Let Me Have Christmas!
It was one of the most unusual funerals I ever conducted. The deceased woman had converted to Judaism when she married her Jewish husband. He had long since died and as she grew older she had a strong desire to return to the Christian faith of her youth--and she did. I took her confession in a hospital room and we cried together tears of joy.
But her family connections were now strongly Jewish and I was asked to share the funeral with a young rabbi.
He called me and very bluntly said, “You know, if you mention Jesus at the memorial service you will offend the Jewish people present."
"Could you just do your eulogy and leave Jesus out?" he almost demanded.
Of course, I replied that what he was asking of me was impossible. I couldn't preach a sermon, I couldn't offer a eulogy, I couldn't even pray a prayer without mentioning Jesus! To be honest, I was a much more worried about offending God by not talking about His Son! To make a long story short, we compromised. I preached the funeral (and talked about Jesus) and the he did the graveside service (and talked about death).
I have a few words for the ACLU, the Jewish community, the Muslim community, the public school administrators, and anyone else up in arms about the Christian emphasis at Christmas time: we Christians have feelings and rights, too! I find myself totally offended when you suggest I can't talk about Jesus or put on display the symbols representing His birth at this season of the year.
When my religious freedom and yours clash in this country, it would seem that compromise is in order. I will make you a deal. If you will let me rejoice and celebrate Christ's birth at Christmas, I won't say a word about your overt acts of religiosity on Hanukkah, Ramadan, or Kwanzaa.
Go ahead. Light a candle. Take a pilgrimage. Chant a mantra. Put up a star of David or erect a statue of Buddha. It's a free country. But in the name of fairness, let me have Christmas!---Phil LeMaster
Thursday, December 08, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
My Tobacco Role
The summer before my first year of college, I worked for the Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service (ASCS) office in Lewis County, Kentucky, doing a job that no longer exists. It was back in the days when tobacco allotments were distributed by acreage rather than by pounds, requiring surveyors to measure each plot to be sure that farmers weren’t growing too much. That was my job and I crisscrossed the county that summer of 1966, going up hills and hollows, paying visits on farmers and their burley crops.
It was an interesting job and helped to teach me quite a bit about human nature. All the farmers that summer knew exactly what their allotment size was and most had gone to the trouble to carefully plan their planting. These fields were blissfully trouble-free for the surveyor, with straight rows and squared ends that made my job easy. When I came upon such a tract, I almost always knew that the calculations I made at the end of the job would indicate that the amount of tobacco planted and the allotment allowed were precisely the same.
But there were some fields that were not that way. The rows were less than straight and the ends were uneven. Sometimes the lay of the land dictated such a pattern, but often it seemed that the farmer had just thrown the tobacco plants in the air and let them take root where they landed!
I hated measuring such fields. It was my job to square them up on paper and produce a consistent pattern that would translate into a measurable plot. To be honest, sometimes it required a great deal of imagination to make sense out of such haphazard and careless planting. Invariably, I would find that most of farmers with such fields never had a clue as to whether they were over or under their prescribed allotment allowance.
If they were under in their allotment, they were cheating themselves out of part of their crop and if they were over they would have a second visit from an ASCS employee. I would return (or another surveyor) to see them in an even less enjoyable role, that of the tobacco destroyer.
On this second visit, I was required to oversee their destruction of the excess part of their crop. I hated that phase of the job and, of course, farmers hated to see me return! To add insult to injury, they had to pay a pretty steep fee to ASCS to destroy their own tobacco.
My experience that hot, hazy summer over forty years ago really imitates life, doesn’t it? Some people plan their lives very carefully, knowing what the requirements are and taking great pains to establish the proper boundaries. As a result, the blessings from God flow. Other folks are careless and carefree, not putting much effort or intentionality into their life plan. The end result is that they cheat themselves out of the real joys of life and find themselves unprepared for the final day of reckoning (from PHILosophically Speaking, pages 139-142).
The summer before my first year of college, I worked for the Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service (ASCS) office in Lewis County, Kentucky, doing a job that no longer exists. It was back in the days when tobacco allotments were distributed by acreage rather than by pounds, requiring surveyors to measure each plot to be sure that farmers weren’t growing too much. That was my job and I crisscrossed the county that summer of 1966, going up hills and hollows, paying visits on farmers and their burley crops.
