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Doodle Dad Life

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

On January 17, the year of our Lord, 2023, I took our Goldendoodle to the groomer for a trim. Tucker is his name. Properly, Tucker Scout Mitchell. He has a full three names in his name. That’s how much of a doodle dad I am.

The backstory of why we have a doodle is pretty simple. My wife doesn’t like hair on her pants. Or couch. Or floor. To be fair, neither do I. Thus, the doodle is a genetically engineered dog for people who don’t actually want a dog.

Cute, right?

If you’ve never tried to purchase a Goldendoodle, or a black market vital organ, just know that the process is similar to that of the Hunger Games. There are lists, down payments, and alliances… If someone else on the list ahead of you mysteriously vanishes, it’s not all loss and isn’t your fault.

The etymology of Doodle, it turns out, is German for, this dog will cost you everything.

You see, doodles require meticulous grooming. I am lucky if my three human daughters’ hair gets brushed every day.

I Wanted a Dog the Least

When Tucker does get brushed, it’s usually because I brush him. I pretty much do the most for him which makes sense because I wanted him the least.

And I knew what would happen.

Against my otherwise unbreakable will, I’ve bonded with the bugger. He went to work with me on the daily for a year coming out of COVID protocols. We’re thick as thieves. It’s to the point that I actually felt some anxiety leaving him with the groomer. Granted, I feel anxious 80% of the time, so there wasn’t a lot to be concerned about.

My greater concern was the end of the day.

8 Hours Later

Pickup time.

Like many businesses, the groomer decided that even after Covid the whole not interacting with people was best for everyone. You arrive, call the number posted outside, and they bring your beloved pup out to you.

Waiting in the car on a dreary day, having wondered hour after hour what Tucker would look like, I was strangely giddy and slightly fearful for what I’d see.

The rain falls. I wait.

Sheila emerges from a concrete path lined by hedges. It was as dramatic a scene as my Tennessee Volunteers running through the T in Neyland Stadium.

Then I saw a dog trailing somewhat slothfully behind Sheila. I felt sorry for whoever was taking that one home. Not only was the dog mostly hairless, but I’m also fairly certain its soul had been taken in the process.

Sheila passed by the only other car in the pick-up zone. Oh dear. Clearly, Sheila has made a mistake. This wasn’t my precious Tucker. When Sheila opened the back door and put the animal in my car, it acted like it knew me. At that moment I realized I was going home with this doodle lite version of a doodle.

The part of the exchange I appreciated the most was when Sheila vocalized that she had to shave Tucker. That felt like an unspoken to me since I’d dropped off the likes of Chewbacca that morning.

I joked around a bit about not liking his hair anyways, and she struck back fast.

“Yeah…he’s an every day brush.”

Excuse me?

“You have to brush him every single day. And make sure you work around his mouth to get him used to that so he doesn’t nip at me next time.”

Noted.

There’s More…

Like an aging mother telling her adult child all of the unfortunate things happening with her body, Sheila then informed me that she’d gotten really deep into his ears and cleaned those out. “He’ll be shaking his head quite a bit for the next few days.” Apparently, whatever hair the doodle doesn’t shed just relocates to its ears. Super.

“And don’t worry if he forms some hematomas around his ears, that’s normal.”

I’m not a doctor, Sheila.

One Last Thing

I was ready to say thanks and head on to hear the collective groan of my family, but she wasn’t done. Sheila leaned in(to) my rolled-down driver-side window. Real serious-like she lowered her volume and flattened her tone, “Just so you know, his anal glands were about half full.”

And then she just kept staring into my eyes, as if to say, “I think you know what I’m saying.” 

I did not.

Is 50 a good percentage of anal gland fullness?

How are we keeping score? Is this like golf where the lower number is better, or are we playing basketball and I need to get more into those glands to win the game? What are we even doing at this point, Sheila? What is this dance?

All I know is I dropped off a vibrant, one-and-a-half-year-old doodle who seemed pretty satisfied with his hairiness and his anal glands at the time, and I was going home with the equivalent of a 94-year-old man who needs around-the-clock care and is most definitely going to pass the time by scooting his rear across my living room rug. 

But it’s fine because there is absolutely no hair getting on my wife’s pants. 

