Wooden Heart

One of my favorite Elvis Presley songs is a lesser-known one, called Wooden Heart. The songwriter says it would be easy to break his heart, because his heart is not wooden.

Can't you see I love you

Please don't break my heart in two

That's not hard to do

'Cause I don't have a wooden heart

The insinuation, therefore, is that if your heart is made of wood, it's very difficult to break.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit it, but I'm a rather emotional guy. And many things break my heart. Most of my career has been spent looking at the terrible things that are wrong with this world. I spent 16 years in television news telling viewers about all the horrible crimes and catastrophes that have damaged and destroyed lives. Now, I work for an organization that's all about doing something about those horrible things. Still, by the very nature that Compassion International is here to help release children from poverty and all of its trappings--child prostitution, slavery, abuse, neglect, hunger, disease--I am still exposed to all of the ills of the world.

I've often wondered why God would constantly and consistently put me in a position where I have to be exposed to such things. Perhaps He knows me too well. Perhaps He knows that if I lose sight of those things, my heart will turn to wood. Nothing will move me. Nothing will break me. Then, what good am I to Him?

There's another great old song that speaks to this, by Petra:

Don't let your heart be hardened.

May you always know the cure.

Keep it broken before Jesus.

Keep it thankful, meek and pure.

I pray that God keeps my heart from turning to wood. If you're already there, I pray He softens yours. Let something break your heart today.

Meeting Jen Rina

On day three of my Compassion International trip to The Philippines, I had the honor of meeting Jen Rina, the girl my wife and I have sponsored for nearly six years. I have to admit, I was anxious--though I felt like I had a pretty good grasp on what to expect. This is my seventh trip with Compassion. I have seen sponsors visit their children in Thailand, Kenya, Peru, Ecuador, Guatemala and Bolivia. I know how emotional it can be. Still, I wasn't ready for this.

It was a 45 minute drive into into the outskirts of Manila, down the crowded, busy streets filled with "tricycle" drivers and other smog-producing vehicles. Street vendors hawking their goods to the passersby can barely be heard over the noisy engines. As we drove farther away from Manila's skyscrapers, it became clearly evident that we were getting into one of the poorest parts of the city. Closer to Jen Rina's home.

Just beyond a canal that moved sewage and dirty water through the area like a slow-flowing, stenchy river, we stopped in front of a building that looked like a typical home in this part of Manila...made of cinder blocks, with a tin roof.

"Not bad" I thought. I have seen worse houses in other countries...the mud/dung huts of Kisumu Kenya, the scrap houses in Guatemala City and outside of Lima, Peru. No, this house didn't seem that bad. But it wasn't Jen Rina's house. My guide, a Compassion staff member named Nonoy, led me out of the car and beyond the curbside home. We made our way down a garbage-lined alleyway, to an open area behind that house. Nonoy stopped at the highest point in the alley and pointed to a small shack at the bottom of the hill.

"There it is."

My jaw dropped. I fought back the tears. No...this can't be it. No way my sponsored child lives like this. If I didn't know any better, I would guess that some young boys gathered scraps of wood, tin and cardboard to put together a makeshift clubhouse. The entire home is smaller than my master bedroom. It's built up against a cement building, just so the family could have one solid wall in their home.

I walked through the doorway and stepped into the dirt floor home. Inside, with a huge smile on her face, was the little girl I've been corresponding with for nearly six years now. She's adorable. Shy. Soft-spoken. So much hope in a face that lies down on a moldy mattress every night. I wrapped my arms around her and just held her for a few seconds. Her mother was there, along with her baby brother and one of her older brothers. Daddy was out working at a construction site, trying to earn his 250 pesos per day...about $5.68. Less than six bucks a day to feed his family of seven. Oh yeah, and pay the rent each month too.

