My dad, Haynes Knox, never played sports. From what I was told, he had rheumatism as a child and that condition apparently stunted his growth for a few years. As a result, he was a bit smaller than most of the kids his age. That meant he didn't get to play sports like baseball or basketball and had no interest in them.
When I told him I wanted to play baseball, the only stipulation he gave me was that I could not quit if I decided to play. So, when I finally decided to play, during the summer between the 4th and 5th grade, he made sure I went to practice, attended all the games and did his best to find all the ways he could to make me a better player. Dad got an idea from one of my teammates' dads, to put a baseball on a rope and swing it around in a way that I could practice making contact with the ball. I can't count the evenings he would go outside with me, after he got home from work, and swing that ball around and around and let me hit it again and again so I could be a better hitter. In retrospect, it's also pretty amazing that I never accidentally hit the ball back at him while he was swinging it around and round. I'm sure if I had, that exercise would have been over. Eventually, that baseball started coming apart, because of the hole that was drilled through it and it had been hit over and over again. But, it was OK, because by then, my hitting had improved and I didn't need that exercise quite as much. It had served its purpose and Dad was pleased with my progress as a hitter.
About the same time as all this was happening, I became interested in pitching. Dad didn't throw very well and seemed reluctant to play catch with me, probably because he didn't want to get hit by the ball. So, set up an old tire against a shed we had in our back yard that we used to store hay for my pony, Poncho. Dad marked off 45 feet (since I was still in Little League) and set an old board in the ground to act as the pitching rubber. He bought a bunch of baseballs and put them in a 5-gallon bucket and told me to throw at the hole at the center of the tire. I eventually moved the board in the ground back to 60 feet, 6 inches, to mark the distance of the mound in Pony League and high school baseball. I used that old tire as my target and the building as my backstop, until the building had to finally be torn down and removed from our property. During that span of time, I became a starting pitcher at Malakoff High School and made all-district and and all-county teams at that position. I owe whatever success that I achieved to my father and his support of me playing the game - and particularly my practice pitching against that old building.
One of the best memories I have of time I spent with my dad was when he took me, along with Paul Loper and Carl Tapley to see the Texas Rangers at the old Arlington Stadium. We skipped out on church that Sunday and the 4 of us loaded up in Dad's 1972 Ford Maverick and made the drive from Malakoff to Arlington for an afternoon game. It is one of the most vivid memories of my life. We were in the nosebleeds, up behind home plate on the right field side of the stands. We were there early enough for batting practice - for both teams. We all brought our gloves, but there were no foul balls anywhere near us. We didn't care. We spent the afternoon living it up. Dad and I attended several more games together there, including one double-header, on a Saturday afternoon. When the second of the two games were over that night, Dad told me "let's not do another double header again, OK?" Fortunately for Dad, there were no more double-headers at Arlington after that.
I don't remember a time that I went to bat that I didn't hear my dad tell me, from behind the backstop, "watch 'em close!" In fact, I don't recall not having my dad at any baseball game I ever played (except when I tried to play in college. Even then, he would ask me how I did.). In fact, I distinctly remember playing in Blooming Grove, during my junior year of high school (1986), and Dad was the only fan from Malakoff in the stands. For whatever reason, the fans in Blooming Grove were on us particularly hard that day, and were talking a lot of trash. Several high school kids came around and sat in the stands behind our dugout so they could taunt us. I could hear Dad throughout the game, telling me to "watch 'em close" when I was at the plate. The picture of him being in the stands, surrounded by hostile fans from Blooming Grove is still burned in my mind. I don't know if they talked trash to him. They probably did. But, knowing my dad, he wasn't phased by their behavior and didn't care. He was there for me. "Throw strikes!" That image of him being in the stands is what I see in my mind when I'm facing difficult circumstances. I know I have at least one person on my side.
I'm writing this after watching my first baseball game at Olsen Field at Blue Bell Park. I was there with my daughter, Jessica, her boyfriend, Bradley and one of her buddies from A Battery. The Ags played Yale and showed that they were the far better team, winning 12-5. As I sat in the stands, I remembered attending that game in Arlington, with Carl, Paul and Dad. I couldn't help but feel that my dad was there. I said a few times to myself "watch 'em close," and to the pitcher "throw strikes!" We all got to laugh as we enjoyed the game of baseball together and acknowledged that this game was the link that tied it all together.
It really doesn't matter who's playing or where we might be, baseball is still a huge part of my life. I realize it every time I enter the gates of a ballpark or put on a glove to play catch with somebody. And I have my dad to thank for that.
Monday, March 21, 2016
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Reflections On Becoming An Empty Nest
I think just about everyone who knows me and my family should be aware that we recently sent our baby off to college a week and a half ago. If not, we took our youngest daughter, Anna, to Texas A&M on August 19th. Today, we went back to College Station to see her and some 400 freshman cadets pass before the Corps Commander in their Fish Review, when they are officially accepted into Corps of Cadets. It was really a good day.
I noticed on Facebook, over the past several weeks, that a lot of our friends had kids going off to college this year. Great thing, that Facebook. If anything, I was aware, going into this experience of emptying the nest, that my wife and I would not be the only ones having to say goodbye to one of our kiddos. It didn't necessarily help things. But, when I would get melancholy or restless in the days leading up, I could tell myself "suck it up! You're not the only one who's feeling like this!"
It also helped that we had two kids leave the nest already.
Our son, Chris, left home for UNT in Denton - 4 years ago this week. I remember feeling a lot of the same things in the days leading up to his departure for UNT: melancholy, anxiety. I wanted to make sure that everything was just right and we had that heart felt goodbye when we dropped him off at school. Little did we know that he had plans of his own for arriving on campus. We spent the night before at my brother's in Mt. Vernon, TX, which was only 2 hours away from Denton - as opposed to driving 4 hours from home in Conroe. Chris told us that he needed to be on campus at a certain time that morning. I thought to myself "that's odd, to set a time for move in." We got up early and said bye to my brother and sister-in-law, drove to Denton, unloaded his stuff in the dorm and that was it. You know that feeling you get when you think somebody is trying to get rid of you? Yeah, that's exactly what we were feeling. We took a little time for a few pictures and that was it. We found out later that he had planned to go to a certain gathering on campus that morning and didn't want us there to cramp his style. It was pretty much par for the course. The boy had always been independent and he was ready to get out on his own.
