Notable Notes

~Coffeeson's baptism went very well. It was a little strange to be standing on the opposite side of the font making the promises rather than prompting others. We had a full house all weekend long, with over 40 friends and family milling around at one point or another. A seminary buddy came down to do it (and I still feel bad about not giving really any other seminary buddies enough notice...your invites were seriously addressed, just not stamped...I suck). It was good to see him besides. If it hadn't been for said over 40 friends and family, worship would have been low attendance-wise.

~Michigan's offense looked at times like they were still running practice drills against Utah. The defense made adjustments and looked a lot better in the second half, but the offense was every bit as shaky as people figured it'd be. I have more faith in Threet than Sheridan at QB...just open up the field for him and let him rip (Exhibit A: the bomb pass to Hemingway for the TD). 2009 recruiting looks good already, with two mobile QBs and a bunch of other offensive skill guys. Gotta give RichRod time to work. Still, the thought of five years of futility against OSU sucks.

~I think I want to learn the bass guitar. I mean, seriously learn it. I know some basic garage-level stuff, but I'd like to go deeper. If you ask me why the bass, and not guitar or drums, I don't really have an answer for you. There's something about creating lines and runs, the uniqueness of the instrument (how many set out to learn guitar or drums instead?), the special creativity that it entails...I just think it'd be fun. Right now I'm weighing whether to actually take lessons, which would

1. Get me out of the house,
2. Provide accountability and discipline,
3. Allow me to interact with other musicians,

or to buy a few books and do it on my own, which would

1. Enable my impatience,
2. Let me go at my own pace,
3. Keep me locked up in my basement with no other musicians,
4. Enable any ADD-related tendencies that I may have, which will cause me to forget about keeping up with it after a week or so.

You can see which one I think is the better option.

~There's been a dog hanging around our house for the past few weeks. The past several days, Coffeewife has purchased dog food and toys, and this afternoon she took her (we checked) to the vet for a check-up. I don't want a dog. I'd want a dog if I had one or two less cats. And in some ways having a dog is like having a second baby, only with fur and a tail. At least cats are all like, "Did you fill my food dish? Yeah? Okay, you can go now." Dogs are all like, "Wanna play? Wanna play? Wanna feed me? Wanna jump around? Wanna play? Wanna go outside? Wanna go inside? Want me to jump on you? Want me to try to eat your food? Wanna play? Want me to do anything that isn't leaving you alone?"

~Coffeeson is teething. I can't deal with both that and a dog.

~I'm so happy that it's fall. The leaves are already changing. It feels great.

Coffeeson

The first ever picture of Coffeeson:



A lot of people say that he looks like his dad:



Yeah, I think I see it.

July, July

It's really quite fascinating how our own perceptions color our memories the way they do.

I had this blog post all planned out to gush over how thankful I am that July has finally come to an end. And mercifully so. I was going to write about how it just seemed to take forever. I was going to go off on how boring and long and dead it was; how it was the month that just refused to end and how every day was just another horribly slow experience in running on the hamster wheel toward the much more interesting month of August and season of fall.

On some level, that is true. July is not the most hopping month by any stretch at the church. In fact, it is the least hopping. There is no hopping. There is standing still. It made for some excruciatingly dull office hours at times. Planning ahead was what I used to invigorate my spirit. Creating deadlines and tension for myself really helped me through at times.

To aid in what surely was going to be this cathartic release of pent-up hostility toward July, I pulled out my calendar. I looked back over it to see what I could point to in order to help my cause. And then it dawned on me that my perceptions of the month vs. what I've actually been doing are two different things.

Here's how I'm going to remember this July.

I'll remember Coffeeson getting his three-month pictures. Yeah. He's three months old already. We have this one 8x10 shot of him on the wall: he's next to a baseball and smiling right at the camera. That was a one in a million shot. I'll remember how much he likes to giggle now. He giggles at all sorts of things. I'll also remember the ultrasound that he had last week for a...ahem...manly issue. He decidedly did not giggle during that. But for the most part, he's a pretty happy little baby.

I'll remember going to jury duty, only to be told that I didn't have to serve jury duty. The guy was being brought up on various charges related to drunk driving. He actually stood around in the lobby with the prospective jurors beforehand--unkempt hair, scraggly beard, shirt half-buttoned so that his chest hair could pop out in all its glory. I didn't know it was him at the time, but afterwards there was no doubt. Another juror said that you could smell alcohol on him. Good times.

