A Morning With My Dad

I woke up early for some quiet time with God. It’s always calming and serene for me to take in His Word while the pre-dawn sun is making its way through the trees and the birds are gloriously announcing the arrival of the day with their chirps. My view from the patio of Jeff and Lindsey’s pool house is of Georgia pines, tall and majestic and waving ever so slightly in the morning breeze.

It was an inspiring morning, and after having spent time in prayer and reflection with my Heavenly Father, I decided to spend some time with my biological father. The time spent was metaphorical as I took to cleaning and organizing his old Craftsman toolbox. In it was a visual cacophony of wrenches. Open-ended, closed-ended, ratchet, in both inches and millimeters; the task of sorting all the hardware was not a simple one.


But as I dove into the task, I found myself taking a trip back in time to when my dad attempted to apprentice me in all things do-it-yourself. Keep in mind my father was a good instructor. Unfortunately, he found in me a clumsy and uninterested student. Still, I remember playing the role of his assistant on many occasions. Passing my dad the right wrench. Having to run to the toolshed for a different screwdriver. Going into the house to refill my dad’s cup of water.

I wish I had paid closer attention to what my dad was trying to teach me. I’m moderately handy, but light years away from the handyman my father was. Still, this morning was not about my skillsets, past or present. This morning was about time with my dad. A time I will always have whenever I use one of the million wrenches he left me.


Lucky 13

Thirteen years ago today, my son Daniel came into this world. It’s been an interesting journey, watching him grow from being a little boy into the young man he is today. Although he is my second child, there is something wholly unique about having a son (in much the same way the relationship I share with my daughter is wholly unique).

With Danny, I see so much I want for him in terms of providing the right guidance in his life. With all apologies for the stereotypes, there’s a sense of recklessness towards which the male species tends to gravitate, and when I look at my son, one of my first thoughts is to ensure his is a restrained recklessness. My other thought is to ensure that his dependence is not on me or his mother, but rather on God.

I used to fill my thoughts with regards to my son with things like where will he go to college or what type of person will he marry or will he be successful in his career. I used to fall back on the cliché of, “as long as he’s healthy and happy.” That is still true for the most part. Bet when it comes to my kids, so long as they are right with God, everything else will fall into place.

Specific to my son, I understand it’s my responsibility to lead by example. If I want my son to be a man of God, then I need to be one first and foremost. I’ve written before about my faith journey and how much I’ve grown spiritually in the last five years. I am confident that I am setting a good example for Daniel, and I pray that he views me as a role model when it comes to having a relationship in and with Christ.

Thirteen is a milestone for kids. I don’t know if it’s as big for girls as it is for boys – I think girls have their eyes set on fifteen or sixteen, depending on the culture in which they’re raised – but I remember turning thirteen as being a big deal for me. Teenager. No longer a ‘little kid’. Rather an adolescent on the path to manhood. Being thirteen was a fun age for me, and I pray it’s equally filled with excellent memories for my son.

The number 13 gets a bad rap in terms of luck and superstition. I’m sure that won’t be the case for my little young man.

Happy birthday, Danny.








Birthdays and Memories

January 27, 1933. That’s the day my dad was born. In a hospital somewhere in Colorado Springs, my grandparents welcomed their fifth child into the world.

My dad would have been 81 years-old today. He passed away almost 10 years ago, and I can’t help but wonder what he would think of today’s times. In many ways, my father was a simpleton. A stereotypical blue collar man, he was both amazed by advances in technology yet at the same time not very impressed. Whenever I would introduce him to something new – I always think back to how he reacted to volume control buttons on a steering wheel – my father would respond with a very canned and dorky, “that’s cool, man.” I never could figure out if it was a flicker of whatever small, child-like innocence remained in him, or his coy way of being sarcastic.

I sit and contrast both our lives. How different my life as a grown man (allegedly) is from his. I’m weeks away from turning 41, and I have a son in middle school and a daughter in high school (whom I swear is itching today to move off to college). At 41, my my dad had two toddlers from his second marriage. Call me selfish, but I can’t imagine being my age and having to deal with baby stuff, especially in an era of non-disposable diapers.

I think about how my dad would drive me every weekday to football practice. I had no appreciation for that level of commitment, both in time and money. I have no idea what he did to pass the time while I sweated away on the fields. I don’t know what he did to entertain himself all those hot, Fall afternoons in Miami. What I do know is that he did it selflessly because he knew how much I loved playing football.

