For several months now our twenty-month-old son, Sweet Baby Ray, has had a bit of a problem with separation anxiety, especially when it comes to his mother being out of sight. He often pitches a fit that sounds as if someone is skinning the boy alive.  We get it… he loves his Mama but goodness gracious son!  Needless to say, he hasn’t liked going to the church nursery through Sunday school and the later church service.  Sometimes he figures out where we’re going on the road heading to church and begins throwing a pre-fit.

So after service this morning, my daughters and I were walking down the hall to retrieve the young man from the nursery.  As we reached the door, which was packed with other parents having their own joyful reunions with toddlers, it seemed that time slowed down for a few seconds, almost as if I was supposed to see this wonderful glimpse of life play out in great detail.  When some of the parents faded back with their children, we could see Ray playing on a colorful, padded half-circle toy the nursery came equipped with.  He saw the commotion at the door, but seemed to be having too much fun to care.  Then he caught a familiar shape out of the corner of his eye and you could almost hear him think out loud as he snapped back a second look, “HEY, there’s my SISSY!!!”  I’ve never seen the boy move so fast as he leapt from the padded toy into his sister’s waiting arms.  His smiles and joy took the place of any fun he was having in the nursery because he knew we were headed home.  No more nursery, as good as it was.  Home and his family are WAY better.  Beautiful scene.

So as I continued down the hall to head for the car, my mind and heart were flooded with thoughts and feelings about the “nursery” we’re all in right now.  We may have a fun place to play with colorful, padded, half-circles and baskets full of puzzles and toy distractions.  We may have some of the best snacks and juice drinks this “nursery” has to offer.  There may be plenty of grown-ups that love us and friends our age to play with.  We may even have the opportunity, if we so choose, to take a nap while we’re here and sleep away the troubles we anxiously worry through.  But when it comes down to it, there’s nothing like going home.  Nothing.

Someday our Big Brother will come and retrieve us when the service is over, although time won’t slow down.  Like a flash of lightning or as fast as a steel traps snaps closed, He will show up at the door of our “nursery”, scoop us up into His arms, and take us home.  Nothing will matter of the world we’re leaving behind.  Not our house or the t-bone cooking on the grill.  Not the laundry we need to finish or those dirty dishes in the sink.  Not the back nine holes on the prettiest day of the week or the final coat of wax on the mustang.  The dogs will go hungry, the bills won’t get paid, and the grass will grow tall.  WE ARE GOING HOME!!!   We’ll hold onto Him tightly and smile like we’ve never smiled before.  He’ll take us away to see our Father and it will finally be time to go home.

I’m homesick… again.

“Leadership is not just what happens when you’re there, it’s what happens when you’re not there.”       – Ken Blanchard, from The Leadership Pill

I was fortunate enough to have a friend for a long time, a fellow deacon, named Ken.  Ken was blessed with a huge family and he served them all as an example Christian patriarch should.  Ken’s family is very reflective of the kind of man he was… playful, stern, accepting, loving, and loyal.  His influence reaches not only through the lives of his children, a hope that every parent has, but also through his grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  With a family as large as Ken had (7 kids, at least 18 grandchildren, and I loose count of his great-grandchildren), you would think that he wouldn’t have room or time for those outside of his family but that simply wasn’t the case.  He often accepted others as family (such is the case with me) and had an uncountable amount of good friends.  He was a good ol’ country boy, a hero firefighter and ambulance EMT, a member of the armed services, and a devout fisherman.  You couldn’t help but love Ken.

Well over twenty years ago, Ken and his family (not just his immediate family but also his brothers, nieces, nephews, their children and grandchildren, etc.) established an annual tradition of camping at Bennett Springs State park in Missouri over the Father’s Day weekend.  All family members and those friends who wanted to join would drag their RVs, campers, or tents to “Bennett”, grab their trout tags for the next morning, get up at the crack of dawn, and fish to their daily limit.  Most would be done fishing before noon, get together and share stories of conquest or those bites on the line that “got away”, and come together in the evening to enjoy the day’s catch.  All of the men would deep fry the fish and potatoes and the women would put together the sides and desserts and there would be a grand feast of one hundred people or more.  You really couldn’t ask for a better way to celebrate fathers and spend time with your family and friends in nature’s beauty.

Unfortunately my good friend Ken, who was waist deep into his eighties, passed away this past year.  He was very tough and had battled all kinds of cancer, including bone cancer, and heart disease for many years.  As is the case with all of us some day, regardless of how tough we are, Ken lost the fight and decided that eternity in Heaven was better.  It was crushing in a way to attend his funeral and see his family without their captain.  Many thoughts flood your mind as an outsider… “What’s going to happen now?  Are the kids and his wife going to be okay?  Who’s going to take up the mantle and lead the family?  Are they going to hold together?”

