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Gracefully Frank

On June 9th, 2011, I sat still for a minute to write.  It was the birthday of one of my best friends who has appeared in this blog before, but I decided to write a post for Father’s Day that was coming up in a few weeks. I had only written two blogs so far and didn't really know how this blogging thing would work out.  The weekend before, I had been in Austin with Ryan and Jessica, and all of a sudden it looked like I was going to Ethiopia!  I didn’t end up finishing or posting this Father's Day blog that year, and the next blog that was posted was the one sharing the plans for that trip to Africa. Was that yesterday, or years ago? If you have been reading my blog since then, or know my family, you know that while I was in Ethiopia Dad was diagnosed with cancer. This post has been on my desktop since.  A few times I’ve gone back and read it, tweaked it, saved it and closed it.  Sometimes laughed and sometimes cried over it, knowing each time I was still feeling a little too...whatever I felt that kept me from sharing it. But, today is Dad’s 65th Birthday and I feel like celebrating!  I don't feel whatever, I'm just thankful.  He will probably be a little annoyed (he's kind of a private guy) and pleased (hopefully) all at the same time.  Maybe as you read this you will think of your dad, your step-dad, uncle, brother, husband or friend who has been a dad to you or is being a dad to someone you love. It's good to celebrate them, rather or not they sit beside you.  It's good to think on these things. Phil. 4:8-9.  Thanks for reading this for a minute as I celebrate mine. 

P.S. Dad, This is your homemade birthday present. I don't knit.

That's baby Dad in the middle wearing a diaper and leather zip up boots.
That's how he rolled with Uncle Jim and cousin Joy.

He probably never even thought about being a dad someday. While he was riding Cushman’s, working on cars with his dad, learning to play ball, going to Coalton, OK where he was a grandson hearing the Italian accents of the immigrants, getting locked out of his grandpa’s living room once wrestling came on, and driving Uncle Sam’s old pickups while sitting on lawn chairs in the cab.  As he was being a son, and a brother and a buddy living up at Wrangle Heights, he probably never thought of being a dad someday.


Uncle Jim, Grandpa John and Dad.  That's the ghost barn in back.  I would tell that story, but it scares me.


Wrangle Heights morning.  Uncle Tom, Dad, neighbor friend, and Uncle Jim.


The Cushman.
As he became a Barnsdall Panther playing baseball, basketball and playing football in the 1966 State Championship game; driving a '36 Ford, taking mom out on dates, throwing fireworks off of the roof of police station as the police drove up and down Main Street trying to find where they were coming from; and doing a lot of other things he was never going to allow his kids to do...he probably never even thought about being a dad someday.

Barnsdall, OK Homecoming '65-'66 school year.  Mom and Dad are Tim and Glenda.

He might have thought about being a dad the day he married mom and thought about their life together. As they moved to Ponca City to begin working for Conoco and build a life, he might have thought about being a dad, maybe a dad like his dad. But, even as he held his first born son Christopher Shawn and became a dad; he probably had no idea what all being a dad would take.



Motorcycle Mechanics.



Wife and Son...and '36 Ford.  The same one in his garage today.



"Wait a minute!  Let me pull up right here.  Ok, take it."

