On June 1, 2012, it will be 25 years since our daughter, Michelle Lynn, was born, lived her short life, and then went to heaven. That was an intensely painful time for my wife, Laurel, and me. Even now, two and a half decades later, I remember the raw emotion I struggled with as I tried to cope with my daughter’s death.

Often during that time I said that someday I was going to write a book about our experience.

I never wrote that book. Nevertheless, I look back every now and then and reflect on some of the things God taught me through Michelle’s brief life and death.

Through Michelle, I learned that God uses the events of our lives to shape us.

After Michelle’s death, Laurel and I both experienced significant changes in the overall direction of our lives. She changed her nursing specialty from geriatrics to newborn, and went on to work for many years in our local hospital’s nursery. Over those years she had countless opportunities to minister to young couples who had lost their babies.

As for me, I became a writer. Although my plan to write a book about Michelle never came to fruition, I never lost the desire to write. Within a year of her death, I began studying how to write fiction and not long after that I started to pursue publication. Writing was not on my radar prior to Michelle, but in the last 25 years I’ve been able to touch many lives through the written word.

Maybe that wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t lost Michelle.

Through Michelle, I also learned that often the best way to help someone who’s grieving is to not say anything.

Most people have an aversion to silence when we’re in the presence of someone who is in deep emotional pain. We feel as if we should say something to comfort them. Often it comes out as a hollow platitude: “I know how you must feel.”

Problem is, we really don’t know how they feel. Every person’s experience is different.

As I look back, I remember what people did much more clearly than what they said.

Very shortly after Michelle was born, the OB came told me that there were some people in the maternity ward waiting room who wanted to see me. I couldn’t imagine who it would be. We were at Baylor Hospital in Dallas, an hour’s drive from our home.

I went out and found several people from my church. They drove all the way into downtown Dallas, just to be there. Just to let us know they cared.

A few days later I had to drive home by myself. Laurel and Michelle had not been discharged yet, and I had a few errands to run. When I arrived at our house, I saw that someone had mowed our lawn. I had no idea who did it until I found a gallon of blackberries on our front porch. They came from our next-door neighbor’s bushes.

He never said a word. But I’ve never forgotten what he did.

Finally, through Michelle I learned that God’s grace really is sufficient.

In the years following her short life, many people have told me that they can’t imagine going through what we experienced. They’ve told me that they’d never be able to handle it. Ironically, I’ve had friends who have suffered much greater losses than I have, and my reaction has been the same.

One friend was driving a tractor and his six-year-old son was riding with him. In one tragic moment, a tree branch brushed the boy off the tractor and he fell under the plow.

I have another friend who survived a brutal attack on his family. The killers shot him five times, then killed his wife and two young sons and set fire to their house. My friend survived, only to learn that his sixteen-year-old daughter was part of the plot.

I have two other friends who lost both of their adult sons, one in a tragic accident and the other through heart problems caused by antidepressant medications.

All of these people have coped with their tragedies and are steadfastly serving the Lord. I look at all of them and wonder how they have managed to survive such horrific losses.

The answer is the same one I give to people who ask me how Laurel and I survived our experience with Michelle: God’s grace is sufficient.

Incidentally, that doesn’t mean you won’t struggle with grief. It does mean that God will walk with you through it.

One thing I know is that, even after 25 years, Michelle’s short life still resonates with meaning for me. And one of these days I’ll get to meet her in heaven.

I’m looking forward to that.

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Parenting is risky. When you choose to have children, you must open yourself to the possibility that things might not go as you plan or hope. Indeed, they might go horribly wrong.

In 1987, my wife and I were expecting our first child. Like all new parents, our expectations were high. But when we went in for our20-week sonogram, our world turned upside down. This is Part 3 of a three-part story, originally published in 1996 in Dallas Seminary’s Kindred Spirit magazine. It recounts the story of the short life of Michelle Lynn Pence and how she changed our lives forever.