In the 4 years since that day, he's probably been home a dozen or so times. One of the times was to go to Malakoff for my dad's funeral, which was only 3 weeks after he left home. We came to realize quickly that he was ready to get out on his own for quite some time. In the time since, he has proved to be responsible in taking care of himself and his business. He will beginning his 5th year at UNT this fall. He has worked throughout his college career and got his own apartment midway through his second year in Denton. We had to adjust to Chris not being at home, but it wasn't too difficult. When he was at home, he was often in his room, playing guitar or listening to music. In the years since he left for college, it's been like he was still in his room, only we don't hear music coming out of there anymore. But, let him come home for the weekend, we realize what we've missed in his absence.
Jessica surprised my wife and I when she told us that she wanted to go to Texas A&M two years ago. To our knowledge, she was planning to go to UNT, like her brother. No one in our family had ever attended Texas A&M. Afterall, engineers and scientists go to Texas AM. Not the artsy-fartsy types like the members of our family! We were even more surprised to find out that she wanted to join the Aggie Band, which involved joining the Corps of Cadets. We both were pretty nervous about our ballerina and singer doing the things cadets do - along with the normal rigors of going off to college for the first time. When she went off to Fish Camp, she came back with stories about the people she met and the crazy things they did to get to know each other. That was one thing. Then, it came time to go off to FOW (Freshman Orientation Week) with the Corps, which was entirely something else. I heard stories about FOW and was concerned about how Jessica would be able to handle it. I sat her down at one point and told her that she couldn't quit and I didn't want her to call me and tell me should couldn't take it, because I would be there to take her home in a heartbeat. Thankfully, that never happened.
Two years removed from that experience, there have been multiple trips to see the band perform at Kyle Field and other locations, various parent activities on the A&M campus, along with several trips home whenever she had a free weekend. When we saw her at Fish Review two years ago, we were able to breathe a little easier. She survived FOW and was ready for the challenges and opportunities that were ahead of her. There were some difficulties early on, and with the help of her buddies she made it through. In the time since, we've gotten to know her buddies from her band outfit, along with their parents. We've had a few of the buddies over for dinner, taken a few of them out for lunch. We've tailgated, attended Aggie games and various band and corps activities. It's like our family has expanded through this experience to include all of them. It was a trade-off we never would have expected and has been such a pleasant surprise.
Anna, like Jessica, said she intended to go to UNT and live with her brother up until a couple of years ago. I was good with our baby going to live with Chris. He would take care of her and show her the ropes. She would love Denton. But, her tune began to change and she started talking about going to Texas A&M instead. Anna attributed the decision to attend A&M to God telling her to follow in Jessica's footsteps. I was OK with the idea. After all, who am I to argue with God? She was one who preferred a structured environment - possibly more than her siblings. But, being the baby, she also liked doing her own thing. In a lot of ways, her mother and I were also a little more protective of her since she was the baby. In the years since Chris and Jessica left home, Anna had to deal with me and her mom trying to dote on her a little more since she was the only kid in the house. There was also the presence of her Grandmama who seemed to dote on Anna more than anyone else. It's a wonder we didn't drive her crazy.
We dropped her off, behind Dorm 11 on the Quad a week ago this past Wednesday. Much like her brother, she was ready for Grandmama, her mom and me to get going so she could get to the business of being a fish. With Anna being our second cadet, we knew things would be different. We had "connections" now and could keep tabs on how she was doing. Just like Jessica, I feared that I might get a tearful phone call, at some point during the night, telling me that she wanted me to bring her home. Thankfully, that call never came. Our connections told us that Anna was doing well and making her mark over the course of FOW. Good bull, as they say in the corps.
Today, we arrived at Simpson Drill Field to the sounds of the Aggie Band playing while cadets from the various companies filed onto the field for Fish Review. We were able to find Jessica quite easily. She was second to the end of her rank, nearest the sideline where we were seated. Anna, on the other hand, was a little harder to spot. We looked and looked. Finally, during the swearing in of the fish cadets, we saw her. Our baby was now fish Knox, the second in our family, part of the class of 2019. Grandmama, Aunt Janeen, her mom and me - we pointed to say we found her.
When the review was over, we gathered on the field for pictures and it was quite clear to us that our newest cadet was doing quite well. She introduced us to her buddies. Her buddies introduced us to her parents. New connections and relationships for the next four years of football games, tailgate parties, parent and student activities - all part of the life of a cadet family at Texas A&M. I looked at Janeen and there were tears in her eyes.
"They're all grown up," she said.
"Yeah, they are" I replied.
For me, songs come to mind when I encounter the events from day to day. Music has always played a big part in the life of our family and with each of our children. When I was snapping pictures of Anna with her fish buddies today, a song came to mind by one of my favorite songwriters, Steve Hindalong. He's written several songs about his children over the years, at various stages of their growing up. I met Steve at a concert earlier this year and we talked about his songs, about kids growing up and such. He wrote the song below for his daughter, who was making the transition to adulthood, possibly at a time much like this. He told me how she went through some really tough times, but was doing well and he was looking forward to seeing her on a later leg of the tour. As I watched Anna with her buddies today, the words of this song came to mind and kept rolling through my head:
When our kids are born, we should understand that we are preparing for their launch as adults right then. We're not supposed to make our children dependent on us. Our goal needs to be to make them independent and prepare them to achieve the things they want for their lives. We can choose to act like that day will never come, or neglect our duty as parents to prepare them for it. Still, the time comes, no matter how well or poorly we do our job as parents. Hopefully, we aren't derelict in our duties and responsibilities because our children will be the ones who pay the price, not us.
