:(

The other kitty didn’t make it ‘til today…it only lasted about a week with me. They were obviously sick…or perhaps I wasn’t the best caretaker for them. 

 

Kiki is still not well... still nursing it. May I be a better ‘nurse’ for ‘im.

Kiki

What They Did Right

I had recently read a book entitled ‘What They Did Right’. 

The book is actually a compilation of many stories of children’s recollections on how their parents’ brought them up. There are 38 stories in the book in total. 

For me, all the stories were inspiring and beautiful.

So, I decided to share a story with you here. It is the story of David Gill. A little introduction on David Gill (as written in the book). “David Gill is husband to Lucia Gill, father to Jodie and Jonathan Gill, instructor in church history and ethics at the California Center for Biblical Studies, and student in the doctoral program at the University of Southern California.”

 

Here is his story…

If a videotape existed of my first twenty years, I’m sure that any editor would pick out two particular scenes to represent my relationship to my parents.

                The first scene would have my father, dark circles beginning to appear under his eyes, unable to stifle an occasional yawn, patiently giving an explanation for the existence of suffering in the world. The clock shows 1:16 A.M. in the study, but the indefatigable questioner, a twelve-year-old adolescent, shows little sign of weakening. The conversation will have to end soon, then four hours of sleep for the father, five or six for me. Within two to four weeks another marathon discussion will take place, maybe on a single topic, more likely ranging from the fortunes of the San Francisco 49ers to the nature of women. 

                The second scene would show my mother at a frosh-soph football game, one of only two or three people in the grandstand (which would be packed with 2,000 for the varsity game the next day). Oh, she was also there when I played varsity; but what really symbolizes my mother are those times when she was there and almost no one else was. 

                At times of course we had disagreements, at times harmony escaped us – but those were the exceptions. My father was my counselor, pastor, teacher, and friend. My mother was my number one fan, comforter, and friend. Both of them were always available to me. They thought I was important. Their authority and leadership weren’t something that was beaten into me; they won my respect and loyalty with their actions. 

The early years: a Christian foundation

I was the second of four children. Three sisters, one older by a year, the others two and four years younger, aided my parents in my upbringing. While I have no doubt that my relationships were special as the only son, my parents never tired of reminding us that we were all of equal in their sight. My father would comment, shaking his head in mild disbelief, on the fact that each of us was so different and yet came from the same womb. But although, for tactical reasons, I argued that I was getting the worst of it, I secretly knew then (and openly admit now) that both my parents studiously avoided favoritism.

                My church attendance began before I was conscious of much more than the existence of a warm thing called Mother. Church attendance was simply a fact of life for us, and while we belonged to a small, theologically exclusive and ingrown fellowship, it was something holy. It was a time to meet God, to worship at the Lord’s Table. My father was a quiet but steady and encouraging part of the leadership. Sundays were referred to as “the Lord’s Day” and you could just as well have called Wednesday evening “the Lord’s Evening,” for my attendance then was almost as regular as on Sunday from my earliest recollection. 

                Church was important to my parents for one reason: Jesus Christ was the focal point of life. My father’s devotion to Christ was transparent. I think I grew to love the Lord because I loved my father, and you just couldn’t separate the two. My mother entered the picture here as everywhere, though, and it was at her side that I knelt in the living room at age six wanting to “be saved.” The conversion experience “took” and I have never doubted that that was the night of my “second birth.” 

                Our family devotions were neither perfect nor cast in an inviolable pattern. But during the streaks which were frequently begun, sustained for a period, then interrupted, I learned much of what I first knew about the faith. Of even greater significance for the long run, I believe, was the reading practice (out loud), as each of us read two verses in going through a passage. We kids began participating in the reading when we knew little more than and, the, and thee (King James has always ruled at my father’s house). There was always encouragement, never ridicule. I have no doubt that those experiences were responsible for my prematurely developed vocabulary and my love for reading during grammar school and following. 

                We never went in for camping trips or vacations in the usual sense. Occasionally there was an exception, but normally my father’s two weeks off was carefully planned for migrations to Los Angeles or the Pacific Northwest for Bible conferences twice a year. We went on picnics or rides in the car, and my father was often interested in playing catch or wrestling in my earliest years. But recreation together as a family was infrequent, certainly not central to our family unity, and not really missed. My father was my friend and teacher, never my coach or teammate. 

