What is Your Life's Purpose?

What is your life’s purpose?

A friend recently asked me if I could answer that question. I said “yes”.  Since this blog is where I proudly display my volubly garrulous ramblings, I promised to answer in detail, on a blog in the near future.  I regret to inform you, dear reader, that the near future has arrived.  So, like it or not, this is my answer.  Be forewarned that you’re about to be exposed to a greater degree of openness and vulnerability than I have previously demonstrated on my blog.  Your “purpose” (whatever that may be) will likely differ from mine, but I hope you’ll read something herein that you respect.  I’d also like to add that I am trying daily to live up to this characterization of my life’s purpose.  This is what I aspire to, not what I’ve attained.   So, having read this, you’ll know more about what makes me tick.  Heck, writing it has helped me to recognize and appreciate what makes me tick!  I don’t presume that you care, but it’s here for you to read if you should wish to do so.

My life’s purpose is comprised of 3 categories: Lover, Priest, Teacher

Lover – My primary purpose in life is to love my family.  I believe that society is built on strong families.  Families are built upon strong marriages (between 1 human adult man and 1 human adult woman).  As the family goes, so goes the society.  Therefore, the most significant work I’ll ever do is within the walls of my own home.  Left to my own devices (read: vices), I can be ferociously selfish.  Since this is counterproductive to love, I have had to find external examples of loving fathers that I can model.  For me the best example of a loving father is God.  His love is selfless, boundless, enduring and unconditional.  It’s impossible for me to love like He does, but he’s my ultimate role model.  So, I love my family by serving them, intentionally pursuing relationships with each of them individually, providing for them, listening and responding to them, and protecting them – even to the point of giving up my own life, if necessary.   I take responsibility for (and consider myself ultimately accountable for) the spiritual, emotional, mental and physical well-being of my wife and each of our children.  So, I endeavor to love them by serving them in a way that addresses those needs in a balanced way. 

Minister – This one may seem peculiar to some.  What comes to mind when you consider a minister?  For me, I think of someone who teaches and serves people on behalf of God, and someone who seeks God on behalf of people.  So, my purpose in my home is to represent my family before God in prayer.  I do this by praying for their safety, their growth, their everyday needs, their yet-unknown future needs, health, happiness, joy etc.  I also represent God in their lives.  I can accomplish this in many ways, such as speaking wisdom into their lives, setting the spiritual and emotional tone for our household, providing a framework of morals, boundaries and discipline, providing for their physical needs and (most importantly) demonstrating healthy behavior and habits for them to model.  It’s also imperative that I live out my relationship with God in front of them so that they can see that he’s real and that he is involved in the daily life of our family.

Teacher – I am responsible to make sure that my children are trained and equipped to live a healthy, responsible adult life.  I believe that they will learn more from how I live than they will from what I say.  So my purpose is to teach them by authentically, transparently living, working, succeeding and failing on display.  I will teach them about marriage by loving their mother and jealously guarding my time with her.  I will teach them about stewardship by paying my bills and maintaining my car.  I will teach them about humility by failing, admitting it and trying again.  They will learn about faith and who God is by watching me as I learn the very same thing.  I will also teach them a host of other lessons by doing the things I don’t even know I’m doing.  Chilling thought!  

So, my purpose isn’t anything profound or lofty.  It’s quite simple.  I strive to live a life that will be worthy of eulogizing when my children bury me (God willing).  Regardless of how much money I make or how many earthly treasures I gather along the way, in the end I want my family to know that they were the apple of my eye.  I want them to know that nothing mattered more to me than them.  I want them to remember me as one who was rigorously honest, passionately present, and unwaveringly committed to them.  If I fail at that, no other success will have tipped the scales of significance in my favor.  I will have failed to fulfill my purpose.

 

Dare to Discipline

One of my PMP colleagues recently shared an article with me.  The author espoused the absurd, nonsensical notion that spanking one’s children is a destructive and ineffective means of administering discipline in the home.  The author was a (probably childless) liberal lefty, who’s never had to test his preposterous hypothesis in the battleground laboratory of his own home, with his own offspring.  In my opinion, he’s talking absolute unqualified bollocks.