As I sit here reflecting on the events of the day, I can't help but be thankful. Things will definitely be different around our house, now that all three of our children are off at college. If anything, it's much more quiet than I could have imagined - even a few days ago. We've been preparing ourselves for this for a long time and we'll adjust.
Now, it's up to our kids...go fly high, little birdies...especially you, fish Knox 2019...fly high...
I noticed on Facebook, over the past several weeks, that a lot of our friends had kids going off to college this year. Great thing, that Facebook. If anything, I was aware, going into this experience of emptying the nest, that my wife and I would not be the only ones having to say goodbye to one of our kiddos. It didn't necessarily help things. But, when I would get melancholy or restless in the days leading up, I could tell myself "suck it up! You're not the only one who's feeling like this!"
It also helped that we had two kids leave the nest already.
Our son, Chris, left home for UNT in Denton - 4 years ago this week. I remember feeling a lot of the same things in the days leading up to his departure for UNT: melancholy, anxiety. I wanted to make sure that everything was just right and we had that heart felt goodbye when we dropped him off at school. Little did we know that he had plans of his own for arriving on campus. We spent the night before at my brother's in Mt. Vernon, TX, which was only 2 hours away from Denton - as opposed to driving 4 hours from home in Conroe. Chris told us that he needed to be on campus at a certain time that morning. I thought to myself "that's odd, to set a time for move in." We got up early and said bye to my brother and sister-in-law, drove to Denton, unloaded his stuff in the dorm and that was it. You know that feeling you get when you think somebody is trying to get rid of you? Yeah, that's exactly what we were feeling. We took a little time for a few pictures and that was it. We found out later that he had planned to go to a certain gathering on campus that morning and didn't want us there to cramp his style. It was pretty much par for the course. The boy had always been independent and he was ready to get out on his own.
In the 4 years since that day, he's probably been home a dozen or so times. One of the times was to go to Malakoff for my dad's funeral, which was only 3 weeks after he left home. We came to realize quickly that he was ready to get out on his own for quite some time. In the time since, he has proved to be responsible in taking care of himself and his business. He will beginning his 5th year at UNT this fall. He has worked throughout his college career and got his own apartment midway through his second year in Denton. We had to adjust to Chris not being at home, but it wasn't too difficult. When he was at home, he was often in his room, playing guitar or listening to music. In the years since he left for college, it's been like he was still in his room, only we don't hear music coming out of there anymore. But, let him come home for the weekend, we realize what we've missed in his absence.
Jessica surprised my wife and I when she told us that she wanted to go to Texas A&M two years ago. To our knowledge, she was planning to go to UNT, like her brother. No one in our family had ever attended Texas A&M. Afterall, engineers and scientists go to Texas AM. Not the artsy-fartsy types like the members of our family! We were even more surprised to find out that she wanted to join the Aggie Band, which involved joining the Corps of Cadets. We both were pretty nervous about our ballerina and singer doing the things cadets do - along with the normal rigors of going off to college for the first time. When she went off to Fish Camp, she came back with stories about the people she met and the crazy things they did to get to know each other. That was one thing. Then, it came time to go off to FOW (Freshman Orientation Week) with the Corps, which was entirely something else. I heard stories about FOW and was concerned about how Jessica would be able to handle it. I sat her down at one point and told her that she couldn't quit and I didn't want her to call me and tell me should couldn't take it, because I would be there to take her home in a heartbeat. Thankfully, that never happened.
Two years removed from that experience, there have been multiple trips to see the band perform at Kyle Field and other locations, various parent activities on the A&M campus, along with several trips home whenever she had a free weekend. When we saw her at Fish Review two years ago, we were able to breathe a little easier. She survived FOW and was ready for the challenges and opportunities that were ahead of her. There were some difficulties early on, and with the help of her buddies she made it through. In the time since, we've gotten to know her buddies from her band outfit, along with their parents. We've had a few of the buddies over for dinner, taken a few of them out for lunch. We've tailgated, attended Aggie games and various band and corps activities. It's like our family has expanded through this experience to include all of them. It was a trade-off we never would have expected and has been such a pleasant surprise.
Anna, like Jessica, said she intended to go to UNT and live with her brother up until a couple of years ago. I was good with our baby going to live with Chris. He would take care of her and show her the ropes. She would love Denton. But, her tune began to change and she started talking about going to Texas A&M instead. Anna attributed the decision to attend A&M to God telling her to follow in Jessica's footsteps. I was OK with the idea. After all, who am I to argue with God? She was one who preferred a structured environment - possibly more than her siblings. But, being the baby, she also liked doing her own thing. In a lot of ways, her mother and I were also a little more protective of her since she was the baby. In the years since Chris and Jessica left home, Anna had to deal with me and her mom trying to dote on her a little more since she was the only kid in the house. There was also the presence of her Grandmama who seemed to dote on Anna more than anyone else. It's a wonder we didn't drive her crazy.
We dropped her off, behind Dorm 11 on the Quad a week ago this past Wednesday. Much like her brother, she was ready for Grandmama, her mom and me to get going so she could get to the business of being a fish. With Anna being our second cadet, we knew things would be different. We had "connections" now and could keep tabs on how she was doing. Just like Jessica, I feared that I might get a tearful phone call, at some point during the night, telling me that she wanted me to bring her home. Thankfully, that call never came. Our connections told us that Anna was doing well and making her mark over the course of FOW. Good bull, as they say in the corps.
Today, we arrived at Simpson Drill Field to the sounds of the Aggie Band playing while cadets from the various companies filed onto the field for Fish Review. We were able to find Jessica quite easily. She was second to the end of her rank, nearest the sideline where we were seated. Anna, on the other hand, was a little harder to spot. We looked and looked. Finally, during the swearing in of the fish cadets, we saw her. Our baby was now fish Knox, the second in our family, part of the class of 2019. Grandmama, Aunt Janeen, her mom and me - we pointed to say we found her.
When the review was over, we gathered on the field for pictures and it was quite clear to us that our newest cadet was doing quite well. She introduced us to her buddies. Her buddies introduced us to her parents. New connections and relationships for the next four years of football games, tailgate parties, parent and student activities - all part of the life of a cadet family at Texas A&M. I looked at Janeen and there were tears in her eyes.