As the previously mentioned bullet point from Mr. Blanchard suggests, a great leader’s teachings and personality still influences those around them, even when he’s not there.  This past weekend, Ken’s family still got together at Bennett on Father’s Day… without their father.  His wife drove his old pick-up truck an hour and forty-five minutes to the camp site.  One of his many grand-daughters wore his pair of overalls and hat for our celebration on Saturday, his family were all still standing in a stream catching trout at 6:30 in the morning, and there were more people than I’ve ever seen eating said trout in the evening at the larger feast of fish.  All of the men ate last after having deep-fried buckets and buckets of fish fillets.  Beyond all of those important traditions, the ones most important… accepting others into the fold, joking around and having fun, loving one another, appreciating the blessings that have been poured into your life and family is everything… those still stood the test of their leader not being there to share in them.  A challenge to you and I may be this… what are we doing today that will establish tomorrow for our children, and their children, and their children?  Are we being that leader in our family that will be talked about for many years and influencing the future of our family in a positive way?  Are you encouraging behaviors and establishing practices that bring love, family loyalty, hard-work, forgiveness and hope to the persons who should be the most sacred to you while you live your life?

I have to believe Ken was smiling this Father’s Day as he fished in Heaven with the Master Fisherman.  You know they have to have at least a 12 fish limit per day up there! 

Other greats points of interest for the weekend:

• I got to take my 20 month-old son fishing for the first time!  Ray thinks that fishing rods are swords so he kept hitting our rods with his little Iron Man rod yelling “Die, die!”  (His middle sister taught him that with Nerf swords)  Needless to say, within 15 minutes, he and I were sitting on the shore enjoying a snack of Cheez-Its and watching the others fish.
• My oldest daughter Anna caught her limit of 4, being the only one in our family to catch anything.
• Both of my daughters nearly drown in the swimming pool.  Abby was having difficulty in the deep-end of the pool and her sister, who isn’t a very strong swimmer herself, jumped in and was nearly drown by her panicked little sister.  Anna managed to grab a rope in the pool and pull them both to safety.  I told Abby that if she ever doubted that her sister loves her, this action speaks louder than any words.  (John 15:13)  Thank you Jesus for protecting them both!!!!  (Welling up!)  Anna, you are my hero.
• I had a wonderful walk with Abby along the road next to the stream on our last day.  I really enjoy talking with Abby when we share time like that.  She has so many questions about life.

Happy Father’s Day all!

Dawn and the kids purchased a new weed-eater for my Father’s Day gift this weekend.  I’ve never owned one before and I was so excited to get that puppy fired up and cutting into the jungle I call my backyard.  It has the ability to accept many accessories and the one they got came with an edger attachment also.  How cool!

While the weed-eater satisfied an inner “guy” type of desire, it wasn’t the best present I received over the holiday.  Sure… breakfast in bed was great, the touching greeting cards (one of which was one of the coolest, sound-producing Star Wars cards I’ve ever experienced) made me well up with tears, but then I got the phone call that would change my Sunday.  I’ve recently had a wonderful widow added to the list of ladies I attend to as a deacon at our church.  She lives in an assisted care complex and a week ago I gave her a ride to church for the first time.  I told her last week after returning her home that if she ever needed a ride, to give me a call on a Saturday evening and I would be glad to pick her up.  No call last night, so Dawn and I made plans to leave town and meet up with her family after church.  That is, until the phone rang this morning.  My new widow asked if I could pick her up and take her to church.  I told her, “Sure, no problem!”  Dawn asked what was going on, I told her that plans were changing and I had an opportunity to answer Jesus calling on me.  Satan tried to temp me with disappointment, but I wouldn’t let him have it.

So we’re riding to church and the widow says, “Oh, it’s Father’s Day today, isn’t it?” and I said “Yep!”  She told me her Father has been gone for 51 years and she still misses him.  I asked her in an attempt to get to know her better, “So what is the one thing you remember most about your Dad?” At this point, my Heavenly Father gave me a Father’s Day present that overshadowed the weed-eater by a long shot.

She said that her father was a great provider and the strength of their family, but he wasn’t an overly emotional man and rarely said, “I love you” to his children.  Her story about the way he died proved that he really knew how to love better than most of us though.  She said that in 1961, her Dad and a buddy went to the Meramec river near Eureka to fish and train their dogs.  She said they heard some screaming upstream and ran to find out if someone needed help.  Five children, ranging from age 10 to as low as 6, were having difficulties swimming and would have drown if her Dad had not been there.  She said that all they could see was the children’s hair.  He drown that day, saving a little boy and giving his life for another.

(At this point I’m hoping she’s not looking at me in the car because I’ve got tears streaming down my face.)