I contrast it to my life now, and it’s such a crazy juxtaposition. Now I’m the one that is shuttling my kids back and forth to practice. Except, I’m killing time by sitting in my air conditioned car, composing this blog post on my Samsung Chromebook, while connected to the Internet via my mobile phone, while listening to Mozart Piano Quartet #1 on satellite radio. I think my father’s head would have exploded if I tried to explain that all to him (although I think he would’ve been very proud about the classical music part).

I can’t believe it’s been nearly a decade since my father was called home to Heaven. I remember the pain of the first couple of days following his passing. The notion of how surreal it was to no longer have him around. Now, although I still ache for his companionship and I still long to have one more conversation with him, I also know that he is with me always. He’s with me in the wisdom he imparted and the lessons he taught me when I was a child. He’s with me in my interactions with my kids. In many ways, I’ve become him: the stubborn and thick-headed man who is really a push-over deep down inside.

I used to look back at the absence brought by my father’s death and feel only sorrow. Now I look back and feel gratitude for the great fortune of having that man as my father. I look at the blessing it is to have the parents I have, and hope that someday my kids will feel the same way about me.

Thanks for laying the foundation you did with me, dad, and for directing me to be the man I am today. You are forever missed, and I am forever thankful to you and to mom. Happy birthday, dad. I love you. 


The Legacy Project

My father was not a wealthy man. Quite the opposite. He and my mother put my brother and me through twelve years of private school, and gave us both the opportunity to attend college. When my father passed away, there was no inheritance to be had, at least not financially speaking. My father did, however, leave me with a treasure chest full of pearls of wisdom, life lessons learned while working at his side as he tackled project after project around the house. I wasn’t just his son, I was his apprentice. And to this day, I still get to surprise my wife from time to time by displaying just how handy I can be.

When it comes time for me to pass on, I don’t know what I will leave my two children. Hopefully, there will be a small nest-egg they can use as they see fit. But more importantly, I hope they get to look back at their childhood and the time we spent together with the same wonder, awe, and admiration that I am able to with my childhood.

It is true that fathers and sons have different relationships than do fathers and daughters. As a dad, I want my daughter to see me as understanding and patient. Less rugged and more comforting. She’s fourteen and very well into that phase of needing daddy less and less. With my son, we still rough-house. We sit and play video games. He farts and hopes I don’t notice. I fart and grin when he does.

Back in 2012, Lee and I attended the local Renaissance Festival. It was fun and interesting ….. and interesting, but we were both captivated by the handmade, leather-bound journals a vendor had for sale. They were a must have. We each bought a small journal. Lee used hers for decor on one of our display cases. I was still unsure about the purpose of mine.

Journal 1

A couple of weeks later, Lee and I were talking about our grand plans once my son, the youngest, graduates from high school in 2019. With nothing necessitating us to remain in the New Tampa area, we explored our options. Move to downtown St. Pete? Move to Key West? Move to Costa Rica? I was sitting at my desk and I glanced at the journal from the festival. Then it hit me. I knew for what I was going to use it!

I decided I would capture some wisdom, encouragement, and inspiration in the pages of the journal. Over the course of the next seven years, I would record favorite quotes and Bible verses. Then, when my son graduated from high school, I would give it to him as a resource on which to lean as he ventures off into college. Thus the Legacy Project was born.

Journal 2

I’ve been at it off and on. Some days I’ll fill three pages with handwritten notes and quotes. Other times weeks will pass with nothing new added. I know I have time, but I also know I have a PhD in procrastination, and as of late it seems the years go by in a blink. So I am sharing this project with you in hopes that you can provide me with some of your favorite quotes, Bible passages, and words of wisdom. I would love to fill the pages of this journal not only with my thoughts, but also with the thoughts of a universal community bound together and forever growing tighter in this digital age.

So if your up for being part of the road map I hope my son will follow when he’s eighteen, please feel free to leave your feedback in the comments section below. After all, it take a village, right?

Journal 4

The Lighthouse

I was filling out a survey today, and I was asked for my demographic information. I was asked to place a checkmark in the box for the range in which my age fell. It was the second to last of five boxes. The thought that ran through my head: “Oh crap I’m getting old!”

With that came an avalanche of other thoughts, all of them having to do with the fact that time continues to press forward no matter how much I want it all to slow down. This includes the continued maturation of my daughter, and the corresponding realization that in less than four years she will be off to college.