I spank my children.  4 out of 5 of them have been spanked in the last calendar week.  The 5^th is only 10 months old but already she’s letting us know that she wants to get her turn on the business end of what The Skinnies call the “spankin’ stick”.   It isn’t fun to spank my kids.  I don’t particularly enjoy doing it.  In fact, most of the time I’m in conflict with myself (in my head, not out loud) right up until the moment that the spankin’ stick impacts the white meat on their hind parts.  But I have to say that something happens in our home when I have to administer corporal punishment upon the tenderloins of one of The Skinnies.  Chaos is squelched.  Order is restored.  When one is spanked, there is a collective sigh of relief amidst the others.  It’s as if, one at a time, they subconsciously sacrifice themselves for each other.  The individual, with his or her trespass, reminds the group where the boundaries lie, and where safety thrives.  In the moments that follow, the quarreling ceases, self wills turn compliant, and the soprano-pitched shrieking assertion of words like “mine” and “stop” begins to diminish.       

Furthermore, when The Skinnies spend time around their peers who happen to live in homes where consistent, loving discipline (i.e. spanking) isn’t administered, the efficacy of our approach to discipline is even more evident.  In my non-scientific and highly empirical opinion, the hatchlings from those nests are more inclined to challenge authority and behave disrespectfully.  Those are dangerous habits for a young person to establish.  In fact, they can grow into character traits that powerfully influence the course of a person’s life. 

So, for the record, I’ll not be sparing the rod.    

Ode to my Mother’s Chocolate Chip Cookies

Time after time

Fresh from the oven with her chocolatey chippy cash and prizes

Her palette, the batter  

Her canvas, the oven

Her masterpiece, the Tupperware container

Brimming with choco-phenomenon

Milk is flattered to share the table with such splendid finery

Grown, civilized men squabble for first pick of the batch

Their redolence renders resolve undone

Their flavorsome physique finds asylum there

Safe within the belly

It only takes one bite

Of one cookie

And every Christmas, Thanksgiving, Birthday

Is forever tainted

Spoiled

Incomplete without the container

Refilled with warmth and goodness

Thus, the pilgrimage begins

On the road to delectable destiny

May you get lost along the way

Leaving more for me

More sweet more

Back to the Rat Race

At this time yesterday, I was sipping a hot cup of Starbucks, fresh from the French press. I was just about to initiate the weekly requisite face-washing, hair-brushing, shoe-tying frenzy to get The Skinnies ready for church, enjoying the last few moments of peace and quiet with my wife.  These are the simple, unsophisticated moments that money can’t buy, and the ones that I cherish the most.  Yesterday was no exception.  I was reminded again that I am rich beyond measure in every way that really matters.  I am blessed.

Twenty four hours later, I’m sitting on a conference call wrangling with a client on another continent about the scope of an “out-of-box” database whitepaper and whether it appropriately covers general connectivity options and interoperability.  I can’t help but not care about the details of a deep-dive whitepaper, or the compulsory round of reviews and edits, or sign-off, or the high-level expectations of some seminar attendees 4 weeks from now.  I just want to go back to that sun-kissed morning, twenty four hours ago.  I felt so far removed from work and business-as-usual.  This rubbish was truly the farthest thing from my mind.

It’s difficult to get motivated about work when the deepest, truest passion of my heart is in a house on a street in another town.  Don’t get me wrong.  I do enjoy my job.  I even like (most of) my coworkers.  It just feels like I’m engaged in a daily exchange of the prime hours of the most precious, priceless years of my household for the vocational use of a desk, a couple of monitors, and 50GB hard drive.  Maybe I’m just melancholy, but the luster of leveraging my core competencies is wearing thin today.  Work feels monotonous and uninspiring. 

I suppose this is just the plight of a heartsick husband and father of five in America.  I should shut my yapper and get back to work – thankful that I have a family and job, albeit torn between the two.    

No Blog Today

I can’t decide what to post on my blog 

I’d like to write but my brain is a fog

Topic and text

Linguistically hexed

Perplexed in this tongue tied slog

My word-maker’s locked and I can’t find the key

My prose-composer is charging a fee

Keyless and broke

A frustrated bloke

I’m choking, quite literally

 

Fingers are fighting refusing to type

Five on each hand unite as they gripe

Brazenly still

Enforcing their will

Unwilling to open the pipe   

 

Alas, dear reader, I’m sorry to say

There won’t be a new post posted today

Tomorrow, perhaps

I’ll curtail the lapse

And run, write back into the fray

Weekendings and Beginnings

On Friday we packed the 7 Teauxs into the Teaux-Mobile and made the 3 hour journey to the in-law’s farm in Yakima Valley. Once again I was reminded how blessed I am to have married into such a wonderful family. They truly got the raw end of this deal.