She said that it was very difficult after her father died.  She said her mother sort of “shut down” after the drowning, and she had to pick up the matriarch role for awhile because she was the oldest girl in the family.  The Carnegie Hero Fund Commission, an organization with a two-fold mission to recognize those who had given their lives to rescue others and provide assistance to their families left behind, wanted to award her family a Carnegie Medal and award on a TV program.  My widow said that she turned it down because she felt that her father wouldn’t want people making a fuss, but the Commission did help her family financially growing up.  ($500 per month for as long as her mother didn’t remarry)  I looked it up on the Carnegie Hero Fund website and sure enough, he was among the awardees:

She said losing her father was a traumatic event in her life that left her changed for many years, until one night that she had a dream when she was about 20 years old.  She said in the dream she could see her father walking up the road toward her house.  She said he was old and worn-looking, but she could tell he was happy.  She said after that dream she knew he was alright and she was able to move on with her life.

I was completely speechless the rest of the way to church.  What can you say to that?  I thought about her story the rest of that Father’s Day and reflected on how I measured to that.  I think about whether I’m doing enough for my children and pointing them in the direction that God would like them to travel.  I think about my responsibility to train them up right and teach them how to love others.  If put in a similar situation as my widow’s father, how would I react?  Although a quiet man and not very affectionate during his time with his children, he showed his children the greatest example of love you can possibly show.  She said his memorial stone says something similar to John 15:13, “There is no greater love than to lay down your life for someone else.”

I like my weed-eater, but I like God’s gift of that story better.  I’m glad I was obedient that day to be blessed by the widow’s story.  Thank you Martha.

It’s a difficult task to wake me from a deep sleep.  I use a machine and mask to help me combat sleep apnea and when I am under its spell, there’s very little the non-sleep world can do to bring me back from the void but pleasant world of REM sleep.  No dreams exist.  No body movement.  Nothing but me, a mask, and a machine.

“Kenny, wake up!” she said again, with a bit of joy in her voice.

The only thing that’s been preventing me from staying in REM-sleep world on a regular basis lately is the lady that shares the other side of my bed.  Over the past couple of months there have been many sleepless nights due to frequent trips to the bathroom through the night as well as crying and groaning from the pain of pregnancy after the age of forty.  No matter how tired I am, and I am EXTREMELY tired, my heart goes out to my wife who I admire for carrying our child and it’s difficult for me to settle into a good “machine” sleep.

“I think my water just broke!” she said excitedly as I slowly rolled over and pressed the button to shut off my apnea machine.  I unclipped the mask, and my eyes tried to focus on the digital alarm clock in our room.  The red numbers came in and out of a blur, and I realized why it was so difficult to come to… it was 2:18 AM.

“Are you sure?” I said as I sat up rubbing my hair.  We had already gone to the hospital a few days earlier with some false labor and I know both of us didn’t want to go through that again.  Our hopes kept getting dashed that the blessed day would arrive.  We would walk around a mall, or the city park, Wal-Mart, or Target… she would have big contractions but the minute we stopped walking, so did the big contractions.  I bet we walked at least ten miles over the weekend.  I mentioned I was tired, right?

“I’m pretty sure about this Hon!” she said.  Even though I knew my wife was in unfamiliar territory with her water breaking (because her water didn’t break with either one of the girls), she seemed to have a “my-pain-and-suffering-is-going-to-be-over-soon” tone to her voice.  Now that I look back, it was kind of cute.

“Alright… I’ll get the girls up.” I said as I shuffled down the hall.  They both were about as easy to get us as I was, but we managed to throw on some clothes and get Mrs. Waddles down the front steps and into the car.  We really were prepared for weeks.  Bags for everyone as well as every possible media type (photos, video, laptops, etc.) were already in the trunk of the car.  We just needed to load up the two stars of the show and get moving.

Running on adrenaline and a fear of deer breaking through the tree line at any given moment going down interstate 44, our family prayed for safety as we traveled down the road toward Missouri Baptist hospital.  We talked about the date for our child’s birthday… 11/7/11.  Seven eleven.  I instantly thought of Slushies and Beef Jerky.  Mmmmmm jerky.  Shake it off Kenny!  Eyes on the road fella!!  We reached the hospital in about 45 minutes because there is no traffic at that time in the morning.  Only truck drivers, highway patrolman (Shout out to my buddy Phil!), and husbands racing their pregnant spouses to their hospital of choice are on the road at that ungodly hour of the morning.

Parents were called, already existing children shuffled off to the waiting room to set up camp, water was boiled, clean towels were found… we were going to have a baby!  Dawn got an epidural, but not from her favorite anesthesiologist Dan, so it didn’t take as well as she wanted.  Her left leg was completely numb to the point that she couldn’t move it at all.  We talked about re-enacting the scene from Talladega Nights where Ricky Bobby stuck a knife in his leg just to help time pass, but the nurse shot me the ol’ stink eye so we decided to just concentrate on the whole labor thing.  They started her up on pitocin (Oxytocin) to get things moving along… and then we waited.  And waited.  And waited.

