the tindog coffeehouse

Yesterday, I did the unthinkable. I volunteered to coach my daughter’s soccer team. Which I may have to do by myself with no assistant. And I’m still on crutches with a fractured tibia. And I’ve never coached anything in my life.

I’m an idiot.

In all fairness, though, practice starts in less than a week, and Megan’s team still had no coach. And without a parent stepping up to coach, there’s no team. I couldn’t let that happen. And besides, I got pretty nostalgic thinking about coaching her since my dad coached my soccer team when I was little. (We were the Kongs, as in King Kong. Yeah, we were some bad ass 6-year-olds.)

So here goes, um, something. Good or bad, it’s bound to epic.

Previously:
August, you suck too
Goodbye, July

Boy, it’s hot. This is damn hot. Never got this hot in Brooklyn. It’s like Africa hot. Tarzan couldn’t take this kind of hot.

– Matthew Broderick, Biloxi Blues

I spoke too soon. Yes, I’m glad July is over, but August isn’t turning out much better. First, well… it’s hot. Yeah, yeah, it’s frickin’ August in North Texas, what do you expect? Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Second, my ACL isn’t torn after all. Which is good news. But the bad news is my tibia is fractured where the ACL connects to it (a tibial intercondylar eminence fracture, if you want to be specific). So I have to keep my “Robocop brace” on and locked with my leg fully extended for the next several weeks while we give the bone a chance to heal. Do you realize how difficult it is to function without being able to bend your leg? Try it. It’s harder than you think.

And because of my stupid injury, we had to cancel a week-long vacation we had planned to visit friends in South Carolina. Instead of hanging out on the beach and seeing the sites in Charleston, I’ll be awkwardly sitting at my desk at work with my leg propped up.

So yay, August. Now go away.

Previously:
Goodbye, July

Hello and farewell
I know I broke your heart
Oh come on July, will you never let me down
Everything I took I would only give it back
If I could

– Jackopierce, “Come On July”

What was July like around our house? This:

In fact, even before the month started, I was ready for it to end. I tweeted on June 30th, “I’m ready for July to be over.” I was stressed out and exhausted from work. Christy, who was also working in addition to taking some very demanding summer classes, was just as worn out. And I knew July would just be a continuation of that.

What I didn’t know is that it would also include me tearing my ACL jumping a 4-foot wrought iron fence, an injury that condemned me to the couch for 9 days and put that much more responsibility on Christy’s shoulders.

So even though I’m still on crutches, I’m incredibly thankful that August is finally here. I mean, it can only get better, right?

On Wednesday I volunteered at my daughters’ elementary school. It wasn’t the first time I had done so, but for some reason I think I was more aware of what I was seeing, a lot of it good and a lot of it really frustrating.

First off, the third, fourth, and fifth grades are in the process of preparing for the TAKS test scheduled for the end of the month. They’ve already spent weeks taking various practice tests and benchmarking tests, and Wednesday my daughter’s third-grade class spent most of their time going back through a recent practice test and correcting their answers. And this pattern will continue for another two weeks. Because the TAKS scores are the very lifeblood of public schools in the state, every school district in Texas obsesses over the test to the point that it seems like they’re more interested in the test scores than in the actual quality of education that those scores are meant to reflect.

Then came lunch. I guess after having recently watched Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution show (in which the chef sets out to make West Virginia’s public school menus healthier), I was more attuned to what I saw in the cafeteria. If a student chooses to buy their lunch, they’re given a choice between several entrees plus a couple of side dishes and a fruit dessert. They’re required to have at least three items, including entree, so many kids take a vegetable and fruit but then don’t eat it. Instead, they purchase extra chips, ice cream, or slushees and eat those as their lunch.

As for the food options, the entrees often consist of chicken nuggets, hamburgers, and pizza, while the “vegetable” sides often include french fries or tater tots. Wednesday’s menu included entree choices of a chicken quesadilla, chicken nuggets, barbecue chicken, or baked potato, and the sides included baked beans, broccoli, and macaroni salad. Most kids, of course, went straight for the nuggets, and I didn’t see anyone brave enough to try the macaroni salad. (Also, by the time I went through the line with the third-graders, the school had already run out of broccoli, so that wasn’t even an option, even if the kids would’ve eaten it.)

