There is a Booger on the Couch, is that okay?

 

Just one germ:

 

When I travel I do my best to stay in hotels that consistently meet certain requirements. Some would call me a hotel snob but name brand hotels are more predictable, easier and safer.  I stay away from hotels that have doors that open to the outside. I stay away from most local chain hotels with few exceptions.  I don’t stay in hotels that are adjacent to truck stops.  Having coffee in the room or available in the building is a definite plus but I have two absolutes: safety and cleanliness.  These two qualifiers not only keep me from some brands but can direct me away from some towns altogether.  

 

While I don’t typically check the rap sheets for hotels before I make a reservation, I have been known to drive to the front door and cancel my reservation while sitting in their parking lot. There is no check off list for me that makes a hotel safe; well-lit parking area: check; currently no one being shot onsite: check; no first responders blocking the door: check.  It’s an emotional gut feeling that makes me check out before I check in.  

 

It’s much easier to assess hotel hygiene.  I don’t travel with a UV light and I do not have special vision to know when a hotel room is clean, but I am confident in knowing dirty when I see it.  

 

The biggies: 

The bed isn’t made:  We would not consider staying in a room if the door swung open to a bed that was crumpled from where another human slept. If there were dirty towels in the bathroom? No.  Those are things we are not expected to compromise on. 

 

The smalls: 

What if the hotel room was a little dirty?  Everything was clean except the toilet wasn’t flushed?  Yucky but we can flush, as we do in public restrooms, and the problem is seemingly gone.  What if the trash had not been pulled?  

 

The day after finds:  

This is a special surprise. It’s a nice enough hotel. I slept good. I felt safe. I watched some TV and went to sleep without issue. I woke and showered with clean towels. However, when I opened the coffee maker I gagged. Not only was it not clean but it was a carpet of mold growing on a bed of coffee grounds. 

 

Thatguyilivewith and I recently stayed in an extended stay hotel in Tampa that was beyond what I considered acceptable.  The king size bed had queen size linens, the dishwasher was full of dirty dishes, the shower was moldy, and there was a booger on the couch.  Additionally, there were no clothes hangers in the closet and apparently no forks, clean or otherwise in the building.  We checked out early and I took my-hotel-snob-self down the road to a brand name hotel that I know and trust.   

 

Could we use the same hotel cleanliness scale to evaluate our own lives? I will use the term obstacles but these could be anything from sin to bad habits.  Do I have big obstacles like an unmade bed that I just ignore?  Do I have obstacles that are just inconvenient that I have learned to tolerate?  It is a personal reflection that sometimes only you can see.  The big heavy hotel room door is slammed shut, the peep hole only sees out, and you are there looking around the room: what do you see? 

 

 

Not Intended for Cult Leaders

 What do you want to be when you grow up?

When my oldest granddaughter, Kallie, was wrapping up kindergarten she took part in an annual tradition of surveying the class.  Each spring the teacher would ask every child that was to be promoted to the first grade, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”  On graduation night they read the responses of the children: “I want to be a teacher” or “I want to be a policeman.”  Some said nurse, doctor, veterinarian, etc.  It was adorable to see a snaggle toothed five-year-old walk across the stage in a miniature white satin robe trying to balance the matching hat on her head.  Their future aspirations were tossed into the air like a tassel and cap.  It was a milestone in life for the parent and children.  The parents were so proud.  I can only assume it was a relief for the teachers. 

I don’t remember having the forethought to ask myself this question when I was graduating from kindergarten.  I don’t remember my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Ruth Bristow, asking us in any formal manner but if she reads this maybe she will let me know.  I remember my sister always wanted to be a teacher or perhaps I just thought she wanted to be a teacher because she made me play school all the time.  I never wanted to be a teacher; that much I remember.  I don’t remember ever wanting to be a doctor or a lawyer or a nurse or an astronaut or a fireman or a cowboy.  Perhaps I didn’t have that type of ambition or maybe I never thought beyond the moment. 

In high school my classmates declared their intentions and decided on courses to study or paths to follow.  Even though I took college classes between my junior and senior years of high school I still had no idea what degree or life I would pursue.  Still the one thing I knew was that I did not want to teach.  At one time, like a lot of high school kids I could envision myself coaching high school basketball but I just couldn’t wrap my mind around the classroom or the students or the lockers or the grades or the courses or test or the students.  I know I said students twice.  I thought it deserved repeating. 

