My name is Sam Smith and I approve of the Dad Tax.

Listen, some people say it’s not fair to “steal” candy your child received on Halloween and redistribute it to your mouth, but I strenuously object. My reasons are below.

1. The Dad Tax is fair because of TV and Vending Machines. Do American kids need to eat more sugary foods? I saw concerned-looking scolds on TV say that it was bad. There were images of fat kids and vending machines in schools. Vending machines!

2. The Dad Tax is fair because of Supply and Demand. I’m the guy who drove them and walked them around in the freezing cold. I urged them to say those things that elicit a generous response: “Trick or treat” and “Thank you,” and other Close The Deal kind of language. I need some remuneration for my work. Also, (A) I’m in charge of these kids, (B) there is a supply of candy, (C) I demand some of it. Ergo ipso facto habanero.

3. The Dad Tax is fair because all dads do it. Well, almost every dad does this except those poor saps who are either on some snobby diet, or have some moral concerns. Ecclesiastes 7:16, dude. But almost all dads do it and we should. We are the 99%.

Finally, high-fructose corn-syrup is delicious.

Please support the Dad Tax. A Sam Smith administration will always make keeping the Dad Tax a top priority.

Pictured: The wealthy.

When I do the dishes, I use way more water than my wife uses when she does them. This is because I am not as skilled as she is and I think by an avalanche of water I may drown away my dish washing inadequacies. Of course, my wife doesn’t complain about the water.

It occurs to me that the same is true in writing and communication in general. If we are unsure of ourselves, unskilled, we pile up the words. We believe we must say everything we think and so overcome any chance we might have missed something. But so often less is, as they say, more.

This has something to do with the idea of expression vs. communication. Artists sometimes get the high-minded, self-important notion we’re a special breed of human, superior and sophisticated. We might believe the most important thing is “expressing ourselves.”

But the artist under God understands she is a servant. She works, just like everyone else, to love and serve those who receive her work. She is like the farmer, the plumber, the pastor. She is concerned with communication (and communion), with connection, with service. It’s less important she “expresses herself” in all the ways that can be self-indulgent, and more important her work serves people. Not that it serves whatever they wish (as our market-driven, utilitarian society calls for), but like all true love, serves the person’s best. This is a vocation, not a cult. She is called, not enthroned.

Of course, the beautiful thing is that often our calling is at the cross-roads of what we feel burdened to express and the way the world needs to be loved and served.

In fact, an important question to ask oneself when considering any calling, including that of an artist, is “Does the world need this?” Another couple of ways to say this:

“Are people served by this to be more fully what they are called to be?”

“Does this work I feel called to contribute to human flourishing?”

If it does, then God is probably really calling you to the work.

(Other questions include “Am I good at it?” and,  “Does anyone say I’m good at it besides my mom and people really motivated to please me?” and, “Can I do this while fulfilling the more clear callings in my life?” Such as, if I am a husband, am I fulfilling the clear command to provide for my family?)

The self-indulgent artist, writer, communicator is all about expression and so may not be concerned with brevity, feeling it might limit her expression. The kind of writer I want to be can say less and so say more.

I’m striving for an economy of words. It takes more time and more care to say more while saying less. Have you ever been in a conversation with some one who is just a never-ending, Gatling gun of words? This person will wear you out. They have so much to say that, ironically, in the end you can’t remember any words except, “How might I escape?”

I can be like that, at times. But I want to be otherwise. Others-wise. I want to say less. I want to serve with my words. I want to pass them out like a soccer mom passes out snacks at a game.

And feel not a bit superior.

Is It Words?

A Guest Post by Gina G. Smith

“Here, listen to this.” My husband said to me as we got in the car. The kids were with us and we had a ways to go.

Sigh. “Is it words?” I asked sarcastically. I love being part of his world, but if there’s one thing that puts me instantly to sleep, or sends me spiraling into a world of daydreams, it’s listening to audio books. He somehow listens to them while driving and going to sleep at night, which seems like a recipe for disaster to me. I just cannot focus when the reading begins. Come on, husband. Don’t you know me at all? I prefer music in the car.

He rolled his eyes and said, “Yes, it’s words. But just listen.”

It began and I got the distinct feeling this was a joke. Oh, no. This sounds like…like, Poetry? Doesn’t he know I’ve stormed the towers in the Unstoppable War Against Foes Both Foreign and Domestic (but mostly Domestic) All Day?

Poetry! Oh, dear. I’m drifting, drifting. But then…I giggle. I’m hooked. It was Billy Collins and it was brilliant.