It was an interesting job and helped to teach me quite a bit about human nature. All the farmers that summer knew exactly what their allotment size was and most had gone to the trouble to carefully plan their planting. These fields were blissfully trouble-free for the surveyor, with straight rows and squared ends that made my job easy. When I came upon such a tract, I almost always knew that the calculations I made at the end of the job would indicate that the amount of tobacco planted and the allotment allowed were precisely the same.
But there were some fields that were not that way. The rows were less than straight and the ends were uneven. Sometimes the lay of the land dictated such a pattern, but often it seemed that the farmer had just thrown the tobacco plants in the air and let them take root where they landed!
I hated measuring such fields. It was my job to square them up on paper and produce a consistent pattern that would translate into a measurable plot. To be honest, sometimes it required a great deal of imagination to make sense out of such haphazard and careless planting. Invariably, I would find that most of farmers with such fields never had a clue as to whether they were over or under their prescribed allotment allowance.
If they were under in their allotment, they were cheating themselves out of part of their crop and if they were over they would have a second visit from an ASCS employee. I would return (or another surveyor) to see them in an even less enjoyable role, that of the tobacco destroyer.
On this second visit, I was required to oversee their destruction of the excess part of their crop. I hated that phase of the job and, of course, farmers hated to see me return! To add insult to injury, they had to pay a pretty steep fee to ASCS to destroy their own tobacco.
My experience that hot, hazy summer over forty years ago really imitates life, doesn’t it? Some people plan their lives very carefully, knowing what the requirements are and taking great pains to establish the proper boundaries. As a result, the blessings from God flow. Other folks are careless and carefree, not putting much effort or intentionality into their life plan. The end result is that they cheat themselves out of the real joys of life and find themselves unprepared for the final day of reckoning (from PHILosophically Speaking, pages 139-142).
Monday, July 18, 2011
He Is the Boss of Me!
After my freshman year at Kentucky Christian College, my brother Mike invited me to come to Galion, Ohio, where he and his family lived to look for summer work. Fortunately after only a couple of days of job hunting, I was hired by Urban Industries of Ohio, a company that manufactured awnings for mobile homes.
My first and only factory job, I was required to help roll panels, make screened windows, and assemble awning kits for shipping. Work began at 7 a.m., necessitating getting up at 5:45, a time of the morning that I had seldom seen in my teen-age years! The small factory had only about twenty workers, most of whom were rough on the edges and laced every sentence with profanity. My boss was Carl Snelcker, a tall, balding man in his late 50s, who said little except when he was chewing me out for the mistakes that I made. It took only about three weeks of work for me to conclude that I thoroughly hated the job.
Even though I had gone to college for a year, this was my first real experience away from home. I became increasingly homesick with every passing day. Before the first month of summer was over, I was ready to quit and go back to Kentucky.
But then one evening while reading the Bible and having my devotional time, I came upon a verse in the New Testament that changed my summer and my life. The verse was Colossians 3:23, where Paul wrote, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.”
It was almost like the words leaped off of the page and into my heart. God seemed to be saying to me, “Phil, you are not working for Urban Industries of Ohio. You are not working for Carl Snelcker. You are working for Me!” And, of course, this was true. I was earning money to go back to KCC so I could continue my training to become a minister of the Gospel. It suddenly struck me that any task or job that I endeavored to do deserved my best because my ultimate employer was God.
When I went back on the job the next morning, Urban Industries had an entirely new employee. I began to work at every task with the thought, “I am working for God. I need to do my very best.” And I did. When I wasn’t working at an assignment given to me by Carl Snelcker, I was sweeping up our work area, rearranging parts in their bins, or assembling extra kits. After a couple of weeks, I was even given a ten-cents an hour raise!
The summer flew by and soon it was time to go back to Kentucky. A younger brother, Rowland, had also worked that summer and worked well. I went to Carl Snelcker and told him that we would be leaving to go back to school at the end of the week. On our final day, he came to us and said, “I just want you boys to know that you will always have a job here if you want it.”
The lesson that I learned that summer of 1967 has blessed my life ever since. As a Christian, any endeavor I undertake in this world deserves my best because I am doing it ultimately for my Heavenly Father. Most of all, I want Him to be pleased with my effort. In the process of doing my best, I have also learned that life is a lot more fun!--Phil LeMaster (from PHILosophiclly Speaking, page 146-149)
After my freshman year at Kentucky Christian College, my brother Mike invited me to come to Galion, Ohio, where he and his family lived to look for summer work. Fortunately after only a couple of days of job hunting, I was hired by Urban Industries of Ohio, a company that manufactured awnings for mobile homes.
