What is fatherhood?

Fatherhood is sleepless nights with a crying baby; it’s sleepless nights with a sick child; it’s sleepless nights waiting up for a teenager; it’s sleepless nights worrying about a grown child that lives far away.

Fatherhood is a lifetime of losing sleep.

Fatherhood is working to pay for hungry mouths; working to pay for new shoes; working to pay for a new baseball glove; working to pay for a new bike; working to pay for family vacations; working to pay for braces; working to pay for an extra car; working to pay for college; working to pay for weddings.

Fatherhood is lifetime of work.

Fatherhood is fixing a bottle for a crying baby in the middle of the night; fixing a baby monitor; fixing a tricycle; fixing a broken window; fixing doorknobs; fixing holes in the wall; fixing dishwashers; fixing garbage disposals; fixing garage door openers; fixing ceiling fans; fixing stereo speakers; fixing TVs; fixing cars.

Fatherhood is lifetime of fixing things.

Fatherhood is teaching a child to walk; teaching a child to talk; teaching a child to sit still; teaching a child when to be quiet; teaching a child to say “please” and “thank you;” teaching a child to brush their teeth; teaching a child to read; teaching a child to pray; teaching a child to catch a ball; teaching a child to do dishes; teaching a child to clean their room; teaching a child to deal with bullies; teaching a child to share; teaching a child to drive; teaching a child to balance a checkbook; teaching a child to live on their own.

Fatherhood is lifetime of teaching.

Fatherhood is listening to the deafening sound of a sleeping baby; listening to toddler’s questions; listening to screaming voices at play; listening to sad tales about owies; listening to complaints about household chores; listening to dreams; listening to loud music; listening to “You don’t understand;” listening to “I can’t wait to get out on my own;” listening for the phone to ring and hoping it will be a call from your son or daughter that has moved away.

Fatherhood is lifetime of listening.

Fatherhood is the loving coo of a newborn; it’s the squeeze around the neck from a five-year old; it’s the happy smile of ten-year old; it’s the high five or knuckle bump form a teenager; it’s the warm embrace of a grown son returning home for a visit; it’s the last hug from a daughter before you give her away on her wedding day; it’s the hugs from grandkids on your lap; it’s the kiss on the cheek and a tear in the eye as your life passes.

Fatherhood is a lifetime of love.

Happy Father's Day!

“A qué se dedica?” asked our guide. He and I were riding our horses along the beach behind the group and talking about life. He wanted to know what I did for a living.

“Soy piloto,” I answered with a smile.

He grinned. “Ah, that why you not afraid.”

I shrugged and grinned back. Then I urged my horse forward and galloped down the beach past the rest of the group as they plodded along in the sand. It was our last day in Costa Rica, and I was going to squeeze a few more drops of excitement from the adrenaline-filled trip. I wanted one more day of Pura Vida.

Pura Vida is a common expression in Costa Rica. Literally translated, it means “Pure Life,” but expressions like that can’t be taken too literally. Pura Vida means a “good life,” “full of life,” or “living great.” On our second trip to beautiful Costa Rica, I was starting to understand what the “Ticos” meant.

When my wife Britt and I began planning a trip to celebrate our 25^th wedding anniversary, Costa Rica was high on the list. We had enjoyed a trip there before a few years ago, and always wanted to go back. When we did some comparisons based on cost and available activities, we decided that another trip to the land of Pura Vida was in order.

It is considered a professional standard for pilots to be cheap. I had deviated from that standard slightly when I purchased Britt a first-class ticket for the trip, but I redeemed my image by jump seating (at no cost) myself. It was a good balance. We traveled with two other couples, Kelly and Leroy, and Kim and Glen, and because of separate bookings, we traveled in two groups. I almost got left at the gate in Phoenix because of a paperwork snag, but in the end my friend Lori (who was flying the Airbus) helped me work it out, and I boarded.

After a night in the Adventure Inn, an adequate hotel with friendly staff, the guides from Pacuare Lodge picked us up around 0545 the next morning. We piled into a small bus and headed out into the mountainous rainforest east of San José to embark on our first adventure – whitewater rafting. Heavy with people and luggage, the suspension of the bus bottomed out on the rough road. We visited with Pepe, one of the guides, and exchanged riddles in Spanish until we ascended into the clouds and stopped at a restaurant for breakfast. We ate the typical breakfast of eggs with black beans and rice as the fog swirled and obscured our view. The adventure began when the bus started down the steep switchbacks overlooking the swollen river. Everyone grew quiet and prayed the brakes were better than the suspension. Pura Vida!

