Island time

Let it be known that most days I have more questions than answers.  One question that has always caused me to question is "if you were on a deserted island..." Before I can answer I must declare that I have nothing but questions.  Why am I on the deserted island?  Are we talking South Pacific or Patmos?  Have I chosen to be on the island or have I been exiled?  Should I expect a film crew following or possibly a revelation from God?  These are going to need answers before I commit to an island companion.   Or maybe I don't want my island cluttered by company.  Maybe I will look for a football named 'voit' or a coconut named 'dole' to keep me sanely entertained whilst alone on the island.

I said all of that to see if I could drag you into paragraph two of this, my most recent and long awaited, blog entry.

Work this week landed me in the state of Connecticut.  A quaint little postcard state, (little compared to Texas) with beautifully shaded green lawns tucked neatly behind the very busy NYC. Though I have traveled to NYC a handful of times until now I have never rented a car and hit the northbound interstate into the state whose nicknames include the "Constitution State" and ironically, "Land of Steady Habits".  No, I have no idea what that means but I am curious by nature and will google it as soon as I lack anything better to do.

I enjoyed the drive through a few small towns on my way to Derby.  The homes were settled on small lots with rolling lawns lined with tulips and blooming fruit trees; homes that looked as though they sheltered families that woke singing every morning and closed their eyes smiling every evening.  Tongue in cheek and with a pinch of sarcasm, how could anyone living in a house with such a beautifully manicured and fertile lawn have anything less than blissful moments in the sun?  As I looked around the shops, restaurants and hospitals I noted no one that seemed to be capable of dressing themselves differently than I (as my daddy said often, they put their pants on one leg at a time just like the rest of us) so I guess they probably have the same issues, different landscape.

In case your interest as been peaked, Connecticut is home and/or birthplace to both Bush presidents as well as The Carpenters duo of the early 80's, the guy that created Family Guy, Noah Webster, and Mark Twain; the later needing no introduction.  I don't know that I would sign up for the home tour but other Connecticut natives of notoriety include Glenn Close, Eli Whitney, and some lady named Katharine Hepburn. Though this is not a travel blog I would recommend a drive through the Connecticut area if you ever find yourself with the time resource and an inclination to see a little bit more of America.

I think I mentioned before that I am a fan of the dramatic series "Law & Order: SVU".  If I was at a NYC hotel and a bus bannered "Law & Order: SVU tour of the city" rolled up the driveway I would be crawling over camera toting tourist to get a front row seat!  First stop: Rikers!  I know you just asked yourself, why? Why not?  It's like Alcatraz, New England style!

I never have time for as many tourist stops as I would like when I'm "on the job" but occasionally on a plane or shuttle bus I have time to let Wikipedia explain to me what I am missing.   Geographically impaired, I often open google maps to get a bird's eye view of what I am missing. In this case I got a bird's eye view of what NYC is missing.  The islands that I found interesting on this trip were North and South Brothers Islands. In the East River just to the left of Rikers Island there are two smaller islands.  Zooming in by way of google maps I could see structures on the larger north island.  Seems to be real estate of little developmental interest to a very crowded and busy city but to a google enthusiast like myself it's a virtual playground.

Here's what I found interesting in a nutshell.  North consist of 20 acres, South is the smaller brother of about 6 acres.  The islands are not open to the public now but at one time  in the late 1880's North Brothers Island was home to Riverside Hospital previously on Roosevelt Island.  The hospital's location lended well to the hospital's mission of housing and treating those with quarantinable diseases. Some of the notable diseases included smallpox and tuberculosis. Apparently exempt from the threat of Hipaa compliance violations, the facilities stakes claim as host to the infamous Typhoid Mary who died there in 1938.   The hospital died shortly afterwards but reopened briefly as a housing facility for World War II veterans attending local colleges.  If you are following this roadmap closely you will note at the next turn, 1950's, the facility becomes the first treatment center for adolescents with drug addictions.  Heroin addicts, specifically, were locked up possibly against their will until clean, not necessarily with intentions to stay that way.

Now only broken down structures covered with heavy foliage designated as bird sanctuaries remain on the island. As recent as 2016 there was at least a preliminary plan to open the island as a park with limited access by the public. Perhaps the black-crowned night heron will enjoy the company.

Do you think the birds were ever asked "if you were on a deserted island...?

Welcome to a new baby girl!

Though I never felt unwanted I did grow up thinking that every parent wanted sons. Boys seemed to be the gold standard for children; a bragging right. From the very first moment that I considered having children until this very day I have always wanted boys.  I have been richly blessed with three incredible sons and a backdraft of blessings from them but today we are celebrating and awaiting the arrival of our second grand daughter.

