I'm having a day. I know that we all have them, but today is my day. It's not often that I get to have a day because I live with five women. Their hormones take up too much time and space for any of my fits or tantrums. As the man of the house, I expend all my energy trying to make them whole. On their days, I deal with emotions on steroids and waste time trying fix whatever seems to be broken. One day I'll quit and just empathize.

One day, I'll say that I'm very sorry, tilting my head slightly to one side, give a hug, and never mention a word about trying to remedy anything.Right now though, that goes against every molecule of my manhood. Obviously, there exists precious little time for my complaints.

Ashamed as I am to say it, my problems pale in comparison to so many others. I'm happily married, cancer-free, live in peace, and am on my way to heaven.

She has smoked for many years, and shortly after the discovery of lung cancer, she told me with humility and remorse that the Lord had "caught her." Those words stung me. Candidly and honestly she confessed her lack of prudence (in not quitting), and now regrets every last ounce of tobacco and fiberglass that she drew in her lungs. We don't get but two, and she knows now that those are ruined. I didn't judge her. It's not my place. Instead, what she told me about getting caught just made me love her more.

Once upon a time, long before I ever had a license to operate a motor vehicle, my dad the driver's education teacher, taught me that anytime a driver runs into the rear of another car, it is the first driver's fault. Sadly, and somewhat violently I learned that lesson first hand a few weeks ago on a Thursday morning.

After prayer and Bible study with a friend, I stopped by the bank, and then was on my way home when I got behind an elderly couple driving very slowly. So slowly, in fact, was the man creeping that he actually pulled his converted golf cart to the side of the road for me to pass. Actually, that description is not entirely accurate. Golf carts go much faster.

We have here in Portugal terribly small contraptions with four wheels and two doors that inch up and down the road. Only people over seventy drive them, and Nina and I are convinced that they are powered by a large key that is inserted into the trunk and twisted. Sort of like something out of Stewart Little. I could be wrong, they may have a hamster wheel under the hood or places to stick your feet in the floorboard – Fred Flintstone style. The interior seems to be made out of cardboard and the motor makes less noise than an average weed eater. They are two seaters and extremely dangerous. Top speed can't be more than 40 mph. Now, you have a good idea of what I was driving behind.

Church nurseries are everywhere. It seems that some churches don’t have enough workers whether it’s because the church is small and there are not that many ladies who are willing to work in them or they feel that they only need to be in the nursery if they have kids in there. Some churches are so big that they run several nurseries at the same time of different ages and due to this there is a shortage of workers as there are many more worker spaces to fill for one service.

No matter the size of the nursery or how often you are in there as a nursery worker it is possible to enjoy your time that you are in there. Having worked in several nurseries over the years, here are some things that I have found make the time more enjoyable and productive.

After five kids, one would think that parents would have no problem choosing just the right toothpaste for their children. Sadly, in the kingdom of the Andrews and Jewskis, such is not the case.

Rather with each passing princess comes a different affinity for the sticky substance that delicately cleans the white gate whose job it is to guard the unruly tongue. The older two, Brooklyn and Faith, have safely passed onto adulthood as far as dental hygiene is concerned preferring “Mom and Dad's” toothpaste. The younger two female subjects, Liberty and Trinity make much of their desired brand, and the heir to throne, Justice can be found at various times throughout his day licking every last bit of residue from the lid, with blatant disregard for others' wishes.

Strictly from a father's perspective, the birth of a son has been known to elicit numerous responses. Perhaps the most well recognized of these being the pre 80's ritual of passing out cigars to other expectant fathers in hospital waiting rooms. Others may include the dancing of jigs, shouting, and dreaming of their greatness in years to come.

Having watched my wife bring four girls into this world, with very little help from me, I often wondered what, if any difference having a son would produce on my attitude as a father.

Would I be more or less protecting, loving, forgiving? Would my fatherhood of a man child afford me greater insight to the Heavenly Father's great sacrifice of freely giving His Son for us?

Transparency, is a quality for which I strive each day. It's a battle I often fight and sometimes lose. Although, I'm finding it easier in a small village on the mission field.

Transparency, a quality that's absolutely impossible to obtain while piling skeletons into an already overcrowded closet. It's a quality that most desire in a preacher, but few in our day personally seek out. Unbeknownst to some, going around unmasked and unashamed allows for much greater freedom. It breaks down fraudulent walls and paper thin masks of imitation. It lets you be who you are – but careful. It lets you be who you are on good days as well as bad.

Transparency, then carries as extra baggage a certain predisposition to apologies. It becomes for a person in the public eye more of a liability than a simple inclination to express regret.

Early before dawn one Friday morning, I noticed a young man handsome and strong walking down the alleys of our city.

He was pulling a cart filled with clothes bright and new, calling in a clear voice, “Rags! Rags! New rags for old! I’ll take your tired rags!” This was a wonder. The man stood six feet four, arms like tree trunks, hard and muscular, and his eyes flashed intelligence. Could he find no better job than this, a ragman in the inner city?

I followed him. My curiosity drove me. I wasn’t disappointed. Soon the ragman saw a young women sitting on her back door step. She was sobbing into a handkerchief, sighing and shedding a thousand tears. Her shoulders shook. Her heart was breaking. The ragman stopped his cart.

Quietly, he walked to the woman, stepping around the tin cans, dead toys and rubbish. “Give me your rag” he said so gently, “and I’ll give you another.” He slipped the handkerchief from her eyes. She looked up and he laid across her palm a linen cloth so clean and new that it shone. She blinked from the gift to the giver.

Then as he began to pull the cart again, the Ragman did a strange thing. He put her stained handkerchief to his own face and then he began to weep, to sob as grievously as she had done, his shoulders shaking. Yet she was left without a tear.

As many of you know, or should know, I am currently away at Fort Polk for some military training exercises.  Because of this, I will not be able to announce the winner of November's content on December 2 as I had originally planned.  The contest will still be ending at midnight on the last day of November. The winner, however, will not be formally announced until the 14th or 16th of December. 

I apologize if this creates any inconvenience for those of you who are working so hard to participate in the contest.  Please note that we will be running the contest in the month of December the same as we did this month.  The 'Get Involved' page will not, however, be updated until I return.  Thank you all for your participation.  I look forward to returning from my trip and announcing the winner to all of you.  

Just in case you were wondering, I wrote this update prior to leaving and scheduled it to appear today.  Tada!