We piled out of the van with a few pale faces and grabbed a helmet, a paddle, and a life vest. My helmet was adorned with blue scuffmarks like someone had smacked it with one of the paddles. I wondered if it was a sign of things to come. Ivan gave us the safety briefing, but I wasn’t as attentive as I probably could have been. It’s hard to think safety when your bladder is full and the sound of rushing water is all around you. While he was giving us the briefing, one of the departing rafts capsized and dumped everyone out. I checked the water. It was cold.

When we finished the safety briefing (and took a potty break), we shoved off with our guide José Luís. His English was good, but not as good as his smile and good humor. José Luís put Leroy and me in front. That made me nervous. I was going to get soaked. Sure enough, as we pushed through the first rapids, I got soaked. After that, I relaxed. I figured that getting wet was most likely the worst thing that would happen to me that day. Pura Vida!

We laughed and enjoyed the spectacular scenery. The gigantic tropical trees along the river supported several canopies. The river was the color of coffee with cream because of the recent rainstorm, and even though the water was cool, it felt good in the warm tropical sun. When we stopped to explore a stream with a waterfall, we must have looked like some flock of strange exotic birds with bright orange shirts, white helmets, and red life vests.

“Do we need to worry about wild animals?” asked Kim. José Luís shook his head and smiled. “Just esnakes,” he said with a laugh. We kept our eyes open.

After braving several rapids and learning to paddle together, we arrived at Pacuare Lodge nestled in the rain forest along the edge of the river. When we hung up our wet gear and sloshed up the riverbank to check in, Andrés welcomed us with a pot of hot chocolate. While we sipped at the chocolate and dried off he told us about the facility. Only the main building has electricity and Internet. The teakwood bungalows sit on stilts overlooking the river and come equipped with running hot and cold water, but no electricity.  When we walked up the wooden steps onto the porch with a hammock and a river view, it felt like a slice of paradise in the wild. Each open-air bungalow was furnished with a king-size canopy bed and a gorgeous bathroom that included an outdoor shower surrounded by a stone wall for privacy, if you wanted to shower al fresco. I felt like I was taking a shower under a hot waterfall in the middle of the rain forest. Pura Vida!

At Pacuare Lodge meals are served for everyone at the same time with a set menu. If you think that just because you are in the middle of the rain forest the food might consist of fruit and reconstituted foods, you are mistaken. Lunch was a three-course meal. For dinner I had a spicy tomato soup that was out of this world, followed by tilapia with rice, and passion fruit mouse for dessert. For breakfast the next morning we had eggs with bacon, fried cheese, and banana pancakes. If that wasn’t enough, Leroy talked them into to bringing us a plate of oatmeal cookies after dinner, and they offered coffee and hot chocolate in the afternoon. We ate so much the raft sat a little lower in the water when we shoved off the next morning.

The second day on the river was even better than the first. We traversed several good rapids and paddled through lush forest vistas with waterfalls cascading down cliffs. A friendly competition emerged among the paddlers on each side. Leroy started giving his side grief for not paddling hard enough, and then talking smack when it appeared they paddled better than us. When I asked José Luís if we could change sides, he hesitated, and then very diplomatically told me in Spanish that he didn’t want to switch because it would make it uneven. He said that he put my group on the side opposite of him because Leroy’s side was weak. It was fun translating that. The smack talk continued, especially when we went through a big rapid and I held up my paddle and cheered instead of paddling. We laughed and cheered each time until at last we passed under an old railroad bridge and pulled out next to their company warehouse. Pura Vida!

After we showered off and changed into dry clothes, we caught our transport to Tabacón. We had originally had scheduled for two rental cars, but switched to private transfers instead. It was cheaper, and a much better way to travel. We were able to take short naps and visit while someone else familiar with the roads drove us to our next stop. One driver, Pablo, even offered a wifi hotspot through his iPhone. It made the trip a lot less stressful.

The Tabacón is a five-star, hot springs resort built at the foot of the Arenal volcano near La Fortuna. It offers luxurious rooms with rainforest and volcano views. Across the street is a hot springs river surrounded by a manicured rainforest with a spa in the middle. They also offer a swim-up bar where the pool is slightly warmer than bathwater. Up above the entire complex is a restaurant that offers a nightly buffet. I think the first guests here were Adam and Eve.

