Jesus said to his disciples, “Let the little children come to me and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”
After he took the children in his arms, he placed his hands on them and blessed them.

Mark 10:14b-16

Joye and I were children together. I suspect many of you could say the same thing. Of course, she had already been a child for more than three decades before I came on the scene, but age has always been a poor indicator of youth. In a world where far too many young people are forced to abandon childhood prematurely, Joye was a wonderful exception.

Exceptionality seemed to saturate Joye’s life from the beginning. Born at a time when mainstream culture didn’t value difference and uniqueness as it does today, Joye was exceptionally loved by her family — her parents, Lacy and Emaline; her sister Jane; and later, her brothers, Danny and David.

Love didn’t flow one way in Joye’s life, though. She gave from the depths of her spirit, lavishing love and affection on everyone she came to know. A visit with one of her many cousins, aunts, uncles, nieces or nephews never failed to elicit excitement from Joye, whether the reunion followed a years-long absence, or was simply a part of her weekly routine.

Joye’s affection wasn’t limited to her family circle. She knew how to be a friend, and she treasured her friendships above all possessions. Joye had a wide circle of friends drawn from many places — her Sunday School class at First Baptist Church; weekly meetings at the city recreation center where she played basketball and worked on craft projects, and at the workshop where she diligently ironed and folded strangers’ laundry for a weekly paycheck that she could call her own.

As a young child, I looked up to Joye with the same idolization that all young children have for older children — she was someone not so far removed from my understanding of the world as the adults that circled around us, but still had enough experience and insight to merit my utmost respect. Then, for too few wonderful years, Joye and I were the same. I looked forward to visits at grandma’s house and playing with Aunt Joye. We liked watching the same movies; we played the same games; we worked on the same puzzles; and, with help from Teddy Ruxpin, we read the same books. Before long, however, I grew bored with those movies; I wanted to spend my playtime outside instead of playing games on the living room floor; and I had new books to read for school. I continued growing up, while Joye stayed the same.

“Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.”

The truth of those words is easy to miss, but those of us who knew Joye well had a clear model of the kind of life Jesus was talking about.

Joye’s childlike personality meant she was trusting, but not naïve. When she called you her friend, she opened herself up completely to you. Joye had no secrets from anyone, because she had nothing to hide. When any of her friends or family did things that hurt her, she felt it. She wept just as deeply, if not as frequently, as she laughed. But Joye didn’t hold grudges. Her trusting nature made her quick to forgive. Joye never let the sun set on an argument, not because she forgot how she had been hurt or because she was credulous enough to think it would never happen again, but because she knew the fear of being hurt paled in comparison to the joy of forgiving others and starting again. I am convinced that Joye experienced friendship in a more profound way than I have ever known, and it was only made possible because she chose to open herself up to trusting others, even when experience and worldly wisdom would caution otherwise.

Joye’s childlike spirit freed her from the pervasive lie that there is shame in being dependent on other people. Joye depended on others to provide for many of her basic needs throughout her life — not because she was helpless, but because she recognized that she was a part of something bigger than herself. Joye was part of a loving family. She was a member of her church. She was a citizen of her community. Joye’s life defies the notion that independence is a virtue. She didn’t hesitate to receive from others, and she didn’t hesitate to give of herself. She took pride in the work she did, inside and outside of her home. If an unexpected chore was added to her normal routine, she didn’t begrudge the extra labor. Joye’s pure generosity of spirit was made possible because, like every child who hasn’t yet forgotten, she knew that her success in life was also dependent on others.

Joye’s enduring childlike nature afforded her a unique perspective on life. Her trusting personality allowed her to love deeply. Her humble attitude permitted her to give generously, and accept help graciously. Let us honor her life by doing the same.

This morning we headed over to Pullen Park to check on the progress of the renovation work and get some spring pictures of Samuel. The park closed in 2009, and was supposed to reopen this spring with a new enclosure for the carousel, new playground equipment and some updated facilities. The projected completion date has been pushed back to “Late Fall 2011,” according to signs at the park, but there is still a lot of work to get done. The lower half of the park is completely gone. Both playgrounds, gone. Carousel, gone; Train station, gone; Fountain and garden at the main entrance, gone; Sidewalks, gone; Peddle boats, gone; Lake, gone; It’s all gone. Seriously. We hung out at the picnic area at the top of the park and got some great pictures of Samuel, then we headed over to Chavis Park, where renovations have not yet begun, so that Samuel could sit in a swing for the first time. He loved it.

This is a great time of year to get new pictures of the kids, family portraits, engagement photos, or just some fun personal shots to treat yourself to. Book your session today!

It’s official. I have failed as a parent. I have gotten my son a cell phone.

He doesn’t even have underwear yet, and he’s got a cell phone of his very own. He can’t talk, but he can make a long distance call.

Shortly after we got married, Kristen and I agreed we wouldn’t get our children cell phones until they were old enough to (legally) drive a car. That’s when we got phones, and that’s the point that it seems like they go from being a convenient toy to a useful tool. We knew this would be hard to stick to. Our younger siblings and cousins all got phones as adolescents. More than that, the fundamental nature of phones have completely changed in the three years since we first made that statement. It seems that kids don’t use phones for talking or texting so much as for checking Facebook, updating Twitter feeds, browsing the internet and playing games. The biggest change, of course, is that I’m no longer a passive observer critiquing general theories of parenting. For better or worse, I’m a real dad now.

Over the past few weeks, Samuel has gotten much more interested in exploring the house, picking things up and playing with them (read: stuffing stuff in his mouth). While he has an ample collection of toys, his favorite things to grab are telephones. Our house phone looks nothing like a cell phone, and my iPhone is a different animal altogether, but they’re all the same to Samuel. He’ll look over a whole pile of toys and crawl across the room to get his hands on a phone. Isn’t it weird how, even at nine months, kids know exactly what they’re not supposed to have?

Last weekend Kristen, Samuel and I piled into the car, slipped onto I-40 and headed west. Our friends Sam and Heather had moved to Asheville a few months earlier, and we were long overdue for a visit. We arrived Saturday afternoon and proceeded to the Pisgah National Forest for a late picnic lunch. Once our burgers were gone, we let Sam and Samuel splash around in the stream a bit before we moved a little further into the forest. When we got to Looking Glass Falls, a few rays from the late afternoon sun managed to pierce the summer foliage, casting a brilliant rainbow that seemed to dance in and out of the mist on the water’s surface. A fairly large crowd had gathered to take in the sight, and several people decided to wade out into the pool at the base of the waterfall. Not bad for Samuel’s first mountain-top experience.

The pictures I make help me remember where I’ve come from; they help me make sense of the places I find myself in. But I also like to have some pictures of myself — to maintain a family record, to remind myself that, yes, I am actually married to that beautiful, loving woman that shares the frame with me, and so that my son will know that I did, in fact, go on vacation with him and Kristen. Usually this means stopping a stranger and asking them to press the shutter for me. This is a very hit-and-miss procedure, that often results in many more misses than hits. Sometimes, as on the last day of our summer vacation this year, a stranger just walks up and asks to take a picture of us. I can’t say no. Hopefully, that eagerness to get behind the camera means the would-be photographer is at least comfortable looking through the viewfinder. The kind beach walker who got this one certainly was.