I’m sitting here with Christmas over seventeen minutes ago and I am feeling unsettled. Christmas, no, family holidays, in general, drain me into an ambitiousless lazy lump. If my family would be all right with me putting a sign around my head saying, “I love you. Good to see you. Merry/ Happy (fill in the blank)! If you want to know what’s going on in my life, go to blog.joshlewis.org/eddie, ” while I sit passed out in the Lazy Boy, I’d do it. But that wouldn’t satiate their need to find out:

How’s the dancing going?
So, you were in the paper?
Do you have a girlfriend?
Are you still teaching these days?
Where are you touring?
Where did you say your condo was?
Are you dating anyone?
When’s your next show?
So are you a Viking fan now?
Are there any lady prospects in your life?

Over and over, every time I come into town, I am barraged with these questions. “Meaningless!” I hear King Solomon echoing in my head.

On the way over here (Green Bay) I was listening to a podcast of a sermon. Among a whole lot of other good stuff, the pastor mentioned that we need to be detectives of our souls. I usually want to throw up when I hear this psychological mumbo-jumbo, but I listened as the pastor relayed some stuff he pulled up. It was some sad story about how he made this really cool contraption as a kid and when he showed it to his father it was clear his dad didn’t really much care. I thought, “You know, I respect you, Pastor So-And-So, but big fricken deal. So you found something from your past that you say made you feel inadequate as an adult, which who knows if it really was a major cause or just one of the thousand things that killed your self-esteem. You seem fine now.” Then he replayed the situation, but in the place of his biological father, he put Jesus. He imagined all the things that Jesus might have said, asking him how it works, naming his contraption, etc. Really loving his son. And I was crying.

I have a good dad in Hawaii. I have a step-dad that I really only met for the first time after 20 years when my mom divorced him. I have a man who is a good guy that my mom is currently married to. So I ask myself the question, “Why do I lose it sometimes when I see a father loving his son?” This is where I often give up because I can’t pinpoint just one thing. I can think of lots. Still, it’s easy to forgive them knowing what I know of them now.

I do think that this thought is key:

I have never felt precious to any human man. I have had men that care about me, my dad’s and my pastor do, I know. My mom, yes, it’s clear she sees her sons as precious, and I thank God for that. She has been something solid in my life. I think, though, it is something that I missed when I was little. I have no memory whatsoever of my biological father holding me and looking at me as if I were worth more than the world. I’m sure he did before my mom left for Green Bay with my brother and I, but I don’t remember it and I feel a gap. Hawaii is far away. It’s weird, but somehow I can imagine what it feels like, to have a father run through a field to greet his lost son. There’s some kind of memory there. I think that’s even why I get mad at God when I feel like He’s not around, when I wish He’d just keep His hand on my shoulder so I can feel it. I want to feel it there, not just imagine it! My faith reminds me He’s there, but I can’t help feeling like He’s in Hawaii sometimes.

(Note: I do need to come to my dad’s defense for a second. I’m one of seven children he had, my mom took us thousands of miles away, and my dad tends to procrastinate to an extent that we’d often get our birthday presents for Christmas and our Christmas presents on our birthday. Still, he is a very genuine, loving man who wrestled, hugged, and kissed us when we’d come and visit. When I was six, I wore a shirt that he gave me to bed every night until it disintegrated because I thought I could still smell him in it. He is the reason I have only ever felt homesick for Hawaii.

My mom’s newest husband. He’s a good guy. He’s not my dad, though. But he has gone out of his way to bridge the gap. I appreciate that he seems to have my mom’s best interest in mind and has patience with her stubbornness.)

And this is where I give up, if I have gone this far. I think I am just feeling sorry for myself. I wasn’t an orphan or anything. I am around kids every day who have much messier lives. I think, I haven’t had it so bad. I haven’t. I do have some very strong healthy parts.

I want to keep doing this, though. I want to keep sifting through my messiness. It feels like choreographing or writing a poem. Where do I begin? I want to be as healthy as I can be before I marry and raise a family. Of course, until I die I need to keep asking hard questions and continue to find my new identity in Christ. That’s what this pastor did. Jesus is still healing me even as I am saved.

O, how I’d rise from my stupor if one of my relatives’ request was, “Tell me about something that is really important in your life.” And I might tell them about my dancing, or a girl I am interested in, but I might also tell them about something deeper. I need to remember this for when I am in the position of inquiry.