A couple of irregular Joes

As I get ready to celebrate my 55^th Christmas, I’m drawn to the story about Joseph, Jesus’ earthly father. Or, more precisely, I’m drawn to the lack of stories about him. Hardly anything is known about this man, a simple carpenter and laborer in first century Nazareth.

There was a movie released a few years ago, “The Nativity Story” which attempted to paint a fuller picture of Joseph, a man betrothed to another man’s young daughter, Mary. While the Biblical accuracy, like nearly every movie Hollywood has made based on Scripture, is questionable, the humanity of Joseph – his shock at learning Mary was pregnant, his revelation of the truth from the angel and his ultimate devotion to Mary and soon-to-be born son – comes shining through. This celluloid Joseph comes across as resilient, making the best of his circumstances and maintaining a strong faith in God.

I also am reminded of another “Joe,” not very well known by his family when he was younger but who had a life-altering experience in middle age. He’s well into his senior years now, ready to celebrate his 87^th birthday three days before Christmas. Joe has been tested by circumstances beyond his control: the death of his mother, father, brothers, first wife and a daughter-in-law. Joe’s mid-life decision to trust and worship God was not an easy one. Often, he struggled to see the light of the world. But he persevered and, with help, became a better person, Christian, husband and father.

The cobwebs of vascular dementia now tie his mind, but enough of who Joe is and how far he has come are evident for all. When I visit him, I think of how our roles have essentially reversed: I, along with my brother and sisters, am now the parent and he is the child. But, like that other “Joe” of 2,000 years ago, Dad’s faith in God is resilient. The candle may grow short, but the light shines before everyone. Let us praise our fathers here, and our Father in heaven.

Funny Grandpa Joe

My son started to laugh at the gas station. That’s kind of an odd place to get a case of the giggles, but there the 10-year-old was in the backseat of the minivan having a hard time containing himself. It started before I stopped at that pump to fill up the car, it continued when he got out to clean the windshields, and it didn’t stop for another five minutes.

“What are you laughing at?” I asked with a smile.

“Oh, nothing,” he said.

“He’s got a case of the sillies,” said my 85-year-old father.

“Boy, you got that right,” I said.

Robby and I had arrived in Nashville to visit Dad who has been battling aging issues since November. School starts in another week or so, and it was my turn to visit Dad. So Robby and I made the 350-mile trip to see him and Momma.

As usual, one of the first subjects after we greeted one another was “What’s for dinner?” The tradition, if a nine-month habit can be called a tradition, was to take Dad out for lunch and dinner each day. It was great for him to get out of the assisted living facility in Nashville, but it wreaks havoc on our waistlines.

“I got a taste for seafood,” Dad said. So the Red Lobster in suburban Cool Springs was our destination. Dad went for the whole hog, in this case lobster, Robby had one of the combo plates, and I settled for salmon.

It was after dinner that we pulled into the gas station. I stopped the car, looked out the window and realized I had picked the diesel pump. “Whoops. That’s diesel,” I said. “Damn diesel,” Dad said.

When you’re 85 and you have some mild vascular dementia, your leash is pretty long. You can say and do things and get away with them that other people cannot. Such was the case with the “Damn diesel” comment.

But 10-year-old boys senses of humor are tickled by bodily functions and swear words. Robby just lost it when Dad said, “Damn diesel.”

Robby revealed this to me the next day. “Grandpa is just so funny,” Robby said.

That “bond” only strengthened in the coming days. My son is not exactly noted for his work ethic, just like almost every other 10-year-old American boy. But a change came over him when he was around “Grandpa Joe” as he calls Dad.

He didn’t have to be told to get Grandpa Joe’s walker. Robby just got it.

He didn’t have to be asked to help his Grandpa Joe out of the car. Robby was there putting his little hand in the middle of a massive back to get Grandpa Joe going.

He didn’t have to be told to escort Grandad up to his room. Robby just did it.

“I like helping Grandpa,” Robby said.

“I like seeing you help him, son,” I replied.

“He really is a good boy. He is so helpful,” Grandpa Joe said.

A bond between a grandfather and grandchild is one of the most precious things we witness in our lives. I had that a little bit with my maternal grandfather, but these moments I get to cherish between “Grandpa Joe” and Robby remind me of what I missed … and what someday I will witness again, maybe with my own grandson.

Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 2

Last time, I wrote about the wonderful qualities of my wife, Kathy. Her joy of life and tenderness of spirit has brightened the lives of innumerable people, most notably myself, our son and our daughter. She often reads with our son, Robby, as part of his daily homework, but she’d want to do it regardless of whether it was an assignment. When she spends time with him, or any of us, her whole world seems brighter.