I am sure all parents go through those moments of anxious panic at the idea that your little loved ones will soon leave the proverbial nest to live their own lives, and like me, I am sure no parent is ever really ready for their departure.

As much as I have confidence in the young adult my daughter has grown up to be, I still have to pause when I allow myself to think of everything that’s out there in that big, bad world of ours. Yet I know what I must do is place it all in God’s hands and be an undeniable truth in the life of my daughter.

I need to make sure she knows that no matter where she goes or what she decides or who she grows up to be, my love for her will never diminish. I need to make sure she holds as a positive certainty the fact she can always count on me.

With that, I give you the poem that was born out of this moment of panic.


In the darkness of your unexplored world stands a lighthouse

Less remarkable with each passing year

Weathered … beaten down by the crashing waves and the salt spray

It’s shone it’s light bright for you

From your very first voyage, a casual perusal in the harbor

To your treks of discovery, each one taking you further and further from port

Now, as you prepare to escape the confines of the bay

And explore the vastness of the mysterious yet exciting seas

Your lighthouse remains prepared

Diligent … Steadfast …. Anxious

What storms may come? What weather may weigh down your sails?

Your course is uncharted, each direction a new opportunity

Each decision a tightrope walk between failure and success

Yet through it all, your compass remains true

A constant unmoved by the chaos that is ready to attack at a moment’s notice

Through it all, your lighthouse shines bright to help guide you through the unknown

To help you see when you cannot

To warn you of the danger that lies ahead

And to greet you with open arms as you find your way back home


The Outlier (W@HBC Day 4)

Some of my notes and thoughts from attending Wild at Heart Boot Camp – August 18

In statistics there are outliers. An observation that is well outside of the expected range of values in a study or experiment, and which is often discarded from the data set (Dictionary.com). This weekend, it was very apparent the statistical norm for most men is a sense of fatherlessness in their lives. Dads that are absent because their careers are more important, or dads that are brutal and abusive, or dads that are literally not present.

This reality can be summed up in a story that was shared at the retreat by presenter Morgan Snyder. A nun at a men’s prison had some extra Mother’s Day cards in her office. As word of this got out around the prison, there was a mad rush by the prisoners to get a card for their respective moms. The demand was so great, the nun reached out to Hallmark, and the greeting card company sent her additional inventory so the prisoners could send cards to their mothers. As Father’s Day approached, the nun once again reached out to Hallmark in anticipation of the demand for cards. Unfortunately, not one of the prisoners chose to send out a Father’s Day card.

I cannot relate to that. I cannot imagine life with a father like that, a father that would make me want to have nothing to do with him. I do not understand how men choose to separate their hearts from their children, especially their sons. All children need love and guidance as they grow. I know the love I have for my own kids flows from the love I received from my parents. Their sacrifice, devotion, and attention. My father went out of his way to tell me he loved me, even to the point I didn’t want to hear it anymore.

I am an outlier at this retreat, and I am blessed.

But just as my dad continually told me he loved me, our spiritual father is continuously telling us how much He loves us, even when we’ve gotten to the point of no longer wanting to listen. Even when the weight of the world feels heavy on our shoulders, God is throwing His love at us.

In an earthly sense, I may be an outlier because I was given an amazing dad. But in the spiritual sense, we are all given the gift of God’s love and grace. We just need to open our hearts to our Father’s calling.

“Even before he made the world, God loved us and chose us in Christ to be holy and without fault in his eyes. God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure.” Ephesians 1:4-5 (NLT)


My Struggle (W@HBC Day 2)

Some of my notes and thoughts from attending Wild at Heart Boot Camp – August 16

There is a lot of struggle at the core of the Wild at Heart Boot Camp. Much of that struggle deals with the issue of masculine abandonment from father to son. John Eldredge makes the following statement: Only masculinity can bestow masculinity. Even Jesus received this validation from his Father when he was baptized in the Jordan River.

And a voice from heaven said, “This is my Son, whom I love; with him I am well pleased.” – Matthew 3:17 (NIV)

The struggle I face is somewhat the opposite. One of the many blessings I’ve always maintained in my heart is that my father, as flawed as he was, always gave me love and validation. My dad was a short-tempered alcoholic, and even when he got sober – sober because his doctor told him, “You can keep drinking and die in six months, or you can stop drinking right now and watch your kids grow up” – my father always set the bar very high for my brother and me.