—James H. Pence

When the doctors determined that Michelle’s organs were too small and damaged to be used for transplant, they weaned her off the respirator and the grim wait began. I jumped every time the telephone rang in Laurel’s hospital room, relaxing only when the expected news did not come. After two days, Michelle was still breathing and showed no signs of weakening. Laurel said, “I’d like to take her home.”

I expected resistance from the doctors, but they supported us. They made arrangements with the home health service and on Thursday afternoon a caravan of cars left the hospital.

Michelle was coming home!

Our little daughter required 24-hour care. Because she was unable to regulate her own body temperature, we kept her wrapped in blankets. An intravenous drip provided the fluids she could not take in on her own. Laurel’s parents stayed with us and we each took shifts caring for Michelle, holding and rocking a heavily blanketed baby in the sweltering June heat.

For four days we held, cared for and cuddled this little child who couldn’t even respond to us.

Her eyes never opened except for a startled blink at the flash of a camera. She never cried, never made a sound.

Quickly our home version of ICU became a routine. Friends from the church brought food. Daily visits from the home health nurse brought supplies and encouragement. Laurel’s mother, also an RN, added a touch of both grandmotherly and professional care. But in the midst of the frenetic activity, I still sensed a cloud hanging over me.

Although I was glad to have Michelle home, I dreaded what I knew was coming. I didn’t know how soon it would happen, but I knew she was going to die. What would it be like? I didn’t know what to expect and I was afraid. I dreaded being there when it happened; I was also afraid that I wouldn’t be there.

“Lord, give me the grace to face that moment,” I prayed.

Not only did God give the grace, but He orchestrated Michelle’s home-going and held our hands through every step.

The moment came at lunchtime on Monday, June 8, exactly one week after Michelle had been born. Early that Monday morning, her IV had infiltrated and the home health nurse came to our house to restart it. We laid Michelle on the dining room table to give the nurse a better working space. She got the IV going again and then went on to her other patients. As Laurel’s mother prepared lunch, we kept Michelle on the table. For the first time since we had brought her home, Michelle’s mommy and daddy sat together, holding her hands.

Then quietly, as the clatter of dishes colored the background, Michelle quietly stopped breathing. I took Laurel’s hand, drawing her away from the conversation. “I think she’s gone,” I said, my voice breaking.

Laurel looked at her, then back at me and nodded.

The flood of tears I had held back for four months finally came. It was over. I heard the voice of my father-in-law in the background, offering a halting prayer of thanksgiving. Michelle had gone home.

How can I glorify God after losing a child? How can I tell people about God’s goodness?

I can speak of God’s grace and how it was always sufficient for us—even in the hardest times. I can praise him for orchestrating the moment of Michelle’s death so that both Laurel and I could be with her, even holding her hand. I can glorify him for the countless doors of ministry He’s opened since that time, allowing us to encourage others who are going through similar experiences. I can thank him for seven unforgettable days with an exceptional child. I can worship him because he truly is in control. And all things do work together for good to those who love him.

When Jonathan Edwards, the great pastor and theologian, died unexpectedly of complications from a smallpox vaccination, his wife wrote these words, “What shall I say? A holy and good God has covered us with a dark cloud. O that we may kiss the rod and lay our hands on our mouths! The Lord has done it . . . But my God lives; and he has my heart. We are all given to God.”

We, likewise, are given to God. We rarely understand His work while it is in progress. That is why we must fall back on Scripture and realize that God is at work for our good in all things.

Whatever happens, we must be willing to trust Him every step of the way. That is the only way we can find meaning in what often seems futile. To many people, Michelle’s short life may appear meaningless. To us, it overflows with meaning.

And, while it is not a road we would have chosen to walk, God walked with us.

And a baby named Michelle changed our lives forever.

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Parenting is risky. When you choose to have children, you must open yourself to the possibility that things might not go as you plan or hope. Indeed, they might go horribly wrong.