Just after high school graduation a best friend and classmate had knee surgery.  I remember helping her mother to get her in and out of her Pontiac Grand Am that summer.  Her mother told me that I should look at nursing because I was helpful with my friend. It was a kind complement but it didn’t suit me.

Finally just before the fall semester started I decided! I will not major in Psychology or Art (choices I had considered) but I will take the classes that my friend was taking.  Apparently, I wanted to be whatever she wanted to be.  Together we registered for our first semester of classes at Panola Junior College.  We took the usual basics plus ‘Math for Elementary School Teachers’.   (Later in life I will write the pantyhose story from this class.) 

For now, I will just say that 2-3 years in the future this plan was derailed and I was back to square one.  With student loan debt and a college catalogue in my lap. I flipped pages looking for the degree that would allow me to use all the science classes that I had taken in preparing to teach grade schoolers.  I was not alone as this unfolded.  That guy I live with was knee deep in a plan to be an engineer as his father had suggested from his early years.  

 

The questions that I cannot answer for me or you:

Questions ONE:  Do you look at your future as who/what you want to BE or what you want to DO?  I do not intend to declare one of these as right and the other wrong.  I don’t even have an answer.  I do see a difference though. 

Kallie’s response to the question was not in the format of what do you want to be but she declared, “I want to work at Sonic”.   She did not say “I want to be a sock hop”.  She said that she wanted to work at Sonic.  It was very cute and the girl loves a slushy.  We still give her grief about this. 

Unless you aspire to be a cult leader or serial killer few occupations equal who you are.  I realize that a doctor is a doctor and a teacher is a teacher for twenty-four hours every day but does that equal who they are or more likely what they do? 

 Question TWO:  More importantly, does what you do as an occupation determine who you are as a human? Cult leaders and serial killers need not answer.  Most of us know better than to answer yes to this. In my career, not as a teacher or a nurse, I have spent a lot of time in a hospital environment.  There’s a vast difference in the education, responsibility and daily payable tasks of the neurosurgeon and the admissions clerk. 

This is the part of the blog that I don’t like. The few sentences that I add that sound preachy and self-righteous. The part where you say, duh, I knew that 978 words ago.  I only preach through this to bring out one point and that is this: Remove “just” from your occupational title.  I am always frustrated with people that say, I am just a clerk or I am just a phlebotomist.  You will never hear a space cowboy say I am just an astronaut. You will never hear a neurosurgeon say I just operate on the brain.  And the one that needs to be banished from all declarations of self, “I am just a stay at home mom”. Its that one word, just, that clouds the line between who you are and what you do.   Be who God intended for you to be regardless of what you do.                  

Friends with Skates

Would you share your roller skate?

Recently thatguyIlivewith and I were moving slowly on a road beside a small private grade school campus.  On one corner sat a beautiful open-air church and on the other a playground.  We were at a stop sign when we saw two girls that appeared to be about 9 or 10 years of age.  They were cute girls.  Both were wearing jeans and their sweaters were normal 10-year-old girl pink and purple and white colors. They were cute and I would have taken an iPhone photo of them through my dirty windshield but thought better of it.  Taking pictures of random minors, regardless of how cute they are, seems inappropriate in 2021.  Though I don’t have the photo I hope I never forget what I saw those two girls doing.  They were sharing.

Ladies of the 80's skating back in time. Fall 2020

Throughout my life I have been told to share the candy, share the couch, and share the tv. I have been told to share the blame, share the credit, and share the responsibility. I have had to share access and availability to a washing machine and a pay phone as I got older. But not once was I ever asked to give up one of my skates. 

It appeared that one of the girls had a pair of white roller skates.  The cute ones.  Not like the pair for rent at the skating rink.  They had pink bubblegum wheels and pink sparkling laces.  I could not tell who the skates belonged to because each girl was wearing one skate.  The girl in the front had a tennis shoe in her left hand and one on her left foot with a white skate on her right foot.  The other girl was holding onto her friend’s forearm and had a blue tennis shoe in her left hand.  She had a skate on her left foot and the other blue shoe on her right foot.  They were like a three-legged sack race on pink wheels.  And they giggled.   I couldn’t hear them but I could see it on their faces. They stumble skated the sloped pavement just off the curb and we watched as they crossed the street in front of us.  