I'll remember meeting with the Emergent Cohort at a little hole-in-the-wall Indian food restaurant in Cuyahoga Falls. The discussion of the day was weighing the views of "the city" in scripture. If you want me to really explain this, let me know. I remember being disappointed when I quickly ascertained that my crab masala was made with the fake processed crab. I hope we don't meet there any more.

I remember attending a church member's graduation party, and the wedding the next weekend, both instances when I was invited to celebrate significant moments in young people's lives. I was applauded before I gave the prayer at the reception. There was "woo"ing involved. Those were fun. I'll also remember the DJ, who reminded me of actor Scott Caan, only playing bootilicious songs so that he could try macking on all the single women.

I'll remember working the Indians game and our spot squarely behind home plate.

I'll remember the Dave Matthews Band concert that I was just at last night. I'll remember the opening act, Ingrid Michaelson ("The Way I Am"...you've heard it, go look it up) rapping "Ice Ice Baby." I'll remember how heavily they seemed to favor "Crash," Tim Reynolds destroying everybody with his guitar solos, Carter Beauford doing likewise during a drum solo on "Two Step," Leroi Moore's conspicuous absence because of a recent hospitalization and being replaced by Jeff Coffin from the Flecktones, who also ripped it up during "#41."

So July was not the black hole of a month that I'd convinced myself it was. Granted, there sure seemed to be a lot of filler in between. But if I said that July was a horribly dead month, I'd be ignoring all of this.

Standing Inside a Concession Booth with a Hot Dog in My Hand

Note: if anyone can name the song referenced in the title, I'll mail you a cookie.

It was a weekend that put a few things into perspective.

Friday night, a group from my church ran a concession stand at Progressive Field. The Indians invite groups in to do this as a fundraiser - we get a base amount plus a percentage on what we sell. We're signed up for 12 games total; I think Friday was number four, and the first of four games that I'll help with.

The game didn't make it out of the first inning before it started downpouring. Our group was in a part of the park (nosebleeds along the third base line up in the corner) where we could basically watch it roll in. We had some steady business before the game and during the delay...all two hours and 43 minutes of it. We were finally told to start closing down our booth, even though the game hadn't been called.

Eventually, as our group was allowed to disperse, it was revealed that the game was scheduled to start back up again shortly after 10:00. As I made my way toward the exit, I thought to myself, "How awesome of a time would I have if I tracked down an open beer stand and just sat up in the nosebleeds, watching this game to its probable 1:00 a.m. finish?" What a summer memory that would have been.

Pre-Coffeeson, I probably would have. But I had to get home.

Saturday morning, I sit down to check my e-mail. I get one from the 20/30 Clergy Network, a UCC network of young hipster doofuses like me. There is a picture there from some gathering or other that includes two of my partners in crime from Eden, evidently taken at a pub someplace. And I think, "I remember those days, and I can even imagine these two interacting with whoever all these other people are." And I think back to when, at the drop of a hat, it was possible to head out and do that.

Pre-Coffeeson, I would have. Now, I'd have to make proper arrangements first.

The rest of Saturday morning was spent with Coffeeson in my arms. He actually has more and more to say, most of it variations on the word "Goo." He exclaims it, he sighs it, he yawns it, he says it conversationally, he squeals it. And over the past week in particular, I'll be sitting at the office or in a meeting or wherever else, and I can't wait for the next time to hear his little chatter. I think about those "goo"s a lot.

Do I lament missed opportunities, ones I could have taken before Coffeeson came along? Yeah.

Do I regret, in any shape or form, the fact that he's here? Absolutely not.

Am I more limited as a father? Sure. But "limited" isn't the best word, and I might even suggest that that word is used more by people dreading the thought of having children.

"Changed" is a much better word. Because for every outing that I give up, there's a smile, a "goo," a look of curiosity that I have the chance to see or hear. I may be limited in one sense, but at the same time I'm experiencing something else entirely. That's not to say that I miss these other things. It just takes some creativity and discernment about how to keep some of them around.

Some. Not all. Let's be honest.

But that's enough.

Something else that I saw at that game on Friday night while standing in that concession both were all the fathers and sons there together. These were kids 4, 5, 6 years old with their first mitts and their little Indians gear, perhaps getting their first taste of a ballpark hot dog and seeing the field in person for the first time.