                When I was about eleven I asked to be baptized and soon after that began taking communion. About then, too, I began to read and underline my personal Bible and my interest in the Christian faith began to intensify, a process that has never stopped. Even during the rugged years of adolescence my basic commitment to Christ was there. I faltered badly in practice but seldom or never in basic commitment. I attribute that to my parents’ example and to their encouragement. As with other things, they didn’t attempt to force me into the Kingdom; they preferred to lead and love me toward the goal. 

Building responsibility: mainly my father

My parents aren’t a lot alike, but they are a complementary team. Although they overlapped and supported each other’s involvement in my life, it isn’t hard for me to identify fairly precisely the kind of role each played in my life. I turned to my mother to pep talks, enthusiastic support, and instant help in activities. But it was always to my father that I turned for those long discussions (short ones as well), for counsel, for the same sort of discussion I now enjoy in graduate seminars. 

                The most important lesson my father taught me was responsibility. He had two constant reminders for me, going back as far as I can remember. First was: “Remember, Dave, you’re a young man now.” Implication: be responsible, be mature, don’t trade on your youth for irresponsibility. Second was: “Never forget that you belong to the Lord.” Implication: live for Jesus Christ, think and act as though He is constantly present .

                Some bounds were well defined for me: movies (except an occasional Disney flick like The Living Desert), dances, and parties were out. Even in those areas, though, it wasn’t by way of legalism. Rather, my father took time to explain in as much detail as I desired what was implied in being a man of God. Result: I was almost invariably won over to his position and rarely felt deprived. In other areas I was given an open field, such as student government activities, athletics, drama, and music. Participation was encouraged with the ever-present reminder: “Remember who you are (a man, not an infant) and who you belong to (the Lord).” 

                With few exceptions the strategy worked without a hitch. I got involved in student government in seventh grade and only lost the taste for it after high school. I managed to get excused from any of the infrequent Sunday practices and got heavily involved in sports, especially football and track, all the way through high school. I picked up a guitar and, while in high school, organized a folk/comedy group called the “Snurd Brothers,” which performed at school assemblies, talent shows, and the county fair. I seldom regretted missing the parties and social life of my pagan high school friends. My identity wasn’t wrapped up in those things but rather in the mix of Christian commitment, athletics, student politics, and music. When dating assumed importance it took place with church activities or folk concerts in Berkeley and, when I could afford it, dinner in San Francisco. 

                The times I let my parents down were learning experiences for me. My outgoing and outspoken ways could become obnoxious to my teachers from about the third through the ninth grades. Seventh and eighth grades were the worst. Physically and even spiritually I was growing, but socially I suffered the ills of adolescence. Several times my parents were called in by teachers or even the principal to discuss my case-often with my present. My mother could get weepy, and my father’s disappointment, even shame, hung over me like a cloud as I shriveled into a repentant and embarrassed boy, thinking about my failure to monitor my joking mouth in some class. But my father never beat me or called me a creep in those situations. He did something more effective: he let me see in a few quiet words how I had dishonored the Lord and my family. I had betrayed his trust and misused my freedom.

                The worst episode was in a school play during ninth grade. Through a drama class I won the part of a thug who had about four lines, late in the play. Without thinking through the consequences, I delivered my lines flawlessly at the evening performance. My whole family plus a cousin sat in the crowded auditorium, proud when they arrived. Although I confess to much worse in private a few times, my threat on stage, “By God, I’ll leave you here to starve to death,” stunned my father. When I had dressed and gone to the waiting car for the ride home, you could almost cut the gloom with a knife. 

                “To think…my son…using the Lord’s name in vain.”

                I knew the commandment of course. I wouldn’t argue in favor of the justice of my father’s judgement. What did come through loud and clear was this: my parents had a stake in me. I carried the family name and honor. More, I carried the Lord’s honor with me. 

                As soon as I was ten years old I got a morning paper route. Financial responsibility was a big thing with my father. He got out of high school in the depths of the Great Depression and worked for thirty cents an hour. As I was growing up, he was working his way up to a middle-echelon executive. From about age ten to fourteen I delivered newspapers. It wasn’t worth it for the money (although it was nice to earn your own), but it got me started toward healthy appreciation of work and financial realities. And, predictably, my father would already be up folding papers (and reading one at the same time) when I rolled out of the sack each morning. 

                During high school days I worked many hours at gas stations, a donut shop, and a dairy products store. I experienced success and frustration, and I began to experience more freedom. In eleventh grade I bought a ’54 Ford, but had to sell it two months later because it was too costly. In twelfth grade I bought a ’56 Chevy, poured my money into fixing it up and customizing it, blew an engine or two, and learned some wonderful lessons: never own anything but the minimum means of transportation (Volkswagens have done me fine ever since); avoid monthly payments like the plague; avoid getting into “conspicuous consumption” and other ridiculous and enslaving aspects of the American automotive scene. My parents let me pay every cent of my car insurance, repairs, gas, as well as the initial cost.

