Yesterday, I attended the funeral for our friends’ 16-year-old son. I noticed his mother in the front row, dabbing away her tears. I thought about the tears she would certainly shed on Christmas Eve this year (and in years to come). Then I remembered—Christmas is for weeping mothers. Continue reading “Christmas is for Weeping Mothers”
Several years ago, I went for a long walk in my wife’s hometown while staying there on vacation. As I looked down the sidewalk, I noticed a well-to-do looking woman walking toward me. As she reached the intersection a block ahead, she crossed the street. Then she continued to walk in the same direction. I assumed she lived on that side of the street. At the end of the block, I glanced back. Once past me, she crossed back to my side of the street and continued on her way.
I wondered for a moment at her action. Why had she crossed the street? There was no mud or broken sidewalk or dogs to avoid. Then it dawned on me—she crossed the street to avoid me.
I wondered at that for a moment. Why did this woman want to avoid me?
Then it hit me.
Continue reading “Seeing Down Both Sides of the Street”
I don’t know where I came across The Boy, the Bird, and the Coffin Maker, the debut novel of Australian author Matilda Woods. But I am grateful I did. I loved this book from its opening sentences to the closing paragraph.
Set in the town of Allora, bordering a violent sea and famous for flying fish, The Boy, the Bird, and the Coffin Maker tells the story of Alberto, the coffin maker. The widower, bereaved of wife and children, lives alone, caring for the dead of the town. His life changes with the appearance of the orphan, Tito Bonito, and his pet bird, Fia. Continue reading “Book Review: The Boy, the Bird, and the Coffin Maker”
“Are not two sparrows sold for a penny? And not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.” “But even the hairs of your head are all numbered,” Jesus assures us. “Fear not, therefore; you are of more value than many sparrows.” The argument here is not: people matter, therefore sparrows are insignificant. Rather: sparrows are significant, so how much more valuable are those created in God’s image?
God’s voice—not the voices in my head or those of my neighbor—is the final word on the matter: If he values the hairs of my head more than sparrows, how much more must he care for my child—his own image bearer?
And when that child falls to sleep, hidden in my wife’s womb, will the Father in heaven not notice the father on earth? God cares for these little ones. God cares about mothers. God cares about fathers. Both moms and dads have every right to mourn.
I’m writing today at the Risen Motherhood blog, sharing a personal story of experiencing miscarriages as a father. You can read the whole piece here: “Dads Hurt Too: A Father’s Memoir of Miscarriage.”
As you read, would you consider doing a few things for me?
Continue reading “Dads Hurt Too: A Memoir of Miscarriage”