Blubber: a story of staying pudgy

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

This follow-up to my non-viral post, the most vulnerable thing I’ve ever written to people on the Internet, is really more of a prequel, which makes this a lot like whatever happened with the Star Wars movies.

How did I get to the point of not loving me? That sounds too inclusive. It’s not all of me, just the physical me, so no big deal.

It took a while to get here, but let me let you join me on the journey.

I wasn’t always pudgy. No. There were pre-pudge glory years of an eon past.

Domination to Deflation

The year was 1990. The place, my hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee. The setting was the Knox County area elementary field day. You can sense the excitement and anticipation in the stands, filled to overflowing with hundreds of kids stupefied by classmates hopping around in potato sacks.

I didn’t participate in an honorable mention event, though, people of the Internet. I was fast. No lie. Like a Nick Cage movie to DVD fast.

My event was the 100-yard dash. I owned it, probably due to the stellar coaching of my PE teacher who was none other than Kenny Chesney’s dad. I never met Kenny. But, add 100ish pounds to the blue chair sittin’ fella holding the pirate flag and chilled rum concoction, and that’s Kenny’s dad.

A slight slip on some loose gravel at the sound of the starting gun meant I had ground to make up. But I already told you. I was fast. I won that race in 1990.

I’d never win another one (until I had kids and totally dominate).

The following year at our school field day/qualifying meet of the now-defunct Giffin Elementary, I came in third place. How did it happen? I didn’t trip or even pull a hammy a la ESPN 30 for 30 style. I was just flat out slower.

The Downfall

So what happened? How was my glory so short-lived? Were my socks too high (not possible, it was ’91)? Was my shirt tucked too tightly into the elastic waistband of my shorts? I need to know why!

It’s pretty simple, actually. Corn dogs.

Corn dogs and mashed potatoes and chicken-and-dumplings and Dr. Pepper and Cheese Wiz and copious amounts of banana pudding.

My heart didn’t quit on me that field day. My metabolism did.

That may not be 100% accurate, scientifically speaking, but it feels right, so let’s run with it.

I was an active kid. Riding my bike around the hood, playing basketball, baseball, 1.5 years of football (apparently it’s full contact, not a fan), tennis. But such activity couldn’t compete with my soul-deep desire for biscuits and gravy and milk…always milk.

Fashionably Unfit

My speed faded as fast as MySpace. But something else happened, an inexplicable phenomenon that was beyond my control.

Silk shirts happened.

Button up silk shirts, to be exact. I was given a couple as gifts, probably along with socks and a serving of gravy at Christmastime.

I wore them. Proudly apparently, since, enshrined evermore in my parent’s house is a school picture of me in the multi-striped silky of fifth grade, rivaled only by that of Joseph’s coat of many colors. That shirt, as fly as it was, couldn’t hide a couple of new features I was sporting.

  1. A less defined chin. Sure to capture the admiration of all lady people, my neck was growing upward. Strange.
  2. A mysterious case of gynecomastia.

In other words, my face was getting chubby. Also, what’s gynecomastia, you ask? It’s serious, people.

Maybe you know this condition by its street name…man-boob. What causes this mystery illness? Turns out it’s the same root cause of slowness.

Corn dogs and mashed potatoes and chicken-and-dumplings and Dr. Pepper and Cheese Wiz and copious amounts of banana pudding. Did I fail to mention that there is no cheese in Cheese Whiz? It’s just whiz.

Some dudes put on weight in their bellies and it never hits their chests. Others carry the excess in their posteriors or thighs–if only, my friends. My stowaway luggage fits nicely into the ever-so-obvious pectoral region, not to mention my face and tummy. Such is the pattern my fourth-grade self experienced for the first time.

Want proof that I’m still pudgy? My lovely, supportive, sensitive wife just professed her love the other day saying, “I’ve never even seen an ab on you.”

“An.” Just one. That’s all the poor girl wants. She isn’t greedy.

I’d like to give her that ab show–just the one. No more, lest I become vain and call down the Lawd’s wrath.

For Better or Fat

To be fair, I wasn’t ripped, as they say, when my bride and I said our death vows. I wasn’t fat, but I wasn’t svelte. I was pudgy…say it again with me – pudgy. Even that word sounds fat.