While we waited, I set up my laptop in the delivery room and gave a few updates on Facebook about the progress.  Although it was just Dawn and I in the delivery room… I felt like we had a hundred close family and friends encouraging and praying with us through the process.  A lot of people are hesitant to share their lives, sometimes very intimately, on Facebook or Twitter but I can honestly say it was an uplifting experience having all of you available when we needed you.  I wanted to share this moment because it’s rare and special and something we couldn’t do 5-10 years ago.

The experience finally reached its apex at 4:53PM.  I served as encourager, numb left-leg manager, audio-visual guy, photographer, social media updater, and crying husband as Kenneth Ray Hoff, III took his first breath and proved how healthy his lungs really are.  He had dark hair, ten fingers, ten toes… and all the needed equipment to be a boy (thanks God!).  He entered our world perfectly and as they wiped off his old experience and swaddled him into his new situation I smiled and said, “Welcome son.” 

Nesting to the nth degree has been going on for about two months.  (Although you wouldn’t necessarily know by looking at the house.)  Dawn’s mostly finished sorting all of the shower gifts and getting them put away.  She’ll soon shift to writing “Thank You” cards because she really can’t do much in the way of housework in her condition.  We’ve purchased a Pack-N-Play for little bits.  We still need to get a car seat/stroller combo, and will probably do that today.  The video camera has a new tape and a charged battery.  The digital camera is ready to go.  We all have overnight bags packed to go to the hospital, complete with snacks, books, and entertainment items.  Everyone’s numbers are programmed into three different cell phones for that “we’re headed to the hospital” phone call… now all we need are some contractions.

Dawn’s last doctor’s appointment earlier in the week wasn’t exactly what she wanted to hear.  This past month she has been suffering with aches and pains she didn’t have with the other two pregnancies.  Bad hip pain and going to the bathroom 28 times (on average) per night hasn’t helped her get a lot of rest, which means I have a lot of sleepless nights also.  She often tells me, “Your son keeps kicking me!” like I can really do anything about it.   To sum up her feelings, I could put it this way… “GET THIS KID OUT OF ME NOW!!!!“  The doctor told her that the baby wasn’t showing any signs of “opening the door” yet, which I think disappointed her.  She’s a strong woman, but I think she’s really starting to reach her limit.  She showed me a website last night with ten different ways to induce labor culminating with some recipe for labor-inducing cookies of all things.  I’m fixing to make her two dozen of those puppies!

Now there are still a few things we’re not prepared for, but will be eventually.  Some of the casualties of a surprise child in your 40′s include:

• We don’t have a room for him.  It cracks me up when friends ask, “So is the nursery ready?”  Or “What color is the nursery?”  The poor child will have to stay with Mom and Dad in their room for probably the first six months or so.  We’re thinking we can build a room in the attic.  Right now though, he’s going to have to go the same route as another Baby we all know and love who didn’t have a “room at the inn.”  Thankfully he can stay in a baby bed, rather than a manger.
• Both of our vehicles are four-seaters… not five.  I think we can squeeze a car seat between the girls in the back seat, but it’s going to be comfy for awhile.  I don’t think they’ll mind though.  All it will take is Sweet Baby Ray flashing them a smile and they’ll forget about being squished more than normal.  We’ll eventually get a minivan or something like that, but for the moment… we’ll be a VERY close family. 

I think those are minor, missing items… right?  Regardless, we’re about as ready as these Hoff’s can get.  We can’t wait!

I’m checking out some trampolines on ebay while writing… I’m not sure trampolines made it on the ten labor-inducing methods from that website, but I bet it wouldn’t hurt to try.  Between bounces I can hand her a cookie.  (Eyebrows going up and down!) 

We live next to a blessed older woman whom I’ve known since I was a sophomore in high school because we used to work at a restaurant together.  I made pizzas at this local place, and she would come in once or twice a week to make some of the best and most perfect pies I’ve ever eaten in my life.  All made from scratch, each one delicious.  She’s always been a hard worker, a bit on the old-fashioned side, and now one of the best neighbors anyone could ever have.  Heck, she is even the grandmother of one of my elementary school girlfriends so I know their family very well.  I am blessed to know her.

Now I really don’t think I’m the best neighbor.  My house often looks disheveled and it’s usually pretty rare that we ever go outside.  If I were on her side of the property line, I would shake my head (and maybe my fist) and have the city on speed-dial because of the tall grass or junk sitting in my front yard for weeks.  I’m just not much of an outside person and yard work and house maintenance isn’t usually on the top of my priority list.  My neighbor’s house is a completely different story.  Her yard is usually immaculate, bushes trimmed, leaves picked up… always ship-shape.  She always waves and says high, gives me great gardening advice because she’s a former farmer’s wife, and occasionally shares treats when she has an over-abundance.  I feel that even though she has more years on us, she watches over my family more than we do over her.

A couple of weeks ago I came home and Dawn was resting in our bed, and next to her was something rolled up in a sheet of tissue paper.  “What’s that?” I asked, pointing at the small package.

