“Taking One for the Team,” Initiation into the Secret Brotherhood of Dads

The picture of the shoes above is evidence of an experience I had a few weeks ago. It was one of those experiences that brings you to the limit of sanity. Sometimes, I am surprised at how short the path can be from here (the normal, sane and rational world) to that crazy place where, it seems only parents can go.

I’m learning how to be a good dad. I actually think I’m getting better at it, as time goes on. For example, I haven’t taken my kids on any more random four-wheeler trips where I almost kill them on accident. That’s got to be a sign of improvement. But, some days I am strikingly aware of just how much further along the road of “being a good dad” I have yet to travel.

Our youngest son Erick is just thirteen months old. But, even at his young age he and I have been having a sort of father and son duel for the last several months. How is it possible, for a rational adult to be in a duel with a on-year old you might ask, well, in the place I am now (normal, sane, rational) that statement sounds a little ridiculous. But, when I find myself at my wits end with one of my kids, particularly this boy Erick, as silly as it sounds somehow it’s exactly the truth.

The thing is, Erick doesn’t really like his daddy yet. I’m not really all that panicked about it because I figure its kind of normal given that that large majority of his life up to this point has been spent at the side of his mother.

I remember, for example, that it wasn’t until about month eight or ten that I could really tell that Bethany, our oldest, knew me as her daddy and I think it was about the same with Marty, our middle child. Certainly by the time each of them was over a year, we had developed the beginnings of the father-child bond. But with Erick, at this point, he just barely tolerates me as some sort of inconvenient stranger who periodically intrudes in his otherwise peaceful life.

Let me see if I can explain. If Michelle is holding Erick, he’s usually happy, smiling and quietly interested in the goings on around him. The goings on can even include me, because if I’m nearby its like I’m just another part of the world he’s exploring with his penetrating glance.

From a distance I get smiles from Erick and I’m even convinced he can already say “da da.” So, that’s all pretty normal right? Well, as soon as I pick him up, and hold him in my arms, the very disconcerting oddness beings.

It usually doesn’t take more than about fifteen seconds before he starts to squirm, then whine and in maybe thirty seconds its progresses to a full on cry, then soon after a heavy bawling interrupted only by his sporadic breathing and frantic turning this way and that, trying to see if his mother hears and is on her way to the rescue. If he doesn’t get his way quickly, in a matter of just a few minutes, its as if somehow he is trying to warn everyone within ear shot that he’s afraid for his life and that I might just be the end of his world and theirs.

Seriously, no matter what I’ve tried, it’s not uncommon from him to be in my arms (previously happy, smiling and peaceful) and in less than sixty seconds he’s screaming uncontrollably at increasing levels of both volume and intensity. Its during this kind of, “I’m absolutely convinced I’m gonna die, so someone please come save me” tirade that I find myself rapidly transported to that “crazy place” I mentioned earlier.

I mean, at first it didn’t bother me too much. But now, it really drives me crazy. Reason seems to escape my brain in those situations and I start having this conversation inside my head, of course, talking like Bill Cosby saying, “Look here boy, I brought you into this world and I’ll take you out!” I’ve never really said that out loud by the way, maybe its because since he’s adopted, its not exactly true and therefore looses some effect. I’m not sure.

I know it’s a bit risky being this candid, knowing there are rabid socialists out in the world secretly plotting every day to disrupt the life of The FreeCapitalist, and I rationally know that there are in all likelihood a number of completely plausible explanations for his behavior. But, somehow it is my experience with this one little boy that uniquely sends me (Mr. Rational) flying down that one-way track to the crazy place.

Even as I write this, I’m not convinced I’m quite capturing the essence of what has been going on between me and my boy. (Okay, side note; if you haven’t caught on, I’m trying to be dramatic-for effect).

The thing is, there are times when I am almost convinced that he’s actually waging some kind of personal war with me, intentionally creating these attention getting protests just to drive me crazy and at the same time giving him some sort of strange satisfaction like only a rebellious teenager could understand. He is indeed a rebellious little guy, I’m serious.

For example, one day not long ago, we were going through this father-son ritual when one of our good friends, who happens to be female, came strolling by. She must have discerned the desperate. “I really think I could kill this kid” look on my face because she offered to hold him for a minute.

