Oh, So Close

One of the pleasures of being put out to pasture—I mean being retired—is the time and freedom to read all the pop psychology and relationship articles that come floating across the social media on my computer and phone.  There is a ton of it out there on every subject imaginable.  A recent one that caught my attention was about the six hobbies that point to a man being a “great dad”.  Looked like a challenge to me.  Like any self-proclaimed “parent of the year”, I was curious to see how I stacked up to the author’s premise. 

The writer of the article claims that how a man uses his free time while parenting reflects much about his character and approach to life.  The author stated that if a man had any of the six hobbies that his children were raised by “a truly exceptional man who prioritized quality time, growth, and emotional well-being.”  The guy laid down a gauntlet and dusting off my “World’s Best Dad” trophy and shirt, I rose to the challenge.

 

The first hobby . . . cooking.  I cooked while my children grew up . . . especially when their mother was gone. It was a matter of survival.  They are all still alive.  I could doctor up a box of mac-and-cheese, throw in a frozen pizza, grill cheese sandwiches, scramble some eggs, and even serve some cereal.  I’m not helpless in the kitchen, I am just not the sort of chef the guy was referring to in his article . . . I cooked to survive.  And my children survived.  I was no fancy chef, and I would say that cooking is my favorite thing.  Strike one!

 

Gardening was the second hobby.  Beyond taking care of the lawn and mowing the grass. Gardening is not my bailiwick.  When it comes to gardening . . . planting flowers, vegetables, and what-not . . . that is my wife’s domain.  She plants; I clean up the mess.  It has been that way since the day we married.  Years ago, when the children were starting middle school, it was decided that the family should have a garden.  A family decision.  So, I plowed a plot.  We planted corn, watermelon, pumpkins, zucchini, yellow squash, and tomatoes.  There was great enthusiasm as we planted . . . then—POOF—it disappeared.  The children got busy . . . they got bored . . . discovered that it was work.  No one wanted to water the garden, weed the garden, hoe the garden . . . do any gardening!  In the end the results were dismal . . . a couple of skinny squash, pickle-size zucchini, no tomatoes, one itty bitty watermelon, and a couple of forlorn pumpkins.  What was meant to be a family activity and less in growth, patience, and perseverance became a lesson in swearing.  Thankfully the wife dedicated her focus to flowers after that and my swearing subsided.  Strike two!

 

Hobby three . . . writing poetry.  As a kid I wrote a lot of poetry.  Really bad poetry . . . really bad.  I stumbled across a whole bunch of it recently while cleaning my den.  Thank goodness I was alone.  It was embarrassing.  It has gone off to a better place thanks to the garbage collector.  It’s gone and no one will ever experience that trauma.  But I am not taking a strike on this one.  Even though I wrote terrible poetry, I wrote a lot of other stuff.  Being a minister, one has a tendency to write . . . write lots, especially sermons.  In a 40-year span of ministry I have written a minimum of 2,080 sermons, 480 newsletter columns, countless eulogies, and many wedding devotions.  Since my college days I have enjoyed writing.  The kids know it.  Though it was not poetry, my children saw my love of writing.  This is no strike . . . it’s ball one!

 

For some reason this author thinks that DIY (do it yourself) projects constitute a hobby . . . that DIY teaches skills, problem-solving, creativity, and the importance of perseverance.  This is hobby four.  Again, this is not in my wheelhouse despite my willingness to give anything a shot.  Where others have patience to tear apart, repair, and rebuild . . . I have duct tape, super glue, wire, and garbage.  Do it yourself is torture and the family learned early on that it was best to leave the house when “Dad” had to put something together. Creativity came in the new ways swearing could be done.  The greatest lesson learned is that there are people out there in the world who do these things for a living to keep people like me from losing sanity.  Well worth the money spent.  Strike three!

