thanks, shaun.....

I read a post from Shaun Groves' blog yesterday that really got to me. Shaun is a contemporary Christian artist, has been nominated for several Dove Awards, and goes to our church. And on top of that, he's a genuinely nice guy. We're by no means close (he probably couldn't pick me out of a lineup), but we have talked a few times over the past couple of years. He said that the strangest thing at church is that all the kids always call him "Shaun Groves" and never just "Shaun". I told him that's what my daughters did, and he told me to tell them to just come up to him and say, "hey, Shaun!"

Here's the post. If you can read this without welling up, put a mirror under you nose and see if you can fog it up. If it doesn't fog, you're not alive.

AFTER THE SHOW: LINCOLN, NEBRASKA

She looked to be about nine. Blonde hair. Cropped just below her earlobes. I took her hand.

"I'm Shaun, what's your name?"

She told me shyly, handed me a CD and asked me to sign it for her.

"Sure, I'd love to...Who are all these people with you?"

She introduced her three little brothers and her smiling aunt to me.

The oldest of the boys, a brown eyed seven year old, piped up as his name was said. "Today's my Dad's birthday."

"Really," I said. "Well, where's your dad?"

"In Heaven." And the smiles of the four siblings relaxed into straight lines.

"How long has he been there?" I regretted asking the moment the words fell out. I didn't know where this was going. There are only six basic directions an after-show conversation usually heads: autograph, how old are you, where you're from, where are you headed next, wife and kids, prayer request or other need. I've mastered them all. I'm a professional. A professional now stumped, now drawn out of the routine and into the life of this little boy. My dad's in Heaven never comes up.

"About a month and a half."

I handed the signed CD back to his big sister while their Aunt explained what had taken place in their family over the last six weeks. A stranger, a man, put his arm around her as she told us the tale. The line waiting to talk to me and have something signed, stood patiently, leaning in, eyebrows furrowed by shared pain. And eventually smiles returned - by the simple miracles of time passing and conversation.

"Thank you for making their dad's birthday a special celebration," the aunt said as we hugged good bye. "Love your kids," she whispered over her shoulder as they walked away.

And I'm reminded once again that your job, no matter how great you think it is, sucks compared to mine. I don't mean to ruin your day, but I get to do this every week. I play some chords, sing some words, and then the good stuff happens: I hang out with people. I hear the most amazing stories. I meet people who have been healed. I get hugged by little kids and told I'm loved by them. I have conversations with skaters, moms, stock brokers, painters and astronauts. I get prayed for and get to pray for people in tremendous pain and trouble. I listen to eight year olds tell corny jokes and I laugh. I get to feel, every night, like all that stuff about Christians being family because we believe in the same God is actually true.

And tonight I got to be the entertainment at a dad's very important birthday party in Lincoln, Nebraska thrown by his four kids. And just being together we all got a taste of the world he lives in.

I told you. My job is better than yours.