Twelve years ago, I began writing a column called "Family Matters" for a popular magazine. It was a rather daunting task for a young father. One night, as the deadline loomed, I told my wife Ramona about the stress of it all. "I can't do it," I stammered. "Look at me. I'm an imperfect father. I get mad at my kids. I slid hamsters down banisters when I was a child. I argue with my wife sometimes."
She laughed. "So write about it," she said. "Tell stories. Tell us you feel like a failure sometimes. And tell us there's hope."
"But I'm no Dr. Dobson," I explained.
"I know," she replied. "He has money."
The next day, I sat at my desk, wondering what to write. The job was too big for me, so I pushed my chair back and got on my knees to pray. Then I wrote "Shotgun Memories", the story of a hunting trip gone right. With five children and a To Do list taller than me, Dad somehow managed to throw a shotgun into our '62 Meteor and invest a Saturday in his youngest son. A decade later, he handed the same shotgun to a farmer, trading it in on my very first car.
Animal rights activists got hold of the article and twisted it. Letters began arriving — mostly kind ones. The farmer even called. "Phil," he drawled, "I want you to have that shotgun." I thanked him repeatedly. "How does 200 bucks sound?" he asked. "Not very good," I said. We hardly had two quarters to rub together. Where would I ever come up with 200 bucks?
Our children were three, two and almost one at the time. They came with no instruction manuals, no mute buttons, and no guarantees. To make matters worse, cloudy-faced parents began warning us. "You think diapers are bad," they said, "you just wait. Soon they'll wanna date and drive your car." We were scared, so we opened the Bible and got on our knees. A surprising thing happened. We found that we loved parenting. Sure, the children screamed and put jam in the VCR and turned eating into a full contact sport. But we loved these precious, sticky-faced gifts. We held them tightly, read to them often, and gave them back to God each night.
Those days are gone. In one month, we will have three teenagers. We will need more money. The other day in the grocery store, someone said, "You think it's bad now, you just wait 'til they're in their twenties." And I replied, "No, I'm not going to wait. I'm going to live today and savour the things I can."
If the truth be known, we're enjoying our children more than ever. I'm not saying it's all easy. I haven't been able to use the phone in weeks. My daughter's ear is stuck to it. Last week, my son mentioned that he was thinking of getting an earring. I told him that was quite a coincidence because I was thinking of getting all my pants hemmed just below the knees. And buying a T-shirt that said, "I'm Jeffrey Callaway's dad." He laughed so hard he forgot about the earring.
I'm not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I'm learning that good parents change and adapt and listen more than lecture. That suppertime and bedtime can be more significant in a child's upbringing than school and sports — even church.
A 30-year-old couple told me recently that they were finally ready for children. They had enough money now. They had all the right books and videos and teaching tapes. I asked if they were weak enough to be the kind of parents God can use. They frowned. I told them to open God's Word and get on their knees. That God makes the best things out of the softest clay. That nothing worthwhile I've ever accomplished didn't initially scare me half to death.
I told them about a shotgun that hangs above my study door now, a lifelong reminder that the best retirement investment is memories. And I told them about the very first article I ever wrote. I sold it to another magazine for 200 bucks.
