Shut up and Drive

My Dad and I are hitching up the wagons for a little road trip tomorrow. We're heading down to Logan, Utah, to watch the almighty Boise State Broncos tackle the Utah State Aggies.

We plan to shove off at first light. Okay, more like 10 a.m., but that's still way early in my book. Stay tuned for a full recap next week.

LET'S GET 'ER DONE BRONCO NATION!!!!!!!!!!!!

(This photo was from Darin Oswald of the Idaho Statesman. So don't sue me!).

Leaping for Joy

April and I had a wonderful dinner with our friend Nicole last night. The subject of having kids popped up during the course of our conversation. Nicole and her husband Scott are preparing to make "the leap" and have kids of their own. They've been married for nearly two years and they both want to start a family. If, that is, they can get past the fear of having a family!

Nicole expressed her fears about parenthood. All of the usual terrors that everybody secretly harbors in their minds when first contemplating creating and caring for actual human life. Whether they admit it publicly or not.

"What if I'm not a good parent?"

"What if I lose my identity?"

"I can't take care of myself, how am I going to raise a child?"

I found this conversation fascinating, because I had forgotten all about these pre-parenting terrors. I've been so immersed in raising Michael for five years that I have completely forgotten what it was like to be me P.M. (Pre Michael). All of the anxiety. All of the stress. All of the uncertainty.

It all came rushing back in our living room last night. April and I are currently planning on having another child, and even though I should know better, I found myself succumbing to some of these fears yet again.

"You're right," I thought, "What if I am a bad parent? What if my kid turns out to be a serial killer? What if I ruin this poor helpless child's life? Oh me! Oh my!"

Panic stricken, I gulped for air. It was at this exact moment that I noticed a certain brown-haired and smiling 5-year-old watching "Angelina Ballerina" on the computer. He was laughing to himself and filled with a joy that comes so easy to little tykes. A joy we should all emulate.

I realized while watching him that I have raised Michael for five years now without any clue what I'm doing. I've never been around little kids or babies before, and you can be sure that parenting has not come "naturally" for me. Yet Michael has persevered through my lack of parenting expertise with flying colors. He's a smart, loving, caring, respectful young man who designs computer web pages and snuggles with his "Wuff Wuff." I have no idea how this happened, but it did.

I truly believe that the best advice I can give couples contemplating "the leap," is to keep it simple stupid! Give your kids love. Give them support. Give them security. Give them freedom to be themselves and to grow.

If you focus on this, you'll be just fine.

Besides, I'm the same guy who once drove through Pocatello going the wrong way on a one-way street (not realizing it and honking at all of the "stupid idiots" I thought were going the wrong way). I've also microwaved a hot dog that was wrapped in foil (oh the sparks and the flames. It was so beautiful!). So If I can do this parenting thing, anybody can.

Trust me kiddies!

- Dave

P.S. If you're reading this Nicole and Scott, I have total confidence that you guys will be amazing parents.

More than a feelin'

I am coming to you live from my new Lazyboy recliner. That's right, the bad boys have arrived and I am snuggled deep within their cushy coziness as I type this. It's an experience that defies explanation. Few words in the English language accurately portray the sheer bliss within these pillows of the Gods.

Luckily the world has Will Ferrell. I believe it was the master of Saturday Night himself who coined the term "scrumtrulescent." That will do. Yes that will do nicely.

Sitting here amidst this haven of softness is simply and utterly scrumtrulescent! I am born anew in the genius of the Lazyboy. It appears I am not the only one who appreciates these glorious recliners. Jordan is currently napping in the recliner next to me. His little puppy body softly snuggled into the cushions and perfectly at peace.

You know, a wise man once said that everyone should own a recliner. If we all relaxed in the plush wonder of the Lazyboy, there would be nothing to get upset about. Okay, okay. Nobody actually said that. But they should have, don't you think?

Now if you'll excuse me (yawn), I simply must sign off. All of this (stretch) typing is making me sleepy. I feel a nap approaching and I don't ... want ... to ... miss it ... zzzzzzz

Scrumtrulescent indeed kiddies!

- Dave

Get 'er done

Renovation madness is alive and kicking at the Ward castle these days. For months now April and I have relentlessly renovated every nook and cranny of our happy home. We've installed three glorious skylights, replaced every single window with energy-efficient bad boys, and bestowed upon the royal puppies a brand-spanking-new doggy door! It's been a labor of love really. A gigantic hug to our quirky house with its quirky quirkiness.

I can hear you asking, "Did you really do all this yourselves? I thought you guys were a bit unqualified for such work!"

Well, first of all I am insulted! How dare you imply that I am incapable of such manual labor. But now that I've calmed down a bit, I'll answer your question - Heck no we didn't do this ourselves! Are you crazy!! If you put me in front of a saw I'd hack my arm off. I'd fall off the roof. I'd pound nails into my thumb ... You get the point.

We may not be weekend warriors, but our brand of "checkbook handywork" gets the job done every time. And all it took was a nice sizeable loan we'll be paying off for a few decades or so. It's the American way! (We will get a nice tax return, so thank you Obama!).

The final installment of our renovation madness will take place tomorrow. And it will be fantastic! April and I spent several hours yesterday moving book shelves into a rather unique room in our home. This room has rotated between a TV room and an indoor hockey room over the years. We've finally decided to make it a small library with books and everything. Just the thing that "grown-ups" would have in their home! So now we've got book shelves (with books!), a nice rug and a small end table. All that is missing are chairs.

Boy do we have that covered! Tomorrow a delivery truck will pull into our driveway. Smiling movers will emerge from this truck and proceed to move two large, plush, cushy, cozy, dreamy Lazyboy recliners into our little library! Oh yes, we bought some Lazyboy's baby! Time to hibernate for the winter.

So now I'm sitting in this extremely uncomfortable wooden chair in my kitchen, dreaming of my cozy, comfy recliners. I just have one question - Is it tomorrow yet?

Sit back and relax kiddies!

- Dave

Soy un perdedor ....

I found myself at one of April's lavish company parties again last night. Or, as I like to call it, "Hell on Earth for a stay-at-home Dad." These grandiose affairs are always held at some yuckety muck's haughty mansion out on the edge of town. It's filled with the usual tan walls, tan carpet and tan or red furniture. To top it all off, the McMansion is packed to the gills with 30-something health professionals armed with graduate degrees and enough self assurance to kick-start a revolution. I stroll in with my lack of a job, lack of a career direction and toting a 5-year-old, just waiting for the first question - "So, what do you do?"

It's a simple question, and these rulers of the health care universe don't really mean any harm, but these four words are crushing for a guy like me. It brings back all of my insecurities. Places them on a platter for me to stare at. There is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

It gets really interesting when all of the good-looking, successful, wealthy and charming guys that April works with come over to rub my nose in it. I've dreaded large crowds in small spaces my entire life. Throw in the fact that I can't make small talk and I have nothing interesting to talk about anyway, you might as well shoot me and get it over with.

Needless to say I ended up watching cartoons in the back room with the rest of the children.

On a completely unrelated note, I had the weirdest dream last night. I needed to mow the lawn, but there was a bomb attached to the mower. If I hit a rock, or made a wrong move, the mower would blow me to pieces. While mowing, I noticed April sitting on the patio with Michael in her lap. She was sitting with a large group of ultra-suave guys that she works with. She kept yelling out to me how good looking and awesome these guys were. All while I was pushing the mower with the bomb attached to it around the yard.

Whatever could this mean kiddies?

- Dave

I never would have thought of that

I'm struggling for inspiration today. Perhaps it's my oh-so-terrible seasonal allergies wreaking havoc on my sinuses and leaving my brain somewhat mushy. Or perhaps it's the midweek doldrums. Whatever it is, I'm searching in vain for something meaningful to contribute to this here blog.

So, like I always do, I'll leave it to my son the "quote machine" to give us all a jolt of genius. So here goes:

April drove home yesterday in a rain storm. Her jacket was noticeably wet from Mother Nature's display when she entered the house. Michael gave her a hug, noticed the wetness, and promptly asked, "Did somebody pee on you Mommy?"

Always be observant kiddies!

- Dave

Yeah it looks pretty sweet. It looks awesome. That lamp, it's ... it's incredible!

It's a cold, gray, blah kind of day here in the burbs, and I'm feeling a little cold, gray and blah myself. I need a little pick-me-up. Something to bring a smile to my face and joy to my bosom. I'm not even sure if guys have bosoms, but it sounds kind of dramatic don't you think? And when it comes to writing it's much better to be dramatic than factual, I always say.

I've got just the thing to make our bosoms joyous indeed.

You may have noticed the photo at the top of this posting. The thing that looks like something out of a 1950's, "We've just dropped an atom bomb in the desert, and now giant tarantulas are storming the city!!" movie. Well, this little beauty is our new lamp!

I know what you're thinking so don't even say it. You're wondering how we came upon such a beautiful work of art, right? How this masterpiece of form and function fell down from the hands of angels and into our living room, yes?

Some people just have all the luck. It's as simple as that.

This little beauty was crafted by my Great, Great Uncle. Family legend states that while working on the contstruction of the Hoover Dam, my Great, Great Uncle felt inspired to build lamps out of cactus. He painted scenes of the Hoover Dam on these lamps and gave them to his sisters. My Great Grandma (his sister) received this lamp and cherished it. It has since been passed down from my Grandpa Bob, to my Mom and now to me.