Here’s one in particular that my mother’s heart could relate to. I’m posting the video (with the words below) so you can get the full effect. I think it’s a real treat to hear it read by the poet. Then you know exactly how it should sound. Actually, with Billy (I call him Billy), his poems are so simple that it’s hard to get them wrong. I love that. Who needs to pretend to be sophisticated?

Please enjoy this hilarious tribute to the vocation of Motherhood.

The Lanyard – Billy Collins

The other day I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room,
moving as if underwater from typewriter to piano,
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
when I found myself in the L section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word lanyard.

No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one into the past more suddenly—
a past where I sat at a workbench at a camp
by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid long thin plastic strips
into a lanyard, a gift for my mother.

I had never seen anyone use a lanyard
or wear one, if that’s what you did with them,
but that did not keep me from crossing
strand over strand again and again
until I had made a boxy
red and white lanyard for my mother.

She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard.
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted spoons of medicine to my lips,
laid cold face-cloths on my forehead,
and then led me out into the airy light

and taught me to walk and swim,
and I, in turn, presented her with a lanyard.
Here are thousands of meals, she said,
and here is clothing and a good education.
And here is your lanyard, I replied,
which I made with a little help from a counselor.

Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth,
and two clear eyes to read the world, she whispered,
and here, I said, is the lanyard I made at camp.
And here, I wish to say to her now,
is a smaller gift—not the worn truth

that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took
the two-tone lanyard from my hand,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless, worthless thing I wove
out of boredom would be enough to make us even.

I thought of this tonight, putting my two-year-old to bed. He wanted all three of his guys, “Spot, Elfant, and Mon-stuh.” His dog, elephant, and the monster Mommy made for him. It’s an army. Bring it on.

HT: Travis Prinzi

Photo by Josiah C.P. Smith. (Click to enlargify image.)

Gina sent this to me, because she knows this is something I believe is important. I’m a “big” advocate of using big words around kids. Obviously, there are some qualifiers to be explored. But overall, I believe parents generally don’t use enough mysterious (to them for the moment), meaningful (growing) language with children. Of course explain as you go, to be sure, but don’t shy away from using more and more elaborate language. It’s how we all learn. Kids are just way more capable than most humans to absorb it.

I think this goes for Theological/Biblical language as well. Explain UP, don’t DUMB DOWN. (I understand the need for clarity. But we need a clarity that serves people for life, not only for the moment.) We are aiming to build up understanding, not reduce the deeply meaningful, mysterious, magical wonder of Holy Scripture to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

Note: This is not an elitist position, or a stuck-up thing. It’s just about giving children more. Not more money, prestige, or high status. It’s about equipping them, endowing them, blessing them with an amazing and priceless gift. I know that writers ought to most often use the clearest, most common words, but I think that’s a bit of a different discussion.

We want our own children to have a deeper capacity. It doesn’t need to always issue in using all those words all the time. We want to expand their arsenal, not really recommend that they use the grenade launcher all the time. We just want them to have more than a squirt gun. Though often a squirt gun is called for.

Here’s an excerpt from the article by Amanda Morgan:

Don’t shy away from the big words. It is very common for adults to simplify their language when talking to young children. Instead of referring to the veterinarian, we talk about the “animal doctor”. While a sentence full of new words would be a bit overwhelming for anyone, throwing in a new word now and then is a great opportunity to build vocabulary! If we are referring to the veterinarian, we should use that word, offering “animal doctor” as an explanation, and then referring to “veterinarian” a few more times in the conversation. If you’re explaining what something is, you might as well use the right word the first time. Children may not always pick up on those big words, but they certainly won’t if they don’t ever hear them. There isn’t much opportunity for growth if we’re always using words they already know. So go ahead, use words like “identical” instead of “same” and “metamorphosis” instead of “change”. You’ll be surprised at what your children will pick up on when you give them the chance!

The setting for the story of our life is changing. We’re moving. It’s not the biggest, most daring move. We’re not traveling 8,000 miles to live in Africa (as my parents did with us when I was a kid). We’re moving about 100 feet. We are buying and moving into our neighbor’s house. (Insert coveting jokes here.)

Boring?

I hope not. The small story of our family moving is about more than more space, more than moving up the hill into a little bigger house. It’s about a dream, a vision, a story our lives are telling.

Overstating it?

We’re moving because we believe the setting of the new house will allow us to thrive in our passions. We believe it will help us be and do who we are and what we are called to.

