I was a crank last night.

All day, in fact. I woke up cranky, achey and headachey, and in spite of all the ibuprofen I went through like butter mints, I didn’t get any better.

It was a bad day to be that way. I needed to get a lot of stuff done. And Angi was to host her bunco group at our house in the evening.

So I dutifully fetched the kids after school and whisked them off to the pizza buffet for dinner, with a brief stop at the Game Exchange which my 9-year-old daughter Laura did not want to visit but my 13-year-old son Matthew did. She didn’t want to go see a movie, either; though there were a couple playing that would have been good bets.

The pizza was not at its best, and the kids quarreled non-stop. At the claw machine, Laura squandered the seven dollars she had earned helping stuff church bulletins. I did not stop her. I took her to Party City instead, where there were many attractive things that money could have bought. Then we went to Toys R Us, where there were more. And thence to Garden Ridge, where there were still more. Then to Target. I didn’t lecture. But I didn’t advance money, either. I was teaching conservatism, thrift. And by the time we needed to return home, I wasn’t the only cranky one.

Matthew had checked out in secret at Garden Ridge with a couple of treasures he found on the clearance tables. I didn’t pry. He had bought an “American Army” video game earlier in the week, against my wishes, but had been good enough to ask my opinion first. I thanked him for that, and told him I would draw the line at games rated “M” that his friends’ parents permitted, but games rated “T” he could buy at his discretion. He is a teenager now. He doesn’t always choose wisely, or as I would choose for him – but he has to learn to choose.

So I was surprised – pleasantly – that he chose to give one of his two new purchases to his disappointed little sister in the car on the way home; in fact he had bought it for her because he thought she would like it. It was a $3 battery-powered, neon flamingo lamp, marked down from $10. He had bought himself one that was an 8-ball – he has become quite the billiards fiend. But, as he explained later – showing me the package – most of the other lamps available were things like martini glasses and signs that said “BAR.” He knew I wouldn’t approve, and he didn’t want any of them.

Then I got home and, unilluminated by the neon light of grace I had just seen, acted even more like a complete idiot.

I went to replace the batteries in my 17-year-old programmable master remote control ($99 from Radio Shack back then – insert appropriate Tim Allen noises here) and discovered that it had, for the first time, lost all of the programmed settings when I removed the old batteries. So I slumped into an easy chair and grumpily began re-setting all of them from the individual remotes, grousing and fidgeting about all my tired aches and pizza-inflated gut.

I did not help my sweet wife clean up after her bunco party.

Usually, I am pretty good about doing things like that – I had helped dust and vacuum before it – but, even though she had thanked me for taking care of the children, I did not offer to help clean up last night. I just sat and programmed. She even offered me one of her world-famous homemade dinner rolls, hot and fresh out of the oven, and I let it grow room-temperature cold while I programmed.

Angi doesn’t nag. It’s not in her nature. She gently dropped a hint or two, and I picked up on them: “Well, I finally got everything tidied up.” “Oh … your roll is getting cold.” But I did nothing. Except eat the roll. I’m not stupid; I just act stupidly.

I didn’t sleep very well last night. I didn’t deserve to. Because I missed most of that good sleep by trying to justify my ignorant behavior, which no amount of crankiness or achiness can excuse.

What I should have done this morning is to apologize. (In fact, there needs to be a Hallmark card for situations like this; one that says on the outside “You have a perfect ass,” and when you open it on the inside it reads “Me.”)

By the time I can give Angi the flowers and the apology she deserves face-to-face this evening, she will probably have forgotten my boorish behavior altogether. She’s like that. She understands grace; she even embodies it.

And she doesn’t even need a neon flamingo light to remind her.

I’m grateful my kids’ toys aren’t neat
and their shoes litter the floor.
It testifies – no less, no more –
that they have hands and feet.

I’m thankful that they don’t come home
the moment playtime ends.
It tells me they have good friends
within a few yards’ roam.