In 1987, my wife and I were expecting our first child. Like all new parents, our expectations were high. But when we went in for our twenty-week sonogram, our world turned upside down. This is Part 2 of a three-part story, originally published in 1996 in Dallas Seminary’s Kindred Spirit magazine. It recounts the story of the short life of Michelle Lynn Pence and how she changed our lives forever.

—James H. Pence

After the sonogram, we returned home and tried to resume some sort of routine. The next day, I went to the church, spread out my commentaries, and pretended to study for Sunday’s message. I stared at the books for hours, seeing words and comprehending nothing. Then the church phone rang. It was Laurel. I could tell that she’d been crying.

“What’s wrong,” I asked, “did the doctor call?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Is everything all right?”

“Not really.”

“I’ll be right home.”

I rushed to my car and drove home like an ambulance driver on a call. I burst through the front door to find Laurel sitting on the sofa with a box of tissues. She didn’t have to say a word.

The news was bad.

“The baby’s going to die,” she said. “The doctor says that when she’s born she won’t be able to do anything at all. She probably won’t even live for a few hours.” Later we learned that a genetic flaw had caused multiple birth defects. I sat down beside my wife and melted into tears. I wasn’t ready for this. I had prepared myself for every eventuality but the worst. The reality sank in quickly. Not only would our baby die, but for the next sixteen weeks Laurel would carry a child who had no chance of surviving.

Questions began to flood my mind. How could God allow this to happen? How could we face the loss of a child and still glorify Him? How could I as a pastor tell people about God’s goodness when I wasn’t even sure of it myself anymore?

Joining hands, we approached His presence. Through my tears, I prayed, “Lord, you’ve asked us to walk this road. Please give us the grace to do it. Please get us through this.”

For the next four months we tried to forget the inevitable. Even though we had committed our way to the Lord, we still struggled. We struggled with well-meaning strangers who would walk up and congratulate us, asking us what we would name the child or whether we wanted a boy or girl. Grief stabbed at us every time the baby kicked. With saddened hearts we continued our weekly childbirth classes, preparing for a new life that would never be. We struggled with friends who made well-intentioned but thoughtless statements like, “You’re young. You can have another baby.” We endured the dull ache of a grief process we could not close.

Then came the night when Laurel felt the first contractions. At eight the next morning we packed up our things and headed for the hospital. We checked into the hospital and were ushered into a labor room, like any other new parents. In the labor room, we realized we had never chosen a name for our daughter.

We decided to name her Michelle Lynn.

When she was born at 7:06 p.m. on Monday, June 1, we stole a brief glimpse as the nurses rushed her into the neonatal ICU. She was tiny—only three pounds. But she was our child. Later we visited her and marveled at how tiny she was. She looked like a child’s doll, her little body dwarfed by the respirator and other equipment. We had requested that her organs be donated, if possible. So, the doctors had connected her to a respirator to preserve them.

When the doctors determined that Michelle’s organs were too small and damaged to be used for transplant, they weaned her off the respirator and the grim wait began. I jumped every time the telephone rang in Laurel’s hospital room, relaxing only when the expected news did not come. After two days, Michelle was still breathing and showed no signs of weakening. Laurel said, “I’d like to take her home.”

I expected resistance from the doctors, but they supported us. They made arrangements with the home health service and on Thursday afternoon a caravan of cars left the hospital.

Michelle was coming home!

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Parenting is risky. When you choose to have children, you must open yourself to the possibility that things might not go as you plan or hope. Indeed, they might go horribly wrong.

In 1987, my wife and I were expecting our first child. Like all new parents, our expectations were high. But when we went in for our twenty-week sonogram, our world turned upside down. The following story, originally published in 1996 in Dallas Seminary’s Kindred Spirit magazine, tells the story of the short life of Michelle Lynn Pence and how she changed our lives forever.

—James H. Pence

Unlike most expectant fathers, I did not look forward to the sonogram. I dreaded it.

From the moment Laurel and I walked through the door of the specialist’s office, an uneasy feeling crept through my stomach. The two-hour wait did not ease my fears. Now the doctor’s apparent unwillingness to explain his findings only intensified my anguish. I would have given anything to be somewhere else that day.