Space, the final frontier. We did not need more space. We have said, “we need more space,” and have heard others say it many times. It’s sort of true, but not really. We have more space than most people in the world and in history have had. (A good measure, I think. Especially to gauge thankfulness.) We could have made it work.

We want more space. Why?

I want to set my beautiful wife up to succeed in everything she’s called to. I believe that’s part of my job (and one I’m slowly learning to do better, I hope, by grace). Gina has some hard jobs. These are jobs she loves, feels called to, and wants to do. Jobs like cooking every day to feed five…er, six, people. Jobs like teaching the kids about birds, sums, sentences, and czars. Jobs like sewing and writing, leading and loving. The new place enables her to more easily achieve success in her work. This is the leading reason for the move, in my view. But there are others.

We want to have people over. Hospitality has been on our hearts for a long time and we want to have a space that makes that possible/easier. The place we’re moving to is not huge, by any means. But the way it’s laid out allows for a lot more room to have people in our home.

The fact that there’s more opportunity for easier hospitality figures into our plans for our children. We plan to have a lot of “home games” with their friends. We want our kid’s friends of all ages to want to come to our place and to have room to operate and have a good great time. This house gives us more of that.

The place has a small hut that I plan to use for writing. A Writer’s Hut, which Chris Yokel –outstripping all competitors– has perfectly named “The Forge.” It’s kind of a dream-come-true. (Of course, it needs some work. Much like the novel I can’t wait to return to writing when things settle a bit.)

I could go on, but you get it.

We think this place will serve to aid us in our various vocations. And that’s the point of writing a little about this.

The setting changes, the story proceeds. I could go on about our situation in particular, but I mainly just want to connect the move (an ordinary thing) with our calling and our story.

I want our decisions, under God, to connect our family to the story we’re in, both in the common themes, and the plot lines particular to us.

So, here’s to the wild, wonderful adventure of moving next door!

What’s happening in your life? What is God doing to advance the plot of your story?

FYI: Gina took all these pictures. I steal things from her site a lot.The first pic is of what will soon be our “old house.” The last one is the mailbox my brother Will painted for me. It was a swell gift. The funny thing is (concerning the name on it) this was well before I, or anyone else, used “S.D. Smith” to refer to me, myself, and/or I. I remember thinking it was funny at the time. Now, literally tens of people know me by that name.

My 2 year old son says, “Mommy has him baby in hor scummock. Him can’t get out ’cause him’s scuck in dair.”

It’s true. The highly-anticipated sequel, Smith Baby IV, is due out in February.

As my wonderful wife says in her post, it’s a bit crazy/hectic/difficult/wonderful/etc. here at Smith HQ.

We are selling and buying a home, which has been a lot of work and an enormous blessing. We’ve had a lot of help from faithful saddle-pals. After a whole lot of work whipping this place into shape, our home sold pretty quickly (under a week). And now we’re blessed to be expecting another child in our family. It’s all a great kindness from the generous hand of our Father. Of course, we know there are, will be, and have been, times of real suffering. It’s not all happy, happy, joy, joy. But there’s always occasion for thankfulness, even in a world where a hard providence is often just around the corner, or fresh in our minds.

For now, though, we are very happy. And exhausted.

Gina hasn’t felt very well at all, but has been battling bravely on, like a brave onward battler. I’m very proud of her and pleased to be in this thing together. She is the best of fellow travelers.

So our kids will eat more corn dogs, as Dad is a poor substitute in the kitchen. We will take time to rest and watch The Cosby Show, or The Adventures of Robin Hood, when we can. I will almost definitely post even more quotes and funny pictures stolen from around the internet (with credit).

Bear with me. Things are not unbearable. I bear good news. A child is to be born.

If you think of it and do this kind of thing, please pray for us. The next few weeks will be pretty challenging. I know everyone goes through this kind of thing, or often much more challenging things, but it’s a lot on the plate at once. Thanks!

Again, we are delighted by this news, and feel graciously equipped (with friends etc.) to meet the adventure before us.

Peace to you. –Sam

Pictured: Our family, with the forever young Eric Peters sitting in for the for-now unpictured, smallest Smith.

A great memory from my last birthday was getting the chance to listen to and ask questions of my Dad for a few hours. I got to hear, in more detail than ever, the story of his life in the Army. From his enlistment (he volunteered during Vietnam, wasn’t drafted) as a Private, to his honorable discharge a few years later as a Lieutenant. I had to drag many of the facts out of him, because he is more reluctant than most men to talk about himself. But after some persistent inquiry, he would tell it to me straight.

There are several scenes that fascinate me, tales of danger and distress (told always in my father’s subdued, under-glamorized way). There are lots of things I’d love to share. But I’ll get to a particular theme of the over-all story.