My dad pushed me to excel, but he never hesitated to tell me he loved me. I’ve sat and pondered, and I cannot recall a moment when my dad ever told me he was disappointed with me. Coming from a man who was abandoned by his own father at the age of fourteen, the fact my dad’s heart overflowed with love towards me is nothing short of a miracle.

As I wrote in the eulogy for my father, I can only hope to be half the dad to my kids as my father was to me. I look at the relationship I share with my son, and I pray that I am bestowing on my son the same love and validation my father gave to me. I like to think I am doing a good job, but I am also terrified that I will somehow mess up along the way. My journey with Christ is as much about setting true both my children’s hearts as it is about setting true my own.

ESPN personality Colin Cowherd says that once your kids get to the age of about thirteen or fourteen, you pretty much stop being a parent and you’re basically a consultant. Teens and pre-teens are going to do what they want, and I pray the foundation my ex-wife and I have laid out, along with the amazing job my wife has done in her role as step-mom, will allow my children to make good and sound decisions in their lives.

Going forward, I hope I can ‘consult’ for my children by living a life they wish to model. I hope to live a life centered in God’s love, rooted in His truth, and reflective of His amazing grace towards everyone. By being the best Christ follower I can be, I know I am doing what I can to be the best father I can be.


Dan & Me

Daddies and Daughters (and Heartbreak)

I’ve had my heart broken, my world shattered, my dreams extinguished in the blink of an eye. I’ve felt the hollowness of failure; the lung-gripping stranglehold at the realization that everything of which I was sure turned out to be false. It was the worse feeling in my life, and it was a pain I thought never could be surpassed.

I was wrong.

It’s become very apparent to me that as my daughter continues to grow-up and mature into a young adult, as she continues to scream for independence and long for adulthood, my place in her life continues to diminish. With every shrug of the shoulders and with every roll of her eyes, the chasm between us grows greater.

“I don’t need you. You’re so boring. I’m so embarrassed. You’re not funny (or interesting or .. whatever).” She doesn’t say these words, but she doesn’t have to. My daughter’s eyes and body language yell it for her.

There was a time when the hugs were never-ending. The smiles were iridescent. The look in her eyes was one of love and wonderment and joy. I am sure she still feels those emotions, but not as a result of seeing or being with me. Now it’s celebrity crushes and her life on Instagram. It’s hanging out with her friends and shopping for clothes that leave me questioning whether they’re appropriate or I’m just an old man with dated sensibilities.

And she’s only thirteen.

Like a truck rolling downhill without breaks, the void between me and the little woman that used to be my baby girl will continue to gain momentum. Whereas now I’m a footnote to her daily life, over the next six to ten years, I think I’ll be lucky to be a mere afterthought.

She continues to take in new experiences. She continues to view life through the evolving eyes of an adolescent that can see womanhood far off in the horizon. She continues to grow, her once tiny hands now too big for me to maintain being wrapped around her finger.

And as for me, I thought I knew what heartbreak felt like. As usual, I was wrong.

I know the correct thing to do is to give her the freedom and independence she so desperately craves, still maintaining boundaries and being there to course-correct as needed. But I must allow her to navigate these new waters on her own, a direction having been provided by the previous thirteen years of parenting, but now with her hands at the helm and not mine.

Somewhere in my heart I know that in time my daughter will once again incorporate me into her day-to-day. That’s the way it happens, right? We rebel. We know better. We live life, only to realize our parents were right all along. That’s how it happened for me at least, and I know I still struggle with having the type of relationship with my mom I can only assume she wanted to have with me from the beginning.

So here I sit, a tear in my eye and a heaviness in my heart, as I force myself to learn to let go of that little girl that was, and stand in the background for the young woman that is. I sit here with my heart broken …. broken by the one person who captured it from the very second she was born.

And such is Fatherhood.

096/365 Setting the Standard

I’ve written before about how I feel my vocation in life is to be an exceptional father. It’s something I feel I am blessed to be able to recognize as the calling that God wants me to follow.

That being said, I know I continue to stumble along the way as a dad. Not every moment is perfect, but I like to think I am not only doing the best I can, but also getting better at it every day.

