How We Turn Our Kids Into Spouses

While playing with his daughter, a man once overheard his wife tell another one of their children: He can only pay attention to one of us at a time, and he will always choose his children over me.

Never mind the effect that such a comment might have on a child, it also reveals one of the great marital and familial crises of our day: Emotional enmeshment between a parent and child.

Here's how it works:

1) Over time, for whatever reason, communication and affection break down within a marriage. This usually has something to do with the stereotypical problem of women over-communicating and men under-communicating. Men get overwhelmed and women feel ignored or shut down. It may also have something to do with emotional dependency. When one spouse constantly needs the other for emotional support, the other support spouse tends to get overwhelmed and often, less-responsive. In turn, the emotionally dependent spouse becomes more need and will work harder for support. The other spouse then becomes more resistant and unresponsive. It's a vicious cycle!

2) Marital bonds are more important than parental bonds, for this express reason: Our kids suffer the effects from the fraying of our marriages. This is not only because they see mommy and daddy poorly modeling love to them, but also because mommy and/or daddy begin investing their emotions and affection in their children rather than one another. Here are some examples:

*Talking with children about grown-up issues like a spouse's unemployment.
*Talking with children about a spouse, in the same way that spouse's typically talk about their children (i.e. "I just don't know what to do about your father's anger.").
*Expending all gestures of affection on children rather than the spouse. This is what the man's wife was talking about in the opening example: He plays and cuddles with his children; never her.
*Being friends with children, rather than an authority figure. Danger sign: Calling your child "best friend" rather than a spouse.

3) While such patterns are not obvious to those going through them, the effects are obvious to the outsider: A lack of love within a marriage and a parent who is emotionally enmeshed with his/her children. Such enmeshment causes jealousy and resentment in a marriage and does considerable damage to children. How might it damage a child:

*Instead of learning responsibility in accordance with the authority and rules given in a home, the child will be given undue responsibility for affairs way beyond his/her control. This is unhealthy for adult children, let alone those still developing. It causes anxiety, emotional co-dependency with a parent, and often, a lack of respect for the other parent.
*A child's marriage might feel like a divorce. Leaving and cleaving becomes extraordinarily difficult because in certain emotional respects, the child is always married to the parent. Both will feel abandoned and go through withdraw, and the newly formed marriage will be rocked by undue influence of the enmeshed parent.

Of course, there could be much more to say about this. I recognized my own struggle with this when my wife asked why I cuddled with our little girl more than her. Honestly, actively loving children is easier than actively loving a spouse. By God's grace, my wife's words were convicting and I am trying to be more affectionate toward my wife.

Remember, children are required to honor their father and mother in the Lord. As parents, we must prayerfully require obedience from our children and cultivate the heart behind that obedience. As spouses, we must prayerfully maintain our due affection for one another and not misplace it in our children.

In the same way, we are to honor God, our Father in Heaven, by rendering Him our obedience, as well as love Him who first loved us as His beloved spouse. What Christ has ordained with His own blood, let us none of us confuse or tear asunder!

Made to Look Like a Monkey

"My second trip to Malawi was supposed to be somewhat mundane," I began, addressing the Toastmasters. "I was going to teach fellow aspiring pastors about systematic theology and biblical exegesis. During the day, I would buy fruits and vegetables, and at night, I would eat nsima (corn paste) in the homes of the students."

"But the trip started with a monkey, and ended with a monkey, and ended up being anything but mundane.

On one of my first days there, a man walked his bicycle up to me with a monkey casually perched on the back, eating a cob of corn. 'You want monkey?' he asked. I thought about putting the monkey in a bathtub or closet, but thought the better of it. Before I could respond, he added "To eat" and to make clear what he meant, he chomped his teeth. 'No thanks,' I responded and in my mind added, 'I've reached my quota on monkey meals this year.'

Things were pretty routine from then on out, awakening in me a desire to have an African adventure before I left. I was told that no Westerner had climbed a certain mountain behind the village for some 20-30 years. It was not particularly tall or steep (no need for a hook, hammer, or rope), but was clearly not bushwhacked.

