Sometimes, all it takes to take you back is a building. Stacks of steel and concrete or the way the fairway looks in that sunlight can transport you back a decade or more. Looking out a bedroom window or down a hallway that doesn’t seem so big anymore brings back memories and milestones you’d forgotten still lived inside of you.

I was in south Florida, keynoting a business conference. After the speech and a round of golf with my dad, we decided to go for dinner. As we turned off the main drag and into the complex full of restaurants and shops, I got that scary happy feeling like I’d been there before. And then I knew why it was familiar and foreign to me. I had been there once, almost ten years earlier when I spoke nearby. I was a different person then, on a different errand, but the power of place overcame me and there I was, younger and unwed with more answers than questions.

It’s the feeling of a Friday night football game when you’re 30 but suddenly feel 16. Or when you look at the counters in your parents’ house and recall a time when you could barely see the cookies that you could smell cooling above. It’s the way your grandfather looked in his recliner or the way Christmas sounded when everyone was together under the same roof of that very old house.

Our homes are more than where we live. Our offices and schools are more than bricks and drywall. Parks are more than trees and open fields and roads do more than get us from A to B. Everywhere we go and move is a memory waiting to happen, eager to sneak up on us when we’re busy doing everything else.

Places can be sacred. Churches and bars can equally have special meaning for those of us who darken either doorway to meet with friends and commiserate with strangers.

The only way to recognize the power of place is to succumb to its alluring pull. Let it wash over you. Let your mind wander back to a time when you were and where you were. And understand that the next memory could happen anywhere. The conditions never have to be right or perfect. The creation of the moment will make everything right by it.

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From the looks of it, we’re all fantastic parents. Our Instagrams from Disney World and the Facebook albums of Easters and Christmases show smiles, laughter, hugs, and happiness. It’s as if nothing goes wrong in our lives or for our families.

It’s easy for people to think I’m a great dad because sometimes my blog posts show that I’m willing to get dirty with my two-and-a-half-year-old daughter or that I’m at her beck and call when we go out to eat. And while I’m learning myriad life lessons from this pint-sized princess, certainly we all know that for every muffin she eats happily, there’s a little girl (and her dad) who gets frustrated when it’s time to change a diaper, take a bath, or go to the doctor.

I don’t think the good parenting we’re all doing happens when we post the highlights of our lives to Facebook. It happens in between those moments.

Somewhere between your Christmas morning and the craft your child made for Valentine’s Day, you were a great parent. You taught a life lesson, moved heaven and earth in order to make your kid happy, or put off what you wanted to do so they could do what they needed to do. There is no album on Facebook for that. 

At some point between the school portraits and your summer beach trip, you snuggled next to your son or daughter (or both) and watched a silly TV show. As their eyes followed the dancing monkey or uncoordinated clown, you looked over and caught the smile that was curling upwards from the corners of their mouth. You didn’t take a video of it, but it’s etched in your mind forever.

The times when you didn’t let them have dessert because they didn’t touch their vegetables? Or when they couldn’t watch TV because they didn’t clean their room like you asked? When they left toys lying about so you told them they’d have to clean up before they could play with a friend? When they needed to apologize to their brother before they got certain privileges back? None of those times go on Facebook. Few of those instances involved smiling. But good parenting probably happened.

Do not judge your parenting skills – or the quality of your life, for that matter – based upon what you or anyone else is putting online. Those are the highlights. That’s the SportsCenter of living, not the full game with its ebb and flow, its rhythm and mistakes, its moments of terror, uncertainty, and desperation.

Facebook is an idealized representation of ourselves, how we parent, how we live, how we love. It is anything but authentic.

Parenting – and life – happens in between online posts and updates. It happens when we least expect it. And when it does, when those memorable moments of teaching and learning and being happen, the best thing we can do is put down our phone and live as deeply and authentically as we can in that moment.

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There’s a house on our usual walking route that has a lot of flowers out front. They’re mostly simple pansies or marigolds, but my daughter is captivated by them. When we ask if she wants to go by the garden, she always answers with an enthusiastic “Yes!”

Last night, as we made our way to the garden, we saw the woman who lives there outside working in her garden, either planting or weeding. She saw us approaching and said a gentle “Hello.”

We paused, returned the nicety, and paused so our daughter could take in the purple, red, yellow, and orange flowers.

“Take one,” the garden lady said.

“Are you sure?” we asked, a bit taken aback.

“Sure. That’s what they’re there for.”

We asked our daughter which one she wanted. She selected a purple one and I knelt to break the stem and hand it to her. We wished the garden lady a good night and continued on our loop back home.

If you create something beautiful, don’t be afraid to give it to others. No, you can’t always control what they’ll do with it, but beauty is too great and wonderful to keep to yourself.

My daughter may never remember this particular walk, but I hope she becomes the kind of person who’s not afraid to make beautiful things for others to enjoy.

May you do the same this week, in your small plot in this world.