And I just have to say ... it's absolutely fantastic! April and I simply love unique stuff. We have a unique house. We have a unique bright-green Jeep. We have a unique child. And now we have one of the most unique lamps I've ever seen! It even came with a homemade match box and ash tray. I love it!

So ignore the gloomy-gloom-gloom outside and take a gander at this fantastic creation. It lights up a room. It starts many a conversation. And, if we're lucky, someday it will dance around the room singing show tunes.

You just never know!

Smile kiddies! Smile!

- Dave

Come on over

I've just finished playing my favorite game and boy am I tired. Exhausted really. It's a fun little game that perhaps you've heard of. I like to call it, "Dave has invited people over so now he must frantically clean the house so they don't run away in horror."

Ring any bells?

April and I are members of a small group that meets periodically throughout the year. We sit in a circle and discuss highbrow subjects such as the definition of God, the role and art throughout history and the meaning of life. At least for the first five minutes. After that the conversation usually drifts to more important matters such as our children, favorite TV shows and Facebook.

I love it. There is usually coffee and cookies, and I get a chance to discuss something besides the letter of the day and Ruff Ruffman's latest conquest. April and I try to have serious discussions on our own, but it always includes a five-year-old tugging on April's sleeve and yelling, "Mommy! Mommy! MOMMY!!!!" We can usually tune out the first two "Mommy's!", but when he starts screaming in all capital letters, well there is simply no hope.

So it's our turn to host a meeting tonight, and that leaves me with the daunting task of making our house look presentable. You know, like two dogs, a kindergartener and a chips-and-salsa addict don't live here. I've been vaccuming, straightening and dusting all afternoon and I do believe I've accomplished my goal. It may not be the royal palace, but it will suffice. The servants are on holiday, after all, and one must make do.

I am always amazed at the sheer amount of dirt and fur our house accumulates over a short period of time. Whenever I get the vacuum out and disengage the storage thingy to throw out the dust and stuff (Sorry if my technical descriptions are too complicated. Just try to keep up) I find enough dirt to start a garden. It looks like I just take the vacuum out into the backyard and turn it on. I really wouldn't categorize our family as "slobs," but it's a rather remarkable sight.

There is, however, a happy ending to all of this. Whenever my little game is finished, and I've had a chance to catch my breath, I get the joy of sitting in a wonderfully clean house. Take in the fresh air and marvel at how the wood floors are supposed to look. This lasts for all of 10 minutes until our little Yorkie dog Jordan drags in a mud-covered stick and begins rubbing it all over the floor.

I sure hope our group gets here soon!

Keep it clean kiddies.

- Dave

Look out below!

I do believe I've gone and jumped off the deep end.

There. I've said it. I feel much better now.

Why would I make such a grandiose statement, besides the obvious reason that it just sounds really cool? I'll tell you. Last Friday I completely purged myself of my church-going obligations. I quit the Sunday Services Committee and I resigned from the Board of Directors. All within a 30-minute time span to boot.

And I've got to tell you ... I feel great!!

I've spent the past four years in a serious identity crisis. As I relayed in this blog last week, I struggled with my role as a stay-at-home Dad and constantly searched outside the home for some sort of identity. I ended up placing the majority of my energy and enthusiasm in church related activities. This is not a bad place to focus your energy. You are, after all, helping to nurture a community and working toward peace and justice in the world. The problem wasn't that I gave my time and energy to the church. The real problem was the amount of time that I gave.

I joined every committee imaginable, signed on with the Board and also volunteered to lead the church's pledge drive. I get tired just reading that last sentence! Not surprisingly, I absolutely flamed out and desperately needed to come up for air. I was a super-awesome Board member and stuff, but I was completely overwhelmed. I needed to make a change and fast.

This, however, would require facing my lifelong nemisis. The dreaded "Q" word - Quitting!

I am constantly haunted by that horrible word. It seems like my life has been one long quitting fest. I quit football in high school. I also quit drama my senior year. I quit my first job as a journalist. I quit my second job. I eventually quit the journalism profession altogether.

Quit. Quit. Quit!!

Well, I finally realized something last week. I may have quit all those things, but I did it for very good reasons. Basically I was miserable. So why would I continue being miserable? The same logic applied to my church burnout situation. Why would I continue making myself miserable simply because I was afraid to quit?

When I thought of it this way, everything made sense. I knew what I had to do.

I fired up the laptop, sent off a couple of letters of resignation, and set my soul free. I've been flying high ever since. I know I'll return to church service in the future, but for now I'm content to sit on the sidelines. Recharge the old batteries for a while.

Before I sign off for today, I'd like to share one last epiphany with you. I may have "quit" a number of unimportant endeavors, but I never quit the things that truly matter. I never quit being a husband and I never quit being a father. I'm very proud of that. It's quite an empowering moment when you realize your priorities are exactly where they should be.

So here I am, jumping off the deep end and having a blast. Come in and join me. The water's fine.

Find your bliss kiddies!

- Dave

Cleaning up my act

Merry Sunday evening to one and all! I sit here refreshed from a weekend of manly leaf raking, football watching and consuming pulled-pork sandwiches. Just a little slice of the American dream in my little burb.

I am happy to report that the germs have yet to find me. Michael has recovered from his three-day tummy-hurting marathon, and I am unscathed (You bet your caboose I'm furiously knocking on any form of wood I can find right now). The little guy is feeling all better. As a matter of fact, Michael is running around the house with our oh-so-expensive digital camera shooting impromptu documentary videos as we speak. I caught a sneek peek of his latest work - an extensive closeup of my nose that lasts for around 10 minutes and features bonus shots of Michael spinning around and around in the kitchen. It's bloody brilliant!

Michael is feeling so much better today that he has continued embarking on a nearly impossible mission. A mission he began several weeks ago. The little guy vows to clean up his parents' dirty potty mouths. That's right. Michael is repremanding April and I every time we slip up and utter words like "God," "crap" and other zingers that I probably shouldn't print here.

I never realized the staggering number of instances I utter naughty potty mouth words during a typical day until my 5-year-old began sternly repremanding me.

"Daddy, don't say that word! You shouldn't say that word!"

Oh the shame!

There is no arguing. No protesting, "But I didn't mean to! Honest!" Little Michael will hear no excuses. He simply demands perfection and will not rest until our potty mouths are fully clean and ready for inspection. I would complain, but I've got to admit it's nice to have a little discipline in this house for a change.

Keep it clean kiddies!

- Dave

I'm waiting!

I sit here on a rain-soaked November morning (cue Axle Rose), sipping coffee and waiting for my turn. Every parent knows the drill. Little tyke starts to sniffle. Then his tummy hurts. Then he loses his cookies on the hallway floor, and the great wait commences.

The wait for the evil virus to sear its way into your happy little system. When you're taking care of a sniffly, sneezy, coughy, germy little 5-year-old, it's not "if" you're going to get sick. It's merely "when."

So here I sit waiting patiently. Let's get this over already.

Turns out I jumped the gun on the "Great Bacon Caper of 2009" in my posting yesterday. Although it's still relevant reading to rehash the thousands of food allergy goof-ups we've experienced over the years. So the bacon may have been okay after all (Sorry Burger King. I never should have doubted the home of the Whopper!). Usually Michael blows chunks (Party on Wayne!)and then he starts to feel better. The offending allergin gets a quick escort out of Michael's tummy and everything returns to normal.

Not so this time. Michael's tummy continued to feel icky long after all traces of food made their exit. The little guy spent the entire day walking through the house proclaiming, "My tummy hurts!!" He couldn't lay down. He couldn't sit still. His discomfort forced him into constant movement, and all I could do was follow him around and try to empathize.

This Daddy thing is a tough gig when your sole male heir's tummy hurts and you're powerless to stop it (I've been reading Phillipa Gregory novels again).

Thankfully he seems to be feeling better today. He broke his fast with Cream of Rice and sorbet (Long live the king!!), and the Motrin seems to be helping. Right now he's snuggled up on the couch watching Clifford the Big Red Dog. So it looks like he's going to pull through.

Which just leaves the waiting game. I've got my Boise State jersey on (Coach Pete shall protect me!) and two bottles of hand sanitizer at my side. Bring it germs! Let's do this!

Fight for your kingdom, kiddies!

- Dave

You can call me Superman

Confidence can be a dangerous thing when it comes to parenting. If you ever get that, "Hey, this is easy. I know exactly what I'm doing," feeling, then you know trouble is lurking around the corner.

Trust me on this.

My topsy-turvy experiences over the past 24 hours serve as a perfect case in point. It all started innocently enough. April and I walked over to Michael's kindergarten for our first parent-teacher conference yesterday afternoon. I was honestly curious about the verdict. Would Michael's teacher jump up, arms raised, and exclaim, "You are the greatest parents I have ever seen! They should build statues to your brilliance!" Or would it be something like, "Oh my goodness! What are you doing to that poor child! I can't believe he can even speak! You are the worst parents ever!!"

Well, as you might have guessed, the verdict was somewhere in the middle. Michael is a borderline genius when it comes to language (as anyone who has ever spoken with him can vouch for), yet he struggles with simple motor skills. He can tell you detailed information about dinosaurs and how the human kidney works, but he struggles to write his name.