So on my final day in town, I decided to climb that mountain. I awoke early in the morning, walked the short span to the base of the mountain, and began my ascent as the arriving sun broke through the mist. Some places where relatively flat and I was able to tread through foliage, while on occasion, I would have to crawl over boulders on hands and knees. I even had to prop myself between boulders at times and try to carry myself up and over.

I had just climbed up and over one particularly large boulder, about three quarters of the way up, when I heard a heart-piercing snarl. I froze and couldn't move for what might have been the longest minute of my life. My mind raced with images of lions or other beasts. I had no easy way back down and had a backpack and a journal with which to defend myself.

I slowly turned, and saw about 40 yards away and 20 feet above me--across a small ravine--a baboon who was clearly not happy that I was in his territory. He didn't look particularly big, but I have been told by TV and by locals that these things can tear a person limb from limb. I slowly inched closer toward the rocky peak as his snarling intensified, hoping to just put more distance between me and him.

When I got to the peak, I spotted a cleft within two pressing boulders and climbed up and into the cleft. It was there that I prayed, let the Lord know that I was a bit shaken, and remembered the words of that famous hymn "Rock of ages, cleft for me--let me hide myself in Thee!"

I started to make my way back down the mountain when the snarling crept down my spine again. I looked over. The baboon was still 40 yards away, but was now eye level and looked to be eyeing a way across the small ravine. I gently stepped back toward the peak and then took off down the backside of the mountain. There was an old goat path cutting back and forth, but I cut through, jumped 5 or 6 feet at a time to try to create distance between me and the baboon.

Several minutes later, Malawian farmers watched as a mzungu (white man) appeared and quickly disappeared from their yard, likely for the first time. Now sprinting at full tilt, I attracted a crowd of village children who shouted and chased after me. By the time I slowed down, I was at the base on the other side of the mountain. I jogged the next hour or so until I arrived back at my village.

A few things I learned:

1) Always carry a stick. Probably wouldn't have helped against a baboon, but at least I would've felt prepared.

2) God creates us for community. We're not meant to go it alone. I could've used some other guys up there. We need other people. My wife needs me to help her speak up; I need her to help me shut up.

3) If I was vulnerable before that baboon, how much more vulnerable am I before the Creator of the universe? He has the power to crush me, but hasn't. Why? Because He sent His only beloved Son to this vulnerable world in order bear their sins, appease His wrath, and make peace between God and sinners. Because of Jesus Christ, the God who has the power to crush me does not terrify me like the baboon. Instead, he has become my cleft, my rock of ages. For that, I am grateful."

*****************************************************************************

After Toastmasters was over, I got into a discussion with a mother and daughter who were visiting the group. The mother is an evangelical Lutheran who loves the Lord. Her daughter still avows some of the basic truths of the faith, but has determined that she doesn't believe certain portions of the Bible--especially the ones dealing with sexuality. Surprise, surprise. Welcome to my generation.

She briefly mentioned that we can't really trust the Bible because there are so many translations. I told her that in seminary, we are trained to study the ancient Greek and Hebrew, derived from the many ancient manuscripts of Scripture, and no, the major translations have not deviated from the ancient manuscripts.

Next, she talked about the command in Leviticus concerning the stoning of homosexuals, and how some arbitrarily want to keep that law (very few would actually say that) while dismissing other Levitical laws. I told her that most people, including most evangelicals, butcher Leviticus. It's laws were not meant to be normative for all of humanity. They were meant for Israel, the one God-endorsed theocracy after Eden. That theocracy is over, and God is equipped the state as His agent of justice (Rom. 13) and the Church as his agent of saving mercy (Matt. 5).

And for the people of Israel, Leviticus was meant to show them the great gap between a holy God and unholy people. Every little thing that reflected the fallen nature of mankind, from a man's seed spilled upon the ground to a woman's menstruation, carried with it a penalty or time of purification in order to remind the people of the vast difference between them and God. It is no surprise then that at the heart of all these laws was the sacrificial system, which stressed the need for sin to be atoned for and picturing the coming Savior.