And I sh*t you not, I teared up a little. Because it made me think of the day when that will be us.

No last-minute chance to stay for a late game, but there will be a chance in just a few years to come with my son.

"Limited" isn't the right word.

"Changed" is.

"Blessed" is even better.

Father's Day + 6 Years of Marriage

I can tell you this, that if I'd married some rosy dame and she had given me ten children and they had each given me ten grandchildren, I'd leave them all, on Christmas Eve, on the coldest night of the world, and walk a thousand miles just for the sight of your face, your mother's face. And if I never found you, my comfort would be in that hope, my lonely and singular hope, which could not exist in the whole of Creation except in my heart and in the heart of the Lord. That is just a way of saying I could never thank God sufficiently for the splendor He has hidden from the world--your mother excepted, of course--and revealed to me in your sweetly ordinary face.

-From Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

The fatherhood circle...

...is now complete.

My Own Gilead, Part 1

Almost two years ago now, I read Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. If you aren't familiar with this book, it is a novel told from the point of view of an old pastor, John Ames. John is reaching the end of his life, yet with a younger wife and 7-year-old son, and the book is meant to be a series of thoughts that John is writing for his son to read when he is older. They are thoughts that range from his own experiences growing up to some theological musings to his love for the church to his jealousy of another man he perceives moving in on his wife to regret that he feels caring for his church at the expense of his family.

I'd originally wanted to make it a point to reread this book every year as a sort of testament to how much I enjoyed it the first time and as a way to pick up on things that I'd missed. I never did get around to doing this in 2007, although I did remember to take it with me to General Synod so that I could get Robinson to sign it.

Just today, in between bidding farewell to visiting in-laws, diaper changes, and other errands, I finally began my second journey through Gilead. I can think of no better time to have done this than during my paternity leave, even at times with my own son cradled in one arm while flipping pages with the other.

I've given much thought to this whole business of fatherhood over the past nine months. There's been the standard, "What will I teach him/how will I discipline him/etc." sort of stuff, but moreso I've been thinking about my own experiences growing up as a preacher's kid and what I may be able to do for Coffeeson to help avoid some of the rougher features of this dubious distinction. That's what this post and maybe one or two more are going to be...talking out some of those rougher features, not necessarily to solve anything, but at least to put them out there for my and others' reactions.

One thing that I've wondered about is how PKs are received in different communities. Is there a difference, for instance, between how a preacher's kid is seen in a smaller town or rural area as opposed to a larger area? I recently asked Coffeewife, who graduated high school with over 800 people, whether she knew who the PKs were in her school. She answered that she was aware of them, but it seemed to have little bearing on how they were treated or viewed by their peers. When your high school is the size of a small college, anonymity can be a perk in that regard.

For me in my rural elementary school, I wasn't a preacher's kid. I was THE preacher's kid. My classmates knew it. My teachers knew it. And while it only elicited an occasional comment from schoolmates (and one from my art teacher--who was an ass, anyway--in front of the whole class), there was a certain stigma that seemed to follow me around. It may have been easier to escape in a larger school, but I was the anomaly in a building full of kids whose parents were farmers, dentists, and any other number of "normal" profession. But a kid whose father is a pastor...that's just weird, man. Are you, like, really nice or something?

By the time I'd entered high school, we'd moved to another district and my father had become a librarian. We moved out of a rural area into a small town, the basic difference being the community's more rabid Varsity Blues-ish dedication to school sports. I did know of one or two PKs, but they didn't seem to endure any grief. Maybe it was the crowd they ran with or that this particular community didn't care as much.

Anyway, all this is to wonder how Coffeeson will be received by his peers, and maybe even where we'll be by the time he begins to interact with them. I pastor a church in a close-knit, small town/rural community. I leave the future open as to where we'll be by the time he's ready to begin school, but certainly he'll be THE preacher's kid in his class in this place. Whatever I can do to help him avoid experiencing all the "aren't you supposed to be really nice?" stuff without him having to resort to overt rebellion as a felt need to prove a point, I want to do it.

Of course, I don't really worry about how he'll be received just on any kind of level where he's judged by what his dad does...I just worry about it in general. For some, being a PK is a sticky point...for others, not so much. Maybe he won't have to deal with that. Maybe he'll click with a good circle of buddies right away and this won't even be a factor. I hope that it isn't.

