One dad’s dream for his three daughters;
A tribute to Tim Russert

A Fathers’ Day Wish
One dad’s dreams for his three daughters.

I wish for you a life that’s marked
by laughter, joy and love.
A life that corresponds to what
you’ve long been dreaming of.

I wish for you a thirst for God
that won’t be ever slaked.
May hungering for what He wants
guide every choice you make.

I wish for you both roots and wings
when it comes time to leave.
Take pride in who your family is
but go… explore… achieve.

I wish for you the kind of job
that prompts your heart to sing.
Where what you do (not what you make)
is really everything.

I wish for you contentment, too.
Don’t strive for just more stuff.
Learn how to say “I could, but won’t”
and when to say “Enough!”

I wish for you (if God should will)
a mate who’s your best friend.
A partner who will keep love’s vows
until (through death) they end.

I wish for you (if God permits)
the chance to parent kids.
For in that role you’ll understand
the whys in what I did.

I wish you opportunities
to learn another’s plight,
so that you’re less inclined to judge
a view you think’s not right.

I wish for you sufficient pain
to cause your faith to grow.
You’ll find in times of suffering
“I hope” becomes “I know.”

I wish for you a grateful heart
aware of your true wealth.
The greatest riches in the world
are family, friends and health.

I wish for you the means to say
“I know my dad loves me.”
For there could be no truer truth.
I’m proud as proud can be.

Remembering Tim Russert
A friend of popes and presidents.

The one who hosted “Meet the Press”
has met his Maker and I’d guess
that he is wishing he had known
today would be his last
 
Tim Russert would have said goodbye
to those he loved who wonder why
a caring son and most-proud dad
would suddenly be gone.
 
Because he was on NBC,
I thought of Tim like family.
I never met him, but I liked
the way he loved his job.
 
This friend of popes and presidents
claimed faith in Christ and had the sense
to practice what he learned in church
among his friends at work.
 
His politics were left of mine,
but were instructive of our time.
This white-board pundit will be missed
in this election year.

What do you give a dying dad?

Today’s my father’s last birthday
before he passes on.
The cancer’s traveled through his bones.
I know he’ll soon be gone.

His face is gaunt. His body’s frail.
Yet in his tired eyes
I still can see a gleam of hope
his shriveled frame denies.

He doesn’t want a piece of cake.
He has no need for gifts.
Our presence is what he wants most.
That’s what gives him a lift.

Surrounded by the ones he loves,
my dad flashes a smile.
That boyish grin I’ve cherished since
I was a chubby child.

He smiled when I learned to walk.
When I first rode a bike.
He beamed with pride to see me preach
behind a pulpit mike.

He smiled at my firstborn’s birth.
He grinned when I went gray.
His knowing smile eased the pain
when our pet passed passed away.

Today he’s 82 years old.
The age at which he’ll die.
The thought of it knots up my gut.
I breathe a heavy sigh.

I also breathe a whispered prayer
of gratitude and praise.
My father’s impact on my life
will last beyond his days.

Celebrating the amazing story of an unwanted baby

Adoption is special.
It serves a great need.
But not all adoptions work out.
Sometimes those adopted
are prisoners of sorts
imprisoned by questions and doubts.

“I do not belong here.
I’m not quite sure why.
I just know I feel so alone.”
Though clothed, fed and sheltered,
Hugh longed to be loved.
He wanted much more than a home.

Like others adopted,
he pondered his past
imagining who gave him birth.
“How could she reject me?”
“Am I damaged goods?”
He struggled embracing his worth.

Unwanted, mistreated
quite tragic, and yet
Hugh’s story was not fully told.
The Lord had a purpose
that would not be known
until the young boy had grown old.

A beauty named Norma
would capture his heart.
He’d marry and become a dad.
With four precious children
and one faithful mate,
he thanked God his life wasn’t bad.

The wounds of his childhood
began to be healed.
The Father he’d longed for, he found.
A Savior, a Shepherd,
a mother-like Friend
had freed him from memories that bound.

Then Hugh found his calling.
He started to write.
This tall lanky lad had a gift.
He traveled, found stories,
kept journals of notes
and then through his research he’d sift.

The publishers loved him.
One book became two
and soon Hugh had found his career.
The boy once adopted
discovered his voice.
His purpose in life became clear.

“Each life is a novel
and needs to be told.
A story of joy, sweat and pain.
I want to write chapters
that help others see
how grace transforms losses to gains.”

His life an example
of that very thing,
Hugh wrote countless books, but what’s more.
The best one by far
is the last one he wrote.
It’s a book you’ve been long hoping for.

It’s a book about writing.
It’s a primer of sorts.
It’s the volume you need so you can
put pencil to paper and memories to print
for your children, the good, bad and grand.

* Hugh Steven’s success as a writer is validated by the more than 30 books he has written as a missionary biographer with Wycliffe Bible Translators. His most recent book is actually a textbook for those who would like to write their own story. It is called “The Nature of Story and Creativity.” In its pages, Hugh shares insights and suggestions for capturing your unique life experiences on paper to be enjoyed by your family, friends and colleagues and for the generations to come. “The Nature of Story and Creativity”  can be ordered on Amazon.com.

As you might have guessed, I know Hugh Steven personally. As a matter of fact, I married his oldest daughter twenty-five years ago.

Grieving for our fallen soldiers

Your son waved goodbye
then left for Iraq.
You checked off the days
’til your boy would be back.

With pride in your heart
and fear in your face,
you spoke of your son
and a longed-for embrace.

And then…

He came back in a box
lifeless and still.
Home from a war
that wasn’t his will.

Home to a nation
weary and worn.
Tired of being
divided and torn.

Home to a country
jaded and numb
that numbers the reasons
why peace can’t be won.

Finally home on a
permanent leave.
His sacrifice questioned.
No wonder you grieve.