It’s not likely anyone told this girl to share her skate.  That is what made it awesome. That is what made us stop and watch them like white van creepers. They were sharing so much more than a skate.   It was inspiring and hopefully contagious. 

I decline to draw conclusions on this. I just want to challenge you and me to find a place in our minds to see these two girls as a pink and purple rolling inspiration to give, laugh and continue down the road, and to not focus on only having one skate but celebrate having that special friend that will share her wheels with you.

The Gray Guys

I have been to Mayberry on two different occasions.  My kids stood in the jail where Otis Campbell slept it off.  I stood in Floyd’s City Barber Shop while that guy I live with got a little trim.  We took turns sitting at Sherriff Taylor’s desk. We stopped at Wally’s Service Station and we drove past the house where Andy Griffith was raised, bathed and disciplined.

  

 

Of course, some of these we only did through the imagination of Andy Griffith as Mayberry is actually Mount Airy, North Carolina.  I find the life of Andy Griffith through the character of Sheriff Taylor to be fascinating.  I love the simplicity of the plots.  I love the morals of the regular people.  I love the clutter-free program that my grandsons call the Gray Guys.  

You probably have a favorite scene or moment from the sitcom.  At the very least you can whistle the theme song.  Go ahead.  Pause for a second to whistle the tune.  Visualize Andy and Opie almost skipping down a dirt road with fishing poles laid over their shoulders and pitching rocks.  Even in black and white you can see the sun is shining brightly. They are happy to spend some time at the fishing hole.

By the way, that is the name of the song; “The Fishin’ Hole”.  It’s not called the Andy Griffith Show theme song but it is noted as the most iconic theme song ever written. 

Also, did you know that there are actual lyrics to the song?  I hope it doesn’t disappoint you to know that according to the World Wide Web it wasn’t written by Andy Griffith.

The link below is Andy Griffith singing it for your listening enjoyment and the words in case you want to karaoke along.

https://youtu.be/j_IfSxMQ7yg

Well, now, take down your fishin' pole
and meet me at the fishin' hole.
We may not get a bite all day,
but don't you rush away.
 
What a great place to rest your bones
and mighty fine for skippin' stones.
You'll feel fresh as a lemonade,
a-settin' in the shade.
 
Whether it's hot,
whether it's cool,
oh what a spot
for whistlin' like a fool.
 
What a fine day to take a stroll
and wander by the fishin' hole.
I can't think of a better way
to pass the time o' day.
 
We'll have no need to call the roll
when we get to the fishin' hole.
There'll be you, me, and Old Dog Trey,
to doodle time away.
 
If we don't hook a perch or bass,
we'll cool our toes in dewy grass.
Or else pull up a weed to chaw,
and maybe set and jaw.
 
Hangin' around,
takin' our ease,
watchin' that hound
a-scratchin' at his fleas.
 
Come on, take down your fishin' pole
and meet me at the fishin' hole.
I can't think of a better way
to pass the time o' day.

 

So, who cares?  Why did I write that little blurb with information that you could have easily retrieved for yourself with a few clicks on google?  Could you have gone the rest of your life without those facts?  Without a moment to pause and whistle?  Without knowing the words? Of course.  I typed this for one brief analogy that I promise not to beat to death.

Possibly you didn’t know that lyrics ever accompanied the upbeat whistling but you still knew that show.  You most likely know the characters:  Aunt Bee, Deputy Barney Fife, Opie, Floyd the Barber, Goober and/or Gomer, and of course Andy.  We know some facts about the characters:  Andy didn’t typically carry a gun.  He only allowed Barney one bullet most of the time and he often took that one away from him.  Aunt Bee raised Andy and moved to Mayberry to help Andy raise Opie. We probably could imitate some of the buzz words or phrasing from the show like, “Shazam!” or “Golly”; “I reckon so.” And “Hold on a cotton-picking minute!” Only the true sitcom scholars will remember how many girlfriends Andy had through the years, that most, if not all, of the patrol cars were made by Ford, and that Deputy Fife and Sheriff Taylor were cousins.  Feel free to test you Mayberry trivia at 

https://www.metv.com/quiz/the-mayberry-trivia-challenge-how-well-do-you-know-andy-griffith-show-characters

 

Again, why?