I understand, of course, that school districts have very limited budgets, and as anyone who has tried to eat healthy knows, healthier food costs more than unhealthy crap. But there’s certainly room for improvement. If nothing else, it sends a very mixed message to kids: posters all over the cafeteria promote making healthier choices while they serve donuts and waffle sticks for breakfast and Funyuns for lunch.

The biggest frustration, though, was with the kids themselves. Or should I say their parents. It’s pretty easy to read elementary-aged kids. After spending a few minutes with them, you can pretty much tell what kind of home life they have: whether they get generous portions of affection and discipline from their parents, whether their parents are invested in their education, what kind of morals their being taught at home, and how physically and emotionally healthy their home life is. I saw a lot of really young, really overweight kids. Kids with major disciplinary issues. Kids struggling to keep up academically and failing miserably. I’d look at one student’s work and see an effort on par with their grade level and then look at the student next to them and see illegible chicken scratch.

The problem is that time after time, parents are refusing to do the job of parenting. They don’t discipline their kids, they don’t help them with their homework, they don’t sit down at the dinner table each night (over a moderately healthy meal) and talk to them, ask them about their day, invest their time in them. Instead, they put them on a bus to school, expecting the schools to be the parent. The health problems, discipline problems, academic problems — ultimately those are the parents’ responsibility, not the school’s.

Not everything I saw was bad, though. I saw a school full of teachers that still have a real passion for teaching. Numerous parents dropping their kids off with hugs and kisses, some of whom returned later to have lunch with them. And myself, just one of an army of dads who take off work to volunteer at the school throughout the year, not because we have to but because we genuinely care. And of course the countless smiles of kids who felt loved, safe, and appreciated.

It’s easy to pick on the things that are wrong with the public schools, but at the same time it’s completely unreasonable to expect them to be perfect. Undoubtedly, there are things that need to be fixed, but at least based on what I saw, the good far outweighs the bad. I believe that most schools really are doing their best, however they can only do so much. At the end of the day, the rest is up to us as parents.

Previously:
The Texas State Board of Education name game
Academic freedom amendment isn’t necessary
Should evolution be debated in public schools?

For some reason I’ve been really down the last couple of weeks. I don’t know if it’s a case of post-holiday blues, my workload, the weather, or what. But I’ve been depressed and have constantly been beating myself up.

Staring at the images of Haiti, though, I realize how petty I’ve been. Even in the best of times, the people there live in unimaginable poverty. According to Encyclopedia of the Nations:

Most Haitians live in small, often remote, villages or isolated settlements, with no access to electricity, clean water, or social services. Some rudimentary education is offered by church and other charitable organizations, but the distances children must travel to school, the costs of books and uniforms, and the necessity for them to work from an early age means that illiteracy is estimated at over half of the adult population. Illness can often spell financial disaster, as meager savings or investments such as a pig must be sold to pay for medicines. In some areas large numbers of people are dependent on aid agencies for food supplies.

Existence in the teeming slums of Port-au-Prince is perhaps even grimmer, with overcrowding, disease, and squalor widespread. Those who work can expect to earn no more than US$2 a day, hardly enough to buy food, let alone other necessities. The majority, however, must scrape some sort of living from the informal sector. Figures for child mortality, communicable diseases, and life expectancy reveal the country’s poverty and deprivation. According to the Pan-American Health Organization, approximately 380,000 Haitians—over 5 percent of the population—were infected with HIV/AIDS by 2000.

Meanwhile, my family and I live in a nice house in a nice suburban neighborhood. We have electricity, heating and air-conditioning as needed, clean water, plenty of clothes, and more than enough food. Our kids are getting a great education in a public school only a mile from our house, and I have a full-time job that pays well. We also have health insurance and easy access to some of the best medical care in the world.

We’re blessed beyond measure. And yet I’ve spent the better part of the last two weeks feeling sorry for myself. Why?

The earthquake that hit Port-au-Prince on Tuesday was simply tragic. My heart is broken for the countless numbers of people impacted by the devastation, for the thousands who died, and for the possible millions who are left homeless. I’m thankful, though, that even in the midst of so much suffering, God is still in control. That much, at least, I can take solace in.

More photos here.

Yes, I know I’m a week late in saying it, but Happy New Year. Now can I start out the year with a little honesty? I mean, we’re friends, right?  Here goes…

I’m a failure.

At least according to the world. I’m not rich, I’m not famous. Heck, I’m not even “Internet famous”. And I probably won’t ever be. I don’t have thousands of Twitter followers or Facebook friends, and chances are, no one is even reading this blog post. I have a steady but mostly unfulfilling job that consumes the best hours, days, and years of my life but nothing that even closely resembles a social life outside of that.

