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| Foreword | |
| The Lights Are On, But | p. 1 |
| Slipping Away | p. 2 |
| The Champs | p. 3 |
| Who Cares? | |
| A Homeowner's Guide to the Family Gold Mine | p. 4 |
| The Light That's Nearest | p. 5 |
| Close the Zoo | p. 6 |
| Test Yourself | p. 7 |
| Unconditional Listening, Unconditional Love | p. 8 |
| Which Way Are You Facing? | p. 9 |
| Take Me Fishing Again | |
| Your're the Best | p. 10 |
| Making Their Day - and More | p. 11 |
| Help Them Dream, Help Them Build | p. 12 |
| A Cheerleader | p. 13 |
| A Coach | p. 14 |
| Strenghs and Weaknesses | p. 15 |
| Fifty Phrases to Encourage Your Child | |
| Safe at Home | p. 16 |
| Oh, Those X-Ray Eyes! | p. 17 |
| That's Not in There, God! | p. 18 |
| Discipline Is a Lifestyle | p. 19 |
| My First Lady | p. 20 |
| The Teenage Years...the Best Years | p. 21 |
| Crossroads | |
| Tomorrow's Family Album | p. 22 |
| The Generation That Followed Discovery | p. 23 |
| Dancing | p. 24 |
| Discovery at Dawn | p. 25 |
| Promise-Keeping Men Keep P | |
| Table of Contents provided by Publisher. All Rights Reserved. |
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The Used, Rental and eBook copies of this book are not guaranteed to include any supplemental materials. Typically, only the book itself is included. This is true even if the title states it includes any access cards, study guides, lab manuals, CDs, etc.
Part I
The Lights Are On, But . . .
The chains of habit are too weak to be felt until they’re (almost) too strong to be broken.
orphan \or-fan\ n. 1. A child whose parents have left himphysically. 2. A child whose parents have left him emotionally.3. Can be evidenced by a half-smoked joint in a jeans pocket or asexy love note left inadvertently in a drawer or a citation fromthe local police.
Chapter One: Slipping Away
We’re so busy giving our kids what we didn’t have
that we don’t take time to give them what we did have.
I hate to sound selfish, like everything’s mine,
but please don’t get mad when I ask for your time.
I’ll never forget the day I hit bottom in my career as adaddy.
I first started realizing my failure the day my oldest son’sbabysitter taught him how to ride his bike. It’s such amonumental achievement for a boy—in fact, five decadeshaven’t erased the memory of reaching that milestone in myown life. But Brady had to experience it without me.
Busy (as usual) with work, I met Brady for a quick lunch thatday, and he beamed with excitement as he shared the news.
I had all the right things to say: “Wow, Brady! That’sgreat! I’m so proud of you.” Then I added, “Brady,can I come watch you ride your bike later this afternoon?”
The response from my sweet, gentle-spirited six-year-old fell onme like an avalanche. “No, Dad, that’s okay.You’re busy in the summer.”
I’m fighting the tears again as I remember the deep remorseI felt. He had opened my heart more skillfully than a surgeon.
I was losing my son.
He knew it, and I knew it.
In my job as president of a large summer camp complex, I was sobusy rescuing other people’s kids that my own were drowning.And the problem—as I knew Brady couldn’t help butdiscover as time went on—was that I’m busy not only inthe summer but also in the fall, winter, and spring.
Brady . . . he was so little then, but he had the superimagination and the super-sensitivity that made his daddy workharder on smoothing his many rough edges and his hard-drivingdisposition. With a quick look into the future, I could see Bradyas a teenager in someone else’s counseling office trying tosort out his bitterness toward a father too busy to show hecared.
Not long afterward, my youngest daughter was attending one of ourshort-term camps. We agreed to abide by the rule requestingparents not to visit their children for the entire week.(That’s tough!)
On the fifth night, Courtney got a touch of homesickness. Shebegan to cry, and her counselor came to her bed to give her somehugs and tenderness.
“Corky, don’t cry anymore. You’ll be home in twodays, and you’ll get to see your daddy and everything.”
“I never get to see my daddy!” was her bold protest.
When the week was over, the camp director came to my house.“Sit down,” he said abruptly. I sat down, wonderingwhat this was all about.
He told me about the conversation between the counselor andCourtney—little Corky, with long, blond hair and dimplesthat can’t help but melt her daddy’s heart. Even whenthe lower lip was out in an occasional protest, a few tickles andfunny faces could bring the dimples back to their rightful place.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.
