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Farm Pond in NebraskaWhile casually chatting with some new friends, one looks up and glances toward the lake where our kids are exploring. He asks about a noise he heard. The other Dad listens. “That’s not a good yell!” He says – and takes off running.

I didn’t hear the commotion, but knowing my kids are about 600 yards away by the farm pond, I too took off running.

Since lunch wouldn’t be ready right away, the kids decided to go explore the farm. I didn’t think too much of it, but later when I heard they were out by the lake, a small voice urged me to go check on them. And yet, I ignored it.

Well, I didn’t actually ignore it, but I did argue with that little voice. As an older father with a long history in EMS, I tend to be a bit cautious. I want my kids to inherit my adventuresome spirit, but I’d like them to survive.

I never feared death until my kids were born. Now, I feel vulnerable to death. It would kill me to lose them, and I’d hate to abandon them through my own death. For someone who embraces adventure and dangerous activities, it’s a weird place to be.

So here I am, running through waist deep grass and weeds about 30 feet behind my friend. We still don’t know what’s going on, but we can hear panicked screams of terror from at least one child. But we can’t see them. I’m praying the whole way and preplanning resuscitation scenarios in my head. I’m also steeling myself, emotionally, to do CPR on one of my kids.

Suddenly the weeds get thick and we can’t run. The vines are wrapping around our ankles and the nettles are stinging our legs. The urgency is still there, but I feel like a turtle running through peanut butter. We’re really in deep weeds now.

I catch a sight of my Smiling Son’s white cowboy hat, and I can see he’s walking around – but he’s near the lake. I call our my Darling Daughter’s name – once, twice, and she finally answers. The screaming calms and the kids appear out of the deep weeds. Just then, I get dive bombed by bees.

As I continue to struggle through the vines and grass, I’m waving my arms trying to fend off the bees. The kids tell us that they were attacked by bees. Ah, now they tell me! 😉

I get through the weeds and away from the offended nest. I have a million grass seeds in my socks and shoes, and few stings from the nettles, but I escaped the angry bees. The kids are fine, except for a few stings, but they are all scared and relieved to see us. I, on the other hand am out of breath and filled with the adrenaline rush of fear, panic, and genuine parental concern.

I take turns holding my kids and soothing their fear.

That’s one of the hard things about being a parent. It doesn’t matter what emotions are in your own heart, your kids’ needs come first. They feared bees, I feared something more tragic and scary. They feared the physical pain of stingers, I feared losing one or both of them. Clearly, my fears trump theirs – but that is irrelevant. I held them. Their fears are real, and deep, and tragic.

At their ages, they could never understand the depth of my love for them. My Smiling Son and I have a little bedtime ritual. He tries to one-up me on how much he loves me more than I love him. I love his confidence and enthusiasm as he tries to show me how much he loves me. It’s a form of worship really. But, without crushing his spirit, I can never let him win this game.

First, he doesn’t understand, really, the depth of love we are really talking about. Second, he can never love me more. And finally, the stakes are high – our kids have to know the depth of our love for them. They have to know that our love is a nearly bottomless pit.

As we walked back to the farm-house, the kids shared their stories of the “hundreds and millions of bees” that attacked them. We two Dads, just held them, listened, and thanked God for the opportunity to still hold our kids.

Yesterday, my Smiling 5yo Son sat in my lap and told me my breath "smells like throw-up." Nonplussed, I just laughed and told him he was probably right.

45+ years ago, as I sat on my Mom’s lap, I told her she had a mustache. She was shaken, angry, and hurt. I’ve never forgotten how badly that innocent comment hurt her. Of course I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I was just a curious little boy who noticed something I’d never noticed before. But her reaction devastated me – even though she didn’t mean to.

Yesterday was a victory in stopping some of the cycles of dysfunction that we tend to pass on from generation to generation. I pray that my kids grow up not knowing the fear of shaming and the pain of dysfunction.

It is only by becoming a better man that I can become a better parent and raise better kids. My love for them is incredibly motivating!

The kids have been sleeping with us due to the flu and all the changes lately. Last night my son had a 102° f temperature and was feeling really miserable. About 2am, I rolled over and put my hand on his chest – partly diagnostic, partly to comfort. As a paramedic, I’m attuned to temperature, skin condition, and breathing. But what I found disturbed me.

I sat up awake. Smiling Son was motionless, and I didn’t sense he was breathing. I put my finger between his ribs, where I should be able to feel his heart beat. I felt nothing. I still couldn’t sense any breathing – nor could I hear him breathing. I grabbed his arm to feel his radial pulse. His arm was cool and lifeless – I was now fully awake and fully intent. I couldn’t feel a pulse in his wrist, but as my hand moved up to check his brachial pulse, he stirred and pulled his arm away.

Joy and relief shot through my body and then I was filled with a wave of nausea like I’ve never experienced before.

I hugged him close, kissed his forehead, and then fell asleep praying for my whole family.

Living on the edge is not easy. We are poor, unemployed, and living on the kindness of new friends. But we’ve never been at more peace. In retrospect, I would not change the course of the past several years. I still would not back down to those who think I should sacrifice my family for the sake of a mere career.

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