Father's Day

I write today from southern Washington, where I’m spending time with my son and his family. But I also want to pause and pay tribute to my step dad, known to many as Dr. Dud. He is the kind of person who was always there for everyone. A young man could not ask for a better person to step into his life and be a dad, and I thank God regularly for bringing Dr. Dud into my life. To just say that he was at every soccer and football game doesn’t begin to cover it. He is our dad, but has also been our friend and confidant. Yet, it wasn’t until I had children and grandchildren of my own that I came to truly appreciate all of his effort and sacrifice throughout the years. He invested all of himself in us, and I am a better person because of him. Dud taught me to be a man. In a group setting recently we were asked to share about a person who had made a difference in our lives, a person who was a hero to us. I immediately thought of Dr. Dud and then wrote the below poem about him.

So this is my Father’s Day tribute to Dr. Dudley Pfaff, the man who has had so much influence on my life and one whom I am also very proud to call my friend. I once heard a wise person say that fathers are made of blood, but dads are made of love. No truer words were ever spoken. Thanks, dad, for the man you are and the example you have been to all of us. Much love always, Frank.

To Be a Man

When I look back across the years

And all that I’ve been through

Among the things I’m thankful for

Is the gift of having you

Your example as a Christian man

And a life of humility

Have helped to mold and shape my life

And meant the world to me

Thank you for all that you have done

To point me to God’s plan

For you showed me what it means

To be a Godly man

               By Frank Carpenter ©

Rocks for Sale

As I was driving down our street on a recent Saturday morning I came upon a very interesting sale. The neighbor kids across from us were out on their driveway in front of a hand painted sign that read, “Rocks for Sale.” Naturally, I had to investigate. The kids had painted some rocks and added glitter to create what they considered works of art. These sub-precious stones were for sale at the bargain rate of only 25 cents each. Now I’m a sucker for anything that kids sell. In fact, we have a family policy that no matter how much of a hurry you’re in you have to stop at every lemonade stand and make a purchase. And I had to admit that a rock sale, while clearly unconventional, conformed to at least the spirit of the aforementioned lemonade policy. Needless to say, I stopped to peruse the geologic curiosities of the neighborhood rock barons.

Clearly these preschool kids were onto something because their creations were interesting, to say the least. They thought they had some truly marketable treasures and who was I to dispute the unbiased artistic wisdom of children. This gave me pause to consider some of the things that grownups assign value to. In fact, we seem to fill our lives with trinkets and conveniences that have little more intrinsic value than those glitter rocks did. Our stores, art galleries and even art museums are brimming with items that have no more utility than a rock, and are often far less appealing … at least in my opinion. Not to mention that you’d be hard pressed to derive a greater joy-per-dollar benefit than these particular 25 cent rocks promised. I’m clearly not an art critic, but you would have to concede that throughout our culture there are countless items, art and otherwise, for which the assigned value is often unrelated to the intrinsic value or the utility value. This merely confirms the old adage that beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder.

Consequently, I would challenge each of you to survey your own life and consider what things are truly precious. If you’re anything like me, you may discover that you have assigned value to many things that are actually worthless in the long run. What is more, we often work ourselves to death so that we can own all these things. Perhaps they even own us. As it turns out the most priceless things in our lives are probably the ones that don’t cost anything; like people, happiness, laughter, faith and the like. So those are the things in which to invest our precious and limited resources.

I’ve included a poem below that I actually did write on another occasion, while watching some little girls assign artistic value to a pile of rocks on a beach long ago. They taught me a lesson which I have never forgotten. That lesson was that joy can be derived from almost anything if you approach it with the heart of a child. So don’t fill your life with stuff that doesn’t matter. Instead, look for the beauty in what is near at hand … and discover how to enjoy it. And if you should happen to pass happen to pass a sign that reads “Rocks for Sale” hit the brakes, dump all the coins out of your car’s ash tray, and get yourself a whole bag of the little beauties. I bought five.

Pebbles

I watched a little girl
Sitting on the beach today
Sorting through the stones and pebbles
Which she kept or tossed away
To me, they all looked worthless
Yet, her childish eyes could see
A value hidden in them
Which, somehow, eluded me
For out of countless thousands
She chose a special few
Based on shape or size or texture
Or some unusual hue
Proclaiming they were priceless
That she must have them for her own
She found value, even beauty
Where I saw only cold, grey stone
Tomorrow they’d be stones once more
Which she would cast away
To be polished by the ocean
And found again another day
And it occurs that she’s no different
Than most grownups I have known
Who spend their lives pursuing
What they consider precious stone
Which they pile up in heaps
Around their children and their wives
With the goal that all their treasure
Would bring value to their lives
Until, one day, they wake up
And discover, to their shock
That what they spent their lives on
Amounts to but a pile of rock
When we search for things of value
We must choose most carefully
So we only keep the real gems
And toss the pebbles back in the sea
                   By Frank Carpenter ©