After a good night’s rest and a buffet breakfast, we headed for Sky Trek/Sky Tram, a zip line adventure in the foothills surrounding the volcano. Once again we donned helmets for safety and boarded the tram. Glen had expressed his concerns over the event several times, but when he saw a seven-year old boy on the tram, he swallowed his fear and manned up. After the obligatory safety briefing and two practice zip lines, we hooked up to the first cable and past the point of no return.

I stood on the platform trying to look past the trees and see where I was going. Then the signal came over the radio, and the guide pushed me off the platform. The next thing I knew I had zipped past the trees and was soaring almost six hundred feet in the air! The wind rushed by and the pulleys on the cable hummed as I felt something akin to flying. I felt small against the backdrop of the volcano, the lake, and the sprawling forest. The tiny platform on the other side looked like a beacon of civilization drawing me in. I slid into the platform with a grin on my face and braked to a stop with the help of the friction devices. Since I was the first to go, I was worried that some of the others would chicken out, but when I stood on the platform and filmed their arrival, all of them had the look of exhilaration on their faces, especially Glen. When we finished I told Britt I wanted to be a zip line guide in Costa Rica when I retire. Pura Vida!

The hot springs of the Tabacón balanced out our adrenaline-filled morning. We relaxed under steaming waterfalls and wandered from secluded pool to secluded pool soaking in the hot mineral water and letting the tension of paddling the raft and the adrenaline of flying high above verdant forests on a steel cable melt away. That evening we dined at the buffet, and reported to the spa for a couples massage. I am not a regular massage customer, and for Glen it was another first. They escorted each couple to a private area behind the spa nestled among the trees. I could hear the rushing water of the river mingled with soft meditative music as I lay on the table letting the masseuse push all the cares of the world from my body and mind. I was able to let the rhythm of my thoughts settle and pick up a cadence that carried me to clarity. Pura Vida!

If soaring through the air wasn’t enough, the next morning we headed out to rappel down waterfalls with Pure Trek Adventures. At this point my fellow travelers accused me of trying to kill them. It was our fourth day in Costa Rica and everyday we had participated in something that required a helmet. I just smiled. After a short drive up into the mountains in the back of a truck that reminded me of being in the military, we filed out and got fitted with our rappelling gear – including the helmet. Having rappelled several times, but by no means an expert, I took special note of the gear, the ropes, the anchors, and the belay system. By the time I saw the set up at the first 165-foot waterfall, I was satisfied that we were in competent hands. Once again, Britt and I went first. They made me wait as I watched her scurry down the cliff beside the rushing water. When they gave me the green light, I found my rappelling legs quickly and began catching up with her. Suddenly the guide on belay stopped me and pulled me into the cool rushing water of the falls for my morning shower.

We high-fived each other, and stood at the bottom cheering on everyone else. The guides followed the same pattern for the next few couples until Kelly and Leroy started down. After dousing Leroy in the waterfall, they decided to pull the already-terrified Kelly into the waterfall as well. That induced a kicking and screaming fit, and when she finally got to the bottom she punched the mischievous guide in the shoulder. (See video below.) By the time we finished the fourth waterfall, Glen was over his fear of heights and Kelly was a pro. Pura Vida!

After another afternoon in the hot springs, and a very sound sleep. We started our longest travel day from the center of the country to the Pacific coast to Manuel Antonio and the town of Quepos. We took in the countryside, a butterfly observatory, a fruit stand, and watched crocodiles fight over pieces of meat - not exactly the same as driving across Kansas. When we checked in at Costa Verde, we were ready for some down time.

Costa Verde hotel sits on the hillside above the beach and offers spectacular views, including a B727 that has been converted into suites. They boast that they still have more monkeys than people, and true to that slogan, we saw several monkeys during our stay. At dinner across the street in La Cantina we contemplated the remaining activities and decided to cancel our guided tour to the national park the next day. Instead we would rent scooters and spend the day on the beach. Then the last day we would go horseback riding. In the process of helping a fellow traveler, I spoke with Fabricio Mengarelli, the executive chef of La Cantina. Right away I noticed his Argentine accent. We ate at his restaurant two nights in a row. The ribeye was excellent, and my wife said the pineapple chicken was out of this world. If you are ever in Quepos, go see Fabricio. Pura Vida!

