A Legacy to Keep

Americans commemorate Memorial Day with barbeques, parades, and gatherings with family and friends. In my growing-up years, the holiday typically found our family on a day hike, enjoying the grandeur of God’s creation in the Pacific Northwest. But for far too many of us, the day passes without reflection on its intended purpose: honoring those who gave “the last full measure of devotion” in service to their country. Since the first humble minutemen, whose blood was spilt on Lexington Green in 1775, American soldiers have willingly given the ultimate sacrifice to ensure the continued legacy of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness" to future generations of Americans. Today is the day we remember them.

Sometimes I become discouraged and even doubt if the ideal of true liberty, the philosophy of limited, constitutional government, and the notion of a nation grounded in Biblical law and morality, is worth fighting for. Perhaps those principles just aren’t worth the cost.

            

But then I wonder...what would I say to the Continental soldier at Valley Forge, with his bloodied feet leaving scarlet footprints in the snow, his tattered "uniform" barely giving him the slightest protection from the elements, and his life hanging by a thread? What would he say to me, if he knew that two centuries later I would so casually give up the principles for which he fought and bled—the dream of liberty to which he so tenaciously clung in the war's darkest hour?

            

What would I say to the defenders of Ft. McHenry who, during the war of 1812, gallantly flew the Star-Spangled Banner in defiance of the British fleet bombarding them through the long night? What would I say to the “honored dead” of Gettysburg, Blue and Gray alike, who valiantly struggled for the American ideals of freedom and justice? What would I say to the U.S. Marines whose blood stained the sands of Iwo Jima as they fought to preserve what the men at Valley Forge had died to create? 

What would I say to my own grandfather, who faithfully flew reconnaissance missions for the U.S. Navy off of Alaska's western shores to ensure his country's safety during the Second World War? And what would I say to Navy Seal Caleb Nelson, a man I knew personally, killed in Afghanistan in 2011, leaving behind a wife and two young sons? 

No, I could not, and as Americans, we must not be so ungrateful, so flippant, so callous, as to toss aside the legacy of freedom and liberty that these patriots, and millions of others, have given us at the cost of their very life's blood. We must be grateful sons and daughters who remember what our fathers and mothers have given us, and in turn give our utmost to see that their legacy is continued.

So please, thank the Lord today for these brave Americans of our day and of times past, who have given us the "new birth of freedom" we continue to enjoy. And may God give us the courage and commitment to see that their legacy lives on.

The Beauty of Birth

Just over a week ago, in the hours of early morning, our home was filled with cries of joy and delight at the arrival of our daughter, Ada. As we huddled together in the inflatable birthing pool in our living room, with Ada in our arms, I stared in wonder and relief at the culmination of 9 months of preparation, toil and waiting. And without question, I knew it had all been worth it.

I’ve now witnessed my wife experience two pregnancies, and walked with her through two very different labors and deliveries.  Our son, Liam, was born at our local hospital at 42 weeks following an induction and 30+ hour labor. His first 24 hours were spent in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU) in order to ensure the stability of his breathing. In the end, despite the unexpected trauma, we deemed it an overall positive experience.

Ada was born at home, after two days of early labor, and seven hours of active labor. She was born under the water, without complications, and was snuggled with us within mere seconds of her exit from a watery womb, to the watery world. I even got to cut the umbilical cord, her last attachment to her old life, as she began establishing the vital attachments for her new one (like breastfeeding!)  The home birth was all we’d prayed it to be—calm, comfortable and peaceful. Well, as much as things can be calm, comfortable and peaceful during birth.

Walking with a woman through pregnancy and delivery will impact a man more than he will ever realize. Unfortunately, men’s participation in the pregnancy and birth process has been historically sparse, either because of cultural mores or because of their own disinterest. This is ironic, since, as we heard during birthing class, the “man got the baby in, he should be there to help get the baby out!” Beyond that obvious fact, taking an active role in pregnancy and delivery opens our male eyes to wondrous things about our wives, and the children they bear us. Here are some of those observations.

A pregnant woman is uniquely beautiful. In a culture that is obsessed with the perfect body, the last thing pregnant women ever hear is that they are beautiful. Sure, there are things in pregnancy that aren’t terribly attractive: the morning nausea at our breakfast table, the intrusive body pillow that shared the bed with us since the second trimester, and the increasing belly size that made it harder to draw my wife into a close embrace. But all of these are swallowed up in the true wonder of that baby-belly. It reminds me that my wife is a life-giver, specially equipped to nurture this little unborn person, and at the appointed time, bring her into the world. That beautiful bump testifies to the love that Mikaela and I have for one another, a love that will sustain us as we care for the little ones God has sent us.