My first and only factory job, I was required to help roll panels, make screened windows, and assemble awning kits for shipping. Work began at 7 a.m., necessitating getting up at 5:45, a time of the morning that I had seldom seen in my teen-age years! The small factory had only about twenty workers, most of whom were rough on the edges and laced every sentence with profanity. My boss was Carl Snelcker, a tall, balding man in his late 50s, who said little except when he was chewing me out for the mistakes that I made. It took only about three weeks of work for me to conclude that I thoroughly hated the job.
Even though I had gone to college for a year, this was my first real experience away from home. I became increasingly homesick with every passing day. Before the first month of summer was over, I was ready to quit and go back to Kentucky.
But then one evening while reading the Bible and having my devotional time, I came upon a verse in the New Testament that changed my summer and my life. The verse was Colossians 3:23, where Paul wrote, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men.”
It was almost like the words leaped off of the page and into my heart. God seemed to be saying to me, “Phil, you are not working for Urban Industries of Ohio. You are not working for Carl Snelcker. You are working for Me!” And, of course, this was true. I was earning money to go back to KCC so I could continue my training to become a minister of the Gospel. It suddenly struck me that any task or job that I endeavored to do deserved my best because my ultimate employer was God.
When I went back on the job the next morning, Urban Industries had an entirely new employee. I began to work at every task with the thought, “I am working for God. I need to do my very best.” And I did. When I wasn’t working at an assignment given to me by Carl Snelcker, I was sweeping up our work area, rearranging parts in their bins, or assembling extra kits. After a couple of weeks, I was even given a ten-cents an hour raise!
The summer flew by and soon it was time to go back to Kentucky. A younger brother, Rowland, had also worked that summer and worked well. I went to Carl Snelcker and told him that we would be leaving to go back to school at the end of the week. On our final day, he came to us and said, “I just want you boys to know that you will always have a job here if you want it.”
The lesson that I learned that summer of 1967 has blessed my life ever since. As a Christian, any endeavor I undertake in this world deserves my best because I am doing it ultimately for my Heavenly Father. Most of all, I want Him to be pleased with my effort. In the process of doing my best, I have also learned that life is a lot more fun!--Phil LeMaster (from PHILosophiclly Speaking, page 146-149)
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Trophies in the Attic
While cleaning out the attic recently, I came across a box filled with basketball trophies from my high school and college days. I was surprised to see how tarnished and broken they had become with the passing years. Once tall soldiers holding miniature basketballs aloft in outstretched arms, now most of the figures have been broken off at their bases. The shiny gold and silver gloss of the awards has dulled and an ugly patina with some rust spots has started to appear on most of them.
What a metaphor of life, I thought to myself. Here I was thirty-plus years later, carefully working at a task that demanded that I protect my fragile back and gimpy knees. I couldn’t help but find my mind wandering back to an earlier day when I had raced up and down the basketball court with reckless abandon, giving little thought or worry to bodily concerns. In those days, I literally threw myself into the fray, diving for loose basketballs and running into thinly-padded brick walls. Now, quite gingerly, I went about a much less demanding task, worrying if I would be able to get out of bed the next morning.
Even more, though, I found myself thinking of how quickly the years from youth to middle age have passed. It seems like only yesterday that I was a kid bouncing a basketball down the floor at the old Prichard gym, listening as Coach Dace and Mr. G called out instructions. Now I anxiously await each month’s arrival of AARP’s newsletter. I need that information!
What’s the point? Simply this. Life is short regardless of how many years God blesses us with in this world. This is why it is absolutely imperative that we seize each day and live it to the fullest for Him. Have you been thinking about doing some good deed? Ending some bad habit? Telling someone you love about Jesus? Do it today! (from PHILosophically Speaking, p. 226-228)
While cleaning out the attic recently, I came across a box filled with basketball trophies from my high school and college days. I was surprised to see how tarnished and broken they had become with the passing years. Once tall soldiers holding miniature basketballs aloft in outstretched arms, now most of the figures have been broken off at their bases. The shiny gold and silver gloss of the awards has dulled and an ugly patina with some rust spots has started to appear on most of them.