Early on in our wedded bliss, we moved to California where people tend to be fit. If not they just own it and wear tighter pants. Kudos to you, California.

I was in seminary and working at a church. Seminary is code for, I’m putting on 30 pounds and you can’t stop me. At 6-feet tall, I was a soft 225 pounds. It wasn’t handsome, burly, or any other manly adjective. The buttons on my shirt were sweating, and I was sweating. Lots of sweating.

Something had to give, mainly because my wife had a hard time looking at me. Mind you, when she did look she couldn’t miss me. So I started running and not eating crap. What happened?

I lost 40 pounds. My gynecomastia was cured! It’s a miracle!!

Yes, science is a miracle. Does that make me a doctor? I don’t know. You be the judge of that.

As a doctor, I discovered that the secret to not being fat is exercise and an appropriate diet (not a crazy can’t keep it up diet, just a healthy way of eating and being). **Disclaimer** Yes, there are actual medical conditions that make weight management difficult.** End disclaimer.

But, even after dropping the weight of a 3-yr-old, did Lindsey see that ab?? Nope. Pay closer attention.

What Now?

I’m working on the pudge purge. Persistence is the name of the game. I’ve made so many plans and set so many lofty goals that I don’t care to do either again. Persistence, though, she’s a gift. Show up each day. Say no to the kids’ scraps from dinner and from eating one of everything that goes in their lunch because that’s eating four extra lunches.

I don’t even like the saying “progress, not perfection” because then I feel crappy that my progress isn’t progressive enough. That’s why I say persistence. I’m becoming the guy who shows up each day. Who says no to the doughnut, even after taking a bite and feeling the shame that leads to spitting it out.

Here’s to the journey. Of course, you’ll be at the top of the list of folks I let know when the elusive abdominal comes out of hibernation.

How to avoid being criticized

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

Photo by Daniel Reche from Pexels

This post is a follow up of sorts to this post, so you should go read that post.

You want to stay safe professionally, relationally, politically, religiously, creatively?

Simple. Just do the same thing mostly the same way all the time. That’s safe. It’s manageable and tame. Like a declawed, defanged cat. It still won’t love you.

Safe also keeps the critics at bay. Do what you’re expected to do and not much more. You can actually do less and still be looked on with favor. And the best part–you can still criticize others without being criticized yourself!! What is this sorcery magic? How is that possible?

Allow me to allow Seth Godin to explain.

If your work has never been critcized, it’s unlikely you have any work. Creating work is the point, though, which means that in order to do something that matters, you’re going to be criticized.

If your goal is to be universally liked and respected an understood, then, it must mean your goals is to not do something that matters. Which requires hiding. Hiding, of course, isn’t the point.

Hence, the paradox. You don’t want to be criticized and you do want to matter.

The solution: Create work that gets criticized. AND, have the discernment to tell the difference between useful criticism (rare and precious) and the stuff worth ignoring (everything else).

Published on Seth’s blog

Thanks, Seth.

In other words, staying safe is simple. You just do average. Do what’s expected–or less! But not too much less because then even average will make you look really awful.

Go out and get criticized for doing something matters. Shouldn’t be too hard.

The Journey Towards a Better Death (and life)

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

architect-architecture-black-and-white-1537008The better game is one we all play even though it never promises a return.

We pay for the next better, move cities to find the next better, cheat on a spouse to experience the next better. There really is no end in the quest to find this psychological sasquatch.

One of the ways it has shown up in my life over the years is with church and employment.

Southerners are especially skilled in playing the better game with churches. The perfect one is out there. I’m going to find it. The one where the pastor preaches a strong, theologically rich sermon with hilarious stories, poignant illustrations, priceless application and all in 30 minutes or less, like an episode of that new Netflix show, F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

In my mind, there was always a better preacher. A better worship experience. A better atmosphere. There had to be. This could not be the pinnacle of church.

And I carried that same mentality and quest for better into my graduate education and professional career.

So by 2013, after 7 years of marriage, we’d moved 11 times (a couple of which were in the same city to a different living situation, but my wife still counts those as moves). Granted, at least I didn’t say I was feeling “called” to Nowheresville. We set up camp in Savannah, Los Angeles, St. Louis–all great cities.