“It’s a gift for the baby from Estella (our next-door neighbor).” said Dawn.  She looked down at the rolled-up gift like she had just eaten a large slice of gratitude pie.

“Oh yeah?” I asked as I started to unroll the tissue paper to see what was inside.  And at each turn I saw a new part of a beautiful baby quilt peek from out of its covering.  Beautiful blue panels and embroidered bunnies and teddy bears jumped out from the middle of the quilt.  “Very cute!” I told Dawn.

“Look closer, “she said.  “It’s better than cute.”

As I held the quilt closer to my face Dawn said, “It’s hand-stitched Kenny.  She didn’t use a sewing machine.”  I surveyed the quilt closely at noticed that not only the embroidery was hand-stitched, but each and every panel was hand-sewn together.  My eyes immediately began to well up with tears and I sat speechless with this beautiful quilt in my hands.  I thought, “What did we ever do to deserve this?  Why would someone ever go to that much trouble for us?”  My mind started to race about what a crappy neighbor I had been over the years and not comprehending the love that went into something like this.

“We don’t deserve this.” I said to my wife after a minute or two of silence.  I felt so bad holding this wonderful work because I couldn’t think of anything I’ve done to deserve this show of love.

Dawn came around to the end of the bed and made me look up at her.  “You know Hun… when we sit and talk with Estella on her porch about life, that’s like gold to her.  You shovel her walk sometimes.  You’ve cut her grass a couple of times.  Apparently she thinks enough of our family to put this much time into something like this.  Even though we sometimes don’t feel like we deserve another person’s love, we should accept it.  Besides, she’s really excited about this baby boy on the way!” she said, rubbing her big belly.

Tears rolled down my cheek because not only did I hold Estella’s show of love in my hands… a love I feel I didn’t deserve, but it also reminded me of the love that God showed to all of us 2,000 years ago when we didn’t deserve it.  Each panel of forgiveness from our sin, stitched with His love.  Each embroidered scene in our lives displaying His plan and purpose for us.  Soft and warm and unique to each one of us.  (I’m sure mine has Star Wars embroidered on it somewhere!)  Washed clean and spotless in the blood of His Glorious Son Jesus.  Completely not deserved, but ours for the taking.  All we need to do is pull off the tissue paper, look inside and claim it.  Even if we only occasionally acknowledge His will in our lives.  Even when we sometimes falter and fall and not properly reflect His Glory to others around us.  Even though we’ve let some weeds grow around us without taking the time to trim them.  He still loves us and our quilt is still there waiting.

Thanks Estella.  We love you very much and thank God that you live next door to us.  Sweet Baby Ray will love the quilt. 

“Invading the Deathstar, Ken?” you may have asked.  Not unless the Emperor is cleverly disguising it as our local Target store.  You see, the rows I’m ducking behind are the shelves in the baby section of the store and my trusty blaster… a barcode scanner for registering for a baby shower.  Hey, you get your excitement the way you want to, and I’ll do the same!  The stormtroopers I’m decimating are the barcodes on packages of baby stuff needed for Sweet Baby Ray to exist comfortably once he decides his current residence isn’t quite large enough to accommodate his kicking parties held multiple times a day.  Oh sure, he’s having fun throwing some Chuck Norris-type love into his Mommy’s spleen, but eventually he won’t have room to perform round-house kicks.  He’s got about 8 weeks left before Mommy evicts his little baby buns!

Dawn and I were tasked by our Sunday school teacher’s wife to “get registered as quickly as possible!”  I think the ladies at church are planning a shower for Dawn and the “Little Liver Puncher” sometime soon.  Of course, I won’t be within 10 miles of the place because… well… I’m a guy!  I’ve never understood why they need to “shower” a new Mommy anyway.  I mean, it’s bad enough that a pregnant gal is “larger” than normal, uncomfortable no matter which way they sit, lie down, or stand, and eat some really strange things.  They definitely don’t need a room full of ladies yelling, “Get out the fire hose for this one Bernice!  She’s gonna require some extra attention with the wire brush!”  If she smells bad or something, get her some deodorant and have that friendly “talk” with her… but don’t make her shower for Pete’s sake!

I’m just kidding, of course.  My first guess would be a “shower” implies they are going to shower a family with love in the form of baby gifts, a huge cake, 2.5 hours of making fun of the father of the pending child, and games about baby names.  My only role with the other two showers that Dawn has had for the girls was to collect and transport said gifts back to our home.  Perhaps eat cake, but that’s about it.  It’s a gal thing.  I get that.

