Enjoying the Father Dance as long as I can

Father’s Day. Lots of thoughts and emotions. I am a father of three. I am blessed to have a father that I am close with. We live nearby and we hang out often. It makes me appreciate my own boys. Not a day passes that I don’t say a prayer of thanks for being a father. One of my boys insists on hugging me all the time. (He just came into my room and hugged me while I was writing this column.) Another one likes to tag along when I go places and watches war movies with me. And the other shares most all his secrets with me and confides in me more than I could ever have expected. Recently I listened to a song on the radio that reminded me of how deep the bond is between father and child. “Cinderella” is a beautiful melody written and sung by Christian recording artist Steven Curtis Chapman to honor his relationship with his daughters. My heart was heavy as I listened and recalled Chapman’s recent pain. You may remember that Chapman experienced one of the deepest hurts a father could imagine when his young adopted daughter was killed in a tragic car accident in his driveway in May of 2008. It took awhile before he was able to perform the song again, but he sings it regularly at his concerts nowadays in honor of his daughter. Chapman and his family appeared on Larry King Live a few months after the accident and I was absolutely amazed at their faith. They have used Maria Sue’s death as an opportunity to witness for the God they still love and trust completely despite their intense pain. By sharing their faith that night, Steven Curtis Chapman and his family preached a thousand sermons in one interview. Steven reminded viewers several times to appreciate every day with their children. Hug them every chance you get. Dance with your little Cinderella all you can before the clock strikes midnight, while realizing we don’t have watches to know when midnight will arrive. I don’t have Cinderellas in my house. Mine are all boys. Instead of dresses we have dirty ball uniforms. Instead of crowns we have soiled caps. Instead of glittery shoes we wear huntin’ boots. Yet we dance. We dance when we toss ball out in the yard. We dance when we wrestle on the living room floor. We dance when we shoot baskets out on the driveway. We dance when go hunting together and huddle close in a tree-stand when it’s too cold to feel your fingers and toes. We dance when we sing songs off key while listening to the radio in my truck. We dance when we sneak out and enjoy livermush, eggs, and pancakes for breakfast at the local restaurant. Every day I am allowed to dance as a father is a gift I never take for granted. Hearing Steven Curtis Chapman’s “Cinderella” song reminded me of this even more. Despite its many challenges, fatherhood is a privilege, not a burden. A labor of love, not a chore. Ironically, at this very moment, my column writing has been interrupted yet again by two boys who have challenged me to a basketball game in our driveway. And so now I will head outside. . . to dance.

Dreams and Nerves Collide at the Old Ballpark

Tis the season for ballgames. School ball playoffs overlapping summer league season openers. All three Stroupe boys playing summer baseball. Lots of field hopping. Add to that Church league softball where the only reason a 45-year-old dad plays is so he can spend time with his sixteen-year-old son. Though not the main point of this column, it is worth noting that my son and I had a goal at the beginning of the softball season. Simply put, we wanted to hit homeruns in the same game. Ken Griffey, Sr. and Ken Griffey, Jr. did it in a major league baseball game years ago, and we wanted to implant our names in the annals of church softball lore by accomplishing the same feat. Then one magical night, it happened- sorta. A mystical star alignment and a cooperative breeze produced a rare fence-clearing flyball from Old Man Dad early in a game. A few innings later, the teenager hit a deep gapper that looked to be a stand up triple. But the kid never slowed down at third and was declared safe at home after the execution of one of the most daring and acrobatic hook slides I have ever witnessed. Not exactly the way we planned it, but on the way home in the truck, we decided it counted. Anyway, please believe me when I say that living vicariously through these sons of mine I am not. Enjoying their rapidly passing youthful moments I am. I pull for them and root for their teams. But the wins and losses their teams experience neither make nor break my world. Admittedly, things change slightly when playoff time rolls around. Little League All-Stars. High school playoffs. That sorta thing. Parents’ stomachs churn. Fingernails are chewed to the nub. Umpires are burdened with extra scrutiny. Even so, perspective is important. I enjoy watching parents at games. Some are laid back and seldom react. Others are holding their collective breaths every pitch or play. I’m not being critical here nor am I accusing anybody of losing perspective and burdening their children with undue pressure. I am simply making note of the fact that some parents handle their children’s athletic exploits differently than others. Take, for instance, a mother I observed recently during a playoff game. Her folding chair was next to the fence well before the game began. She appeared supportive yet calm. Her occasional cheering seemed encouraging and positive. As the game progressed, so did her anxiety. Eventually I noticed that her chair was empty. A glance to the right answered my question as to her whereabouts. She had placed herself behind the dugout, out of view of the action. An informant filled her in after each nerve-wracking pitch. Despite her agony, I couldn’t help but smile. Her ticker couldn’t take what her eyes were processing. So she resorted to her standard operating procedure- hide and find out from someone else what happened. After the game, which ended in a loss for her side, I asked Mrs. Mom about the hiding routine. “I do it all the time. I can only take so much,” she explained. Despite hanging on every pitch, Mom was a good sport. I like that. Plenty of nerves but no bitterness. Massive anxiety but no criticism or finger pointing. A mom being a mom. Entertaining, but more importantly, refreshing.

Enjoying the View from the Roof

Until recently, I didn’t care much for roofs. In fact, I’ve had a hard time over the years even pronouncing the word correctly. My pronunciation is sometimes the correct “say it like it’s spelled” version where the “oo” sounds the same as it does in the word “tooth.” But at other times it comes out sounding like “ruhf” which roughly rhymes with the word “hoof.” To me it makes sense, but recently this pronunciation has caused me to become the object of ridicule. Which doesn’t bother me much since ridicule often accompanies me anyway. While you practice saying the word “roof” several times, debating which version is correct, I will move on. Gutters are attached to roofs and gutters like to clog. It’s a green, slimy, oozy clog if left undisturbed for an entire Spring. So when I visited the roof of our house recently, the green oozy clog welcomed me. I disposed of it but my work wasn’t done. Being the child at heart that I am, I informed my wife that I intended to hide behind one of the dormers on our roof when our youngest child got off the bus. My purpose was to scare him, a plan with which my fun-loving wife did not disagree. Just as the youngest child approached the front porch, I let out a yell which nearly caused me to lose my balance. Not a good idea when you are precariously perched on a roof. The unphased child laughed and asked if he could join me. A few minutes later, as we sat on the apex of the roof, the youngest Stroupe began telling me about his day at school. We could see for miles and eventually, he went silent and we both stared into the distance. “Here comes your oldest brother,” I whispered. “Let’s scare him when he gets out of his truck.” Before we could say anything, the oldest popped the door of his truck open and shouted, “What are you nuts doing up there?” So much for scaring him. He joined us a minute or two later. When Mom arrived home with the middle son in tow, we decided to give it one last try. He was pointing at us before the car ever came to a stop. “I could see you half a mile away,” he laughed. I’m not as good at this “pulling pranks on my kids” stuff as I used to be. But here’s what I now know about roofs. Yes, they cause gutters to clog occasionally. Yes, you can see water towers and other neat stuff from up there. Yes, they are very uncomfortable and flaming hot on your rear end. And of course, the pronunciation of “roof” is debatable, depending upon which state you were raised in. However, a nine-year-old taught me something about roofs I didn’t know until the day we sat on top of one and explored various topics of conversation. Said the child at one point- “Daddy, a roof is a great place to come and sit and talk about school and stuff. Let’s me and you come back up here again sometime.” Sure thing buddy, it’s a date. I’ll clean the slime out of the gutters if you’ll promise to stay nine-years-old for another decade or so.