A Father's Love

-guest post by Mike Cala

I have three amazing, wonderful and loving teenagers.

However . . . they drive me crazy! They infuriate me! They have in the past reduced me to a red-faced, spittle flying, near epileptic, quivering mass of speechless astonishment/bewilderment with their antics. I have clutched my chest in near-apoplectic fits on more than one occasion. I have a bald spot on the front of my head from incessantly banging it against the wall!

They bicker.

They complain.

They fight.

They seem to possess an endless and very creative supply of reasons and excuses as to why it is impossible for them to complete the smallest task or chore they were given. And they have been kind enough to inform me that apparently, I don’t know anything. The eye rolls and head shakes I receive from them are proof of that. It seems my working knowledge of life is severely limited and archaic – they on the other hand, have solved all of mankind’s problems and have the answers to all of life’s complex questions and deep mysteries . . . I mean, I know I’m no SuperDad, but really?

But I so love them! I often wonder if they realize just how much they are loved - how much and how often I have sacrificed for them? Do they know that I would do anything for them? That I live for them and that I would die for them? That all I want for them is to be safe, happy and if possible, to live a life that is even better and more successful than mine?

Do they know how much I love them? I often think that they don’t. Or can’t. When I tell them “No, you can’t do that!” or “No way you’re going over there!” it’s because I want them safe. I want them happy. I want them to enjoy their lives. I would rather have my child furious, yelling at me and slamming the bedroom door . . . but safe at home. I’ll even endure a couple of shouts of “I-hate-you!” if it means that my decision will ensure his or her safety and well-being. I set rules to keep them out of bad situations. I deny them so that they will not have to experience the consequences of poor decisions. But they can’t see that – they only see me wrecking their fun, messing up their plans, making them look bad in front of their friends . . . they can’t see the love. They don’t see the heartache I feel when they are forced to deal with the results of a poor or mistaken choice. They don’t know of the silent prayers uttered on their behalf day in and day out. They simply are unable to see the love I hold for them.

Do we see the Father’s love for us? Do we understand how much He has done for us and how much He is willing to do for us? Are we intimate with the Father to the point that we are constantly aware of the endless, all-encompassing flood of love He pours out to us? Or are we like children, focused on what we didn’t get and don’t have, angry at being denied and told “No”?

And I ask Him that with both feet planted firmly on love, you'll be able to take in with all followers of Jesus the extravagant dimensions of Christ's love. Reach out and experience the breadth! Test its length! Plumb the depths! Rise to the heights! Live full lives, full in the fullness of God.
Ephesians 3:17b-19 (The Message)

Holy Toe Jam

I would have liked to have been in the tomb when Jesus finally decided that enough was enough.

Imagine the still, dark air.

Silence. As silent as the Grave, they say.

Then Somebody took a deep, deep breath.

This no doubt was followed by a bit of grunting and groaning as He struggled to get those grave clothes loosened. (It’s hard to swing your legs over the side of a bench with your arms pinned to your side and your head all wrapped up.) Did He bend His head to the side and crack His neck? Did He stretch and pop His back? I wonder if He crinkled his nose at the overwhelming fragrance of misplaced potpourri; grinning as He realized that in His improved state it didn’t make Him sneeze with allergies like might have a few days earlier.

“Let there be light!” He said, for the second time in Earth’s history, and there was light as the angels rolled the stone away and let morning’s glow invade.

He took His time. There was no need to rush out - that cave held nothing that would ever give Him the heebie jeebies. It seems he was relaxed. He dutifully folded up the head wrappings, thinking of all the times His mom used to make Him help with the laundry. Mary would be so proud, He grinned to himself!

“You’ve got myrrh between your toes, Lord”, Gabriel quipped. Jesus glanced down and groomed Himself.

Good enough, He must have thought. I didn’t go through the last few days just to be worried about what I look like. So what if the ladies think I’m the gardener instead of the King. I am that I am, and a little holy toe jam won’t change that!


Have you ever found yourself in a time or place that seemed like a sealed grave? Close your eyes then, and be still. Inhale. Remember Jesus' first breath in the tomb. It could be you’re not alone after all!

the Golden Child (aka my sister)

To this day, my brother and I maintain that my sister was the favorite. The evidence is truly overwhelming. What criteria do you want to use? Spankings rendered vs. avoided? Relative size of bedrooms? Education?

