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.