As a blogger, one of the most fun things about writing is reading other bloggers’ work, connecting with them online, and engaging with them as part of this cyber-community. Through my growth group at church, I was introduced to the writing of Courtney Peterson. She happens to be the daughter of Renee and Mark Peterson, the couple who host our growth group every week in their home.

In perusing Courtney’s awesome work, I came across a post she wrote for Father’s Day last year. It left me speechless, and I immediately new THAT was my new standard for being a dad. It’s tough to measure or quantify your success as a parent, but if you have your child write you something like Courtney did for her dad, then you know you’ve done something amazingly right.

So to commend my friend Mark, I creepily stole ‘borrowed’ a picture from his Facebook of him with his daughter Courtney. Well done, Mr. Peterson. Well done indeed!


Panic Time

Random Writers: Write about the last time you listened to the sound of your own breathing.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

The sound of my heart is deafening as I sit and wait.

“C’mon. C’MON!”

My hands slapped the steering wheel out of frustration as the driver in front of me, lost in her own digital iWorld, didn’t notice the red turn arrow was now green, and we both missed our opportunity to make the turn.

Another 90 seconds I won’t get back as I have to sit here and watch car after car go by, each individual one step closer to their destination while I sit here like a prisoner in solitary confinement just itching to get out.

The anxiety weighs on me like the gravity on Jupiter. I think about the look on her face and I feel nauseas. Her words ring in my ears with that pitchy whine that discloses the depth of her disappointment.

“But I told you not to forget!” A tear escapes her eye and serves as an emphatic exclamation point to the emotion spilling out of her. An emotion for which I am the cause.

This fucking light. This fucking traffic. This fucking construction. I look for places and things towards which I can channel my blame. Targets to be the recipients of my anger. But I know the blame is all mine, and I can only be angry at myself.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

Louder, harder, and faster now. I take a deep breath, exhaling in frustration with a sound that seems to roar like a 747 upon takeoff. I’m reminded how the last time I listened to my own breathing, I was meditating and reflecting, lost in my own introspection as I prepared to communicate with God. There is no reason to relax now, although I am conversing with God, and the conversation is furiously one-sided.

“Please let me get back on time. Please. PLEASE!”

I’ve prided myself on being the dad that always comes through. Always being there when my baby girl needed me. Having forethought and being proactive, so much so that I could anticipate my daughter’s needs and deliver a solution before she could even ask for one.

But that’s not the case right now. Right now, I’m just trying to dig myself out of the hole I created with my own negligence.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

Green arrow. My foot slams on the accelerator. My inner nerd yells, “Punch it, Chewie!” I might have a chance just yet.

As I race back into my house, picking up the bag of my daughter’s soccer gear, the gear she needs to play goalie for her middle school team, the bag she told me ad nasueum NOT to forget, I glance at my watch and do some quick math.

Twenty-seven minutes. That’s plenty of time to get back to the field. Even in this traffic. Even with this construction. Even with these idiots and the precious little iWorld they inhabit.

My breaths are now short and rhythmic pants that escape my lungs with the fluidity of a Native American dancing around a camp fire. My heartbeat provides the percussion that augments her dance.

“I still have time. I can do this.”

It appears God has listened to my selfish pleas. Like the Red Sea before Moses, the traffic ahead of me seems to move out of my way. My temptation to drive faster is tempered by the fleeting moment of reason that reminds me a speeding ticket would result with 100% certainty my failing to make up for my previous error.

I pull into the parking lot and find a spot, and although I do so in a sane and normal fashion, in my head it plays out like a scene from an action movie. Tires squealing, my truck threatening to tip over from the 180 degree, stunt-driver move I just completed. Nothing to see except a dazzling cloud of white smoke, out from which I explode in brilliant Baywatch slow motion, my daughter’s soccer bag clutched firmly in my hand.

I race to the field. My daughter is standing. Waving. Waiting.

Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.

I extend out my arm, handing her the bag, and casting away the shackles of kryptonite that sucked away my Super Dad powers the previous hour. Triumphant once again, I await a rambunctious and enthused response from my daughter, one filled with joy and appreciation. One that would erase the disappointment I bestowed upon her, and restore me back to the pantheon of greatness in my daughter’s eyes.

With barely a glance and a shrug of the shoulders, my daughter simultaneously grabs the bag and proceeds to run in the opposite direction, much like the sprinter on a relay team would accept the baton from her teammate. I faintly make out my daughter saying, “Thanks, daddy.”

I hear the sound of my breathing once again.