I don't know why, but I always had it in my head that Jen Rina didn't live like this. Her letters spoke of the chores she's responsible for around the house: cleaning the kitchen, occasionally cooking, helping with the baby. Little did I know that the kitchen was actually a pot, where the family lights firewood to cook each night. For all the preparation I had done for this meeting, I wasn't ready to see this. Nonoy told me that her family doesn't even own this shack, they rent it. They can't afford their own home. This is one provided to them for $15 a month. And they still struggle to make the rent. My heart was breaking. Somehow, I felt like a bad sponsor. If I were only doing more, perhaps she wouldn't live this way.

I held this precious small-framed 11-year old in my arms and told her how beautiful she is. How proud I am of her for the good marks she's getting in school. Her latest report card says she "exhibits leadership qualities."

My heart wanted to say "Come with me. Come back to the states. I can give you so much more." How American of me. "I can fix your problems because I have more money." Truth is, Jen Rina is happy. She knows her Lord and Savior. She even sang a worship song and read a letter for me while I sat in her tiny home.

And that's what my $32 a month is for. My sponsorship through Compassion International makes sure that Jen Rina's basic needs are taken care of. She gets after-school tutoring, help buying her clothes for school, hygiene education, a hot meal...and she hears about her Savior, Jesus. This is who Jesus was talking about, when He said the last would be first. I'm so glad she knows Christ.

We have so much in this country. And perhaps it takes seeing something like Jen Rina's home to put things into perspective. One of the folks on this trip said, "We are the ones Jesus was talking about, when He said it would be easier for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle. We are the rich man."

Yes we are. And it is our duty...our mandate from God Himself to use our excess to help those who have little.

I'm so glad I got to finally meet Jen Rina. I will never forget it. And I hope that the little bit that I give can someday help her break the cycle of poverty in her family...so her children will never know what it's like to live in a rented shack made of scraps.

Jigsaw

Carrie married the wrong man. But because she puts tradition before her own personal happiness, she's been with him for more than 15 years. She stays for the kids. If you asked her, she'd say she missed out on "true love."

Ryan had a demanding father. He spent most of his life trying to prove himself...moving up the corporate ladder. Now, at age 45, he realizes that he forgot to have fun along the way. He's not even sure if he's capable of it. He's missing joy.

Peter's life has been in turmoil since he was born. Abusive foster parents, pent up anger, an uncontrollable temper. He's never held a job for more than a year, been evicted from two different apartments and has never been able to maintain a healthy relationship. He's missing peace.

We are all jigsaw puzzles, I suppose, with a piece or two missing. How frustrating to at least have an idea of what the finished product would look like, if only you could find that missing piece.

I suppose this is where I'm supposed to get all spiritual and tell you that you can only find that missing piece through Christ. Well, sorta. I believe you can find those things through accepting Jesus as Savior, but I'm not so sure you'll complete the puzzle here on this planet. Maybe that wholeness doesn't come til we're walking barefoot on million-dollar streets. The Bible says there's no weeping there. No death. No pain. No sorrow. Maybe our missing piece is somewhere on the other side of those gates. Perhaps we'll have to go swimming for it in a crystal stream...or scale a jeweled wall to find it.

But oh, what love...joy...peace...we'll find when we finally stick that last piece of the puzzle in there! What satisfaction!

What piece are you missing?

Where Art Thou, O' Peace?

Why do you think we can't always feel the peace of God? Is it like a good steak? If you had it everyday, you wouldn't appreciate it as much? Is God's peace like a New York Strip, perfectly seasoned? Maybe I don't want steak for every meal...but it would be nice to know I could go grab one when I do crave it. Why is it that when I really need that peace, I can't seem to find it? I'm sure I've done something to put myself so far away from it. I'm sure it's like running away from home and then wondering why you feel so lonely. But it sure would be nice if God's peace could find me, without me having to search for it. Or is it the fact that I'm searching that makes it elusive? Perhaps I'm supposed to be still. Perhaps the peace only comes when I'm no longer searching for it. Maybe it's like the lost car keys. Maybe I'm supposed to retrace my steps...try to remember where I last had it. Maybe it's in my coat pocket. I could've seriously used a little of that peace today. Today, I'm struggling. Today, I find it hard to breathe. Today, I find it hard to want to. Today, I'm uneasy. Anxious. Today, I'm disappointed. Today, I'm discouraged. Today, I hurt. Today, I'm craving that steak. And it would be nice if I could find my car keys...so I could go get one.

