The first time my father called tonight, I didn’t pick up the phone. Figured I’d catch him on messenger instead of be cut short by sketchy AT&T coverage.

But I should have known when he called back a few minutes later. He calmly told me my grandmother passed away.

Holding Luca in Bountiful, Utah

Three such calls have come before. None have come as a surprise, but all of them came with a blow to the heart.

The grandparent I was closest to over the years was the last one to leave us. I cherish the memories I have sitting across the table at the Tiffin Room chatting with her. She told me I could choose anything I wanted off the menu and I took advantage of her generosity by selecting the French dip. And vanilla milkshake. The kind served in a tall glass with skinny spoon.

I spent many late nights typing away at her keyboard because I couldn’t afford a computer while in college. Occasionally, I’d take a break and chat with her about the latest book she was reading. She told me about many historic figures. She explained the Civil War in all its brutality. I’d never met anyone who devoured books like she did.

She kicked my butt at Jeopardy.

Those discussions with my grandma were as much of my college education as the courses I paid to attend.

She carried herself with grace. She had her hair done every Friday and couldn’t pass up an Estee Lauder stand. While shopping for accessories, she once told me was searching for something with “a splash of red”.

I can’t wait till I can sip another vanilla milkshake with her again.

This weekend I spent some time thumbing through old binders that hold journals I’ve kept over the years. The oldest binder is made of faded red construction paper. Many pages contain ink that’s bled through the page making it difficult to read. Although the writing is amateurish and not interesting to anyone but me, I treasure it because it’s the first journal I kept covering my years in high school.

The next journal I picked up covered the two years I spent in Germany as a missionary. I enjoyed reading through detailed descriptions of the new foods, people, and culture I encountered. I wrote much of it in German.

This is also the first time I began writing about how I felt. Until this time, my daily writings were made up of lists of people I met or tasks I completed. Most days they were positive. And if I had a bad day, I didn’t write about it.

Serving in Germany was different. Most of the people I met did not want to hear about my God or my beliefs. This resulted in days full of rejection. Had I only written on successful days, I would have returned to Utah with the world’s shortest journal. In December of 1987, I wrote:

“It’s freezing cold and we can’t afford to turn the heat past 65. I have no idea why I’m here. Spent the day getting doors slammed in our face and laughed at by the college punks down the street. Even our two appointments fell through. The only positive thing I can write is my bike that was stolen on Friday was returned to the gutter in front of our apartment. Yep, that’s how bad my bike is: not even a thief felt it was worth keeping. Why am I HERE???”

As discouraged as I must have been, it never took more than a day or two to turn around. One day I was up and the next I was down, and I wrote about both. What usually turned my mood from bad to good wasn’t my companion or mission president.

It was one of a handful of people I met. Our lives crossed at just the right time. Have you experienced the same? Someone comes into your life at exactly the moment you need them the most.

I can think of three times this happened while I lived in Germany. I’ve written about one. Another lived in the same small town of Unna. His name was Hans and he was co-owner of a men’s suit and tailoring store. Hans lived a few miles from our apartment in a large brick apartment building.

My companion and I would spend the morning looking for people to teach. When we’d had enough rejection or our hands and feet were numb from the cold, we’d head over to Hans’ apartment. He gave us a key in case he was running late. Eventually he’d show up and make us lunch. For the first week or so, I could barely understand him because he spoke with such a strong dialect and at such a brisk pace. I would catch a word here and there, and then try to fill in the blanks. My German improved rapidly when I was around him.

Hans later joined our church, but that’s not what made an impact on a 20 year old.

I have a difficult time writing about Hans let alone discussing him. He was my father away from home. Most missionaries bond with their mission president, but I felt much closer to Hans and he provided me with far more guidance and encouragement than any official from my church. But that’s only the beginning.

I couldn’t begin to list the acts of kindness Hans showered down upon me and my companion. He’d spend his days off cooking for us. He paid for cab rides home so we could visit with him a few minutes longer. He took us for walks around the old city while explaining its history. When he sensed we were discouraged, those walks often ended at the ice cream shop.

So many acts of kindness.

When it came time for me to serve in another city, the first person I called was Hans. He had us over for dinner the night before I boarded a train further south to Wiesbaden. Instead of calling a cab, he walked us home that evening. As we made our way over the cobblestone streets, Hans stopped as we approached our apartment. We hugged each other.

Hans then pulled a silver ten mark coin out of his pocket. The coin sparkled under the moonlight. Hans explained that he wanted me to keep this coin and remember it as a symbol of our friendship.

A few months ago I came across the coin when I was looking for an old set of scriptures. There, nestled in the leather pocket, was the silver coin Hans gave me twenty years ago.