And that whole "leaving the future open as to where we'll be" thing? Yeah, I'll get to that one next time.

I Promise POC Won't Turn Into a "Baby Blog"

So being a dad is awesome. There. I said it. We began the final stage of our pregnancy journey about 3:00 on Thursday morning, and it was certainly not the mad rush that I was expecting. Coffeewife's contractions were becoming unbearable, which eventually ruled out a natural birth for her. Looking back, if she'd elected to stay on the natural route, she'd have been cramping, contorting, and vomiting for around 15 hours. I left her in severe pain when they did the epidural, and came back to her all curled up under the sheets in bed, as peaceful a look on her face as I'd ever seen.

The actual childbirth part lasted only a little over an hour. Again, she did very well, and we had a wonderfully encouraging midwife and nurse overseeing everything. And then Coffeeson appeared. There wasn't a baby, and then suddenly there was. And he was ours. And he was cold and cranky. All 8 pounds, 3 ounces of him was writhing, craving the warmth he'd just left. All four grandparents met him that first day, and Coffeewife and I made an endless amount of calls and e-mails to other family and friends. The joy and relief outweighed the fact that we'd both been up for 12+ hours straight (I still came home and crashed, of course).

Now we're home, and I'm just at the start of two weeks' paternity leave. Judging from a brief blogsearch, I think I might be getting shafted a little in this area: some jobs give a month, six weeks, two months, six months. That's not a commentary on my own church, though. These are the guidelines set out by the Conference, so I imagine they're fairly universal in application.

Besides that minor irritation, we've gone two nights now experiencing being new parents. So far, I think we've been very fortunate. First off, besides needing to be fed or changed, Coffeeson doesn't want to sleep unless he's all curled up in a secure-feeling location. Big open Pack and Play? No. His parents' arms? Oh yeah. Lights out. So the first night, we actually took turns holding him so that he'd sleep. Last night, I got the bright idea of placing him in the car seat (one of the tightest, secure-feeling places for him), and was able to get 2-3 hours of uninterrupted slumber.

And yeah, Coffeeson eats and sleeps. A lot. I guess it doesn't take long for the personality to develop; for him to smile at something other than his own farts (babies sure are freaking gassy creatures) and to take more notice of the world around him. I'll look forward to those days, but I'm not especially in a hurry. He's here, and we're happy and feeling blessed. And that's enough.

Blog Babies

If you scroll through the blogs on my sidebar, it seems that we have a baby boom going on.

Katherine just had one.

Lutheran Husker just had one.

LutherPunk just had one.

Bob is expecting.

Scott is expecting.

As for us? Well, we're fairly certain that we're in the early labor stage.

Stay tuned.

I'm Bummed + I'm Excited + I'm Nervous

I got a voicemail the other day that I have yet to return from a seminary friend. During this voicemail, he mentioned how much he'd miss me during Eden Seminary's annual Herbster alumni gathering. I hadn't thought about it in a couple weeks until he brought it up, which bummed me out. Herbster is today. I'm not there. The reason is simple and perhaps obvious: with my luck, I'll pull into the seminary parking lot, my cellphone will ring, and it will be Coffeewife saying, "My water broke." Yeah, that's not going to work.

So here I sit, thinking about St. Louis and how that first view of the arch would have evoked a certain feeling of homecoming. I sit thinking about all my buddies whom I won't see. I sit thinking about places like Kaldi's and Racanelli's and Vintage Vinyl. I sit thinking about professors I'll miss joking around with and former churches that I served as a student and Central Reform Synagogue and Forest Park Hospital and the St. Louis Zoo and the Muny and Ted Drewe's and our freaking awesome apartment after we moved out of our on-campus Eden apartment.

I think about all that, and I'm bummed.

But I'm also excited. Today is Opening Day. The Tigers with their potential 1000+ run lineup (and their questionable bullpen) kick off the season against the Royals. Meanwhile, the Indians start against the White Sox in about a half hour or so. I thought about wearing my Verlander jersey around today, but it'd just get covered in cat hair and I don't want to deal with that. At any rate, this should be another back-and-forth kind of year for the AL Central. Maybe we'll finally see a Yankee-less postseason.