Everybody's Doin' It!

My little baby boy, Morgan, is just past three months old now. This morning, as he and I were playing on his playmat in the living room, he let one rip. You know what I mean...he passed gas....he "has the vapors"..."broke wind"..."cut the cheese."

I chuckled a bit...and thought about how everyone giggles when he farts and how it just seems so cute coming out of his little body. But that got me to thinking: At what point do farts stop being cute...and start being something no one talks about? I mean...everyone farts. Everyone. Yes, your mother farts, your cute girlfriend farts, your dad farts all the time. Your brother farts the most. Your grandpa probably farts in his sleep. So...why does everyone pretend they don't? Why do people try to hide it when they do?

"He who smelt it...dealt it!"

When we're young, we play fart games. At least I did. At the Home where I grew up, my friends Doug Golibart and Bobby Kirby and I played the "Safety" game. If someone farted, they had to say "Safety" before another person said "Pokes." If they say "Pokes" first, they get to hit you...say, on the shoulder with their fist. There was one "free-fart zone"--the bathroom. You could fart all you want in there--no "safety" required.

That was all cool through high school...and I even took the game with me to college. Now, as an adult, no one talks about farts. I've heard stories of fiancees and newlyweds who will go way out of their way to make sure their partner never hears them fart...let alone smell it! Then, after a few years, couples tend to relax and they can fart around each other. My wife and I play the "safety" game at home now. But at first...no way would she pass gas in front of me! Now...it's no-holds barred. We even rate them. "That was a good one!" or "Oooooh...what did you eat?" etc. (She's gonna kill me for telling you that.)

"Silent But Deadly"

But go to a public place. Stand in line at the airport security check when someone slips one out...and see if that person is willing to say "That was me! I own that one! Sorry folks!" Or worst yet...on the plane, where there's no escape route! I sat next to someone in a movie once who I'm sure was responsible for the foul stench that was wafting through the air every ten minutes or so. Did he own up to it? Oh no! He didn't even ask me to pull his finger!

I wonder...what would it be like if you could see people's farts? What if, everytime you "blow the horn", a green fog came out of your rear? Even if it's "Silent But Deadly?" How would the world react to the green fog? Would we be so used to it that it would be just as much a part of everyday life as breathing, coughing or sneezing?

Spiritual Gas

So...you're probably wondering why I'm writing all this stuff about farts. What could possibly be the spiritual implication here? Well, I see farting kinda like sinning. Everybody's doin' it. Jesus could have just as easily said, "Let he who is without fart cast the first stone." Trust me, no stones would be flying in that case, either.

When we're young and naive, we make jokes about our sins. We flaunt them...heck maybe even grade them. But at some point, we notice our "nakedness" and we start trying to hide our sins. We don't want anyone to smell them. We don't want anyone to even know that we committed them. We'll go way out of our way to conceal them. Eventually, we'll expose our sins to those whom we trust the most. Our spouses are privvy to some of our sins...but still others are just too smelly to reveal to them!

I imagine that's why God allowed us to sin without it always being in public view. If every sin we committed created a "green fog", this would be one green, foggy world! But eventually, the smell does catch up to you. Eventually, someone's going to figure out where the stink is coming from. You can't escape the green fog. God sees every fart...er, sin. I guess the big difference is that we can choose not to sin. I'm not so sure that's the case with passing gas. Would we still choose to sin, if we had to walk around with the green fog trailing behind? Or would everyone get so used to the fog that we wouldn't even think twice about the sin?

What a different world this would be if we were all willing to own up to our sins publicly. Think about it. You're at the mall, when you suddenly hear:

"Lusting after that woman behind the counter there...that was me! Sorry everyone!"

Or a voice just a few cubicles down from you at work shouts:

"I just stole a stapler from the company!"