I squirmed. He looked deep into my eyes.
The phone rang. As I went to answer it, the intercom buzzed. Thensomeone came to the door with an emergency. After responding toall three, I sat back down. He was still looking intently at me.
“I asked you, ‘What are you going to do about it?’”
“I don’t know . . . it’s hard . . . there are somany demands.”
“Joe, who are the most important people in your life?”
“My family.”
“You’re not showing it!”
He sat there and didn’t give an inch. Finally, I agreed tosome commitments.
This book is an expression of my gratitude for my months ofopen-heart surgery that summer. To this day, I’m carryingout the commitments I made back then. It’s still hard. Thedemands are still there. In fact, they’re getting worse. Butmy priorities changed. I aborted almost everything from my lifethat stood between my children and me. The use-of-time knifestripped away most of the fat that surrounded the lean meat ofnecessity.
My wife and I continued the struggle to accomplish more duringthe necessary hours of daily labor, and in the remaining hours toprioritize time with our children above anything else duringthese years while they were still at home. We were wonderfullyamazed that there was even enough time for a few luxuries.
Brady became my best male friend. I worked early and late when hewasn’t available, so that when he came home, I could grab abat and ball or a go-cart or a fishing rod or a made-upadventure, all for the honor of getting to be by his side for afew golden ticks of the clock. His brother Cooper and his sistersJamie and Courtney . . . all of them became World’s BestCompanions to me.
The four young children who captured my heart are now youngadults. The lessons I learned and put into practice then continueto reap a joyous harvest.
Allow me, in love, to ask you the same question the camp directorasked me those many years ago: Who are the most important peoplein your life?
If it’s your family . . . are you showing it?
If not . . . what are you going to do about it?
Just as during the early days of work on Mount Rushmore, when theexplosives engineer was told to blast away all the granite thatdidn’t look like the face of a president, so I urge you tostrip away—with dynamite, if necessary—everything inyour life that doesn’t look like family gold.
Chapter Two: The Champs
All children are champs—with potential they’re packed;
discovery alone is the element lacked.
Son, you’re the greatest!
—Herman “Sleepy” Morgan
On that Father’s Day morning, something told me I was beingset up.
All four of my children bubbled with excitement as they led me totheir playroom. I felt special to have all that attention fromthe ones I love the most.
Their eyes sparkled mischievously as they showed me a big whitebox on the playroom floor, wrapped in fourth-grader uniquenesswith hand-drawn decorations on all six sides. It was so big!
“Hurry, Dad, open it up!” four little voices screamedin unison, as if from fear the box would pull a self-destructionact before I got to the contents.
As I bent down to pull off the customized wrapping paper, the boxbegan to move, and I heard a whimpering, whining sound frominside.
Instantly I knew: I’d been framed!
“There’s a puppy inside that thing!” I exclaimed.Soon the lid was attacked by eight tiny hands, and up popped anexuberant ball of black fur.
“Daddy, Daddy, can we keep it?”
“Happy Father’s Day, Daddy!”
“Don’t you just love him?”
“Let’s name him Champ!”
The sounds of excitement filled the house.
I’d been set up to the max. Even their mother was in on thedeal. How does a daddy turn down a Father’s Daygift—hand wrapped in crayon-colored paper, no less?
“Okay, gang,” I accepted cautiously, “but only ifyou take care of him.”
“Sure, Daddy, we’ll be happy to!”
Champ was sired by my big black four-year-old retriever, Pro.Pro, who was from the bloodline of Old Yeller, Hollywood’smost famous Labrador retriever, now had a major problem: He hadto share everything with that yipping, biting, pestering Champ,who was nothing but an annoyance—to both of us.
Champ may have been my new Lab . . . but in my heart, Ididn’t really claim him.
Our nation’s homes are full of little “Champs.”Some are boys, some girls. Some are toddlers, and some are teens.They legally belong to a mom and/or a dad, but they’ve neverfelt totally claimed.
In various ways they send up their signals from every city,crying out for unconditional love and acceptance from theirtoo-busy parents.
Almost every day I get letters from teenagers across America whofeel like little Champ. One recent letter—from Amy, ageseventeen—
epitomizes their cry:
I’ve always wanted so badly to please my father and mymother. I hated to be yelled at. Every time I was caught doingsomething wrong, I felt worthless at home and at school. It wasvery embarrassing for me to get into trouble. My mom, whoI’ve always been close to, kicked me out of the house andstarted packing my things just to get back at my dad. I keptthinking to myself, “Is she serious? Where should I go? Ihave nowhere to go.” The scars run pretty deep.