Dad enlisted and went to basic training. Sometime in the first months of his training, he was offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He was offered an appointment to West Point. While Dad underplayed this detail, barely mentioning it as he moved on, this was a real honor for an enlisted man. This would not only advance his career, pay, and prestige, but would actually have kept him out of the war. But he had volunteered during wartime. He wanted to be a combat veteran.

He also wanted to get married. He was engaged to my mother and at West Point you could not be married. That was a deal-breaker. He declined.

I dug out of him that it astonished his superiors and baffled (and perhaps infuriated) some veterans in our family. He went instead to Officer Candidate School. He would go on to become an officer, go to war, and become a distinguished soldier. In Vietnam he served as a platoon leader in Delta company and later the XO (and briefly the acting Company Commander). He never lost a man though, before he arrived and after he left, this was not the case for those who commanded his platoon. His command was a rare interval of grace. He was considered unusually competent and lucky/blessed.

His men called him “Luke, ” short for “Cool Hand Luke,” because of his easy calm in the middle of danger. When one of his men pointed his gun at the Sergeant and it was reported to Lt. “Luke” Smith, he wasn’t exactly sure what to do. The kid was scared, he thought, so he walked up to the young soldier and held out his hands, silently demanding his gun. The soldier gave the gun up and Dad gave it to the Sergeant and they carried on in the field, the rebellious soldier marching through the jungle with no weapon for a week. He never had any problems from that soldier again. The errant soldier could have been seriously punished, his record spoiled and his path marked. But Dad, though a believer in total depravity, has always been eager to see people at their best, to believe they will come around if given a chance. He has, it must be admitted, been wrong on that score many times. But his errors are usually on the side of grace.

When his tour was nearing its end, he was offered an opportunity to become a Captain and have a job stateside if he would reenlist for only one year. Once again, there was an opportunity to increase his pay, prestige, and enhance his career. Again, he declined.

There were lots of reasons. He had accomplished what he wanted to. He wanted to be a combat veteran in the Army, then he wanted to be home. They offered him a post in Kentucky, but it was not quite close enough to home. He wanted to go hunting, go to West Virginia football games, get a job, and teach Sunday School. He wanted to be a regular guy again.

He came home with a resume made for leadership. High School class president, captain of the football team, distinguished officer in wartime (having led hundreds of men in battle). He applied at the nickel plant and was offered a job in management. He had no desire to manage people. He’d done that. He wanted to not be in charge. He literally would rather be the guy sweeping the floors. He declined again, would not be a manager. He got the job he wanted.

He wouldn’t avoid leadership for long, and would be drafted into leadership again and again in life, as he always had been. He has never been one to seek it out, but it has always found him and thrust him forward.

But among the many things I took away from this opportunity to listen to my father, this theme was clear. He declined a lot of opportunity. He chose things that seemed less important, were less lucrative, and led to a quieter life (in a sense).

His life has been characterized by a genuine preference for reluctance, followed by simple confidence and high performance. In school, in football, in basic training and Officer Candidate School, in Vietnam, it was the same story. At the nickel plant he was a very reluctant president of the union (where he was told he was “just way too honest to be effective”) for a short period. He led as a missionary pastor in Africa, coming to a wounded church and being a bright spot in between two tragic failures. He started a Zulu church, taught and trained men. He is a pastor now. He’s been a good man, a good husband and father.

His life has not been wasted. God, for his own glory, has used Dad in –I say this with careful thought– thousands and thousands of lives for good. He has been and continues to be a herald of the Good News of Jesus, is a quiet teacher full of grace.

He still loves simple things like gardening, yard work, West Virginia sports, studying, reading, and spending time with his family (including 20 grand kids). He still sweeps.

I guess my conclusion is simple. Many people, by many standards, would probably see my Dad as a kind of failure, as a person who failed to achieve all that could be achieved. He did not, in one sense, grab life by the horns. He never earned a college degree (though he was and is certainly smart enough to teach in college –and actually has). He’s not the poster child for the American Dream of achievement.

But he’s the best man I know. He’s been an exemplary father and has served people of all colors and language on several continents. He is a beautiful man.

How many High Achiever stories have you read with the tragic footnote that the person lost their kids and ruined their families? Too many.

I’ll take my Dad. I’ll take him, receive him, for what he is and has been: a gift from a far better Father.

Thanks for 11 years, Gina.

The setting may change, the plot advances, but you are the female lead and, to me, that’s what makes it a great story.

Cheers!