1. Honesty – she will always speak her mind and does not make me guess what she’s thinking or feeling
2. Communicates well – this is one of Mer’s best qualities and it comes shining through in her interactions with just about anyone
3. Sense of humor – she makes me laugh and is one of the wittiest people I’ve met
4. Ability to understand me – she gets me in a way no one ever has. I do not have to preface my statements, ever.
5. Shared values – similar backgrounds and share faith
6. Share politics – every bit as conservative as I am
7. Outgoing – she’s not shy and I don’t have to come up with conversation
8. Understands a woman’s role & respects a man’s – she wants to be a wife and wants me to lead the relationship and take charge
9. Intellect – Meredee is very bright and fills in the gaps where I fail to understand or see things
10. Patience – she does not get angry or rush to judgment
11. Calm demeanor – one of the most laid back women I’ve ever met, yet is not shy
12. Femininity – carries herself like a woman
13. Openness – she is an open book and tells me what’s going on without expecting me to read her mind
14. Appearance – I think she’s beautiful
15. Family relationship – comes from a loving & supportive family whom she cares about
16. Builds me up & inspires confidence – she does not belittle me and helps me see my good traits
17. Passionate – very affectionate and not reserved in sharing this with me
18. Thriftiness – she has a 6th sense for deals and will be responsible with money
19. Maturity – wisdom beyond her years and her peers
20. Style – we agree on clothing, household items, etc.
21. Desire to do what is right & serve God – even when she fails, her heart is to love and serve God
22. Analytical – she can dissect & understand a situation very quickly
23. Trusting – she trusts me implicitly
24. Positive & optimistic – she does not complain or gossip and is almost always cheerful
25. Content – she expects me to love and care for her and everything else is gravy

It is ironic that my most thought provoking moment of Mother’s Day had to do with fatherhood and being a husband. Pastor Joe’s sermon really nailed home the importance of the choices a man makes in his marriage. One of his main points was that the most beneficial thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother. He focused on respecting, honoring, and loving your wife and how this affects the woman and the kind of marriage and family life one has. As he talked about many of the things men do to devalue their wives and weaken their families, I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who are these men?” I realize that, not being married, I come at this from a perspective of ignorance. I also understand that marriage is more difficult than I can imagine and that it takes work. Yet I couldn’t help feeling thankful for the perspective of marriage that I had been given. I do not say this in arrogance but rather with some amazement and gratitude.

My dad has not been perfect in his marriage and he would be the first to tell you so. But his attitude and sacrifice for my mom has been nothing short of exemplary. As I listened yesterday, I felt grateful to him for giving me an enormous head-start whenever marriage does come along. So many of the principles Pr. Joe emphatically drove home yesterday already seemed common sense to me. I kept thinking, “Of course.” It was not marriage, but my limited dating experience showed me that these principles of respect and nurture are fundamental and really do work. The intense love that was reciprocated toward me, simply because I chose to care for and give my best to the other person, astounded me. Never did I imagine a woman being so deeply in love, in spite of my faults. Yes, women are complicated and the female mind will always be a mystery to me. But at the same time, in a general sense, I don’t think they are that complicated. They want to be loved, respected, and cared for. Everything else flows out this basic idea. It’s men who make it complicated by playing macho games or getting on a power trip and completely missing what the woman wants.

I frequently think back to a class at ORU called “Marriage and the Family.” It was taught by a lifelong counselor and all-around wise man named Dr. Walker. He was talking about newlyweds and some of the ideas they have going into marriage. He said (and I’m paraphrasing the best I can from 2003), “Now guys, don’t expect this girl who’s been used to being private to all of the sudden get up on a table and do a striptease. But if you nurture and love her, and as she begins to trust you, watch and that little gal will become one of the sexiest creatures you’ve ever seen.” I’m not implying that men act a certain way in order to fulfill their hormones—women will see right through that anyway. What I’m saying is that we men need to understand that marriage (and being human for that matter) is all-encompassing. We cannot improve or neglect one area of ourselves without affecting the others. When we love and give of ourselves, life is richer and more fulfilling. But when we look after ourselves, we end up unhappy and worse off than we ever imagined.