The analogy:

Isn’t that how we are with the Bible?  I know the general tune, I know a lot of the characters by name, I have a list of phrases and quotables, and I definitely have my favorite scenes.  I don’t know the words as well or maybe well enough to sing them aloud.  Like I did with some of the fun facts above, sometimes I must google to find details of the Bible. 

The Woods Winery Adventure

The Woods Winery Adventure:

It’s not often that I am without a story to tell.  It is more often that I withhold a story because it seems to lack purpose beyond entertainment.  The story on my mind tonight is exactly that story.  It’s one I have told a few times with over animated arm motions and twisted facial expressions in pursuit of a laugh. It serves no purpose. It has no plot, no villain, no conflict, and no hero. 

Before I disappoint you with this story I must clear this up.  I do not know the dog’s name but I choose to call him Rugby. He was a short dog with spots. He was a beagle type dog which adds no real value to the story.  I do know the name of the winery but I choose not to call it by name. I will call it The Woods Winery.  It is my understanding that among those in the Texas wine community The Woods Winery has a reputation of providing a quality product and has received recognition in many product categories.  And lastly, it’s a story.  I no longer consume or promote the drinking of alcohol but I do not criticize those who do. At the time of this adventure I had romanticized the swirling of wine in cheap stemware at a sidewalk beach town bistro on a Sunday afternoon amongst the locals.  If at that time I had had a Facebook I likely would have checked in with a creative one liner promoting the one-dimensional value that converted a fifteen-minute outing into a click-like worthy lifestyle.

Once upon a time in the pursuit of adventure and lack of time restrictions we were steaming down the highway of East Texas.  Pine trees were thick and tall along the two-lane state highway.  The sun was bright through the cracked windshield of the 1995 motorhome.  My fuzzy little dog, Liberty Anne laid cozy on the dash in the sun as the motorhome rattled slowly up the long hills.  We had driven this road many times prior to this day and many times since but we had never stopped at the winery.  For whatever reason on this day we decided to turn the 32-foot motorhome from the highway onto a dirt path.  Understand that before deciding to detour from the main road the driver should know there will be a place to turn around or be prepared to back slowly out of the narrow path that you have since determined not to be passable in forward. 

The dirt path curved sharply to the left before crossing a railroad track packed with black asphalt.  Just beyond the tracks in a yard of knee deep Bahia grass was a wooden banner that read “The Woods Winery”.  Behind the sign and to the right was a doublewide trailer that appeared to be a residence.  Beyond the sign and to the left was a small tin building and an old yellow railroad car.  We had arrived at the tasting room we had set out to enjoy.   There was not a parking lot or even a defined parking area so we turned the motorhome into the tall grass hopeful we were going to be able to maneuver a turnaround. 

Let me pause here and say this.  If there had been a sign at the beginning of this dirt path indicating a garage sale we probably would have kept going.  However, if I had followed sale signage to this house and building configuration I probably would not have stopped to shop.  I am not saying it is right but sometimes I exercise my right to bypass a yard littered with treasures of others if certain conditions are present or if they have an excessive number of cats. 

The option to bypass in this case was hindered by the location and the vehicle we were driving.  You simply do not sneak out of someone’s driveway in a rattling old motorhome.  Other considerations: the boys, shook awake from the railroad crossing, were piled up in the windshield anxious to see the winery and Rugby had made a verbal announcement of our existence and now Liberty Anne was standing boldly like a hood ornament on the dash.  We had three choices.  We could stop to enjoy the tasting room and tour the facilities, awkwardly turn the coach around pretending we were not seen, or continue the dirt path across a cattle guard passing a hand painted sign that read “beyond here be banjos”. 

I turned to that guy I live with and said, “we are not buying anything here.” 

He put the motorhome in park and turned off the ignition as the boys piled out the side door.  The resident vintner seemed shocked to see us move enthusiastically toward the ramp that led in the box car.  Let’s call her Peggy.  She was not in charge of guest relations and tourism.  She looked like I look when you walk up in my yard when I am on my knees pulling weeds from the lantana flower beds.  She had a small amount of sweat on her forehead that she wiped away with the back of her wrist as I do when my hands are soiled. Her hair was hanging around her face which was smiling and questioning yet welcoming.  Peggy was not preened to receive company but without much conversation she eagerly invited us into the box car.  She made a couple of excuses for the condition of the yard and some visibly incomplete projects that we passed as we walked. 