Mrs. Hymas, who Michael has a huge crush on already, ended the conference by saying, "Michael is a wonderful kid and you guys are doing a great job with him."

Naturally I let this go straight to my head.

I left the classroom beating my chest and strutting like any respectable "SuperDad" would. We have several friends who spend every waking minute enrolling their children in music classes, language classes and quantum physics seminars. It was good to see my particular parenting style, which basically includes none of those things, validated. Turns out my kid is a smarty-pants just like his Mom, and even I can't ruin that!

We celebrated with a trip to the super-awesome Burger King playground. The one with the huge net-world-thingy that you climb up endlessly and shoot down numerous slides of death. I watched Michael embark on his journey into the net jungle with several other screaming kiddies, partaking in the traditional Daddy dinner of champions - A whopper, fries and a coke. Life was good.

April and I nodded knowingly to each other, content in the fact that we were brilliant parents doing brilliant work here.

This is precisely the moment we screwed up. Again.

For those new to this blog, Michael has several severe food allergies. His long list of no-no's includes nuts, eggs, wheat, milk, soy and strawberries. His diet consists almost entirely of fresh meat, fresh fruit, fresh veggies and rice milk. Any violation of this strict diet ushers forth tummy aches, crying, tantrums and sometimes what Wayne and Garth refer to as "blowing chunks."

Reveling in the glee of our celebration, April and I decided to strip off a piece of bacon from our sandwiches and give it to Michael. This would have been fine ... if it was actually bacon! We forgot that fast food restaurants often use, oh let's call it "mystery meat" in their products. They also fry anything and everything in vegetable oil (which is entirely soy). This was a rookie mistake on our part. We should know better than this!

So this morning Michael promptly wakes up and announces "My tummy hurts!!" Around 20 minutes later the blowing of chunks commences. So much for my "SuperDad" status.

When I tell Michael about the bacon, and apologize for my stupidity, the little guy unleashes yet another quote to remember. "It's okay Daddy," he says with a serious look. "And when Mommy comes home, I'll say, 'I forgive you.'"

Here's to forgiveness kiddies!

- Dave

I am what I say I am

There are times in life when a great book will simply fall out of the heavens and into your lap at exactly the time you need it most. This book will answer questions you never even knew you had, and provide peace where inner anxiety and depression used to rule. It's a gift from a high place and all you can do is raise up your arms and shout "Thank You!!!!" to the unnamable forces that make these gifts possible.

My great book that fell out of the sky and into my lap is entitled "The Daddy Shift: How Stay-at-Home Dads, Breadwinning Moms, and Shared Parenting Are Transforming the American Family," by Jeremy Adam Smith. This remarkable book absolutely changed my perspective on every single aspect of my life. Before I read this book, I was caught in a never-ending search for an "identity." I began each day with the same questions: "Who am I? What am I?" I longed for a title. Any title. Something to validate me and give me a seat at the great table of society.

I spent a year preparing for a career in ministry. I had great plans, you see. I would attend seminary, earn a prestigious degree, lead a congregation, deliver sermons, write books, blah, blah, blah. There was just one problem. Doing so would force me to leave my hometown, abandon my relatives, force my wife to uproot her career and basically push my son Michael into a life of full-time daycare and constant movement between schools. It didn't make sense for my family, but I was going to be somebody damn it!! I was going to have a title and everything!!

Making the decision to postpone, at least for now, my ministry ambitions plunged me into a huge void of loss. I no longer had a plan. I no longer had answers to my questions. I no longer knew who I was, or who I was going to "be." I felt empty and useless. I no longer had a reservation at society's table. I was just a guy without a job and no earthly idea what the future held.

Well, after reading Smith's remarkable book, I know exactly who and "what" I am. Do you want to know "what" I am? I'll tell you.

I'm a Father.

For the past five years I have helped raise the most remarkable miracle I have ever been associated with. There have been ups, there have been downs, but there has always been love. I have watched a crying and helpless baby grow into a wide-eyed and laughing toddler. This toddler has since grown into a loving and caring kindergartner who has recently begun reading books, creating computer webpages, and taking care of his clueless old man. All with a smile and a sense of wonder that we could all learn from.

I've experienced this miracle, yet our culture never actually let me fully embrace it. I was too preoccupied with what I was going to "be" and where I was going to go in the future. The question I am most asked by well-meaning people is "What are you going to do after this?" It's a fair question, but it frames my experiences with my son as something temporary and less important than my aspirations in the "real world."

I'm not falling in this trap any more. I am a father. I am a damn good one. I don't know what I'm going to "be" after this, but I know it will never bring me the joy and love that comes with spending my days with Michael.

I want to thank Jeremy Adam Smith for showing me the error of my ways. For sharing stories of stay-at-home Dads from all over the country. Fathers experiencing the exact things I have experienced, and feeling the exact things I have felt. Fathers that are emboldened enough to feel pride for their role in raising their children and contributing to society at large.

We are living in changing times. Women, such as my remarkable wife April, are flourishing in their careers. In doing so, many of them are taking on the "breadwinning" role traditionally held by men. This requires a shift in the family dynamics. This requires new roles for women and men to raise children in the 21st century. This requires a true partnership. A true loving commitment by both parents to give their children the love and support they need to grow into the wonderful people we know they can be.

I get this now. Fatherhood is a title. For me it's THE title. Not just something I'm doing while searching for my seat at society's table.

You can have your table. I've got a my own table here in my kitchen. True, it's got crayons, Power Rangers and "High Five" magazines spread all over it, but you know what, I like it that way.

I am beautiful ... in every single way

Oh how I pity you poor people. Slogging through your daily grind without the slightest opportunity to gaze upon the single greatest sight one could ever hope to witness. It's breathtaking, actually. The type of vision usually reserved for the angels floating in heaven.

I'm referring, of course, to my hair.

My brilliant, sassy, ever-flowing and miraculous hair. I'm tearing up right now just thinking about it.

Wars are fought over hair like this. Entire kingdoms demolished and nations toppled. To be in the presence of this hair is to reach nirvana. You lose yourself in hair like this, surrendering to the overflowing joy that its beauty represents.

I'm quite pleased with it myself.

But before I dare venture out of the house and reveal this glorious hair to the world at-large, I thought I would relay the tale of its creation. A tale of miracles and triumph destined to be repeated throughout the land for centuries to come.

The miracle occurred last week during my morning shower. I was halfway through a rousing rendition of "American Woman," using the shampoo bottle as a microphone and reaching full vibrato, when I realized my "microphone" was actually out of shampoo. I immediately stopped singing and focused all of my intellectual powers on solving this dilemma. Around 20 minutes later, a plan of action began to materialize.

Like any good husband, I decided to raid the wife's side of the bathroom cabinet. I searched through the endless piles of lotions and makeup for any deserted bottles of shampoo that may be lurking. Eventually I stumbled upon the blessed bottle of miracles hidden way in the back. I immediately grasped this glorious bottle and ushered the light of the heavens down upon my unsuspecting locks.

I entered the shower that morning a mere mortal and emerged a divine being, if I do say so myself.

Now I spend each day running my fingers through every glorious strand and emphatically tossing my head back and forth in slow motion. If you listen close enough, you can even hear music as I saunter through the room in blissfull euphoria.

So look out world. My miraculous hair and I are about to descend upon the masses. And one more thing: If loving my hair is wrong, then baby you don't want to be right!

Don't hate me because I'm beautiful kiddies!

- Dave

Never fear for Jordan is here

There is an evil (pronounced e-vil) sprinkler monster dwelling in my backyard.

But I am not afraid.

Each night when the moon rises and the stars shine, this monster appears without warning, spraying dangerous waters of doom all over the innocent grass and trees.

But I am not afraid.

There is no reasoning with this instigator of terror. No hiding from its wrath. No escape.

But I am not afraid.

Why you ask? I have a protector. A little furry knight in shining armour sworn to protect me and my family from these forces of evil. Especially the watery evil this sprinkler monster spews forth with such venom.

His name is Jordan, and he spends every ounce of energy in his little Yorkie body fighting this water-gushing foe. No matter how terrifying the ordeal may be.

The moment little Jordie hears the sprinkler monster emerge from the depths of hell each night, he lets out a valiant whimper. He immediately and heroicly runs to the door and scratches for release, blatantly ignoring our desperate cries of, "No Jordie! Don't do it! It's too dangerous!!"

He merely snickers at our cowardice. Once the door is opened, little Jordie runs with all of his might directly at his nemisis. He charges straight into the stream of doom, barking and screaching as the evil waters submerge him. A few additional barks of warning later, little Jordie returns triumphantly into the house. His mission accomplished.

There he stands, soaked to the bone and brandishing a courageous look that says, "I did it guys! I did it for you! Fear not, your hero returns!"

Sure enough, thanks to little Jordie's act of heroism, the sprinkler monster returns to the depths of hell approximately 44 minutes later. We all let out a sigh of relief, knowing that we are safe and shall live to see the sun rise once more.

There is an evil sprinkler monster dwelling in my backyard.

But I am not afraid.

Go get em' kiddies!