I hope my simple assessment is correct. If it is, I feel fortunate to have been placed further along the path to manhood than most. None of this was my own doing and I am grateful to those who have modeled manhood for me.

A little later Mart and Netty came over to Grandma’s apartment for ice cream and some of Grandma’s angel food cake with apricot pie filling. We chatted and I realized how much more enjoyable it was being with them as an adult. Growing up, they had been among that mass of people that I was forced to meet at family reunions. But now time had a new perspective and I wanted to be there. I was especially surprised that Mart was 96 years old! He was very sharp and maintained an appearance much younger than his age. Both he and his wife were very kind and it was nice of them to visit us.

That evening Grandma and I went to Willmar for supper at Grizzly’s. We had a quiet meal and then headed back to Atwater. We took the “back road” home and we talked as Grandma enjoyed the comfort of the heated seat. Back at the apartment, Grandma broke in her new headphones as we watched episode one of “John Adams”, the miniseries by HBO. Grandma first read the book while I was in college and had recommended it to me. On her recommendation, I bought it a couple years ago and finally read it this past January. It was enjoyable to watch part of the series with her and talk about how it compared to the book. After she went to bed, I watched the end of the Minnesota Wild game and then went to bed. I had forgotten to bring an air mattress but slept fine on the small mound of blankets we built.

The following morning Grandma cooked me a nice big breakfast and again was taken aback by the quantity of food I needed. She headed off to deliver meals to some elderly people and I stayed back to try working on her computer and printer for her. We spent the rest of the afternoon watching another episode of “John Adams”, eating lunch, and playing a couple games of cribbage.

I was there only a short time, but I hope Grandma enjoyed having company and getting to see me. I was really happy to see how many family members interrupted us throughout the day with their phone calls wishing her well on her special day.

My early childhood memories are few and mostly pertain to summertime baseball and riding bike. However I do know that I owed a debt of gratitude to my mother for preparing me for school. For my year of kindergarten at Hawthorne and first grade at Lincoln, mom was at home taking care of Paul and me. I cannot recall her methods, but she must have placed great importance on our education because I found my classes boring. I knew how to read and spell fairly well before starting school and, in first grade, the kids all whispered and asked me questions because, during math period, I had to leave the room and go to an advanced class with 5 other fellow nerds. Throughout elementary school the kids would despise me as we played “Around the World” with math flashcards and Craig Backlund and I dominated the class. This would eventually fade away as I fell behind in some of the more advanced math of high school. But the emphasis mom placed on learning was crucial to Paul’s and my development and would serve us well for years to come.

Just before I started second grade and Paul entered kindergarten, Mom accepted a secretarial job at Park Christian School. Paul made life interesting that year. Since he only had half days, we had to find some place for him to spend the mornings. He stayed with the Nevins and a few other families and even locked Mom out of the car in protest one day. (See Dad. You weren’t the only one for whom he made life difficult.) Early every morning, we would get in that old green 1978 LeBaron and accompany Mom to school. If winter weather became a problem, we had to leave especially early and be careful because the car had no rear defrost and skidded on the ice with its rear wheel drive. In other circumstances, if we were running late, Mom could be maniacal and it was off to the races. But on those snowy or icy days, she guided us carefully and whenever we’d go into a slide, she’d shift the car into neutral and straighten it out. My most fond memory of those early mornings was our occasional trips through McDonald’s drive-thru for breakfast. Mom sometimes had 7 a.m. meetings and we had no choice but to go with her. Her peace offering was 2 sausage McMuffins with egg for me and 2 without egg for Paul, accompanied by glasses of large orange juice. We knew things were tight financially and this was a special treat, so we felt like kings as we sat in the carpet gym at Park and ate our breakfast.