As I quickly passed him over to her, I must have been thinking to myself, “Lady, you have no idea what you’re in for, because unless this kid gets his mommy in about t-minus two minutes and counting, he will mysteriously rob you of your sanity, your dignity and your willingness to remember that you are indeed an adult on planet earth.” I think its kind of like a magic spell. I bet he’s gonna grow up to be a Harry Potter kind of kid or something. On second thought, I don’t think that would mean good things for me.

Well anyway, do you know what happened next? Seriously, as soon as his trembling hands-when he gets really dramatic he twists his hands at his wrists with outstretched arms, in some kind of waving fashion, back and forth, back and forth (wow I just realized, this is like his magic gesture.)

Okay, sorry about the distractions, as I was saying, as soon as his trembling little hands made first contact with her, he immediately relaxed, straightened up his back, stopped screaming, and turned around to look at me (completely uninvited and unprovoked I might add) and deliberately grinned from ear to ear.

I’m not sure how to write, into words, the exact expression I would be making right now if we were talking in person. But, suffice it to say she walked away with the happiest kid in the world and I stood there thinking to myself, “Maybe I have some sort of weird-I’m your Dad and we’re gonna go toe to toe someday-energy and this little boy is already trying to get the upper hand in that yet to be formally initiated battle of wills.

Okay, I’ll admit once again that from where I stand now, this all sounds a bit ridiculous. But, when I’m in that crazy place it really starts to sound believable.

So, back to the shoes. It wasn’t more than a hand full of Sundays back, when Michelle and I, with our three very cute kids in tow headed for church. We were all dressed very nicely-or smartly if you prefer-and we arrived probably thirty minutes early to the meeting. That is a very satisfying victory all by itself, but once again I digress.

Everything was going well, the kids were all happy and Michelle and I were both actually pretty relaxed as we sat there enjoying the calm, peaceful atmosphere listening to the organists’ prelude music.

But, this particular Sunday, church was going to be a bit different for us. It was a day where Mommy was going to be signing in the choir. How exciting, right? The cool thing was that she was able to sit with the four of us in the congregation (with me and the kids-just in case you’re not paying attention) until about half way through the program, at which point the plan was that an announcement would be made from the pulpit that the choir would now come forward and perform a special musical number.

So, the point is, I wasn’t really that nervous about the situation. I thought to myself, “I can certainly handle all three kids on my own, for at least the length of one hymn, even if it’s a really long hymn, because, I mean-come one, I am their dad after all.” But, as has become the rather usual pattern when I’m wearing my “dad hat,” I sort of miscalculated the challenge.

It was about five minutes before Michelle would be heading to the front of the chapel and out of the blue our oldest daughter, who had just recently mastered the whole, “I’m a big girl now, don’t need diapers and can easily tell when I need to go” thing. Sometimes she doesn’t give us a whole lot of warning, but she’s pretty darn good at being serious when its time.

Well, there we were, this nice, normal, and (very importantly) calm and happy family sitting in church, just like everyone else. Of course, I wouldn’t be writing this whole story if it wasn’t obvious that our peaceful Sunday was about to take a serious, Sabbath altering, twist.

Since I don’t feel all that great about taking my daughter into the men’s bathroom, in situations like this I usually try to see if Michelle can just do it, leaving me to take care of the two boys. Even though Erick freaks out when he’s alone with me, it doesn’t take Michelle and Bethany that long to take care of things, and I figured Michelle could make it back before Erick had fully bewitched me.

But today? Nope, as reasonable as that may sound, it wasn’t meant to be. See, I was thinking to myself something like -

“Well, if Michelle takes Bethany now, they’ll be back just about the time that Erick starts to get pretty freak-o. He’ll calm right down and it will be a good conditioning experience just in time for Michelle to head to the front of the chapel. At the front of the chapel, Erick could - though tortuously I’m sure - be in my arms, but still see his mommy and hopefully be fine for the few minutes she’s signing.”

As you can tell, just anticipating the coming conflict with my son had already started to dement my thinking. So, as I sat there in church, that innocent Sunday morning, I wasn’t even worried about managing the other two kids at the same time because I was pretty sure of my own supper-daddy abilities. This is what I mean by the whole “dad hat” pattern of miscalculation.

