#13 - I'm a Good Dad

by James Baker

The title is not intended to be sarcastic.  I love being a father, and – seeing it as clearly as I can – I believe I’ve done my job well to this point.  I don’t mind getting on the floor with my daughter to play a little ‘Green Eggs and Ham’, or do a puzzle, or just sip some invisible tea alongside an overpriced American Girl doll.  I can talk to my 14-year-old son about anything ranging from the best way to blow up blocks of ice with mini-dynamite to the somewhat more sensitive subject of pubescent lust.  I can readily appreciate and encourage the imagination and artistry of my daydreaming middle son.  I try to show them what is pure and noble and right and just, without beating them over the head with too many teachable moments.  So I say with both humility and confidence, I am a good father.

As I sit by the fire, gently stroking my child’s thatch of curls and reflecting on my own benevolence, however, I am reminded of other times.  Different times.

Maim ‘em

Like the time I was plastic-sword fighting with Patton (my eldest) when he was maybe three.  He got a little too swashbuckling, and swiped his sword across my lip, which had roughly the same pain level as amputating my big toe with no anesthetic.  Without so much as a second’s worth of good judgment, I raised my sword far behind my head and swung it at his leg as if he were Al Qaeda.  I hit him so hard, my sword broke in half across his calf (it was actually a somewhat flimsy retractable light saber…not trying to minimize the offense, I’m just sayin’.).  I truly believe he was more frightened than injured, but he screamed until his lungs bled.  Good day for me, that was.

Shame ‘em

Same son during a little league game.  His grandparents had come out to see him play, and I was pretty excited to showcase his prowess on the diamond.  Early in the game, he hurt his wrist while attempting to corral a sharply hit ground ball.  I knew it wasn’t serious, but I saw him wincing as his team came in to bat.  He was due to hit in the inning, but really wasn’t interested in playing the rest of the game – hard to swing with a tender wrist, as you can imagine.  I, however, could not.  I went over to him in the dugout as he was pleading his case to sit out the rest of the game.  Our conversation:

Patton:  (with watery eyes) I don’t think I can play anymore.

Me:  Where does it hurt?

Patton:  (holding his wrist)  Right here.

Me:  Is it broken, or maybe just a little sprained?

Patton:  I think it’s just sprained.

Me:  Well you know, Nana and Huddy are here.  They drove across town to come see you play.  It’d really stink if you couldn’t finish the game.

Patton:  Yeah.

Me:  Maybe you should just give it a go, and see how it feels after your at-bat.

Patton:  But it really hurts.

Me:  Well I saw you fall, and it didn’t look that bad to me.

Patton:  I guess I could I try to go up to the plate.

Me:  You sure?  I don’t want you to do it just because they came all the way out here to see you play.

Patton:  Yeah, I guess I could try it.

Me:  Good job, chief.  Way to hang in there.

Rest assured, any time I refer to you as ‘chief’, it probably comes with a load.

Just forget ‘em

And then there was my coup de grace.  After leaving a going-away party in my honor preceding a month-long trip to Africa (because I’m just that compassionate), I was rushing home with a jeep full of neighborhood kids that had gone swimming at the party.  I was in a rush because I was hosting a nine-player farewell poker tournament in my living room (because I’m just that contemptible).  Once in the driveway, all the kids piled out and I ran in to count out chips before the rest of the crew arrived.  An hour into the game, I heard my 3-year-old daughter crying in bed.  I, of course, was in the middle of a hand and in no way could go check on her, so I gave my wife that ‘do-you-mind-looking-in-on-your-daughter’ look that I’ve mastered over the years.  She goes upstairs, and I hear her yell, “She’s not up here!”  She runs back downstairs panicked.  In fact, we’re all panicked.  Everyone takes off in a different direction trying to locate the source of the crying, but she is nowhere.  My wife darts outside, thinking she might be on the back porch.  I remember thinking how stupid it was for her to waste time checking outside, because it would be impossible for my daughter to have gone outside.  Which, of course, I was right.  She had not gone outside.  She had stayed outside. 

Still in the jeep.  Strapped in her car seat.  For an hour. 

I still thank God that it happened it at night, when the jeep top was down, and she had slept most of that time.  Otherwise, I would have been one of those self-absorbed buffoons you see interviewed on the ten o’ clock news, when you scream at the TV, ‘How could you have possibly let that happen?’  Still self-absorbed, mind you, just without the film crew.

