The weekend started with such joy and anticipation. 

It was Saturday morning, and I had just finished teaching a church membership class. As I was driving back home to round up the fam, as we were to attend a birthday party shortly after, I got the following message from the wifey:

"Mommom cut mm’s hair. I’m pissed."

Uh oh. I've never heard her use those words before in a text. A few seconds later, I see a stream of exploding angry face emojis. This was bad. I pushed on the pedal, hoping to catch things before it erupted.

I got home and went straight to the bedroom. "How bad is it?" 

Micah turned around, his bangs were gone. Just like that—with some unthinkable, impermissible, god-forbidden snips—he went from the K-pop mop to looking like Lloyd from Dumb & Dumber. 

"Oh boy, that's bad." A lot of words ran through my head, most of them four letters containing F or S. (Go ahead and buy some vowels! says Pat.)

It was Carissa's first day of preschool. I wasn't sure what to expect, but all I knew was that I had to brace myself for tantrums and tears.

After 12 minutes or so on the road, we pulled up to the parking lot. The building was attached to a church that was hidden by a cluster of trees. As we passed the playground and entered through an olive-colored gate, I was preparing myself for resistance.

How loud will she scream? How much will she cry? The number of limbs she'll be clinging onto…over or under three? With every step, I was smarting over the fact that Mommy had somehow passed this burden onto me.

When we entered the classroom, it was bright and lively, full of faces and voices. One of the teachers walked right up and introduced herself, taking her by the hand. "Hi, I'm Ms. Liz. What's your name?"

This past Sunday, I was ordained as a minister.

It happened in a small ceremony as part of our church’s regular Sunday service. The pastors and elders invited me up to share a few words, then they prayed over me. It was a short yet meaningful time.

Those of you who know my story might recall my long journey to get to this point. I remember sitting in a service over 12 years ago, casually listening to a sermon, when I felt this sudden impression from God. I don’t even remember what the pastor was talking about. But I sensed a message inside of me that was akin to, “I want you to be a shepherd and feed my flock. I want you to be a pastor.”

God doesn’t usually speak to me in such a way. But I had no reason to doubt it was him. And yet, in that moment, I felt a great sense of dread and fear come upon me. Like, God I think you got the wrong guy. What would my parents think? How would I be able to support a future family? The list of excuses kept rising to the surface.

Life during this period hasn’t been easy by any stretch. 

There have been many sleepless nights, many episodes of inconsolable crying and screaming. From both children. (Possibly from some adults.) Minor spats with the wife because we’re both worn-out, overworked, exhausted. 

And in those moments I’ve cried out variations of “Lord, I’m so done. Can you take me right now?" Like, it’s all good if Jesus just came back and raptured us. I hate to admit it, but that’s what I was feeling. In my flesh I sought to be rescued from hardship.

I told all this to my friend Eric over dinner. He took it all in. Then he replied, "A clean manger means there's no oxen." 

My father is getting older.

I’ve always known this in my head, that this day would be inevitable, but this is something that’s been hard to come to terms with.

The other day my parents had asked me to help install their new washer.

A coin of all things had been lodged into the spinner of their washing machine, and my dad couldn't dislodge it, so naturally my parents needed to buy a new one.

He said the delivery was coming at 3:00pm.

I had a few hours to kill, so I decided to grab lunch with my dad. As it turns out, from the call we received, the delivery truck just so happened to show up right as we arrived at the poke stop.