Michelle and Bethany headed out and Erick watched desperately and yearningly as his mother abandoned him-to me. When she was out of sight he began, in what was an even quicker than I expected manner, to wage a public protest. I mean seriously, when he does his thing, it’s as if he were a paid lobbyist for the IWW trying to convince the whole world that his dad, the FreeCapitalist, was single handedly exploiting all innocent infants in some diabolical plot to destroy the world.

Of course, sitting there in church that Sunday (like all other times when this happens) I’m doing no such thing. I’m just sitting there, minding my own business doing all the things desperate dads do when they sense a coming eruption. I’m smiling and talking in the highest falsetto I can manage, and this Sunday I even tried enlisting the cooperation of my willing two-year-old son Marty, as a “distraction factor.” None of it worked.

Even writing this I can feel the tension building. Within a minute or two Erick is so worked up that there is some sort of tear soaked saliva draining constantly off his lower lip and chin. His nose is pumping out more problems in what seems to me at the time to be a bewildering, physics defying manner, and now he is starting to push away at my chest with some strange finger gripping motion-like a falcon trying to sink his talons deep into his enemy, just before flying off.

Nothing I’m doing is calming him down-not one bit. Marty gives up and for some unexplainable reason, maybe instinct, decides its best to sit down squarely, shoulders back and head straight, arms politely folded, staring at the speaker at the pulpit, almost convincing me that he’s really listening to what is being said. Its about that time that I can tell that my trip to the crazy place is rushing ever so close and is already starting to have its effects. Because, there is no way my two-year old is coping with the situation better than I am.

It finally gets to the point where Erick wins his political protest. With his head tucked to the side of my face-where in between cries I start to worry that perhaps he’s smiling and winking to the people behind us-I decide its best if we just get up and move out into the hallway.

I have two motives. First, I really don’t like the attention. Second, I can’t imagine that this whole Koerber family circus routine is making it very easy for those around us to enjoy the service. If it wasn’t for these two concerns, and the fact that I’m trying to do all of this while protecting my newly dry-cleaned suite and one of my favorite silk ties, I’d probably have already forgotten that it was Sunday since all of those feelings have long since escaped somewhere between the first few innings of mine and Erick’s epic World Series level rivalry.

As I stand up to head out, I look down and Marty seems to have no clue that I’m about to have a small nervous breakdown. Evidently he has no idea how desperately I was hopping that he’d just sort of get it and start heading to the door. So, I kindly-with all the fatherly affection I can yet muster, palm his head with my left hand, turn it deliberately to the isle, and gently move him in that direction with my right knee pushing very convincingly at his side.

Did I mention that Erick had gotten pretty loud by now? Oh, and did I also mention that we were sitting about two rows back from the very front of the chapel? So by now, most in attendance are paying more attention to us than anything else going on in church-at least that’s how it seemed in my mind?

One more detail, right before Michelle and Bethany headed out, Michelle had just finished feeding Erick a six ounce bottle of whatever that is that kids drink at that age that magically turns into bones and hair and finger nails and stuff.

So, I’m sure you can probably put the pieces together. I really think this kid knows how to vomit at will. I also think he is skilled at precision timing. No, really.

If he could have waited like thirty more seconds, what was about to happen could have been our little secret. But, alas - I’ll admit, he won our battle that day.

Right as we got to the edge of the pew-Can a Mormon call church benches pews, or is that word reserved for Catholics? Well, right as we got to the isle and I could actually see the chapel door, feeling certain that we could reach the exit before anything got any worse, Erick started making very violent stomach motions accompanied by those ever so recognizable “Ol’ Faithful is about to erupt-RIGHT NOW!” sounds.

For some reason, I misinterpreted the message and decided to hold Erick out away from my shoulder, just a bit (with Marty now headed in the right direction- he escaped all evidence of being involved-I actually had back the use of both hands and arms) so that I was essentially looking Erick right in the eye. That’s how boys and their Dads are supposed to do it, right?

Six ounces of still warm baby formula shot out, high-pressure like, hitting me right in the center of my face. Turning ever so slightly, it continued to pour down my shoulder, my chest, my silk tie, my pants and miraculously into both shoes. Yes, I said into.

I never have liked the smell of baby formula. Stunned, I stood there-now with my own chin dripping with gross, gooey baby stuff, taking a quick inventory of the situation. Now, I’m not sure if this is actually true, but it seems, as I look back now through my memories, that everything in the church sort of came to a silent standstill.