To start our “relaxing day” on the beach, we rented scooters. Of course, that meant putting on a helmet. We zipped down to the beach and got snookered by the parking attendants alongside the road, but when I left the keys, I must admit they were honest, and brought them to me. We overpaid for chairs and umbrellas, drinks and burgers, boogie boards and a ride on the banana boat, but Leroy used his negotiating skills to secure us some time on the wave runner unsupervised. Between boogie boarding the nice easy waves, wrestling with the wave runner, and getting thrown off the banana boat several times (I could not stay on!), we topped it off with a game of soccer on the beach with the locals. By the time we scooted back to the hotel, I was exhausted! Pura Vida!

After dinner at La Cantina, we hopped on to our scooters and zipped down into Quepos to Escalo Frio in search of ice cream. We found the ice cream, but while we were there we heard the rain start pounding on the tin roof. It was coming down in buckets with no end in sight. We got the ladies a cab and sent them back to Costa Verde. While we waited for the rain to subside, Leroy and Glen sampled the pizza, but I was too stuffed with ribeye to eat. When it became obvious that the only way we were getting back was through the rain, we fired up our scooters and charged back up the hill amidst the lightning. Cold rain pelted my face and pinged off of my helmet, but I was grinning from ear to ear. Pura Vida!

Kim was worried about horseback riding the next day, since it would be her first time. The horses were small and looked like they could use some more oats, but they seemed docile enough. It turned out they were maybe a bit too docile, except for mine. The guide was an experienced horseman that paired us up with a horse based on our experience, and how we acted around the animals. I got the horse that wanted to run. While everyone else prodded their horses into a trot along in the sand, I got my horse to gallop circles around them. After all the adventures we had completed by then, we were jaded. What should have been an enjoyable ride on a beautiful beach, turned into a slow trot in the sand. We had officially become adrenaline junkies and needed more than a simple ride along the beach to impress us. As the end of the ride came in to view, I spurred my horse into a run and galloped to the finish.

That afternoon it rained. We ate pizza again and took a siesta. When the rain subsided that evening, Britt and I went for another ride on the scooter. The undulating hills along the beachfront took us in and out of pockets of cool air. We scooted along the deserted road looking for monkeys. The moist wind felt good on my face. After twenty-five years, my wife’s arms still felt good around my waist. Pura Vida!

If you want to book an exciting vacation of your own to Costa Rica, contact Catalina - info@crreferrals.com. She can help you find your Pura Vida!

Britt loves the Britt Shop!

Waterfall on the Pacuare River

When I was seven, my mother left for the hospital to deliver. At the time I had one brother and four sisters, and was feeling a bit outnumbered. I hoped that my parents would bring home a little brother and even up the odds a little. When my Granny got the phone call and announced that my parents would be bringing home a baby girl, everybody cheered, except me. I broke into tears. I really wanted a little brother.

By the time my parents brought her home, I had resolved to love, or at least live with, my new sister anyway. She was a cute baby (most babies are) and quickly grew into a little towheaded girl with a special birthmark just above her left hip. My parents named her Tassie. She turned out to be a hard working, and helpful sister, and I soon forgot about crying the night she was born.

Several months ago, I got a letter from Tassie explaining that she and her family were going to pull the children out of school and go on the road during the hard winter months of Maine. She wanted to know if they could come and stay a week or so with us in Arizona. Although we had never lived close to each other since we left home, we tried to keep in touch across the miles. It would be a great opportunity to reacquaint ourselves. How could I refuse? (Maybe I still felt a little guilty about crying when she was born.)

So a few weeks ago, Tassie, her husband Randy, three of their daughters, Gabriela, Mirette, and London, came to visit us in Arizona and escape the wintry weather of the northeast. Maine is a bit different than Arizona, especially in March. While Maine was suffering under yet another winter storm, we enjoyed beautiful sunny weather all week long. We gladly made space for them to sleep, and room for them at the dinner table. They integrated quickly and became part of the family.

It was fun to watch and interact with my nieces and get to know them better. Brie is a young woman now, almost ready to tackle life on her own. Mirette is a soft-spoken redhead (yes, they do exist). London is my sister’s “mini-me” right down to the platinum blonde hair and the funny comments.