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We were outside at our house after coming home from school. It had rained a bit the previous few days, so her small wading pool had some standing water in it. Knowing the plants would be thirsty as the humidity would be picking back up soon, I began to use one of her buckets to scoop water and pour it on the hydrangeas. Those guys get very thirsty.

My daughter saw what I was doing and wanted to help. She reached for her pink plastic frying pan (what it was doing outside is anyone’s guess). She filled it with water and gingerly stepped to the tree. At first she held it up to one of the branches, thinking a leaf would literally drink the water. When that didn’t work, she dumped it at the base of the trunk and declared, “This tree is so hungry.”

Bored with that she then filled her pan again and dumped the water on the ground nearby. Seeing a small puddle form, she determined it was ripe for jumping. She reveled in what happened when her small feet found the pooling water. She giggled at the sound of water being tamped and splashed and repeated the entire process. After a few more rounds, she looked and me and asked, “Daddy jump?”

My first instinct was to tell her, “No, that’s too messy. Daddy doesn’t want to get his shoes and pants muddy.”

Luckily I caught myself and said nothing of the sort. I was mature enough to understand that the point of life isn’t to stay clean. It’s to get dirty with the people you love. 

For most of our lives, we’re given a set of rules. We learn regulations about what’s proper, expected, common, or normal. We’re told to stay clean, speak softly, eat all our vegetables, and be careful. But I’ve determined that these are not the rules we should be following.

These are the rules:

Love fully; not halfway.

When you are somewhere, be all the way there. Don’t worry about taking pictures of everything with your phone.

Don’t worry about what you look like. Worry about who you’re with.

Notice people. Don’t just look at them. Really notice them.

If you’re lost in conversation, it’s okay to be late.

Life and its spontaneous moments are a gift. As such, they should be treasured, protected, and shared.

Haters aren’t worth your time.

Listen and watch. Then say something.

Don’t judge. It’s a waste of time.

When you laugh, laugh loud. When you cry, cry deep. And when you do either, do them in the presence of someone you love most.

And when your daughter asks you to jump in mud puddles on a Tuesday after school, jump high.

On Sundays, when I write, I do so at length on some topic of religion, Christianity, Jesus stuff, or faith. Beware.

Last Sunday, I fired off this quick one liner on Facebook:

As of this writing, 13 people liked the status, which means (I think) they agree with me. The comments were mixed, ranging from a few people who agreed to a few who didn’t. Most people let me know that their pastor was part of the 5%.

I’m sure he is.

Have you ever watched a really great episode of CBS Sunday Morning? Or heard a great podcast from “This American Life?” It’s like when you’ve been to a great comedy show, a mesmerizing new art exhibit, or even caught a memorable movie. If you’ve been wrapped up in a live music concert, been whisked off to someplace else while reading poetry, or you’ve come to know a topic deeper after a too-short TED talk, then you’ve felt more than most sermons today offer.

If you want a religious experience, the last place to go is a church.

It wasn’t always this way. Sermons used to be intellectual, inspiring, personal, relevant, educational, and informative. Sure, they used to last way more than 30 minutes, didn’t come with notes inserted into the bulletin, or weren’t available for instant download afterward, but at least they were thought-out.

Believe it or not, time was actually invested in the act and craft of preaching. Pastors honed their skills well before their days became full of budget meetings, hospital visits, and figuring out how to work a tithing appeal into this week’s Psalm reading. They used to pore over commentaries, concordances, and cannons in order to arrive at a point or application that would be meaningful to their audience while also being loaded with wisdom for people who would read those words generations on.

Nowadays, when you can get millions of perspectives in the time it takes you to click “I’m Feeling Lucky”, there is no sacrifice. There is no point that is hard won. And when the people in front of you have been in the same seat for 15 years and visitors only show up because “First” is on your marquee, then what’s the use in getting better at something? Keep it simple and save Saturdays for yard work and iced tea.

And this is why CBS Sunday Morning or everything on TED.com or a great book is better. When you can find a shining example of someone practicing their craft, you feel uplifted. You feel like you see something of God/a god present. You are transported to somewhere else, somewhere you feel like you can be better. You’re more hopeful, more kind, more loving, more inspired. You’ve become a better person.

Church used to do that for us.

It doesn’t have to anymore, though. This isn’t an appeal to preachers to get better. It’s an appeal to everyone to find church where they may. Jesus isn’t confined to brick walls, red carpet, three points, and a poem, either. I believe you can glimpse God at a singer/songwriter night, while serving others, in the lines of a great poem, or while watching a riveting documentary.

The challenge for pastors, really, is to understand that competition doesn’t just exist down the street at the other church. People are experiencing God in the streets, in between your buildings. And if you can’t provide art in its highest form – that which transports us somewhere else – then you will be discounted as a place that can’t provide a God experience. I can’t think of anything more irrelevant for a church. So stop dumbing down your sermons because you’re afraid you can’t reach a society glued to Two and a Half Men. In reality, the exact opposite is true.

May you use your Sunday to enjoy someone else’s work, someone who works hard, who sacrifices, who thinks, who challenges, who professes, who proclaims, who hopes, and who tries. 

Wherever you see that happening, there is church.

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