I lied—this vacation does include blogging, if blogging means showing video of my cousin Scott and my brother Geoff ruining a baking sheet from our rent-a-house by spelling “USA” in sparklers. Also included for your viewing pleasure are the “Crackling Salute” explosives I bought and Geoff’s plan to light four of them in tandem.

Yes, fireworks are illegal in North Carolina. What’s your point?

During a recent Barnes & Noble excursion I impulsively bought a copy of
Posterity: Letters of Great Americans to Their Children. It’s turned out to be a great read.

A dozen sections, arranged chronologically and by subject, include everything from Thomas Jefferson’s marriage advice for his newlywed daughter Martha to Samuel Clemens’ (aka Mark Twain’s) letter as Santa Claus to his three-year-old daughter Susie.

The letters are endlessly quotable. In one, author F. Scott Fitzgerald compiled a list of things his twelve-year-old daughter should and should not be concerned about. (“Worry about courage. Don’t worry about the past. Don’t worry about growing up.”)

“Consideration of others at all times, be they right or wrong, is an acknowledgment of your own limitations, ” writes fighter pilot Eddie Rickenbacker before sending his son off to the Air Force.

Famous photographer Ansel Adams might just as easily have been an award-winning writer; “I am wondering, in the afternoon of my own life, just what your day will be,” he writes to his son.

In her prologue, the book’s editor mentions letters are dying art forms—the book includes few recent letters because email and telephone calls have replaced them. But I’m old enough to remember life before the internet and cell phones, and my own father wrote me a letter every week I was away at college. (Well, until my senior year, when we both got email.)

I still have a file folder crammed with those short notes and long epistles, plus many of the cards and letters he’s written since. They run the gamut from routine recountings of the previous week to serious messages from a dad watching his daughter grow into adulthood. And many, of course, included Standard Publishing stickers.

During college:
“Did you REALLY email us at 5:53 a.m.? Did you get up that early…or STAY up that late? Take care of yourself!”

“It’s exciting to anticipate how your life will turn out. Of course, I realize the bigger issue may seem to be passing pre-calculus this semester. So we’ll pray about that first.” (I passed with a C.)

When my roommates were noticed more than me: “Don’t feel bad about being ‘in the shadow.’ There’s probably more light there than you realize.”

As I struggled with my first year away from home: “All your mother and I want is for you to have and be and do what’s best for you. A large part of that is finding God’s will, which I’m convinced is often not just one answer. We anticipate that you will always be a source of light, wherever you choose to shine.”

Years later, in response to an email headed “Fun for your Wednesday,” asking for reasons why I shouldn’t date a cuter-than-snot atheist: “I was expecting a funny pass-along email or one of those silly cartoons, any of which I would have called ‘fun.’ This correspondence I would put in another category, something close to ‘life and death.’”

On a birthday card: “What a wonderful thing to call you…our friend! It is wonderful compensation for realizing how old we are, now that you are an adult.”

And always, at the end of almost every letter, “You know we love you.”

I’m a bit biased, but I think some of Dad’s letters rival the best of anything from Thomas Jefferson or Ansel Adams. I’m lucky to have them, and lucky to have him.

Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.

I enjoyed Christmas in Cincinnati for many reasons this year: Geoff and Lisa drove in from New York, my mom cooked amazing meals, and Frankie the puppy only peed on the carpet two times. All in all, a successful holiday.

But one of my favorite parts of the week was visiting my friend Mildred. This 91-year-old lady, along with her daughter and son-in-law and grandchildren, has become a dear friend who often shares our Easter, Thanksgiving, or Christmas Eve dinner. This year a bout with bronchitis and a brief hospital stay left her too worn out to celebrate in our home, so I traveled to hers.

I planned to stay for just an hour or so and leave before she felt too tired. Instead she served me cookies and punch, shared her life story (at my request), and brushed away my offer to let her rest after 90 minutes. “I’m fine,” she said. “Stay put.”

I’ll be the first to admit older people sometimes drive me crazy, for all the stereotypical reasons. But like all prejudices, “ageism” dissolves when it encounters an individual. In our three hours of talking and laughing, I found Mildred engaging, funny, and full of quiet strength. As she described her childhood, her years working as the head cook for a hospital, her bout with measles, her ruptured eardrums as a result, and her two husbands and their deaths, I did not consider her age—just her insight.

The Elder Wisdom Circle, an online community of senior adults who voluntarily answer letters and provide advice to 20 and 30-somethings, proves I’m not alone in craving this kind of guidance. The hard-won perspective of the EWC’s men and women shines through in their responses: “It is never too late to take another look at your choices,” writes one to a young man facing career changes. “Remember that nothing worth doing is easy.”

“You really cannot persuade someone who doesn’t want to be persuaded, and you also cannot change another person,” writes another to parents concerned about their daughter’s choice of a mate.

I love the idea of connecting the generations online, but I won’t be writing the Wisdom Circle—I have Mildred, and I’m already looking forward to our next visit. If he masters bladder control anytime soon, I may even bring Frankie.

Last weekend I experienced a second great Christmas program (scroll down to read about the first one). After hearing rave reviews of the pageant at Christ’s Church at Mason, I drove up to Ohio to visit my parents and see the show.

The ravers were right—it was a well-done and meaningful production. But even as I enjoyed seeing the Christmas story (complete with an adorable toddler Jesus who kept his big eyes riveted on the wisemen and their entourage), I was also reminded of another kind of history.

I looked up at the stage Saturday night and recognized familiar faces in every corner: My third-grade Sunday school teacher. My mom’s roommate before she was married. The woman whose lap I fell into after tripping down the stairs during my own choir concert in second grade (still a mortifying memory).

My parents have attended CCM for 25 years, not all of them happy or easy. Through three senior ministers, several capital campaigns, two buildings, and one name change my folks have slogged through the daily-ness of their own faith journey in that place, with those people.

They’ve taken seriously the idea that a church is a family—family with annoying cousins, dear grandparents, obnoxious nephews, the whole deal. Just as you don’t quit family, the “lifers” at Mason keep serving together, choosing to love each other and tolerate each other’s quirks even when it would be easier to quit.

This is not to say you should never leave a church; doctrinal shifts or other issues can mean it’s time to move on. But many of the reasons often given for “church shopping” have nothing to do with such significant (and relatively rare) problems—often it’s boredom with the worship service, dislike of another member or difference of opinion with a ministry direction.

Because my parents never spoke negatively about the church or its people while I grew up, I don’t know if they experienced these common frustrations, but surely they did. As did the Meddings, Horsley, Phipps, Lewis, Clements and Henderson families. But they’re all still there, and the result is a rich heritage. CCM continues to grow in numbers and buildings, but the long-time members enjoy a unique perspective on what it’s taken to get there. And although the church is too big for “everyone to know your name,” there is something priceless about a place where even a fraction have known your name for twenty years.

I’ve moved away, but I’m better for witnessing that kind of commitment. Because of my parents’ faithfulness to their church, I not only have Christian brothers and sisters, but spiritual grandparents, aunts, and uncles. And a few annoying cousins.