We had our latest baby doctor appointment this morning, which brought to light the information that Coffeewife is a centimeter dilated and 25% effaced. We're both convinced that he's coming early. He's been measuring ahead, which could just mean that he'll be big, but it could just mean that he'll be early. I told Coffeewife today that my latest source for anxiety comes not from changing diapers or midnight feedings or what of our worldly possessions he'll eventually break, but from that whirlwind moment when labor begins: loading everything into the car, the trip to the hospital, the birth itself, and the suddenness of it all. I've been thinking a lot about the frantic nature of that moment, the upheaval and readjustment and quick response that it will involve, and I just hope I'm ready enough.

Of course, the only reference point that I have for this worry is the moment my brother decided that he was ready to enter the world. I was six and didn't know what was going on. Most of that is a blur to me now, but I remember a lot of quick movement. Now I know that at least once we get to the hospital, it'll probably be something more like what I've seen on "A Baby Story" where every couple has their little handheld camera in the car, and Mommy's all peaceful: "Yep. We're on our way to the hospital. It won't be long now." And then they get there and play checkers on the bed for a couple hours. It's that first few moments of gearing up for the whole process that I think I'm anxious about.

"The first can come at any time." Shut up.

Green

Let’s start from the beginning.

This is one of the many thoughts that I have as I sit at the edge of the double bed in what will eventually become the nursery. The transformational process has been a very gradual one: the walls had been painted a light green color even before we knew we were pregnant. A completed changing table stands along one wall, the deep brown of the wood adding a certain refinement that will be completely contradicted by its use. Against that same wall leans a tall flat box containing the pieces of a crib. It will match the table once it is assembled, but that task will not be tackled until the very bed on which I sit is removed from the room. We’ve really just been putting it off. We’re either ignoring it, or we’re that lazy.

I am sitting in this room, as I so often do, because here the feeling of impending, unavoidable change is the thickest. This will be the hub of the baby activity. The walls, the changing table, and the sheep light switch cover all tell me so. Our DVD collection has not yet been overrun with Bob the Builder and Spongebob. The dining room does not yet feature a highchair. There is not yet a gate across the steps or a pumpkin seat in the living room. Other than a glance at my wife’s stomach, at this point it is only by stepping into this space that one may deduce that something else, someone else, is coming. This fact is more real to me when I sit in this room, on this bed, in the midst of the emerging nursery and my own anxiety.

I absolutely crave the tangible. Every time I pass this room, every time I sit here, every time I look at or feel my wife’s stomach, the desire to see something real overcomes me. I need to feel the little bumping and kicking of my unborn son against my palm. I’m trying to understand beyond some superficial level that one day very soon this room will be inhabited by a little person always in need of a fresh diaper, another bottle, a couple trips around the house in his father’s arms. And I need to understand that he will begin as that little, pooping, hungry bundle of helplessness who will depend on me for love and for his first experiences of the world.

Most of all, I need to understand that he will first appear as a baby.

There’s a reason why I’m now telling myself that we’re going to start from the beginning and not partway through. We’re not going to start when he’s already six and imitating all my worst habits or when he’s fifteen and judging all my worst flaws. I need to understand that he will not first appear with fully formed opinions on religion and politics; that he won’t root for Ohio State just to spite me or judge my career as the dumbest or most embarrassing thing that I could have done with my life. We’re not going to start arguing right out of the womb and he’s not going to squint at me through the remnants of amniotic fluid and blood and demand a second opinion from the midwife.

This sounds tremendously insecure, doesn’t it? I know it does. And yet, thoughts like that have been stuck in my mind more than anything else related to my son’s birth. I wonder what he’ll be like when he reaches those different ages; how he’ll react to the world around him. Mainly, I wonder how he’ll react to me. I’m constantly hounded by this absolute dread that I’m not going to measure up. I’m supposed to help mold the character of this tiny wrinkly wailing person, and if I don’t remember that he’ll start there, I’m going to be too scared to follow through past the first day.

I sit here on this bed and I imagine the follow-through. At times I somehow think that bargaining for my imagination’s approval will help. I conjure these scenarios in my head and try to solve them as if they were an algebra problem, a simple “if A, then B” sort of thing in an attempt at convincing myself that by the time he first colors on the walls or refuses to take a bath or whatever, it’ll just be a matter of remembering my preplanned technique.