I don’t remember much else about the details, but I do remember nonverbally acknowledging my defeat, bowing my head, and with Erick once again tucked back up against my neck, and Marty now, even unprompted, leading the way-we headed for the door and out into the hallway.

I squished as I walked, and disgustingly, left a faint but definite trail that unmistakingly told the story of the battle which had just taken place. True to form, with his victory sure in hand, Erick had stopped his most serious protesting, and I don’t even think he was still crying.

Standing in the center of the foyer, trying to use the brain in my head that had long since stopped working, I couldn’t quite figure out exactly what I should do next. Thankfully, just in time, here came Michelle and Bethany walking happily up the hallway. That is of course, until they saw us.

I think even Bethany could tell that a battle had just been waged, and that from the looks of things, baby brother Erick had won. Without saying much, but shaking her head slowly, with a look on her face that only started the sentence, “Uh…what…?” Michelle quickly rescued the boy from my grasp and Marty, probably sensing it was safer, took up a position beside Bethany and behind Michelle’s left leg.

My shoes were still squishing by the time we got home. Everyone stayed except for me. I washed up-especially my goatee, and changed clothes. I had to change everything because the consequence of my drenching had been so thorough.

I put on a suit that had not recently been pressed, a shirt that I normally wouldn’t have worn to church and an old pair of shoes that I had actually forgotten were in my closet. Michelle kindly packed me a super large zip-lock bag full of essential cleaning supplies, and I headed back to the scene.

I don’t know if it’s just me or if all guys feel this way, but returning to the exact physical location of a previous defeat (baseball, football, after being turned down after asking a girl out on a date, etc) just does something to you.

When I arrived at the meetinghouse, the service was just ending. Without making eye contact with anyone, I quickly slipped past the exiting crowd and made my way to the front of the chapel. I didn’t need the trail, but it was still visible.

I went straight to work cleaning, scrubbing, and soaking up all evidence of what had taken place. Somehow I was hoping to go unnoticed in my effort. You see, I don’t like leaving my own messes for others to clean up (that is another story) but even more importantly I was starting to get my rational mind back and was thinking to myself that if I did a really good job cleaning up the mess, maybe not that many people would find out about the morning’s drama.

As I was just about finished scrubbing the most seriously affected area I looked up for a moment and noticed another father sitting maybe five or six rows back. He appeared to be taking his time, calmly packing up the whirlwind pattern of toys and other affects evidently left behind by his own children in a battle they too had waged that day, but they were nowhere in sight as far as I can remember. He had a big smile on his face and I could tell he had something he was planning on saying to me. I really wasn’t looking forward to the conversation.

I replaced the now swollen contents of my zip-lock back and headed out, having done my duty. Exiting meant I had to walk right past this guy, so I preemptively asked, “So, I’m not sure how many people saw all this, but I think its all cleaned up now.”

Then, and this was the first time I had known anything about it, at that very moment it became obvious to me that I had actually passed some sacred initiation ritual and was now a part of something, something much bigger than myself.

I don’t think I’m really supposed to talk about it, but its safe to say that I now belong to a very special, but secret brotherhood- a sort of father’s fraternity, that I had up until this point in my time as a dad, not yet qualified to even know it existed. With a chuckle and the same smile on his face he said to me, shaking his head,

“Well, we saw it, we all saw it. And it was quite a thing to witness.”

“We,” I thought to myself. “Who is we?”

Clueing me in to my newfound position in the ranks of fatherhood, looking back up at me, he nonchalantly confessed,

“Thanks man, you really took one for the team today.”

Nothing else was spoken between us that day. But, I walked out of the chapel a different kind of dad. I don’t know if it’s my new fraternity, or my willingness to admit such a sound defeat at the hands of a one-year-old, but Erick and I are actually doing pretty good these days.

Today, for example, I think he sat in my lap for exactly five minutes during church. In Sunday School Michelle even left us alone together-if that makes any sense-for maybe another five minutes, and believe it or not, I think we both had a pretty good time.

In all seriousness I love my kids, and I especially love my youngest boy. I think the “dad hat” is fitting a little better these days, but I don’t even want to think about what kind of battle of wills might be lurking around the corner.

In the mean time, I still have those shoes in my closet, and I know I should wash them and clean them off, but in some strange way they seem like a trophy to me. They’re some kind of sign I think, part of the secret initiation ritual onto the team that I so unwittingly “took one” for that memorable Sunday, not long ago.