If a bunch of guys had a “shower”, we wouldn’t call it that at all.  We would probably call it “Playing Cards”, “Darts”, “Golf” or something like that.  It wouldn’t be held at a church fellowship hall, but probably someplace like a garage, basement, Bar-B-Q joint or a remote cabin.  I guarantee you there would be cake there, but it will have been skillfully baked by Little Debbie in the form of Nutty Bars and Zebra Cakes.  You would also see some variety of nacho cheese and plenty of beef jerky.  We would play games as well, but most of them would require stitches or an ER visit for at least one of the participants during the course of the gathering.  The child would receive presents like footballs, basketballs, bowling balls, 4×4 PowerWheels trucks, action figures, a junior weight set, and a racecar-shaped bed.  Few words would said, but the love would be apparent.  AND… in High Def!  I think I may be on to something here!

Oh yeah… guys would have lasers at their “showers” also.  “PEW!”  PEW!”

P.S. – Yeah, in case you haven’t figured it out by the title of this blog post, I turned 41 yesterday.  Yea for me, huh?!!  Father@FortyOne

I had spent three years in Springfield, Missouri attending college at SMSU, working toward a BS in secondary education.  I wanted to be an art teacher.  I got down to the last 30 hours and moved into the student teaching phase.  As I experienced student teaching, both observing classes as well as participating in teaching exercises in front of live teenagers, I found out rather quickly that I wasn’t official teacher material.  Art students, for the most part, see an art class as a blow-off class and weren’t showing a great deal of respect.  I knew the salary of a teacher wouldn’t offset this level of disrespect, so I decided to end my college career and go home defeated.  (I honor teachers who made it through, taught their whole careers for such horrible pay, and retire knowing they helped make a difference in the lives of many children.  You folks are awesome individuals!)  Now what was I going to do with my life?

I  moved back home with my parents not sure of what would happen, but God did.  Being back in my Mother’s home somehow compelled me to get back into church and a right place with God, as I had let our relationship dwindle through my college years.  I attended a “college and career” Sunday school class led by Myrna Turner, and that summer they decided to have a class party at Lake St. Clair at the home of a family I had never met before named the Stocktons.  (I suppose they began attending our church while I was away at college.)  As I spoke with Myrna, I told her about my college debacle and a need for some sort of gainful employment and she said “Well why don’t you go ask Mike Stockton for a job?  He owns a construction outfit in town and he might be looking for someone.”  She introduced me to Mike and his foreman, Chuck Tedrow, and “helped me” inquire about a potential job with them.  Keep in mind, I had never worked a day of construction in my life so I thought the likelihood of getting hired was slim, but God saw it differently.  Mike took a chance and hired a stranger that day and it changed my life forever.

Through college and a year or so after I came home, I had dated and/or chased a handful of gals.  For whatever reason (other than divine intervention), none of those relationships materialized into anything.  So now I was a little depressed about not graduating AND not finding a gal that was of marrying potential, so I threw my hands up in the air and gave up.  I was done dating… I would just continue bending nails for a living and that was it.  I believe that in our times of surrender, God sees it as a time when we’re finally ready to listen to Him and He makes things happen.  My foreman Chuck, who after a year or so had become a great Christian friend and mentor, started telling me about this girl at his church that I needed to come and meet.  I just kept passing off his stories about this “Donna” girl, who he said “had great legs” because I didn’t believe that she would be different than any other girls I had dated to that point.  Not interested.

After about six months of Chuck’s insistent badgering about this girl, an occasion arose to finally break me.  Chuck and his wife Joanie were really into Southern Gospel music and had given me a ticket to a concert for a group named Gold City.  Well, it just so happened that a death on Joanie’s side of the family occurred and she wouldn’t be able to make the concert.  They gave this “Donna” girl Joanie’s ticket, and Chuck said it would be a great opportunity to at least meet this girl he had been telling me about.  I reluctantly agreed.  Chuck said I should go to Sunday school at my church and then drive over to Washington to go to church service with him and then we could leave town to go to the concert after church was over.  Chuck and Joanie attended a new, small, independent fundamental baptist church that met in a rented out garage area of Franklin County Glass in Washington, Missouri.  When I pulled up I honestly thought, “People go to church here?”  I walked up to the tinted door of the facility, pulled it open, and as I walked through the door it took a second or two for my eyes to adjust.  In those two seconds, time seemed to slow down as I looked down a long wall/hall and a girl turned the corner and glanced my way.  It was sort of like those scenes in movies where a guy catches a glance of a great-looking girl and her hair blows in slow motion in the wind as she smiles at him.  She was Latina, tanned, with dark hair and Chuck wasn’t kidding about her legs!    I knew right then and there that this girl was going to be my wife.  Hopefully, this was “Donna”.  Chuck introduced me to her, but she told me her name was Dawn, not “Donna”.  (Chuck could get details wrong from time to time, but his heart’s always in the right place.)  Dawn Berner.

After church, the group of people going to the concert decided to go to McDonalds for lunch before we headed to the concert.  Dawn and I got to talk over cheeseburgers and I liked her.  Some of the little boys in the group already started teasing us about being boyfriend and girlfriend.  She had a great smile.  She told me that she was a new Christian and that her brother Rick and his wife Kathy had been going to this new church and invited her.  She became a Christian not too long after that.  It’s as if God was preparing her for me the whole time.  He is so wonderful.

