I sat through a meeting this morning where all but two attendees brought laptops. I brought my iPhone and one person brought a pad of paper.

Although the meeting didn’t require my participation, I tried to keep my phone overturned on the table.

I put my hands on the table and looked around the room as I listened to fingers tap-dancing on keyboards. No one was paying attention to the information being projected to the screen. Ten people were present in body only.

I felt strange. Like I’d stumbled into a meeting where I hadn’t been invited.

But I’ve had some to think about that meeting. And I wonder if I exhibit the same behavior around my children at times?

When I’m reading a magazine at the table, how much attention am I able to give to my children? Not much.

Or when I’m at my computer with headphones draped over my head. Or when I give them a ride to school with the radio blasting classic rock? Maybe Lincoln wanted to tell me a story. Maybe Luca would like to play a game. But I wouldn’t know because I was jamming Dark Side of the Moon.

Can you give someone anything more valuable than your attention?

Whatever the cause, attention has become a rare commodity. It sounds simple yet it’s rare when I have someone’s full attention. I’m almost shocked when I have it anymore.

That’s one of many reasons I will miss visiting with my grandmother who passed away a few weeks ago. She gave me her full attention. It didn’t matter if I was describing a book I was reading or sharing the news that Kim and I were expecting a baby. She would slide close to me, take my hand and look me in the eye. And then she would listen. She wouldn’t interrupt. She was fully engaged in our discussion.

She had a way of making me feel like I was the most important person in her life. What an amazing trait to possess!

I’m making small changes such as not carrying my phone in my pocket around the house. Not blasting music in the car when my kids are in the backseat. And keeping my magazines away from the dinner table.

I’ve got a long ways to go before I’m in same league as my grandmother. But if she were around today, I’m certain she’d be thrilled it’s something I’m working to improve.

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