- Dave

Moova' Shaka'

I'd like to start out with a grand announcement (so hold on to your cereal!). I am writing this very blog post on my new laptop! That's right. Ole' Dave went and purchased himself a fancy-shmancy portable computer thingy (or as I like to call it, "My awesome baseball, Netflix and Facebook machine"). Now it can be my blog machine as well. Oh the possibilities are endless. Can't you just see the difference in my prose? I realize now how much sitting at a boring desk was holding back my genius. Now I'm mobile baby! I can spew forth my brilliance from the kitchen counter, the patio, even the park. Watch out world, it's time to smell what The Dave is cookin'!

So let's give this a whirl, shall we? I'd like to start my inaugural laptop blog post with a little story about my new source of inspiration. I've been handed the key to happiness in life, and I have none other than Hank Moody to thank for it. If you don't know, Hank Moody is a fictional character on what I consider quite possibly the sleaziest, trashiest, craziest show ever broadcast over the airwaves - Californication. It's absolutely fantastic!!

Hank is a devil-may-care author with a penchant for booze, drugs, rock n' roll and sleazy women. And, of course, he's got a heart of gold. Picture Jack Kerouac living today in Los Angeles, only with a teenage daughter that he adores and an on-again, off-again girlfriend that he worships. This guy is simply the coolest character out there. (Now would be a good time to insert that I am hopelessly addicted to any cheesy soap opera that I watch. Beverly Hills 90210, Felicity, Sex and the City, Weeds, Dallas, I love them all!! It's a sickness. I just can't help myself! I've long ago moved past the point of being ashamed of myself for loving shows like Californication. I've just accepted the fact that God made me this way, and it's his fault. Bring on the sleaze!).

I realized during a marathon session of Season 2 last week that I absolutely worship Hank Moody. And not for the obvious reasons, either. You know, the fact that every supermodel-worthy woman that crosses his path ends up, um, spending quality time with him. I'm a one-woman guy (sorry ladies) and the idea of having "sexual relations" with anyone but April is absolutely laughable.

So, what is it about Hank Moody that leaves me in awe? It finally hit me - The guy lives completely and utterly in the moment. Wherever he is, whatever he is doing, he is THERE! He never worries about the future. When he's with his daughter, he is 100 percent with her mentally. When he's out at some crazy party, he is experiencing everything around him fully. It creates a sort of optimism that is intoxicating. A "anything can happen" attitude that I've always wished I had.

So, in honor of Hank Freakin' Moody, I've spent the past week or so trying to live in the moment. Hank-Moody-up my outlook. And you know what? It's worked! I've been happier than I've been in a long time. When it's time to walk Michael to school, I'm there fully. When it's time to go to some crazy meeting, I'm there fully. When it's time to feed the dog, I'm there fully.

It's amazing. Apparently Thich Nhat Hahn was on to something with his "mindfulness" teachings. I read "The Miracle of Mindfulness" last year, and it really didn't resonate with me. Leave it to my screwed up brain to draw out this same lesson from quite possibly the raunchiest show ever created.

Whatever works, right?

There is one minor drawback from living in the moment, Hank Moody style. As a stay-at-home parent, living Moody style makes it quite easy to forget what day it is. This happened to me last week. I was mindfully spending quality time with my new laptop on Facebook, when suddenly I bolted upright in my chair.

"Crap! It's Wednesday and I'm supposed to pick Michael up from kindergarten early!"

I had about 30 seconds to run out the door and around the block to the school.

Then again, that is exactly what would happen to Hank Freakin' Moody. So I guess I'm on to something after all!

Enjoy life kiddies!

- Dave

Time for some football sermon

It's football season at last!! The long, long summer is over and now everything is about to become right with the world once again! The valiant Boise State Broncos are mere hours away from clashing with the Oregon Ducks on the Blue Turf, and I for one cannot wait!

In honor of this grand occasion, I'm posting a sermon that I presented at the Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship a couple of weeks ago. It's all about football! (And some other stuff). So enjoy ... and go Broncos!!

- Dave


Time Has Come Today

By David Ward

It’s easy to make friends in Boise, Idaho. All you need are two simple words. These are magical words, guaranteed to bring about smiles, laughter and sometimes even spontaneous applause. Trust me, it’s uncanny and it’s foolproof. All you have to do is combine the words “Fiesta” and “Bowl” and insert these words into a sentence. Any sentence at all. The reaction you receive is guaranteed to be positive, if not deafening.

Try it sometime and see what I mean. The next time your conversation lags a bit just throw in the phrase “Fiesta Bowl” and you’ll instantly become the life of the party in Boise. Observe this shrewd tactic in action:

“So then I said, ‘No, Bill, X is not the square root of 3.5, don’t be silly!’ The square root of …. Oh never mind … Fiesta Bowl!!”

(The room instantly erupts with cheers such as - “Ya baby!!! Fiesta Bowl baby!!! That’s what I’m talking about!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”)

For those not versed in the ways of football geekdom, all of this hullaballoo is referring to the 2006 Fiesta Bowl when the valiant hometown Boise State Broncos upset the heavily favored and mighty Oklahoma Sooners on New Year’s Day in what some experts refer to as “The Greatest Football Game Ever Played.” The Broncos used a “hook-and-ladder” play on fourth down with just seconds remaining to force overtime, and followed with the now infamous “Statue of Liberty” play in overtime to score a two-point conversion and win the game.

Again, for those who don’t live and breathe the pigskin (poor, poor souls), just know that it was REALLY REALLY AWESOME!!

This improbable victory took our little community by storm. The entire city was awash in blue and orange. People cheered in the streets. Strangers hugged like old chums, and impersonating the behind-the-back handoff during the Statue of Liberty play became the standard form of greeting.

Our “little team that could” even caught fire around the nation. Boise State won an “ESPY” award, which is similar to an Oscar for sports teams. The first time I spoke with Robert Fulghum during his visit to our fellowship, he calmly stated “If you’re going to ask me if I’ve seen the Fiesta Bowl, the answer is definitely yes!”

I even saw renowned musician Michael W. Smith impersonate the behind-the-back handoff during a concert at Taco Bell Arena last year. He said it was the most exciting football game he’s ever seen, earning rousing applause from the Bronco faithful in the audience that night.

It was the game that changed everything in Boise, Idaho …. And I was there!
That’s right. My father and I were perched way up in the “nosebleed” section at the University of Phoenix Stadium in Glendale, Arizona, screaming our lungs out and living the dream baby! I’ve got the pictures, the ticket stub and the years lost on my life to prove it.

An experience touching upon the holy, if you ask me, and providing memories that will never fade.

But when I think about that fateful night under the Arizona stars, I really don’t reflect on the game itself. Yes it was unbelievably exciting to watch my Broncos, the same team that I cheered throughout my childhood, upset mighty Oklahoma in a nationally televised bowl game. A feat I never thought possible during my childhood days when Boise State was just a second-tier team playing in the Big Sky Conference on a silly blue field.

While I will certainly cherish that game forever, the majority of my “Fiesta Bowl” memories center around the wonderful experiences I shared with my Dad.

When I think about the Fiesta Bowl, I don’t think about the actual game that much. My mind instantly takes me back to a rousing pep rally my Dad and I attended in Tempe on New Year’s Eve. We arrived early and stood in the front row, proudly wearing our finest blue and orange and cheering loudly into the television cameras.

We followed the pep rally by strolling around Mill Avenue, yelling along with the seemingly thousands of Bronco faithful invading Arizona that night. A truly magical way to ring in the new year, if you ask me.

Game day featured a great conversation at Starbucks, followed by a quiet and nervous drive to the stadium. There we stumbled upon a huge outdoor party filled with blue and orange crazies on one end, and red and white Sooner-backers on the other. Bands were playing, cheerleaders were performing, and fans were throwing down hot dogs and beer with gusto. Topping it all off was a gorgeous blue sky and a gigantic high-definition television screen broadcasting the Rose Bowl to the masses.

Heaven on Earth for a couple of college football fans from the mountains of Idaho.

This is the scene my mind broadcasts over and over when I think about the Fiesta Bowl. My Dad and I spending a surreal afternoon chatting, watching football and just spending quality time together in one of the coolest settings you could ever dream up. A wonderful afternoon that serves as a reminder of what this life is truly about.

You see, it’s memories like this one that stick with us throughout our lives. Genuine connections with the people we love the most. As most as our culture focuses on money, goals, gadgets and the latest-greatest thing, I find true happiness only comes through human loving connection.

Wouldn’t you agree?

I was reminded of this fact a couple of months ago while reading a wonderfully inspiring book by Christian pastor Rick Warren entitled “The Purpose Driven Life.” I was breezing through the book, nodding my head in agreement at some points and tisk-tisking in disagreement at others, when I stumbled upon a chapter entitled “What Matters Most.”

From the very first line this chapter spoke to me. It yanked me out of my passive reading, wrapped its arms around me and breathed inspiration right into my very soul. Our minister Elizabeth likes to refer to this phenomenon as an “ah-ha” moment, and I definitely shouted a few “ah-ha’s” while reading this chapter.

They say you should always share your great discoveries, so if you don’t mind, I’d like to share a few highlights from this phenomenal chapter. I feel it gives great insight about focusing on what is truly important in our lives – Namely the love and relationships we share with each other.

Warren begins with one simple line that, in my humble opinion, sums up everything: “Life is all about love.” Five words that clearly state all of my hopes and dreams for what life could and should be, if we would only open our hearts.

