Too cool to say it at school?

Last week on Jadon's second day of junior high (in a new district with yet another new start for him, Lord help him), I had the singular joy of reciprocated expression of love: as we parted at the gate I told him I love him, and he was willing to reply with the same, along with the ASL "I love you" handsign.

Contrast that with what happened within days with Evangelina as I brought her to school.  We were walking in from the parking lot and I began to quietly sing my love for her when I was rudely interrupted.  "Shhhh!  Daddy, don't say it so loud!"

"I love you M--"

(In hushed tones...) "--Shhh!  There are people here!"

Then, as Evangelina looks around and noticed that the people passed to a sufficient distance from us, my daughter relents with the command, "OK, now say it."

Sí, soy padre, pero no suyo

With regularity I tell my patients it is an honor to care for them, in part to let them know their value for themselves, but also as a reminder to myself of their value before God... especially when the patient happens to be a "difficult" one, when they bring problems that I feel are beyond my own resources to help them.  I do not like to overstate the spiritual nature of the doctor-patient relationship, but I still am surprised at how much of their lives we are privy to, often even more than their own spouses or parents.  These are amazing God-given opportunities to impact His kingdom in people's lives, whether it be in an overtly spiritual way (eg: praying with them for their needs), or not overtly spiritual at all (eg: carefully listening to and addressing their physical needs).  The other week I was caring for an older Spanish-speaking woman in what I thought was not overtly spiritual at all, and as I finished the visit and got up to leave the room she said, "Gracias Padre" before she quickly corrected herself, "Gracias Doctor." 

It had been a while since a patient mistakenly called me "Pastor" (usually followed by a quick correction "Doctor" in amused embarrassment), but this is the first time I can remember being called "Padre."

Gracias, Dios mio, por este gran recordatorio que mi trabajo me presente las oportunidades para edificar su reino.

Wheels in passing

Today I more formally grieve the loss of my dad's having his own bike.  Even though I'm deeply thankful that he's given it to me (it'll work great for the shorter folk in our family), taking possession of it formally represents what Dad already decided about a year ago: giving up bicycling on the street.  Thankfully there hasn't been any sudden loss of motor function or some terrible accident.  Rather, given the knowledge of his own slowed reflexes and the recent death of a cyclist in his neighborhood (by a very aged driver), he decided it was wise that he stop riding his bike to work, something he actually tried to maintain even after moving from Highland to Loma Linda.  For me, it's a poignant reminder about the different stages of one's life.  My dad was never a super avid cyclist, yet there are a great many memories of his riding to work with his relective pantleg cuffs (which he also gave me), as well as taking Ruthie & me out to different places on bikes.  Gratefully by the time we got to college he upgraded from his super heavy department store Murray (of note, AFTER he had upgraded Ruthie's and mine to bikeshop brand bikes) to the entry-level Cannondale mountainbike without suspension.  As I put it on the bikerack to transport home & later as I wiped it down & put it into our garage, I noted how well he'd taken care of it & how there wasn't a bit of rust to be seen on it.  Thanks, Dad, for instilling in us an appreciation for exercise and helping us understand the usefulness of our bicycles in creating family memories.  I hope to pass that wisdom on to our kids.