Of course, the reality is that I don’t keep conjuring them because I think I can handle them…I think I really do it to think up new ways to torture myself in the face of an already mounting degree of worry that I’m going to suck at this.

That’s right. Apparently Daddy is a masochist at heart. Why else would I worry so much about how I’ll balance work with what he needs and how often I’ll move him around by changing churches, communities, schools? Will he be convinced that I really want the best for him? Will he believe me?

I suppose that it’s stability that I want the most for him. He’ll need a father he can count on to show him through the argument with his friend or how to maneuver through his first crush. He’ll need a father whom he knows would rather be with him than at that committee meeting. He’ll need to be told that this really is supposed to be the last move that he’ll ever have to make and that it’s like a dagger through his parents’ hearts to make him leave what he knows behind. If I can convince him of that, maybe I’ll have a shot at getting a lot of that other stuff right. And I know that I'll have his lifetime to do it, and I can grow into it right alongside him.

Daylight has faded to make way for evening. The streetlight across the parking lot lazily blinks on, casting shadows across the bedspread and the floor. The green on the walls is now a dark gray. I rise to return to the living room, and to feel the bumps against my palm again.

Just Like Dad

When I was maybe four years old, I can recall a moment when my dad and I were at home together. I was just running around doing four-year-old stuff, and my dad was working on some pastor notes or something, using a black permanent marker.

When he stepped out of the room, I decided that I wanted to mark stuff up just like Dad.

So I picked up the black permanent marker and started making my own notes: a few on his, a few on the walls, and all in prominent places so that people could see them and be proud of me.

For some reason, no one was proud of me. Instead, I got yelled at and spanked and my note-taking career was put on hold.

Anyway, for some reason I recalled this incident after seeing this post, and I can't help but wonder if karma will eventually rear its ugly head.

"Meanest Mom on the Planet"

Heh. From MSN:

DES MOINES, Iowa - Jane Hambleton has dubbed herself the "meanest mom on the planet."

After finding alcohol in her son's car, she decided to sell the car and share her 19-year-old's misdeed with everyone — by placing an ad in the local newspaper.

The ad reads: "OLDS 1999 Intrigue. Totally uncool parents who obviously don't love teenage son, selling his car. Only driven for three weeks before snoopy mom who needs to get a life found booze under front seat. $3,700/offer. Call meanest mom on the planet."

Second Monday of Advent

I figured that I'd have babies on the brain today, and I certainly do. Early this morning we were given conclusive evidence that we are having a boy. So now I can start stocking up on baseball outfits and toys. The trouble is that we loved our chosen girl name much more than the two or three boy names that we were just okay with, so we've gone back to the drawing board for that. We bought a book of names to leaf through, and I've found one that I think we're really starting to like...or at least I do. Our goal, particularly with our boy names, has been to find something less common, but without it being something off-the-wall.

Knowing that it'll be a boy makes this whole thing a little more real, too. Before this morning, there was just this indefinite, invisible thing growing inside Mommy that we could plan a little bit for without it having a real identity or form. This morning's visit changed all of that. It adds a level of exciting/scary that wasn't there before.

I also had a baptism yesterday morning, one of the calmest I've ever done. He just sat there in my arms, the water barely causing him to flinch. His eyes got a little wide as I walked him down the aisle, but he didn't even make a sound. This church is near the tail-end of a baby boom, so I've had quite a few during my time here. It remains one of my favorite things that I do as a pastor.

Preaching-wise, this Advent has been a much stronger year than last. Last year I was pretty daunted by the task of trying to find an original way to touch on the season's themes my third time through, and it seemed like I struggled most of the way. This year, I'd picked up a few new resources heading into the season and they've provided some fresh material. Last Sunday's sermon was entitled, "What to Expect When You're Expecting" (get it?), and yesterday I contrasted the two baptisms that John the Baptist talks about. The fact that I actually baptized someone yesterday also provided some opportunity for reflection. This coming week my focus text is the Magnificat, and I'll use McKnight's The Real Mary to reflect on how strong a woman of faith Mary really was instead of the pious passive little girl portrayed by Amy Grant. My working title: "Not a Desperate Housewife." I might think about that a little more.

This coming week will also be spent wondering whether my senior high kids would get anything out of watching A Charlie Brown Christmas, or whether they'll think it's the lamest thing ever. I figure they all at least need to see it once, but this generation doesn't know Peanuts as well as mine and those before. Oh well.