He follows with a declaration that loving, especially loving unselfishly, is no easy task. And boy ain’t that the truth! How many times have we thought about visiting somebody, having lunch with somebody, or simply dropping a note in the mail, and then didn’t because something “more important” came up. I know I’ve got my hand raised right now.

Warren states that learning to love unselfishly runs counter to our self-centered nature, and “that is why we’re given a lifetime to learn it.” So there is hope for blokes like me yet!

Warren argues that the best use of life is love. He states that “love is not a ‘good’ part of your life, it’s the most important part.” We must all work at making time for what is really important in our lives. Make time for our children, our parents, our loved ones and our friends. He states that too often we overload our schedule with busy work and our relationships suffer accordingly.

“Busyness is a great enemy of relationships,” Warren says. “We become preoccupied with making a living, doing our work, paying bills, accomplishing goals as if those tasks are the point of life. They are not. The point of life is learning to love – God and people. Life minus love equals zero.”

Let me repeat that: Life without love equals zero.

I realize this chapter does not contain any real newsflashes, but it never hurts to reflect on these universal truths from time to time. To realize that our priorities can become skewed once in a while and we should work hard to prevent this. Mother Teresa expressed this sentiment beautifully when she said, “It’s not what you do, but how much love you put into it that matters.” How you treat other people, not your wealth or accomplishments, is the most enduring impact you can leave on Earth.

I have to admit that I genuinely struggle with this. As a stay-at-home Dad, I am fully aware that I am blessed to share each day with my son Michael. To watch him grow, help him learn and provide him with enough love and support to bring out his shining light. I also realize that I am lucky. Most fathers do not get this opportunity.

I realize this. I do. It’s just that our culture places such an emphasis on money, career and status that I often find myself playing the insecurity game. Think about the first thing people ask you at parties. It’s usually something along the lines of, “So what do you do?” which is code for “What job do you have, what is your social status and how much money do you make?” At least that’s what it sounds like to someone who struggles not to view himself as a 31-year-old unemployed dude who plays video games and watches Netflix (Okay, so I may have shared a wee-bit too much there!).

Our culture programs us to place our priorities in ventures that cannot possibly make us truly happy. True happiness comes from love, and true love cannot be found without human relationships. My wife April absolutely loves her career as an audiologist. She doesn’t exactly “love” the practice of audiology, but she does love the relationships she enjoys with co-workers and patients.

As Warren stated in our contemplation earlier this morning, “I have been at the bedside of many people in their final moments, when they stand on the edge of eternity, and I have never heard anyone say, ‘Bring me my diplomas! I want to look at them one more time. Show me my awards, my medals, that gold watch I was given.’ When life on earth is ending, people don’t surround themselves with objects. What we want around us is people – people we love and have relationships with.”

This statement helps ole’ Dave here snap out of his insecurities and realize the absolute blessing of his life. I think back on the numerous lunch dates Michael and I have had with my parents and grandparents, the baseball games Michael and I have shared at the park, the romps at Rafiki, the library adventures ….and countless other priceless moments we’ve shared together during the past four years.

Experiences I never would have had while working and becoming a “success.” Memories I will clutch close to my heart until my dying day.

Warren says the best way to know a person’s priorities is to examine how they use their time. You only have a set amount of time in this life, and while you can always make more money, you can’t make more time. “When you give someone your time, you are giving them a portion of your life that you’ll never get back. Your time is your life. That’s why the greatest gift you can give someone is your time,” Warren says.

Now would be a good time to interject a little story. I clearly remember reading that last statement while sitting at the kitchen table and thinking, “Yes! This is genius! We must give our time. It’s so important. Time! Yes! Genius!”

My brilliant mental declarations were rudely interrupted when I noticed a small hand tapping my shoulder. At first I took no notice of this intrusion and continued with my “ah-ha” moment. The tapping grew more persistent, however, and finally I could no longer ignore it.

“What is it?,” I asked without hiding my annoyance.

“Daddy, I want to play some hockey,” a little voice answered.

About this time I noticed that Michael was standing right next to me wearing his baggy Red Wings jersey and holding his purple junior hockey stick. It’s anybody’s guess how long the little wide-eyed puckster had been trying to get his Daddy’s attention.

Oops!

Warren states that relationships take time and effort, and the best way to spell love is “T-I-M-E.” That’s “T-I-M-E” for certain stay-at-home Dads that need a little reminder now and then!

Warren wraps up his chapter with the simple statement that the best time to love is now. Love matters more than anything else in this life. It needs to take top priority. Warren says, “You have no guarantees of tomorrow. If you want to express love, you had better do it now.”

Everyone can attest to the blinding speed of life. Little Michael just celebrated his fifth birthday. I have absolutely no idea how that is even possible. I remember taking him home from the hospital, and desperately trying to figure out where that parenting manual was hidden. That was just a couple of months ago, wasn’t it? I remember his first steps, first words, first time programming his own home page (I’m not kidding). He’s starting kindergarten this fall and I know that college is just a blink away.

Waiting for the “right time” to express your love is futile. Please don’t wait. Let the people you care about know that you love them. If they’re here with you this morning, turn to them right now and say “I love you.” If they’re not, give them a call or send them an email. Remember that love is what matters most. Love takes top priority.

The final paragraph of my “ah-ha” chapter sums everything up with three simple sentences. “The best use of life is love. The best expression of love is time. The best time to love is now.” I think this is pure genius. When I think back on my life, the scenes I remember most all involve sharing time with loved ones.

Sharing a laugh.

Sharing a tear.

Just sharing.

This is what life is about, and I am so glad that I stumbled upon this chapter when I did. You might recall that last year about this time I stood on this very podium and announced that I was going to be applying to seminary to pursue a career in Unitarian Universalist ministry.

I spent the following year serving on numerous committees, leading a pledge drive and taking in all of the wisdom that my loving minister could provide. I even ventured off and preached sermons at fellowships in Pocatello and Twin Falls. It was an exciting and eye-opening experience that stirred my professional desires and ignited my passion for speaking, writing and working with others.

Yet the more I considered an exciting and “successful” career as a UU minister, a few annoying little facts kept surfacing in my mind. Going to seminary would require uprooting my family and moving away from my hometown and all of my relatives. This would force April to quit a job that she loves and is located just five minutes from our house.

We would also have to pull Michael out of his wonderful special-needs program at his school. A program that took us a year to get him qualified for and has absolutely improved his life academically and socially. We would be taking Michael away from his grandparents, great grandparents, his beloved Aunt Melissa and his entire support network at an extremely crucial age.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized that a decision to pursue seminary at this time in my life would be selfish at best. Once I read Warren’s wonderful chapter on “What Matters Most,” I knew what I had to do. I decided then and there that I could not apply to seminary at the expense of my family. It was the toughest decision I’ve ever made, and frankly I’m still dealing with the emotional fallout.

But I know it’s the right decision.

Life is all about love. I love my family. I love Tuesday night dinners with my in-laws. I love lunches with my grandparents. I love Sunday barbecues with my parents. I love indoor hockey sessions with my son. I love watching dreadfully awful television dramas with my wife. I love cheering my beloved Broncos on a blistery autumn afternoon with my Dad.

I love my life and I give thanks to God for all of my blessings.

Speaking of football, I’m happy to announce that my Dad and I will be attending every Boise State home football game this fall. I can’t wait to create some new memories in the same stadium we’ve been going to since I was a little boy. There should be plenty of hot dogs, cheering, Bronco victories, and if we’re really lucky we might even see another …. wait for it …. FIESTA BOWL!!!!!

(Yah!!! Whooohoooo!!!! That’s what I’m talking about!!!!!!!!!)

Doing whatcha told

Okay, one more scene to describe and then I'm done.

Sitting poolside at Michael's swimming lesson. Eyes wandering between the four little tykes in the pool and the vast weed field located just beyond the expansive windows (Since April and I have quite an impressive weed garden in our backyard, we really appreciate anything weed-oriented).

The teacher announces,"Kids, we're going to get out of the pool now and walk over to the other end. Walk slowly please."

All of the kids emerge from the pool and begin walking at a normal pace toward the other side. All except Michael. He's busy unleashing his best tip-toe through the tulips imitation. Knees arching up to his chest. Arms extended out and shoulders slouched. Like a bank robber trying to sneek past the coppers in those classic Warner Bros. cartoons. Creeping ..... along ..... oh ..... so ...... slowly.

Can my kid follow directions or what?

Mind your teacher kiddies!

- Dave

Sing a Song of Songs

Let me set the scene. Friday night. Jumping into the Matrix after watching "Ice Age" at the multi-plex. Every pore riding high with sugar (Nerds!) and excitement (Animated awesomeness!).

The windows are down and warms air blows invitingly through my hair. The sun is setting and the night is filled with a familiar summer magic. Dar Williams blasts through the speakers, and I can't help but sing along as the car whips down the open road.

"Ride a circle off the highway"
"Spiral into the driveway"
"In the maze of all prefabs"
"They'll be waiting at the lab"

As I'm singing out to the heavens, I notice an enthusiastic little voice in the backseat.

"Mmmmmmmdadada..HIGHWAY!!!"
"dadababammmmm..DRIVEWAY!!"
"mmmmmdada HAAAABBSS!!"
"hhhaaaaaa .. LAAAABBB!!!"

God I love that little kid!!

Sing it strong kiddies!