How different that sonogram was from the first one. Only two weeks earlier we overflowed with joy, anticipating a brief look at our first child. We drove to the doctor’s office, hardly able to conceal our excitement. In the darkened examining room, lit only by the cool light of a monitor, the obstetrician pointed out little hands and feet on the screen. We held hands and smiled when he told us we were going to have a little girl. Then, as the doctor moved the wand around, examining every detail of our baby’s body, I noticed a small bump on the baby’s head.

The doctor made no mention of it. But he had seen it too.

“It’s probably nothing,” he said later, “but I’d like you to have a high resolution sonogram anyway. Nine times out of ten, these things don’t amount to anything. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Despite his reassuring words, when we left his office, our eagerness as new parents had evaporated. Only a gnawing fear remained. Perhaps the perfect child we prayed for might not be so perfect after all.

It’s funny how circumstances change your perspective. Before the sonogram, when someone asked us whether we wanted a boy or a girl, we’d say, “It doesn’t matter. All we want is a healthy baby.” We didn’t think that was too much to ask. But over the two weeks between the first and second sonograms, a transformation began to take place. I entered into that period hoping for a perfect child. Now I had to deal with the very real possibility that our baby might have some kind of disability.

Laurel, a registered nurse, has a medical library. During my private moments I would take her books down from the shelf and look up all the possible problems our baby could have, based on the little I knew. Hydrocephalus, spina bifida, meningocele, and other afflictions filled my head like unwelcome houseguests who don’t know when to leave. I wanted to get rid of them, but I couldn’t. Instead, one by one I grappled with each and gave it to the Lord. By the time the two weeks of waiting ended, I had prepared myself for anything—I thought.

After the second sonogram, Laurel and I strolled through a nearby shopping mall. The uneasiness that had begun at the specialist’s office intensified. The doctor had been too evasive.

He had pointed out some obvious problems during the exam. The baby had a duodenal atresia, an intestinal problem that would require surgery. But every time we asked him to tell us if our baby would be all right, he would dodge our questions. “I have to go home and put all this data in my computer. I can’t tell you anything until it is all analyzed.”

The answer sounded authoritative enough. Why didn’t I believe him?

We returned home and tried to resume some sort of routine. The next day, I went to the church, spread out my commentaries and pretended to study for Sunday’s message. I stared at the books for hours, seeing words and comprehending nothing. Then the church phone rang. It was Laurel. I could tell that she’d been crying.

“What’s wrong,” I asked, “did the doctor call?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Is everything all right?”

“Not really.”

“I’ll be right home.”

I rushed to my car and drove home like an ambulance driver on a call. I burst through the front door to find Laurel sitting on the sofa with a box of tissues. She didn’t have to say a word.

The news was bad.

(To be continued . . .)

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Quite a few years ago, I was at my parents’ apartment, looking through a container filled with family memorabilia. There were the standard old family pictures, Christmas cards, birthday cards, assorted newspaper clippings, and so on. But I was surprised to find some of my artwork stored among the other artifacts of my childhood.

I know parents are supposed to treasure all those old things, but artistically speaking, these particular items were pretty bad. I couldn’t understand why she saved those ratty drawings of mine.

Years later, now that both of my children are grown, I understand.

I, too, have become an art collector.

A painting hangs proudly in the master bathroom at my house. It’s not a Van Gogh or a Rembrandt. Stylistically, it’s closer to Dali. A decade or so ago, Charlene dug through some of my old, unused canvasses, pulled out some acrylic paint, and decided to get creative. She dipped her hands in the paint and made multiple palm prints in a variety of colors. Then she used a neat little technique to create what appeared to be baby footprints.

She made a fist and dipped the bottom of her hand and the outer knuckle of her little finger in the paint. Then she pressed it onto the canvas and used her finger tip to add five small dots representing toes.

After the painting dried, she stuck a push-pin tack in the bathroom wall and hung the painting from one corner of the canvas so that it rested diagonally.