Mirette, along with her father, wanted to catch all the critters that roam in the warm desert climes, like tarantulas, lizards and scorpions. One evening, armed with a black light, a glass jar, and a pair of tongs, they went out searching for scorpions in my father-in-law’s half-acre backyard. They were not disappointed. They came to the back door with a scorpion as long as my index finger scurrying around the bottom of the jar. Under the black light he looked otherworldly.

Tassie asked London, “Do you want to see the scorpion?”

“No,” replied London without hesitation.

“Why not? Maybe we’ll take it back to Maine with us. Do you think we can tame it?”

London eyed her mother with a serious face. “I don’t want to tame it. I want to kill it.”

Out of the mouth of babes…

Most of us in Arizona don’t go swimming in our pools until May because the water is still too cold for us, but they swam almost everyday in the brisk water as if it were as warm as bathwater. I had to heat up the hot tub before I got in. We took them out on the boat and pulled them on the tube. They had on life jackets and wetsuits to keep them warm, but I don’t think really needed them. They begged me to go on the tube with them, but I lasted about thirty seconds. After one spill, I got back in the boat.

A couple of days before they left, a good friend of mine took them up flying. It was another perfect spring day in Arizona with a clear blue sky stretching to the desert floor. After takeoff, each of them got a chance at the controls. My sister was so nervous her hands were shaking, but Brie took to it like a natural. It gave them a new perspective. When they landed, they told me it was the most fun thing all week.

We played games and talked about politics, good books, and movies, but not necessarily in that order. We ate a lot of good food, but we especially liked the way Randy cooked and prepared vegetables. We tried to convert him to dessert, but he continued to resist our temptations (oh well, more for us). It was like catching up on the experiences of a lifetime in one week’s time.

It was another beautiful spring day in Arizona when Tassie and her family piled into their minivan and headed for my other sister’s house in Los Angeles. We all hugged goodbye, and we wished them a safe a journey. It had been a wonderful week full of love and excitement. I may have the cried the night Tassie arrived, but this time I cried inside when I watched her, and her family, leave.

The other day I pulled an old box of souvenirs from a shelf in my closet. My daughter needed a few things for a school presentation, but in addition to the items she needed, I found an old journal of mine.

The pages were yellowing and exuded that musty smell that only comes from the pages of a dusty old book. I thumbed through the various entries I penned over thirty years ago, and it brought back a flood of emotion. I felt all of the anxiety and uncertainty associated with those first few years when you leave home. I read about fun times with friends, trouble with school, and the roller coaster of emotions caused by relationships. I read through my struggles as a missionary and all the people that touched my life. Some of it made me laugh. Some of it made me cry. Some of it needs to be ripped from the journal and burned before anyone else reads it.

On my twentieth birthday, I was in Carmelo, a small coastal town in Uruguay, serving as a missionary, and Branch President. Based on my entries, I was struggling under a heavy load, and very inexperienced at life. On March 6, 1983, I wrote, “Time is a real paradox; you never have enough, yet there is always a little to kill.” As I turn fifty, I couldn’t agree more. Time is an irreplaceable commodity that we often misuse.

Each decade of my life has been full of challenges and accomplishments. As I turned twenty, I was concerned about choosing the right path for my life. As I turned thirty, I was concerned about providing and caring for the children entrusted to my care. When I turned forty, I didn’t know what to expect. I worried that it might all be downhill from there. Now that I have finished my forties, I must admit that they were good years. It was a decade of accomplishment.

Since I turned forty  –

My wife and I adopted two daughters from Russia. When you are driving down the street with your former enemies’ castaways seated comfortably in your new minivan, you won that war.

I bought and paid off a new minivan – not exactly a small feat if you have priced minivans lately.

I ran two marathons. I might have run a couple more, but I got sidetracked with the adoption and back surgery.

I survived a serious back injury and back surgery. I don’t help people move any more, even though I have a truck.

I bought and paid for a new truck. It wasn’t quite as expensive as the minivan, but then again the minivan can’t pull a boat.

I bought a boat. Well, everyone is entitled to a mid-life crisis in their forties. The boat is a beautiful red and black, and it was much cheaper than the mistress, and subsequent divorce that follows. Besides, I share the boat with some great friends.

I made a lot of new friends, and strengthened old friendships. That is not an easy task for a guy that travels for a living and prefers to be alone, but I managed to make friends with some of the best people in the world. I think it’s because of my very friendly wife.