When I was born he had a five year old son, so he had an idea what being a dad would take: some patience, work, laughter and family, but he probably had no idea what being my dad would take. He would have to hold my hand a lot. Sometimes just to make me sit still. He had to wipe the red lipstick off my mouth when I was 4 and he told me to go get ready to run errands and I came out of the bathroom my version of ready. He had to spank me sometimes, mostly for sass-mouthing like when I told him “Ok, well now I hate you and momma both” after they told me I couldn’t go to my friend’s house 10 minutes before supper. He then had to come and make up with me because friends don’t stay mad at each other. He had to take turns with mom telling me bedtime stories about leprechauns and rainbows. He would quietly say “Haley just because your teeth are green, doesn’t mean you have to like leprechauns.” He had to endure me “making up songs” on the piano. He had to pick me up after school in whatever old car, Harley or truck was running. Sometimes I would strut to my ride, sometimes I would duck and dodge hoping no one would see me getting in or on. He had to give me the “that is enough” look, when I wasn’t catching on that enough was enough. He had to follow through with what he told me, because I was going to try to reason a way around it. I've always been a talker-outter.  He had to teach me to drive a stick-shift, even after the first time when after grinding the gears so hard he didn’t say a word…he just opened the passenger side door, got out of the car and walked in the house. "Sooooo, are we not going to do this now?"  As he taught me to check the oil in my car (I won't mention the Dodge Stratus here), and he figured out with mom how to pay for my college, and put up with some swings in my mood.

He probably never knew how good of a dad he was being as he would get up to go work his midnight shift, talk to our coaches, feed Captain Nicholas J. Midnight, and prioritize time in Barnsdall with family.  He maybe didn’t realize that keeping the cars running, showing us right from wrong by example and learning patience would be part of the deal. Or, how much time would be required to take us to church, tell us no and tell us yes, go on a few vacations, go to ball games, teach us to shoot pool, like Westerns, and love our family.  Probably like all parents he may have thought at some times his best wasn’t good enough. But, it was, Dad. Not perfect, but way beyond just enough…all the way to good. He probably never considered how much his daughter would love him, and how thankful I would be to have him as my dad. He probably never considered I would have a deeper trust in God, and thankfulness for His goodness because of the dad He gave me. He probably never thought as he was disciplining me, teaching me, loving me, that even as an adult I would still need to hold his hand sometimes…just so I can sit still. I’m certain when we were born he had no idea what all being a dad would take.  He's still finding out, and he's still way beyond just enough...all the way to good...him, "and momma both."

We celebrated a little early a couple of weekends ago with Daddy's brother's Jim and Tom, aunts and cousins.  We had Mexican food for lunch and strawberry cake, a few favorites that Granny Toots used to feed us.  Dad doesn't have a mustache now, but he used to, and we played it up a little...





Jordi, Leigh, Katie and Chris

Brenda and Stephanie
                                       

I just wish they could let loose and have a good time.  


Shawn Bon Jovi.


Me and Leigh


Greg, Stephanie and Ian carrying on the red hair! :)

Birdie makes even a mustache look pretty.


Winner of Best Use Of Mustaches:  Jagger McCloud.

Caleb, or "Calup" as Granny Toots called him, Aunt Treva and Colton, my cousin Shannon's boys.
They brought their own mustaches to the party, but still played along.

Chris pulls this look off. 

Good Sports: Tim, Tom, Jim


Incognito Scullys.  Just missing Jimmy, Steely and Jet.
 
In case you didn't recognize us.


Opening a few presents.

This is her 45th year celebrating his birthday as his wife.  Cutey McCutersons.


Happy Birthday Dad! 

Love,
Haley
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I recently started trying to write some of my back story.  Some turning point moments.  I didn't have a blog when I was Baby Frank and first became a Christian, or when I was very much UnGracefully Frank and a little off course by a thousand miles.  Usually, I share about what has just happened.  But, here are a couple of stories of things that just happened a long time ago, and brought me to all of the stories that just happen now.  I wrote these a few months ago, but a few hours ago I got out of a counseling session where a woman several years younger than me, basically told me the same story you'll read below.  Different cars, different street names, a few different roads; same Jesus, some of the same questions.  Today she sat before me on the Couch.  Tonight I get to praise God I'm off of it, and had an opportunity to listen to her as my mom did me.  So, if she and I have both been here and there, maybe some of you have, too.  

The Cadillac

I’m sitting in the front seat of a cream colored, two-door, 1981 Cadillac Coupe de Ville with wire rims and cream colored leather interior. It’s night. It’s just me and mom in the car. I can see a million stars looking out the windshield over the roof of our house sitting in the cul-de-sac on Oriole Street, and I just asked Jesus into my heart.