I told her about the reboot of our discussion Meetup in Menomonee Falls (now called "The Real Happy Hour") and what we hoped to accomplish with it (charitable discussions about deep and dirty issues). She loved the thought of people who are "pro-gay" and "anti-gay" having charitable discussions.

Again, I challenged her on her descriptions. Unlike what our culture tells us, we are not defined by our sexuality. The term "sexual orientation" didn't even come into existence until Freud used it about 150 years ago. Our culture may have collapsed the distinction between who we are and what we do and now defines us by our sexuality, but our identity goes much deeper than our behavior.

She understood what I was saying, because she earlier told me that she was struggling with her identity and the question: Who am I? I told her that before she asks that question, she needs to ask who has the right to define her identity? Is it her right, or that of her friends or family? Or is it God, who can hide our lives in Christ so that our identities are untouchable by the whims of this world?

She is now pumped for the Meetup group. And I simultaneously became friends with an evangelical mother and her wayward daughter. Speaking of which, I am excited that they were at Toastmasters together. Parents, what do you do about a wayward child? (1) Unconditionally love them. (2) Pray for them. (3) Don't equivocate on the Gospel. (4) Continue to enjoy life with them. (5) Never, ever give up hope.

One day, the Prodigal may be ready to come home--may they know that they have a home to come back to!

A Picture of Army Life

(At least the chaplain's version of it.)

The morning formation was filled with bleary eyes. Some of the soldiers, like me, had traveled great distances to be at this formation. Others worked the overnight shift at their civilian job and got little to no sleep at all. We were called to attention by a firm but clearly compassionate First Sergeant, who gave the SP (departure) time and instructions concerning what needed to happen before then.

The driver for each vehicle would need to PMCS (preventative maintenance) his humvee prior to aligning in a convoy for departure. All other soldiers would be gathering their rifles and equipment, which they would be carrying all weekend. As a chaplain, my goal is most often "battlefield circulation." I weaved my way between the humvees, my breath turning to ice, greeting and encouraging the drivers and perhaps removing a chop block or oil drip pan as an added gesture.

I also stood alongside the soldiers awaiting their rifles. I borrowed a knife from a soldier (they all have one in Wisconsin) to open a box and get my MRE (pre-packaged meal). Another one let me know that he was a Lutheran and hoped to be a Lutheran minister. I mentally filed that information away for later.

Another young soldier ran into me--one who I hope will eventually be my chaplain assistant. We constantly joke about how he is one of the few black soldiers in Wisconsin. The fact that there are so few is sometimes a source of discomfort for him, but his ability to joke about it has endeared him to a good number of troops. He is also a sincere believer and his previous job in Indianapolis was as music coordinator at his church. He is a master of the keys--both piano and organ.

The humvees were lined up--time to roll. I hopped in, ready to better acquaint myself with the soldiers in there with me. Riding shotgun was our BC (battalion commander). She is new, but has already won over the soldiers. She has deployed three times, takes her work seriously, talks with the soldiers, and on this morning, was serving as ground guide for our vehicle--what lower enlisted soldiers usually do. Oh, and she also had her fourth kid in five years in October.

Riding next to me in back was a medic who just left active duty with the 82nd Airborne. I asked him when he deployed, eyeing his right shoulder patch (which reflects a deployment). 2013. "Wait a second--were you at Camp Phoenix?" A nod. He was part of the group that replaced our security force--Task Force Guam. I likely met this soldier over there as I eagerly embraced the 82nd guys--my brother had once been one of them.

I soon found out that he and his wife--both deployed to Camp Phoenix with different units--were CrossFit fanatics and friends with Dave and Dana Lyon. They were there on post with me the day Dave was blown up. Like me, they took it hard. "I deployed to Kandahar," the medic told me, "where we were engaged in a lot more combat. But there was something about Kabul--and the idea that a car packed with explosives could obliterate you at any moment--that made it worse."

When we arrived at Ft. McCoy, I hopped out of the humvee. Slurp. Slurp. That was the sound of my boots--the ones my brother wore with the 82nd Airborne 15 years ago--sinking into the mud. My feet were constantly wet, and my boots caked in mud, for the next three days. The rest of the day was like a whirlwind. Every one of my units from around the state was gathering for these three days of training. There would end up being about 580 of my soldiers on the ground, and I had not met the vast majority of them.