I stayed married to the same woman. Judging from all the sad divorces I have witnessed, I would say that staying married wasn’t an easy task. Unfortunately, I would attribute most of the marital bumps in our road to my personality.

I struggled with the same weaknesses that have plagued me for years. I would like to say that I have overcome many of them, but then I would have to add lying to my list of weaknesses. I still struggle with anger, selfishness, jealousy, and sometimes I allow myself to slip into a state of melancholy. I continue to work on my weaknesses.

I took piano lessons and learned to play basic songs on the piano, but then promptly gave it up for a new hobby that captured my passion.

I started writing. Out of arrogance, I decided that I would write a novel. Who knew how difficult that would be? As of this blog, I haven’t published a novel, but I have written two manuscripts that are being shopped around. I did manage to publish a couple of small essays.

I started this blog. It has been fun and interesting putting my thoughts out there for the world to see. I have been cautious about baring too much of my soul, but I have enjoyed sharing bits of my life through this unique forum.

When I was twenty, forty seemed so far away, and I was certain that the best years of my life would be behind me by my fortieth birthday. Most of my fears about my forties were unfounded, and I look back on the journal entries of my twenty-something self and laugh. My forties were good years. I think of all the decades I have lived so far, I would prefer to repeat my forties more than any other decade.

Now that I am turning fifty, I recognize even more that time is a precious commodity. If I’m going to kill time, I want to work it to death while engaged in some cause worthy of the seconds, minutes, and hours that I will never regain.

“Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.” Kurt Vonnegut

I have been writing this blog for two years now. I have no particular theme or slant. I have written essays from the heart and sprinkled in a few short stories. I started out writing two blogs a month, but then thinned it out to one per month because, frankly, I had less to say, and I didn’t want to waste your time with drivel.

As a commercial pilot, the best adjective I can use to describe a successful day is – uneventful. Nothing out of the ordinary happened. I didn’t have to deal with any life-threatening emergency. Everyone behaved. The weather cooperated. Eventful days are the days when things go awry, and I really earn my money. I prefer the uneventful days.

I can’t say that I prefer an uneventful life.

So, here I sit at my computer trying to come up with a blog for February, but nothing is coming to me because January was, you guessed it, uneventful. That’s not to say the nothing happened. We rang in the New Year. I earned my wage with several uneventful days at work. I changed burnt out light bulbs and made the usual household repairs. I went to soccer games, volleyball games, and school events. I enjoyed birthday parties, and social events with friends. I had long talks with my children, and meaningful conversations with my wife. I dealt with the drama of daily life. My calendar was quite full, but for the most part the month was uneventful.

So, where does that leave this blog? Do I waste your time describing an uneventful month?

I recently read a novella titled, “A Short Stay in Hell” by Steven L. Peck. It was an intriguing story where the protagonist dies and finds himself in a special type of hell. He is sent to the Library of Babel, as described in the classic short story by Jorge Luis Borges. It is a vast library that contains one authentic volume perfectly describing each person’s life, along with all the possible variants. It doesn’t sound like such an expansive library, but when you do the math the minimum number of books looks something this – 25^1,312,000.  Based on the average size of a book, the Library of Babel could contain enough books to fill the entire known universe.

The protagonist could leave hell the moment he found the volume that accurately depicted his life. Accurately meaning that it included all the events and had no errors (misprints, misspelled words, incomplete sentences). He was immortal and could take as long as he needed to find the book. Since there was a finite number of books, and he had unlimited time, theoretically, he would eventually find the book and be released from hell. The only problem is that most of the books were full of gibberish, and with that many books on the shelves, that’s a universe full of nonsense.

So what do an uneventful January and the Library of Babel have in common?

The truth is that if we wrote down all of the menial daily events in our lives, much of our book would be filled with pages of insignificant sentences, and paragraphs of empty prose. Who would want to read about every banal act of living? Do you care about my struggle to balance my budget or keep the yard clean? Why would you care to review how I cleaned the kitchen or disinfected the kid’s bathroom? What a snoozer it would be if the book only contained the tale of toil that makes up our daily lives. Like the books in the Library of Babel, our lives can easily be filled with gibberish.

So we press forward everyday, wading through the waters of banality hoping for something eventful. At the same time we fear the unknown lurking beneath that water, and we refuse to plunge into the deep waters of the extraordinary.