What a metaphor of life, I thought to myself. Here I was thirty-plus years later, carefully working at a task that demanded that I protect my fragile back and gimpy knees. I couldn’t help but find my mind wandering back to an earlier day when I had raced up and down the basketball court with reckless abandon, giving little thought or worry to bodily concerns. In those days, I literally threw myself into the fray, diving for loose basketballs and running into thinly-padded brick walls. Now, quite gingerly, I went about a much less demanding task, worrying if I would be able to get out of bed the next morning.
Even more, though, I found myself thinking of how quickly the years from youth to middle age have passed. It seems like only yesterday that I was a kid bouncing a basketball down the floor at the old Prichard gym, listening as Coach Dace and Mr. G called out instructions. Now I anxiously await each month’s arrival of AARP’s newsletter. I need that information!
What’s the point? Simply this. Life is short regardless of how many years God blesses us with in this world. This is why it is absolutely imperative that we seize each day and live it to the fullest for Him. Have you been thinking about doing some good deed? Ending some bad habit? Telling someone you love about Jesus? Do it today! (from PHILosophically Speaking, p. 226-228)
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
How Not to Parent!
One of my favorite topics to address, either from the pulpit or in the classroom, is the subject of discipline and children. As a psychologist as well as a minister, I have a very thorough understanding of the war going on between fundamental Christianity and childhood development specialists on this issue. To say that the two groups are at polar opposites on what constitutes good discipline is probably a fair statement.
My purpose here is not to give my personal primer on the subject, although I will be quick to point out that Teresa and I had a red fly swatter that had a prominent place in our kitchen closet and that this “neutral object” was never used to swat flies!
I generally conclude my strong recommendations about childrearing and discipline by letting people know that this preacher-psychologist and his wife were not always good at the job! I do so by telling them of the time we really blew it with our older daughter, Mandi.
It was after dark on a late fall evening and we were returning as a family from visiting Teresa’s folks in Olive Hill, Kentucky. The return trip to Ironton, Ohio, from Olive Hill is about fifty miles. You travel the interstate highway for about thirty-five miles, then exit and take state routes to complete the journey.
Mandi was twelve years old at the time, quickly heading into her adolescent years. Always a strong-willed young lady, she had recently developed a mouth to match her age. (If you don’t understand that last sentence, you either have no children or your children have not reached pubescence yet!) She and her mother became involved in a heated conversation about something that increased in intensity as we drove the thirty-five miles on the interstate.
The discussion reached the boiling point just as we exited I-64 onto Route 60 near Summit, KY. Mandi finally half-yelled, “I want out of this car!”
To my utter surprise, my mild-mannered wife retorted, “Okay! Phil, stop the car and let her out!”
It is at this point in the story that I would like to say that with calmness in my voice, I was able to defuse the situation and return our family to our usual state of bliss. I would like to say that, but I can’t! Totally fed up myself, I stopped the car alongside Route 60 and told Mandi to get out. And she did! And then we drove off!!
Please understand that it was about 9 p.m., a moonless night, and we are in the middle of nowhere! As you are probably hoping, it only took about one-half mile of travel for sanity to return to the occupants in our car. We made a quick U-turn, retraced our steps and found our daughter sitting on the hillside, hands folded and a frown creasing her face. In spite of her displeasure with her parents, Mandi readily got back in the car and we traveled the last fifteen miles of our trip in almost total silence.
Since I believe that the statute of limitations on such child cruelty has expired, I now feel free to share this story in print for the first time. Truthfully, the lesson to be learned on that night was for Dad and Mom. For a home to function well, there always has to be at least one person acting like an adult. Unfortunately, for about five minutes on that particular night, we were all children. (from PHILosophically Speaking, p. 45)
One of my favorite topics to address, either from the pulpit or in the classroom, is the subject of discipline and children. As a psychologist as well as a minister, I have a very thorough understanding of the war going on between fundamental Christianity and childhood development specialists on this issue. To say that the two groups are at polar opposites on what constitutes good discipline is probably a fair statement.
My purpose here is not to give my personal primer on the subject, although I will be quick to point out that Teresa and I had a red fly swatter that had a prominent place in our kitchen closet and that this “neutral object” was never used to swat flies!