Building enthusiasm: mainly my mother.

If my father and I had special closeness in our relationship, that was natural since I was his only son. My mother’s attention was drawn to my three sisters pretty much, at least as far as the kind of counseling I have been describing. But my father had a weak spot, and it was here that my mother made her presence felt. He had a tendency to get discouraged and even brood over supposedly unsolvable problems. If my mother lacked the logical insight which my father so amply demonstrated, she more than compensated by her unbounded enthusiasm for life. 

                My mother is a doer, an activist. She’s an enthusiast, a saleslady, a problem solver. If her solutions don’t all work, never mind, she’ll come up with five more to try in their place. Whenever I did anything-piano recitals, football games, folk music at county fairs-she was there. Before I had a car I often walked or rode a bike. But she was always ready to drive me and my friends anywhere, any time. She and Mrs.Vargas would show up at those frosh-soph football games providing an audience of two-even at most away games. She claimed to be a football fan (really, I don’t know if she knows the difference between a draw play and a reverse). She was really a fan of her four kids and burst with pride and enthusiasm any time we did anything she could be proud of. She thought I was the handsomest and smartest kid in the world. She thought my sisters were (though a bit overweight) the prettiest of the world’s women. 

                I learned not to take her judgements on our merits with total seriousness! But what I did take seriously were her positive thinking and enthusiasm. Why shouldn’t I try to be the best? I knew I wasn’t the smartest, handsomest, or best athlete, but due mainly to my mother’s infectious spirit, I gave everything I had to my endeavors and had fun on the way. After all, in her own specialties my mother approached life in the same way. I always knew our home was open. I could invite my friends over for dinner and with a moment’s notice (or so it seemed) she would lay a feast before us, bouncing up and down from the table serving us, showing interest in whatever we were doing or talking about. She would take us to the park, swimming, skating. Anything for the kids. 

                I have no doubt that my mother gave me the power of positive thinking. She gave me that healthy restlessness in my innermost being that always drives me toward involvement and participation if not to leadership itself. The emotional won over the rational in my mother. I still have trouble carrying on a debate or argument with her. But I am profoundly thankful for that, and so is the rest of the family. She was the spark plug that got us going. While I have an increasingly sober estimate of my abilities and limitations, I owe it to my mother that in word and deed she gave me the mentality of a doer, achiever, competitor, and sometimes a leader. 

Postscript: from child to parent

In the ten years since high school many things have intervened and substantially changed my relationship to my parents. My father seems weary of thinking at times. My mother seems to wane in enthusiasm a bit. They are thinking of retirement, visiting their grandchildren, and maybe traveling. I married the girl I began dating as a senior in high school and now have two preschool children of my own. Theological differences ended the long relationship I had with the little church my parents attend. My mother had trouble understanding why God had me work with “those people “ in Berkeley and why I chose to wear long hair and a beard for a few years. 

                Even through my high school graduation I never failed to see the logic and sense of my father’s position on various issues, theological and social. The topics that concern me now are more complex, the questions more difficult. Some topics we can’t really discuss without unsettling him. Yet my admiration and appreciation of him and his mind continues. 

                This all reminds me of the privilege and responsibility of raising my three-year-old daughter and two-year-old son in the “nurture and admonition of the Lord.” I pray that my wife and I can, by God’s grace, teach and infect them with a sense of responsibility, a predisposition to be thoughtful, a supreme loyalty and love for the Lord, and a boundless enthusiasm to become-and then enjoy-whatever God has for them.

Paws in the Box

This afternoon, when I was passing by a marketplace, I saw about 8 or 9 kittens at one of the stalls. The kittens apparently looked sick and dirty. So I went to the aunty at the stall and told her that I wanted to adopt some of the kittens…and yes, she agreed. After getting a box from a store, I went back to the stall… then I chose two kittens to adopt. 

So these are the kittens… thinking of calling them Kiki and Tutung, but Tom and Jerry sound good too.

Hopefully, when I post their photo again in the future, they will be in a better health and cuter too. :)

Happy Father's Day!

Still recovering from the long drive yesterday. Hmm… I don’t fancy long drive… tired!

I also want to dedicate a post to all fathers, especially my father… 

a delayed Blessed Father’s Day. 

Thank you for being my pillar of strength, and for giving your time and attention to me.

I thank God for you and mama too for so many things… I am so thankful to God every time I remember you.

I love you both!