Will we accomplish anything today worth reading about a hundred, a thousand, or a million years from now, or will the story of our life be like one of the books in the Library of Babel full of random characters without meaning? How do we put together at least one complete sentence in the story of our life that will stand for eternity?

The other day I bought cinnamon rolls at the supermarket. When the grey-haired gentleman bagging my groceries stuffed the rolls into the bag he said, “My wife used to make these all the time.” I could see tears in his eyes. I could only assume from his age, and the emotion he displayed over the rolls, that his dear wife had passed and left him alone. Would you consider a story about a woman cooking her husband cinnamon rolls significant enough to read? It doesn’t seem like much, but it was enough to evoke deep emotion from the man.

My wife has taught me to value relationships more than things. Admittedly, I have been a slow learner. If we want to fill the book of our life with anything other than gibberish, it must include paragraphs of daring dialogue, pages of shared human experiences, and chapters about our service to others. The only words that will give the prose from our book any lasting meaning, are the words we write in the tablets of the heart.

If we want an eventful life filled with meaning, we must nurture relationships with our fellow human beings. After a thousand years the only sentences that will carry any meaning, are the ones we wrote with the ink of love upon the pages of friendship. This Valentine’s Day write one complete sentence in your life’s book filled with words, and deeds, of love that will stand the test of time.

It was clear winter night with a sliver of a moon and the visibility from thirty-seven thousand feet was a hundred miles. Both the Big Dipper and Orion hung bright in the sky, and I felt like if I stared into that starry sky hard enough, I could look into God’s eyes. But instead, my emotions pulled me, and my gaze, earthward. I was passing over Kentucky.

Years ago I read a science fiction short story by Philip José Farmer that I have never forgotten. The crew of an experimental starship manages to exit the outer boundary of our universe only to find other “universes” floating in space. When they realize where they are, it takes everything in them not to panic from the homesick feeling that overcomes them.  He wrote - “It takes a special type of man or woman to lose himself from Earth or his native planet, to go out among the stars so far that the natal sun is not even a faint glimmer. It also takes special conditioning for the special type of man. He has to believe, in the deepest part of his unconscious, that his ship is a piece of Mother Earth. He has to believe; otherwise, he goes to pieces.”

No matter how far we go. No matter how high we fly. No matter the distance through time or space. We always anchor ourselves in a singular reference – Home.

We were travelling west and our flight path took us just south of Lexington, almost over the top of Elizabethtown. Off to my left the lights of Nashville beckoned, as they have beckoned to many a dreamy-eyed singer hoping for country-music fame. On my right the lights of Louisville and all its commerce filled the horizon. A ribbon of highway full of headlights and taillights connected the two cities. My eyes were looking for the lights of the truck stop on I-65 not far from the farm where my parents still live.

A strange feeling gripped me as I followed the lights and zeroed in on the farm. I felt like a little child standing in front of the living room window with his nose against the glass as the ice cream truck ambles by. I felt like the child at the school bus window as he watches his mother wave goodbye and disappear from sight. I felt like the lonely college student stuck on campus during the holidays because he didn’t have enough money to go home. I felt like the soldier deployed to a far away land staring at the horizon wondering about his family. I felt like the tourist on vacation that even amidst all the fun and revelry, suddenly feels empty. Yes, we have all felt that feeling, and even after all these years of traveling for a living, I was homesick.

Homesick is a funny word. It almost sounds like you are sick of home, which is the feeling that most teenagers feel as they approach the age of maturity and can’t wait to get away from home. Or maybe a sickness has invaded the home. Using the word “sick” leads one to believe that it is an actual illness. Judging from the feeling in my stomach that night, I would describe it as a sick feeling indeed. Interestingly enough, it is a sickness for which there is no cure. You can suppress it, distract it, and work it to death, but you can’t eradicate that feeling. You can temporarily suspend it by going home, but as soon as you leave the comfort of your home, the deadly disease comes right back. Homesickness simply has no cure.

Within a matter of minutes we crossed the Mississippi river and put Kentucky behind us.

I sat there pondering the nature of our modern society and the speed at which it moves. With a click of a button we can connect to thousands, perhaps even millions, of people all over the world. We can share a snapshot of our life and display it for anyone, and everyone, to see right from the palm of our hand. In a matter of hours, not days, we can cross the globe in relative comfort and ease. We rush from place to place in planes, trains and automobiles always trying to arrive somewhere. We seem to have this incredible itch to move and connect that can never be satisfied.