That innate ability to connect with people has served her so well in her profession: medical oncology. As the picture I have painted shows, Kathy is so much more than just a physician. But the branch of medicine she chose suits her gifts impeccably.

A few weeks after Kathy and I became engaged (after just two months of dating), a lunchtime question from a colleague came out of the blue. The question hung in the air for a moment as I pondered what my colleague asked: “How does Kathy stop from getting close to her patients?”

The question said something about how an outsider looking in sometimes doesn’t understand what good cancer doctors are really all about. They are not simply mechanics who provide necessary medicines then collect a fee. Oncologists also are cheerleaders, pathfinders, advocates, healers, handholders, psychologists and parents all rolled into one. Many is the time I’ve told Kathy, “I have no idea how you do what you do.” Good oncologists are a special breed. They can do their job perfectly – prescribe the right medicine, follow every step, make every diagnosis – and they can still “fail.” How many professions are there like that?

The answer I gave to my colleague’s question – “How does she stop from getting close to her patients?” – cut to the heart of who Kathy is as a person, and it was a simple answer: “She doesn’t,” I said. “She does get close to them. She shares their fears, their hopes, their sorrows, their joys. She has to. They have to know that she’s in the fight to stay.”

That’s why I fell in love with Kathy in the spring of 1998. Her heart radiates faith, love and hope. Her first instinct – to trust and empathize – is a remarkably refreshing approach, be it with family, friends, patients or strangers.

Kathy has asked me before how she has made a difference in my life. I’ve not been able to answer that because the question is so big. But I’d have to say that her faith in God has opened my eyes wider to all the wonders around us; her belief in the goodness of people has opened my heart; and her trust has allowed me to love as fully as I ever have.

Happy Valentine’s Day, Kathy

Happy Valentine's Day, Kathy, Part 1

We’ve started a new tradition in our house, and it was the brainchild of my wife. The three of us – myself, my wife, Kathy, and our son, Robby – hold hands and say a prayer at the beginning of each workday/school day. We ask God to bless us in our many tasks, asking that we keep in mind His word and His example to us through His son, Jesus.

Now, many Christians talk a good game when it comes to prayer, but in practice, well … let’s just say some are left wanting. I try to pray each night, but admittedly, I sometimes sign in but forget to sign out. We’ve been praying together each morning for a couple of months now and not only is it helpful, it really speaks to who my wife is as a Christian, a person and a woman.

If one’s approach to life is measured either with an arrow pointed up or an arrow pointed down, my wife’s arrow is most assuredly pointed up. Kathy always tries to find the positive in just about any situation, and more importantly, in just about any person. She constantly encourages our son to share his smile with others and find the right way to solve problems. I do not hear her speak ill of anyone; if someone has not treated her well, Kathy will say, “Well, maybe they were having a bad day.” She is quick to forgive.

Sometimes she takes the bright outlook to an interesting level: anytime we’re watching a football game and some pushing or shoving breaks out, Kathy says, “Guys, guys. Be nice to each other.”

Kathy loves to laugh. Many a time we’ve been in a movie theater, and she bursts out laughing at a particularly funny scene. She surprises herself when she does this, because she’ll cover her mouth thinking it’s too loud. I just smile when she does that.

Kathy also is moved easily to tears. A dear friend of mine once said of herself, “Oh, I cry at supermarket openings.” That’s Kathy, too. If something moves her, she’ll tear up, be it a passage from a book, some personal encounter or a movie. It’s one of her most endearing qualities. “Don’t ever change,” I say to her.

It’s her zest for life that makes her so special and what drew me to her 12 years ago. I was introduced to Kathy as I was rebuilding my life after my first wife passed away. It was a very rough year, trying to balance the needs of – first – my grade-school daughter, then a house, my career and working through the process of mourning and grief. By the time I met Kathy, I had steadied the ship, but its heading was uncertain. Enter a 36-year-old whose energetic way, tender heart and devotion to God got me back on course.

After being introduced, Kathy and I had our first date in February 1998. It was a remarkable evening. Neither of us was nervous because we talked for two hours BEFORE we went to dinner. She made me feel so at ease, so comfortable. It was her giving nature that first drew me to her, that and her dynamite smile, an amazing combination of warmth and enamel!

After dinner, she invited me in for coffee. I immediately accepted, even though I was not a coffee drinker. A chance to spend a few more minutes with her was perfect. We said our good-byes a short time later, and as I walked down the steps, I felt something I hadn’t in such a long time. I looked back at her, went back up the steps and kissed her good night again. I then realized that my heart, closed off for months, was actually beating again.

Up next: Part 2