I generally conclude my strong recommendations about childrearing and discipline by letting people know that this preacher-psychologist and his wife were not always good at the job! I do so by telling them of the time we really blew it with our older daughter, Mandi.
It was after dark on a late fall evening and we were returning as a family from visiting Teresa’s folks in Olive Hill, Kentucky. The return trip to Ironton, Ohio, from Olive Hill is about fifty miles. You travel the interstate highway for about thirty-five miles, then exit and take state routes to complete the journey.
Mandi was twelve years old at the time, quickly heading into her adolescent years. Always a strong-willed young lady, she had recently developed a mouth to match her age. (If you don’t understand that last sentence, you either have no children or your children have not reached pubescence yet!) She and her mother became involved in a heated conversation about something that increased in intensity as we drove the thirty-five miles on the interstate.
The discussion reached the boiling point just as we exited I-64 onto Route 60 near Summit, KY. Mandi finally half-yelled, “I want out of this car!”
To my utter surprise, my mild-mannered wife retorted, “Okay! Phil, stop the car and let her out!”
It is at this point in the story that I would like to say that with calmness in my voice, I was able to defuse the situation and return our family to our usual state of bliss. I would like to say that, but I can’t! Totally fed up myself, I stopped the car alongside Route 60 and told Mandi to get out. And she did! And then we drove off!!
Please understand that it was about 9 p.m., a moonless night, and we are in the middle of nowhere! As you are probably hoping, it only took about one-half mile of travel for sanity to return to the occupants in our car. We made a quick U-turn, retraced our steps and found our daughter sitting on the hillside, hands folded and a frown creasing her face. In spite of her displeasure with her parents, Mandi readily got back in the car and we traveled the last fifteen miles of our trip in almost total silence.
Since I believe that the statute of limitations on such child cruelty has expired, I now feel free to share this story in print for the first time. Truthfully, the lesson to be learned on that night was for Dad and Mom. For a home to function well, there always has to be at least one person acting like an adult. Unfortunately, for about five minutes on that particular night, we were all children. (from PHILosophically Speaking, p. 45)
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
The Rich Little Boys of Mozambique
It was the summer of 1999 and I had traveled to Africa to visit some of our missionaries in Zimbabwe. A few days later, I went by truck with a friend and two missionaries to neighboring Mozambique where the mission was trying to start some churches.
At that time, Mozambique was a war-torn nation that had suffered through 15 years of civil conflict and fighting. Crossing the border into the town of Chichulachula was not really a difficult task. The tariff was only 83 Zim dollars, a little over $5 American. The bad news was that we learned from the border patrol that it would cost us $30 American to cross back into Zimbabwe at the end of our visit. They went on to tell us that they would not accept Zim dollars, Mozambique medicais, or even American Express travelers' checks! My problem was that I had brought only travelers' checks and an American $100 bill.
We decided to enter Mozambique anyway, hoping that we could somehow find change for my $100. We tried the bank in this little town of 10,000 refugees, but they only had medicais. The bank did give us the name of a local man who might be able to help. With the assistance of one of the villagers, we were taken to this man's rather elaborate compound. Amazingly, without quibbling or questioning, he willingly gave me two twenties, a ten, and a fifty dollar bill in exchange for my hundred. No fee, no charge. What a relief! I saw the easy exhange then as a "God thing" and I still do today.
I tell you that story to tell you another story. While we were surveying the town, we were followed everywhere by a group of little boys who obviously had suffered the devastation of war. Their clothes were ill-fitting and tattered, their feet were shoeless, and their faces dirty. But laughing and kicking a soccer ball made of plastic bags and string, they followed us throughout the dusty streets with faces aglow with what I could only call joy. With holes in their pants, I am sure that not a one of them had a red cent, much less a single centavo (100th of a medicai). But for them it was a great day. They were alive and living in the moment.
Much more than me. Worried over my $70 problem (if I had to surrender my $100 back at the Zimbabwean border), I had been so preoccupied with my money woes that I had failed to take in the amazing sights and sounds of my only foray into Mozambique. We visited the marketplace and interacted with dozens of people, but most of it was lost on me. I was too busy worrying.
I will leave the application to you, my friend. I am far too embarrassed by the story to even consider it. I can only say I know who the real pauper was that day.
It was the summer of 1999 and I had traveled to Africa to visit some of our missionaries in Zimbabwe. A few days later, I went by truck with a friend and two missionaries to neighboring Mozambique where the mission was trying to start some churches.
