I am given to understand that Superman Returns is not going to make any of the top 10 films of all-time lists by people who say “films” instead of “movies.”

So noted.

Well I, who am well-described as a country rube, found I was crying during parts of it tonight. And these were not tears borne of mourning the death of cinema. Nor were they merely manly allergies.

I cried because I saw masses of people cheer as a man descended from heaven, rescuing people from destruction by his overcoming work. I cried as I saw a man in the heavens listen to the prayers of a hopeless, hurting world and swoop down to save them. I saw a man who inspired hope, embodied virtue, and spoke the truth. A man, and more than a man. A god.

I like this story.

And maybe I am more aware tonight of how desperate I am –we all are– for the kingdom to come and the world to be made new again.

I need someone to save me. The world needs a hero. A man, but more than a man.

HT: David Mitchel, Chris Yokel.

Dear Parent,

Hello! I’m your child’s new soccer coach for this season. I love soccer and have played for many years on a couple of different continents (ooh, impressive!), mostly many years ago. At present, the two best parts of my game are tripping over the ball and getting hurt. Sometimes, defying the critics, I do both at once.

Despite my own limits, I believe I have something to offer your children this season in soccer instruction. But I think there’s more to it than that. I believe this is a wonderful chance to learn and practice some things that might serve your children for their entire lives. At least that’s my sincere hope and prayer.

But let me be clear in saying that I think learning the game of soccer is a worthwhile pursuit and I will not be booby-trapping every moment of practice with cute little life lessons. We will definitely play and learn and enjoy the game.

Here’s a sample of that, a preview of what I hope will happen this year –Lord willing.

We will work hard. We will laugh hard. We will drink hard. (Water!)

I’ll keep repeating our team values. They are:

Respect

We will honor God above all. This has meaning for how we play, how I interact with the referees and other coaches, how the kids approach practice and games. It has profound, hard, and happy meanings we will explore all year.

I expect the kids to be respectful in how they speak to adults. I know this isn’t a hard-and-fast rule, but I am asking the kids to call me “Coach Smith,” not “Sam.” Sam is my name, but I believe it hurts children not a bit to use titles of respect for adults and might be of benefit to them. I am giving the kids a chance to do that this year. (I will be respectful to the kids as they learn this, of course.) They will also be asked to say “Yes, sir,” and “Yes, ma’m,” to the referees and other coaches, as well as to other parents who are involved (bringing snacks, or helping with drills).

We will respect each other. Each child on this team is made in the image of God and this means we will love and honor one another as teammates. We will not treat anyone differently because they are bigger, smaller, shorter, taller, darker, or lighter-skinned, boy, or girl. We will not run each other down, pick on the slowest/least-coordinated, or hurt each other. When we do hurt each other in any way (and we have to admit, we do mess up), we will apologize and ask for forgiveness. We will focus on building each other up. This is right and it also makes things more fun and more likely we’ll win some games.

(By the way, I want to win games.)

We will always treat our opponents with respect and dignity. We will never play dirty, hurt intentionally, or insult other team’s players. All the kids in this soccer league are made in God’s image and that will have meaning for us. I will have zero tolerance for bullying, or insulting behavior from our team. It’s a quick ticket to sit beside me on the bench.

We will never argue with the officials. This includes me. I may speak to the officials, but it will be with respect and self-control. When I mess up on this, I will apologize to the players and him, or her, and ask for forgiveness. As parents, I hope you will join our team in respecting the officials and opponents in every way. Note: Many of the officials are very young and inexperienced and will definitely make bad calls. So be ready for it. (Repeating to self. Repeating to self. Repeating to self.)

We will respect ourselves. I want your child to know that she (or he) is made in the image of God, and that has meaning for how they should think about themselves on and off the field. Part of what it means is that your child is loved, treasured, beautiful, and capable of amazing things. I see that. You see that. Let’s help her/him see that. This ought not produce a haughty, superior attitude, but one of happy humility and gratitude.

Respectfulness will characterize this team.

Speed

We will be a quick team and value speed.