In third grade we made the move to extreme South Fargo, thus eliminating any possibility of taking the bus to school. We continued riding with Mom, arriving before 8 a.m. and leaving at 5 p.m. or later. Those were long days filled with boredom and a never ending search for something to do. Paul and I spent hours together in the gym, computer lab, wandering the halls, or sitting in the office watching the clock. We were too young to understand the sacrifice Mom was making and her dedication to the school. All we saw were the long days and the other kids going home at normal hours. During one especially intense week of work, we stayed until 9 p.m. two or three nights in a row. Along with the pressures of work, Paul and I were wearing on Mom and Paul did something or made some smart comment that crossed the line. Being without her wooden spoon, Mom frantically searched for something with which to spank him. She selected a square hairbrush made out of plastic but designed to look like wood. One swat on the behind and that thing snapped, and so did mom. The tears flowed and I can only imagine the frustration she felt trying to explain the situation to two boys of less than ten years of age. It wouldn’t be until adulthood that we could see the importance of the work Mom was doing at Park Christian.

Elementary and junior high school were filled mostly with sports. In 1st and 3rd grade, I forgot my American heritage and played soccer. My husky build severely limited my mobility and I only scored 1 goal in those 2 years. But it didn’t matter, Mom was there to watch the game and bring me home. For each game, one family signed up to provide drinks for the whole team. Usually this meant bottles of Gatorade to cool us down. However, when our turn came, it was quite frigid and Mom decided to bring hot chocolate for everyone. It was a hit and everyone thought she was the coolest mom in the world. Between 4th and 7th grade, our basketball team rocked Fargo-Moorhead and the surrounding area, only losing 5 games. We usually ended up having to slow it down in order to keep from running up the score. Mom and dad made it to almost every game and, along with the other parents, made us feel as though we were Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls. They were nuts and I loved waving my arms trying to get them going even more. It didn’t matter who we played or where it was, my parents wanted to be there. They traveled to tournaments and cheered with all their might, even if we played 3 games a day. Even though I didn’t play much in high school, they still supported me, whether it was JV or 2 minutes of a varsity game.

In high school, I grew apart from my mom. She worked long days in Moorhead and I now drove myself to school in South Fargo. On top of this, I kept to myself and made little effort to seek advice from her or ask about her day. As it was for my Dad, I’m sure it was difficult to watch her son isolate himself. But Mom never lectured me and gave me space to figure things out for myself. Though I chose not to take advantage of it, I knew Mom would drop everything to talk with me or provide comfort. Even for a headstrong teenager, simply knowing my parents were available meant the world. It was only as an adult that I could appreciate this. I left for ORU in August of 2000 and couldn’t wait to get on the road and out of the house. We said goodbye and Mom did her best to hold back the tears and emotion of watching her firstborn leave the house. Each time I came home it was more difficult to leave and my tears matched those of my mother–but not usually until I was on I-29 somewhere in South Dakota. Mom and I became more like friends, but even then we were relatively distant. She loved me with all her heart, but we still didn’t connect like I wanted. But in July of 2007, something changed.

I flew home from Argentina and landed in Minneapolis on July 1st. From the time we first hugged, it was obvious Mom had changed (as had I). This was not the same woman I had left the previous October. She was relaxed, laughing and smiling more, and making more jokes than I had ever heard from her. I was even told she had used the phrase “Jeffy-weffy” to refer to my cousin-in-law Jeff. Who was this? Between July 1st and August 17th, I got to know my mom better than I had the previous 5 or 10 years. We spent time eating lunch, having frappuccinos at Starbucks, fixing her laptop, watching movies, relaxing outside, and just talking. Never had I dreamed I could connect with Mom that way. We talked several times about the difficult decision I had to make with Vanesa and her listening ear and insight were invaluable. I had thought my Dad was the rock and decision maker of our family, which he was. Dad may have been the spokesman, but he had support. I saw that they were a team. I realized that my mom had also borne a large part of the responsibility for my maturation both as a child and as an adult. She had instilled in Paul and me character and life lessons, just in a more behind the scenes way than our dad.

You see, my mom is one of the most intelligent, capable, and humble people one can ever meet. She is good at whatever she sets her mind to doing, but she will never toot her own horn or seek recognition. When I went to her for advice, really for the first time in my life as far as the BIG decisions of life go, I saw in my mother a quiet wisdom and strength to which I had been oblivious. She became a confidant and I valued her input as never before. That month and a half with her, more than eating American food, speaking English, or going to baseball games, made my trip special. I came back to Argentina feeling like I had made a new friend.