My graduate transcript was a registrar’s worst nightmare. It probably looked more like a word search than a transcript.

After all my searching and gypsy-like moving, where did we end up? Daggum Bluff City, TN. You have to say daggum in a sentence with Bluff City.

That’s a very generous use of the word City, by the way.

But there I was. There we were.

I went from megachurch to megachurch in search of better and ended up being most satisfied pastorally and professionally working in this little, out of the way church and at a Christian school.

At Bunker Hill Christian, there was nobody waiting to be wowed. They wanted to be loved. I didn’t hit a home run with that one, but I grew. Oh so slowly. But they were kind, patient, and gracious.

That season was refining in the sense that it exposed the prideful dross that covered every inch of me. That pride kept me from living a Hebrews 11 life. It would keep from dying a Hebrews 11 death.

Even when I thought I was seeking first God’s kingdom, I was very much at home here. I was an earthly citizen through and through, ALL about the tangible, measurable, and quantifiable.

From childhood to adulthood, the next achievement, next girl, next church, next city, the next better was supposed to make me feel like I’d arrived.

My grand realization? Fundamentally, these were all things I could manipulate. All I had to do was say, Well, God’s calling me to California. Calling me to St. Louis. Calling me to break up with you (best.line.ever).

It doesn’t take faith to manipulate. It takes faith to live and move toward that which you do not control.

Hebrews 11 again

10 For he was looking forward to the city that has foundations, whose architect and builder is God.

There’s only one truly better city, better scenario, better whatever. The city of God.

There is a future that will only be fashioned by faithfulness in the moment. The Architect has the plans drawn up. But He is also the Builder. So what’s our part?

It may sound like this conclusion to Hebrews 11

32 And what more can I say? Time is too short for me to tell about Gideon, Barak, Samson, Jephthah, David, Samuel, and the prophets, 33 who by faith conquered kingdoms, administered justice, obtained promises, shut the mouths of lions, 34 quenched the raging of fire, escaped the edge of the sword, gained strength in weakness, became mighty in battle, and put foreign armies to flight. 35 Women received their dead, raised to life again. Other people were tortured, not accepting release, so that they might gain a better resurrection. 36 Others experienced mockings and scourgings, as well as bonds and imprisonment. 37 They were stoned, they were sawed in two, they died by the sword, they wandered about in sheepskins, in goatskins, destitute, afflicted, and mistreated. 38 The world was not worthy of them. They wandered in deserts and on mountains, hiding in caves and holes in the ground. 39 All these were approved through their faith, but they did not receive what was promised, 40 since God had provided something better for us, so that they would not be made perfect without us.

What better epithet could you ask for than verse 38?

    The world was not worthy of them

Only a person who has lived for a better world will have that said of them.

But like the folks in the text, I can’t sit idly by and dream of the better place.

So, a word to the dreamer like me who can’t get no satisfaction.

Pastor Darrin in Pooler, GA said something one Sunday while we were visiting. I can’t shake it. Keep your eyes fixed on heaven, but get your head out of the clouds, he said. Mind your business, I thought.

No, it really did hit me. Translation for my life? Stop being a critic without bringing a contribution. I’d made a living doing that. The pay is terrible.

I’m asking God to do something with my imagination other than have it be an idol factory that spawns discontentment and petty thoughts. I want to bloom where I’m planted as those flowery journals at Target quip.

But part of our spiritual journeys is smashing face first into the transcendent reality that the lasting satisfaction and fulfillment we seek won’t be found this side of forever. No thing. No one. It won’t happen.

That realization should be even greater fodder for the fire of exhausting all resources in this life on the journey towards what matters most. And it’s probably not the latest facebook fight or Twitter mud slinging contest.

I have a finite amount of time, energy, and resources, and this is what or who God has put in front of me right now, and I’m going to catalyze those resources to make the most and best of my actual life right now—and by faith it will produce a better life and death.

Eyes on heaven. Heads out of the clouds.

I’m going to cultivate the very ground in which I’m presently planted to see the fruit that God wants to grow in me and through me, for my good, the good of those around me, and for His glory.

Selah.