My 2nd grader heart felt fear and relief as I asked Jesus into it. I know that language is getting some debate today, but in that moment for me it was real. I loved Jesus and I knew he loved me, and now he was mine. So with that done, we have to get inside because I have to take a bath and go to bed. Tomorrow is a school day. Whine a little bit, get my parents to bring me some water, tell me a story about leprechauns and rainbows (my favorite bedtime tale), decide which stuffed animal would get to sleep in the big bed with me, curl up under my yellow Holly Hobby bedspread and go “night night.” A Believer. On the path of redemption with roads way ahead already preparing to diverge.


Mom and I have swapped hair color, Chris doesn't wear brown suits anymore, and Daddy 
has shaved since then, but that is the car I was sitting in when I asked
Christ to be my Savior.  This is an Easter morning picture a couple of years before
that night, and I'm pretty sure Dad didn't wear that t-shirt to church. 

I don’t remember the exact day or words, but I remember the exact spot where I asked Jesus to be my Savior. I still drive by our old house sometimes to reminisce and see the mailbox my dad put in and the tree in the front yard we planted about the same time I started kindergarten.  It wasn't all that long ago.  We were church-goers. I don’t remember Sunday School lessons about heaven and hell. I remember loaves and fishes. Giants and slingshots. Angels and a manger. Walking on water, and that Jesus loved me because I was a little children. But I don’t remember being taught about hell. I do remember a few times tuning into a sermon about Hell though. And I do remember lying in bed, listening to the alarm clock radio mom and dad let me have where in my memory Glory of Love is always playing, and thinking that even Heaven sounded a little bit scary…going up so high and staying so long…like forever. But, I liked Jesus and every time they talked about him my heart would just about pound out of my chest. I wanted him to save me. I did lie sometimes. I looked my parents in the eye without flinching and told them it was not me who put the loaf of bread in the microwave with the metal twisty still holding it closed, which sparked a fire burning the plastic bread sack all over the bread and microwave. And, it was not me who just threw it on the counter and ran. I’m pretty sure they had to of known the truth, but I didn’t crack. I was a no good dirty liar, and if lying was a sin, and Jesus saved sinners, I needed saving. I also sometimes said (said/say, whatever) dirty words, and went into my brother’s room when he wasn’t home and played with his stuff. Specifically Luke, Leia, Han and the Millennium Falcon. The depth of my depravity knew no end.

After asking Jesus into my heart and life, I remember being so excited to get to church on Sunday to tell my Sunday School teacher that I was saved! I finally did it!  I couldn’t wait to go down the aisle in big church and let everyone come by and shake my hand. One of the deacons came over to our house and talked with me about what I had decided: that I was a sinner and I believed who Jesus is, and I wanted/needed him to save me. For God so loved the world, that he gave his only Son, that whosoever believeth in him will not perish, but have ever lasting life. John 3:16  So they scheduled my baptism for an upcoming Sunday night, which mom and dad followed up with some ice cream at Braums, which is how we celebrate in Oklahoma. I couldn’t wait to get to school the next day and tell everyone. I’m SAVED! However, neither me nor Jesus were the scuttle butt on the playground. A couple of my friends knew what I was talking about, but no one really cared. They were lining up to get a drink at the water fountain, not to shake my hand. “Uh…so who wants to play 4-square? Anyone up for Red Rover or House?” Maybe one of the first of many times I kind of scooted Him back behind me.

I had asked for His life in me, and he gave it. It would be years before I would give my life to Him. 

Another brief aside...We can't just stop at John 3:16 and we can't throw it out either.  It's no less true today than it was when written..."whosoever believe..."  But, we have to be sure what we believe.  Do we believe in a prayer?  Or in WHO Jesus Christ truly is.  That is a really important question.  If you can say "I prayed a prayer" but you can't say "I have a relationship with Christ," even a strained one, then start asking questions. My relationship with Him has been strained before...