A while later on the same flight, we passed just north of the little town of Burkburnett, Texas. Once again I followed the lights of the highways and streets and could barely pick out the first house my wife and I built. That feeling of homesickness came right back, but this time I was sick for the family she and I had made together. I thought about the memories of that house in north Texas, and all the other houses we have lived in. I thought about all the birthday parties, family dinners, school functions, sporting events, and trips to the emergency room. I got the overwhelming sensation that I was detached from life and watching it from a distance. Homesickness has no cure.

I was nervous when I got out the big ladder and prepared to climb up on the roof. It had been several years since I had ventured up there to put up Christmas lights, and the last time I went up there, I broke a tile. I’m not afraid of heights, but I’m not too keen about falling. I had on a new pair of running shoes with lots of grip when I climbed up the ladder and shimmied onto the roof over the garage.

For several years I let my older boys do all the work on the roof. That made me nervous too, but I figured they were much more nimble than I was, and besides they are young and recover from injury much more quickly. Last year I paid the kids to put up the lights. They needed the money, and I didn’t really have time to get them up. This year I had a few days off before Thanksgiving and decided to tackle the job myself.

I made the first trip to Lowe’s and got replacement lights, but when I got home, my wife informed me that she wanted to change out all of our Christmas lights. Back I went to Lowe’s, but I was smart enough to insist that she come along and pick out the lights. (I’m not a newlywed.) She picked out multicolored LED lights for the house, and color-coordinated lights for the trees. I couldn’t see it working out that well, but I saluted smartly and paid for the lights.

I decided to tackle the lower lights first. I got up the first section and turned them on. They weren’t as bright as I thought they were going to be, but after consulting with the wife, I pressed on. That’s when I realized that I was going to be short some fasteners and went back Lowe’s for more. Of course, they were out of the fasteners I needed. I headed to Home Depot, and thankfully, I found them. So after four trips to the store, I was ready to climb up on the roof.

It was late afternoon when I tiptoed across the tile roof and got into position to hang the upper lights. The weather was perfect – no breeze, clear skies, and seventy degrees. All of you living in Northern climates, eat your heart out. I strung out the lights and started hanging them on the upper eaves of the house, carefully watching my foot placement and avoiding the edges of the roof. After a few minutes I got comfortable, but as soon as I realized that I was comfortable, I made myself get nervous again. Complacency kills. I didn’t want my gravestone reading, “Died while hanging Christmas lights.”

 A funny thing happened while I was up there on my roof. Neighbors began to stop and talk to me as if I were standing in my front yard. Now, I live on a street akin to Mayberry, or maybe Beaver Cleaver’s neighborhood. So, it isn’t uncommon to see people out in their front yards prattling on about life, but I guess I never expected it to happen while I was hanging out up on the roof of my house.

One neighbor and I chatted about the recent election and gun sales, two things that seem unrelated, yet are not. Another stopped and related a story from his recent mission trip to Ghana to build a school. I was fascinated and moved by his compassion, but I was more impressed by the response of the people he helped. It made me realize how ungrateful I am for modern conveniences. Another neighbor stopped and talked to me about his job and invited me to check out their new facility (an aircraft maintenance hangar). I visited with the neighbor kids across the street while they jumped on the trampoline. People waved and greeted me as they went to the mailbox, or took their dogs for a walk. It was like being on the roof made me more accessible, or friendly, or maybe they were just worried that I would fall and they wanted to make sure their last words to me were friendly ones.

In spite of all the friendly interruptions, I managed to hang all the lights on the upper roofline and climb down without breaking any tiles or falling off. As the darkness approached, I stood in the street and admired the lights. The color scheme my wife picked out was perfect. The lights, although simple, brought the holiday spirit. I have to admit I enjoyed getting up on the roof this year. I especially liked how it attracted passing neighbors, and wondered if maybe I should get up there more often.

My experience on the roof reminded me of the scripture from Matthew, “What I tell you in darkness, that speak ye in light: and what ye hear in the ear, that preach ye upon the housetops.” (Matthew 10:27) The colorful lights weren’t the reason for the season. I went to the garage and pulled out my favorite part of the decorations – the nativity scene. I fixed the spotlight over the nativity scene, centered it on the baby Jesus, and illuminated a depiction of the most important birth in the history of mankind.

Merry Christmas!