A pregnant woman’s endurance level is astonishing. My wife experienced morning sickness (which uncannily seems to show up in the afternoon and evening too) in both of her pregnancies, but it was especially intense during her pregnancy with Ada. Add to that the complete rearrangement of a woman’s physiological structure to accommodate the baby’s increasingly rapid growth, with the resulting soreness, aches, and strains from neck to feet. Then there are outside conditions that collide with the pregnancy—the stomach flu for instance. Labor itself has all the intensity of a runner’s sprint, but with the duration of a marathon. And to get to the finish line, she has to jump through the “ring of fire,” the excruciating pain associated with the final push to get the baby out into the world. All this adds up to this important truth: pregnancy, labor, and delivery aren’t for sissies.

Pregnancy, labor and delivery are divine symbols for our own spiritual salvation. Jesus told Nicodemus that in order for him to enter God’s Kingdom, he had to be “born again” (John 3:3). It’s not by accident that Jesus chose the picture of birth to illustrate the process by which a person is reconciled to God and made spiritually alive. I’ve watched as my wife has cared, tended, and labored to bring our children into the world. With joy, with sorrow, with determination she has done so, and yes, even with great, great pain. And so has our great God. With tender love and care, He brings us to repentance. By the pain of Calvary’s Cross He wrought us eternal life. And by his Holy Spirit, He brings us forth as His redeemed children. There is great joy in His house too, when a new child is born into His kingdom (Luke 15:10).

Baseball, Fathers and Forgiveness

I recently finished reading my first John Grisham novel.  I suppose that’s a little surprising, seeing as I’m a legal professional who loves to read. But I’m not that big into “thrillers,” even legal ones. So, I guess it’s not surprising that my first Grisham would be his very non-legal, non-thriller short novel about baseball: Calico Joe.

Set in the 1970s, Calico Joe tells the fictionalized account of the events leading up to a fateful at-bat between two major league ballplayers: Joe Castle and Warren Tracey. Castle, a rookie for the Cubs with the hottest bat in baseball, faces off against Tracey, a veteran, but fading, pitcher for the New York Mets.  The story is narrated by Warren’s son, Paul Tracey, who was an avid 11-year- old baseball fan in the summer of 1973, the season of the notorious confrontation between his father and his idol.

Written from the vantage point of 30 years later, Paul recounts his childhood as the son of a professional baseball player, while giving the play-by-play of his present-day attempts to reconcile his father and Castle before Warren Tracey’s impending death of cancer. Warren is a hard man, arrogant and abusive, and his self-absorption destroys his relationships, particularly with Paul.  Warren’s not much different during Paul’s adulthood, though Warren’s cancer allows him the opportunity to finally voice his long-held regrets. In contrast, Joe Castle, or “Calico Joe,” is all a good sportsman should be: full of gentility and grace on and off the baseball diamond.

Paul’s boyish idolization of Castle puts him into a conflicted emotional state as Warren Tracey pitches to Castle in a Mets-Cubs game on August 24, 1973. Spoiler alert: in an act of sheer spite, Tracey “beans” Castle in the head, permanently injuring him and ending his professional baseball career. Thirty years later, Paul, who has since married and started a family, does his best to bring Tracey and Castle together for one sole purpose: to give his dad a chance to make at least one thing right in his life before he dies. Tracey and Castle do meet, and (spoiler alert), an apology is made by one and forgiveness is extended by the other.

Oddly enough, the character who gave me most cause for reflection by the novel’s end was the person telling it: Paul Tracey. There’s much to like about Paul. Though the product of a broken home, he’s caring, courageous, responsible, and a devoted family man. Paul is nothing like his father, something he takes pride in.  Much as the older brother viewed the prodigal in Jesus’ parable, Paul sees his father as the bad guy, the one who spoiled talent and relationships on a hedonistic existence. The reconciliation between Warren and Joe is, as far as Paul is concerned, an act of penance for Warren than an instance of restorative forgiveness. As for the chances of Warren Tracey trying to make things right with anyone else in his miserable life, Paul says “fat chance.” Ironically, while Paul can accept Joe Castle forgiving Warren Tracey for ruining Joe’s life, he will never forgive his father for ruining his.

Calico Joe ends with Paul satisfied with how things turned out between his father and Joe.  And despite the apparent resolution between Warren and Paul, it’s neither satisfactory nor really healing. Both men remain wounded and broken.

The most glaring unresolved relationship in the story, however, is the most important: that of each man with God. Warren never seeks God’s forgiveness, and ironically, just like his father, neither does Paul. Apparently secure in his own “good” life as an adult, a life without the mistakes of his father, Paul misses out on the forgiveness that could have redeemed and brought healing to them both. His own self-absorption in being the man who isn’t his father, makes him even more unlikely a candidate to find the forgiveness (and consequent healing) he desperately needs.

Calico Joe is a well-crafted tale, with substantive characters, and valuable insights, particularly on relationships between fathers and sons. But its most poignant lesson is that without Jesus, seeking, arranging, or even extending forgiveness is nothing more than another good, but empty, work. For without receiving the forgiveness of a just and holy God, each person’s at-bat on Judgment Day is sure to end in a strike-out. 

Photo credit by Matthew Stratton in creative commons.