"They're all grown up," she said.
"Yeah, they are" I replied.
For me, songs come to mind when I encounter the events from day to day. Music has always played a big part in the life of our family and with each of our children. When I was snapping pictures of Anna with her fish buddies today, a song came to mind by one of my favorite songwriters, Steve Hindalong. He's written several songs about his children over the years, at various stages of their growing up. I met Steve at a concert earlier this year and we talked about his songs, about kids growing up and such. He wrote the song below for his daughter, who was making the transition to adulthood, possibly at a time much like this. He told me how she went through some really tough times, but was doing well and he was looking forward to seeing her on a later leg of the tour. As I watched Anna with her buddies today, the words of this song came to mind and kept rolling through my head:
Comes a time for tears in the dark,
No need to fake it.
Yesterday her eyes were shining stars,
I know she'll make it.
No need to fake it.
Yesterday her eyes were shining stars,
I know she'll make it.
She's alright,
She's alright, now.
Flying over mountains,
Coming through the clouds.
She's alright,
Like an eagle in the wind.
I know she's gonna make it through,
Cause she's got true blue friends.
She's alright, now.
Flying over mountains,
Coming through the clouds.
She's alright,
Like an eagle in the wind.
I know she's gonna make it through,
Cause she's got true blue friends.
Even when the rain is falling hard,
She will find cover.
Even though she aches to the heart,
She knows we love her.
She will find cover.
Even though she aches to the heart,
She knows we love her.
She's alright,
She's alright, now.
Flying over mountains,
Coming through the clouds.
She's alright,
Like an eagle in the wind.
I know she's gonna make it through,
Cause she's got true blue friends.
She's alright, now.
Flying over mountains,
Coming through the clouds.
She's alright,
Like an eagle in the wind.
I know she's gonna make it through,
Cause she's got true blue friends.
When our kids are born, we should understand that we are preparing for their launch as adults right then. We're not supposed to make our children dependent on us. Our goal needs to be to make them independent and prepare them to achieve the things they want for their lives. We can choose to act like that day will never come, or neglect our duty as parents to prepare them for it. Still, the time comes, no matter how well or poorly we do our job as parents. Hopefully, we aren't derelict in our duties and responsibilities because our children will be the ones who pay the price, not us.
As I sit here reflecting on the events of the day, I can't help but be thankful. Things will definitely be different around our house, now that all three of our children are off at college. If anything, it's much more quiet than I could have imagined - even a few days ago. We've been preparing ourselves for this for a long time and we'll adjust.
Now, it's up to our kids...go fly high, little birdies...especially you, fish Knox 2019...fly high...
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Blarg...
It's difficult to put some feelings into words. Maybe because I'm a guy. As guys, we're not supposed to be in touch with ourselves in that way (by saying "we're," I mean guys, in general) that we discuss how we feel about something or other. We deal in actions, what we're supposed to do. So, when dealing with, let's say "changes" in the world and how a part of the world relates to us, or me, in particular, and if things aren't going so well, or in a way we expected, it can be alarming. (I'm being vague on purpose, to protect the confused.)
There comes a point when things change and all of a sudden all the cards are out of your hands. (Those things didn't just change, by the way. The "all of a sudden" had been in the works for a while.) Or, you discover that the things you are or were responsible for are things you can't really control anymore (*hint - you never were in control of them. Period.) Take your pick. Powerlessness is a palpable feeling and I am in touch with that one for sure this morning.
That said, I know I've been fortunate, so far in my life. Things have never been what I would call "easy" in my life. But, a quick comparison with any number of people within my immediate circle would show it hasn't been very bad at all. I certainly didn't do everything right or know exactly what to do at any given point along the way. There was a confidence I felt that grew out of a trust that had been established. That trust made me feel secure and to feel like everything was going to turn out like I wanted it to turn out. Nothing led me to see or feel anything else to the contrary - until I discovered things had changed at a more fundamental level around me. Upon making that discovery, I felt the earth below me shift and I've been walking close to walls and reaching for hand rails since, much like a person who survives an earthquake might do. So now, what do I do? What can I do?
Powerlessness. It reminds me that the only thing I can control is me. That realization is palpable and as real as everything around me.
There comes a point when things change and all of a sudden all the cards are out of your hands. (Those things didn't just change, by the way. The "all of a sudden" had been in the works for a while.) Or, you discover that the things you are or were responsible for are things you can't really control anymore (*hint - you never were in control of them. Period.) Take your pick. Powerlessness is a palpable feeling and I am in touch with that one for sure this morning.
That said, I know I've been fortunate, so far in my life. Things have never been what I would call "easy" in my life. But, a quick comparison with any number of people within my immediate circle would show it hasn't been very bad at all. I certainly didn't do everything right or know exactly what to do at any given point along the way. There was a confidence I felt that grew out of a trust that had been established. That trust made me feel secure and to feel like everything was going to turn out like I wanted it to turn out. Nothing led me to see or feel anything else to the contrary - until I discovered things had changed at a more fundamental level around me. Upon making that discovery, I felt the earth below me shift and I've been walking close to walls and reaching for hand rails since, much like a person who survives an earthquake might do. So now, what do I do? What can I do?
Powerlessness. It reminds me that the only thing I can control is me. That realization is palpable and as real as everything around me.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
A Cat Named "Cleo"
8 1/2 years ago, my family and I were on an all-church camp out. I got up early and went outside of the shelter where we were staying and started reading a new book I had just purchased. No one else in our group was awake, so I was about to cherish some seriously needed quiet time. Within about 5 minutes of getting settled in my chair with my book and a cup of coffee, a little black cat emerged from the woods. I thought she was wild, so I sat quietly to see what she would do. It turned out she was used to people. She proved it when she jumped into the camp chair next to me, then proceed to climb gently onto my shoulder, then crawled down my chest to settle in my lap - on top of my book. She purred loudly and didn't seem to mind when I shifted the book out from under her so she could rest on my lap. She stayed there that morning until my daughter Anna, who was 8 or 9 years old at the time, woke up and saw her. The rest of the weekend, the poor cat was dragged all over that camp ground and handled by every small child associated with our church.