The Couch

Mom and I were sitting on the couch. Still in our pajamas. Again, I don’t remember the exact day. We were a long way from that starry night in the front seat of the Cadillac. I was on a big peach colored couch in a room with mint green walls, and dark wood trim.  Our living room in Ponca. My senior picture hung on the wall next to my brother’s, and it had been many years since the nails were driven to hang them. Probably almost ten. I’m sure I was holding onto a pillow, as per usual, and drinking coffee. (Weak coffee.) I don’t know my exact words, but as I spent several years sounding much like a broken record, it is not hard to retrace my verbal steps. I’m sure I reminded her how much I used to love the Lord. Probably listing my resume from youth group years, how I didn’t get into that much trouble and tried to share Jesus with friends so they wouldn’t go to Hell. And all the love I felt for Christ at Falls Creek, where my relationship with Christ grew each year.  I always learned so much, and surrendered to live my life for Him.  I actually went forward one year to be the wife of a preacher. True story. I surrendered to be a wife. Cute. I knew God was calling me to live for him, but I was not going to go to Africa (which basically just symbolized all places beyond the borders of Oklahoma) and I am not called to pastor a church, so I must be called to be one’s wife, to help him in his ministry. Missionary or Preacher’s wife were my only known choices. Heart pounding out of my chest again, I went forward and surrendered to God...and the husband I’ve still never met.  :)  My teen years.  Good times.

I’m sure, as I sat there talking to Mom, I even confessed the years that I turned from the Lord and followed my own will. Knowing I sinned against him in relationships and actions but that I was a lot better than a lot of other sinners, and repenting of those things I had lived as best as I could. I know that led me to a discourse on the reasonable doubt that God must not exist, because I knew him in my youth, I had been trying to live a good life, and my life still was not what I wanted it to be. Where was He? (I thought that having a relationship with God meant Him giving me the life I wanted; not about me giving back to Him the life He gives me.) The Christians I was surrounded by (I was not in church, but worked with some professed Christians) were some of the meanest people I had ever been around; and the people of other religions, and of no faith, were the people I was growing in relationship with, and saw their hearts to do good. I didn’t see God in my life, I didn’t see good in people who professed God in their life, and I was tired of the struggle. I didn't realize then, that I was justifying and passing blame off on others for me not having a growing relationship with God. I let their hypocrisy be my scapegoat. I kind of don't think Jesus is going to say "Oh what? Are you serious!?!?  They were hypocritical so that is why you didn't follow me?  I totally get that.  It's totally ok that you looked to their life to justify yours...instead of looking to Mine." I know that now, but it was a long road to finally see it.  My 20's.  Good times.

As my mom listened to me telling her that I didn’t know if God was real and why, she cried. And, so did I. She’s not usually one with a lack of words, but she didn’t say much that day. I was a little unsettled she didn’t try hard to fight me on it, because I was ready with my defense. She knew I hadn’t been in church for years, and the only thing she asked is if I would just commit to going to a women’s bible study like one she had been going to for a few years. To listen there and actually try to hear from God and not just the people I had been surrounded by. She was as discouraged for me as I was.  She didn’t lecture me, she just asked that I do a little bit more leg work before I called it quits. The road I was on was diverging again, and she pointed, didn't push, me in a direction that led to Life.  She knew Whose words I needed and that her words wouldn’t have worked that day. She went to Bible Study Fellowship in Ponca, and there were a couple of women’s groups that met in Tulsa. I told her I would go.  (And, I did.)

I had sat by her in the Cadillac and prayed to accept Christ, and then I sat by her on the Couch and renounced him.

(Thanks for always sitting by me Mom.)


"You do not fail in obedience through lack of love, but you have lost love because you never attempted obedience."  C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength
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