Tired on the drive home.

Tired making dinner.

Tired checking homework.

Tired doing laundry.

Tired putting the kids to bed.

Most of all, tired of the news.

Despair, need, tragedy.  They all seem to surround and overpower.

Then came a short story on the radio.  An NPR piece about a church service in Las Vegas.  Words from a Pastor surrounded by so much grief.  A reminder of what we can all do, no matter how tired, “Be swift to love, make haste to be kind.”

Love and kindness, fuel we can provide every tired soul.

I was making dinner.  “American Girl” was playing in the background.  My teenager Jacob was walking through the kitchen.

I asked Jacob, “Do you know why I’m playing this album?”

Pausing and then in a serious voice, he replied, “Someone died, didn’t they?”

Indeed, someone died.  Someone who made songs that make Dad smile.  That seems to be what the world needs now, more people that make others smile.  That my son is the sign of a life well lived.

Applying my morning shower shampoo, I was greeted by an unpleasant surprise.  A bruise.  On my scalp.  A bruise of unknown origin.

Was it a wayward elbow thrown by a sleepy wife?  Was it a paw from a clumsy pup?  Was it from a sleepwalking adventure?  Only the pillow knows and pillows don’t talk.

Trying to avoid too much lethargy on a rainy Sunday afternoon, I decided to give a post-nap trip to the gym a go.

As a plus, my 13-year-old son Jacob also decided to come with me.  I drafted a quick workout game plan and I presented it to Jacob for his review.  Eight exercises, I was ready to go.

Jacob considered my handiwork and grabbed a pen.  Cross out, replace.  Cross out, replace.  Cross out, replace.  Cross out, replace.  Cross out, replace.  Cross out, replace.  Of my eight suggestions, only two made the cut.  It appeared as if my old man exercises had been retrofitted for a new generation.  One of my picks had even been replaced by “???” Yep, the unknown was apparently a preferred choice.  Still, I was ready to give it a go.

No bother.  For 30 plus minutes, I hung with my replacement model.  Newer, stronger, faster, better.  You know what?  I’m good with that.  Just as long as he keeps smiling while correcting me and allows me to catch up with him every now and then.  I can certainly give that a go.

Arriving back home from the laundromat (Strike One – Broken Washer), I was greeted by a dead bird on the deck (Strike Two – Gotta Love a Visit from the Grim Reaper).

Disposing of our dearly departed feathered friend, I was informed of an epic toilet backup requiring immediate attention (Strike Three – You’re Out).

Trying to anticipate the next disaster, I began weeping and tore my sackcloth.  It’s always good to be in the proper state of mind, because the fire and brimstone will surely come a knockin’.

Starting some dinnertime conversation, I asked the boys, “How was school today?”

Without missing a beat, our Fifth Grader Sam responded, “Today in Science Class, we learned about Plantar Warts.”

That’s nice.  In Food Sciences, did they cover appropriate dinner conversation topics?  Please, pass the Compound W.

Bambootiful

While setting traps for the mice colony that must be living close to our shed, I stopped to consider the benefits of just getting a barn cat, instead.  Yep, a barn cat would take care of those mice.

Then I started thinking that if it got hungry enough, would the barn cat take care of me, too?

Irrational barn cat fears, I would say that’s hang up enough for one night.

As a good Lutheran, I know that Heaven cannot be earned, access is granted only by the grace of God.  Fine, all well and good, but after proofing the math homework of my 10-year-old son, I feel I’ve earned it.

Yep, it’s like, “Welcome to Heaven, Mr. Paulsen.  Your room is this way and trust me, you’ve earned it.”

Yesterday afternoon, I took our two youngest boys to their weekly track meet.  8-year-old Ben was scheduled to run the 1/2 mile and his older brother, 10-year-old Sam was scheduled to run the mile.

Mostly, track meets involve waiting.  Lots of waiting.  Then a short burst of activity.  Then more waiting.

In my case, I watched young Ben run his 1/2 mile and then began the wait for older brother Sam’s mile race to begin.

As the gun went off (sounds dramatic, huh), Ben and I watched Sam run off into the distance.  We jogged over to the midway point and prepared to tell Sam his time.  Shouting out his progress, I readied to jog to the finish line.  As I departed, young Ben informed me that he would run beside his older brother for the final leg of the race.

Arriving at the finish line I looked up and there in the distance was Sam preparing to sprint toward the end.  Sure enough, keeping stride with Sam was his younger brother, Ben.  He was keeping up.  Cheering his brother on.  Using what he had left in the tank to help encourage his older sibling.

Sometimes we run for ourselves and there’s a time and a place for that, but life sure does look sweet and the effort seems to be a lot more carefree, when that final burst of energy is going to help someone else reach their goal.

Runners.  Brothers.  Both already winners.