The Question.

Emma, my seven-year-old, delayed bedtime the other night with a question.

"Dad," she said, "I have a question."

I wanted to be the dutiful dad, but I was a little perturbed that she'd rolled out of bed--she was supposed to be asleep. Nevertheless: "Shoot."

"Well, I don't know exactly? What the question is?" She talks like that sometimes, turning her words up at the ends of phrases, so it sounds like a bunch of questions. I'm sincerely hoping she grows out of it.

"You don't know what the question is?" I said. "Like, you don't know how to ask it?"

"Right. Like my mind? Can't think of the right words?"

"Why don't you just use whatever words come to mind," I said, "and we'll figure it out from there."

No go. She literally did not have the words to express her question. All she could say was, "It's about mankind." Oh, and this: "It's like my heart? Is asking the question? And my mind? Can't figure it out." She brushed her hair out of her face. "It does have to do with God, though."

I decided to offer a suggestion. "Is it, like, about the meaning of life?"

She moved her hand like she was waving off the suggestion. "Well, kinda. But..." and here she trailed off, and I wished her forehead was transparent, because I could tell her brain was working overtime to express whatever feelings she was feeling. "I just... my mind? Can't get any rest."

I sent her back to bed, and she continued to ruminate on the question for the rest of the night. Dutifully, I went upstairs to tuck her in, and this is when things got a little crazy.

"Maybe you'll figure out your question while you're sleeping," I offered.

She smiled. "I hope. It's like my heart is asking the question and my brain isn't following. Like I've been digging in the dirt, and I hit, like, a hard thing? Like cement or something? And I've been digging with a shovel? So I need to, you know, change tools."

Now it was my turn to smile. "What does that mean?"

"I just have to go back to the beginning and figure out what pieces of the puzzle I do know, then use those to figure out the question."

Did I mention she's seven?

Boy, I felt hopeless, as a father. I desperately wanted her to be able to articulate this question, but I couldn't figure out how. Fortunately, I didn't try to force anything--at least I had that much going for me. I just let her know that God was giving her that question, and that he would help her figure out what it was in due time.

I left the room to check on her brother, then came back for a little more spiritual discussion. "Dad," she said, "I figured out something. The puzzle pieces? Those are, like, memory verses, and other parts of God's word. And the cement? That's, like, the devil? And sin? So that's how I can figure out the question."

You know what I said? "Emma, someday very soon, you're going to be teaching me."

She had two other things, though: "Dad, when I do figure out the question?" And here she smiled so big--I wish you could've seen it--"I'm going to tell everyone around me."

The other thing: "I know why God's doing this. Because I'm going to be a missionary..." (A quick aside: Emma has known, since the age of five, that she's going to be a missionary. We trust her.) "... and so God is teaching me how to, you know, follow him when it's hard? Because that's what missionaries have to do."

I have no doubt that Emma and God are pretty tight. It will serve her well in her missions efforts.

And in that moment, I also had no doubt about God's love for me. Because I had such a swell of boundless love in my heart for my daughter, and the thought struck me: I love my daughter this much, and it's impossible for me to love her more than God, so he must love her even more, though I can't even comprehend that amount of love. And if he loves her that way, he must love me that way.

The thing about our spiritual conversation that really struck me was the way Emma was able to share The Question, to participate in The Question--that same Question we all have, in one way or another. The Question of God, and the way our hearts, whether we know it or not, are always on the lookout for Him. And sometimes we find Him with our hearts but mislabel Him with our brains, calling Him "knowledge" or "the delicacy of a feather" or "a crimson sunset" or "a '67 Mustang."

So let's bring this whole story home: What is your Question? Do you even know you're asking?

These Are Mangoes.

So, The Bean is now slightly larger than your average large mango. And I'm fast running out of foodstuffs to compare it to.

For those of you interested, we shall know The Bean's gender on April 23. I'll try to post as soon as we find out.

Also, mangoes are really good for you, especially as a combatant against viruses. If you have anything viral, bump up your mango intake and you'll knock it right on out. This message brought to you by the National Council of Mango-Related Health Solutions, dedicated to your Mango Health Needs.

Early Reviews Of Knuckle Sandwich.

So, the book doesn't come out for another two-plus months or so, but already I'm getting some love from the blogosphere. Kinda nice to hear people say things like:

"All too often, characters' spiritual journeys feel contrived. Palmer's ring with veritable honesty."

and

"I love where Adam Palmer and other writers are taking Christian fiction." [Registration required to read review]

I'm a little bit blown away, to be honest. You know, you write these books in a vacuum, hoping that they'll have their intended effect on the reader, but you never really know how they'll be accepted until they get out there--and by then there's nothing you can do about it.

Anyway, my thanks to Ane Mulligan and Jamie Driggers, respectively, for their kind words about Knuckle Sandwich. Here's hoping there are many more to come.