Since leaving the U.S., Mom and I have talked via Skype more than we ever did before. I enjoy seeing her come online and then having a dialog box pop up with a call from her. She always greets me with a smile and a pleasant attitude, even though we’re 6,000 miles away. I wish I could be there to give her a big hug and say “Happy 50th birthday,” both as her son and her new best friend. To my mother I would like to say, “I love you very much. Thank you for all you’ve given me and the support you’ve provided throughout the years. I’m so glad we’ve gotten to know each other better and I look forward to a lifetime of growing in my friendship with you. I love you and can’t wait to see you in May. Happy Birthday.”

Love,

Kyle

It made me thing further about something I had been noticing more over the last year. I know it’s nothing profound or new, but I find myself amazed at how the happiness (or lack thereof) of childhood influences the rest of life. I think about it especially regarding women as I see so many in Buenos Aires walk around with long faces and an almost tangible lack of self-worth or enduring joy.

Whether I see it in the positive of families making memories together or in the hurt of those without good parents, they make me want to be a good dad. If I have a daughter, I want her to feel protected, cared for, and indescribably valued. If I have a son, I want him to, despite my litany of imperfections, see a man after whom he can model himself. And I want my wife to know her children will never have to worry about being without dad.

As I learn photography, it gives me joy to imagine having visual memories of my wife and children. Perhaps they will be annoyed with me for porting around the tripod and extra lenses, but I want my kids to have pictures they can view 20 years later and laugh, cry, and recall years of joy with mom and dad.

It’s hard for me, as I grow out of my ignorance, to see all the evil and injustice in the world. The feeling can be paralyzing and cause me to feel insignificant. I think there is a direct relation between my understanding of the world and my desire to be a good dad. No matter what else happens, where I go, what others do, I can make the choice to be the best father possible. Regardless of the evil around us, my children can find refuge at home with my wife and me. We can give them the opportunity to see the joy and the beauty God has given us while also protecting them from the incessant onslaught of evil.

Growing up, Christian groups fighting to preserve the family seemed like idealists and dreamers to me. But now I see the imperative in their message. There is nothing more important than family. Nothing. It pains me to see how many Christians do not provide the family setting their children crave and need. Like never before, Joshua 24:15 resonates with me. “But as for me and my family, we will serve the Lord.”

I don’t have a desire to be a parent now. I’m not sure when it comes or if it comes after finding out one will be a father or mother. But what I do have is a desire to counter the growing thinking of “Who would want to bring a child into this world” by making my home a refuge and giving my children the best father possible. I thank my parents for giving this to me.

There are countless fond family memories upon which I could reflect. But today I wish to dwell on one brought upon by my Spanish writing assignment. It asked me to think about a favorite childhood food and memories associated with it. Without any hesitation, for me it was Giovanni’s Pizza.

When Paul and I attended elementary school at Park Christian, the days were long. Since our mom worked at the school, we arrived daily by 8 a.m. or earlier and left at 5 p.m. or later. After classes ended at 3:10 p.m., the afternoons were filled with Oregon Trail and Number Munchers on the computer, basketball practice, severe hunger, and sheer boredom.

During those years, Wednesday afternoons were often a respite in the dull routine. Since our parents didn’t end work until after 5 and we had to be at church between 6 and 7 on Wednesdays, that often meant a trip to Giovanni’s Pizza for supper. With the financial aid of a Preferred Coupon Book, we chowed down. Standard fare consisted of a large pepperoni and a medium Italian sausage pizza, accompanied by bottomless glasses of Mountain Dew or Dr. Pepper. Whether Dad picked us up at school or we went over there with Mom to meet him, Paul and I loved it. While waiting for the pizza, we would play games on the billiard table only using the cue ball or look at the video games without actually sticking in a quarter to play. Other days, we’d nestle in front of the big screen TV to watch Family Matters and laugh at Steve Urkel. But no matter what, on Wednesdays, we felt like kings.