One of the ladies from the church wanted to take her to a vet to see if she was healthy. I though that meant that the lady would take the cat home with HER. It turned out that the lady brought the cat to our house, told us about the trip to the vet, gave us a bag of food and cat litter and left the cat with us. She was ours, or we were hers - however that works. For the record, she would always be Anna's cat. So, we had to come up with a name. The kids running around with Anna told her at the camp to call the cat "Pancake" because she liked to eat them. Somebody else mentioned that she looked very elegant and suggested the name Cleopatra. I suggested the old standards from my childhood: "Jackson" and "Buttermilk" which were received with boos and hisses. Somewhere in there we got the idea for the Egyptian queen's possible nickname - "Cleo" - and the rest was history.
Cleo was never a big cat. She was also very quiet. That was something special to me. Our old cat, Columbus, would meow all the time - to the point of being obnoxious. He was an outdoor cat, which made having an indoor cat more feasible at the time. They once got within a few feet of each other and it was funny to see little Cleo trying to advance on the old guy. To avoid the conflict or prevent the possibility of showing the younger cat who was the boss, Columbus fled back outside. That was something else about Cleo, the cat was fearless. She loved to walk under our feet - literally. I can't count how many times she got under me and I stepped on her. It didn't help she was all black. I would walk through the house and not see her. She would growl in pain to which I would respond "get out of my way, silly." 5 minutes later she would do the same thing again.
Once, when my mom's dog, Molly, came to Conroe, Cleo wanted to make an impression. Naturally, Molly was anxious after the car ride and then arriving at a new place. Molly knew who I was, so she followed me everywhere - including into our house. When Molly walked in the door from our garage, Cleo made eye contact. Cleo flew across the kitchen floor and dove at Molly, landed on Molly's left front shoulder and latched on. Molly could do nothing but retreat and wound up in a corner and just laid down. I had to pry the cat off and even took a few swats at Molly as I pulled her away. Consequently, Molly will not walk into our garage on her own out of fear of the dreaded Cleo. They were forced to share the garage when it was cold earlier this year. Molly chose to sleep as far away from Cleo as possible. Our dog, Otis, would not cross Cleo for anything, either. Once, she sat in the doorway from our living room to the kitchen. It seemed innocent enough, but when we called Otis to take him outside, he would not try to go past Cleo - until I moved her out of the way. When I did, she acted as if it was nothing. Crazy cat!
In addition to being fearless, Cleo was a little off. We got her fixed not too long after she officially became "ours." We dropped her off at the place early in the morning and were told to pick her up late that evening. When we arrived, the staff pulled us aside to tell us that there was a complication. Somehow one of Cleo's ovaries had fused with her spleen. They had never seen it before. They were able to complete the operation, but they explained that they had to leave a small portion of the ovary behind to avoid damage to the spleen. "The only side-affect might be heat-like symptoms without being in heat." He was right. Every so often, she'd come in to get petted and would position herself so the "petter" was petting her hind quarters. It was weird, but then again, that was Cleo.
Anna taught Cleo to sit. I have to tell that part. Anna would show Cleo a treat and taught her to sit like one of our dogs. I think she may have a picture of it somewhere. If she does, I'll attach it to this post. But, she did it - better than either of our dogs - and only for Anna.
I think she also had some kind of kitty-kat OCD or something. I have never in my life seen a cat groom themselves like she did. She would groom herself until she would shed. She scratched and caused scabs to form all over her neck and head. She also barfed up more hairballs, for a shorthair, than anything I had ever seen before - seriously! I was afraid to let her go outside because she was still smaller than other cats her age. I was also afraid she might get run over. But, the grooming thing got out of control, so we had no choice. It turns out that was possibly the best and worst thing we could do for her. She loved roaming around our garage. She spent days in there before she ever discovered the outside world. Once she found it, the skin condition seemed to subside. She still groomed herself like crazy, but we didn't see near the number of hairballs we would see before. She loved being outdoors.
She also was still fearless and didn't like having to move when we pulled into the garage with one of our cars. After a few close calls, one evening the odds caught up with her and she got rolled under one of the tires. We rushed her to the local emergency pet clinic. In spite of some bruising and sore spots to the touch, she had no broken bones. That's when I think she finally got it about cars. After that, when we turned into the driveway, she ran away from cars first and would come back to see who was in the car.
It was good she finally learned to get out of the way of cars. But, she never got the memo about feet. That must have been her shtick - if cats can even have them. No matter how many times her tail or foot was stepped on, she would come right back for more. There were times that I would step on her and be so frustrated that I would push her away. She would slide across the floor only to come right back, as if to say "hey, what did you do that for?"
You may have noticed that I have been writing about Cleo in the past tense. I'm doing that because we had to say goodbye to her today. Cleo had a run-in with one of our neighbor's dogs. I wasn't there (which was probably a good thing), but I'm sure she put up a valiant fight. Unfortunately, the bigger dog was too much for her. We gathered her up and took her to the same local clinic where we took her after the run-in with the car. The doctor confirmed she suffered numerous, serious injuries. Treatment would be expensive and recovery was not a sure thing by any means. After some discussion with the doctor, we decided we had to say goodbye to our little friend.
In the minutes before the appointed time, we took turns saying little prayers for her. It wouldn't have been bearable if she was in serious pain. But, just like her fearless self, Cleo wasn't scared. I like to think God answers prayers for animals just like anything else. As the song says "His eye is on the sparrow..." I think He looks out for little, quirky cats like Cleo, too - even in circumstances like these. Surrounded by the only family Cleo ever knew, she continued purring until she went to sleep.
I tear up as I write about this. For all the times she tripped me up and I fussed at her, she would just get close and rub up on my leg, as if to say "this is all I really wanted." I'm really going to miss that, as well as the other quirky things she would do.