Our grandchildren, Kallie(8), Eli(6), Cash(4) all belong to our oldest son, Angel.  They are wildly exciting, talented, sweet, smart, and a bag of chips.  I bet every MeMe would say the same about her grandchildren.  Today our middle son, Levi, will hold his first child in his big ol' shaking hands for the first time.  He will look at her round little face and wonder how life will ever get better than this.  It will.  Everyday will just get better and better. One day she will smile and his heart will flutter into his throat. She will belly laugh and he won't be able to get to a video camera fast enough!  She will cry and he will join her in tears. She will say "dada" and it will sound like choirs of angels.  The best things in life are wrapped snuggly in a blanket his Mammie made.

This is a recycled piece I wrote several years ago for a beautiful friend expecting her first daughter.  I tweaked it but thought it was worth revisiting for this occasion.

An untraditional bouquet of roses. One blue, one red, one white, one yellow, one pink, one peace...

The blue rose is for the tomboy she will be. For blue jeans and baseball games, mud pies and fireflies; camping trips, fishing trips and squirrel hunting with Daddy.  Blue is for cowboy boots, spitting and sitting unlady-like.  Blue is for tagging along with your cousins, playing the guitar and catching lizards.

The red rose is for the day that Jesus breaks her heart and she realizes unconditional love and the blood it took to extend it to us.  For the first time she will shout AMEN in church, the first time she sings “Jesus loves me”, and for the day that she is baptized.  Red is for knowing that Christmas ain’t about Santa Claus.

Pink is for hair bows, Easter dresses, and Prom dresses.  It’s for the little pink socks with lace and paten leather shoes and makeup.  It’s for hula-hoops, baby dolls, and dotting your “i" with a heart.  Pink is for pom-poms, Girl Scout cookies, diaries and lip gloss.  Pink is for Scott Baio posters above your bed and giggles and giggles and giggles and giggles.

The Peace Rose is for those teen years.  When she’ll say (maybe to herself) “I hate you” because in the moment she thinks everything you do is to make her life horrible. She will cry and you will cry.  The peace rose is because you will love her every moment like you do today knowing that one day she’ll understand that special place in your heart that God made just for her.  The peace rose is for not changing her curfew or your values, it’s for doing what is hard knowing it will be worth it one day.

White is for wedding gowns and garter belts.  For that day when the man she always wanted to marry walks her down the aisle to the man she never dreamed would come along. White is for happy ever after and the generations that have been there.

Yellow is for friends.  For that friend that will take up for her on the playground, for the girl that stays up the latest with her at her first sleep over and for the one doesn’t tell that she still wets the bed sometimes.  Yellow is for the one friend she’ll tell when she has her first kiss.  For the one who knows what her voice sounds like when she’s crying on the phone even when she’s trying to hide it. For the one that can make her laugh and cry at the same time, the one that cherishes the same things and respects the differences.  Yellow is for the friend that knows that when you gripe about your mother, you never stopped loving her. Yellow is for friends that love you enough to tell you “It’s not always about you!’

Warm and loving welcome to Darcie Rose.

Let me tell you a love story

I have said before that Valentines Day is one of my least favorite holidays.  I am not religiously opposed to the saint that was credited for the celebration and I am certainly not against love. I have always appreciated chocolates, candies, jewelry, and flowers but I need to know I am loved not just on Tuesday, February 14th but on the Monday before, the Tuesday after and everyday in between.  Without all of the day-in day-out gestures of love and appreciation and affection I don't think the three pounds of Russell Stovers chocolates would be anything more than my next cavity. 

If you asked me for a love story I might tell you of about a man nearing 70 years old who married when he was not much more than a child. For decades he has stood tightly to a bride that suffers from life altering mental illness because he said in front of God and family that he would.

I might share a story about a young preacher who one week prior to meeting the love of his life surrendered to God the search for his one and only. 

I might tell you about the last time I saw my daddy stand on his own and how he shook as he wrapped his arms around my mother.

I could tell you how a self-professed but now sober alcoholic found his happily ever after on Match.com.

I might tell you about the friend who at 40 years old said 'I do!' to her best friend. 

I likely would tell you about the engagement ring that my mother-in-law hocked to buy gifts for her boys the first Christmas after their daddy died.

There are many love stories all around us.

I remember several year ago when Stacey was barely in school we had a Valentine picnic. We spread a big black and red checked blanket on the floor upstairs where we ate pizza and played a silly game I named, "if love were..."

If love were a food it would be.....pizza. We all gave different answers.  If love were a flower it would be a .....rose.  If love were a color it would be....red.  That seems simple enough but let's stretch it a little.  What if love were a roadway? Some might say a black top while others might say the autobahn and still others might say a dirt road up the steep side of a mountain.  If love were a bird it would be a red headed wood pecker to me but to you maybe a majestic eagle or a beautiful swan that started off as the ugly duckling. 