 

Hobby five was knitting.  I can barely tie my shoes.  Plus, I shouldn’t be around sharp objects.  Knitting looks complicated.  It involves math . . . counting in particular . . . and it goes beyond what I can count with my fingers and toes.  It is too difficult.  I will leave the knitting to those who have the skills, desire, and ability to count beyond 20.  For me it is never going to happen.  If being an exceptional father means having knitting skills . . . well, strike four!

 

Finally, hobby number six is reading!  I love to read!  As our children grew up, we encouraged them to read.  We even let them stay up an extra 30 minutes past bedtime if they were reading.  Our house was filled with books—all sorts of books.  They were piled everywhere.  And in turn they have encouraged their children—our grandchildren—to be readers.  One can never have enough books to read.  Finally, one I can hit out of the ballpark . . . HOME RUN!

 

The final tally takes a little of the shine off my mythic “dad of the year” image I had of myself.  I figured I scored 25 percent on this great scale of extraordinary as a parent.  I guess I was not as special as I thought—cooking, poetry, DIY projects, knitting, and gardening are not my hobbies, not even close.  Thankfully I was saved from being skunked by the fact that I love to read and write. According to this challenge I could probably use some parenting classes.

 

Nowhere in that author’s article were the things I was good at: humor (especially sarcasm), teasing, embarrassing my children in front of their friends, coaching, playing catch, telling “dad jokes”, watching endless sporting and school events, getting thrown out of sporting events, attending concerts and school plays.  There was nothing about encouragement.  Nothing about loving them even when they were unlovable.  Staying by their side when sick.  Not killing them when they did something really (and I mean, really) stupid.  Being present in their celebrations and their heartbreaks.  Being there for them.  Laughing.  Crying.  Loving.  Especially loving.  Always loving.  I think these things go a long way in being an extraordinary parent . . . extraordinary dad.

 

Overall, I think I did okay as a dad.  Could have been better.  Could have been worse.  I am sure that the jury is still out.  I am sure how I am viewed as a father by my children changes as they grow older . . . as they parent their own children.  In the end, all of us who have been parents did and continue to do the best that we can.  We have given our “best and worse” to the ones we love . . . especially our children.  I know I have.  My children still invite me to family gatherings . . . allow me access to my grandchildren.  I do not need some writer telling me what makes an “extraordinary good dad”.  The reward and confirmation has always been in the eyes of my children.  I’ve still got it . . . yup, the older I get the better I was . . . “dad of the year”!    

    

 

Prodigal Sons

I think to each generation of a family there is born a prodigal child.  There is that child that goes against the grain of the rest of the family and strikes out on his or her own much to the chagrin of the everyone else.  This is the child that takes off at the first opportunity that he or she gets to get as far away from the rest of the family--to put distance between him or her and everyone else.  It is not a matter of not loving the family, it is just a matter that this child must venture out on his or her own.  They sort of march to the beat of a different drummer.  I know, because I am a prodigal son . . . but I am not the first nor the last in the family.

John Walter Keener

John Walter Keener

In this story my father, John Walter Keener, is the first prodigal son--though I doubt if this is true in the Keener family genealogy.  I have often wondered about my grandfather, Clyde Keener, and whether or not he might have been a prodigal son.  Despite that, I begin with my father.  From the bits and pieces that I have gleaned over the years concerning the family tree, I do know that my father was not long at staying home once he graduated high school.  Within a year of graduating he was off to Washington, D.C. where he found a job at the Federal Bureau of Investigation.  I wish that I could say that he was an agent, but the best that I can discern is that he was an ordinary clerk.  It was at the Bureau that he met my mother, they got married, and they eventually had four children in quick succession--like one almost every year for four years.  Of those four children I was the first born.  But, I am getting ahead of the story.

When my father left home he left home.  Rarely did he ever venture back to his home place.  In fact, he pretty much spent the majority of his life living pretty far from his family and had very little contact with them as I was growing up.  I think that my father grew up with a very difficult father who ruled with an iron fist.  I also know that my father and his family were dirt poor.  Life was tough and when he had his opportunity to leave he left. There was no looking back.  Around the age of 19 years old my father became a prodigal son.

