end of innocence – it was a gentle awakening to the beautiful work of our Master Craftsman.

The enormity of our conversational topics necessitated frequent doses of refreshment. My son’s choice for lunchtime refueling? Burger – in a 1/3-pound slab. Plus onion rings and bottled root beer. I partook of a similar spread, which was almost too much for me. But my boy proudly devoured every crumb. His conquest required that we email a photo of his plate back home so the whole family could share in his triumph. At the time I didn’t realize this was only the first half of his gastronomic ‘super bowl.’

My son chased lunch with a man-sized box of cookie dough candy and 32 ounces of Mountain Dew at the movie theatre. Then, because theater snacks are not an adequate substitute for a real meal, we grabbed – you got it – a burger. My son ordered an ‘All-Everything’ Burger. I grimaced. I thought it might be time to be all-done with everything. Nevertheless, I paid. He grinned. We waited.

He got two bites down…then turned pale. He paused, then muttered, “I feel sick.” Together we raised a white flag signaling our desperate need for a to-go box. Had this been an episode of ‘Man vs. Food’ we would have gladly declared food the winner. I was grateful for my son’s restraint. I did not want to spoon chewed burger, onion rings, root beer, chocolate covered cookie dough and mountain dew from the interior of my car.

I was impressed by my boy’s stomach capacity. Yet my real amazement came in the midst of our sex education. He surprised me with the strength of his commitment to God’s design and desires. He encouraged me in his personal convictions. As he considered the range of behaviors and attitudes and perspectives about his body and how he plans to relate to the opposite sex, he willingly accepted responsibility to act with respect and restraint. And the more we talked, the more he fortified. His commitment strengthened. I didn’t coerce or prod. Instead, I watched and learned.

Sure, my boy’s still naïve in many ways. Knowing of birds and bees and associated issues doesn’t guarantee chaste living. The Tempter lurks. But having a plan and a firm resolve are fine traveling companions down the path of purity. I wish I had a bit more of my son’s ‘God said it, I believe it’ confidence when it comes to the rigors of life.

For the times I wake with worry. Or am held captive to a manipulating relationship. In moments when I surrender my joy instead of fighting for it. And for the many days I skirmish with the monster of self-pity. Such things erode my courageous resolve. They weaken my soul and increase my craving for sin’s bait. They deafen my ears to God’s voice.

While pondering these tensions, I thought of my son. As we talked last weekend, my boy took me higher than the flight of birds and bees. He lifted my spirit into the transcendent through his whole-hearted trust in God’s good plan. I was attracted to the confident innocence of his young faith. I have faith, too. But when I give audience to my inner skeptic instead of digging in with Christ-centered confidence, my perspective gets jaded. I speculate and assume as my foundation of faith shifts from God to my own limited reality.
 
My heart yearns for a deeper, more radically-trusting faith. A faith that steps-out with strength and courage. That faith is mine to claim, “for God gave us a spirit not of fear but of power and love and self-control.” (2 Timothy 1:7, ESV)

Kudos to my son for his God-inspired confidence and burger eating abilities. His no-nonsense trust in our Creator’s plan for sexuality has inspired my own rejuvenation toward a God-glorifying trust and obedience in all things.

And I thought I already knew all there was to know about the birds and the bees…

My Favorite Picture

Last week I was overwhelmed – again. It was déjà vu from two years ago. All those hallways and galleries and glass cases and tiny spotlights. It doesn’t take long for me to get lost in the varied and sometimes loose interpretations of art at The Art Institute of Chicago.

But this time, while indulging in Monet’s impressionist beauty and marveling at intricate hand-sewn tapestries and pausing over Picasso’s intriguing depictions, my thoughts floated to another piece of art. A picture – and it’s my favorite.