The inside of the box car had potential and I could see her vision.  She quickly read the room and invited the boys for a root beer which she had on tap.  She pulled out two stemmed glasses with The Woods Winery logo etched on the side and glanced around for the bottle to pour from.  As she poured the first glass she mentioned the category of wine, the awards and accomplishments they had received, and availability of this variety in Texas.  It was a citrus wine.  Because I am not a winery connoisseur and I refuse to google the right terminology for this story I will only describe it as sweet.  It had a hint of orange favor like the ice that remains after you have finished a Fanta Orange Soda.  I liked it.  She pulled another bottle out and repeated the steps as she poured.  We were being won over by the pride she had in her products.  She stood behind the bar across from us and in contrast to the first moments in her yard, she proudly showed her wares.

She spoke confidently educated as she asked if we would like to see the work area.  I am by this time on the third ‘taste’ and agreed that I would indeed like to see the process.  She led us out the end of the box car as if we were jumping from railcar to railcar of a New York City Subway. We entered the tin building and an open area without obvious purpose before she shuffled us out the sliding tin doors and into another building.  It was there we met her husband and business partner.  We will call him Buddy. 

As I said before I am not a wine connoisseur.  I am just gathering facts that I can tweak slightly toward humor so that I can at any given opportunity steal the metaphoric microphone and make the crowd roll in laughter. 

There was Buddy.  He was sitting on a white 5-gallon bucket with his elbows on his knees.  It was hot and he too had beaded sweat on his forehead.  In his right hand he had a paring knife and in his left, he had a peach.  Peggy, in the background was making introductions and explaining the large stainless-steel vat in this building.  She noted the origin of the peaches and then gave a skinny explanation of the process of fermentation.  Periodically Buddy tossed the peach from his left hand into the vat and reached into a heap around his ankles to grab another.  

Again, let me stop here for a sidebar.  I know that traditionally the process of making wine has been pictorially represented with Lucy and Ethel stomping around a circular trough with their dresses pulled up, the fruit squishing between their toes, and Lucy distorting her face in disgust.  Also, I have read that the germs of the toes are beneficial to the process of fruit fermentation and that any pathogen on the human foot is not able to survive the winemaking process.  Other than staining the stomper’s toenails this is a completely sanitary practice.  It’s because I know this that I find it hard to poetically describe and retell this portion of the story.  I simply cannot say it any other way.  Buddy was barefoot.  His dirty toes were buried below bushels and bushels of overripe Texas grown peaches.  The peach juice seeped into puddles like sweat around his feet and splashed as he shuffled his feet and wiggled his toes.  It was too much.  Peggy talked but I failed to hear anything that she said.  I saw toes that walked unprotected in the sand to the mailbox earlier in the day.  I saw toes that stood in the bathroom only inches from the toilet periodically.  I saw toes that sweated in leather steal toe boots and tube socks while pushing a lawn mower or stomping a shovel into the dirt.  I glanced down to see Buddy’s toes next to Rugby’s toes all in the same pile of peaches.  All I saw were toes but the tour continued. 

Buddy continued his task as Peggy and Rugby led us back to the tin building to explain the corking station.  I refocused to see that each bottle was corked individually.  One bottle at a time was put in place and using a lever the wet cork was pushed into the bottle to form the necessary seal.  This is a slow process but I appreciated the amount of time the vintner had to inspect each bottle just before it was placed into a crate for distribution or storage.  It was at this point that Rugby, standing at eye level with the corking plunger, was a part of the process.  As Peggy placed a labeled bottle of sparkling citrus wine onto the target and pulled the lever, the cork squeezed into the neck of the bottle expelling just the slightest amount of liquid.  It rolled down the long bottle neck like a tear until wiped away by the spotted dog’s waiting tongue.

Winemaking is a lengthy process.  It takes a commitment to the process that not everyone can appreciate. That is why we climbed back into that motorhome and plowed back down that dirt path with two bottles labeled The Woods Winery both licked by Rugby the bottle high vintner.   

Does this sweater need a collared shirt or is a T-shirt fine?