Or whatever it is. Regardless, the smell is already out there. We just aren't always sure where its coming from. But we all know one thing for sure. Everybody's doin' it.

A Broken Fingernail...and a Mouthful of Gnats

A few of you have sent emails asking me how the SpiritFest gig went. Wow...how do I even answer that? It was probably the worst gig of my entire musical career...and it was all my fault. Let me take you back to 10 days before the concert. My guitarist, Brian, and I had decided we were going to do this gig as an acoustic set-up. Two acoustic guitars...simple...nothing too fancy. But 10 days before the gig, Brian called to tell me he can't make it. Something had come up...and he wasn't going to be able to do the gig. So, I panicked. I'm not a very good guitarist. I can come across as half-decent when playing with Brian because he's so good...he covers my mistakes. I'm definitely not good enough to do the gig on my own. So I called my friend, Clint Garcia, who is the worship leader at Valley Bible Fellowship in Colorado Springs. He's a great guy...and a great guitarist. To my surprise, Clint said he was willing to do the gig--on such short notice--and not only that, but his bass player and drummer would be joining us! BONUS! I was so excited to have a full band for SpiritFest. So, we scheduled a practice for the Saturday before the event. We ended up practicing for three hours--trying to teach them some of my songs...some new worship songs, etc. It went pretty well. Then, we scheduled another practice for the day of the gig. We would practice from 1-3pm, then drive down to Pueblo and do the gig at 8:30. Here's where things started falling apart. At the end of the practice that afternoon, I was horsing around, jamming with the band...and my finger got caught on the high-E string...the thinnest string on the guitar. The snag ripped the top third of my fingernail on my pointer finger off...and bent back another third of the nail. Man, did it hurt! I wrapped a band-aid around it in hopes that I would be able to play. But when we got to Pueblo, my finger was throbbing. Funny how something so small can cause so much pain. I took a few ibuprofen, but it wasn't helping. We started the first song... and I start strumming along on my guitar. It hurt, but I was able to tough it out...until the first chorus. It was humid, we were playing right on the RiverWalk, and I was sweating in the heat. My band-aid went flying off right at the beginning of the chorus. Ever notice how, when your finger hurts, that's the one part of your body you keep banging into things? I kept banging my fingertip into my guitar. Every tap hurt. To make matters worse, there were thousands of gnats flying around. I bet I swallowed 40 of them during the gig. Halfway through the chorus, the piece of my fingernail that was still hanging on got caught on the string. OUCH! I thought my fingernail was going to rip all the way off. The blood was flying...and I had to stop. My eyes seriously started watering. I was in so much pain! The rest of the gig, I tried to hold my pick between my thumb and middle finger. Not only did that affect my ability to play--which isn't so great to begin with--but I must've dropped 20 picks during that gig. All I could think about was how much my finger hurt. I forgot words...forgot to sing when I was supposed to. Then, when I tried to talk between songs, I was making no sense. I'm sure people must've thought I was high or something. It's the first time in my musical career that I honestly felt like saying "I'm sorry folks. You deserve better than this. I'll just leave." We managed to make it through the gig...but we didn't make any fans, that's for sure. All that to say, it was a terrible gig. Most disappointing of all, we didn't get a single child sponsored for Compassion. I was really hoping we'd get some people to sign up for the $32 a month to sponsor a child. I even offered a free CD to anyone who would sponsor. But the way I was performing, I couldn't have given a CD away for free anyway! I really took this one hard. All I could think about on the way home was whether it's time for me to stop doing music. If a broken fingernail knocks me so far off track, maybe it's time to hang it up. I'm just embarrassed that, after this many years of doing music, I can still do such a terrible job. It was humbling, to say the very least. Humiliating is perhaps a better word. My thanks to the musicians who helped me out for this gig. Clint, Steve and Ray did a great job. Poor guys, trying so hard to figure out what I was doing! I just wasn't up to par. For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com tim glenn

I Traveled Back in Time...