As I clutched her tight in my arms, pacing back-and-forth in front of my house, I kept telling her over and over how sorry I was that I had done that.  After the tears dried up (hers and mine), I wasn’t sure she knew exactly what happened. Still needing to assuage my guilt, I asked her, “Mia, do you know what daddy did?”  Expecting a light-hearted, let’s move on-type of chuckle, she straight face replied, “Yeah, you left me in my car seat all night”. 

All night?  A little dramatic, don’t you think Mia?  But nothing that an extra dose of Benadryl won’t help you forget.

So which is more accurate?  The doting father willing to play tea party and shape his children into the likeness of Christ, or the rage-induced, scheming, narcissistic guy that makes you want to call CPS.  Ward Cleaver or Homer Simpson?  Both.  And neither.  You see, I can be either of those dads on any given day, but I suppose the truest thing that can be said of me is that I’m just a guy trying to work it out.  Loving but failing.  Sacrificing, but unable to break free from my own selfishness.  I am neither hero nor goat, no matter how much I long to be one and convinced I am the other. 

I am not deluded enough to believe that my failures won’t be some part of defining who my children become.  There are always consequences.  But my prayer is that they remember more sweet than sour; more tea parties than car seats.

#12 - But What About His Life?

by James Baker

You would think that being a part of putting together worship services that illustrate the wonder, the splendor, and the reality of Jesus would necessarily mean that I’m flush with the spirit of Christmas; that I’m able to see through all the tawdry commercialism and plastic well-wishes that rain down from Black Friday on.  Not true.  It takes work - more than it did when I started working for the church - to consider the implications of the advent season.

I have brief glimpses of perspective throughout the month, but am most dialed in around 12:03 am, December 25^th, minutes after the last Christmas Eve service ends.  A moment when the work is done, save for some last-minute Santa labor, and I stop to reflect on the birth of our Savior.  But I wonder if I’ve got it all wrong.  Or at least incomplete.  The phrase, ‘birth of our Savior’, sort of bookends Christ’s life into a manageable mantra, but misses out on so much of who Christ was.  He wasn’t just born, and He didn’t just die. 

Of the 89 chapters that comprise the four Gospels, only 23 detail the events surrounding Jesus’ birth, death, and resurrection.  The rest deal with His life and teachings.  But like Ricky Bobby, I’ve gotten comfortable with the “eight pound, six ounce newborn baby Jesus”.  The one that coos in December, and marches to the cross in early spring.  If I can reduce him to a symbol, rather than God manifest, then I can keep Him from invading the parts of my life that I like to keep in the ‘Jesus-free zone.’  It’s pretty easy for me to condemn the materialism that surrounds Christmas, but look past my own brand of glittery, cinnamon-stuffed theology.

Please don’t misread me.  This is not some veiled attempt to disparage our traditions and suggest that if we get choked up during ‘Silent Night’ we are somehow shallow or a heretic.  But for myself, I have to ask, “What happens next week, other than the fact that I dare venture back on to Bay Area Boulevard?  Am I to all-of-a-sudden celebrate the adolescent Jesus?  Is the ‘reason for the season’ still a reason for January?”

Here’s my aim this Christmas:  Consider Christ.  The whole Christ.  The One who existed before all things, born of a virgin and visited by Magi on a cold winter’s night that was so deep.  The one that was hunted by Herod, and fled to Egypt.  The one that was tempted by the devil.  The one that exposed hypocrisy and forgave taxmen and prostitutes.  The one that taught what it means to follow, give up, stand strong, and love with reckless abandon.  The one who sweat blood.  The one who was scourged in my stead.

A blessing and a curse, things have to fit for me.  They’ve got to make sense in the larger narrative, and I can’t make myself merely worship a baby.  The birth of Christ was not an isolated event.  Jesus does not live in perpetual infancy, making an annual appearance before being socked away in the attic for another eleven months.  He is the complete package.  Child.  Man.  Teacher.  Companion.  Lord.  Savior.  Like me, He has depth and He has a story - a story that will continue on December 26^th.  Unlike me, He is worthy of my full consideration.