First, we will be quick to listen. I ask the kids to meet a pretty high standard for paying attention and I hope to reward that attention with valuable instruction that moves them forward in the game and in life. We will be quick to listen.

We will be quick to the ball. We will not stand around and watch the other team play soccer. We aren’t spectators. We will relentlessly attack the ball (not the player) all over the field. We will do this cleanly, fairly, but with all our hearts. We will be quick to attack the ball.

We will be quick to our drills in practice.

We will be quick to complete throw-ins when the ball is out of bounds.

We will be quick to return to our spots when the ref calls a goal-kick, or corner-kick.

We will be quick to attack the goal.

I don’t really care how fast a child naturally is. We will do everything we can with the speed God has given us, bearing in mind the fable of the tortoise and the hare. The race is not always to the swift.

Joy

We are absolutely serious about having fun. The key to this, I believe, is in emphasizing thankfulness. If we are out playing soccer, we already have so much to be thankful for. We will operate out of this thankfulness and proceed to inevitable joy.

Soccer is so much fun! It’s a beautiful game, full of peaks and valleys, magical moments of victory and heartbreaking defeats. A soccer game is like poetry, a symphony, a parable of life. It’s the beautiful game. We will play it seriously, with a smile on our faces.

These are our values. There will be more, of course, but these will be emphasized all year long.

I want to summarize this little letter by saying that I will do my best to honor and serve your kids this season. I will be demanding, patient, emotional, hopeful, and most of all committed to seeing your child have a fun season that helps them mature and flourish as soccer players and human beings.

Grace and peace to you,

Coach Smith

My Dad has a large tumor on his pancreas, strongly suggestive of cancer. This is, of course, a dreadful thing, terrible and deadly. We have been aware of a potential problem only for a very few days, and so the news is still fresh for us. We are hurting, of course, but I think following Dad’s lead in trusting in God’s good hand in this hard providence. I have been, as we all are in such times, alternately downcast and braced, sometimes (somehow) at the same time.

The details go from grim, to somewhat hopeful (he will have surgery to remove the tumor on April 1), once things looked really bad, but we have some reason to hope that the cancer has not spread yet. However you interpret the news, it has been a trying time. A time to weep, and mourn. But also, strangely, a time to be thankful and glad. Sincerely.

I can’t speak for everyone else (Mom, my brothers and sister and our families) in every detail, but I can tell you we all love and respect Dad immensely. He is universally loved, deeply appreciated, and highly-regarded. His children all bless him, and his friends are legion and located all around the world. If it were possible to see (I see it in part), the collage of faces of those he has loved, discipled, fed spiritually and otherwise, it would span the spectrum of color and language, nation, and age. Vietnamese, Afrikaans, Zulu,  Xhosa, Sotho, Ndebele, Shona, English, Scottish, Welsh, Puerto Rican, Americans of many stripes. Red and yellow, black and white…Many.

He has been wonderful to me, and hundreds more. So, the idea of losing him feels, well, catastrophic. At least in a sense. This means I have had those questions and complaints people so often bring to God in such times. They are real and heartbreaking and I am still making my way through them.

I wrote the following during one of those battles with despair, when God gave me joy.

I can focus on what may, sooner than I wanted, be taken from me. Or, I can focus on the great gift I have received. One is a pathway to depression and disconnection, the other to a –sad, yes, sober, yes, but true– contact with the deep reality of the world and my own story in it. God means a million things, but is not mean. He gives and takes away, but is neither pernicious nor capricious. My feelings at every moment cannot be a standard by which to judge the universe, still less the universe’s God. So through this valley of the shadow of death I’ll walk, grateful and probably too much afraid at many times. But not afraid of the result in Dad, or me, only the terrible dangers we’ll be written into on our way to becoming the characters God means us to be. Love suffers all sort of injury. I have and will suffer great sadness for love. But I will not, cannot, follow another way than the way of love. God is love. And I love my Dad. Whatever comes, these two realities of the world must reconcile in the end. Meanwhile, I must be honest with myself, with every emotion and every pain and walk through it with my Dad, under God. I would be a faithful son in every way, God help me. My Dad has certainly been faithful to me.