After Pro and I had tolerated Champ for a couple of summermonths, an interesting event forever altered Champ’s staturein my heart. The two dogs were bounding through our summer camp,with Champ playing his usual game ofjump-up-and-bite-Pro’s-neck, lips, and-ears. As always, Proused every ounce of self-control in his pedigree to keep frommaking supper out of his menacing offspring.
The two black beauties apparently stopped at our huge outdoorswimming pool—which was closed for the day—to get adrink, and Pro fell in. Labradors are born swimmers, but thedistance between the water’s surface and the deck around itwas about four inches higher than a dog can reach. After whatmust have been fifteen to thirty minutes, a teenage boy walkingby the pool saw what happened next: As Pro began to go under,little sixteen-pound Champ leaned down, bit Pro in the lip, andwith some internal shot of adrenaline pulled his sixty-five-pounddaddy out of the water.
Champ found a new place in our home that night. Same pup, sameyip, same disposition, but he had a new status. Now he was ahero, and we treated him as he had deserved to be treated allalong. He was stroked, praised, caressed, and honored.
Champ now owned a special place in my heart—a place valuedall the more when, two months later, Pro was struck and killedwhile crossing a highway. Now I regard that whimpering, oversizedbox as the best Father’s Day present in all the wonderfulyears since I first received my most cherished title,“Daddy.”
Do you have a Champ in your home?
After working, counseling, living, and talking with hundreds ofthousands of teenagers during the past twenty-five years,I’ve found that there’s a Champ in every one—ifthat child’s parents will only take the time to discover thevein of gold in their child’s heart.
All successful homes have this in common: the discovery ofchampions.
It can be done in all kinds of homes—two-parent homes,single-parent homes, or homes where grandparents assume the roleof Mom and Dad. My grandmother found a champion in my mom whileraising her all alone. What a job she did.
My wife is truly a champion, though her father (a Navy testpilot) was killed when she was four years old. She, too, had amom who courageously and patiently raised her and her twobrothers until a stepdad came into the picture.
My daddy was fortunate to have both parents there at home to dothe job and even more fortunate that both of them recognized hisgreat potential and allowed it to bloom.
The discovery of champions can happen in your family too.
When Champ was two years old a sudden, tragic death took himseemingly long before his time was due. My only consolation wasthat before it was too late, we learned to treat him like thechampion he was.
Our kids’ lives, too, are so fragile, and the short timewe’re allowed to be with them races by . . . there neverseems to be enough.
Whatever age your children are . . . today is a great day tobring out the best in each of their lives.
Two Mothers WhoWouldn’t Give Up
Chris’s Mom
I said it would never happen to my son.
Until his seventh-grade year, Chris was polite, loving, andcontent. When I saw the plastic bag of dried-up leaves in hispocket, I didn’t even know what it was.
The marijuana habit led to LSD, cocaine, and hash. He lied aboutit habitually, and I so wanted to believe him—love hopes allthings. He made up wild and crazy stories that I wanted to betrue. But I couldn’t deny the hard facts that followed hisfootsteps.
His grades went down. He became a skilled player of video gamesto win drug money, but it wasn’t enough. He stole from ourhome and burglarized others.
He sold drugs to his friends. While in the ninth grade, he wassuspended from school for dealing drugs in the library. I washumiliated. I was scared. I wanted him to know I still loved him.
I’m told a common first mistake made by parents who learntheir child is using drugs is to look the other way and pretendit isn’t happening. A second is to look for a quick, easyremedy. A third, when you’ve tried everything humanlypossible and all has failed, is to give up.
We went through stages of all three. But every night we got onour knees in prayer. We’d made mistakes as Chris’sparents—no doubt about it. But through it all, we loved himwhile hating his sin.
Chris never ran away . . . but I did. The pressure got to me. Ichecked into a hotel for two nights to struggle with God.
While there, I began to see that drugs weren’t the enemy.They were just weapons. It was a spiritual battle we were in. Theenemy was after my son, my family, my marriage.
I faced all the what ifs. I was sure Chris would either commitsuicide, die of an overdose, or be killed in a car accident. Itwas happening in front of my eyes, and I was powerless. I hadtried everything but couldn’t rescue him from his problems.