We buried her in our little cemetery we have in our back yard. When Anna was younger, every squirrel or bird that died in our yard "had to be buried" in our yard. I tried to explain to her then that they were not our pets. She wouldn't hear it. There must be a half a dozen squirrels and 3 or 4 birds out there in different places. (I hope the dogs didn't dig them up, for Anna's sake.) I'm sure Molly and Otis will have their place in the yard at some point. For the record, our old cat Columbus, shares the tree we buried Cleo under. Though Cleo never really ventured in our back yard, I'm sure she'd have liked the place.
It's crazy that an animal can carve out such a unique and sensitive place in a person's heart. Cleo did it to me from the time she walked out of the woods and into my lap.
(PS. The neighbor was upset about her dog attacking Cleo and compensated us for our loss. We had never officially met before tonight and may have gained a friend along the way.)
One of the ladies from the church wanted to take her to a vet to see if she was healthy. I though that meant that the lady would take the cat home with HER. It turned out that the lady brought the cat to our house, told us about the trip to the vet, gave us a bag of food and cat litter and left the cat with us. She was ours, or we were hers - however that works. For the record, she would always be Anna's cat. So, we had to come up with a name. The kids running around with Anna told her at the camp to call the cat "Pancake" because she liked to eat them. Somebody else mentioned that she looked very elegant and suggested the name Cleopatra. I suggested the old standards from my childhood: "Jackson" and "Buttermilk" which were received with boos and hisses. Somewhere in there we got the idea for the Egyptian queen's possible nickname - "Cleo" - and the rest was history.
Cleo was never a big cat. She was also very quiet. That was something special to me. Our old cat, Columbus, would meow all the time - to the point of being obnoxious. He was an outdoor cat, which made having an indoor cat more feasible at the time. They once got within a few feet of each other and it was funny to see little Cleo trying to advance on the old guy. To avoid the conflict or prevent the possibility of showing the younger cat who was the boss, Columbus fled back outside. That was something else about Cleo, the cat was fearless. She loved to walk under our feet - literally. I can't count how many times she got under me and I stepped on her. It didn't help she was all black. I would walk through the house and not see her. She would growl in pain to which I would respond "get out of my way, silly." 5 minutes later she would do the same thing again.
Once, when my mom's dog, Molly, came to Conroe, Cleo wanted to make an impression. Naturally, Molly was anxious after the car ride and then arriving at a new place. Molly knew who I was, so she followed me everywhere - including into our house. When Molly walked in the door from our garage, Cleo made eye contact. Cleo flew across the kitchen floor and dove at Molly, landed on Molly's left front shoulder and latched on. Molly could do nothing but retreat and wound up in a corner and just laid down. I had to pry the cat off and even took a few swats at Molly as I pulled her away. Consequently, Molly will not walk into our garage on her own out of fear of the dreaded Cleo. They were forced to share the garage when it was cold earlier this year. Molly chose to sleep as far away from Cleo as possible. Our dog, Otis, would not cross Cleo for anything, either. Once, she sat in the doorway from our living room to the kitchen. It seemed innocent enough, but when we called Otis to take him outside, he would not try to go past Cleo - until I moved her out of the way. When I did, she acted as if it was nothing. Crazy cat!
In addition to being fearless, Cleo was a little off. We got her fixed not too long after she officially became "ours." We dropped her off at the place early in the morning and were told to pick her up late that evening. When we arrived, the staff pulled us aside to tell us that there was a complication. Somehow one of Cleo's ovaries had fused with her spleen. They had never seen it before. They were able to complete the operation, but they explained that they had to leave a small portion of the ovary behind to avoid damage to the spleen. "The only side-affect might be heat-like symptoms without being in heat." He was right. Every so often, she'd come in to get petted and would position herself so the "petter" was petting her hind quarters. It was weird, but then again, that was Cleo.
Anna taught Cleo to sit. I have to tell that part. Anna would show Cleo a treat and taught her to sit like one of our dogs. I think she may have a picture of it somewhere. If she does, I'll attach it to this post. But, she did it - better than either of our dogs - and only for Anna.
I think she also had some kind of kitty-kat OCD or something. I have never in my life seen a cat groom themselves like she did. She would groom herself until she would shed. She scratched and caused scabs to form all over her neck and head. She also barfed up more hairballs, for a shorthair, than anything I had ever seen before - seriously! I was afraid to let her go outside because she was still smaller than other cats her age. I was also afraid she might get run over. But, the grooming thing got out of control, so we had no choice. It turns out that was possibly the best and worst thing we could do for her. She loved roaming around our garage. She spent days in there before she ever discovered the outside world. Once she found it, the skin condition seemed to subside. She still groomed herself like crazy, but we didn't see near the number of hairballs we would see before. She loved being outdoors.
She also was still fearless and didn't like having to move when we pulled into the garage with one of our cars. After a few close calls, one evening the odds caught up with her and she got rolled under one of the tires. We rushed her to the local emergency pet clinic. In spite of some bruising and sore spots to the touch, she had no broken bones. That's when I think she finally got it about cars. After that, when we turned into the driveway, she ran away from cars first and would come back to see who was in the car.
It was good she finally learned to get out of the way of cars. But, she never got the memo about feet. That must have been her shtick - if cats can even have them. No matter how many times her tail or foot was stepped on, she would come right back for more. There were times that I would step on her and be so frustrated that I would push her away. She would slide across the floor only to come right back, as if to say "hey, what did you do that for?"
You may have noticed that I have been writing about Cleo in the past tense. I'm doing that because we had to say goodbye to her today. Cleo had a run-in with one of our neighbor's dogs. I wasn't there (which was probably a good thing), but I'm sure she put up a valiant fight. Unfortunately, the bigger dog was too much for her. We gathered her up and took her to the same local clinic where we took her after the run-in with the car. The doctor confirmed she suffered numerous, serious injuries. Treatment would be expensive and recovery was not a sure thing by any means. After some discussion with the doctor, we decided we had to say goodbye to our little friend.