And I want to live there, frail as I am.

Don Smith is a lovely man. I have always wanted to be like my Father. He has been close and reachable, while somehow still high and heroic in my imagination. He is a very good man. He has received much from the Lord and served the Lord with his life’s work.

When we were kids, Dad would always leave us at school, or the ball field, or gym (wherever) with these words.

“Don’t forget whose boys you are.”

I have tried to always remember that. I have tried to remember that everything I do reflects upon, and carries on, the heritage I’ve been given. I am a son and a steward. This means so much to me. Especially when coupled with another of Dad’s oft-repeated admonitions: “Do a little better.” Dad has never been threatened by the specter of his children exceeding him, but rather delighted. His words call for building on to the foundation we’ve received, for going on –further up and further in.

This is something else I wrote in the middle of this, early on after receiving the news. I seem to process things through verse, as poor as it often is.

Confessions of a Worried Son

My Father, oh my Father.
Be well this day and never fail.
How can it be that you suffer and decline?

Young men jump and run, hardly able not to strut,
and you, in a decline?

Have they courted danger for duty in the Mekong Delta?
        Visited the afflicted in a Zulu township at midnight?
        Endured slanders from ignorant fools?
        Fathered five children?
        Grandfathered more than twenty?
        Been a father from God to hundreds more all over the world?

Why do young men strut, their glory and their shame?
        When you are declining like the late fall, graceful and ominous?

The young men are like gods and you, a withering farmer.
        Your fields are wide and beautiful.
        Your lands a lavish gift,
            to a hundred-thousand others.
        Blooming, bright, and happy,
        Food, plowed and planted,
            for a million souls, hungry and hopeless.
        Shade for countless playing children,
            laughing carelessly, happy and forgetful,
            of who planted these trees under God.
        Acres and acres into the horizon,
            farther even than you could ever see squinting.

But you decline, my Father, oh my Father.
        And I thrive.
        Am alive and go on and on like a sacred river.
            Undamned.
        And you, my source, clotted up and choked.

I am desperate for Moses and the 82nd Airborne,
        to part the seas and clear the danger.

For a moment the young men sicken me.
        I would trade them all for you, well and good.

I am bewildered by God.

The young men look at their strength,
        They notice how glorious they are.

But your eyes have been on God,
        your heart inclined to him and his people.
        Black and white and every blessed shade or hue, loved by you.
        Loved by God in you.

I am a grateful son.
        I try to torture myself with recollections of my own failures toward you.
        I try to find the ways I’ve hurt you, caused you pain.
But you have absolved me every day, so that nothing’s in my way.
        Given every grudge away.

All my life to the end of my days,
        You will haunt me with grace.
        There is no trace of guilt in me.
        I am free.

The sons are free.

I have inherited goodness, a level land.
        from your hand.

I love you, oh my Father.
        You are the best man.
        I know.

…

And lest this feel like the sentimental ramblings of a frightened man, blind to the defects of his family, let me assure you I am definitely afraid and definitely rambling and definitely aware of our defects. It’s not the time to enumerate them, but rest assured that I am, in my life, perhaps more prone to dwell on them than I should be. In any case, we are what we are, are who we are. Flawed and forgiven, becoming more than we were –in Christ. And the refrain through that song, for me, is gratitude. I know many notes are off, and I know I can’t even hear all the ones which are out of tune. No doubt many sound great to me because they are so familiar. But the echo of this song is a cause for joy for me, and thankfulness to the God who does miracles.

My Dad has lost both of his parents in the past 15 months. When my Grandfather died, I was heartbroken. It was such a deep wound. And he was in his nineties. When my Grandmother died it only added on to the pain. You have probably been there. I still cannot keep from weeping when I see my Papaw’s picture, surprised into tears by an image of him, alive and well, looking at me through a screen. One of my prayers during those days, especially when Papaw died, was “Not too soon for my own Father, please God. Not too soon.”