#11 - The Inexplicable

by James Baker

A friend recently sent me a link to a YouTube video of a group of musicians that were playing for a relatively small gathering.  The group included Elvis Costello, Sheryl Crow, Neko Case, and some guy named Jesse Winchester.  In the video, Jesse sings a solo folk-ish love tune called ‘Sham-a-ling-dong-ding’ with nothing but his acoustic while the other artists look on.  I have watched this video at least a dozen times, even though the music doesn’t particularly capture me.  What captures me is the reaction.  It is fascinating to watch the other musicians, as well as the panning crowd shots.  Some are slightly swaying, but for the most part, everyone is stone-still.  You can see it in their eyes; they are taken to another place.  There is some sort of worship going on, but not of Jesse.  It is through Jesse.  Near the end of the song, Neko Case (another indie artist) has a tear running down her face.  When Jesse finishes, the place erupts…not so much a raucous applause, but more like an exhale.  I find the whole thing to be absolutely beautiful.  Even though the music doesn’t speak to me, the experience does.  I know that feeling.  I just can’t explain it.

For one friend of mine it is geese.  Not the snarky domestic ones you find in city parks, but real ones.  The kind that fly.  This crazy mix of awkward and grace.  These bulbous creatures that look to have all the fluidity of cold oatmeal, yet pound the sky with force and rhythm; honks that are both ridiculous and stirring.  For another friend it is a U2 concert.  Another it is tangling with a redfish.  My wife can be absolutely consumed with fear, but when she takes in the chocolate murk of Galveston surf lapping the shore, her soul finds rest.

For me, it’s different things.  Sometimes it’s watching my kids laugh.  Or sleep.  It can be a well-told story like Shawshank, or even the mindless brilliance of The Office’s Creed Bratton.  Sometimes – and I know this is weird – it can be an abandoned, run-down barn, or burned-out warehouse. Or like the time I was swimming with my boys in Barton Springs in Austin, a natural spring that rarely gets above 70 degrees.  I dove in, opened my eyes, and the deep blue-green that lay beneath that surface haunts me still.  It is how I picture eternity, as impossible as that is.  Sometimes it is merely sadness, which I find holds a beauty all its own.  Whatever it is, it is fleeting – gone before I can fully appreciate it – and almost never reproducible. It is a shadow.

A shadow.  That is what these sublime treasures are.  They are a glimpse into something richer, yet elusive and without construct.  Perhaps a more talented writer could paint the picture, but whatever words I can muster all fall painfully short of describing these times that pierce my soul.  It is these times – more than doctrine or theology – when I know that God is real.  Real, and wholly inexplicable.  Because if I could explain them, they wouldn’t be worth writing about.

#10 - November 21, 2010

by James Baker

Dad & me

I’m having a hard time remembering the details, but I think his last coherent utterance was about the Aggies.  Dad was happy they were doing well.  He liked the new quarterback.  I agreed.  I told him if he didn’t quit talking, the nurse was going to make me leave, that he needed his rest.  Standing next to his bed 12 hours later, holding his hand, watching him gulp for air, I scoured my past searching for anything new – some undiscovered treasure that I could hold on to as I watched a man die.

James Wallace Baker lived for nearly 80 years; through the Great Depression and WWII, through two marriages before my mom, through the death of his first son who died as a toddler, through nearly two decades of alcoholism that chewed up relationships and jobs alike, and through my childhood that was riddled with conflict and chaos.

I hesitate to even mention these things, for fear I’ll be accused of trampling my father’s grave.  But I believe there is no honor in reducing a life on this earth to a handful of warm & fuzzies.  Whenever I hear a man eulogized as if he were the lovechild of Paul Bunyan and Snow White, I think to myself, “Really?  Why are we so afraid to pay proper homage by being honest about who this person really was?”  We love to speak of redeeming qualities, but redeemed from what? 

The truth is, my dad had his warts, but he ended his life well.  He was blessed with an uncommon self-deprecating humor and endearing humility.  He adored my mother, never once speaking poorly of her. He wasn’t shy about how proud he was of all his kids, and he always made my wife feel like a movie star.  He believed in God.  He prayed daily.  And he had made great efforts over the last 20 years to restore our relationship.