Nevertheless, I’m sure the “Crazy Place” chronicles might still have a few chapters left to be written, but I sure hope that the trophies of the future don’t squish. I’ve really had my fill of that.

Dumb Dad of the Year Award

This weekend, the two oldest kids and I averted tragedy on our four-wheeler, and I learned something about repentance and Godly sorrow.    Not bad for a weekend, I suppose.

So, it was Saturday afternoon and the entire family was bored.  In a stroke of genius I decided it would be fun to take the two older kids (Bethany is three and Marty is two) on a four-wheeler ride.  Behind our house is what seems to be an endless wilderness and its also fun to ride the four-wheelers, with the kids, up and down our driveway.  So, we all got jackets on and headed out for the afternoon. 

As you can see by the picture above, no comments about how fat I’m getting please ;), we have a green, rugged, four-wheeler that has a large passenger seat on the back.  It’s just big enough for two small kids.   Off we went.  We drove around the back for a while, and then up and down the driveway a few times.  After about twenty minutes the driveway and the grassy area you can see in the photo seemed less than adventurous to all three of us.  Both kids kept laughing, and we were all having a good time.  So, with their encouragement, I headed up a little higher on the hill behind our house, intending to show the kids a pretty fascinating view of Utah Valley.  We got to the top of the hill with very little problem; since none of us were wearing any real protection at all I think I capped the top speed on the four-wheeler at about 10 mph for our journey.  Speed, was not our problem.  It was heading back down the hill, very slowly, when we ran into a problem.  Having not been on a four-wheeler all winter, maybe my mind was just dull – or maybe I was just absent minded period, but I hadn’t dawned on me that going down hill might be a bit tricky.  As we started down, almost immediately we were in a surprisingly difficult predicament.  At least it was surprising to this dull-headed dad. 

As you can see from the photo, when we set out, each kid had both legs off to either side of my body.  This works great for flat surfaces and even going up hill.  But, as you have probably guessed by now, I didn’t take long, going down hill, for me to become strikingly aware of a problem.   Before I knew it both kids were sliding forward, right off the four-wheeler.  We were headed down a pretty mild hill, but it was a hill nonetheless.  I was using my left hand to ride the back brake a bit (in hindsight I should have been using the foot brake), and I turned to each side to take an inventory of the kids.  Bethany had a panicked look on her face as she explained, “Daddy I’m getting off.” 

Now, though it sounds like she was making a declaration, what she was really saying was, “Like it or not I’m falling, and there is nothing I can do about it.”  She was on the declining side of the hill as well, so I was immediately concerned.  At about this same instant, for some still unexplainable reason the brake cable snapped.  I switched hands, using my right “front” brake to bring us to a complete stop.  Taking my left hand off the handlebars, I reached to grab Bethany before she slid completely off the four-wheeler.  Gripping the front brake with my right hand had consequences all its own. I turned to check on Marty and as a result of the rapid stop, he was headed, somehow, head first for the dirt.  It was like he was in slow motion, sliding ever so slowly, but certainly, down.  His face was towards me, and in a very calm way he said with a kind of matter of fact tone, “Daddy, help me.” 

There was nothing I could do.  His head was about six inches in front of the rear tire.  My left hand had a hold of Bethany, and if I let go of the front brake with my right hand, the four-wheeler would roll forward with both of my hands off of the handlebars.   So, I just watched my boy fall – helplessly, head first to the ground.  My only thought at that point was related to keeping the four-wheeler from rolling forward and right over the top of him.  In a panic, I stood Bethany up on the ground on my left, I used my left hand to grip the front brake, reached down and grabbed Marty and brought him up as quickly as I could.  I think the whole ordeal lasted maybe two or three seconds all together.  But, looking back in my memory, it feels like a full length motion picture.  Bethany started to slip down the hill, not able to keep her balance, so I laid Marty across the gas tank in front of me, grabbed Bethany, and forcefully put her behind me in the rear seat.  Of course, we were still pointing down the hill, which explained why her response was, “Dad, I don’t want to start over.” 