Try these: 

If love were a car it would be a....

If love were an animal it would be a.....

If love were a beverage it would be a....

If love were an ice cream it would be sprinkled with...

If love were a piece of furniture it would be a....

If love were a place it would be.....

If love were a body function it would be a....

A hug! 

Ok, maybe it's just getting silly now. Truthfully we can make rhymes of metaphors and riddles of love similes all day long for fun but we don't define love. Love is defined for us not by us in 1 Corinthians 13. From the God that is love through the pen of the apostle Paul we have a very clear definition of love through a list of what it is and what it ain't.  

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,

Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;

Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 1 Corinthians 13: 4-6.

Levi and Melody used this scripture beautifully in their wedding a few years ago but I think my favorite picture of Love from the Bible comes from Matthew's gospel. In the 22nd chapter Jesus is being quizzed by the Pharisees then the Saducees and then again by the Pharisees.  Finally the lawyer asked him to tell them which was the great commandment. Jesus declared the first and great commandment, as instructed in the Old Testament, to love the Lord thy God with all your heart, your soul and your mind; with all you have.  And though the Pharisee didn't ask for the top two that is exactly what Jesus gave him when he said, the second is to love thy neighbor as thyself.  

What I love about this scripture is the visual of love.  If we love the Lord with all we have we create a vertical connection to God or more importantly he creates a connection with us. When we love our neighbors, those that walk this planet amongst us, we intersect that with a horizontal line forming a cross. That is the true symbol of love. Remember that God so loved the world that he sent his son to hang on that cross. That is a cross we should pick up daily; Love God, love others.  

Celebrate true love!

Try a carrot please

The super-duper daddy egg sandwich 

Here's a memory for you:  

In the late 1990's or early 2000's the Golden Corral restaurants were on our list of affordable dining options.  With 3 kids to feed our budget was too tight to even consider dining out but we often did anyway.  I remember one afternoon at the buffet we had enjoyed a big dose of comfort foods and were looking seriously toward the dessert buffet. 

Let me pause here to give you some background information on Levi Adron.  He had struggled for years with allergies, runny nose, asthma-like bronchitis, weepy eyes, ear infections - you name it! Levi had it.  Levi also had a tendency to only eat the foods on the approved (by Levi) list.  Fine dining options like pizza, French fries, bologna sandwiches, and tacos with no veggies were on the list.  The unapproved list was relatively short as it included 2 foods: those grown in dirt and those that looked yucky. 

Like most parents I liked my kids to step out every now and then to try something new. And while I did not expect them to embrace a Brussels sprout I thought a carrot to be a doable option.  Statistically, 2 out of 3 boys can handle that.  More noteworthy, 1 in 3 boys will expel carrots along with approved list buffet choices all over a public table in a crowded Golden Corral.  

It was my fault.  I bribed him with ice cream.  Taste one carrot, I said, and I will let you have ice cream. 

It wasn't until a few years later that he was officially tested and determined to be allergic to carrots as well as many other foods. Parenthetically he tested positive to a milk, thus ice cream,  allergy as well but we never wasted that in a instant replay in a public place. 

I remember very little about my childhood in comparison to the memories my sister has stashed away.  Bits of stories are pieced together with other memories.  Dates and places are confused and blurred.  Sometimes as I recall an event to my mother she will politely unscramble the timelines to remind me of how and where it actually happened.  Maybe because I am the baby I was too young to remember clearly? Maybe because I blend what I remember with what I have been told? Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention?  

One thing I do remember is the super duper daddy egg sandwich!  I don't know when we first had it and why we felt the need to name it but I remember clearly breakfast for supper and the super duper daddy egg sandwich. My dad was an experimental chief. One of his most famous original recipes was the spaghetti omelette. It was triple-D worthy before Guy was old enough to drive that convertible.  

The super duper daddy egg sandwich was indeed super duper.  Yard eggs with just a touch of milk scrambled in the electric skillet then piled on white bread with just a thin smear of Miracle Whip at nine o'clock in the evening when we probably should have been in the bed. Makes my mouth water to think about it! There was only one secret ingredient that made us belly up to the kitchen bar for such a treat and that was the event created by the fry cook himself.  It was all in the presentation.  The enthusiasm he had for cooking with his kids gathered around. The way my mom readied the next step as if she was preparing a path for him to delight his children. The choreography as they worked around the skillet together.  I guess if my daddy had plated duck feather marinated in creosote I would have grabbed a fork and jumped in.   Kitchen memories are the best! 