My mother-in-law’s garden is teeming with big, leafy green life. To my city-bred eye, the only discernable crop is corn, because that’s the tall skinny one. But my wife and The Skinnies spent quite a while picking green beans, potatoes, tomatoes, grapes, beets and onions. We also picked blackberries from the (get this) THORNLESS BLACKBERRY BUSH! I didn’t even know there was such a thing! Then my mother-in-law canned some of them for us in this big, silver, cylindrical pressure cooker that can kill you. She risked her life (and ours) so that we can eat farm-fresh, hand-picked veggies from jar-shaped time capsules this winter.


I spent some time on Saturday morning taking leisurely drives with The Skinnies (one at a time) around the farm on the 4 wheeler. I had to constantly adjust the speed and duration of the rides based upon the unique 4 wheeling preferences of my offspring-cargo. Still, it was deeply delightful to hold each of them on my lap and feel the wind and the sun on our faces. It was on one of the trips down the dirt road on the east end of their acreage that my 4 year old daughter squealed: “Daddy! This is the best day of my whole life!” I’ll not allow such spontaneous outward expressions of joy and contentment in my presence. So, I immediately gunned the throttle which, in turn, elicited a scream that could only have come from a very distraught place in her soul. Kids are so silly.


The wife and I were able to get away for a bike ride on Saturday afternoon. The 50-something Ma-and-Pa-in-law did the same 13 mile trail one evening last week. They told us that it only took them (and I quote) “about an hour”. By mile 6, we determined that they were either lying to us or smoking crack, or both. We had to pedal like Mr. and Mrs. Lance Armstrong for the last few miles just to finish at 1 hour and 15 minutes! I challenged my father-in-law’s estimate (to his face). He just smiled and chortled to himself choosing not to challenge the hypothesis that he’s a crack-smoking liar.


Our extended weekend ended with the convergence of two monumental milestones in the life of my eldest son. On the eve of his first day of first grade, he lost his first tooth. Just a little tug and his upper-right front tooth busted out of his 6 year old grill. I was proud of him because he’s been fairly concerned about the amount of blood and pain that would be involved with the loosing of said tooth for a few weeks. But yesterday afternoon he mustered up his courage and told me he was ready to have me pull out his tooth. The reason? “Tonight’s money night, daddy! If the tooth fairy’s gonna pay me for this, I want it tonight.” Little does he know, the tooth fairy is partial to copper and a little lean in the wallet.

2 Year Old Courage

I’ve been a parent for a little more than 8 years. That’s not very long. However, cramming five kids (I call them “The Skinnies”) into those 8 years has forced my wife and me to maneuver our way through a very fast, very steep learning curve. One of the things I’m learning is that children can be surprisingly astute. Once in a while, one of The Skinnies will say something that stops me in my tracks and pulls me into an introspective look at myself and the way I’m living my life. Their untainted outlook on life is truly refreshing and it often produces profoundly simple words of wisdom. Last night my youngest son provided a classic example of this.

The kids were all in their jammies, teeth brushed, and I had just finished reading them a short Bible story on the floor of our family room. My son started to run down the hall into his bedroom intending to get his favorite toy tiger (pronounced “tie-goo”). When he realized that the hall was dark, and his bedroom was at the other end of all that darkness, he paused. He turned to me and following conversation ensued:

Son: “Daddy, are you scared of the dark?”
Me: “Nope. There’s nothing to be scared of in our house, dude”
Son: “Is my brother scared of the dark?”
Me: “Sometimes he is, yes.”
Son: “I’m scared of the dark, but when I get scared of it, I just go through it”
Me: “That’s really good, dude. You have a very brave heart!”
Son: “Yup”

When I’m scared, I just go through it. My wife and I just shared a smile and shook our heads. We agreed that we could both use a little bit of that kind of courage in our own hearts. What my son doesn’t know (thank God he can’t read yet!) is that I do get scared, fearful and anxious. Frankly, it happens more frequently than I’m allowed to show on the mannish façade I have to prop up every day. And the next time I’m faced with something I fear, I hope his words come to my mind. I hope I can face my fears as valiantly as he does, some day.