John Martin Keener

John Martin Keener

At the age of 18 years old I left for college--1,500 miles from my family.  Outside of the summer between my freshman and sophomore years I never returned to live at home.  I ventured forth and lived life pretty much on my own--I had some good times, I had some bad times, but most of the time I just lived.  I doubt if I did everything quite the way that my parents had hoped, but I survived.  I am sure that I did not always please them, but hey . . . I was a prodigal just following in my father's footsteps.

John Andrew Keener

John Andrew Keener

Which brings us to our oldest son, John Andrew Keener.  John Andrew basically flew out the door as soon as he graduated high school, but did not really strike out on his own until we moved to Montana.  For a couple of years, whenever things got tough, he returned to the nest to recoup.  When we moved to Montana he struck out on his own and moved to Fort Collins, Colorado.  One thing I will say about my oldest son is that he enjoys a good time and he was the epitome of the prodigal son.  To say that he broke his mother and mine hearts would be an understatement--he did not always make decisions that we agreed with and he often paid the price.  He took off and he has never really looked back except with nostalgia.  He is definitely his generation's prodigal son.

In the New Testament Jesus tells the story of the "Prodigal Son".  It is the story of a man who has two sons.  The youngest son knows of the inheritance that both he and his older brother will get when the old man kicks the bucket, but he wants his share and he wants it now.  Surprisingly the old man gives in and gives the younger son his inheritance.  In a flash the youngest son is off to the races as he heads off to the closest big city.  There in the bright lights of the city the youngest son kind of loses his senses--he makes the most of his time with nothing but wine, women, and song.  It doesn't take him long before he has blown the whole inheritance--he is flat broke, a far distance from home, and scrambling just to survive.  He is alone.  He is scared.  He longs to be back to the familiar.  That's when he decides that he would suck it up, apologize, and come crawling back to his father in hopes that his father would allow him to at least be a worker on the homestead.  Much to the prodigal son's surprise the father does better than he expects.  The father runs to greet the prodigal son, throws him a big party, and welcomes him whole-heartedly back into the family's graces.

I imagine that the story of the "Prodigal Son" has always been one of my favorite stories that Jesus told--since I am a prodigal it only makes sense.  Yet, the reason I love this story is not because of the prodigal son, but because of the father.  For years I identified with the prodigal son, but it is the father that I am the most attracted to.  There is a sense of grace and love that the father displays that moves me because he takes back his son despite the shame and hurt that he has caused.  Not only does he take back his son, he welcomes with open arms back into the family to take his rightful place.  I agree with the biblical scholars who state that this story is incorrectly titled as the "Prodigal Son"--the story is not about the son, it is about the father.  Jesus wanted us to know that the father was God and that we are all the prodigal children.

As my father got older he worked hard at re-establishing his connection with his family.  In his last years he spend more and more time re-connecting with his parents and sisters.  Family became important to him and I think deep down he regretted the relationship he did not have with his family.  I do not know for sure if he experienced the grace and love that Jesus spoke about in the story, but I do know that in his heart he felt as if the prodigal son had come home.

Thus it was for me.  My father and I had a better and deeper relationship as I grew older.  I felt his love and grace in welcoming me into his life in those last years--I know that he cared.  And, like my father before me, I felt the joy in being welcomed back into the fold as the prodigal son.

So it is my hope for my son.

As we come to celebrate Father's Day tomorrow, we cannot ignore the fact that we are all prodigal children.  We have all created that space between us and those that we loved so that we could be who we are.  We have done it in a variety of ways, but we have done it.  Yet, we cannot escape the fact that we are loved despite the barriers we have created.  That we are welcomed into our families--desired and wanted.  Coming from a long line of "prodigal sons", I thank God for the love and grace that welcomes us prodigals home.  For my father--God rest his soul--I give thanks.  For my son I pray for his traveling mercies and that he finds his way home once again.

Happy Father's Day!