It’s an unfinished piece. Even so, it’s wonderful in its present state. The artist continues to work on it – daily refining, enhancing, reducing and adding. It’s a complicated work that I ponder and probe closely. In the details I perceive bits of anger and pain. Joy alongside sorrow. I discover sections that exude bright laughter and coy smiles. Happiness. Gentleness. Attentiveness. Kindness. Love.

Two figures are central to the piece. The artist has captured them speaking. Their mouths are nondescriptly shaped, so I’m free to envision a confounded effusion of words – some shouted, some whispered, some savored, and some unsaid. Their intricate faces, focused upon each other, are both quizzical and knowing.

Layered deep into the picture is a warm acceptance that blankets cool, undulating anxieties. Shadowy tones of doubt and fear are present, but carefully bound to the perimeter. Wonder and celebration effervesce from the picture, seeking to capture and enthrall each observer.

Stepping back for a broad view brings forth soft, strong, tender, and compassionate characteristics. Taken as one, this picture is simultaneously fully feminine and wholly masculine. Each part necessary, yet independently special. It’s a mysterious collective. A deeply personal picture that’s common in its representation, but unique in its presentation.

This extraordinary piece was in The Art Institute of Chicago last week – for about two hours. Then it walked out the door, down stone steps, passed between the majestic and beautifully oxidized pair of bronze lions and onto a sidewalk along Michigan Avenue. That piece – a masterfully crafted picture – is my marriage.

More than twenty years in its progression, God continues to paint my marriage with vibrant colors of grace, mercy, patience, and love. Despite moments of resistance, He gently knits together the souls of my wife and me. Closer. Tighter. Singular. Intimate. We are bound with cosmic sacredness.

God’s sings with pleasure over our bittersweet union. And in the safety of His purposed design we cling to our covenant. We fight for it. We trust it. We rest unified, gladly reflecting back to the Artist the beauty of our oneness.

The gift of marriage is a spectacular display of creative love. A man. A woman. Fit together with God-given complementarity. A blessed picture of the redemptive, life-giving relationship of God and His children.

Me and my wife. Together.

That’s my favorite picture.

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

We Wait

~A Meditative Poem for Good Friday~

Holy seed.
Divine conception.
Incarnated promise.

Escape and sequester.
A home-going.
Boyhood.

Brother to siblings.
A father’s apprentice.
Temple dweller.

Coming of age.
Baptism.
A Father’s pleasure.

Wedding.
Water.
Wine.

Storyteller.
Rebel teacher.
Traveling celebrity.

Water-walker.
Storm-tamer.
Death-beater.

Compassionate healer.
Feeder of mouths.
Tender of souls.

Who is He?

Mary’s son.
Mad man.
Messiah.

A sacred feast.
A faithful few.
A traitor.

He prayed. He pleaded.
He wept. He listened.
He obeyed.

A kiss.

Accused. Abused. Abandoned.
Beaten and punished.
Mocked. Ridiculed. Cursed.
Kicked and whipped.
Bludgeoned.
Flesh and sweat.
Blood and bits.
Tremors.
Convulsions.
Exhaustion and agony.

Again.

And again.

Spare him.
Walk him.
To ‘The Skull.’
 
Hammer and nails.
Tendon and bone.
Execution.

Suspended spectacle.
Naked. Humiliated.
Alone.

Grief. Wailing. Mourning.
Disdain. Laughter. Self-satisfaction.
Together.

Guiltless for the guilty.
Justice through injustice.

Love.

Death.

Silence.

It is finished.
The grave is full.

We wait.

A Mighty Throw by a Wimpy Kid

Field Day.

That mini Olympics held annually in schoolyards large and small. With blue, red, and white ribbons, laughter, crying, triumph and defeat, field day signifies the end of another school year. At my school, it was also the only day of the year when pizza was served for hot lunch. So long, Shepherd’s Pie!

As a child, I wasn’t a spectacular athlete. My skinny frame, underdeveloped musculature, and shy demeanor gave rise to a competitive package on par with a domesticated rabbit. So on field day, I heaped a mound of performance anxiety with a dash of desperate hope alongside my cherished slice of sausage pizza. Thus, field day ‘fun’ was loaded with potential for hurt and disappointment. In fact, there’s a brutal injustice documented in my personal field day annals.