Seeking a Better Better in a World of Imposters

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

So you’ve been bamboozled by the idea of better your entire life, as I mentioned in the last post. Nobody said that’s what was happening, but it happened. And it carries on.

Right now, some of you reading this are thinking about the better job or car or shoes or purse or blog (shame on you for that last one). But it’s in us. We want better. We crave better. We have anxiety over better and imagine ourselves living in, driving, or sleeping with better.

We shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that better is so alluring. The first advertising campaign on earth had to do with better.

It took all of three chapters in Genesis for Eve to be convinced that she could be

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Just one bite?

better and life could be better if she’d just eat of the fruit from a specific tree.

Both she and Adam took the bait of better, hook, line, and sinker. And then everyone blamed someone, but that’s a different topic.

Better is that low hanging fruit, right there in front of your face non-stop. It seems so reachable, so pleasing to the eye, and it must be wonderful to experience. 

  • With ladies, I think about social media and the gnawing sense that her life is better. It’s constant.
  • For the gents living in a hypersexualized culture, it’s evident that the Internet thinks you can get better, and for cheap. Why bother with real people when virtual people will fulfill your fantasies?

Better is everywhere. It wears many masks.

It may be worth noting here that my hope is NOT that you would abandon better. I want you to believe in better. There is a reason that longing is in you. It just may be a wildly different better altogether. It’s a better that, in an election year, will make people frustrated and simultaneously prevent you from slinging mud on the facebook…because you don’t think better will be won at the polls, at not the better folks are slandering, lying, and cussing to grasp.

I found myself some time back re-reading through the letter of Hebrews in the New Testament, which really reads best if you do it all at one time. It’s more like a sermon.

Hebrews chapter 11, in particular, is where this is all coming from.

This chapter is sometimes called the hall of faith because it is replete with the names and stories of some of the who’s who of the OT

Enoch. Noah. Moses. Abraham. Sarah.

The refrain of the chapter is by faith. By faith Noah–by faith Abraham–by faith Israel…

In order to not be confused about what faith is, God is kind enough to tell us exactly what faith is at the beginning of chapter 11

Hebrews 11.1 Now faith is the reality (confidence) of what is hoped for, the proof of what is not seen. (CSB) 

> The glaring oddity about faith and your walk with Christ is that it’s wrapped up in things not seen.

It’s not that the empirical, visible, or tangible doesn’t matter. But rather, that the transcendent, intangible, and invisible matter more, at least in terms of what governs the way you live.

As you might expect, this is a pervasive theme throughout the Bible. That we live amidst the visible and invisible.

It’s this tension that makes so many college students and academics uncomfortable.

It’s what drives attempts by Bible professors who’ve spent nearly a decade in doctoral programs to explain away the supernatural.

And yet much of the focus in Hebrews 11 is on these men and women who were faithful even when they didn’t see what was promised to them by God in this life. Those who were captivated by the invisible, by faith.

  • Abraham didn’t see descendants as numerous as the stars.
  • Moses didn’t see the Promised Land in all its glory.

In the next post, I will point you to a summary of several of these lives and their having died without seeing the better they so longed to experience. Faithful men and women who, thousands of years before we ever cared about a thing, listened and obeyed God, not perfectly, but to the degree that it was clear their better was vastly different than the better we’ve become accustomed to chasing.

Here’s to a better better.

When “one day” is today but was actually every other day

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

antique-black-and-white-classic-163116

Headline news—-It’s raining. In Savannah. Again.

Actual blog post:

For the last 10 years or so I’ve said one day countless times.

One day, when I’m not in school and working, I’ll …

One day, when I’m not working and waking up in the middle of the night to change diapers and help with baby feedings I’ll…

One day, when I’m not working two jobs I’ll…

One day, when I’m not working two jobs and finishing another degree I’ll…

And back again to: one day, when I’m not working two jobs I’ll…

Well lah-di-dah, it would appear that “one day” has arrived. “One day” has come. One day has become today.

I have one job. I’m not working at a school and a church. Just a school. A great school. The Habersham School (with a fine new website).

While there is much work to do and plenty to keep me busy, it’s still one day. And that means I have written pages upon pages of a book, right? I’ve researched and taken notes on topics about which I plant to write, right? I’m blogging multiple times a week, right?