At that time, Mozambique was a war-torn nation that had suffered through 15 years of civil conflict and fighting. Crossing the border into the town of Chichulachula was not really a difficult task. The tariff was only 83 Zim dollars, a little over $5 American. The bad news was that we learned from the border patrol that it would cost us $30 American to cross back into Zimbabwe at the end of our visit. They went on to tell us that they would not accept Zim dollars, Mozambique medicais, or even American Express travelers' checks! My problem was that I had brought only travelers' checks and an American $100 bill.
We decided to enter Mozambique anyway, hoping that we could somehow find change for my $100. We tried the bank in this little town of 10,000 refugees, but they only had medicais. The bank did give us the name of a local man who might be able to help. With the assistance of one of the villagers, we were taken to this man's rather elaborate compound. Amazingly, without quibbling or questioning, he willingly gave me two twenties, a ten, and a fifty dollar bill in exchange for my hundred. No fee, no charge. What a relief! I saw the easy exhange then as a "God thing" and I still do today.
I tell you that story to tell you another story. While we were surveying the town, we were followed everywhere by a group of little boys who obviously had suffered the devastation of war. Their clothes were ill-fitting and tattered, their feet were shoeless, and their faces dirty. But laughing and kicking a soccer ball made of plastic bags and string, they followed us throughout the dusty streets with faces aglow with what I could only call joy. With holes in their pants, I am sure that not a one of them had a red cent, much less a single centavo (100th of a medicai). But for them it was a great day. They were alive and living in the moment.
Much more than me. Worried over my $70 problem (if I had to surrender my $100 back at the Zimbabwean border), I had been so preoccupied with my money woes that I had failed to take in the amazing sights and sounds of my only foray into Mozambique. We visited the marketplace and interacted with dozens of people, but most of it was lost on me. I was too busy worrying.
I will leave the application to you, my friend. I am far too embarrassed by the story to even consider it. I can only say I know who the real pauper was that day.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Scoot Back, Daddy, Scoot Back
I had accepted the call as senior pastor of a large congregation that had recently erected a huge state-of-the-art building, resulting in a major indebtedness. Feeling the pressure of my new responsibilities and with a strong desire to impress my parishioners, I had hit the ground running. I was in the office early every day and almost every evening found me out shepherding the flock or reaching out to potential church members.
My wife, Teresa, was very understanding, but our little daughter, Mandi, at two and one-half years of age was perplexed by my absence from home. She loved for me to read to her after dinner each evening and it was a practice that I continued in my new position—with one caveat. I would sit on the edge of my recliner with her seated by my side and read a quick story or two before rushing out for another night of harried activity.
One evening Mandi said something that jolted me back to reality about my role as a father. I had sat down with her in my recliner, once again on the edge, ready to quickly read and run. Mandi stopped me and, patting the recliner seat, said, “Scoot back, Daddy, scoot back.” She knew on those rare occasions when I wasn’t going out for the evening that I would relax, sit back in my recliner, and leisurely read stories to her heart’s content.
Her words pierced my soul as I understood what she was really saying, “Slow down, Daddy, please. Make time for me.” Appropriately chastened, I scooted back.
I had accepted the call as senior pastor of a large congregation that had recently erected a huge state-of-the-art building, resulting in a major indebtedness. Feeling the pressure of my new responsibilities and with a strong desire to impress my parishioners, I had hit the ground running. I was in the office early every day and almost every evening found me out shepherding the flock or reaching out to potential church members.
My wife, Teresa, was very understanding, but our little daughter, Mandi, at two and one-half years of age was perplexed by my absence from home. She loved for me to read to her after dinner each evening and it was a practice that I continued in my new position—with one caveat. I would sit on the edge of my recliner with her seated by my side and read a quick story or two before rushing out for another night of harried activity.
One evening Mandi said something that jolted me back to reality about my role as a father. I had sat down with her in my recliner, once again on the edge, ready to quickly read and run. Mandi stopped me and, patting the recliner seat, said, “Scoot back, Daddy, scoot back.” She knew on those rare occasions when I wasn’t going out for the evening that I would relax, sit back in my recliner, and leisurely read stories to her heart’s content.
Her words pierced my soul as I understood what she was really saying, “Slow down, Daddy, please. Make time for me.” Appropriately chastened, I scooted back.
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