These suppers held no significance for me at the time. But now as I reflect upon childhood, I find great joy in these simple memories. What made Wednesday special was the time shared with my parents and my brother Paul. While it didn’t seem like it to our adolescent stomachs, the food was ancillary. When experts talk about quality time with children, even routine events like feeding them supper are important. I thank God for the family he gave me and special, timeless moments like eating at Giovanni’s Pizza.

Vanesa and I were planning to visit my friend Roger in Pacific Palisades, CA, but that’ll have to wait for another day when she has a visa. I really don’t have specific plans yet. I’m just looking forward to being in the U.S., being with family, and relishing the time. Staying for the month of July seems like a good fit since my family will be visiting Minneapolis for the July 4th holiday, three of us have birthdays in July, and my cousin Erin and husband Jeff will be in town from July 20-29.

Bring on the peanut butter, hamburgers, refills, driving, baseball, English language, and whatever else I miss but have blocked out of my mind. God bless America!

Like many an American boy, the most vivid of my childhood memories with my dad revolve around sports. Ever since I can remember, he always made time to play catch with us, hit whiffle golf balls in the back yard, practice our tennis ground strokes, or take a bike ride around South Fargo. During the summer, he both dropped off our golf clubs in the morning and then picked them up from the course on the way home from work. This allowed Paul and I to ride bike unhindered by the awkwardness of a golf bag. Then there were the infamous one-on-one football games between Paul and me, with dad serving as all-time quarterback. Inevitably, these games ended early with Paul crying because dad was intentionally throwing interceptions so that I would win. Dad was innocent and tried to explain how these things happened because Paul didn’t run the routes properly. Being the younger by three years and substantially shorter, the victimized Paul would have none of it. Yet dad endured and kept playing sports with us until we reached the age where we started to beat him. At this point, the basketball and tennis ceased, as Paul and I preferred to play against each other. While it seemed unremarkable and even expected during my childhood, I am amazed at how he found the time to make playing with his boys a priority.

While we were never poor by any means, there wasn’t a lot of extra money to run to the store on a whim and buy the boys whatever they wanted. Herein lies the genius of dad’s instruction. He found a way to motivate, teach, and give to us all at the same time. Even if we had had more expendable income, this would have been the optimal way to handle the situation. Frequently I accompanied him to the old Scheels store on University Drive to look at baseball gloves, tennis rackets, golf clubs, and bikes or to Best Buy to peruse the latest Minidisk players or televisions. After returning home I would dream about ways to get my hands on these most precious of possessions. Often a baseball glove or bike would be part birthday gift and part paid for by our savings. The story I love to tell, even to this day in Spanish, is how dad gave us each 3 glass baby food jars. With masking tape we labeled one jar tithe (10% to the church), one savings, and one spending. Here we learned to prioritize our weekly allowance and money earned by doing odd jobs. When were finally able to make our big purchases, I could hardly contain myself as we went to Metropolitan Bank and pulled out 2 or 3 $100 bills from my account! The satisfaction was infinitely greater than if dad had simply slapped them on the credit card. Later he did whatever it took to help me succeed by driving me to my two paper routes every morning or mowing 20 laws with a push mower in order to cover for me while I was on a mission trip during the summer. He did these things with a smile on his face and almost always with a positive attitude.

I’m not sure why, because Lord knows he had opportunities, but Dad never was one to lecture me. Sure I had the “Type A” personality, but I was still a kid. Rather, there must have been a lot of subtle messages of responsibility along the way. While our church met in a school for a few years, our family often shared the responsibility of setting up or taking down for a Sunday or Wednesday service. Also, Dad was often the only soundman during those years. We showed up early to set up the microphone snake, microphones, speakers, and folding chairs and went home late after taking it all down. He carefully showed us how to wind cords properly and evenly space rows of chairs. When I was only 8, he allowed me to help him mow the middle of the lawn and later allowed me to do it all by myself. Even after I accidentally ruined one of our lawn mowers, he did not yell at me and continued giving me responsibility. By his example and teaching, he showed us to importance of doing something well.