It’s strange how something you have been terrified of, one of the worst things you can imagine coming upon you, can result in gratitude. I don’t know how long I will have my Dad here. I hope for many happy years. I cannot be certain of that. I hate Death and I will hate that bastard every day for all my years, longing for Christ to finally finish off this forbidding, final enemy. I will hate Death especially whenever it takes my Father. But no matter how the future of the story goes, I will have a backstory to be grateful for. And a big part of that is having a Father whose life has not been a slander against the Father in heaven. Perhaps there is little more good in the world. Certainly, this is a good from which a thousand others bloom and flourish.

And more than a fine backstory, you would not believe what happens later in the tale.

…

The conspiracy of goodness that has been my life,
I recollect in silence.
For once my frustrated sighs are quieted,
In holy reverence.
Gardens grow on graves.

The true New World is my home and hope,
This shadow I have seen,
And loved and hated all my life will,
Only be a place I’ve been.
When beneath my vine, I fear not.

So the terror that now threatens me,
Is only another day, I find,
Another chapter in the tale,
A fine tapestry on the wall behind,
The inevitable, eternal feast.

…

Please pray for my Dad, and the rest of us. Especially on April 1 in the early morning.

And be happy for me. I have a wonderful Dad.

My Dear, I love you. And I see you.

…

I see how you work so hard every day without enough recognition.

I see how you turn chaos and messes into order and beauty.

I see how your imagination becomes lovely things made for loved ones.

I see how you press on when you’re bone tired and deeply discouraged.

I see how you find energy to do one more math worksheet when you would almost rather be doing anything else.

I see how you stay and work on, when demanding time for yourself would be so justifiable.

I see how you laugh and still have that lovely light in your green eyes you had when we first fell in love.

I see how you’ve grown and changed in so many ways.

I see what you’ve given up to be with me, what it’s meant for you to take my name and love me.

I see you turn away from lies enticing toward envy, see you bravely ignore insistent advocates of rebellion.

I see you say yes to the True, the Good, and the Beautiful.

I see how you pour out your life for little people who can’t really understand how you are the finger of God to transform their lives.

I see how you stand at the bloody barricade of our children’s hearts and make terrible war on the forces of darkness every day.

I see how you take many little measures and by wisdom, work, and art, make feasts that delight.

I see how you welcome guests with sincerity and zeal.

I see you modeling the story I am called to live out toward Christ with grace and joy.

I see you turning aside from fear and living by faith in your calling.

I see how you walk through life and leave a trail of beauty and refreshment behind you.

I see how you make few arguments with your words, but give evidence of the beauty of how God made the world a thousand times every day.

I see how beautiful you are, how you are becoming more beautiful every year.

I see you live.

I see you and I love you.

I am so grateful for you and I admire you so.

Happy Birthday, Gina Gayle Smith.

This passage was laid in my path at an important hour. And it happened that I read it in the King James Version, found it lovely and reassuring. Perhaps it will be good for you wherever you are and whatever you are going through.

Psalm 77:1-14

1I cried unto God with my voice, even unto God with my voice; and he gave ear unto me.

² In the day of my trouble I sought the Lord: my sore ran in the night, and ceased not: my soul refused to be comforted.

³ I remembered God, and was troubled: I complained, and my spirit was overwhelmed. Selah.

⁴ Thou holdest mine eyes waking: I am so troubled that I cannot speak.

⁵ I have considered the days of old, the years of ancient times.

⁶ I call to remembrance my song in the night: I commune with mine own heart: and my spirit made diligent search.

⁷ Will the Lord cast off for ever? and will he be favourable no more?

⁸ Is his mercy clean gone for ever? doth his promise fail for evermore?

⁹ Hath God forgotten to be gracious? hath he in anger shut up his tender mercies? Selah.

¹⁰ And I said, This is my infirmity: but I will remember the years of the right hand of the most High.

¹¹ I will remember the works of the Lord: surely I will remember thy wonders of old.

¹² I will meditate also of all thy work, and talk of thy doings.

¹³ Thy way, O God, is in the sanctuary: who is so great a God as our God?

¹⁴ Thou art the God that doest wonders: thou hast declared thy strength among the people.