Charlene just turned 19, and that painting still hangs in our bathroom, exactly as she put it there.

Why?

Because somewhere along the line when my children were growing up, I learned that I wasn’t collecting my daughter’s art, I was collecting memories.

The art gallery of choice for most parents (and grandparents) is the trusty refrigerator. It has plenty of space, and is generally deemed an appropriate venue for displaying children’s art. Sadly, however, as the children grow older, this artwork is often discarded. Other times it is boxed up and never sees the light of day again.

Now, in all fairness to our children, at certain ages they may be the ones who want the artwork hidden (or destroyed). During the teen years, reminders of childhood aren’t always welcome. So there may be times when it’s prudent—even advisable—to archive the artwork in the interest of not embarrassing them.

But it shouldn’t stay that way.

As I look around my office, I see a piece Charlene did in black and orange crayon, with some song lyrics that were meaningful to her. On one corner of my desk rests a Fathers Day collage she made for me, still in its beat-up old frame and held together by strapping tape.

Pinned to a corkboard is a short, hand-printed note that reads, “I love you, Dad.” And on one of my dry-erase marker boards there is another “I love you” message that has been there so long the dry-erase ink has become permanent.

That’s okay. I don’t plan to erase it.

I’d like to suggest that we dads become collectors of our daughters’ artwork. More than that, I suggest that we display that artwork proudly whenever and wherever we can.

Why?

For one thing, we are showing them that we value them and what they do.

But more important we’re preserving memories: for ourselves, and for them.

Charlene’s painting, hung at a cock-eyed angle in our bathroom, won’t get us a spread in any home-decorating magazine.

But I don’t care.

Every time I look at it, I smile.

And that’s worth more than having a Dali on my wall any day.

So, Dad, are you an art collector?

It’s not too late to start.

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Children don’t come with an owner’s manual, but sometimes we Christian dads act like they did.

Over the years, I’ve spoken with more than one broken-hearted parent whose child had “gone bad.” Invariably, they would ask, “What did we do wrong? We raised them right, took them to church, had family devotions, prayed with them, but now they’ve turned their backs on everything we believe.”

Then they usually trotted out the “Owner’s Manual for Christian Parents” verse: “Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it” (Proverbs 22:6, NIV).

They trained their daughter in the way she could go, but the first chance she got, she turned away.

So, did God’s promise fail?

Let me repeat: there is no owner’s manual for raising children.

Despite the mountain of Christian parenting books suggesting otherwise, there are no rock-solid, ironclad principles that will guarantee your daughter (or son) will “turn out right.”

I’ve been in full-time ministry going on 35 years, and during that time I’ve repeatedly observed something that intrigues me. I’ve seen children who were raised in the best possible conditions, with families who loved Christ, and did everything “right” and yet those very children have turned their backs on the faith.

I’ve also seen children who came from horrible home lives, yet who have embraced Jesus Christ, following and loving him.

When I was a pastor, we ran an AWANA program and on Tuesday nights I would visit the families of some of the children that we bussed in. One night in particular stands out in my memory. I sat on a front porch of a little girl whose home life left a lot to be desired, talking with Her dad drank and no use for the church or Jesus Christ.

As we talked, the little girl sat on the porch, listening.

As the conversation began to turn toward the Scriptures and Jesus Christ, the little girl evidently noticed that I was not carrying a Bible. She quietly got up and walked into the house. A few seconds later she came out with her own Bible and handed it to me.

That little girl wanted her daddy to know Jesus Christ. She didn’t come from a good home life, but she loved the Lord.

On the other hand, I remember working quite a few young people who came from “model” Christian homes.  They knew all the right words to say, but had little or no desire for spiritual things. These kids grew up under the hearing of the Word of God, but some of them walked away from the faith.

So what went wrong?

Sometimes we forget that our children are born with minds and wills of their own.