Of course, with that many, I mostly pass people by while exchanging greetings and smiles. Every so often, I was able to insert myself into a conversation. But everyone has is arriving, has an assigned task, and conversations are difficult to come by. At one point, I took a break, went to my tent, and called a troubled soldier who hadn't come out for this exercise. At first, she was stand-offish as she was with everyone else who had tried to contact her. When I told her how sorry I was for her struggle, and that I had grown up on anti-depressants, her tune changed. She let me pray for her.

That night, at the BUB (battalion update briefing) I addressed the BC and all of the assembled company commanders and NCOs, announcing the chapel time and offering a prayer. Before and after the meeting, I talked with two other captains who were new to the unit. I ended up bonding with them, which would be important later in the weekend.

Early the next morning, I caught a ride with the BC and the sergeant major as they toured all of the different "lanes" (work sites) where the soldiers were engaged. Still trudging through snow and sludge, I watched as a group of soldiers took off on a land navigation course, equipped with snow shoes. Later, I hunkered down in an MRAP (an awesome armored vehicle that I sometimes traveled in on deployment) while our engineers blew up a tree so that it fell at a 45 degree angle, perfectly blocking a road. They are good at what they do.

As they were preparing for the explosion, I talked with a few of the soldiers and learned that they were from our Wausau unit. This unit had a hell of deployment in 2010, losing one soldier to a sniper (Private Justin Ross--mentioned in a previous post), with most every other soldier experiencing several different IED (road bombs) blasts and the ensuing injuries and PTSD. They were surprised I knew the name Justin Ross. I won't forget it. They won't forget that I remembered it.

Next, we arrived at the cross country ski lane. This event was as much about PT (physical training) as it was an actual training exercise. They were in between groups, so the BC and I jumped on skis and headed out. A medic accompanied us and walked ahead of us the whole time. For two first-timers in snowy sludge, it was pretty pathetic. Three times the BC fell (I fell once), and never did she make a noise. She birthed four kids. She can get up from the snow. I told her that I had noticed the way she studies her soldiers and carefully analyzes their words. She was struck with the accuracy of my comment--said offhandedly--and watched as I got to know and care for the medic alongside of us.

A few minutes later, the sergeant major--from Wisconsin--casually slid by each of us, wishing us a good day. It reminded me of the bike trip that was instrumental in my conversion, when young girls would pass me on the road, ringing their bells and telling me to "Keep it up!" Freakin' sergeant major. As we neared the end, I saw him ahead and tried my best to run in the skis, flailing in the process, in order to beat him. A newly arrived unit watched the chaplain declare a new finish line on the spot and dive past the already-stopped sergeant major to reach it.

The final stop was with our unit from La Crosse, which was conducted house-to-house clearance operations. I handed out candy as they prepped for their mission, and watched video footage on their performance with them afterward. While there, I counseled a soldier who had messed with his meds the prior week and went to a very bad place, mentally. I made sure he was bouncing back.

When we arrived back at the TOC (tactical operations center), I was exhausted and surely looked like a brain-dead zombie as I chatted with the two new captains. It was then that I was notified that I needed to "de-conflict" the coming morning's chapel service with the other units' SP times. Apparently, they were mostly leaving before my service time at 0800. As we say in the Army, "semper gumby" (always flexible). The BC and sergeant major would be addressing the whole battalion that night--I would announce a brief 20 minute service immediately afterward.

But, as could be expected, things didn't work out that way. The soldiers were exhausted, and though the BC was quick in her remarks, the sergeant major--who is about to move to a different unit--gave a one hour lecture on what it means to be an NCO. His remarks were sincere and inspiring, but I watched the soldiers struggling to stay away. When he finished, I shouted to the assembled soldiers--"There will be a five minute chapel service over at the chapel right now!"