- Dave

Identity Crisis

I don't think I know just who I am anymore.

I used to know. It wasn't even a question. I knew exactly who I was and what I stood for. If someone came up to me and asked me THE QUESTION, namely "boxers or briefs?" I always knew who I was.

I was a boxers man and plenty proud of it.

No "tighty-whities" for me. No sir! I liked to be free and spacious. Let the boys have some room to breath. Let life hang loose, and all of the other disgusting phrases I can come up with right now to make you lose your lunch! Ha!

I was a boxers man through-and-through. But now I'm questioning everything. Has my life been a lie? Have I been denying my true identity? Does Coke Zero really have more regular Coke taste?

You see, I've been introduced to what the kids call "boxer briefs," and I just don't know what to do about it. This nasty little invention combines the uncombinable. It actually takes briefs and makes them boxer-like. On the flip-side, this invention makes boxers sorta briefy. You get the idea.

Anyway, I tried them on today for the first time and I actually kind of like them. They're new and different. Like the first time I tried Dippin Dots at the mall instead of my usual ice cream sundae. It was good but so very, very scary and strange.

So now when people come up and ask me THE QUESTION (as they so often do), what exactly am I supposed to say? Both? Yes? Can you please repeat the question?

I think I need to lie down.

Stay true to yourself, even if you don't have the slightest idea who you are, kiddies!

- Dave

Watering the rocks

Boy do I feel lucky. Yes I say 'lucky, lucky me.' I just happen to live in a neighborhood that features one of the most innovative road crews in the state. Or perhaps the nation. These guys and gals have singlehandedly taken everything I thought I knew about the fine art of road repairs and set it all on its head. Transformed the medium right before my obviously naive and ignorant eyes.

Again I say 'lucky, lucky me.'

I didn't realize how little I knew about road repairs until I witnessed these Picasso's of the gravel arts in action. It all started last week when trucks roamed through the neighborhood dumping tons and tons of loose rock on top of the roads. Now, I've seen this little maneuver before. In all of my previous, and unenlightened, experiences crews followed up by dumping tar on top of the rocks. This sealed the entire substance together and magically created a new and improved road. It's fun to drive on. Great to look at. And smells like a tar pit in springtime (yum!).

Well this little maneuver must have been far too amateurish for these fine masters of their road-repair craft. Up until this afternoon the roads in my neighborhood were left completely alone. All of my neighbors and I were given the great opportunity to drive over loose rock day after glorious day. Personally, I loved it. Our family has a cabin located in a remote Idaho mining town. The only road in and out of this town is a gravel beauty that kicks up enough dust reach monsoon status in several states. So naturally I bumped and bopped through our neighborhood this week filled with glorious visions of mountains and streams, while completely ignoring the Hummers on my tail.

This very afternoon our heroes of the asphault unleashed their mind-blowingly innovative scheme. They sent trucks through the entire neighborhood once again. And just what where these new trucks doing, you ask? Why, they were dumping tons of water on top of the rocks.

I never would have thought of that!

Loose rocks and water! It's so unexpected, so thinking out of the box. I'm sure these new roads are going to be absolutely spectacular! As soon as we're finished running our cars through this sloppy, muddy mess that is.

Brilliant right?

Keep those thinking caps on kiddies.

- Dave

Rude awakenings

My fellow Galactic Warriors. We are gathered here on Mount Kickbuttus overlooking the vast Sea of Awesome to pay tribute to one of the bravest, studliest and handsomest heroes that ever lived ... scratch, scratch, scratch ..... This man singlehandedly destroyed an entire colony of evil bad guys with a single photon ray and a yo-yo ... scratch, scratch, bark!! .... His valor is unmatched in the history of our great race and we are here today to honor him with the "Greatest Warrior in the Universe" medal, along with a lifetime supply of Mountain Dew .... scratch, bark!, bark!, scratch ... So if you would please take the podium, Sir Dave, we will begin the ceremony by showering you with money while the lovely maiden April begins massaging your shoulders with baby oil .... scratch, scratch, bark!, bark!, BAAAARRRKKKK!!!!!!" .................

So this is how my day begins lately. Rudely startled out of my beauty sleep (where I am the greatest warrior, guitar god, lover, finger painter, etc., in all of the universe) by a pesky and annoying little Yorkie named Jordan. The first thing I see each day when I open my eyes is little Jordie scratching and barking in front of the screen door in our bedroom. To make the scratching and the barking stop, I have to get up out of bed and open the screen door. By that time I am usually awake and forced to start my non-glamorous existence as a normal stay-at-homer in my ticky-tacky little box. Oh for a few more blessed minutes on Mount Kickbuttus with the medals and the Mountain Dew. Sigh.

Compounding my frustration is the fact that the Ward castle is in fact equipped with more than one door. There is actually a door located off the kitchen. April leaves this very door cracked every morning before she heads off to work. It opens to the back yard and everything.

Does Jordan ever think to use this door? Noooo! He refuses, actually. Jordan insists on using the closed screen door in our bedroom, and he makes sure I am good and awake to open it and let him out each and every morning. So it appears I'm doomed to an alarm clock of scratching and barking.

I guess I'll look on the bright side. It beats the heck out of talk radio.

Hang on to your dreams kiddies!

- Dave

You're welcome

I would like to deliver a public service announcement this evening to all of the bored stay-at-homers out there (and you know who you are). Don't say I never do anything for you!
If you're tired of the same old routine each day, it's time to liven things up a little. Sprinkle some spice on the entree we call life.

Here's what you do - Go immediately to I-Tunes and download Dick Dale and His Del-Tones Greatest Hits. Don't ask questions. Just do as you're told. You won't be sorry.

Do you remember the ultra-groovy guitar song from Pulp Fiction? The one with the "hay, hay!" and the clapping? Well, this is the group that performed that song, and they've got a million more just like it. Each blistering song instantly tranforms every-day suckiness into movie-like awesomeness. And you can quote me on that!

Check it out. I slipped that bad-boy into the CD player this afternoon, and suddenly Michael and I were no longer traipsing through suburbia in a Toyota Matrix on the way to the local supermarket. Ohhhh noooo! We were international spies cruising at 100 miles per hour in a red Jaguar, being chased by bad guys in one of those ultra-cool black "bad-guy" cars. There was gunfire, and explosions, and women ripping their shirts off and everything! Each pulsating riff on the guitar brought forth more adventure. More awesomeness!

I simply can't wait until tomorrow. April thinks we've got a cozy weekend in the mountains planned at the family cabin. Little does she know that once I crank up the Del-Tones, the missile-launching helicopters will be right on our tail. It's going to be so sweet!

By the way, April thinks I've had a little too much time on my hands lately. I have no idea what she's talking about.

Look alive kiddies!

- Dave

I'm so "That Guy"

I heard an interesting advertisement while cruising around in the Matrix the other day. The smooth tones of Owen Wilson burst through my speakers, telling me all about my failings when it comes to automotive maintenance.

"Don't be that guy!" Mr. Wilson implored. "You know, the guy who has three different kinds of cooking oils in his kitchen, but has no idea about the oil in his car."

I'm fairly sure Mr. Wilson read this voice-over while receiving a pedicure and sipping a latte, but I digress.

I take umbrage Mr. Wilson! I am definitely "That Guy," and after several decades of denial and guilt I have finally come to terms with this fact. I have finally realized that I am completely incompetent when it comes to "manly" tasks and there ain't a dang thing I can do about it! I proudly sit here this morning and announce to all the world that I am in fact a wuss. I cannot change my oil. I cannot fix the roof. I cannot chop wood. I cannot hunt for food. Charles Ingalls would definitely kick my butt as soon as he finished strangling a Grizzly with his bare hands.

You see that picture in the corner? The one with Mr. Manlypants holding a wrench and flexing. Well, that's definitely not me. I'm actually not pictured here. I'm the guy sitting in the waiting room reading about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie's latest trip to Starbucks in "People" magazine. They say it takes all types, and I'm just the "type" that runs in fear from tools and grease and other icky stuff.

So back off Mr. Wilson! It's taken me 31 years to come to terms with my wussiness, and I don't need movie stars like you giving me crap about it!! Now if you'll excuse me, I've got an appointment at Big-O Tires this afternoon. I hope they've got the new issue of "US Weekly." Are Brad and Angelina really breaking up? I don't know! I just don't know!

Remember to change your oil every 3,000 miles kiddies.

- Dave

You can't always get what you want ... Unless you're at the dentist

Well, Michael has just returned from his visit to the dentist. Or as I like to call it, "Disneyland in an office building." That place is absolutely unreal. It's got cheery green and purple chairs with huge pillows, X-Box games on flat-screens, a gigantic movie screen projecting everything from "The Chipmunks," to "Toy Story," to "Scooby-Doo." Oh, and you can watch your movie on the gigantic movie screen from your very own spaceship.

And that's just the lobby!!

Once you cross into the once-dreaded exam area, you've got a vast assortment of toys and your own personal flat-screen movie to watch while the dentist does his work. It's like heaven on Earth for a 4 year old. Michael had two cavities filled and a crown inserted this morning, and he didn't even blink an eye. When we left he actually mumbled "I want to live here," out of his extremely numb little mouth.