As men, we like things laid out in orderly steps. We like to get out our tools and fix things. We want a blueprint, an owner’s manual, a step-by-step guide that will tell us how to make sure our kids turn out right. And often we fall into the trap of looking at the Bible—and particularly the book of Proverbs—as just such an owners’ manual. We think if we do all the right things, then our children will automatically turn out the way we want them to.

It doesn’t work that way.

Have you ever noticed in Scripture how many godly parents lost their children?

Adam and Eve, Eli the Priest, Samuel, David, just to name a few.

So what should a dad do?

A good start would be to pray for your daughter.

A lot.

James tells us, “If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you” (James 1:5, NIV). God expects us to seek his face daily for our children and for the wisdom to raise them.

Children don’t come with an owner’s manual. And if we treat them as if they did, we are laying the foundation for failure.

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So if Proverbs 22:6 isn’t a promise that our children will not depart from the faith, what does it mean? Continue the discussion by adding a comment below.

[Photo credit: ©Eric Hood/istockphoto.com]

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I think I’ve mentioned that I’m not much of an outdoorsman.

Actually, that’s a gross understatement. For the record, my idea of roughing it is staying at a hotel where they don’t turn down my sheets and put a mint on my pillow every night. So you can understand why I wasn’t jumping for joy when our church announced that they were going to have a father-daughter campout.

When Charlene was young, I was all for doing “dad and daughter” stuff, making memories, etc. But I didn’t think camping would create the kind of memories either of us would cherish. I would have been willing to do almost anything other than camping.

It’s not that I’m anti-outdoors. It’s just that throughout my life, every time I’ve gone camping things have gone terribly wrong.

When I was still single, I took a missions trip to Mexico, and part of the training involved camping out. We had to sleep in World War II surplus army hammocks. These were like long mini-tents, but you had to string them up between two trees. Next you had to rig some sticks to work as a stabilizer so your mini-tent wouldn’t turn upside down in the middle of the night.

I managed to get mine set up, but my stabilizer bars were dicey to say the least. When I went to bed that night, I lay stiff as a board because I knew that if I moved an inch in any direction, the whole contraption was going to flip and I’d find myself hanging on my stomach between two trees.

All went well until it began to rain at about three in the morning. That was when I figured out that my army hammock was not waterproof. I lay there till dawn as cold rain water soaked my feet.

That was one of my more memorable camping trips.

If I had a lot more time and space, I could tell you about the time my wife and I went camping in south Louisiana and the pump for our air mattress broke. I had to blow it up like you’d blow up a balloon.

Or there was the time when I was working as a camp director. (Yes, I used to be a camp director. Don’t ask.) I took my staff on a camping trip to train them for the coming summer. We made it to the campground—also in south Louisiana—but by the time we got set up, the floodgates of heaven opened and we all rushed back home, soaked to the bone.

You get the point.

So when our church announced an annual father-daughter campout, I received it with all the enthusiasm one might express over news of an impending root-canal.

Nevertheless, in the interest of being a good dad, I sucked it up and took Charlene on the campout.

Do you know what happened?

No, I didn’t suddenly start to enjoy camping.

But those camping trips became some of the best memories I have of her childhood. We went hiking. I remember trudging over hundreds of stone steps down to the lake to take her swimming. We took photos of wildflowers. I remember finding a chambered nautilus fossil near our tent.

I even remember stopping to buy gas.

What made these otherwise unremarkable events so remarkable that I can remember them more than a decade later?

It wasn’t the camping. Trust me. For me, camping’s not that special.

The time we spent together was memorable because we broke out of our routine and did something different.

That’s how you make memories.

Would you like to make some memories this year?

Break your routine and do something different, even if it’s just “kidnapping” your daughter some Friday evening to take her out to dinner and a movie.

Neither of you will ever forget it.

[Photo Credit: © Raycan | Dreamstime.com]

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In the spring of 2002, I suffered a severe back injury that put me flat on my back for a month. It hurt too much to sleep in my bed, so I spent the better part of that time on the sofa in our living room. Near the end of the month I had recovered enough to where I could hobble around, but I still walked like a bent-over, 90-year-old man.