I thought I'd share this story with you about a "dream" I had nearly two years ago. I swear that what I'm about to share with you is true. I realize that, once you read this, you'll be inclined to think that I'm losing it. But I tell you, dream or not, this was a real moment in my life. I was at a point in my life where I was really struggling with being completely unhappy with where I was. I don't know, maybe it's because I was getting older…and hadn't achieved any of the goals I had laid out for myself. I was struggling with depression on a major level. My life just hadn't turned out how I had hoped. And, seemingly at the end of my rope, I started begging God, almost daily, to let me go back in time. "Please, God...let me go back to college and start over. I've screwed up my life in so many ways since then. Can I please have a do-over?" I became so obsessed with the notion that it was all I thought about…at work…as I was lying down in bed to sleep at night, etc. During my drive to work everyday, I would talk out loud to God, pleading my case. "God, you can do anything. You are the one who created time. You can send me back. No one has to know. Just let me go back and start over. I'm just so disappointed with the way things have turned out. I won't tell anyone, I promise!" Then, after several weeks of this pleading, God answered. It was late at night and I had just laid down in bed for the night. I closed my eyes and started praying that prayer again, silently. It was seriously one of the most earnest prayers I had ever prayed. It was a prayer of desperation. Before I knew it, I was sound asleep. But within only a few short minutes, I awoke. Wait...where am I? I wasn't in my big comfy bed at home...I was on a small, hard mattress. I sat up. Wait a minute…I recognize this place. Holy cow! I'm in my dorm room! You did it! God thank you! Thank you! I can't believe you let me do this! Oh this is awesome! I sat there on the edge of the squeaky little bed. Room 210 of Jennings dorm on Howard Payne University campus. The room wreaked of the dirty laundry that was always piled on the floor. The bluish glow of the streetlight outside was peering through the blinds. It was my dorm room…just the way I remembered it. I must have sat there for 20 seconds, eyes and jaw wide open, taking in the entire scene. It was honestly one of the most miraculous and happiest moments of my life. I looked across the room. There was my roommate, Kevin Gradel. He was sound asleep in his bed, curled up facing the cold, white brick wall. It was so bizarre to see him. Kevin died in 1997 from complications due to diabetes. Once I graduated, I lost touch with him. I only found out about his death while trying to track him down online a few years later. I was heartbroken to find out he had died. I didn't even get to go to the funeral.Yet there he was…sound asleep just a few feet away from me. Without hesitation, I jumped out of my bed and ran over to Kevin and started shaking him. "Kevin! Kevin! Wake up! Listen to me...you've got to get some help dude...you've got diabetes. If you don't do something about it, it's going to kill you in 1997!" No sooner than I finished the sentence, I found myself waking up back in my bed at home. No! No! I screwed up! I had a chance and I screwed up! Somehow I knew I wasn't supposed to share that information with Kevin, but I did it anyway. I broke the rules...and God brought me back. As I lay there in my bed, I started weeping. I'm not sure if my wife heard me crying in bed or if she just decided to let me cry it out. She had been dealing with my depression for so long that she must've been at wit's end on what to do next. So many emotions came over me. Was that my chance? Did God really give me a chance to start over…only to have me screw it up? Seeing Kevin alive brought so many emotions too. Feeling helpless that I couldn't stop his impending death. To this day, I'm still torn, wondering whether this was a dream or an actual event. I know that sounds odd, but it was so real. The smells, the details. The fact that I immediately knew that God had taken me back in time. He had granted me this desperate wish. I got my do-over…and blew it. For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com tim glenn

Baby Morgan is Here!

Note: This blog originally posted on March 27, 2007. But somehow I lost all my blogs and am having to re-post them.