All I can say is ... THIS IS SO NOT FAIR!!! I never had movies, and X-Box games and space ships! They never let me wear ultra-cool sunglasses and listen to music while I had my teeth worked on! I never got to watch "Scooby-Doo!" This is an outrage! I demand justice! I want my childhood back!!

Here's what I remember about going to the dentist when I was a wee-lad. Keep in mind that I had a very good dentist and didn't really mind the experience. But compared to Michael's little playland, my experiences might as well have taken place in a cave somewhere. I remember a dark office with drab brown couches and silence. In the corner was a "kids" area that consisted of legos, dolls with body parts missing, and several "brushing your teeth is fun" kids books. The exam rooms were packed with creepy utensils and gas masks. The only "entertainment" consisted of large posters of flowers with messages like "Springtime is awesome!" hanging from the ceiling. Or something like that.

What a jip! My only question now is ... How young do you think I could pass for? Ten? Twelve? I hear they're playing "Cars" next week and I want to make sure I get a good seat on the spaceship.

Brush your teeth kiddies! Actually, scratch that. Don't brush your teeth kiddies! Then you can go to the dentist (yay!!!).

- Dave

Ouchipoo!

Not to be a wuss or anything, but MY PINKY TOE HURTS!! I mean it really hurts! It resembles a large purple plum right now, and I'm not happy about it. I've managed to be a tough little trooper and abstain from crying (mostly), but I'm not sure how much longer my valiant courage will persist. There is only so much super-human manliness one can expect from even the greatest studs, such as myself.

Ouchy ouchy, my toey huhts!

How did I come upon this most serious and dreadful of injuries (while valiantly keeping the crying to a minimum and really not complaining about it whatsoever)? I'm glad you asked. I place the blame entirely on the stupid neighbor cats! Let me explain:

My sad tale of woe began yesterday afternoon under a deceptively cheerful blue sky. I agreed to lend my bulging biceps to the task of removing the top portion of our Jeep (or "The Green Machine" as it is known at the Ward castle). We have a tarp in our side yard, and the plan was to place the Jeep top on the tarp. Sounds reasonable and logical, right? Well, here is where our story turns a bit surreal.

I noticed several puddles of what I assumed to be rain water covering the tarp. I diligently began lifting the tarp and pouring out the "rain water." A great deal of this "rain water" spilled over my Gladiator-like feet during this intricate process.

That is when I first noticed the smell.

"Boy, this rain water sure stinks," I thought to myself while admiring my God-like physique in the afternoon sunlight. "It smells a bit like cat pee."

A few moments passed and a rusty light bulb began faintly flickering above my head.

"I do believe this smell, that ranks among the worst smells I have ever smelled in my life, might in fact be cat pee," my brilliant brain deduced.

It took April about three-tenths of a second to confirm my diagnosis.

"Oh yeah, that's cat pee all right," she said while grasping her nose in a pointless attempt to curtail the stench.

I managed to silence my gag reflex long enough to help April move the Jeep top over the tarp. Just for jokesies I decided to yell out hilarious things like, "It's SO heavy!!" and "Dear God, I can't lift this. I think my arms are broken!!" It was all in fun, you see. I only dropped the Jeep top three times. A personal record, if I do say so myself!

After securing the tarp, and allowing for my customary five minutes of whining and recovery, I bolted for the bathroom to wash cat tinkle off the royal feet. The left foot responded beautifully and received a soothing bath in the sink. That pesky right foot, however, decided to ram it's pinky toe into a head-on collision with the bathroom counter. I thought it was a horrible decision and expressed my discontent with great volume.

I continued to vent my displeasure as April, Michael and I drove off in our newly topless Jeep to experience a little minor league baseball. When we arrived at the ballpark, it became evident that my pinky toe was severely distraught over the entire ordeal. It began swelling to roughly the size of Delaware and turning a shade of purple that you really have to experience to fully appreciate.

I began limping around the stadium with such distinction that kids began helping me to and from the bathroom and calling me "Gramps." I immediately began lecturing those young whippersnappers on the evils of rock n' roll music and how you used to be able to buy a soda for a nickle in the good old days. By the time we left for home I was somehow wearing khaki pants and searching for my dentures. Strange really.

So now I'm sitting here being very tough this morning and not letting my trauma affect me in any way. On a completely unrelated note, my eyes keep watering and I find myself thinking a lot about my mother. Strange really.

Stay away from cat pee kiddies!

- Dave

Father's Day sermon

I've got a new sermon that I presented at the Boise Unitarian Universalist Fellowship on Father's Day. I kind of dig it. So I figured I'd post it here and let y'all have a look-see. Here's to our little miracles!

“A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN!” by David M. Ward

Have you ever sat down and really thought about death? I mean really contemplated the meaning of your mortality on this Earth and the seemingly limitless possibilities with what comes next? Whether there is a heaven with a bearded and buff God presiding over angels playing harps on puffy clouds, or just a black existential eternity of nothingness? Well, I’ve pondered these very things routinely throughout my life. And, of course, by “routinely” I mean “hardly at all.” If ever. Yeah, probably not ever.

Hey, this is some heavy stuff.

It’s not like I’m afraid to face my own mortality or anything. Far from it! It’s just that important matters in desperate need of my attention always seem to pop up. There are dishes to wash, towels to fold and color coordinate, and our little fish Sammy won’t feed himself. I also have to keep up with my dental visits and taxes. So you see I’m a very busy man, doing very busy things quite busily! I’m sure many of you out there who are not in the least bit afraid of death and dying are recalling your own busyness right now with me. So here’s to us. The busy ones!

Well, about a year and a half ago I finally ran out of, um, busyness when it came to facing these dramatically weighty topics that I am not in the least bit afraid of. And I place the blame entirely upon my son Michael. It’s his fault, and all I can say about the matter is that once again my beautiful little boy has forced me to join the ranks of the grown-ups. More than that, he has introduced me to a way of living and loving that I never would have achieved on my own. Through a series of persistent questions and insights only a preschooler could dream up, little Michael led me down a path which ultimately introduced me to God, Spirit of Life, or the Great Whatever.

It’s quite a fetching tale, actually, and I since it’s Father’s Day and everything, I thought I might share it with you this morning. Ready? Here goes.

It was Christmas time at the Ward household, and I was deeply entrenched in my usual busyness. Michael received a brand new hockey net, you see, and I figured it was my fatherly duty to don my Idaho Steelheads jersey, grab a stick and fire the little plastic puck around the house. Alas, a father’s work is never done.

Anyhow, we had just returned from Grandma’s house, stuffed with turkey and pie, when my wife April called out in despair. I immediately halted my celebratory puck-scoring dance and rushed to her side. I found her kneeling over our beloved cat Smores, who was curled up silently in a ball. I knew right away that something was severely wrong. Poor Smores was extremely sick. We took her to the veterinarian right away, and the news was devastating. Our little kitty was dying from complete kidney failure. We made the tough decision to end her pain immediately, rather than let her suffer.

I will never forget stroking her head for the last time and looking deeply into her eyes that were filled with such pain. It was hard to say goodbye, and I miss her every day.

It wasn’t long before a stark realization hit me - Crap! Smores is dead and we’re going to have to tell Michael! A whole plethora of thoughts flooded my brain. Does he even know what death is? Am I going to have to explain it? Can I? He’s going to ask tons of questions, and he’s going to expect me to be a real Dad and have answers! Where did I put that instruction manual?!

Fortunately April was just as nervous. We are both distinguished graduates of the “I really don’t know what I’m doing, so I kind of wing it as I go,” school of parenting. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? Trying desperately to calm our nerves and appear parental (these kids can smell fear a mile away) April and I sat Michael down for “the talk.”

“Michael, can you come here for a minute? I’ve got something I need to talk to you about,” I began, wishing with all my heart that the next sentence out of my mouth could be, “I’ve found an endless supply of candy canes in the cupboard! Candy canes for everyone!”
Alas it wasn’t to be.

“Michael, you know how Smores was really sick and had to go to the doctor? Well, she died honey. She’s not coming home,” I finished.

“What is died?” he responded with innocent eyes.

Crap!

What followed was an awkward conversation where April and I tried to explain things to a toddler that we didn’t really understand ourselves. The usual run-around about God, and heaven, and souls and whatever else we could recall. I don’t know about Michael, but I left the conversation thoroughly confused!

It was only a day or two later when the little guy began connecting the dots and firing off the very questions that I spent my entire life avoiding.

“Are you going to die Daddy?”

“Are you going to heaven Daddy?”

“What is God like Daddy?”

He just ripped them off while I ducked for cover, attempting to find my “happy place.” I tried my best to answer, knowing full well that I did not have the slightest clue what I truly believed about any of it. That was a rather revealing experience for my soul.

Stage two of Michael’s revelations occurred less than a week later. Michael continued to piece the puzzle together and it wasn’t long before he began quaking with sadness and fear.

“I don’t want you to die Daddy!”

“I don’t want you to die Mommy!”

“I don’t want you to go to heaven!”

His sadness became so intense that April unleashed the fallback of all “winging it” parents when it comes to cheering the little ones up.

“Michael, if you say the word ‘heaven’ one more time I’m going to tickle you!,” she said with full parental authority.

I thought it was pure genius! Each of Michael’s questions about heaven were immediately met with a full-on tickle fest. Unfortunately this genius plan backfired when we discovered that Michael actually likes to be tickled. Scratch that. He loves it! Michael began shrewdly working the word “heaven” into every facet of his vocabulary.