My great mistreatment happened in the context of a competition that was all the rage in the 1970’s – the softball throw. If you’re unfamiliar, here’s the gist: stand on a baseball field at home plate (don’t step over the plate or you’re disqualified) and chuck a softball as far as you can. Not exactly the best measure of athletic prowess, but it fit the bill for simplicity and measurability. At least that was the theory.

The day was sunny and hot – even for early June. Summoned to my turn at tossing, I bent over to select one of the rubberized softballs. I had to fight discouragement as I struggled to wrap my hand around the ball with a grip tight enough to pick it up one-handed. My feet were enveloped with puffs of dustiness as adrenaline propelled me step-by-step toward home plate. I channeled all my nervous energy toward my shoulder while I envisioned launching that ball into low-earth orbit.

Holding my breath, I stepped back, took a baby crow-hop, and hurled that ball like a human trebuchet. Flat and true the ball flew toward second base. It soared beyond the infield and landed safely in the clover that was the outfield lawn. Clearly, a throw to be proud of. A toss that surpassed my expectations – as well as the distance thrown by several of my competitors.

As the ball meandered to a stop, I looked with anticipation at the teacher standing beside me with clipboard and whistle. I awaited his command to go stand at the spot my ball first landed, staking claim to my impressive toss. Instead, with emotionless tone he proclaimed my throw hadn’t surpassed any of the top three throws currently marked on the field. I was to sit down.

But he was wrong. My throw had eclipsed at least two of those marked on the field. I saw it. The kid standing in the field saw it (the ball went over his head for crying out loud). But this teacher, who in that moment was the steward of my field day dreams, didn’t bother to watch my display of softball throwing excellence. Perhaps he was too busy cleaning sausage pizza from his whistle.

It was a gross injustice. A scandal in the making. In perplexed silence I stood, waiting for the voice of reason to speak. But my ears only heard the distant cheers from more joyful – and fair – competitions. I looked up at the teacher, pleaded with my best non-verbal toe-headed cuteness, but received a second command to take my place with the spectators. I sloughed away, stunned. Where’s Billy Martin when you need him?

Although more than three decades ago, I find it strangely curious how often that field day memory bubbles-up. Such frequent recurrence deserves my attention. Through it, I’ve learned that I’m quite sensitive to personal injustice. These days, it’s not a mistake with how far I throw a ball that puts me in tension. The adult life offers more sophisticated ways to get slighted or misjudged or made the victim of false perception or misunderstanding.

Conversely, each day brings temptation to be the assumption maker as I collect circumstantial anecdotes and craft plausible storylines. It’s ironic that even when I don’t watch the toss of the metaphorical ball, I’m confident of it’s landing place. Really, I know where it landed. Trust me.

Wait.

Am I capable of creating field day fiasco?

Absolutely.

My misjudged throw provides ongoing help with my relationships. It broadens my perspective on how things said, not said, or implied can be twisted together into suffocating distortions. Or, when given good care and attention, all forms of expressed communication can be woven into a wonderful tapestry of warm interaction. Staying straight and clean and forthright with friendship is tough work. There’s nothing simple about working toward short accounts and fostering redemptive interactions.

I like fair treatment. Too often, I think I deserve it. My heart has an inherent wickedness, so when injustice comes, the summons to revenge is alluring. I must wrangle my desire for personal justice with gospel love.

That means I own my part. I seek and offer forgiveness. I think well of others. I give what I want to receive. Most importantly, I leave judgment to the One who sees all things with perfect clarity.

I know He saw my throw. And that’s good enough for me.

“And let us not grow weary of doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up. So then, as we have opportunity, let us do good to everyone, and especially to those who are of the household of faith.” (Galatians 6:9–10, ESV)