I’m even glad for muddy floors
and grubby, smiling faces
and dug-up garden places
for they love to be outdoors.

As costly as they seem,
I pay for jerseys and the Y
– and gladly, too. Need you ask why?
It means they’re on a team.

For practices that run too long
and games in cold and heat,
I’m thankful even when they’re beat,
for they’re healthy and they’re strong.

I’m thankful though my children view
a bit too much TV.
It says to me they hear and see,
and want to know what’s new.

I’m thankful for the homework check
I must conduct each night.
Though answers are not always right,
I learn when I inspect.

I’m grateful when my children’s grades
are not quite up to snuff.
It shows me they try hard enough;
like mine, their memory fades.

I’m glad to see a teacher’s note
with praise or warning there.
It proves their teachers care
and my kids’ learning isn’t rote.

I’m grateful for each curious rule,
and each fund-raising drive.
Though wits and wallet won’t survive,
it means they have a school.

I’m thankful though I am accused
of never being fair.
My role as judge is always there;
I’ve never been recused.

I’m thankful when “Let’s go to the park!”
they goad – though other matters task.
I go – and hope they’ll still ask
four decades down the road.

I’m thankful that they think of me
as worth much of their time.
(Though “Hi, Mom!” is what they would mime
on national TV.)

I’m glad to see their reams of art.
Stick-figured Mom and Dad
in colors wild – the fun they’ve had
while drawing from the heart.

I’m grateful though the lyric’s wrong
and when they sing off-key.
For it means all the world to see
their hearts are full of song.

I’m thankful though my children fuss
and fight with one another.
It means they’re sis and brother,
and I know they’re part of “us.”

I’m thankful when they flip their lids,
as well as when they sing.
Because, as much as anything,
I’m thankful for my kids.

(first published in the Abilene Reporter-News)

Last night I told my kids what we’d be doing after church today:

“We’ll be going to church again, at Silver City. Then we’ll be helping serve lunch, along with some other folks from our Life Group and another Life Group.”

“Why?” my son Matthew inevitably responded.

Then I had one of those flashbacks to an old Star Trek episode, the one where Captain Kirk has just assigned a panicky junior officer to the boarding party of a ship a gazillion times bigger which has relented on its threat to destroy them. So I answered him the same way:

“The face of the unknown. I think I owe you a look at it.”

After church we went, not knowing what to expect at all.

Silver City Church meets in the fellowship hall of the Gardner United Methodist Church in downtown North Little Rock at 12:30 p.m. each Sunday, thanks to their very good grace of their hosts. It is comprised mostly of black teenage and younger kids, a few black single moms, a handful of young white couples and singles. They sing praise songs – only praise songs, as nearly as I can tell! – which they are still learning from the overhead projections. They clap vigorously during the appropriate songs. They sit quietly and listen when one or two of the young men speak. They share in the Lord’s Supper. Nobody takes a poll to find out who should or shouldn’t. They worship.

And we enjoyed the great privilege of worshipping with them.

Then we served them taco salads, made to order. The servers included a university chancellor, an attorney, a retired bank president, and a technology investment executive and their wives … among others; my kids right there beside them. Matthew dispensed grated cheese and by his side, Laura delivered diced tomatoes, their little latex gloves glistening. (Though they switched places late in the serving.) I set up and bussed tables and poured soft drinks.

Afterward, most went out to the parking lot to toss around a football.

We lingered a bit to admire a beautiful brand new baby girl who was opening her eyes for her first time at church and trying to focus them on the circle of grinning faces – white, black and some in-between – simpering down at her.

The face of the unknown.

She got a good look, and so did we.

On the way home just now, I was able to convey to my kids the compliments of the others in my Life Group and leaders of Silver City Church for their eagerness to serve.

It was an extraordinary blessing.

In my fellowship, we celebrate the eucharist – we call it the Lord’s Supper or communion – every Sunday.