Fast forward to Levi in 2017, the allergies have settled, he passed the peanut challenge (that's a story that he would not like to see in print).  Levi married his high school sweetheart as his mother did and every Sunday after church we gather four generations around the table; his grandmother, his parents, his brothers and sister-in-law, his niece and nephews and his bride.  I am often amazed at the servings he dishes onto his plate; mashed potatoes with gravy, pastas that are not Mac and cheese.  I even saw him smear a little basil garlic pesto onto his sandwich last Sunday.  

I consider Levi's picky eating habits when I plan a meal but it is nice to see him try new foods, maybe expand the approved list. Don't get me wrong I don't push him too much. I learned my lesson at the Golden Corral.  I think it is that super duper young lady that grew up beside him that makes life and lunch worth sampling.  

Sticks and Stones.

"Sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me" is likely the biggest lie told since the day it was published in 1862.  

This is not an anti bullying campaign or an attempt to have your words filtered or censored.  It is simply a reminder to myself that my words are not free; they come at a price of ownership.  That is one of the stiffest challenges in writing a blog, posting an opinion on Facebook, or texting a friend.  Whether they are pecked into a qwerty keyboard, inked across your back, or pulled across the sky by a prop plane they are forever out there; even on Snapchat.

Remember in 3rd grade when "Anne" (fake name to protect the heartless heifer) followed you into the bathroom in the elementary school hallway.  You went into the stall as usual but when you came out she asked, "why are you so fat?"  To this day, 40 years later I hold onto those words. Why? The same reason I hold onto the words of a dear high school friend who said, "hey, that note you handed me after school meant so much to me."  I need to have the old heart strings plucked every now and then. I need an emotional reality check on the words I spew all over a conversation.  I need a reminder that even unintentionally, words can hurt worse than sticks or stones. 

Just as there is a difference in wisdom and knowledge, there is a difference in where and how I store all of my word entangled memories.  For instance, I can recite a large portion of the Gettysburg Address. This is rather useless information but for whatever reason I maintain a portion of the words of Abraham Lincoln deep inside my mass of neuronal cells that rattles around between the ears.  Occasionally as a parlor trick or party favor I retrieve and recite to impress my friends, colleagues and strangers alike.  While I love the meaningful words given by Lincoln in 1863 I do not store those in my heart but in my head.  

The things I tuck deep into my chest for safe keeping are different. They are words that have changed me when I didn't want to be changed, hurtful words uttered by those that love me, and shocking words that I would like to purge from existence forever.  They are the sweet and sour, harsh and happy words to live by. They are a halogen bulbs to shine over my next sentence or statement, they are my reminder words that I have wedged into that small space just above my heart. They are the word memories that lump up in my throat just before I cry. They are the words that shaped me yesterday and define who I will be tomorrow.  

Some of the words I have tucked away are simply these:

Hey, Mama. What's going on? No, I just ain't talk to you in a while. You sound upset. Is something wrong? Are you upset with me?

No, Angel. I'm not upset. I'm not upset at all. It's been a long week and I'm really tired and just ready to lay my head down.

OK. If you're sure you're not upset. I sure hope you get rested soon. I guess I'll talk to you later. I love you, Mama.

I love you too, Ange.
Mother? Where are you? Are you busy? Can you talk a minute?

I'm on my way home. I should be there later this evening. What's going on?

Well, you know, I just had a thought and I wanted to tell you. I was thinking, well you know I've always got a plan. Let me know what you think about this.

That sounds great. You have always got a plan. Is that something you're going to start soon?

Oh, I don't know. I was just thinking about it. you know I've got some time on my hands to be thinking about stuff. Well be careful, Mother, and I will see you in a day or two.

I love you, Levi.

I love you too, Mother. 

Good night, Mommy. I loveth  thee thou

Oh, Bubbie.  I've missed you and I loveth thee thou as well

Sometimes when I've been away too long I wonder around in my memories to find these sweet words from my boys.  These words are like sweet hugs that give me direction, support, and energy to combat all that comes at me.  

I own these words. They were gifts from my boys. 

Ruts and Grooves.

Some know that my oldest son's nickname is Angel. Even though I am really the only one that has ever called him by that name I have shouted it from the bleachers, across the yard, and up the stairs since he was just two years old.  Several family members and friends referred to Stacey as Space or Space Monkey. Occasionally a somewhat curious friend will ask if Levi has a nickname. Well, he does.  Sometimes we call him Levit, short for Leviticus though that is not his name. When he was just a toddler we would call him "babycakes"(for the obvious reasons).  Also when Levi was younger we referred to him as the King of Everybody, Always, and Never.  Although Levi is a very peacefully content young adult, as a preteen and teen he would often be heard saying, 'how come everybody always gets that and I never get any?' So he was dubbed and crowned the King of Everybody, Always, and Never.  