Let me tell you about the best day of my life. In actuality, I should say "the best 24-hour period of my life" because it spanned two days on the calendar. It began around noon on Tuesday, March 20th. My wife Jen, 39 weeks pregnant (typical pregnancies are based on a 40-week period, for those of you who don't know) started having contractions about every ten minutes. Well, we're not supposed to go to the hospital until the contractions are 3-5 minutes apart. So my poor wife had to endure the painful contractions at 10 minutes apart...for nearly 12 hours! It was exciting, because we knew this meant that baby Morgan was one day closer to being here. But it was frustrating when the contractions refused to get any closer...hour after hour...after hour. Finally, around 11pm, the contractions did start getting a little closer. 7 minutes...5 minutes...3 minutes. Once they were consistently 3 minutes apart, we headed to the hospital. The doctor checked us into a small room and put Jen on a monitor. "She's 3 centimeters dilated." she told us. (You can't have the baby til you're around 10 centimeters dilated. We still had a way to go.) So they continued to monitor Jen and the contractions kept coming...getting as close as 2 minutes apart. After about four more hours of this, the doctor checked Jen again. Still only 3 centimeters apart! All that painful work...and no progress! So the doctor decided to put Jen on pitosin--a drug that would increase the frequency--and intensity--of the contractions. After about an hour on the drug, Jen progressed to 4 centimeters. But the contractions had become terribly painful. So, we opted for the epidural--a painkiller administered into the spine that pretty much takes away all feeling from your waist down. It was a scary decision, but once it was administered, Jen never felt another contraction. But it wasn't over yet. After another hour, the doctor noticed that baby Morgan's heart rate was decreasing every time Jen had an intense contraction. They tried having her roll over to the opposite side she was lying on...but that didn't work. So they monitored closely. His heart rate kept dipping...dipping...dangerously low. We both began to worry. I sent out nearly two dozen text messages, asking friends to pray. And I prayed myself.

"Please God, don't let us get this close and lose this little boy. I can't take it. My heart can't take it. Please bring him to us safely...bring us a healthy baby boy."

After a couple more dips in heart rate, the doctor decided to take Jen off the pitosin and schedule a c-section. With lightning speed, the nurses were in our room, wheeling Jen's bed out the door, down the hallway and up a ramp into the operating room. They gave me a mask, gown, hat and shoe coverings to wear. It was amazing seeing the doctors scramble so fast--like watching a hospital drama. Within minutes, Jen was laid out on the table. A blue sheet was laid out like a curtain between her and the doctors, so she couldn't watch the operation. I, on the other hand, was able to watch. I've sat in on a few operations in my life, so I knew I could handle the sight. (I gotta say though, knowing that it's your wife that they're cutting open is a little different.) The doctors made the incision, then started cutting through muscle and tissue. Suddenly, the doctor stopped cutting and reached both of her hands inside of my wife's abdomen. She dug around for a few seconds, then pulled her hands out and they were holding a little baby's head. He has dark hair! They clipped the umbilical cord and suctioned out his mouth and noise within a milisecond. Then it came...that sound I've waited so many years to hear:

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh!" Oh, what a beautiful sound!

"Who has the dimpled chin?" the doctor asked.

"Dimpled chin?"

"Yeah, he's got a dimpled chin."

"My dad had one. But I didn't really inherit it. Wow...he's got my dad's chin. How cool is that?"

He cried as they scrambled his little body over to a warmer a few feet away...and started cleaning him up. Tears filled my eyes. "That's my son! Oh...and he's beautiful!" My poor wife had to lay there behind the blue curtain, still unable to see anything. So, once they got him cleaned up, I carried our son over to her and let her touch his face. The waterworks were flowing for both of us at that point, I tell ya! They had to sew Jen up and then she had to go into recovery from the operation. That took three hours. Three hours without getting to hold her newborn son. It must have been excruciating for her. But I spent every second of those hours with him...as he took his first bath...got his vaccinations...tested for every imaginable abnormality...and weighed him. "Five pounds...3 and a half ounces. He's a little peanut." nurse Libby said. "18 inches long. What a cute little guy." Yep, he's a tiny guy....but absolutely adorable. Once all the tests were done, I sat in a rocking chair with him for an hour...and we just stared at each other. "Morgan...I'm your daddy." It was the same sentence I started with every night, as I spoke to him through my wife's belly during her pregnancy. Now, I finally get to see the face of the little boy I was addressing...and he could see where the voice was coming from. It was an amazing time of bonding. I truly have fallen in love. I've wanted to be a daddy for so long and now God has granted me this wish...this little blessing that is the result of years of prayers. It is amazing. The most wonderful day of my life. Welcome to our world, little Morgan Douglas Glenn. We've waited a long time for you.