It’s a time at my church when someone shares some thoughts about the sacrifice of Jesus and a blessing each for the bread that is His body and the wine that is His blood.

This morning I confess I did not hear much of the thoughts shared by the fellow who presided at the table. That’s a shame in a way, because he always has good thoughts to share.

This morning I couldn’t help missing it.

My 12-year-old son Matthew was sitting next to me, as he always does. For some reason, his hand slipped into mine when that part of the service began. And it just stayed there, clasping mine tightly.

Not quite a man. No longer just a boy. Twelve years old. The age that boys sometimes stay behind in God’s house a while after mother and father leave.

All I could think of during this tiny shadow of a Paschal meal was how hard it would be to see others mock and spit upon my not-so-little boy. How difficult it would be not to obliterate them if they began to torture him. How impossible it would be to hold me back if they tried to kill him.

My boy isn’t perfect. He has anger issues. He torments his little sister. He’s having trouble in life sciences and failing pre-algebra.

But he’s my son. And while he does not always do or say what would please me, I am always well-pleased with him.

It won’t be long until he’ll be a teenager. He will choose the directions his life will take, and whether they include following the Jesus that I’ve told him about. He’ll be too cool to sit with me in church. He’ll be too big to hold my hand during the Supper.

While those moments last, they must be cherished.

They are communion, too.

Which also happens to be the name of my nine-year-old daughter.

A couple of nights ago she hopped onto mom and dad’s bed where said parents were, as usual, engrossed in watching the home decor excesses of HGTV and said: “Would it be all right if I gave away all my toys?”

We cautiously assented, hemming and hawing, advising and warning.

Last night, she brought up the subject again as I walked with her to a neighbor’s pool. She had started sorting the toys during the day and had filled five black 30-gallon lawn-and -leaf bags. She said she didn’t play with them any more. I said that if she saw them while she was sorting them and hadn’t seen them for a long time – and still didn’t want to play with them – she had probably outgrown them. She thought that made sense.

Today, while Angi was sick with a cold and at home with her, they filled up five more bags of toys and drove them happily to Goodwill and checked them in. Some special ones she saved out to give to our neighbor’s two small sweet children, one of whom has Down Syndrome. Tonight I came home and she proudly showed me a room that looked like it belonged among the home decor excesses of HGTV. But I don’t think that’s what motivated it.

There was no “giver’s remorse,” you see. No tears at the sacrifice. No regrets.

She gave because she has discovered the joy of giving.

To say I’m proud of Laura is not quite accurate. I’m humbled by her generosity.

I have a lot to learn from my daughter.

She has, in fact, taken me to the foot of a cross where – looking up – I can see the faintest hint of a smile expressing ultimate joy on the tortured face of the One who has given up everything for me.

You may not know this about me, but I was a three-time househusband.

Yup. Work-at-home, stay-at-home husband and dad.

It all started in October 1991, when I quit my eight-year career as a copywriter/creative administrator for the largest advertising agency in Little Rock – and in my state, cashed in my retirement investment to buy $3,500 in Macintosh computer equipment (and to tide us over until the business was up and running). And I began doing the same kind of work at home – while my wife of a little over a year continued working as a professor.

You might be thinking that this plan didn’t make any sense, but there are other circumstances you’d need to know. Angi brought home about twice as much as I did, between teaching and conducting research, writing textbooks and other projects. Plus, we couldn’t have children. We wanted children. We were disappointed (and out quite a bit of money) working with an adoption attorney. We signed up with an adoption agency associated with our church fellowship instead. We prayed. We fasted.

And we had a feeling that the time was near.

We were right. Matthew was born in late December, and we were able to go to Kentucky and meet him after all the termination papers were signed in February.

So I operated a copywriting, graphic design and typesetting business from my home. And I changed diapers, rocked, held, fed, cooed, sang, and occasionally napped with our baby at home – well, he got hungry at night. A lot.