About a week ago Stacey was sitting at the over-sized farm table in the kitchen with his Bible opened in front of him.  He was reading from the book of Ephesians while texting or snapchatting or instagraming and eating his second bowl of off brand Mini Wheats.  As I walked into the room he said, ‘it’s a shame you ripped Ephesians out of your Bible.  There is some good stuff in here!” 

He’s right about the good stuff:  in six short chapters, Paul uses the word grace twelve times and love 14 different times.  He talks in a practical sense about life; about grace and peace, wisdom and knowledge, trust and truth, hope and promise.  These are things I need to filter through my mind on a regular basis.  He talks a little about Christian maturity and what behaviors we should avoid. In the last of the book, Paul also reminds me who the enemy is and how I am to equip myself to withstand against the enemy.  Oh, it’s just packed with value!

But….in Ephesians 5, Paul uses ‘the S word’…. you know? Submit.  And that is why I ripped the entire book out of my bible.  I am not a ‘submit’ kind of gal.  Maybe you noticed.

I think I can tell this without calling any names or making anyone mad.  I am not one to ask permission.  If I want to go to Walmart or the Goodwill store or the Mall or to Vicksburg, Mississippi, for whatever reason, I simply go.  That doesn’t mean the communication is missing. I don’t sneak out or call after I arrive to let someone know.  It’s a conversation but I don’t need approval or permission.  It sounds as if I have attitude about this.  It almost sounds like I am spitefully and willfully daring anyone to tell me I can’t do something.  That is far from the truth.  I just think, “I’m going to run to Walmart,” is enough; I don’t feel even the slightest obligation to ask, “do you mind if I run to Walmart?”

Calm down, Baptist!  I didn’t really remove anything from my bible.  I assure you any tears, rips, or omissions are completely unintentional and repaired to the best of my abilities once noted.  I wrote the above nonsense to share with you my illustration of ‘submit’ as it is written in Ephesians 5:22.

If you google such you will find that minds far more knowledgeable than mine have likened submission to Roger Staubach and Tom Landry and lawnmowers with chocolate syrup.  All good stuff but I like to think of submission as a dance.  Not a waltz or the floss, not the running man or the cotton-eyed Joe; but a two-step.

This past weekend I was in Mexico with my friends from high school.  Eight ladies of the 80’s plotted and planned an adventure into the Gulf of Mexico hoping for sun and relaxation.  As I was gathering my things and packing my suitcase the Sunday morning of our return trip, I looked at my phone to see a text from that guy I live with that read, “Does this sweater need a collared shirt or is a T-shirt fine?”  Attached to it was a selfie of him standing in the door to the bathroom wearing a light blue sweater over a T-shirt.  Anyone that knows me knows that I am not a fashionista or anywhere close.  I am still wearing hand me down jeans from 3 styles ago.  Unfortunately, I saw the text too late to respond and I don’t know how he completed the ensemble before heading to church that morning.  This is a man that can pull a combustion engine from a boat using a rope over a limb of a shade tree in the backyard, tinker with it and put it back in and go skiing that afternoon.  He can calculate the cosine and sine and whatever the other one is and does for engaging self-enjoyment. (Side note: as he read that last statement he fought the urge to tell me what ‘the other one is’.) He has APPs on his smart phone to convert numbers and units and degrees.  He is my go to for tips and tricks for manipulating an excel spreadsheet.  That guy I live with is smart but he can’t decide how to wear this sweater to church.

Fortunately for him what I lack in fashion sense I make up for in decisiveness and that is where the dance begins.  Bear with me, this analogy is clearly too big for paragraph form:

Some thoughts on dancing:

1.    No one pushed, pulled, or tricked me onto the dance floor.  I have been drug to many events before but I willfully chose to stand with open arms before that guy I live with.

2.    We dance to the love songs.  Think of the songs on your playlist.  I have a variety of genres, artists and tempos on my download list.  I listen to anything from The Statler Brothers and Freddy Fender to Katy Perry and MercyMe but when I dance face to face with that guy I live with it’s going to be a love song in a very traditional sense. 

3.    We don’t dance for you.  I read recently (probably on Facebook) “forget the ones who want to dance in clubs. Find one who’ll dance in the kitchen to George Strait.” Our dancing is for us and the betterment of us and that is the kind of dancing that happens in the kitchen or on the back porch or around the Christmas tree; maybe.