In the minutes before the appointed time, we took turns saying little prayers for her. It wouldn't have been bearable if she was in serious pain. But, just like her fearless self, Cleo wasn't scared. I like to think God answers prayers for animals just like anything else. As the song says "His eye is on the sparrow..." I think He looks out for little, quirky cats like Cleo, too - even in circumstances like these. Surrounded by the only family Cleo ever knew, she continued purring until she went to sleep.
I tear up as I write about this. For all the times she tripped me up and I fussed at her, she would just get close and rub up on my leg, as if to say "this is all I really wanted." I'm really going to miss that, as well as the other quirky things she would do.
We buried her in our little cemetery we have in our back yard. When Anna was younger, every squirrel or bird that died in our yard "had to be buried" in our yard. I tried to explain to her then that they were not our pets. She wouldn't hear it. There must be a half a dozen squirrels and 3 or 4 birds out there in different places. (I hope the dogs didn't dig them up, for Anna's sake.) I'm sure Molly and Otis will have their place in the yard at some point. For the record, our old cat Columbus, shares the tree we buried Cleo under. Though Cleo never really ventured in our back yard, I'm sure she'd have liked the place.
It's crazy that an animal can carve out such a unique and sensitive place in a person's heart. Cleo did it to me from the time she walked out of the woods and into my lap.
(PS. The neighbor was upset about her dog attacking Cleo and compensated us for our loss. We had never officially met before tonight and may have gained a friend along the way.)
Saturday, July 20, 2013
The Friendliest Place on Earth
Disneyland more than lived up to its nickname as "the happiest place on earth" yesterday. It is also quite possibly the friendliest.
My server at a sandwich shop asked me about the Texas A&M cap I was wearing.
"Are you a graduate of Texas A&M?"
"No, my daughter will be going there this fall."
"How exciting! I attend the University of Alabama!"
"Really! My daughter is in the Corps and she and I will be at the A&M-Bama game!"
(That's right, I'm her date for the A&M-Bama game! WHOOP!)
"I'm in the band, so I will get to be there, too! Maybe we'll get to see each other again!"
"That would be so cool if we did!"
All warm and fuzzy inside...
My server at a sandwich shop asked me about the Texas A&M cap I was wearing.
"Are you a graduate of Texas A&M?"
"No, my daughter will be going there this fall."
"How exciting! I attend the University of Alabama!"
"Really! My daughter is in the Corps and she and I will be at the A&M-Bama game!"
(That's right, I'm her date for the A&M-Bama game! WHOOP!)
"I'm in the band, so I will get to be there, too! Maybe we'll get to see each other again!"
"That would be so cool if we did!"
All warm and fuzzy inside...
Wednesday, December 19, 2012
Another Christmas
This will be the second Christmas since my father passed away. I don't think it will ever get any easier.
I've noticed that my mother has gotten unsettled. She doesn't really know what to do with herself. We don't really know, either. Time has marched on and everything keeps moving. We don't really think about Dad not being here...until. Something happens, or we stop to do something and remember. He was here when we did this. Or, we did that and Dad was part of the company. When that happens, it's almost like getting a case of vertigo. Sometimes it lasts only a few seconds or a minute or two. Other times, it might leave me reeling for an hour. I know I'm not the first to lose a parent or someone I was very close to. When I say it that way, it's like I should find a little comfort in that, but there's none really to be found. It's times like these that I'm reminded - SO profoundly - that the human race was not intended to experience grief. I know we do experience it, often regularly and in large doses. But, ultimately grief was not intended for us.
In the time since Dad passed, I have been busy trying to find out as much as I can about the things he never told me. For one, where did we come from? Dad honestly didn't know. Really, it wasn't his fault, either. The Knoxes came from Alabama by way of South Carolina. Due to the nature of their arrival, our people didn't spend a lot of time talking about where they came from. I'm sure it was part of self preservation. But now that the Statute of Limitations has expired, it would be wonderful to get some inside information. Unfortunately, just about everyone who knew anything at all are all gone.
The other thing I've been trying to find out about is Dad's time in service. For those who know, Dad fought in one of the most pivotal battles of World War II. He froze off his behind for a few weeks outside of a Belgian town called Bastogne. He often spoke of the place, but never bothered to say much about what happened there. Some might argue that his time in the military was such a short time. It couldn't be so important, given his long life and the time he had with his family. But, when he was feeling good or in a mood to talk, he would often choose to mention something from his time in the military. I have to believe it was important to him.
So, in the last year and a half, I've had to fill in the blanks. A little over a year before he died, Dad and I watched Band of Brothers together and he opened up more than ever before to me. If I could have that time back, I have a whole list of questions I would ask him. So, instead of getting the information from him, I'm still looking elsewhere...and it stinks.
So, this Christmas, I am thankful that my family is together. I'm thankful I have time off and can enjoy being at home with those I love. But, it will be very obvious that someone is missing from our festivities. Our thoughts never stray far from thinking of him. And because he survived an absolutely hellacious winter in Belgium 68 years ago, he made it possible that we could be together and remember the man Dad went on to become.
I've noticed that my mother has gotten unsettled. She doesn't really know what to do with herself. We don't really know, either. Time has marched on and everything keeps moving. We don't really think about Dad not being here...until. Something happens, or we stop to do something and remember. He was here when we did this. Or, we did that and Dad was part of the company. When that happens, it's almost like getting a case of vertigo. Sometimes it lasts only a few seconds or a minute or two. Other times, it might leave me reeling for an hour. I know I'm not the first to lose a parent or someone I was very close to. When I say it that way, it's like I should find a little comfort in that, but there's none really to be found. It's times like these that I'm reminded - SO profoundly - that the human race was not intended to experience grief. I know we do experience it, often regularly and in large doses. But, ultimately grief was not intended for us.
In the time since Dad passed, I have been busy trying to find out as much as I can about the things he never told me. For one, where did we come from? Dad honestly didn't know. Really, it wasn't his fault, either. The Knoxes came from Alabama by way of South Carolina. Due to the nature of their arrival, our people didn't spend a lot of time talking about where they came from. I'm sure it was part of self preservation. But now that the Statute of Limitations has expired, it would be wonderful to get some inside information. Unfortunately, just about everyone who knew anything at all are all gone.