Ahhh, education. That’s where it all started, if I remember correctly. I was in my 9th year. It was a year of possibilities… for her. My parents were, by that time, spiraling down into a multi-level marketing induced stupor. They had just purchased their first Cadillac (got to admit the power windows were cool), and we had recently moved into the freshest, glitziest part of town. Our new home was the latest in a string of annual housing upgrades. It had fourteen foot ceilings, a chandelier and a river view. All that was needed to surpass the Jones’ was to enroll us kids in a private school.

Alas, the budget was such that a premium education for all three of us was out of the question. I can only imagine that they figured I already had rugged good looks, and my brother possessed more street smarts than the average 8 year old. Marilyn, being genetically left out in the cold, must have needed the warm blanket of a good education.

I admit that she did very little gloating. Her plaid, pleated skirt and crested blazer did it all for her. Of course it all came with a new set of aloof friends, and extra-curricular options like jazz dance. She became the golden child. To her was given the keys to the family kingdom; her siblings were made subject to her vast aura of superior responsibility. She mastered the dark arts of propaganda, blackmail and fear-mongering; we countered by creating a terrorist cell dedicated to blowing the stuffing out of her plush Papa Smurf.

As for our education, my brother and I were left to slum it out as best we could in the local public system. For after school extras, I managed to convince the cutest new girl in class to smooch me behind the corner-store, and little brother became adept at pilfering coins from every pocket in the house to feed our growing arcade habit. “Classy” is not an adjective often associated with the 1980’s.

We all love one another now, though my sister’s affections for us boys may have been helped along by a healthy dose of self-preservation as we got bigger and more menacing. Papa Smurf, sadly, was never the same.

Lesson for the week:
Sometimes Christians act as if they are God’s favorites. Attending church and reading the Left Behind series has given many of us an arrogance that is quite unbecoming. As our Emerging brothers and sisters grow in wisdom and stature, we should take heed lest we find ourselves defending a plush spirituality that seems more suited to a two dimensional, make-believe world.

Jelly Booger Bitterness

For a good picking you need just the right booger, and the correct booger depends largely on what kind of picking you are anticipating.

I believe that the perfect picking happens without any forethought; it needs to be a spontaneous act born of habit and total personal self-absorption. I’ve found that my faux leather couch is the perfect venue for personal grooming, and Jeff Probst and Ty Pennington are the best companions for this sort of indulgence. They engage you in conversation while tactfully looking the other way.

And then there is the booger itself. I prefer that small dose of adhesive that lets the critter stick to your finger while being instantly flickable or able to be rubbed into oblivion, while leaving no visible residue.

Gross out all you want- we both know that you know what I’m talking about.

I believe boogers are like emotions, especially as they relate to righteous anger and bitterness.

Injustice is a nose that demands a good picking.

Righteous anger is the good picking. It creeps up on you (and sometimes your friends) without any warning. It is inevitable under certain circumstances, and occasionally makes others uncomfortable. It is desperately needed in a world experiencing an acute shortage of the Justice Kleenex.

We have to be careful, though. When you engage the finger of action you never know quite what you’re going to get. Sometimes you get the dreaded jelly booger of bitterness. You yank and pull and stretch and then *whip-ptsh* out it comes.

Bitterness wraps itself around the pinky of our wills. It shames, and rather than pulling us towards action it causes withdrawal and disappointment. We crowd in on ourselves. The best we can hope for in these moments is that we’re in the car alone, and nobody will notice us trying to wipe it off under the seat. Good luck with that, friend.

Jesus told a proverb that relates. He said that you shouldn’t offer to pick your neighbor’s crusties when a jelly booger is hanging down into your mustache… or something like that.

broken bride, broken friend

A naïve young girl fair and fine
Stole the heart of a friend of mine.
I loved her too and did my part-
Thinking she could do nothing wrong
Until the day she broke his heart.

I’m supposed to say something nice,
Be a chum and ignore the vice
Of the woman his only bride.
I’ll admit she’s simply stunning;
This makes the blemish hard to hide.

I’d rather tell of my friend’s love
For the broken he calls his dove
(And a million more cheesy names.)
After mortgages, kids and debt
He’s shown true love that’s more than games.

He’s aware of her darker themes,
Cleans up after her reckless schemes,
Owns her sin like it was his own.
He’s the better man, most wounded
And from whom the most love is shown.

Still his good true friend I would be
For love for her is love for me-
Try to help her love him better,
And helping him mop the messes.
Soft hearts bleed blood that is wetter.