I took the coin and gave it to my oldest son, Lincoln. I told him about Hans and how I came to possess the coin. One day, I hope he’ll read this and gain an understanding of its significance.

But what I hope for even more is that someone like Hans will cross his life’s path when he needs it most.

Photo by Yahin

“Dad, will you warm my rice sock?”

That’s how the routine starts each evening.

Luca climbs to the top bunk, locates the rice sock her mother  made and calls to me. My job is simple: heat the sock in the microwave for two minutes and return to Luca in exchange for a hug and kiss to the cheek.

If I’m lucky, the hug lasts as long as the microwave timer.

Luca could easily warm the sock on her own. She reminds me daily that she doesn’t need my help performing other tasks around the house. That includes making lemonade or making any change to the Tivo.

But it’s not about the sock.

Reminds me of the rides home from school with my father.

There are nights where I’m relaxing in front of the computer after a challenging day at work. When Luca calls my name I may exhibit a small amount of hesitation.

I should be less concerned about the trek upstairs and think about how I’d feel if she stopped calling my name.

Seems like every neighborhood has one: The guy who spends way too much time making his front yard look all perfectly manicured.

One of them lives two houses down. I see him working morning and night using tools I can’t describe let alone use. I don’t believe I could Photoshop a greener more perfect lawn. If a weed dares sprout after an evening shower, it’s gone by the time I pass his yard on my way to work.

I swear this guy worked as a groundskeeper for a major league team before he retired to our neighborhood to make the the rest of us look like landscaping slackers.

My lawn isn’t in the same league. As much as I’d like to blame it on my dog and four kids, I can’t because it rains so much in Seattle it doesn’t take much effort to maintain a green lawn.

The main difference between my lawn and the the lawn of the groundskeeper is the stripes. His lawn looks like Augusta National. Every inch is geometrically designed and executed. No wasted diagonal streaks scarring his masterpiece to be found.

As I gassed up our John Deere this morning I decided to take my time mowing our front yard. Normally, I begin by mowing around the edges before making a few haphazard circles. Eventually I get bored and change things up by mowing the longest grass regardless of location. I don’t plan. I don’t maintain perfect lines. A couple of goats would make work of my lawn in a more organized fashion.

I chalk up the mission as a success if I get through the morning without stepping in dog poop if that’s any indication of the high standards I hold myself to.

So I began by making four or five nearly perfect lines keeping the wheel marks as parallel as possible. I stood back near the street to admire my work. It wasn’t up to groundskeeper standards, but I wasn’t embarrassing myself either.

As I detached the bag full of grass, the kids showed up and wanted to help. First Anna and then Lincoln and Luca. I held the mower while they engaged the wheels by squeezing the lever with their small thumbs. One time back and forth was enough for each of them, and the lawn still looked quite good with just over half completed.

 

I could finish off the remaining grass in less than ten minutes before moving to the backyard. Kim and maybe all but one neighbor would be impressed. Things were looking up.

And then Kai showed up.

He tugged at my shorts and pointed at the mower.

“He can’t reach the handle”

“He can help mow the backyard”

“There goes my plan for the perfect lawn”

Maybe when I start the engine he’ll be scared enough that he’ll run to mom. Excuses were easy to come by.

Yet I should have known better. Because when I pulled the cord and the engine whirled, Kai stepped up to the mower and grabbed hold of the lower handle as if it had been tailor-made to his height.

After making sure his tiny feet had enough room to walk, I engaged the wheels.

And for the next thirty minutes, we zigzagged our way around the lawn like a Roomba on crack.

Sometimes imperfect is perfect.

Fourteen stairs separate the two floors in our home. That doesn’t seem like many. I can jump down them touching only two steps if I grab hold of the rails to maintain my balance.

Kai is another story. His legs are small and his balance not fully developed. He touches every stair a few times. Sometimes he slides down on his butt, although not intentionally. That route results in many tears.

I don’t mind if it takes him a little longer than the rest of us.

Unless I’m in a hurry. During those times I’ll grab Kai around the waist and carry him down the stairs. He doesn’t like this, and he’ll squirm until I place him back on the ground.

I ran an errand tonight and decided to take Kai with me. As I was about to grab him by the waist, he extended his hand towards me. He doesn’t do this very often. When I try to take his hand while walking through a parking lot or down the hall at church, he tries to dart in the opposite direction.

But tonight I looked at Kai and held out my hand. His five small fingers wrapped around my index finger. He held tight as we stepped down all fourteen stairs together.

I’m sure it took a little longer this way.

But I didn’t notice.