Oddly enough, as an adult I would like to be known for that type of consistency.  Wouldn't it be nice for everyone to have an idea of what you were going to do or at least attempt to do always and never?  Which brings me to my point and I do have one.  

Traditions and consistencies: 

Consistency: if you asked me what I look for in a friendship I would consistently answer consistency.  I would likely follow that with this statement, 'even if you are a witch, if you're a witch every time I see you, I can handle it.'  I think what I like about consistent people is not that they are boring or predictable. It's more about the way they make decisions.  Example, a forward thinking individual tends to be forward thinking on many things, the way they view the day, their job, their relationships, their responsibilities, and their opportunities.  It doesn't


mean I don't like folks that are not forward thinkers, it means I prefer the genuineness of a person that shows through their consistent attributes.  

One more example: Someone who is consistently respectful. They respect their elders, children, strangers, authority, bosses and coworkers.  In addition they respect what they have yet to learn as much as what they know a good deal about.  They respect likeness and diversity and it shows in the way they consistently show respect in many facets of life. 

Traditions.  I have often told people in my philosophical ramblings that the only real difference in a rut and groove is your level of acceptance, contentment, and intention?  Think about that from the front bumper of a four wheel drive pick up truck cruising south along the National Sea Shore.  Transitioning to a groove makes for a smoother cruise along the shore where as falling into a rut may lend itself to a rather expensive tow bill. Yet when we describe the two as they are seen from the bumper of the Laramie they are quite similar.  

I said all of that to say, traditions are grooves that we can snuggle into to develop memories and stories.  Remember that first time you took that trip to Larry Joe Taylors Music Festival? Remember how every time we would go to Mammie and Berr's we would have a jungle lunch? Remember that story/saying/song that Grandmother had that always made us laugh? Remember how we always hung that special ornament on the tree? Or remember how we never ate supper in front of the television? Remember how we never were allowed to eat in the bedroom? Remember how everyone used to call me Jake? 

The groove tradition is the one that puts you on the lookout for more grooves.  It makes you search for ways to create that warm familiar feeling for those you love.  

For me, the groove is putting up all of those Christmas trees every year so my grand children will cherish the traditional trees and the true meaning of Christmas.  The groove is digging deep into Peepaw's wallet for a trip to Winston's Candy store every time we are in Port Aransas, it's wading the washout bridge to the swimming hole even when it's too cold to swim, and it's "God is great, God is good" until they are old enough to word a prayer of salvation.  

Everybody, always, and never seem pretty far out of reach but for now I will attempt to be consistent in my dealings and giving in my traditions.  

The Peter Pan Movement

Sometimes I pressure myself to write.  I end up throwing up my hands and my tablet with creative exhaustion!  I fight it but I don't do well with obligation.  I do have something on my mind. I'm not sure why or what I want to say about it but I will try to share it with you. Don't expect a conclusion to be drawn or a philosophical ending that plucks out a melody on the old heart strings.  I am writing directionless.  

Today we attended a baby shower for my granddaughter that is due on February 21st.  She seems so far away but I know when she gets here we will have a lot of time to hold her, teach her, listen to her giggle and see her grow.  I have three other grandchildren.  They are all beautiful but sometimes I get too busy.  Too busy to play in the leaves, to work puzzles, to sing silly songs.  Then as I throw back the covers and get ready to say my prayers a squeaky little voice in my head screams, "you could have stopped long enough to work one little puzzle."

Now my youngest child is 19 years old and though he and the state of Texas consider that to be an adult, I ain't done raising him ju st yet.  I would like to be walking the stage to take ownership of a quartz trophy for mother of the year but I'm not preparing the acceptance speech just yet. I learn something new about parenting everyday.  I even learn and relearn things about my own kids every week.  Just when I think I have a grasp on today, the sun goes down and I start over again. I have made some mistakes. I pray that one day they will forgive me for rushing around trying to make sure the clothes were washed instead of sitting down to watching a Disney flick, for going to the grocery store instead of Chuck E. Cheese, for raking up a pile of leaves and not letting them plow through them like a bowling ball hitting the pens.  I pray.  I pray that my best was good enough. I pray that all the advice I gave was received in love. I pray that they forgive me for the junk that cluttered up my thoughts and my evenings at home.   

In the bathroom that was used by all of my boys as they were growing up there is a small sign with a quote from E. E. Cummings; "it takes courage to grow up to be who you really are".  Not by accident but strategic placement, the sign hangs where it can be seen as they would brush their teeth or shave in the morning. One thing I always want for my boys is honesty in their lives; to live genuine.  

And joy.  I want them to have happiness that stems from living a honest life, that bubbles up from the center of a full heart. What mother would want anything less for her children. 