If you said, “Hi Michael,” he would respond with, “Hi heaven!,” followed by uncontrollable giggling.

“Are you hungry?,” would be answered with “Yes I’m hungry … in heaven!” (More giggling).

“That was a good job,” elicited, “Heaven was a good job!”

He really became a master of his craft. I couldn’t help but marvel at his skill. The greatest example of Michael’s verbal cunning occurred during a Saturday shopping excursion at Target. I made the mistake of saying something like, “Man, they’ve got a whole lotta shirts.” Michael seized the opportunity and belted out, “They’ve got A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN!,” in front of about 30 fellow shoppers.

Mortified, I did what any “winging it” parent would do in a similar situation. I completely ignored him. I acted as if I had absolutely no idea who this crazy kid was that I was wheeling around in my shopping cart.

Michael misunderstood my brilliant tactical maneuver and thought I had gone temporarily deaf. To solve this predicament, and help his poor Daddy hear him better, Michael began to yell at the top of his lungs.

“THEY’VE GOT A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN DADDY!! … HEY DADDY, THEY’VE GOT A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN!!!” (Giggles).

Every shopper in Target that afternoon left the store feeling sorry for that poor little boy who obviously has a religious nutcase for a father.

Well, all of that talk about heaven must have had an effect on me. I began developing an active curiosity about heaven and God. Thanks to Michael and his tickle-fests, I no longer cringed when I heard these words spoken aloud. I actually laugh a little to myself whenever I hear them, to tell you the truth. “Heaven” and “God” roll off my tongue now as naturally as words like “football” and “pizza.” For the first time in my life I actually wanted to study these subjects. Discover for myself what all of the fuss is about.

Thus I entered an intense period of study and realization. I raided the religious section at Barnes and Noble, pouring through works by C.S. Lewis, Deepak Chopra, Thich Nhat Hanh, Rick Warren and numerous others. Like a good Unitarian Universalist, I extended my readings to everything from Buddhism, to Christianity, to Religious Science, to Paganism. I was introduced to countless schools of thought. Some, like Militant Christianity, left me scared and saddened.

But I was surprised and overjoyed how the vast majority of these great religious thinkers were all basically touting the same message – mainly that God, or Spirit of Life, or whatever you want to call it, is operating through love and compassion. As the bible so eloquently states, “God is love.”

I fully understand there are plenty of religious texts that vehemently disagree with this interpretation, but I was amazed at the similar messages leaders like Mother Teresa and Ernest Holmes spent their lives preaching. Mainly that the road to God, or Inner Light, is paved with universal love. Love for yourself. Love for your fellow man. Love for all that is. That sounds quite a bit like our Unitarian Universalist principles of respecting “the inherent worth and dignity of every person,” and “respect for the interdependent web of all existence of which we are a part,” doesn’t it?

This is a message that I can fully embrace. It speaks to me in a powerful way that my former non-religious self never quite experienced. For those of you uncomfortable with the term “God,” just substitute the word “Love.” To me they are one and the same.

To give you more of an idea about where I’m coming from, I’d like to draw upon an unexpected, yet powerful source of inspiration I discovered a few years ago. Those who know me well are aware that I am a huge movie buff. People may not be aware, however, that I harbor an innocent crush on actress Drew Barrymore. So naturally I found myself watching the movie “Riding in Cars with Boys” shortly after it hit the theaters. There is a scene in this movie that has always stuck with me. In this scene Barrymore’s character, a young single mother, is questioning her “winging it” parenting skills and her love for her son. In response, actress Brittany Murphy, who plays Barrymore’s best friend in the movie, unleashes a monologue for the ages.

“I think sometimes we love people so much that we have to be numb to it,” her character begins. “Because if we actually felt how much we really love them, it would kill us.”

I’ve always marveled at the power and the truth behind that statement. If you will indulge me for a moment, I would like to demonstrate just how true it really is. I’d like us all to close our eyes now, and for one brief minute, drop all the barriers we’ve built around our hearts. Let the walls drift away like melting snow. For our parents in the congregation, I ask that you really let yourself feel how much you love your children. For our non-parents, think perhaps of your spouse, or sibling, or your own parents. Perhaps a beloved pet, or a life-long friend. Whatever you love so much in this world that it kills you, let yourself truly embrace that love. Wrap yourself in its warmth … When you are ready, go ahead and open your eyes.

That, in my humble opinion, is just a brief glimpse into the Holy, the Spirit of Life, the Great Whatever.

Pretty intense, right? I’ve just finished reading a series of fantasy novels by author Christopher Paolini. You may have heard of his fabulous “Inheritance Cycle,” with books like “Eragon” and “Eldest.” In these novels, magicians are taught to place protective barriers around people’s hearts and minds. I would argue that we do not need magicians to perform this task. We do it ourselves all of the time.

But what if we didn’t?

What if we dropped the barriers and took that pure love we have just experienced out into the world with us every day? What if we truly brought forth the “light of God”? I believe love in its purest form is the single most powerful force in the universe. From its vast well pours compassion, which leads to unity, which ushers forth a world where our Unitarian Universalist principles are celebrated and championed. This is the world I want for my son, and for all people. This is a definition of God that brings me peace, lifting me toward my best self.

So there you have it. A harrowing tale of discovery fueled by the unorthodox wisdom of a brown-eyed angel named Michael. I still don’t sit and ponder the subject of death, but I have discovered a quote from UU minister Dr. Forrest Church that sums up my beliefs quite nicely. He states, “Death is the ultimate mystery. But there is a way to counter this fear. We can live in such a way that our lives will prove to be worth dying for.” I say amen to the great reverend!

And I no longer cringe when I hear the word God. How can I? I see a higher power at work every time I look into Michael’s eyes. Every time he wraps his arms around me and says the words every father simply can’t get enough of - “I love you Daddy.” If that’s not A WHOLE LOTTA HEAVEN, then I don’t know what is.

Please join me in seeking out and embracing the grace and wisdom of our little ones. They are truly a gift from the Holy, wouldn’t you agree? As we close this morning, I’d like to offer a Father’s Day blessing for big kids and little kids alike. I believe it was Bob Dylan, or “Saint Bob,” who wrote:
May God bless and keep you always,
May your wishes all come true.
May you always do for others,
And let others do for you.
May you build a ladder to the stars,
And climb on every rung,
May you stay forever young.

Amen. Shalom. Salam. Blessed be.

So that was fun

Well hello there
My it's been a long long time
How am I doin?
Oh I guess I'm doing fine
It's been so long now, since I saw you
Feels like it was only yesterday
Well, ain't it funny, how time slips away

- Willie Nelson

I took a little hiatus there between the months of January and June. Let's just say it wasn't a planned absence from my brilliant and underappreciated blog, it's just that nothing squelches the desire to write more than leading a pledge drive during an unprecedented economic tsunami.

Each day I would rise with visions of genius dancing through my noggin. True gems like my run-in with a breakfast Nazi who just about slapped me when I dared to call her creation "pancakes." "They're HOTCAKES!!" she yelled, as if I had insulted her first-born and spat upon her dear Grammy's grave. So, yeah, if you ever happen to venture into "The Griddle" in Eagle, Idaho ... THEY'RE HOT CAKES!! NOT PANCAKES!! HOT CAKES!! HOT CAKES!! HOT CAKES!!

Or the sad tale of how I excitedly purchased the MLB.tv package on my computer so I could watch my beloved D'backs every single day this summer! Well, the baseball gods forgot to inform me that the D'backs were going to be one of the most gawdawful teams in the history of the sport. So I'm stuck watching this crappy team every ... single .... day! On a bright note, I've really integrated Chris Young's strikeouts into my everyday routine. It's kind of comforting, in a way.

The world can only imagine the additional genious pouring forth from my brain, because unfortunately these visions were immediately torpedoed by an onslaught of panicky emails. Every single one relaying a message akin to, "Oh my God, oh my God, OH MY GOD!!!" I had a consultant not only email me "Oh my God!" messages every day, he would actually call me from North Carolina to relay said message over the phone. It was wonderful!

Topping matters off, my minister was stricken with pneumonia for two months, the office manager was out for nearly a month with a family tragedy, and three separate members of my team left the country during our campaign. Throw in the depression/recession/whatever it is, and it was about as much fun as one can possibly imagine,

Here's the clincher - We raised more money than ever before, yet our church is still around $40,000 in debt. So it appears someone I know quite well was thrust into a no-win situation.

Hence the blog drought.

Well that's all over now baby blue. Bygones are bygones. Turn the page. Yada, yada, yada.

It's time to get back to what I do best. Namely, taking care of Michael, composing brilliant and life-altering blog posts and enjoying delicious hot cakes at "The Griddle." Oh yeah, and I'm about to resume my lounge act. Yes I'm serious!

For reasons known only to them, some good friends of mine asked me to serve as the officiant at their son's wedding on Saturday. That's right kiddies, ole Dave here is about to bust out the diamond-encrusted jump suit and unleash "Starrrr Warrrrrsssss!" once again. Don't be surprised if Sunday's newspaper contains stories about innocent people running in horror from a quaint country wedding. It's what I do, people! It's what I do!

Always avoid mortally offending tightly-wound restaurant owners, kiddies!

- Dave