Unfortunately, I have spent far too much of my own life refusing that restoration, and it cost me intimacy with my father that I’ll never recover.  I am ashamed to say that, until recently, I did not fear my father’s death.  I feared I wouldn’t care.  By the grace of God, I’m no longer hostage to those resentments, and I’m living a new storyline.  The jaded, unforgiving, ‘nobody gets me or understands the depths of my pain’ character had gotten pretty annoying – at least to me.

Standing at the foot of his deathbed, that definitive memory remained elusive, and all I could muster was a few good-natured scenes:  playing airband together at the opening sequence of the 70’s sitcom, Maude; or walking in from school, and seeing a penny stuck to his forehead (always an unspoken contest…a win for me meant that I wouldn’t acknowledge the oddity of coin stuck to his head before it would fall; he must’ve sweat glue, because in 18 years I never won – not once); or even taking turns jumping off the diving board at the lavish Ramada Inn motel pool in San Antonio, practically a mecca for our family during every middle-class summer vacation.  These were all pleasant.  Great, in fact.  But not weighty enough to give me context for this man’s life.

I stared at the vitals on his monitor as his heart rate went from 90, to 65, to 40 beats per minute.  I think he squeezed my hand.  He took another couple of breaths, and then….nothing.  Those few minutes have both plagued me and provided me with some strange fondness.  A fondness, I suppose, because I was privileged to be in the presence of my father as he left this earth, 9:20 am on November 21^st – my birthday, no less.

As the doctor turned off the monitor and informed us, “He is dead”, I collapsed in a chair, buried my head in my arms and wept like I’ve never wept before.  My wife clutched my neck, sobbing.  My mom stood looking at her best friend of 44 years and holding his still-warm hand, tears streaming but with a slight smile.  No one said anything for a long time, because, what do you say?  After everyone left, I leaned over, kissed his forehead, and was struck with a realization.  I had been looking for a quintessential memory, but what I got was far more profound.  Not a specific time, but the very thing that was threaded through all those times. 

God had unexpectedly given me the greatest birthday present I’ll ever receive.  The reminder that I, indeed, loved my father.

#9 - The Want-To

by James Baker

A few years ago, Santa brought a couple of acoustic guitars down our chimney; one for me, and one for my oldest son, Patton.  I had a brief fantasy that we were going to be the male version of The Judds, but promptly discovered that my 40+-year-old hands were a little too crispy and I didn’t have a cool performer name (like Merle or Justin or Gaga).  Combine that with the fact that I couldn’t get the whole ‘note’ and ‘chord progression’ thing, and my CMA ‘Entertainer of the Year’ acceptance speech would have to be shelved.  My interest was waning by the second, and after a few lessons and a discovery that Santa didn’t save his Guitar Center receipt, dad’s half of the musical duo made its way to the closet with all of the rest of his dead hobbies.  Patton, however, has persevered, as it just seems to be in his maternally-given blood.  I asked his guitar teacher how much natural talent was needed to have any modicum of success.  His answer surprised me. “Anyone can pick up guitar.  What you can’t pick up is the ‘want-to’.”  To his point, Patton and I started with the same skill level (zero), but I dropped out shortly after mastering the “e” chord, while Patton now has ‘Smoke On The Water’ down pat.  He will spend hours plucking his way through Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, and even a little ‘row, row, row your boat’ for good measure.  Simply put, he wants it. I don’t.

When I was newly married, I had a mentor that was teaching me what it meant to have a Christ-centered marriage.  The first time we sat down, he pulled out all sorts of pamphlets, papers, charts, and books and began to lay out the principles of all things husband-dom.  After about an hour, he woke me from my glassy-eyed stupor with something I’ve never forgotten.  “You know, all these things are just tools.  They’re meaningless unless you have some desire to use them.  The question is, do you want a better marriage?  And don’t answer too quickly, because your honest response will determine the success of your marriage.”

The question was not lost on me.  I mean, yeah, of course I wanted a better marriage…it’s not like I wanted a worse one.  But at what cost?  Was I willing to sacrifice, to put my own selfishness aside for more than five minutes, and do the necessary work it took to love my wife well.  In short, did I have the ‘want-to’?  The answer, for the most part, was – and still is – yes.  But sixteen years later, I still have to ask myself the same question.

