... for a single man in his 40s.
All your married friends keep family commitments on the weekends. I've always thought it was rather cool that I had young single friends and married friends my own age. But the problem is with weekends... they can be the saddest and loneliest of times.
Your married friends, as I said, do married things on weekends. They do family things on weekends. They make commitments with other married couples on the weekends.
My single friends, most of whom are a good deal younger than me, they make other commitments on the weekends. They go to parties on the weekends. They date on the weekends. They have a life on the weekends.
I was married. That ended in failure.
I had a son. That ended.
And now I am 45 years old facing the rest of my life on this earth alone. I smile politely and make everyone else feel ok with my life. But there isn't much truth in that... it's a sad life on the weekends. Weekends are when all the demons come out to play. Friday night through Sunday are the days when my thoughts get the better of me.
Some would have me date and marry again. And while, I am not opposed to it, I am also not broken in my singleness. I am no more broken than a married man. But I'm just as broken as a married man... broken before my Lord.
If I had money to spend, I guess I could medicate. But most of my free money goes to helping orphans around the globe.
For all my lousy, sad and depressing weekends. Orphans have a worse life ... worse, sometimes, than I dare to imagine.
Perspective... a good healthy perspective.
It helps. Sometimes.
The sadness, however, persists and the loneliness creeps in like smoke through the cracks of a chimney.
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Showing posts with label God. Show all posts
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Best Vacation is The Past
Last Sunday one of our Pastor's, Chris Old, was talking about his son at the emergency room just the night before.
Two memories sprung to mind as a result of his stories:
The First Story:
When I first adopted my son, we had a very special night once a week ... just the two of us. We'd order pizza and we'd sit together on the couch and watch a movie or Buffy the Vampire Slayer (our favorite show to watch together).
Richie would sit there and often grab onto my hand just hold on for part of the movie. We never talked about it but it seemed to provide him with some comfort. He'd sit close ... I can only imagine for him that it was that physical reassurance that I was there and not going to leave him.
Years later I remember holding on to his hand in the hospital room... if I held on enough he wouldn't leave me either. But he did.
Sometimes at Church the Pastor or speaker would ask us to hold the hands of the people next to us for a final prayer. There are times when that action almost brings me to tears. No one held my hand the way my little 13 year old boy did. It's the one aspect of God that I long for... the day for Him to hold me - to hold my hand - knowing that He will never let me go.
The Second Story
When Richie was 16 he had a job at the local McDonalds. It wasn't far from the house and he rode his bike there or sometimes walked.
While I was at work I got a call from a police officer. While riding his bike down the hill toward McDonalds, Richie hit a rock, lost control and hit the front brake rather than the rear brake. This action sent him over the top of his handle bars and into the back of a car's windshield.
By the time I got there he was gone. The police officer was there and insisted that I stick around and answer questions. I insisted that I was going to the hospital right then and he could call me with questions later. I won.
Richie's entire left arm and been sliced up by the glass. In fact we still found glass coming to the surface years later.
The ER doctor was "doing his time" in the ER. His actual field of expertise was optomotry ... I remember because he asked me about his glasses. He had never had to actually sew up someone's arm before and there were no nurses so I stepped in to assist.
Seven hours we were there. The doctor had a rough time of it and I think we counted over 100 stitches. Half way through the doctor wanted to give Richie a break. Throughout the whole process he kept injecting numbing meds into his arm and hand to keep the pain down while he stitched him up.
Richie had to go to the bathroom so the doctor handed him the little plastic jug and we left the room. Soon I heard a pitiful cry from my son, "Pop!".
I poked my head in... he was having trouble getting his zipper down with his right hand because his left arm had to lie still to his side. I snickered a bit at his situation and unzipped him. I stepped out again but was quickly met with another, even more pitiful cry of "Pop!".
He just couldn't operate with one hand. The little plastic jug kept moving and he was having trouble freeing himself from his jeans... if you know what I mean.
There are things you do for you son and you never talk about. This isn't one of them obviously. I started laughing so hard I was crying. Richie started laughing but it made the urgency even greater.
Pop to the rescue.
No more details needed; however, it was a great story and still is. The one sure way to humble your 16 year old son is to have him need your help to take a leak.
- Douglas
Two memories sprung to mind as a result of his stories:
The First Story:
When I first adopted my son, we had a very special night once a week ... just the two of us. We'd order pizza and we'd sit together on the couch and watch a movie or Buffy the Vampire Slayer (our favorite show to watch together).
Richie would sit there and often grab onto my hand just hold on for part of the movie. We never talked about it but it seemed to provide him with some comfort. He'd sit close ... I can only imagine for him that it was that physical reassurance that I was there and not going to leave him.
Years later I remember holding on to his hand in the hospital room... if I held on enough he wouldn't leave me either. But he did.
Sometimes at Church the Pastor or speaker would ask us to hold the hands of the people next to us for a final prayer. There are times when that action almost brings me to tears. No one held my hand the way my little 13 year old boy did. It's the one aspect of God that I long for... the day for Him to hold me - to hold my hand - knowing that He will never let me go.
The Second Story
When Richie was 16 he had a job at the local McDonalds. It wasn't far from the house and he rode his bike there or sometimes walked.
While I was at work I got a call from a police officer. While riding his bike down the hill toward McDonalds, Richie hit a rock, lost control and hit the front brake rather than the rear brake. This action sent him over the top of his handle bars and into the back of a car's windshield.
By the time I got there he was gone. The police officer was there and insisted that I stick around and answer questions. I insisted that I was going to the hospital right then and he could call me with questions later. I won.
Richie's entire left arm and been sliced up by the glass. In fact we still found glass coming to the surface years later.
The ER doctor was "doing his time" in the ER. His actual field of expertise was optomotry ... I remember because he asked me about his glasses. He had never had to actually sew up someone's arm before and there were no nurses so I stepped in to assist.
Seven hours we were there. The doctor had a rough time of it and I think we counted over 100 stitches. Half way through the doctor wanted to give Richie a break. Throughout the whole process he kept injecting numbing meds into his arm and hand to keep the pain down while he stitched him up.
Richie had to go to the bathroom so the doctor handed him the little plastic jug and we left the room. Soon I heard a pitiful cry from my son, "Pop!".
I poked my head in... he was having trouble getting his zipper down with his right hand because his left arm had to lie still to his side. I snickered a bit at his situation and unzipped him. I stepped out again but was quickly met with another, even more pitiful cry of "Pop!".
He just couldn't operate with one hand. The little plastic jug kept moving and he was having trouble freeing himself from his jeans... if you know what I mean.
There are things you do for you son and you never talk about. This isn't one of them obviously. I started laughing so hard I was crying. Richie started laughing but it made the urgency even greater.
Pop to the rescue.
No more details needed; however, it was a great story and still is. The one sure way to humble your 16 year old son is to have him need your help to take a leak.
- Douglas
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