Donald Miller talks in A Million Miles in a Thousand Years about viewing life in terms of telling a story, with a narrative arc that includes overcoming obstacles in order to get what you (the protagonist) want. He writes on his blog:

A story involves a person that wants something and is willing to overcome conflict to get it. If you plan a story this year, instead of just simple goals, your life will be more exciting, more meaningful and more memorable. And you are much more likely to stick to your goals. For instance, rather than saying I want to finish getting into shape this year, I’ve written down that I want to climb Mt. Hood with a couple friends. I have a vision of standing on top of the mountain in May, taking pictures and all that. Now my goal has a narrative context. That’s just a simple story, and I’ve planned some stories that are far more difficult but I only use that as an example. If my goal were to lose twenty pounds, I doubt I’d stick with it. But when you have friends flying up from Texas to summit the mountain with you, you’d better believe you are going to be hitting the stairs. I have to, because it I don’t, my story will be a tragedy. Again, stories give goals context.

That’s great advice. But it depresses the hell out of me.

(We’re still being honest, right?)

Why is it depressing? Because it’s a lot harder to say than to do. Because I feel helpless and worthless and trapped and alone. And that sucks.

I know I’m not supposed to admit that. I’m supposed to “engage my audience”, “cultivate my online community”, “build my personal brand”. I’m supposed to read more and blog more and network more and do all the stuff that will drive traffic and generate bigger numbers. Because I’m told by the people on the Internet that that will make me a better person.

Instead, after taking a 3-month break from Facebook, I quietly reactivated my profile and promptly unfriended half my friends. And I actually made a conscious decision to blog less, not more.

It’s not that I don’t want friends; I do, absolutely. Everyone wants to be liked and appreciated and respected and lauded for their achievements. But as much as I like love it when people take the time to read my posts and even take the time to leave a comment, this blog was never meant to attract an audience; it was meant for me, as an outlet. If others stumble on it or want to follow along, that’s great.

So by any quantifiable measuring stick, I’m a failure. I’d like to say I have all these grand goals ahead of me for the year, but I’m not making any promises. I will, however, continue to try to be the best husband, father, and Christian I can, even if that doesn’t really mean anything to most people in this day and age.

And, well, there you go. If you’re still reading, I’m sorry if I’ve totally bummed you out. But I think it needed to be said.

Previously:
A little social network housecleaning
A different checklist

I was working at Microsoft at the time. Usually I’d listen to the radio on the way to work, but for some reason on the morning of September 11, 2001, I didn’t.

I showed up for work a little before 8:00 AM, and the office was still pretty quiet. I walked down the row of cubicles to say hi to my friend Larry, and I found him staring at his monitor. “Did you hear about this?” he asked. Of course I hadn’t. “A plane crashed into the World Trade Center.” Oh my God! How awful!

I got back to my desk and pulled up any news website I could get, trying to find out what happened. Normally, there were TVs at the end of the rows permanently tuned to MSNBC, but none of them had been working for a week or so. And now I couldn’t reach any of the major news sites (msnbc.com, cnn.com, etc.) as they were all flooded with traffic. I was able to get some information on the Dallas Morning News site, though, and kept reloading it over and over to try and get the latest updates. This was a terrible accident!

Then came the news that another plane had hit the other tower, and we understood that it was no accident.

Within the hour, a third plane hit the Pentagon, and it was clear we were under attack. By that time the TVs had been turned back on, and we split our attention between them and any other news we could get online. Everything seemed to be pretty chaotic.

And then the south tower collapsed.

I couldn’t believe it. It was all so surreal. For a few moments I sat there thinking how there would only be a single World Trade Center building now and how strange that would be. I just couldn’t wrap my mind around it.

Then came reports of a fourth plane down, this time in rural Pennsylvania, possibly the result of a hijacking that had been thwarted. But when would it end? How many more planes were still in the air, and what else could happen? And then shortly after that, the north tower of the World Trade Center gave way.

Throughout the rest of the morning, we could only watch helplessly as we tried to grasp what had occurred in such a short amount of time. The phones, which were typically pretty busy at that time of the day, were quiet, but there were a few calls coming in here and there. We handled them the best we could, but our minds were clearly not on our work. At lunch, everyone gathered in the cafeteria, where the company had agreed to buy everyone’s meal. Everyone around me was angry and could only talk about getting revenge on the people who had carried out the attacks. But I was silent, barely able to hold myself together. After I was done eating, I went to my car and broke down in tears, and then I prayed; it was the only thing I could do.