Vacation Thoughts

So I'm on vacation this week and next.

Lately, it has seemed that my vacation time is cursed. My last three vacations have been interrupted by a congregant's death. I of course fostered no ill will toward the families. I mean, how could I? "Why couldn't you have helped them hang on a few extra days?" See, it doesn't work.

The other fortunate thing is that any plans that I'd made weren't truly interrupted. Two of those weeks, I was just due so I'd planned just to sit around and not do church stuff. The other week I was in New York City when I found out about the death, but I was going to be home in time for the service anyway.

This time I have plans to head to New Orleans on a work trip. I haven't been to that part of the country besides, and to experience this firsthand I know will leave an impression. But I'm bracing myself. I'm bracing myself for it to come, maybe 9:00 on Friday evening as I finish packing: "Pastor Jeff...So-and-So died." Once I leave Saturday morning, I'll be beyond physical reach for this sort of thing, but up until that point I consider myself fair game.

This is all well and good for a guy with no children and a wife who's been in school for the past year, so we haven't had the time or money to do much of anything during my vacations anyway. But that's all going to change very soon. Am I really expected to look into my 5-year-old's eyes and say, "Sorry, Daddy can't go with you to Cincinnati...something came up." "Sorry, we have to cancel our trip to Daytona because something happened." "We'll go to Michigan next year. Daddy has to take care of something here now."

Are you kidding?

Yeah, yeah, I know all the "You chose this work" and "This is God's call for you" and "Ministry is about interruptions" and "Just say no and point them to whoever you got to do pastoral coverage." You never hear about bankers being called back from vacation for banking emergencies. You never hear about pharmacists cutting time off short because of a pharmacy emergency.

Of course, the other side of this is that I'm blessed with a very understanding congregation. They're as excited as anyone about us being pregnant. And many of them would be the first ones to say, "Um...what are you doing here?" Whether that would happen if I was 40 with junior high-age kids instead of a young guy fumbling around expecting a newborn...that remains to be seen. I'm not sure how that would work.

I'm not sure how much of any of this will work.

2.9 mm

That's how big the (very) little one is at the moment.

Mrs. Coffeepastor had a concern come up the other day that she wanted to have checked out, so we visited an OBGYN. While there, we both got a much more accurate picture and timetable of things.

First, she's fine. The little one is fine. Everybody's fine.

Second, I got a much more intimate perspective of what women go through at such appointments. I salute you all.

Third, we're not as far along as we initially thought. She hit 6 weeks today, so that puts the due date at April 24th. Incidentally, this is Shakespeare's birthday, which we thought was tremendously cool. It's also her sister's birthday, which is also pretty cool. We already have names picked out, and while it would be fun to plan on naming it something like Bianca if a girl and Lysander if it's a boy, we aren't that dorky. Okay, we are that dorky. Just not in this instance.

And finally, we saw it for the first time. It's not much to look at right now, but we did see its tiny heart pumping at a million miles an hour. They printed off a few pictures, all 2.9 mm of it. So that means it's about this long: --.

This is quite an amazing little adventure we're starting.

Well, What Else Can I Say?

All right, I think that everyone knows by this point. Joyful phone calls and e-mails have been made, or people saw the blog, or someone told someone else in the grocery store, or a pastor cleverly shared it during the Prayers of the People and the congregation may or may not have picked up on it.

So sometime around the beginning of April, we welcome Mini-Me. Well, Mini-Her-And-Me. Mini-Us. Only singular. We think.

The very realization of this, which only came as recently as Sunday morning, seems to change one's thinking. Already, plans related to career, trips, diet, and whatever else have slowly become attached to the question, "How will that affect the baby?" Suddenly there's someone else to start considering, and aspirations shrink a little. That's not a tremendously original revelation, but I'm just saying that it's happening already.

The Soon-to-Be Nurse Wife is going to work second shift. How will that affect the baby?

I was toying with the idea of going back to school. How will that affect the baby?

We have three cats. I hope they don't affect the baby. Daddy's a little allergy-prone. Are allergies genetic? I have to read about these things.

Of course, right now it's only a few centimeters big and apparently resembles a shrimp, so we have a while.

This is still a little surreal. Exciting, but surreal.

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