Surprises!

My life growing up was filled with surprises. One certain Friday evening, my dad arrived at home with a brown paper sack full of fun. He gathered us boys together, and pulled out what we appeared to be magic; four balsa-wood airplanes. There was one plane for each of my brothers and myself.

We ripped those delicate flyers out of their plastic packages, and began to ‘pop’ them out of the balsa encasement. This was slightly tricky and needed to be done slowly and carefully, as if you were to ‘pop-out’ the wooden plane to harshly you would certainly break a part of the plane and make it inoperable. Slowly and methodically we unwrapped, ‘popped-out’ the pieces, and then assembled those beauties. One of my younger brothers cried when the tail section broke on his very first attempt to ‘pop’ out the pieces.

We loved getting surprises on Fridays as it signified the end of a long week. All week long, he would leave around 6am, and get home around 6 or 7pm . Somehow, he’d been able to adjust his schedule and be there for our baseball games, even coaching and becoming the Little League president for a few years. He was gone during the week, but we had him on the weekends. He was a good dad and provided well for our family. Our dad commuted over 100 miles a day, up and down the mountain roads in Southern California, from our home in Big Bear Lake to hot, smoggy, crime-filled, San Bernardino.

Our dad was a successful trial lawyer, and his workplace was the courthouse. It was there he put his hustle on, and lived his life protecting the rights of those accused of a crime. As a child, many of my friends would ask, “how can your dad defend all those criminals?”. My response was simple. “he’s defending your rights, and he’s defending the constitution.” Years later, many of my classmates ended up hiring my dad to defend them for their own dui’s and other criminal cases.

But for us boys, Friday was ‘surprise day’. The surprises included; blow-up punching balloons, green army-men, a bags of marbles, rubber band twirly birds that we’d shoot up in the sky, parachute army men, jacks and balls, boomerangs, colorful twisty straws, caps and cap-guns( loved that smell) and sometimes rubber band projected missels with parachutes, rubber bouncy balls, plastic word puzzles, water-balloons, small Frisbees, and paddles with balls. There seemed to be no end surprise we might get. Our hearts always welcomed those moments.

All of these wonderful prizes were welcomed by us boys on Fridays, except for the paddles with balls attached on a long rubber-band. When those were revealed, my younger brothers would begin to cry. You see, on Friday and throughout the weekend, those were fun toys, but as soon as the string broke and the rubber-band and ball were detached from the paddle, those wooden paddles became spanking tools for our mom. Usually, whatever was in arms reach was an adequate spanking too for our mom, as we four boys needed lots of correction during the week. I can remember( my backside can for certain), our mom using; sandals, hangars, fly swatters, ping pong paddles, a belt, a rolled up newspaper, and anything else that would suffice a a spanking tool. But none was less dreaded than the broken paddle-ball paddle. My little brothers were diligent in outsmarting our mom on several occasions and actually hid the broken paddles in the trash as soon as their purpose of fun came to an end.

Now, it needs to be clarified- our mom was not a toy-wielding tyrant, looking for the opportunity to beat us with our toys, but rather, she was a kind disciplinarian, giving us every spanking we deserved. Raising four strong and independent boys requires proper discipline. Our mother was an excellent disciplinarian, always teaching that there are consequences for our actions. Sometimes, we got a spanking, other times we were put on restriction, but always, we knew it was done with love and compassion. By-the-way, we deserved every spanking we received and more. I can remember her mantra at times when we were behaving most despicably, that softly declared in prayerful tones, “I should’ve been a nun.”

So there were were with all of the pieces of the balsa wood plane, ready to be assembled. We would take our time and push each part into place, sliding them together in no order, but it seemed that the last piece to go in was the most fragile part of the plane, the tail. Often too, we would get a black marker out put our name or initials somewhere on the plane. (Every time I smell those black markers it brings good memories). Once everything was in place it was launch time and we headed out to our deck which spanned the entire width of our house.

We would all walk out to our lovely deck at our home. We lived in a nice, four-bedroom, two story house at 469 Catalina Drive. Our home was perched on a hill with a great view of the neighborhood, and it provided a potentially successful launch pad for all of our ‘prizes’. That day it wasn’t a plastic parachuting army man, a Frisbee, some water balloons( which we always tried to hit cars with on our street), or even a rubber band shot plastic airplane- no today we were tossing light-weight pieces of balsa wood from our balcony.

There was a catch though, and we all knew what it was; Sparky! Before we could launch our fragile planes, we had to tie up our dog Sparky. Sparky was a fast and excitable German Shepherd. He had previously gobbled-up on a recently launched parachute man in seconds when we neglected to restrain Sparky. So one of us boys would run down the outside stairs and tied up Sparky, who was glaring up at us waiting for his own ‘surprise treat’.