At a recent Christmas party I struggled to hear the soft words spoken by a coworkers wife. Her Cuban accent and tone of her voice was mild. She smiled sweetly as she spoke and I listened politely though I found myself eager to quiz her on the details. She recited the story she has probably told many times during her very colorful and painful lifetime. It was a movement; powerful and purposeful.  A movement that separated children from parents and sent them thousands of miles from everything and everyone they had ever known to live with strangers, foreigners, and volunteers. It was a sacrifice. It was attempt to protect and preserve and survive. As many as 15,000 Cuban children, most of them were boys in their early teenage years, adjusted quickly to foster care.  Some struggled with diet, authority, separation.  

One of the others listening waited until a pause in her story to ask, "what did you think on the day Fidel Castro died?"  Her smile changed. As if it were a burden of disappointment.  

"We sat on the back porch and popped open a bottle of champagne!"  

http://www.pedropan.org/sites/default/files/Cuba'sChildreninExile.pdf

Many details of The Pedro Pan Movement can be found on Pedropan.org It's a humbling read. 

As a parent, I am ashamed of how whiny I have been. Ashamed of the times I felt sorry for myself because my kids wanted for things I couldn't give them; ashamed of the little moments I have taken for granted; ashamed of the times I didn't stop and absorb all the hugs a little boy could give; ashamed of many selfish days.  

The Five Year Plan

The five year plan

I like it when Facebook pushes a memory on me by showing me a post I created a year or two or 5 ago. Sometimes they hit me harder than others. It's not always obvious to see subtle changes from yesterday or last week but if you grab a freeze frame from last year you see a metamorphosis; evolutionin a non theological manner.  

Sometimes when I have nothing better to do I wonder what we would do differently today if we could see accurately around the sun a few times into next year?  Constant, graphic and bold television advertisements warn of what five years of nicotine and tar can do to a healthy lung and quality of life yet more and more people of all ages suck butt every year.  We are continually told to avoid long exposures to the UV rays of the sun because of the aging and carcinogenic tendencies yet we grab the Oakleys and a beach towel to make our way to the coast like a cockroach scatters with a flick of the light switch.  

It would be interesting to have an iPhone app that would take your personal stats, habits and interests, filter them through an algorithmic formula that takes into account your level of risks taking, your shoe size, and your zodiac sign to produce a simple index that would precisely and accurately predict who you would be in five years.  I know how I would react to that!  I would be filtering that equation to create the best "future Dawn" without terminating my favorite bad habits. Like filtering a Craigslist search, I would fine tune that filter to show the best and worse case scenarios.  Who am I five years up the road if I walk away from only one of my most harmful vices but start walking up two flights of stairs on the third Tuesday of months with 31 days....mathematically manipulated future me!  

What if we had an app where we could snap a selfie and the attach the characters we want to be in five years? By the use of watershed algorithmic concepts, a road map or a Pinterest-like recipe would be generated complete with instructions, warnings, notes, and potential pitfalls to avoid in order to meet the new and improved you five years down the road?

Like this: envision my selfie here!

I would like to be more honest and trustworthy.  I think we all could use a little more integrity.  I would like to improve my perception of self worth and increase my self esteem and self confidence.  I need to improve punctuality and vocabulary while using sarcasm more sparingly.  I would like to have better control of my emotions during times when I am angry or nervous or happy.  I need to smile more and show more interest in others. I need less procrastination and more just do it. In addition to being a better person I would like to be at least 2 pants sizes smaller with whiter teeth, no sun spots, wrinkles, or gray hairs.  

I think I just cracked my iPhone screen. No wait, that was just my selfie cracking.  

Truth is we dismiss warnings and advice and good wholesome instructions daily to live in the moment. During this time when many are resolving to live better, healthier and more productive lives think beyond the resolution and see where you want to be five years down the road. Do I want to see growth in my spiritual life? Do I want more friends? A better job? Do I want to feel more accomplished? More valued at home or work or school?  

You don't need to Pinterest a recipe for that! Here's a simple suggestion. Write your goals out like a baptist prayer request list, fold it, and put it in your pocket. Carry it with you. Each time you feel that folded piece of paper you will remember the goals you set, the reward for your efforts, and the you that you want to be sooner rather than later. Each time you hand realizes the nearly wadded note you will have to own the moment those goals were important enough to scribble into list formation.

No-fly list

No fly list: 

On more than one occasion I have been unjustly accused of not having a 'filter'; implying that words fall from my thoughts and out my mouth without resistances. Oddly enough I thought I did a pretty fair job of holding some clever verbiage in my gray matter even though I'm sure it would have been hilarious if it had slipped carelessly into the conversation.  Either way, I can conclude at least two, possibly three thoughts about the words we utter. 