We went to the concert.  I don’t remember a single song that had been sung.  I don’t remember anything else but patting a seat next to me, inviting Dawn to sit by me.  Through the concert she was touched by a song and cried.  She had a tender heart too.  Man, God really knows what He’s doing here!  I really enjoyed the time with her that afternoon.

The next day at work, I pretty much begged Chuck to somehow get me Dawn’s phone number.  He pulled some strings and worked through Joanie and called me that night with the number.  I was nervous when I called her, but excited.  I interrupted her watching the movie Honeymoon in Vegas but she didn’t seem to mind.  We had a great conversation and I was on cloud nine.

Well, I could go into great detail… but I’ll leave that for other posts.  Just some quick things I’ll jot down to get them out:

• On our first date, I took her to Mark and Patty Stockton’s wedding.  A lot of people were asking us when we were going to get married.  We blushed.  For Pete’s sake, it was our first date!  I caught the garter by the way! 
• We were promised to be married two weeks later.  I gave her my high school gold ring with the blue stone.  It’s really all I had that was worth anything.
• She told me later that God had showed her that a tall, blonde guy would come into her life.  Apparently he was preparing me for her too.
• A few months later I went to visit her Dad and asked him if I could have her hand in marriage.  He smiled the whole time and the only lecture point I remember getting was about having a job to take care of his little girl.  How’d I do Richard? 
• Dawn constantly hinted about which ring she would like to have every time we went to the mall.  She would always drag me into Helzberg to see her heart-shaped diamond.  So one night we were together in the mall, I decided that I would try to get her the ring she wanted on credit.  Unfortunately being a young man and new to the credit world, they refused my purchase.  I made a big deal about it around Dawn and acted all disappointed.  Secretly, I took my Dad back the next week and he co-signed for the credit on the ring.  Thanks Pop!
• The entire time we had been dating, I kept little mementos (ticket stubs, pictures, etc.)  I put them in a big, three ring binder, wrote little paragraphs about each one,  and on the last page I wrote “Dawn Berner, will you marry me?”  I presented that book to her at her house on October 23rd, 1993.  Dawn took her sweet time reading through the memories… so I sat at her feet with the ring in my pocket for quite some time.  Her Dad kept hovering in the next room trying to secretly snap pictures, almost blowing the surprise.  She got to the last page, I was kneeling on one knee at her feet, and pulled out the maroon ring box.  The rest was history.
• We were married the next August in 1994.  I wrote her a song and sang it to her, with the help of my buddy Jeff Willard (playing guitar).  Man, she was pretty standing there looking into my eyes.

So here we are today.  Married 17 years.  Have two wonderful daughters.  Going to be parents again at age 41 in a few months to a baby boy we’re already in love with.  Seen and been through a lot.  More in love today then back then.  God really knows what he’s doing.

So after we waited a little while, the ultrasound technician came to find my wife and we all, with a few butterflies in our stomachs, filed back into the ultrasound room.  I’d like to make fun of our daughters for being so antsy about finally getting an answer about what the sex of the child is, but I can’t.  My wife and I were probably just as bad if not worse!  We have a lot at stake here at our age.  We won’t, shy of miraculous intervention, be getting pregnant again after this child comes into the world.  My wife has assured me that I will be getting snipped.  (I’m still trying to figure out why she makes the “scissors” sign with her two fingers everytime she says “snipped.”  I know what that entails and I don’t need constant visual reminders about my fate.)  If this is our last chance, there’s a lot riding on what the technician was going to say.

The lights went dim in the room, the warmed up gel was squeezed onto the pregnant belly, and the ultrasound wand began to sway back and forth.  On the larger monitor they had hanging on the wall, we could see how the child within was progressing.  No longer the “pistachio” from previous ultrasounds… now a full-fledged child with a skull, face, spine, arms and legs wiggling about.  We saw the wonders of life with every pass of the wand, including a little bitty heart beating out a healthy pace.  The baby was pretty active, spinning around in its safe place like a break dancer from the eighties.  As interesting and as beautiful as it was… Dawn and I were looking at the monitor for other “wonders”.  Don’t get me wrong… spines and skulls, healthy kidneys, beating hearts, swinging arms and kicking legs are really super cool… but we’ve seen that before with previous pregnancies.  Our eyes were so focused looking for “something else” that we nearly burned a hole through the monitor.