And it applies to most everything I consider essential.  Sure, I want to be a better writer, but do I really want it?  Am I willing to come into the office two hours earlier, stare at a blinking cursor for half that time, then bang out a page of muddled blather – just to get a sentence or two of something that seems readable?  I want to be a better dad, but how badly?  Enough to forgo a re-run of ‘The Office’ that I’ve seen fifteen times already, and dive into a round of 20 Questions over some James Coney Island with my boys?  I desperately want to hear the raucous applause when crossing the finish line of the Houston Marathon in January, but do I want to hear the barren echo of feet pounding the pavement at 5 am in July?  (actually, that one’s easy to answer)

I can say all day long that I’m a well-rounded individual with tons of great hobbies; my closet would suggest otherwise.  I can also tell you that I love God with all my heart.  That I would lay my life down for Him and His cause.  That I am willing to go wherever He leads me and love whomever He puts in my path.  But what would my work ethic say?  My bank statement?  My neighbor?  I’ve long ago made peace with the fact that I am not equipped to be a great man of God.  But I have to ask myself, “Do I have the ‘want-to’?”

And I can’t answer too quickly.  Because my response will determine the success of the only thing that really matters.

#8 - Q&A with Nathan Ford

by James Baker

We thought it would be fun to do a little Q&A every-once-in-awhile with an FCC'er (or others) that we find interesting.  And perhaps no one's more interesting that our friend Nathan Ford.  He was one of Toby's high school buddies, and he and his girlfriend, Amanda, have been coming to the church for several years.  I like Nathan because I don't know anyone else like Nathan.  He's a 27-year-old throwback to a different era, and probably should've lived during the Civil War, or maybe fought at the Alamo.  The modern conveniences of Twitter, Blu-Ray, and running water aren't really his thing.

Before I knew Nathan well, a few of us were sitting around discussing movies when the subject of Lonesome Dove came up.  As I confessed that I had never seen the movie, Nathan's demeanor turned noticeably cold.  When I asked him what was up, he said, "I'm just having a really difficult time not judging you right now."  I was a little ashamed, but mostly amused.  I figured anyone that had such deep convictions over movies was an alright kind-of-guy.

Nathan's as rough & tumble as they come, but he's also got a good heart.  Here's a peek at some of what makes him tick:

Q:  So you're camped on the side of a mountain in Colorado, and in the middle of the night, your buddy has a severe asthma attack.  His rescue inhaler is in a dry bag 40 feet away, In the glow of the fire, you notice there is a black bear cub asleep on top of the dry bag.  You see that the mama bear is maybe 50 yards beyond that looking straight at you.  Another friend is complaining that his sleeping bag isn't very insulated and he's kind of cold, your girlfriend has just called you from back home on your SAT phone wanting to work out the argument that you had right before you left, and your phone battery is about to die.  What do you do?

A:  Easy.  I hang up on her, kill the mama bear, catch the cub and get the inhaler.  I skin the mama and make a bear skin blanket for my wuss buddy.  Then I will train the cub to do cool stuff and give it to my girlfriend when I get home.  How could she be mad at me then?

Q:  I've noticed that in restaurants, you always need to be sitting in a booth and facing the door....why is that?

A:  Well, booths are obviously more comfortable.  Typically they are located on the perimeter of the restaurant and I hate being in the middle because I feel too exposed and feel like everyone is watching me.  I sit facing the door so I can see who is coming in and identify a threat quickly if one should arise.  I only trust one person to eat with that I will have my back to the door and that depends on who is buying.  If he buys he can face the door, if I buy I face the door.  I also identify all known exits when I enter the establishment.  It's all about situational awareness.

Q:  If you have a say in the matter, how do you hope to die?

A:  In a hail of gun fire. 

Q:  What is something you will definitely not name your child?

A:  Nathan.

Q:  Your yet-to-be son-in-law asks for your yet-to-be daughter's hand-in-marriage....what is one piece of advice you give him?

A:  It depends on the type of guy it is.  Some hippy punk, the advice is run.  A good guy that I like, the advice is don't screw it up.  I don't know, communication is important, make God the center, blah, blah, blah.  Something Christian.

Q:  If you could be friends with any movie character, who would it be?

A:  Augustus Mcrae, or Woodrow F. Call.

Q:  Any regrets?