I got home that evening and hugged and kissed my wife. At that time we usually didn’t eat dinner at the table, but we did that night, turning the TV off in order to have a break from the news for a few minutes. And I prayed again, for our nation, for the families of the victims, and for my daughter Megan, who was only 5 months old at the time.

It’s been 8 years since the attacks on September 11th, and I can still feel the gut-wrenching fear, confusion, and overwhelming sadness that I experienced on that day. And that’s a good thing. We should never forget.

God Bless America.

My grandfather, Cleo Richards, was inducted into the United States Army on October 16, 1942, and would become a radio operator in the 96th Signal Corp, part of the 96th Infantry Division. He was one of over 100,000 U.S. troops to fight in the battle of Leyte Island in the Philippines during World War II, and it was there that he nearly lost his life.

In his memoirs, he wrote:

On October 20, 1944, we invaded Leyte Island, which was part of the Philippine Islands. The Navy and Air Force bombarded the shore of the island for three days prior to landing. The purpose was to drive the Japs inland so we could land with a minimum of casualties. After three days, troops began to land. Our company was among the first to leave the troop ship and head for land.  … When we reached shore, the front end of the landing boat was loaded, and we were ready to hit the beach. It was a gruesome sight and a weird feeling. Dead Japs were scattered around as a result of the shelling of the area prior to our landing. My job was to go inland 200-300 yards and find a spot that would be adequate to set up our command post. I was to set up my sending and receiving set and send a message to headquarters, which was still aboard ship, notifying them that we had landed. …

I was on duty all that day, all night and until about noon the next day. When I was finally relieved, I went to a nearby tree, sat down, leaned against the tree trunk and tried to pull myself together and relax. That didn’t last long because all of a sudden a very large shell landed right in the middle of our command post. It was so powerful it blew a hole in the ground large enough to drive a semi-truck in. The explosion sent chunks of shrapnel every direction. When I heard the explosion, I immediately headed for a foxhole and dove in head first. After the situation settled down a bit, I raised my head to look things over and noticed blood on the ground where my head had been lying. Then I noticed my face was bleeding. I didn’t realize I had been hit. I was sent to the first-aid station for treatment, but they were not equipped to remove the object from my face. It entered my face about two inches below my eye. All they could do was put a patch on it. By that time, the whole side of my face was badly swollen, and my eye was almost swollen shut. Since there was nothing else they could do for me, they put me back aboard ship.

My grandfather was lucky enough to survive his injury, but over 3,500 U.S. troops who fought to recapture Leyte Island were not.

After his injury, my grandfather was sent home to a hospital on the island of Guadalcanal, where he was awarded the Purple Heart. He was discharged on April 27, 1945. He would later go to work as an accountant in West Texas and become a father, a grandfather, and a great-grandfather before passing away in 2006 at the age of 89.

Growing up, I knew that my Papa had fought in World War II and had been injured, but like many veterans, he rarely talked about his time in the service. Instead, what I remember most about him is the love he had for his family and for the Lord. He is an amazing example of what it means to be a husband, a father, a man, and most importantly, a follower of Jesus Christ.

These are the men and women we remember on Memorial Day, the ones who willingly gave themselves up to defend our freedom. And I’m forever grateful of the sacrifices they have made.

Below: My grandfather during his time in the service.

Below: In 2004, with my daughter Erin, who was 1 at the time.

Below: A brick commemorating my grandfather’s service at the Veteran’s War Memorial in Lubbock, Texas.

I love eating dinner at the table with my kids. You never know what they’re going to talk about. Last night while we were eating, Megan said out of the blue, “Don’t you think life is better now?”

I wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that. Better than when?

“Better than when Grampa was a kid.”

I have no idea what prompted her question, but for an 8-year-old, Megan can be a pretty deep thinker sometimes. So why is life better now than when Grampa was a kid?

“Because back then, they didn’t have the stuff we do. Girls had to straighten their hair with an iron.”

Again, I’m not sure why she would be thinking about straightening hair with an iron and then somehow bring her grandfather’s name up, but it was still an interesting observation. Her point was that the things we have today that make life more convenient make it better.

Is that true?