Nah. I’ve blogged a couple times in as many months. No pages for a book. Not even a sentence.

I’m writing a blog about how I haven’t written anything, so this should count for something.

It turns out that “one day” isn’t as situational or circumstantial as I thought. One day is about discipline. It’s habit. Which means that one day has been every other day prior to today.

Crap. I wasted a lot of todays waiting on one day.

How, then, do I work, spend quality time with my kids, date my wife, workout, cultivate spiritual health, AND write. Your AND may be something else–dance, create art, start a business, travel, lose 10lbs–mine has always been write (and lose 10lbs).

There has to be something to do to-day that will demystify your one day and make it more achievable. There’s a discipline or habit or practice to start, or, to stop. It’s one less meal…another practice session…500 more words…another page…two more sets…something.

Here’s to your efforts at bringing one day into today!

Newness

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

curve-decision-forest-6754

Change is hard.

That’s what people say. Whoever people are…

And it is. Usually, change is hard, especially on the moving front.

Different place, different people, different responsibilities, different school, different church, different Walmart.

But how much really changes?

Walmart is still awful (but necessary). Work is work. My 4-year-old still acts 4, and my 2-year-old still makes staying in her bed a hill to die on. And, yes, Chick-fil-a is still closed on Sundays.

Some things will be the same regardless of latitude and longitude.

Jesus is also the same (didn’t see that coming, did ya?).

He’s the same yesterday, today, and forevermore.

There’s comfort in that reality. That regardless of space or time, Jesus is Jesus. He’s Lord. He’s in control. He’s holding all things together.

No politician or movement will ever change that.

Praise be.

 

 

Putting all your eggs in one basket–a letter to pastors preparing for Easter

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

Image result for empty tomb

Dear Pastor,

Easter is the most important day of the church calendar.

Christmas is wonderful to be sure. But the apostle Paul says that without the Resurrection we Christians are to be pitied more than anyone (1 Corinthians 15.13-19). That is to say, the physical rise of Jesus’ body from the dead sets the Christian faith apart from every other religion. Jesus’ resurrection gives us hope unparalleled, for our Savior’s resurrection is a foretaste and foretelling of our own. In that day we will experience the fullness of Paul’s taunt, “Where, death, is your victory? Where, death, is your sting?” (1 Cor 15.55).

The temptation I feel facing this Sunday is probably similar to your own, namely, how to spice up the Easter service. After all, faithful attenders have heard the story countless times, and those who come only at Easter and Christmas may hear the same two stories year after year. So how can we make it stand out?

When I was on staff at other churches, I would hear the same rallying cry each year regarding Easter: THIS IS OUR SUPER BOWL!!!! Meaning, this is the event of the year for our church. People need to experience something spectacular. At times I wondered if they really meant, this is our Super Bowl halftime show.

Since usually the day included a special opener for the service (song from the radio, custom video, etc.) and other elements that would enhance the worship experience. None of these churches preached weak messages about the Resurrection, but the excitement of the day tended to focus on those ‘special’ elements.

Hear me, I don’t care if you have someone painting a version of Jesus’ face on stage or a marching band playing as people walk in. I have seen things that make me shudder, but I’m no prude.

My encouragement would be to put all your eggs in the only basket we have–the Resurrection. Resist the path of least resistance, which is simply telling the story. Give people the why behind the what and what it means for now and evermore that the tomb is empty. And, please, resist diverting to a catchier angle than the clearly defined gospel one. This is the hope of the world–it doesn’t need help being relevant.

If people leave our churches this Sunday talking about the worship experience–songs, visuals, the clever opener–but can’t articulate why Jesus had to die and what it means that he rose, we’ve failed..even if our opener goes viral.

Right there with you,

Patrick

 

 

The newly updated, expanded, unabridged, unpublished, unedited (mostly) sermon library of me is available for FREE–yes, FREE

Posted on by Patrick L. Mitchell

You might expect to pay as much as $19.99 for what amounts to thousands of hours of work on my part.

But no!

You can can listen to even MORE sermons from one of the top 20 preachers in Bluff City, TN (self-designated based on there being about 20 churches in said city) with just the click of a button and your own over-priced Internet plan.

One day I may get crazy and make a podcast. Baby steps, people.