It was at this time that my son and daughter decided to discover the joys of fishing in a nearby catfish pond. The pond belonged to our neighbor, and he gave Chris and Charlene permission to come over and fish anytime they wanted to. Since Dad was incapacitated, it seemed like a good way to pass the time.

My 13-year-old son Chris headed over to the pond with some fishing gear that a friend had given him. Not to be left out, nine-year-old Charlene tagged along with her Mickey Mouse fishing rod.

Now there are three things that you have to know before we go any further with this story. First, I am not an outdoorsman. To the best of my recollection, I’ve caught exactly one fish in the entire 56 years I’ve lived on this planet. And that was by sheer luck.

Second, this particular pond was stocked with catfish that were fed—regularly.

Third, nobody had fished this pond in years.

So, I lay comfortably on my sofa that summer evening, resting in the knowledge that my children were engaged in an activity that I wouldn’t be caught dead doing. And since neither of them had been fishing before, I expected they’d come back empty-handed.

It wasn’t long before my son burst through the front door carrying a huge catfish. He ran past me and deposited the fish in our bathtub. I tried to ask him what happened, but he ran back out the door, yelling, “I’ve got to go help Sis! Wait till you see hers.”

A few minutes later they came through the door carrying a catfish the approximate size of Rhode Island.

Along with the catfish came my nine-year-old daughter, beaming with pride.

They deposited the second fish in our bathtub and then went back to the neighbor’s to retrieve their fishing gear.

As silence descended upon the house again, my wife entered the room.

“Those fish aren’t staying in the bathtub,” she said.

I don’t remember what else she said, but it was pretty clear she had no intention of cleaning the catfish. My son had never cleaned a fish before, so I couldn’t pass the buck to him. And so, even though I still couldn’t stand up straight, when my kids got home I was going to have to clean two gargantuan catfish.

Two problems: One, I had no earthly idea how to do it. And, two, the whole idea made me nauseous.

Knowing that my wife would never agree to turning our bathtub into an aquarium, I did the only thing that a geeky, non-outdoorsman could do in that situation.

I turned to the Internet.

A quick Google search on “how to clean catfish” took me to a Web site with step-by-step instructions—and photographs. I won’t go into the details, but the procedure was somewhat reminiscent of Nightmare on Elm Street. Nevertheless, I knew that this was a time that I was going to have to step up and get messy.

So when my children returned, I took the necessary utensils, hobbled out to the front porch with kids and catfish in tow, and got ready to clean the catfish.

Before I started, I looked my son in the eye and said, “Watch carefully. I’m only doing this once!”

By the time the sun went down, the catfish were cleaned and filleted, I was back on my sofa, and my children were delighted. Charlene was particularly happy because her fish was bigger than her brother’s.

I’d cleaned my first catfish. I also learned a lesson about being a dad that day.

Sooner or later, in order to be a dad you’re going to have to leave your comfort zone and get messy. What it means to “get messy” will be different for each person. It usually involves something you normally wouldn’t be caught dead doing.

But if you love your daughter, you’ll push yourself out of your comfort zone and get messy.

And when you do, you’ll connect with her.

[Photo Credit: Raymond Gregory, istockphoto.com]

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My daughter reported for jury duty today.

You might not consider that to be a milestone. Normally I wouldn’t either. But as she headed out the door to drive to the courthouse, it suddenly struck me how grown up my little girl had become. I know it’s cliché, but it seems like it was only yesterday that I was teaching her to ride a two-wheel bicycle.

I remember somebody telling me years ago that I should enjoy my children when they were young, because they grew up all too fast. I nodded courteously, but rolled my eyes inwardly. Yeah, right, I thought.

At that time, when it seemed like we were buried in diapers, I found it hard to believe that the years would fly by. Back then, it seemed as if glaciers moved faster than time did.

But as my daughter approaches her 19th birthday, I understand exactly what my friends were telling me. In all the busyness of life, all the activity, all the hustle and bustle, somewhere the years flew by.