“I will hold your hand, love
As long as I can, love
Though the powers rise against us
Though your fears assail you
And your body may fail you
There’s a fire that burns within us

And we dream in the night
Of a city descending
With the sun in the center
And a peace unending

I will carry the fire for you…”

This song started out as my least favorite on an album full of favorites, but very quickly became very dear to me. In these days, it means even more. (Full lyrics below.)

Carry the Fire
Words by Andrew Peterson / Music by Ben Shive and Andrew Peterson

I will hold your hand, love
As long as I can, love
Though the powers rise against us
Though your fears assail you
And your body may fail you
There’s a fire that burns within us

And we dream in the night
Of a city descending
With the sun in the center
And a peace unending

I will carry the fire for you

And we kneel in the water
The sons and the daughters
And we hold our hearts before us
And we look to the distance
And raise our resistance
In the face of the forces
Gathered against us

And we dream in the night
Of a king and a kingdom
Where joy writes the songs
And the innocent sing them

I will carry the fire for you

Oh, sing on, sing on
When your hope is gone
Sing on, sing on
(Light up the darkness)

And we dream in the night
Of a feast and a wedding
And the groom in his glory
When the bride is made ready

I will carry the fire for you

——   —–   —–

Video from Under the Radar and Lyrics from Jesus Freak Hideout (which sounds terrifying).

Our kids are studying Canada in school and so I did a little search for a documentary on Netflix. This is what was suggested.

I ask you, so-called “gentle” neighbors to the North, what’s the connection between Canadian History and Satanic Stories? This concerns me because in two prominent places my own family has cross-pollinated with this species of person from yon land. Should I be worried? Satan does appear as an angel of light, or perhaps as an even-tempered hockey enthusiast?

I love Canada. And Canadians. So, what’s your favorite Canadian joke, eh? (This, I guess, counts as diabolical humor?)

This one is from Andrew Mackay, Canadian, and one of mainest of main men:

“A Scotsman was in northern Ontario visiting, and they took him to see a moose. The Scotsman says, “If that’s the size of your moose, I’d hate to see your rat.”

Seems innocent enough. But that’s how they drag you down to hell. Where do you think the expression, “A cold day in hell,” came from?

Canada. That’s where.

This sums up my (snobby?) growing unease and almost-always disappointment with adaptations.

“If you can read and have more imagination than a doorknob, what need do you have for a ‘movie version’ of a novel?”

Wendell Berry

HT: @TheRabbitRoom

Well, my friends, you have a chance tomorrow to sign up for something truly special. I would love to see you there.

Hutchmoot 2013 registration begins at 12pm EST tomorrow, March 5. It’s important that you know what time zone it’s in (if you’re interested) because, well, it sold out in 7 minutes last year.

Why did it sell out so fast? Because….er, I don’t exactly know. Actually, I do know, but it’s hard to say. Read this by my friend David. Or this by my friend me. Or any of this, or this. Here’s a video giving a little flavor.

Anyway, come. It’s special.

Hutchmoot feels like an extended trailer for the Kingdom of God. It stirs up in me a longing for united community, for careful and passionate love of beauty, truth, and goodness. Mostly I am stirred up with longing for that Gardener King and his new creation, for that City coming down. The marriage of heaven and earth.

I have been to many events which felt like a fight –even a good, noble fight. But this feels like what good fights are for. This feels like the song and what the song is about. –Sam

And now, a few pictures.

In 2011, Andrew Peterson and I did a session together on poetry. A huge honor.

Some special friends of ours. Breann, Laura, Betsy, Laura, and Kristen.

This was from that Poetry talk. Maybe the most joy I've ever experienced saying words in front of a group of people. (I do not include my wedding.)

Sally Lloyd-Jones and Gina Lloyd-Smith.

Well met fellows. Nate Wilson and Jonathan Rogers.

Whit, Norah, and Gina.

Dear Dawn Green and her son, and our word-wielding, President-serving friend, Ashley Elizabeth.

Love this dude. Aaron Roughton, a very funny, good guy.

I am making myself stop now, but really, please come. Don’t these pictures of us with people you don’t know make you interested? Oh well, all I can say is that the smiles are real. It’s special. Come.