4.    He leads.  I must admit, that guy I live with isn’t much of a dancer.  We have on occasion in our earlier years together gone to the clubs and after some time in the shadows managed to make our way onto the hardwood hand in hand.  I know some will think I am being harsh but he’s a counter and he doesn’t have a natural rhythm. It’s the engineer in him. But he leads, facing forward and with great visibility he maneuvers through others trying their skills on the sawdust.  And he counts, step, step, slide, step, step, slide…. sometimes he’s only avoiding the obstacles around the kitchen table; Stacey’s shoes, Q’s toys, Amazon boxes.

Where does the submission come in?  That’s my part.  Truthfully, I am not a dancer either.  One of my daughters-in-law can twirl and spin around the dance floor with a skill level that they didn’t teach in 4H camp.  She has a polished swing that is not only fun to watch but it’s intimidating.  Funny thing is her skill is dependent on the person leading; wouldn’t she look ridiculous doing all of that without a partner?  And while the lead is important he would certainly look silly without her.  Submission is not a line dance or a pole dance.  It’s a face to face, arms embraced movement to the same song. 

Two important parts of the submission dance beyond choosing the right partner, the right song, the right location and right reason:

1.    Trust:  I can’t dance with you if I am in constant fear of trip hazards.  When I find myself looking over my shoulder I need to reevaluate my trust settings.  Rear view mirrors are for Buicks not dance floors. Confidence, trust, faith in the leader not because he demands it but because he deserves it.

2.    Skill: Submission is not a power struggle. It’s one unit moving in the same direction, on the same mission, with the same goals, yet different skills.  I’m not to be the leader but the leader can’t step, step, slide, step, step, slide backwards in heels.  It’s not a matter of deficiency; it’s not his role.

I tend to beat an analogy to death (also a skill) but one more thing: teach your kids to dance.

Have you been in a fight lately?

I remember as a kid thinking that it was cool to have been in a fight.  At some time in my young life I heard an older teen ask another have you ever been in a fight? They would talk graphically about these fights. The brutality was as cool as cigarettes and burning rubber. I often wondered what characteristics must be involved for an encounter to be labeled as a fight.

Often as children my sister and I had “fights”.  On one occasion I pushed her into the living room window. Does that qualify as a fight? I am not sure but I do know that we broke the window and were required to pay for the replacement. Parenthetically, window replacement in the late 70’s cost exactly the amount required for two girls to go skating on a Saturday morning.  I recall one time my dad was so sick of the fighting that he made us stand in front of the house near the highway and physically and publicly fight with one another. He followed that with roadside embracing.

That guy I live with and I don’t fight now but when we were younger we had disagreements from time to time.  Once I bought him a spooky neck tie to wear to work on Halloween.  That particular year Halloween fell on a Friday, casual Friday, and he refused to wear the tie. Finally, to appease me, he put the tie on. It didn’t make me as happy as you might imagine and if I remember correctly I took the scissors and snipped the tie off about 5 inches below his chin. We referenced that as a fight but I’m sure that was just fussing.

When I was in junior high I remember an organized fight that was supposed to take place downtown Beckville just after school. I don’t remember what the fight was to solve or what started it but in junior high school it seemed everything revolved around boys and baby aspirin. The girls were to meet downtown and with a crowd of fellow students of all ages circled around to witness the pulling and tugging, kicking and clawing, hair pulling and squealing and rolling around on the pavement. I stood proudly to watch.

We all have stories about fighting and fussing, arguments and disagreements.  If you don’t have any such stories, turn on daytime television.

So why am I talking about fighting? I consider myself to be somewhat non confrontational.  I don’t do physical aggression.  While I am very opinionated I don’t consider myself to be argumentative.  On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being most likely to walk away, I am a solid 14.  That said, I likely stomped my foot and walked away pouting.  That’s who I am.

Earlier this week, I heard someone reference the scripture, II Timothy 4:7 where Paul said, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith” as a summation of his life.  I have always loved and often quoted this passage because like most people I read this as someone at peace with what they did and how they did it.  I have mentioned on many occasions that I am not one for making New Years Resolutions but I do have goals for my life.  One of those goals is to not leave this life with overwhelming regret.

