Sunday afternoon. It’s my favorite time of the week. It means we’ve survived the previous three hours of church with kids. Honestly, I don’t know why we do it when much of our time is spent in the foyer. I guess it’s a tradition. My parents had to retreat to the foyer when I was a child so I’m obligated to make the same sacrifice with my children.

But if we last the entire three hours, our kids are exhausted when we arrive home. I’m tired too, but this is one of the ideal times of the week to write without interruption.

Yesterday, I found a blanket and made my way downstairs to my computer. But when I swung my chair around, it was occupied. Luca was sitting in my chair, using my computer to read my blog.

I pulled up a chair next to her, not sure what to expect.

When I began blogging several years ago, I didn’t give much thought to how it would impact my family. But it made me wonder how much I knew about my parents when I was Luca’s age (9). With over 1500 posts spanning nearly ten years, there are many details of my life for Luca to read about. Some I’m proud of and many I’d rather she skip past.

Maybe she’ll come across the post about how I walked away from a job. Or the one I mentioned going through divorce. Or the hundreds of posts that detail my mistakes on some level. It’s all there for her to read someday.

Will she think less of me because I goofed around in college? Will she think I’m weak because I went through a few struggles living in Germany. Do my actions match the expectations I’ve held her to, or will I come across as a hypocrite?

If she reads enough, she’ll understand how imperfect her father is.

Luca scrolled down the list of blogs I’ve written. I enjoy watching her do about anything and understand she won’t always invite me into her life. But for now, she doesn’t seem to mind.

“Have you learned anything about your dad today?” I ask.

“Yep”, she replies.

I don’t know what to expect. But I don’t want to press her either. So I decide to keep watching. She makes quick work of a few posts. She smiles, even laughs a few times. She finishes reading each page before clicking “previous entries”. She’s made her way through the past couple of years worth of posts.

And then she comes to a post I wrote about missing her pumpkin carving. I assumed she’d skip over it. No need to dredge up the time your dad botched the starting time of the Halloween party.

But she didn’t skip it.

When she finished, she left her chair and jumped on my lap before giving me a hug.

“Show me your favorite ones”, she said.

I should have asked what she was going to teach me today.

There was a time when my most important decision of the day was whether I’d play pinball or pool after class. I made very little money and spent even less. Every important decision was somewhere out there in the future. I had plenty to time to figure things out.

I don’t know when the future become the present. But if I had to guess, it was probably around the time kids arrived.

Telling friends and family that a baby is on the way is like asking them to give you advice for the rest of your life. Make sure to pack a thick three ring binder because you’ll want to take notes.

Don’t forget the house! In fact, start with the house. Get the biggest purchase of your life out of the way and everything else will feel like a bargain in comparison.

Eventually you accumulate so much stuff that you can’t keep it in your house. So there it sits in the garage all boxed up and ready for the next move where it will sit in an even fancier garage.

Of course, you’re going to need a job in order to finance all this stuff. So you pimp yourself out to the highest bidder.  Play hardball like Scott Boras and negotiate the highest salary possible. Forget the stock options and other golden handcuffs. That’s a fools game. Take the money and run.

Get used to the running. Running errands. Running kids to the doctor and soccer practice. Running to the bus and runny noses. Doesn’t matter where just run like hell.

At some point life got complicated. Even the seemingly small decisions had big repercussions and each one triggered five more. Work became more about the health insurance than the…work. Church callings began feeling like church jobs. And the kids learned to work the Tivo.

It all happened so fast I can barely remember the days of pinball or pool.

And then my son asked for help with his report on alligators. And my daughter put her head on my lap so I could hold an ice pack to her aching head.

Having them close recalibrates my perspective.

Is it all worth it?

I guess we’ll see.

I didn’t notice Anna standing to the side, out of the way of her older brother and sister.

I didn’t notice because I was in the middle of a game where I’d kick a soccer ball towards Luca and Lincoln. Whoever caught the ball scored a point with the opportunity of earning another point by kicking it back to me in a fashion where I could catch it.

It’s not uncommon for Luca and Lincoln to drag me into one of their games. Their favorite games are those I make up on the spot and modify over time when one of them takes advantage of a loophole in the rules.

Such was the game last night.

We played for a while until Kim called to me. She mentioned that Anna was feeling left out.

And that’s when it hit me: I hadn’t noticed her.

Anna is our peacemaker. She’s the first to give up a toy, get off the computer or change the channel if one of her siblings asks. Or complains. Or demands.

Anna longs for the approval of her older brother and sister that she often put their desires before her own. She can be goofy. Maybe a bit out in left field at times. But she’s sweet. She wants nothing more than to be involved in whatever her older siblings are doing.

I asked Anna to join Lincoln and Luca on the grass. I kicked the ball to each of them over the next 30 minutes. Anna didn’t catch the ball a single time. I’m sure it was difficult to watch her sister and brother make catching look easy. But she never complained. When the ball would bounce off her hands or shoulder, she ran after it with a smile on her face.

Kim and I are protective out of little peacemaker. She’s big for her age and hasn’t quite grown into her body. What she lacks in coordination, she makes up for in spirit and enthusiasm.

When I tucked the girls in bed last night, Anna was wide awake. She sleeps on the bottom bunk making it more difficult to reach. But tonight she lunged towards me with open arms. As she gave me a hug she said,

“Dad, I was really good at kicking tonight, huh?”

“Yep, you were great”

“I’m going to practice so next time you kick the ball, I will catch it”.

Every home should have a peacemaker.

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.

The kids should have been in bed thirty minutes ago. I was folding towels that had recently come from the dryer. In a few minutes I’d be finished and the kids would be in bed. Then I could retreat to my desk, slip on my headphones and tune out.

And then Luca appeared.

“Dad, will you start a bath for me?”, she asked.

The bed is still covered in laundry. I’m tired. Why aren’t the kids?

Luca grabbed a stack of pants and put them away. She even grabbed her younger sister’s pants which means she’s working it.

I told Luca I’d start the bath water but she’d have to take it from there as I had more laundry to fold. But it wasn’t long before she asked if I’d wash her hair.

“After you shampoo, will you put on that one stuff that takes the tangles out?” she asked.

Although it was late, Luca wanted to chat. She’s excited to tell me about the report card she’ll bring home tomorrow. She tells me it’s exactly eleven days to her birthday, and she feels special because her grandpa Nordquist is flying into town a few days before she turns nine years old.

When you live away from family, it’s a big deal to see your grandparents on these occasions.

But I’m starting to understand that Luca wanted to talk as much as she wanted a bath. I’m glad I was there to listen.

Once she dried off and was wrapped in a plush purple robe, I sat her on the counter and ran a comb through her dark brown hair.

“See, dad, no tangles”

A few minutes later I was back folding laundry and thinking about how one can never know when the best fifteen minutes of the day will take place.

She pulled up a wooden chair next to me and asked if she could read the story of “The Sad Cat”.

“Of course you can’”, I replied.

I locked my computer and turned my chair towards Anna. She dangled her legs off the chair as she read to me. She tells me about a sad cat. Sad because a rat had a car and a top hat, but the cat had nothing.

Everyone needs a top hat.

She makes her way through each page filled with three-letter words and large illustrations. Anna glances my direction every so often to make sure I’m listening.

There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

I don’t take this moments for granted because I botched the last opportunity with my youngest daughter.

But tonight was different.

Because the cat got his top hat.