Our words matter: At any airport across the nation I often see signage indicating that TSA does not take kindly to jokes especially those related to explosives or weapons. I've not attempted to humor them with my interrupting cow knock, knock joke but I am sure they would find a mannerless Holstein irresistibly chuckle worthy. Even so I simply smile as I consider it and continuing removing my laptop from my bag, my tennis shoes from my feet, and everything from my pockets.  The words we choose and when we use them has significance and impact to others regardless what you think or what you meant or how much you apologize. I am not saying that is fair. I am saying that it is true. TSA doesn't think it's amusing in the least to casually speak of bombs in your carry on and to be quite frank, I prefer not to hear the person in the boarding line whisper under their breathe, "I hope I don't have to sit with her."  
I once heard a lady from the church say that trying to unsay something is like trying to put toothpaste back in the tube. I think it is worse than that. I think it's like hitting someone in the face with a baseball bat then trying to take the violence and intent back. And if that isn't enough, try to unbruise the eye socket and push the blood from the flesh back into the vessel that has been damaged.

Words hurt: Toothpaste doesn't hurt. I have never been hit with the bat but on more than one occasion I stood proudly in my Red Bird uniform with a bat on my right shoulder and took a blow to the face from what was labeled a soft ball. It stings. Remember 'stick and stones can break my bones but words can never heard me?' That was 1970's grade school response to what we now call bullying. And though we often refer to the tongue as sharp, when it comes to penetrating your emotions, it more like being stabbed with a spoon or a butter knife at best. Half of the pain from words is the memory that sticks with you years beyond the original conversation. I can not for the life of me remember who ran against Rick Perry in the last governors race, I can't remember the birth date of my mother-in-law of 29+ years but I remember in the 9th grade when the cutest boy in high school told me I needed to start doing something more girl-like with my hair. That's what it feels like to be stabbed with a spoon. 

Words heal: Wouldn't it be awesome if when a doctor had to deliver the unfavorable diagnosis of breast cancer he could say, "well, there's good news and then there is bad news. The bad news, you have breast cancer. The good news, I just need you to chat a few little rhyming words and you'll be good as new!"  Words don't heal breast cancer or take the grief from death but they can start a healing process. Once when I was younger I miscarried a baby at 4+ months. The baby was due on Christmas Day in 1993; no relevance to that it just slipped through the filter. I went in for a sonogram and was sent directly back to the OB/GYN. It was a rough day. I remember the doctor reaching up and taking my hand. He said, "you'll heal."  There was no miraculous healing but through his compassionate words for me as a human, a mother, and hurting soul he began to doctor the wounds of my heart. A week later, while I was silently and privately attempting to recover, my cousin called. To be honest, I really didn't want to talk about this situation simply because it hurt and acknowledged pain was not my idea of small talk. She had the history to support her words as she had been through many miscarriages.  Calmly she called me by my name and said, "hug the son you have."  The healing continued. 

What an awesome tool we have in the spoken word. What an awesome responsibility we have to be silent.  Oh, to be better at them both.

Living the Hallmark Christmas!

If you are like me you have spent at least a moment or two of this very busy season watching a Christmas movie. While the grandkids were over we watched the old Rudolph movie narrated by the legendary Burl Ives. One night during a much needed downtime we sat in our recliners to watch a feel good, restore hope in humanity and family Christmas movie. By Netflix we were saturated with options; white Christmas, blue Christmas; lost Christmas, found Christmas; home for Christmas, alone for Christmas; Christmas past, Christmas future. After scrolling through the titles we randomly chose one entitled "Christmas Angels".

I guess for me the attraction to Christmas cinema is the happy ending. I'm a sucker for a happy ending even if it is predictably sappy. Christmas Angels definitely fit the bill; a family in turmoil and jeopardy of splitting up, unhappy marriage, workaholic dad, fussing children, mom trying to bridge the gaps. They take a Christmas trip to a mountain cabin to reconnect but find the cabin can not fix any of their issues. Suddenly as they are about to lose all hope a family stranded by a snow storm appears at their door. Of course they invite them into their warm cabin. Long story short, who rescued who? Happy ending with a twist, the stranded family had been in a car wreck on the mountains edge and were dead but glamorized to be Angels. Thus the title Christmas Angels. It was a cute story and I enjoyed sitting still while it played as much as I enjoyed the storyline.

 In reality our lives are not always as Hallmark as a Christmas flic. We run nonstop through the holiday season. Like OJ Simpson in the airport we approach hurdles and obstacles full speed. Jumping and dodging, we try to be everything to everyone, provide the best Christmas experience, replay the favorite childhood Christmas, buy the best gifts, try new recipes, attend parties with friends, programs at church, and recitals at school. It can be stressful. Then add logistics. I need to be every where for everyone. I can't get to point A from point B because I need to stop by point c by noon. Juggling the hours of the post office, the mall, the appointments, the groceries in the backseat plus I still need to get to work on time. Stressful doesn't seem like a strong enough word.