Then I guess the hospital’s super ultrasound technician came into the room to assist.  She started taking shots of all the normal baby parts for the doctor to look at later as we sat patiently.  She asked us the simple question, “So, did you want to know the sex of the baby?”  Well duh, lady!  Look at us all!  We’re glued to the monitor here!  She swung the ultrasound wand to show the baby’s southern hemisphere and positioned it just right so that she could announce to our whole family that the child was most definately a…

The more I grow in the skill of writing, the more I understand about keeping an audience’s attention.  Like right now, you’re probably so frustrated with me using this dramatic pause that you’re about to think up some “A” names yourself that aren’t very flattering to an up-and-coming writer.  It’s okay really.  I think it’s my job to take you on a roller coaster ride with me from time to time.  It helps us grow a relationship and you’ll begin to trust me and…

Oh, heck with it! 

IT’S A BOY!!!!!

The super technician said that even though the non-fancy ultrasounds weren’t 100% accurate, if she was a betting girl… she was 95% sure it’s a boy.  She took two separate ultrasound photos of his junk, and I’m convinced.  I told his sisters to turn their head and give the poor little guy his privacy!    Stash is now Kenneth Ray Hoff III.  Ray.  Kenny.  Kenny Ray. Ray Ray.  Ken.  It’s all good.  Now to just get the little fella out into the world healthy and happy.

Just try and knock the smiles off our faces!

Depending on the sex of the child, this could be super easy or incredibly difficult.  If it’s a boy, it’s easy… just like everything else in life where boys are the final solution to the equation.  The boy-child will be named Kenneth Ray Hoff III, most likely dubbed “Ray” by his father.  He will be a husky, strapping lad bound for the offensive line of the St. Clair high school Bulldogs and the hearts of young ladies across Franklin county.  He will eat like a horse, work hard, love Jesus, and fish with his old man.  Oh yeah… and the kid will totally be into Star Wars! 

Now if God decides to “bless us” with a female child, war will most likely break out.  I’m not just talking about a small, family squabble between Dawn and I… no, that would be too small of scale.  I’m talking about grandparents, siblings, church family, co-workers and friends all laying claim to a name they feel is perfect.  Things will get ugly my friends.  I’m seriously thinking about calling the police chief to see if he will step up patrols in my neighborhood until the dust settles and the child is in her early twenties.

Both of this child’s sister’s names were easy.  It was almost as if they were handed to us without any effort on our part.  Dawn got to name our oldest, Anna-Maria Nicole Hoff, (although I got to throw in the “Nicole” part of that to feel like I had a little say in it) and I had one-hundred percent say into what our second child was named… Abby Gail Hoff.  They both fit their names.  Isn’t that strange?  Have you ever wondered how a parent usually chooses a name for their child that fits them like a glove, even though most of them come out looking nearly the same (plus or minus some parts)?  How does a parent know that the beautiful baby girl they hold in their arms and name Bertha will undoubtedly end up being a 400 pound woman?  Or that a son named Earl will most likely pump gas at a dusty, old filling station in the middle of nowhere in his bib overalls?  Or that a baby named Heather will be the head cheerleader?  Or that a boy-child named Damien will end up being the anti-christ?  (Watch The Omen and get a clue people!  Don’t name your child that!)  How do you know that your son Mitch will be cool and drive a red Ferrari, or your kid named Earnie will get a brick thrown at him on the kindergarten playground?  And then there are the odd names, like a poor, little girl named Apple.  Seriously? Apple?

My wife and I have really painted ourselves into a name corner if it’s a girl.  The two older daughter’s first names start with the letter “A”.  We should try to name this child something that starts with an “A” also, right?  Sounds simple enough, but we can’t agree on a new “A” name.  I have a feeling that couples usually fall into the same disagreements over a name because their brains kick in to test the waters with a name suggestion.  Here are the test criteria for a suggested name that runs through my mind EVERY time:

• How will the name sound when some stupid, mean little kid on the playground pokes fun at their name?  Example: “Lance with the wet spot on his pants!”  Kids on the playground will always find a way to make someone’s given name degrading, so it has to be jerk-proof.
• Without a doubt, you have to sing the name game song (Banana-fanna-fo…) with the child’s first name.  The resulting lyrics cannot have a curse word otherwise the child and all of their friends will get sent to the principal’s office eventually.  They of course will blame it on you.
• When your child gets into trouble and you yell their full name at the top of your lungs in your best angry tone, will you run out of breath because it’s too long?
• Along the same line… will they end up using their entire box of crayons the first day of school just writing their name?
• Does the suggested name remind you of an old girlfriend that dumped you?  Surely my wife just didn’t suggest the name of a girl on the school bus that regularly got sprayed with “cootie spray” as she walked down the aisle because no one wanted to sit next to her!  No way Honey!
• If your child, on the off chance, ends up being a serial killer… does their full name sound cool on TV?

We’ll find out on June 23rd what the sex of the baby will be using one of the new, fancy, 3D ultra-sounds.  All of us are eagerly waiting for the appointment so the great name war of 2011 can begin.  The war could be won with a single stroke of grace… little Ray could end it quickly by showing us what little boys are made of.  Should the ultra-sound show something else… well, let’s not think about it for now.

Hey, wait a minute… Apple starts with “A”, doesn’t it?