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.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
A Small Change Can Make a Big Difference
Sometime ago, I talked Meg into visiting the Louisville Slugger Museum during a visit to her new hometown. For the uninitiated, Louisville Slugger has been the premier producer of major league baseball bats since the turn of the last century. The Hillerich and Bradsby Company (parent company of Louisville Slugger), in the days before aluminum bats, made almost all of the wooden bats that boys of my generation used. Although 95% of bats today are metal, the Louisville Slugger factory continues to turn out 8,000 bats per week from the Northern Ash billets which arrive each Monday morning from a lumber mill in Pennsylvania.
Because the major leagues are the only “purists” still using wooden bats, they are the main customer (along with collectors) for this former booming business. Perhaps the most intriguing thing I learned in the tour of the factory was that almost all bats before 1935 weighed 38 ounces or more. A 38-ounce bat is heavy and close to what Babe Ruth used when he hit 60 homers for the Yankees back in 1927.
But it all began to change in 1935 when a brash young hitter made his first trip to Louisville and ordered bats weighing only 32 ounces. This kid had figured out something that had escaped the minds and calculations of all the major leaguers up until that time. He had determined that it was bat speed and not bat mass that was the most important variable in being able to hit a baseball long and true. Now most major leaguers use bats that weigh 32 ounces or less. Alex Rodriquez, the highest-paid player in baseball today, uses a 31-ounce bat that has a scoop of wood removed from its top, thus making it weigh in at 30 ounces.
Everybody today who swings a bat owes the kid from 1935 a lot. He had the courage to challenge the prevailing paradigm and try something new. Maybe there’s something for us to learn from him as well. Sometimes a seemingly small change can make a big different whether it is in our personal lives or in the life of the church. It just takes the vision and courage to step out in faith with our Lord.
Oh, the kid from 1935? Why, Ted Williams, of course, the greatest hitter in the history of our national pastime!
Sometime ago, I talked Meg into visiting the Louisville Slugger Museum during a visit to her new hometown. For the uninitiated, Louisville Slugger has been the premier producer of major league baseball bats since the turn of the last century. The Hillerich and Bradsby Company (parent company of Louisville Slugger), in the days before aluminum bats, made almost all of the wooden bats that boys of my generation used. Although 95% of bats today are metal, the Louisville Slugger factory continues to turn out 8,000 bats per week from the Northern Ash billets which arrive each Monday morning from a lumber mill in Pennsylvania.
Because the major leagues are the only “purists” still using wooden bats, they are the main customer (along with collectors) for this former booming business. Perhaps the most intriguing thing I learned in the tour of the factory was that almost all bats before 1935 weighed 38 ounces or more. A 38-ounce bat is heavy and close to what Babe Ruth used when he hit 60 homers for the Yankees back in 1927.
But it all began to change in 1935 when a brash young hitter made his first trip to Louisville and ordered bats weighing only 32 ounces. This kid had figured out something that had escaped the minds and calculations of all the major leaguers up until that time. He had determined that it was bat speed and not bat mass that was the most important variable in being able to hit a baseball long and true. Now most major leaguers use bats that weigh 32 ounces or less. Alex Rodriquez, the highest-paid player in baseball today, uses a 31-ounce bat that has a scoop of wood removed from its top, thus making it weigh in at 30 ounces.
Everybody today who swings a bat owes the kid from 1935 a lot. He had the courage to challenge the prevailing paradigm and try something new. Maybe there’s something for us to learn from him as well. Sometimes a seemingly small change can make a big different whether it is in our personal lives or in the life of the church. It just takes the vision and courage to step out in faith with our Lord.
Oh, the kid from 1935? Why, Ted Williams, of course, the greatest hitter in the history of our national pastime!
Thursday, May 08, 2008
The Last Word in Lonesome
Country music icon, Eddy Arnold, died this week at 89, just a few short months after his wife of 66 years, Sally, passed away. Interesting, really, was the timing of his death. Just this morning our Cracker Barrel Men's Group was discussing The Man in a Mirror and how we guys tend to be so poor at social networking. In the simplest terms, we don't have many friends and don't try too hard to make new ones.
Someone in the group made the observation that most men die years before their wives and--if they don't--they die soon after their mates' demise. So it was with this pioneer of "The Nashville Sound." Once a man's spouse and closest friend (perhaps only!) dies, his ability to cope with a world of increasing solitude is often nil.
Not to belabor the point, but of all the songs that Arnold recorded I remember best his 1966 hit, "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me." It reached No. 2 on the U. S. Country charts and is still heard frequently on radio stations that cater to old-time country music lovers. "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me!" Yeah, I know that the lyrics really speak of a lost romantic partner, but beneath the surface the pathos suggested by our male isolationist tendencies looms large.
Caught up in family and work responsibilities from early adulthood, many of us males allow our friendships from high school and college to go dormant. Sensing that most of our social needs are met by our wives and our children, we blindly trudge through life, oblivious of our relational needs beyond our nuclear family. Then, one day we look around and notice that our kids are grown and have their own lives,the workplace no longer needs us, and our robust social network of childhood years is nonexistent.
My observation about Eddy Arnold is just that, an observation. Perhaps his social network was intact and strong; I hope so. I'm just wondering about yours, my brother. And mine.
Country music icon, Eddy Arnold, died this week at 89, just a few short months after his wife of 66 years, Sally, passed away. Interesting, really, was the timing of his death. Just this morning our Cracker Barrel Men's Group was discussing The Man in a Mirror and how we guys tend to be so poor at social networking. In the simplest terms, we don't have many friends and don't try too hard to make new ones.
Someone in the group made the observation that most men die years before their wives and--if they don't--they die soon after their mates' demise. So it was with this pioneer of "The Nashville Sound." Once a man's spouse and closest friend (perhaps only!) dies, his ability to cope with a world of increasing solitude is often nil.
Not to belabor the point, but of all the songs that Arnold recorded I remember best his 1966 hit, "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me." It reached No. 2 on the U. S. Country charts and is still heard frequently on radio stations that cater to old-time country music lovers. "The Last Word in Lonesome Is Me!" Yeah, I know that the lyrics really speak of a lost romantic partner, but beneath the surface the pathos suggested by our male isolationist tendencies looms large.
Caught up in family and work responsibilities from early adulthood, many of us males allow our friendships from high school and college to go dormant. Sensing that most of our social needs are met by our wives and our children, we blindly trudge through life, oblivious of our relational needs beyond our nuclear family. Then, one day we look around and notice that our kids are grown and have their own lives,the workplace no longer needs us, and our robust social network of childhood years is nonexistent.
My observation about Eddy Arnold is just that, an observation. Perhaps his social network was intact and strong; I hope so. I'm just wondering about yours, my brother. And mine.
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