With that I hurried to the chapel tent, which smelled like a giant foot, and doubted anyone would show. My opportunity was lost. A moment later, the two new captains walked in and sat down. "We wanted to give you moral support," they said. Just before I started, I asked them to remind me of their religious backgrounds. "Baptist," one said. "I will talk to you about it later," said the other.

I preached for five minutes from 1 Timothy 1:15-16--"Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am the worst. But it was for this very reason--that in me, the worst of sinners, He might display His unlimited patience as an example for those who might believe and have eternal life."

I had five minutes, so I gave the basics of the Gospel. It starts, and hinges, on the person of Christ Jesus and His work to save sinners. As Christians, our testimony begins with "I am the worst." And we rejoice in our broken-hearted identity, because Christ shows the world His perfect patience through us. We are fools who show forth His wisdom; Weaklings who show forth His strength.

They hurried off and I swept out the chapel (since we would be leaving the next morning). As I was about to leave, my prospective chaplain assistant came by and said he couldn't find the place. I brought him into the tent and did the five minute sermon just for him. He then helped me finish cleaning the tent. Subconsciously, I remembered: It's not about the numbers, but the names.

Late that night, like the night before and most nights of my deployment, I talked with my wife. She is always fighting a battle of her own when I am gone. It is lonely and overwhelming, especially in a new place. The second night I was gone, my boy's favorite Sunday School teacher came over and helped my wife put him to bed. On Sunday morning, another couple came over and helped my wife get the kids ready for church. After church, a young couple had my family over to their house along with two other young couples. The Lord took care of my family while I was gone. Beautiful.

While my wife was receiving help with the kids on Sunday morning, I was packing my gear, cleaning my tent, saying farewell to hundreds of soldiers, and getting ready for my own journey home. When we arrived, the bitter wind forced the soldiers to huddle close as they received initial instructions. Just before leaving, the sun broke through the clouds and the soldiers happily received their closing instructions. I went by each vehicle of soldiers just before departure: "The Lord bless you and keep you."

On our way back, the four soldiers in our vehicle had a deep discussion about reintegration (returning from a deployment) and mental health. We all shared some of our grief at the soldiers we had lost and talked over ways to improve the system. At one point, the BC said "Chaplain, I am already hearing wonderful things about you from our soldiers." "If we ever deploy ma'am, rest assured that I will do all that I can to take care of our soldiers."

The soldier next to me from the 82nd told me that as he wrestled with the loss of Dave and others, he wished that he had more people to talk to. He was glad that I was the chaplain for his unit. I thought of my brother, whose time in the 82nd ended so bitterly, and saw a glimpse of God's providence.

We arrived back at the unit, and the initial routine of the weekend reversed itself--rifles were cleaned and put back in their racks; humvees were cleaned, topped off, and secured. I was socially exhausted and given permission to slip away for a few. I hopped in my car, and drove around town, along bluffs, over mighty rivers, and back--all within 20 minutes, and all in complete silence.

When I returned, I gave a suicide prevention brief. The soldiers have received the exact same brief about 100 times. I dropped the script and told them the brief would not help anybody. It's about relationships. People don't take their lives because of deployments. They take their lives because the fabric of love--family--that would normally propel them out and receive them home had disintegrated. Relationships are the foremost cause of suicides, and foremost reason for their prevention. And because the family is in shambles, soldiers need to step up and care for one another.

Two soldiers came up to afterward and told me that it was the best suicide prevention brief they ever received. That is likely because it was real.

I fervently hoped that we would release early, but we ran a bit late and the BC wanted me there to the very end in case there was a counseling need. I totally understood, but I realized that with a 3.5 hour drive, every lapsed minute meant the greater likelihood that I wouldn't see my kids before bed.

As I drove into the night, I hovered around 77mph (seven over the limit), listened to podcasts, and avoided all stops. I arrived home long after my children went to bed. I gave my wife a hug and learned that my son might still be awake. I poked my head into his room. He had turned the light on and was hiding underneath a blanket. I gently removed the blanket--"Hey buddy, I missed you so much. I love you." "I love you, Daddy. Go night night?" "Go night night, buddy." I tucked him in, kissed him, and turned out the light.