I worked. I also did laundry. Did a little interior decorating at the house. Kept it picked up and clean. Dusted and vaccuumed. In fact, I still do. I never learned to cook anything past canned soup or griddle pancakes, but I can set and clear a table and load a dishwasher with the best of ’em.

Good friends brought me good work to do, and never missed a payment on their bills.

I didn’t make nearly as much money as I had at the ad agency, but I wouldn’t trade those years with Matthew for anything.

In May of 1996, we got to go back to Kentucky to meet his baby sister Laura, then take her home with us. My little company was renamed – from Matthew Scott Brenton Creative Services (reminding me that he was my CEO and the primary one I needed to work for) to Brenton3 (cubed) Creative Services. Laura became President; my title was Vice President and Daddy. Our logo was a pink, blue and yellow wooden block with letters on it.

I kept working – sometimes juggling toddler boy, baby girl and briefcase to deliver my work – but it became obvious I needed a steadier income. For a while, I worked an afternoon-evening shift at the agency I had worked for before; sometimes baby Laura went with me and sang to my fellow-workers from her playpen in my cubicle. After several months, we put the children in day-care for a half-day and I took a part-time position at a different agency.

Things really changed when we moved to Springfield, Missouri. My job there started first, at another large ad agency, full-time – and the firm kept me in a corporate condo usually used for visitors that summer. But I had to be away from my family five days a week, driving 3-1/2 hours each way to be with them on the weekend until Angi’s position as a department chair at the university started in the fall.

I didn’t get to witness Laura’s first steps, and that’s still something that causes a pang somewhere down in the bottom of my heart.

(One mid-week after a weekend visit that was too busy for me to help clean up, Angi fired up the vaccuum cleaner – only to cause Matthew to run downstairs, shrilling “Daddy’s home!” He was sadly disappointed.)

The children went into full-time day care and pre-school. We worked. We picked them up. We became the typical two-working-parent American family.

Until, after 11 months, several major changes took place among my clients at the agency and I was suddenly out of a job. For a couple of months, I was a stay-at-home dad, but for the most part without children to care for: just a dry, trying safari for a new position. I tried the new monster.com route. In 1997, I even learned HTML and posted my own resume and portfolio on my own Web site. So that short break doesn’t really count in house-husbandry.

Then Angi accepted a great opportunity as a dean at Abilene Christian University, and we moved again. I worked at the newspaper, afternoons and nights again, posting its articles on the Web. The children seemed to enjoy day care and school, so I wasn’t spending as much time with them at home as I had when they were babies. But I was free in the mornings for chapel and other programs – and I was close enough to home that I could always be there for dinner. But that was the extent of my second stint as a househusband.

That was our routine for about three years – then Angi was offered a deanship back at the University of Arkansas at Little Rock. My boss at the Abilene Reporter-News saw no reason that I couldn’t take my job with me, and I did. I worked at home afternoons and evenings, still available for chapel and special programs and summer break for three years. I even began writing a column called Parenting on Purpose that became fairly popular in Abilene.

But times got tough for the newspaper, and two of my bosses were pressed into more demanding roles there – leaving me with more work to do than I had hours to do them in. The children were in school. I felt isolated. I had wonderful friends among the moms in the neighborhood … but I just didn’t really fit in somehow. I enjoy being among people, and I just didn’t have the time to establish or connect with the kind of social network I needed. Imagine trying to start a network of househusbands … in Little Rock, Arkansas.

So ended my third role as househusband; I began the career safari again, and ended up working for my wife’s Chancellor on the same vibrant campus about a hundred yards from Angi’s office. It’s a fine job. I love being among the college students and experiencing their very different culture.

There are times, though … when I’d still like to be available when my nine-year-old daughter leads the pledge of Allegiance or my twelve-year-old son reads scripture in chapel at their school. There are too many times now when I just can’t, and that little spot at the bottom of my heart starts to ache again.

Would I be willing to go back for a fourth run as a househusband and dad, given the right circumstances?

In a heartbeat!