After sitting there for a few seconds, making sure I was not in the middle of having a heart attack, I got Bethany situated behind me, facing forward with one leg to either side of me.  I told her to hold on and I could feel her arms around my waist – that felt better.  I had Marty straddle the gas tank, and I showed him how to use his hands on the tank to keep his balance.  It had never before dawned on me that my kids just didn’t instinctively understand how to “hold on.”  Nevertheless, now that we had it figured out, trying not to let the kids notice just how panicked I had been – I slowly let off the brake and we started back down the hill.  Neither of the kids was saying anything.  I realized that they were trying to figure out what had just happened.  Worried that I might have scarred them for life, I forced myself to say something.   “Wow, wasn’t that exciting?” I chuckled.    Marty responded first by saying, “No, I hit my head.”  Bethany, in a very sullen voice could be heard behind us adding her disapproval saying, “Dad, can we not do the scary part anymore?”

Once we were back in safe, flat territory, things lightened up a little bit.  Marty actually asked if we could do it again because he didn’t want to go home.  Bethany explained to Marty that we “half (sic) to go home,” because he had “bleed” on his head.  When we got home, I took a minute and tried to clean Marty up.  I was already thinking that I really didn’t want to explain to Michelle what had happened.  But, there was no cleaning up the scrapes on his forehead.  Fortunately, he wasn’t hurt.  As we walked in the house I remembered the time when I was three years old and had returned with my dad from a similar motorcycle accident. Things didn’t go so well for him back then, when he had tried to explain to my mom what had happened, and I imaged things weren’t going to go so great for me as I explained our adventure to Michelle.  Of course, she was right there to great us as we walked in.  She couldn’t – according to the laws of the universe I’m sure – have been busy with the baby somewhere far away from the back door. 

“Mommy, I fell off the furwheeler (sic),” was Marty’s first comment to his mom. Bethany once again explained that he had blood on his forehead.  Michelle calmly asked me what had happened, but I stalled.  I suggested that we just get the kids jackets off, Marty’s head cleaned up, and both of them seated at the kitchen table so we could all eat some lunch together.   That didn’t work so well either - the kids told her everything.  

Well, as you can see from the picture, Marty is fine.  Both kids can’t wait to go for another ride on the four-wheeler, but I can’t stop thinking about it.  I can’t stop thinking about a) how fortunate we were and b) how darn stupid I was.  I have been feeling like the worst dad on the planet.  I couldn’t sleep very well last night as I kept replaying those critical seconds in my mind.  Over and over, I searched.  It wasn’t the general ordeal that haunted me as much as it was my son.  Watching Marty hit the ground, his head bending towards his shoulder as his neck gave way to the weight of his body, is the moment I keep playing over and over again.  He had the look of a child counting on his dad to save him.  I was feeling helpless, unable to figure out how to help in any way.  That is what has haunted me.   When we woke up this morning, I full expected him to be mad at me.  He wasn’t. 

So, today in church, I sat there listening to a lesson about repentance and Godly sorrow – and something struck me. When we talk about repentance, one of the first things that usually comes to mind is the feeling of guilt.  Guilt is accompanied by other related feelings of regret and remorse.  These emotions combined to form what we could refer to generally as simply the “feeling bad” emotions.  I was certainly having my bout with these feelings on Sunday morning.  But, to any student of the gospel its obvious that simply feeling bad is not enough to truly repent.  Now, on a side note, it wasn’t that I was particularly preoccupied with the idea of repenting for what occurred on Saturday, its just that Saturday was on my mind.  Nevertheless, in order to repent, something has to happen inside which results in a rebirth – a new commitment to want to live differently.  It is this change that eliminates the desire to sin, and it’s this change that allows repentance and forgiveness to actually take place.  Unfortunately, many of us get stuck on the “feeling bad” part of the process.  This “thing” that happens to create the change of heart is often referred to as Godly sorrow. 

What is Godly sorrow?  Well, I suppose that is a lecture for a different time, but the insight I had today has been poignant.  Contrary to what many teach, I don’t think God has much interest at all in any of us getting stuck, “feeling bad.”  Of course, that might be an essential “piece” of the process but it cannot be an end in and of itself.  The self-loathers, the mystics, and the tyrants in the religious world have leveraged the “feeling bad” part of the process to the point of codifying it into doctrine in many faiths (closely related to the false notion called “the depravity” of man).  No, us feeling bad – even to the point of mourning in “sackcloth and ashes” doesn’t make the world a better place (no matter how much authority rests with the person claiming that this is our proper position with regards to God). Lacking the conscience and the spiritual sensitivity to “feel bad” for sin is another problem entirely.  But, past the point of feeling bad there is a place inside our hearts that can be called Godly sorrow, where our bad feelings and our regret for our actions fade into the background. 