The memories from high school aren’t quite as nostalgic, but this has nothing to do with any fault of my father. Any adolescent strives for independence and I did so even more fervently. While we didn’t fight, I know it was hard for my dad to see me struggle to find friends and yet not want to confide in him more. But even though I may have hurt him at times by my distance, he was always at my side. Whether it was Babe Ruth baseball or Bruin basketball, he and mom were faithfully there to support me. Even when he had to come early to watch me play JV, he still stayed through varsity games and rooted me on during my two to four minutes of playing time. He was never the gossiping type that whined about the lack of playing time with other parents or the coach. There was always a positive message of “Kyle, other parents keep telling me you’re a good player. They don’t understand why you don’t play more.” I’m just realizing this now, but that was a very positive way to keep me upbeat yet avoid being critical and negative toward the coach.

When I went off to college at ORU, an interesting transition took place. We became more like friends than anything. As I matured exponentially, it was actually enjoyable talking to my dad on the phone. It felt so nice to have these conversations after so stridently seeking independence during high school. He never complained that I was 800 miles from home and needed to go to school at a closer university. He and my mom were always happy for me and would tell me of the growth that was taking place in my life. While they may never have realized it, this was another example of giving me responsibility. It kept with the pattern dad had always used with us growing up: Give them responsibility until they give you a reason to take it away. When asked why I think I had great parents as a child, without hesitation, I cite this giving of responsibility.

To say my dad was selfless in regard to his family would be an understatement. I marvel at how he did the majority of the cooking even when it wasn’t his favorite thing to do or had no idea what to make for supper on a given night. He patiently accepted the majority of the responsibilities around the house and with the boys so that my mom could pursue her dream at Park Christian School. There are those who do things for others but it comes off as an obligation or they try to make others feel guilty for giving them the responsibility. Dad was never this way. At times it was extremely difficult and he would cry, but never did he complain to us. It was this consistent modeling of character and selflessness that taught us humility–again without having to say anything.

I have made at least 3 very big decisions in my life: Attending ORU, interning in Washington D.C., and moving to Argentina. For a long time, the support of my dad in my decisions did not seem like a big deal. Then I met my friend John in Washington D.C. As I listened to the anguish in his voice after being criticized by his dad for pursuing his dream of being a teacher and studying history, I quickly came to appreciate the gift of my father. My dad has not only supported my decisions, but has encouraged me and told me what a great opportunity I had. Even in the eclectic mix of these stages of life, he has been with me the whole way. The countless hours he has spent on his knees for my brother and me is a debt we can never repay. The best I can do is to make him proud throughout the rest of my life.

Finally, my father’s lack of fatherly influence is what makes the manner in which he has conducted himself so impressive. While his dad was not a drunken wife-beater, he had little input into my dad’s life. Call him a neutral influence. His only instructions were often “don’t do this or that,” but without explanation or taking the time to build character in his sons. Also, he was 45 when my dad was born and continually ailed by arthritis. He passed away when my dad was only 22 or 23 years old. They say there is no manual to parenting and it’s learned on the fly. While this is true, and my parents are far from perfect, I will have an incredible advantage whenever it’s my turn to be a father. This is perhaps the greatest gift I’ve received. The Judeo-Christian idea of a family legacy. The opportunity to take what I’ve seen modeled in my dad, both good and bad, learn from it, and pass along the opportunity for even better life to my children.

I am very romantic and love sharing that with Vanesa. But for some reason, I can have trouble sharing my affection with my family. I’ll work on that. But right now I want to say, “Dad, I love you with all of my heart. I’m crying as I finish this and reflect upon the great fortunate I’ve had. Sure, there are things you wish you had done better. But who doesn’t? Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being the single greatest influence in my life. I owe you more than you’ll ever know. The Christian heritage you have given me is priceless. I hope to make you proud and give you the biggest heavenly reward possible with the results of my life. May God bless you on this special day. I miss you very much and hope to see you soon.”

Love,

Kyle

Here’s to you Kirb…I posted a picture of us hours before my flight to Argentina. Six weeks later, I’m crying at a McDonald’s in Buenos Aires and thinking of you. I hope you had a great ride to doggie heaven, have an unlimited stash of carrots, and can go for a walk whenever you like.