Men and women much smarter than I have pondered and expounded on this verse through the years, in foreign languages and around the globe.  I will only look at it from the most practical and most elementary application.  If you were to summarize your Christian walk, the choices that define you, and the way you displayed your relationship with Christ as a conflict, would you honestly describe it as a FIGHT?  Maybe it was a scuffle, or a fuss?  If I tallied up the defining choices of the 1990’s for me, I would not find fight; not even a snarl.  I refer to those as the complacent years.  I was indifferent and unconcerned for a major part of the decade.

What about now?  I told you I am not much for New Years Resolutions. I operate more on the principle and philosophy of “Start where you are, use what you have, do what you can,”~ Arthur Ashe (rinse and repeat).   But if I decided that I needed to ‘fight’ it would be a great time to start.

My friend and coworker, Scott Kujak, is the founder and creator of Underdog Podcast as well as the 2018 Golden Gloves Champion in the super heavyweight division of Austin, Texas.   Even in his suit and tie at 6ft 4inches he can present as a force to be reckoned with but when you walk straight up to him, unafraid and bold, he will smile and you will see it in his eyes.  You will also notice that around his thick right wrist he wears a rubber bracelet that says, James 1:2-3, and he means it.  The combination of these and the reputation of compassion for everyone he encounters made him the ideal person to talk to about preparing for the fight.


I asked Scott this:  if I wanted to start boxing for fun, obviously and ridiculously hypothetical fun, what 2 to 3 things must I do to prepare?  I need to be ready but as I told him, my boxing training was a direct reflection on the abilities of Rocky Balboa and consisted mostly on being able to scream, “Yo, Adrianne” in the appropriate Italian Stallion accent.


I gave him some time to think about it but I don’t think that changed or altered his response at all:

1. Discipline.  Running and jumping rope, sparring and pushing through the bruises; getting back in the ring to do it all over again.

I texted the word discipline into my phone quickly all the time thinking, consistency, persistence, perseverance, determination.  My Baptist mind scrolled through my scripture memory bank, “Pick up you cross” “Crucified daily” and finally landed on a passage marked in my bible as “daily walk”; 1 Chronicles 16:8-15.  I read the scripture to myself and thought it sounded so easy compared to the day in the ring that Scott described.  1 Chronicles 16: 8-15 is a Psalm and required no head gear, no gloves, no mouth guard. Comparatively, easy. Then I remembered my opponent and his wiles, the snares he hurls and his ability to derail my discipline.  In Ephesians 6 we are warned that we fight against principalities and powers that have taken off the gloves.  To prepare for the fight, we need to put on the full armor of God.  I don’t think the jump rope is going to prepare me for the fiery darts of the wicked but I have the shield of faith. That’s where the discipline comes into play.  Discipline is the choice, ability and determination to raise the shield even if you are bruised and tired.

2. Mentally confident but not cocky. Bold. Calm confident.

As Scott described and explained his comments I thought about my days of being in high school athletics; the mindset, the emotional roller coaster of winning then losing, the expectations and disappointments.  It’s often difficult for us to find the calm confidence. Let’s be honest, physical conditioning is tough but mental conditioning is as brutal as two junior high girls fighting in the streets of town.  In Romans 7 Paul has a little breakdown and pens a level of genuine frustration to the church of Rome; the internal conflict of potential and practical warring in his mind. In verse 25 of the same chapter and the beginning of chapter 8 he pulls it back together with the blessed assurance, the calm confidence. To prepare for the fight, we need to be still and know (PS 46:10) who God is, we need to be bold as a lion (Proverbs 28:1), not because of our abilities but because of our Creator.

3. Fight for purpose. Deeper meaning.

I had to ask. You all want to know. Why would you intentional get in reach of someone trying to hit you?  (I love you, Scott, but in my old mind that makes about as much sense as eating a Tide pod.) His answer made me question the things I do. Where I may ask, “why do you box?”; he might ask, “why do you blog?” I found 261 scriptures in the King James that ask “why”.  That’s not a lot of questions for a book so full of answers.  Don’t complicate this; it can be simple and straightforward.  I am going to get up every morning and exercise with my “daily walk” and I am going to be bold and confident in the Gospel not for trophies, or accolades, or championship titles.  1 Corinthians 10:31 says, “do all to the glory of God” and in verse 33, “that they may be saved.”

I know at least one question left unanswered, am I even in the fight?