And I look back and wonder where the time went.

Often people my age are asked, “If you could do it all over again, would you do anything different?”

Yes, I would.

I would do my best to savor every moment I had with my children.

A dictionary definition of the word savor is, “to give oneself to the enjoyment of something.”

Most of the time I think of the word savor in the context of food. I love to go to a good restaurant and savor a thick slab of prime rib. I don’t just gobble it down. I take time to relish every bite.

If I were to raise my children over again, I would try to relish every moment I had with them.

I would be present more. Not just physically present, but mentally and emotionally present. I listen to them—really listen.

I would spend more time doing what they want to do and not look at it as a fatherly duty—something good dads just do—but I would try to relish every moment.

I would take time to make special memories.

I would laugh more.

I would be sillier.

I would tell my children I love them as many times as I could in a day.

I would treasure them.

Because all too quickly the years fly by and they are out on their own, making their own decisions and living in an adult world.

Yes, we are supposed to “raise” our children and train them.

But while you’re doing that, don’t forget to enjoy them.

*****

Keep the Discussion Going:

What specifically are you doing to savor the moments you have with your daughters?

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One of the most difficult lessons for me to learn as a dad was that no matter how hard I try, I can’t shield my children from pain. I wanted to protect them from the ugliness and sorrow that are part of life in this world. And I tried my hardest.

But reality comes crashing in when you least expect it.

In my case, it was the day Fat Louie died.

Fat Louie was a stray black-and-white cat that showed up at our doorstep. My wife and I used to joke that the strays in the area must’ve put some kind of sign on our house that read, “Charlene lives here.”

Every stray animal that came within five miles tried to move in with us, and my daughter was glad to accommodate them. Within hours of his arrival, Charlene had adopted him and named him after the cat from the movie, The Princess Diaries.

Although I like cats, I didn’t like Fat Louie.

He meowed.

Loudly.

All the time.

I was pretty laid back about my daughter’s tendency to adopt strays. But after a few weeks of that cat’s constant yowling, I was ready for him to go away.

Fat Louie went away, all right. But not the way I’d hoped.

One afternoon, Charlene went out on our property to do a sketching assignment for her homeschool art class. Fat Louie decided to tag along. As Charlene was drawing, a neighbor’s dog ran up and attacked the cat. It all happened so fast, she was not able to stop it.

I was working inside the house when I heard her crying. Charlene ran in sobbing and told me what happened. She described in detail how she had pried her cat out of the dog’s mouth (She knew the dog, and could get away with that). Then she told me how Fat Louie was in such pain, he had bitten through her thumbnail as she held him. Finally, she told me how her cat died in her arms.

I felt like a knife had ripped my heart open, and at that moment a flood of emotions surged through me.

First, I was angry. Why hadn’t the neighbors controlled their dog?

Next I was saddened. It tore me up to see her hurting so badly.

But later, after I had time to think about it, I was afraid.

For the first time since she was born, I realized that my ability to protect my children was limited. I could try to shield them, but ultimately, I couldn’t keep pain away. Somehow, sooner or later, the pain of living in this fallen world would break through.

And there was not a thing I could do to stop it.

That day I began the long process of learning to give my children to God, to rely on His wisdom and providential care over their lives. It hasn’t been easy. Daily, I’ve had to remember that God is sovereign, that He is good, and that I must trust my son and daughter to Him.

Years ago I memorized Psalm 31:14-15a, which says, “But I trust in you, O LORD; I say, ‘You are my God.’ My times are in your hands.”

Just as our times are in His hands, so are theirs.

I had to remember that several years later when I broke the news to Charlene that her best friend’s family had been murdered.

I had to remember it when my son spent a year in Iraq.

And now that my children are grown, I remember it every day. And I pray for them daily.

As fathers, we want to protect our children, but part of protecting them is learning to trust them into their Heavenly Father’s care.

It is only then that we can be assured that, no matter what happens, they are truly safe.

(Photo Credit: David Fowler, Dreamstime.com)

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