 Then one Sunday afternoon just before Christmas while we are trying to get to CVS to pick up a script a 1990 Mercedes in front of us starts billowing white smoke from under the hood. The car pulls quickly to the shoulder of the road. We turn around on the highway to assist. It's a young man, mid 20's, with no real mechanical know how and a broken thermostat housing. It's not likely that the small town we are headed to will have the part in stock but we offer to give him a ride into town to see. It's the small town thing to do, right?

About Andrew: he is 25 and a graduate ofUniversity of Texas. He majored in government and worked for Ted Cruzs office on the day that Cruz announced his candidacy for US president. He lived In Houston was headed to St. Louis to meet a friend before heading to Baltimore, or was it Boston, to visit with the friends mother. Then back to St. Louis before heading to Wisconsin to spend Christmas with his parents. He dad was a Pentecostal preacher in Wisconsin but he pastored a church Dalhart, Texas for many years and that is where Andrew and his sisters grew up. He recently started a web design company and didn't have a credit card to his name. He played guitar, mostly jazz, but his sisters both played piano. He bought the 1990 E-190 Mercedes with only 75,000 miles on it and had made the cross country trek before. He dreaded calling his father to let him know he was stranded and gave the impression that an "I told you so" or "what were you thinking?" Speech was likely to be coming down the pipes.

As Andrew first climbed in the back of my car he noted the King James Bible laying beside him on the seat. He commented on it and asked that guy I live with if he was a pastor. It seemed like an odd question at first and we were unsure if he asked because he was offended or comforted by the bible. He then explained he was a pastors son and very familiar. It seemed that he thought that the only people that would travel with a bible in their cars were pastors. Not the case. We often leave the church with the bible in the backseat and leave it there all day or more.

 I could seriously bore you with all of the details but in short, Carthage Texas didn't have the thermostat housing in stock but they found some type of compound to possibly patch the hole to get him a little farther down the road. They applied the compound but it needed to set up for an hour. In the meantime we needed to get church so we took Andrew along. He came to our home a good 20 miles from where his car was before we started to church. A polite young man that stood to shake hands with my son and my mother; a polite young stranger we had picked up on the side of the road. 
Hallmark writes best selling movies about this and I told him so. I explained the recent Christmas movie and inquired about his life status, "you're not dead are you?"

 The Mercedes could not be fixed that night but was driven into the local shop. He talked about renting a car to continue his journey, staying in a hotel until he could get the part for the car or have the car looked at. A quick text from Stacey indicated that Andrew would be staying the night with us. At this point I'm sure you are less concerned with the status of the car, the repairs, and the friend Andrew was to meet in St. Louis. You are likely rereading that to make sure you understood correctly. Yes, you read that correctly. I said we picked up a 25 year old stranger on the side of the road, gave him a ride, fed him, took him to church, back to town, and to our house where he stayed the night.

Are we crazy? Pause here and let's think about the answer to that before we spit it into cyber eternity. What kind of crazy are we talking about? Don't get me wrong. I'm not telling you all of this to impress you or make myself and my family seem like super heroes. I just need to type it out so that it can be real. Maybe we are crazy. If one if my sons told me he was going to a perfect strangers house to spend the night because his car broke down I might be less than comfortable.

What Andrew brought to the Christmas season:
1. A distraction. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in me, my problems, my failures; what ifs and how comes ooze from my soul like snot from a two year old in the springtime. It's not pretty. It's not healthy. I needed to take a step back, refocus, breath in and breath out with true appreciation for the abundance I have.

 2. A detour. There are many paths we can take to get to where we are going. All roads may lead to Rome but "there's a million ways to get to San Antoine" (Michael Hearne). The problem isn't finding a way, it's finding the right way. And it's not finding the right way in hindsight but projecting the outcomes and predicting the failures, charting a course. And yes, making a U turn, rerouting or taking a detour when things don't seem to be working out the right way.

 3. A decision. There is no way to say this nicely so I will just apologize in advance. That guy I live with has never been assertive or decisive or bold in his decisions. This is not a new development and I don't really consider it a failure. It's a personality trait. It's part of what makes him who he is. I don't look at it as a fault, anymore, though I did for years. I now know that we all have weaknesses and character traits that others don't like or can't explain. I finally decided that it is this marginally weak trait is what allows him to excel at so many other things. Never once during the 24 hours we had Andrew in our company did I have to say, "should we stop?" "What do we do with him now?" "will he be staying the night?" Without arrogance or pride but with confidence that guy I live with stepped up.

 You may not see this in a Hallmark Christmas movie next year but if you ever meet Andrew I hope he leaves you feeling blessed!