I told her that in my opinion, people were probably happier back then than they are today. They didn’t have as much stuff, but life was simpler then and not as hectic. All the stuff we have now like the Internet and DVRs and cell phones are great, but as a result the world moves so much faster around us, making it harder to keep up. Plus, people are much more isolated today. We don’t have as many friends, and we’re not as connected to family as we were back then.

The bottom line is, all this stuff is not what’s important, and while it can make life more convenient, it doesn’t necessarily make it better.

I don’t know if she understood my point, but I’m thankful that she made me stop and think about it. It’s something I need to remember often.

Previously:
The next nostalgia

“May you live all the days of your life.”
- Jonathan Swift

A friend of mine posted the following list of items on his blog recently, a checklist of things “completed or experienced,” and I was surprised at the number of items he was able to check off.

(I’ve removed his comments.)

1. Started your own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sang a solo
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitchhiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught yourself a new language
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been on television
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten Caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a lawsuit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. Totally copied a post from someone else’s blog to your own

Truth be told, I can’t cross off many items on this list. Maybe someday I will. But in the meantime, I can at least say I’ve accomplished some other things:

• I have a college degree.
• I have a reasonably secure job.
• I earn almost twice as much as the average American, and about 8 times as much as the average person worldwide.
• I own my own house and so far have never missed a house payment.
• I have medical insurance and easy access to a doctor or hospital if needed.
• I am happily married.
• I have two beautiful, healthy children, who are getting a good education and learning about God and the Bible.
• I know that as screwed up as I may be, my sins are forgiven.
• I live in a nation where I can openly profess my faith without fear of recrimination; where I have the privilege to vote according to my conscience; and where I don’t have to worry daily about IEDs, suicide bombers, or missile attacks.

Obviously, not everyone can say the same.

The point is, I can look at the first list and regret that I haven’t done more, that I haven’t experienced more. Or I can be thankful for the many blessings that I do have.

Which option would you pick?

My kids love games. One of their favorites is something they simply refer to as the “circle game.”

The circle game is a large, round tin box filled with marbles, chess and checkers pieces, pick-up sticks, dice, and Parcheesi pieces, with boards for each game printed on the inside and outside of the box. I know the girls got it as a gift at some point, but for the life of me, I can’t remember from whom.

Whenever we sit down to play, I usually suggest Chinese checkers, or if it’s just the two of us, regular checkers. But almost always, the “game” ends up being some convoluted make-it-up-as-they-go-along product of the girls’ imaginations. Roll a die and pick up that number of marbles. Once you have so many marbles, you get a green pick-up stick. If you get a yellow pick-up stick, you have to put it back and get a red checker instead. Put all the marbles in one pile and all the checkers in another pile, then dump everything back in the can and stir it up with your stick. (OK, so now we’re making soup?)

I used to groan at the random nonsense of it all, but then I realized that I wasn’t teaching them as much as they were teaching me.

When I look at this box of game pieces, I see Chinese checkers, chess, Parcheesi — specific games with set rules and guidelines. When they look at it, they see a collection of raw ingredients that can be used in an infinite number of ways.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve slowly lost the ability to imagine, to see the various possibilities. I’ve been conditioned to go to work, do my job, pay the bills, check off the to-do list, and never, ever deviate.

Not them. At least not yet.

To Megan, a scrap piece of paper is a canvas on which to create her latest masterpiece. To Erin, a plastic harmonica case is the perfect container for her partially sucked-on peppermint stick. Megan happily sleeps with her baby blanket, even though she outgrew it years ago. And Erin pours out compassion on her dollar-store teddy bear who is abnormally flat.

They each walk to the beat of their own drummer, and in each in their own way. And I hope that never changes.

I guess I need to learn how to stop taking life so seriously, to let go of the things I don’t have any control over and appreciate the things I have. The job, the bills, all the responsibilities that go along with being an adult, those things are still important. But that doesn’t mean I have to stress out over everything either. After all, it’s just a game, right?

As we were eating dinner tonight, Megan and Erin casually told me about the lockdown drill they had at school earlier. I knew they had drills like this, but it’s still jarring to hear your 7- and 5-year-olds describe them.

In the drill, they shut the classroom door and turn the lights off, then blackout the windows and stand quietly against the wall.

Truly scary stuff, considering the real-life tragedies that prompted the exercise.

I’m old enough to remember ducking under our desks in case of a nuclear war. (Still not sure how that would’ve done any good, but whatever.)

I guess this is just trading one fear for another.