I decided I would trust God, no matter what. That was the firstand best step. I found His peace in that hotel room.
When I went home things were the same, but I was different.
Chris had become a pro at deceit, a con artist. He hated himself,but on his own he couldn’t change. I knew something drastichad to be done. A month at a Christian summer camp helped, but itwasn’t enough time. A year at a special home for troubledyouth also helped, but even there he smuggled in drugs and hadthe wrong friends.
Then two men who were constructing a Christian camp took Chris inand gave him five months of solitary confinement, hard labor, andlove. He would work all day, listen to Christian music and gothrough Bible studies in the evening, and drop exhausted into bedat 8:00 p.m. The work kept his mind off drugs and built hisself-esteem, something he drastically needed. Phoning him fromhome, we continued to pour on the encouragement while making itclear we couldn’t allow his former behavior.
Then he came home. He was now seventeen years old. In anotheryear he would be out on his own. We wanted to believe he waswell. But he returned to his old friends, too weak to fight theirinfluence.
Then I heard about Tom Johnson, a wonderful cowboy with a youthranch in Arkansas. We sent Chris there, and on the way he gave upfighting. Miraculously, all the Christ-centered experiencehe’d been given, plus our continuing love and unceasingprayers, finally took root in his heart. He asked Jesus Christ totake over his life.
At the ranch he saw an inspirational Christian model in Tom. Onthe first morning there, at daybreak, Chris helped Tom deliver acalf. As the sun came up, Chris felt as if God were showing him anew life. He didn’t tell anyone at the time, because he felthe had talked too much. Now he wanted to show.
He hasn’t done a drug since that sunrise.
The next time we saw him, he gave his dad a great big hug.
Chris will soon graduate from college.
He shares Christ with druggies and punk rockers. With hisskateboard and drums, he gets into places a preacher could nevergo.
He’ll always be on the cutting edge.
Sharon’s Mom
We were some of the “beautiful people” in ourcommunity—Robert worked night and day while I played tennisat the country club—and our teenage daughter, Sharon, was anornament. I had to take time away from my tennis to drive her toschool. (Kids deserve better.)
I subtly gave Sharon pressure to stay on top. She just did what Iasked her to. When I woke up she was a sizzling sixteen-year-oldbrunette with big blue eyes and a body filled with alcohol anddrugs.
In three hundred and sixty-five days she spiraled down from a“most likely to succeed” to a drunk and a druggie.
No one felt worse about it than she did. She couldn’t stopbecause her group of friends expected her to live up to her newimage. Kids are so totally driven by acceptance. She didn’tfeel acceptance at home, so she got it from whomever she could.
We were so far off as parents. We let the TV set—instead ofour example—be our child’s value education. If youdon’t want your kids to drink, don’t drink. What yousay doesn’t matter. Kids learn (or miss learning)responsibility at home.
Things had gotten out of control in such a short time. Robert gotscared that we were losing each other over Sharon.“You’re giving her too much of your mind,” hepleaded with me. “I’m giving her up. We won’tfight over her. She’s yours now—yours to love, yours todiscipline.”
I prayed desperately. Please take her back, Robert.
Sharon ran.
I felt like someone had blasted me with a shotgun, and I was fullof holes, bleeding.
We got her back. Then I tried everything. I played rough atfirst. I took away all privileges—the phone, the TV set,everything. But the love wasn’t there to back up theultrastrict discipline.
Next I tried to identify with her. I took her places. I drankwith her. I wanted her to see how to drink“responsibly.” I was desperate and ready to doanything.
My heart was repeatedly broken during those times. She lied andmisled us. She said it was better, but it wasn’t. I felt sofoolish. She said she hated us, but she was really saying,“Help!” She felt so abused and so guilty.
Today she says, “Thanks for not giving up on me after I gaveup on myself.”
Here’s how the turnaround happened.
Robert and I submitted our whole family to some solid biblicalcounselors. They told us to keep on believing in Sharon. At firstwe reacted to that: “Believe in what?” But eventuallywe completely adopted our child in our hearts . . . with all ofher problems.
Next, we inventoried our own lives and began to fill our homewith consistency. We gave ourselves more lovingly to each otherand to our younger children.
I love wine, but when I caught my second daughter and her friendsdowning some whiskey (from our overstocked liquor cabinet) ontheir way out of the house to a party, I knew our social drinkinghad to go too. (Why do we play our kids for such foolssometimes?)