This Is Not The Bean.

Went to the zoo the other day to see the new baby chimp that was born there back in February. We spent maybe fifteen minutes in the chimp enclosure, just watching the little girl taking a nap on her mommy's tummy. There wasn't much to see, but we stuck it out, and then decided to head over to the polar bear.

Fortunately, I looked over my shoulder on our way out the door and saw the mom raising the baby up to clean its face. We rushed back in and spent the next five minutes watching this miracle of nature lived out in front of us. Michelle even snapped the awesome photo I posted above.

If you live in the Tulsa area, I highly recommend heading out to the zoo and seeing the chimp before it gets old and boring and regular-size. Also, stop by the lion enclosure. If you roar at the male lion--with conviction, mind you--it'll roar back. Trust me, it works.

Don't roar at the chimps. They don't like that.

It Begins.

Opening day is here!

Knuckle Sandwich Update.

POW!
ZOWIE!

How’s THAT for a cover, eh? Knuckle Sandwich is my second novel, soon to be released through TH1NK fiction, and I have to say, I'm much more pleased with this one than with Mooch. Not that "Mooch" was bad or anything, but I feel like this one is funnier, fresher, and more emotionally connective than the last.

Anyway, any purchases would be welcome and, if you like it, your honest opinion on Amazon.com would be welcome as well. And of course, feel free to offer feedback here at Dregs.

KERSPLAT!

The Sterling Saga Continues.

As many of you know, Sterling is the African orphan whom we are adopting. We've been in the process of getting the lad for over a year now, and the story, long and convoluted as it has been, comes down to this: a month ago we got word from the Ugandan courts that they had ruled in our favor and granted us guardianship.

Now, this sounds well and good, but there's a hitch. In their ruling, the judges insisted that we come back to Uganda in three years to complete the adoption. We're fine with that (I guess), but the US isn't. Apparently, according to US International Adoption Policy, that won't fly. So the US isn't granting a visa to the little man, which means he can't come home.

So what can we do? We're appealing to the judges to reword their ruling, omitting the clause about completing the adoption in Uganda. Our lawyer presented this to two of the three judges on Wednesday, and was severely rebuffed, to the point of being threatened with a revocation of her license.

Yikes.

Anyway, our whole adoption hinges on these judges changing their ruling. If they don't, we won't be able to bring the little man home for another year and a half. If they do, we're good to go.

We should hear something soon. Until then, pray.

These Are Oranges.

The Bean is no longer a bean, but is now an orange. However, since we've taken such a shine to the name "The Bean," we are still referring to The Bean as "The Bean." Anyway, The Bean is roughly the size of an orange, and has all sorts of crazy stuff going on. Within a month, we should be able to determine whether The Bean is a lad or a lass. Hopefully I'll have posted again before that occurs...

These Are Beans.

So, last week it was rice. This week: beans.

The Bean is roughly one centimeter in length, and yet has started developing its major organs, has all its appendages, and... (drum roll, please) ...will develop its boy/girl parts this week.

Meaning: either it will be a boy or it will be a girl. It won't have both parts. Most likely. (Boy, that came out wrong.)

Anyway, The Bean is doing well, and so is The Bean's Mother. Though not so much when people rub her tummy with glee and claim she is already showing. This tends not to go over so well. Please refrain.

And now, to close with the obvious joke: Rice, beans--no wonder my wife is craving so much Mexican food!

Ahem.

Nothing Worse Than “Nothing Worse”

I heard a commercial on the radio that started out something like this:

"There's nothing worse than getting a call from a loved one telling you their car has broken down on the side of the road."

Yes. There is nothing worse than that. It's worse than getting a call from a loved one telling you they're in the hospital. Or on their deathbed.

Terrorism, poverty, hunger, raw sewage flowing into the Ganges River—these things all pale in comparison to my loved one being temporarily inconvenienced to the point of calling me to pick them up.

Advertising language has gotten so extreme that it has now officially rounded the corner of ridiculousness. Gordman's tells me they provide "savings [I] deserve." Deserve! I must have them! The savings are not optional!

Ken Smith wrote a marvelous book called Junk English a few years ago that I consider mandatory reading for anyone even tangentially involved in the advertising industry (which I am). It tackles this whole extremity issue with merciless hilarity. Also recommended along the same lines is Lynne Truss's Eats, Shoots & Leaves, the zero tolerance guide to punctuation.

And meanwhile, back to our "nothing worse" scenario: millions of people in this world would love to have an automobile, a paved road to drive it on, and enough consistent electricity to charge the cell phone they don't yet own. But those are pipe dreams—their real hearts are set on just having clean water, and even that's a long way off.

One more recommendation. The Progress Paradox is another excellent book that helped change my perspective on the world in which we live. I highly recommend it.

Okay, I think that finishes my rant. Thanks for reading it. I can think of nothing worse than it going ignored.