For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com

tim glenn

The Soles Of My Shoes Don't Get Dirty

Note: This blog was originally posted on December 7, 2006...but somehow I lost all of my blogs and am having to re-post them. July 17th, 2006 is a day I will never forget. It's the day I stopped walking on solid ground. It didn't start off so spectacular. For all intents and purposes it had the makings of a typical day. I got up at 6:45am, went to work, sat through a gajillion meetings, shuffled through emails and paperwork and came home. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until I walked into the house. I entered through the garage as usual. As soon as I opened the door, I noticed my wife standing in the kitchen smiling. On the kitchen table was a small gold gift box. "Open it." she said, grinning from ear to ear. "But my birthday isn't until tomorrow." "Just open it!"I sat in the chair at the dining table and grabbed the small box in my hand. What's inside? Why is Jen being so secretive. It's not like her. "Isn't it bad luck to open my birthday presents befo..." "Open it! She clinched jer jaw with the command, but she was still unable to hide her toothy grin. I lifted the lid of the tiny gold box. I was immediately confused by what I saw inside. It was a pocket watch, with the words "World's Greatest Dad" engraved on the outside. I must be a little slow because all I could think was "Is this her dad's old watch? Why would Jen's dad give me this watch? Is this something he's 'passing down to me' since he never had a son? What could this mean? I lifted the watch out of the box and underneath it was a pair of a blue baby socks...and a pair of pink ones. "You're going to be a daddy." My wife said, with tears welling up in her eyes.You have no idea how long I've waited to hear those words. My wife and I have been married for 12 years and it just hadn't happened for us. To be honest, I had given up on the hope of ever having a little baby in the house. But on July 17th, 2006, God breated new hope into our home. As tears poured out of my eyes uncontrollably, I hugged my wife. Then asked the question every man must ask at that moment: "Are you sure?" (How could such joy be based on reality?) "Yes. I took two tests just to make sure." She showed me the two pregnancy test sticks. Both positive. "Take it again!" I insisted. Which she did...all three positive! We danced in the kitchen...and the living room...and then stopped to pray. We thanked God for the blessing and prayed for a healthy baby that we could commit to Him. My father died when I was seven. I have only a couple of memories of him. Yet, I think I've always feared that I could never be half the man he was. Half the father he was. You see, my mother abandoned me and my siblings when I was five. My father spent the last two years of his life raising five children. And he was sick. He was dying. What a father. Could I be that kind of father to my child? Since July, my wife's little belly has grown. Occasionally, you can see a little nudge on the surface of her tummy...from the inside. Amazing. Every night, I place my head near her belly and listen to him moving around in there. Oh yes, it's a boy! We found out 20 weeks into the pregnancy. His name will be Morgan Douglas Glenn. Douglas was my father's name. After I listen for awhile, I talk to my son. I love the way he reacts to my voice. I wish I could hold him now. But, as God loves to do with me, I'm learning one more lesson in patience. Little Morgan needs that tiem in his mother's womb. So I must learn to wait. Ever since that hot July day, I have not walked on ground. My shoes have not touched the earth. I just hover. Most of the time I'm about six inches above the floor. Yeah, the soles of my shoes do not get dirty. I don't know if every man wants to be a father as much as I do. I don't know if every father-to-be yearns to hold his child like I do. I only know that I can't wait to hear that baby's cry....to hold him in my arms....to hear him call me "daddy" for the first time...to play with him on the floor and teach him all the things that little boys need to know. I can't wait to have him hold my hand as we cross the street or in the mall...whereever. And you can bet that, with every step, my feet will never touch the ground. For more information on Tim Glenn, go to www.timglennmusic.com tim glenn