Now we were ready. One by one we launched those beauties into the wild-blue yonder and with a flick of the wrist, they soared. Time after time they soared. We’d make slight adjustments in the wings making them do loop-de-loops, soar far and away, bank left, bank right, etc. Also, we would have contests; longest flight, best loop, etc. By the time we had made several successful flights, and trips up and down the stairs, and the sun setting invited us back inside. The Friday ‘Surprise’ worked!

We relished those moments growing up in our small mountain town with our loving parents always surprising us.

As years went by, I often thought of my childhood, remembering Friday Surprises, and wondered the source of those ‘prizes’. It wasn’t until decades later that it hit me. All of those ‘prizes’ were conveniently located at the check stand at every liquor store in America- and certainly at the one at the bottom of the hill as my dad was returning home from his long work-week. Dad could’ve stopped at the Jug-n-Jigger on Highland Ave, Jensen Foods in Running Springs, or perhaps even Triangle Market near our home. Perhaps dad pulled over just to bring us home a surprise, but also perhaps he was picking up a bottle of Chivas Regal and a bag of ice. Whatever the reason, dad was faithful in making us boys feel special, each Friday.

My father grew up, never knowing his dad, but he made certain we knew ours. He loved us, and did everything he could to share his love,… even if it was while buying a bottle on his way home.

I always worked hard to keep my relationship with my dad open and when we spoke on the phone the conversation always lead to spiritual things. I always wove into the discussion the current sermon I was working on or things in the world that had spiritually related things attached to them. My dad was traditionally not a follower of Christ, but he had memorized scriptures as a child, and those seem to stick with him- 2 Timothy 2;15 and Proverbs 20:1 were the ones he most often quoted. Sometimes he would remind me that even Jesus kicked but on the money-changers (John 2:13-16) to somehow justify getting angry over things. But overall my dad never strived to live for Christ. I think he considered all of us Christian, because we weren’t Jewish or Buddhist’s or Mormons.

On a Thursday morning, before Mother’s Day in 2010, we received an urgent call from our children who were visiting dad in the hospital. They encouraged us to start our Mothers Day weekend with them a day earlier- so we quickly packed our van and drove as fast as we could from Salinas, California to Loma Linda University Hospital in Southern California. We drove fast, shaving off one-half hour for the six hour drive. We were met at the door of the emergency room by one of my brothers, and he said to me “Dad’s waiting for you. Get up there”. The urgency of the moment was clearly defined, and it was made more clear when I walked into his room, and everyone parted like the Red Sea to give me access to my dad, and then everyone departed.

I sat by his bed watching him grasping for breath. I can still see his chest going up and down. The moment was a heavy one. I realized my breathing was rapid and I calmed my self down- I didn’t want to add to his suffering with mine.

My mind didn’t reflect on the thousands of memories of my childhood, the moments of playing catch or shooting baskets, the time he waited for me in his car in front of a house party, or the time he came to one of my little league games where he could hear the opposing team yell, ‘back up’ when it was my turn at the plate. No, there were no past memories, only future ones with the hope of eternity as it lay at hand.

I reached out and touched his hand. I was instantly moved with emotion when he squeezed mine. He knew I was with him.

Words. Which words do I use? “Hi dad.” I uttered a simple phrase. He opened his eyes and glanced at me without turning his head, no reply but an acknowledgement. The oxygen that was flowing into his lungs, appeared to have control over my father’s life, but there were greater forces at hand that night.

After a few minutes of connecting, then we moved to a place neither of us had been before- as the son, became the leader, the leader the son.

“Dad”, then a pause. “Do you think you are ready to see Jesus.”

“No.”

“Dad, do you want to?”

“Yes.”

For the next 20-30 minutes I took the time to explain to my 75 year old dad the entire plan God has for his salvation. For coming into a relationship with Jesus, repenting of his sins, and how that takes place.

At the end, I paused. Then asked the question.

“Dad. Do you want to accept Jesus into you life today?” I included a caveat. “But if you do, you life will be changed forever. Are you ok with that?”

He turned his face towards me and in a deep and gurgly voice he replied a hearty “Yes!’ Then again “Yes, Yes Yes.” What followed was a simple prayer and then we hugged.

As I walked towards my wife, children and their spouses waiting and smiling faces greeted me as I must have reflected the experience from my dad’s room. My wife’s hugging smile indicated that she knew what had occurred. Perhaps it was the un-wipeable smile, or the new bounce in my long-day tired step. Without many words, the entire family stood and hugged as we all knew what had just happened.

My father who was dying, went from death to life, and lived to talk about it, and live it. That was the surprise of all surprises. The best surprise my dad ever gave to me, was what I gave to him.

My next story will be about my mom. How she would ground wheat, make our clothes, take us on adventures, and always find ways to make life fun!