Here’s the insight and the connection with my four-wheeler incident.  No matter how many times I replay the four-wheeler incident in my mind, I can’t seem to come to grips with the “thing” that haunts me.  I keep trying to find a way to “fix” the situation – to explain it in a way that doesn’t hurt so badly.  As I replay the incident in my mind the temptation is to try and “fix” the problem.  I want to blame the four-wheeler, the rear brake cable did snap and without that happening the whole incident would have probably been much less dramatic.  This would mean, if I just fixed the brake cable, find out why it snapped, I will have fixed the situation.  Right? 

Problem is, brake cables or some other “thing” might go wrong at any time on a four-wheeler excursion.  So, I’m tempted to argue, “If I would have just had the kids put on a helmet” then this wouldn’t have been as bad.  Of course, that doesn’t change the fact that I was stupid on Saturday.  I want to say, “Well next time I’ll just take one kid,” or next time this or next time that… but nothing soothes the pain caused by the deeper and much more important truth.  The deeper truth is this.  There will always be uncertainty – and there will always be unforeseen “accidents.”  That is NOT the problem in this situation.  The problem on Saturday has to do with the kind of dad I was being.  I was not being the kind of dad that I want to be.  On Saturday, I was thoughtless.  I can’t change that, that is the kind of dad I was being then.  That is the haunting truth, the ordeal with Marty hitting the ground was merely the consequence. I was not being attentive to the kids before the crises.  I was not prepared. The consequence of the way I was being - the incident - is simply a reminder.  It is an undeniable reminder that I was not living the life that the “dad” in my mind must live. 

This is how it seems to be, when I think of sin.  When we feel regret for our actions, that’s good for a short time.  It’s an acknowledgement of the message that God is sending us about our actions – through natural consequences.  Consequences are not punishments as much as they are reminders.  Feeling guilt and remorse and regret is focusing on the consequence – as if the consequence of our action is the “bad thing.”  Thinking this way makes us ever weaker victims as we confront so many of life’s uncertainties.  If we only experience guilt or shame in the face of such circumstances our whole life can become consumed with our feelings of failure and inadequacy, and we can become hopeless.  If instead, however, we focus on “how” we are “being” or how we were being in a given situation – and we compare that to our potential, to the God given potential that represents what we “could be” with God’s help – then we have a new feeling inside.  Its not so much a feeling “bad” for our actions but it’s a longing for “being” a different person – a better person – the person God would have us be.  Recognizing this difference, I think, has something very important to do with this idea of repentance, Godly sorrow and rebirth. 

In a real way, I have repented for Saturday.  Some laughed at me in church today when I shared this insight, thinking perhaps I was being a little melodramatic.  But, what can be more important than repenting for being a lazy dad?  What could be better for me, for my kids or for any dad than to repent of his absent mindedness and commit (not to his kids – that would be out of regret or remorse) but to God – and to himself – that he is going to live differently.  Of course this commitment provides all the benefits to the kids that would be present if he were to make a commitment out of guilt or shame, but the difference is that HE doesn’t loathe himself in the process.  This kind of recognition, of our desire to live a better life, when faced with an undeniable consequence of our previous actions – is at the core of becoming the “new man” spoken of in the scriptures.  It, I believe, is at the core of finding hope in Christ and in his atonement.  Well, for what its worth, I certainly think I’ll sleep better tonight – as a result of this insight.  Maybe it might help you if you ever find yourself at some point in the future, stuck replaying in your mind, some scenario filled with regret when, no matter how many ways you look at it, there is a deeper truth that still haunts your soul. 

I love my kids, and I love the fact that in the years ahead neither of them will likely remember anything from Saturday. As for today, I just hope that I can keep the commissars away (that’s supposed to be funny) while I work on overcoming my “Dumb Dad” of the year routine.   I have much work ahead, but as a result of Saturday I think I’m a better dad already.  When I took the picture of Marty with the scratch above his brow, I told him what I was doing and he responded – “I wanna go ride on the furwheeler.”