A:  I have many regrets, but they don't eat me up too bad.  I guess the main one is starting smoking, stupid choice.

Q:  What breaks your heart?

A:  Innocent victims.  Sex slaves and victims of sexual abuse.

Q:  When does God feel most real to you?  Most distant?

A:  God feels most real to me when I am poor, or out enjoying his wild creation or during severe storms.  He feels most distant when I am making good money, and "have it all together."

Q:  Who is your hero, and why?

A:  My grandfather, he was a great man.  My father, for a million reasons.  And Chris Spealler, he is an incredible crossfit athlete.  His work capacity to body weight ratio is insane, he breaks all conventional exercise science rules.

Q:  Describe your perfect day.

A:  My perfect day would begin nasty cold and early in the morning, I would build a fire on the back porch and drink coffee and spend a little time with the Lord and have a few smokes.  Then I would be with just the guys and go fish or anything outdoors and have a near death experience and make a memory.  Then we would go back to the house and meet up with the girls around a fire and tell our tales and have community.

#7 - Like Juan

by James Baker

Being the impressionable type, I have often latched onto certain personalities that I wanted to emulate.  Growing up, it was my brother, because he was everything I wasn’t. He’s eleven years older than me, and even though he has a staunch conservative bent, he’s also always had a bit of leftist rebel in him. During his teen years, his hair was mid-way down his back, he was a drummer in a rock band, and he often hitchhiked across the state. Responsibility would later kick in, and at about the age of 20, he enlisted in the Marine Corps. He would regale me with brutish tales of boot camp - how the drill instructors would scream profanities that were both terrifying and hilarious, and how he had been practically handcuffed to another recruit for a full week as penance for a fistfight. He was then, and still is, the toughest person I know. A five-minute conversation with me would tell you that I do not share his fortitude.

As I’ve aged, I’ve found other heroes, but mostly all for the wrong reason. Perhaps it was their swagger, their sharp wit, or the fact that they could hit a nine iron farther than 110 yards. In recent years, I’ve found myself longing to be like those who impact people for Christ. I am fortunate enough (or depending on how I feel on a particular day, unfortunate) to rub shoulders with some incredibly gifted teachers, counselors, mentors, and the like. And while any of them have yet to grace the cover of Christianity Today, they are in my mind an incredibly effective agent for raising disciples. But as I look longingly at these friends of mine, it hits me: I want to be like them, not for God’s glory, but for my own. I look at the way people hang on their words and are touched by their songs. I see the admiration in their eyes as wisdom is imparted that comes as easily as breathing. I study their motions and voice inflections, but my mimickings are a poor impostor. I become defeated. And then I become tired. Tired of trying. Tired of failing.

I often take to the hallways of FCC looking for enlightenment – or at least, less talented people.  But there is nothing. Well, not nothing.  There is Juan, of course.  Juan has worked as a custodian at Friendswood High School for many years, and serves the church in a similar capacity. You will find him most every day sweeping, mopping, and polishing every fraction of our 70,000 square feet of floor space. To be honest, he’s easy to miss. He stands barely 5’ tall and is the soft-spoken sort.

I haven’t had many conversations with Juan, but every one that I have had involves floors…the amount of dirt tracked in on a particular muddy Sunday, the type of polish used, how many giant oscillating fans it’s going to take to dry the most recent waxing. He isn’t complaining, mind you. Far from it. There is a gleam in his eye when he speaks about laminate squares and stained concrete. His voice gets a little higher the more he goes on, and he eventually breaks out in a broad grin and then steps back behind the business end of the floor polisher – because he’s already wasted too much time talking to me.

I look at Juan work, how he does what he does with virtually no recognition. How he works so diligently because he desperately wants to provide a mirror-like finish for the hundreds that pass our doors each week, only to have to start all over again on Monday. It occurs to me as I watch this slightly built 60-year old Hispanic janitor, that I want to be like Juan. Not because I want Juan’s glory, that is obvious. But there’s something else, and I’m not exactly sure how to describe it. Perhaps it is his humility. Or his ability to be present in the moment. Or maybe it’s the simplicity of a life that isn’t clouded with petty jealousies and one-upmanship. I watch him hum along with his mp3 player, making steady swaths back and forth, and I smile. I’ve found someone else to emulate. Maybe this one’s for the right reason.