We continued over the next six years to rebuild our ties withSharon. As we forged the new relationship, we wondered: How doyou go back and undo all the crossed-up circuits? She had beenprogrammed all wrong.
We didn’t quit. We lived on our knees, it seemed.
Sharon protested, “You’ve never been a mother to me,and I can’t accept it now.” But she did need anauthority. I kept my mouth shut and listened to her. Then Ilistened some more. When she finished expressing her thoughts,I’d ask, “What are you thinking? . . . What are youfeeling? . . . How can I help you?” I filled her with honestpraise. Then I’d state my position. Sometimes she’d getso angry.
Robert and I worked at being more honest. We became moreavailable to our kids. In everything, we strove to be authentic.
With the help of the Christian youth and family counselors, webegan to see daylight. In a couple of years, the storm was over,and our skies became only partly cloudy.
Today we are close. Our house is a home. It still rains heresometimes, but there are also sunny days to enjoy.
I believe the tragic years with Sharon actually saved us from alifetime of casual misery. It was worth the trouble to begin tounderstand each other and really get to know the power of JesusChrist in a family.
Today as he left for college, my nineteen-year-old son said,“Mom, wouldn’t you rather be called a great mom than agreat tennis player or a corporate officer?” Then he added,“You’re a great mom!”
Maybe he’s exaggerating with the “great.” I think“great-ful” (grateful!) is a better word for me.
Chapter Three: Who Cares?
Think I’ll buy a forty-four
Give ’em all a surprise
Think I’m gonna kill myself
Cause a little suicide.
—Elton John
Several years ago, Elvis Presley’s colorful stepbrotherspent some time with us at our summer sports camp. Elvis lovedmusic, but Rick Stanley loved kids.
As we talked about the plight of the modern teenager, Rick toldme of another brother’s backstage encounter with David LeeRoth, the former lead singer of Van Halen, who sang of suicide,drugs, torture, sex, rebellion, and perversion. After a lengthyconversation about Elvis, his fame, his music, and his tragicdeath, the brother asked Roth the same question I would want toask him: “David, what do you think about the thousands ofkids out there in the crowd tonight who are getting stoned,wasted, messed up?”
With a blunt, cold stare, Roth answered, “Who cares?”
At least he was honest. Roth didn’t seem to care aboutanyone but himself. But the problem was that so many vulnerablekids looked up to him. At a typical concert, twenty thousand ofthem—averaging fourteen years of age—would pay a halfmillion dollars and practically break down the doors to partakein two hours of visual and verbal pornography. The next day atschool they’d wear their new rock T-shirts to celebratetheir evening with a hero.
Who are your kids’ heroes?
They’re displayed on the posters on the walls of theirrooms. Look into their eyes. What do you see?
My breakfast guest one morning was a seventeen-year-old boy whowas six-foot-two and weighed a hundred and ninety pounds. He wasas lost as a baby billy goat. He came from a wonderful home, butnine months with the wrong three friends—and who knows howmany dozen marijuana cigarettes—had sent him into a tailspinand turned his home upside down. To my amazement, this confusedteenager told me over breakfast how both he and his best friendwere introduced to pot by the friend’s father—right intheir home.
Does that make you fighting mad?
What about the homes that expose their children to 18,000murders, 75,000 scenes of physical intimacy between unmarriedpartners, 75,000 commercials whose basic message is: “Take apill for a problem,” and 66,000 commercials that say:“Drink alcohol for fun”? Those are the actual estimatesof what a kid sees on television while growing up in the averageAmerica home.
The subtlety of this invasion is crafty, and the hypocrisy behindit is incredible. It’s an intruder that slips into our homeslike a cunning burglar, and parents indifferent to it arecultivating disaster for their kids.
Children become what they think about—it’s a principleas certain as gravity. So what type of influence at home isworse—the father who brings home marijuana or the“average” amount of television viewing?
Every album your kids play, every concert they attend, everytelevision show they watch . . . each one is like a stepdadtemporarily taking over your role of teacher, coach, and friend.Is this the kind of stand-in you want for yourself?
Parents are the decision makers. The federal governmentwon’t help our kids avoid the worst influences. The citycouncil won’t. Our neighbors won’t.
The responsibility is yours and mine.
So who cares?
You do.
I do.
How much are we showing it?
Excerpted from What Kids Wish Parents Knew about Parenting by Joel White
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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