The other thing I've been trying to find out about is Dad's time in service. For those who know, Dad fought in one of the most pivotal battles of World War II. He froze off his behind for a few weeks outside of a Belgian town called Bastogne. He often spoke of the place, but never bothered to say much about what happened there. Some might argue that his time in the military was such a short time. It couldn't be so important, given his long life and the time he had with his family. But, when he was feeling good or in a mood to talk, he would often choose to mention something from his time in the military. I have to believe it was important to him.
So, in the last year and a half, I've had to fill in the blanks. A little over a year before he died, Dad and I watched Band of Brothers together and he opened up more than ever before to me. If I could have that time back, I have a whole list of questions I would ask him. So, instead of getting the information from him, I'm still looking elsewhere...and it stinks.
So, this Christmas, I am thankful that my family is together. I'm thankful I have time off and can enjoy being at home with those I love. But, it will be very obvious that someone is missing from our festivities. Our thoughts never stray far from thinking of him. And because he survived an absolutely hellacious winter in Belgium 68 years ago, he made it possible that we could be together and remember the man Dad went on to become.
Monday, November 05, 2012
Autopilot
It's a strange thing to get a few minutes to think these days.
It probably looks weird to read something like that. It was a lot harder to put that sentence together and it still may not make a lot of sense. Then, again it may.
Things in my life have been in a state of perpetual motion for well over a year now. I know, I don't have any less time than anyone else does. It takes a LOT of work to schedule and plan so that one gets the most out of every moment of every day. Some people are able to do that better than others. Some, not so much. I fall into the latter category.
Without trying to sound like I'm on a pity party, I've sort of been reeling since Dad passed in 2011. I tried to keep up with writing over the year since he died, but things seemed to get in the way A LOT. I know how it works though. My responsibilities start with caring for my family. Much of that centers around taking care of work. Those responsibilities don't always give time to sort out the feelings of losing someone, which seem linger long after the work of taking care of that sort of business is completed. At the oddest of times, I find myself missing my dad. These days it comes when I feel I need to talk to somebody, but I don't necessarily want to talk to this or that person. I would prefer him, but he's not there. It took long enough to get to that point, in terms of trust, to talk to him about my stuff. It seem with all the madness going on around me, it seems like too much work to search out someone else. But, it's just what I need to do.
In a very strange sort of way, a year later I find myself feeling much like I did a year ago. (It's that sort of feeling that has kept me from keeping a journal. What's the point of writing "I feel like crap again today?") I'm looking to a long break at Thanksgiving to give me some much needed respite from the stresses that have accumulated since the last vacation. As much as I need that (and believe me, I do. I CRAVE it!), it's not a good thing. It means, up until now, I've been on autopilot - just mailing it in. I know it's bad for me, but it's much worse for those closest to me who have to deal with me every day.
But, I must say that I'm preparing to make some changes going into the new year. I won't get into all of that now, but I see the mess that I'm in and I have an escape route planned.
I've used the four-letter word "P-L-A-N." That's probably the first big step to turn off autopilot and keep it off.
It probably looks weird to read something like that. It was a lot harder to put that sentence together and it still may not make a lot of sense. Then, again it may.
Things in my life have been in a state of perpetual motion for well over a year now. I know, I don't have any less time than anyone else does. It takes a LOT of work to schedule and plan so that one gets the most out of every moment of every day. Some people are able to do that better than others. Some, not so much. I fall into the latter category.
Without trying to sound like I'm on a pity party, I've sort of been reeling since Dad passed in 2011. I tried to keep up with writing over the year since he died, but things seemed to get in the way A LOT. I know how it works though. My responsibilities start with caring for my family. Much of that centers around taking care of work. Those responsibilities don't always give time to sort out the feelings of losing someone, which seem linger long after the work of taking care of that sort of business is completed. At the oddest of times, I find myself missing my dad. These days it comes when I feel I need to talk to somebody, but I don't necessarily want to talk to this or that person. I would prefer him, but he's not there. It took long enough to get to that point, in terms of trust, to talk to him about my stuff. It seem with all the madness going on around me, it seems like too much work to search out someone else. But, it's just what I need to do.
In a very strange sort of way, a year later I find myself feeling much like I did a year ago. (It's that sort of feeling that has kept me from keeping a journal. What's the point of writing "I feel like crap again today?") I'm looking to a long break at Thanksgiving to give me some much needed respite from the stresses that have accumulated since the last vacation. As much as I need that (and believe me, I do. I CRAVE it!), it's not a good thing. It means, up until now, I've been on autopilot - just mailing it in. I know it's bad for me, but it's much worse for those closest to me who have to deal with me every day.
But, I must say that I'm preparing to make some changes going into the new year. I won't get into all of that now, but I see the mess that I'm in and I have an escape route planned.
I've used the four-letter word "P-L-A-N." That's probably the first big step to turn off autopilot and keep it off.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Not So Fast...
In order to understand what I'm about to write, you will need to see this video: Muslims "Stoning" Christians In Dearborn, MI. Once you've watched it (if you can stomach it), then read on.
I heard about this earlier in the week and just now got around to watching the video. Conservative sites said it was a story that had been all but ignored by the media. The troubling thing about the video is what it implies throughout - Christians are being mistreated at the hand of Muslims.
It starts with a clip of President Obama speaking to a group in Dearborn, Michigan, expressing his gratitude for their support of his candidacy. He specifically mentions his full name, as if to say that the Muslim vote, which apparently is significant, played a big part in winning the election. So, in Dearborn, Muslims love their president - with the Muslim sounding name - and they support the rights of Muslims over those of "Christians." That may or may not be the case, but it won't be proven by this particular video.
Then, the video goes to this chaotic scene with people shouting, and a voice can be heard yelling over a megaphone "God is NOT Allah. God IS Jesus." I notice in the background a few banners that are never fully visible, but garner a lot of attention from the crowd. One says in part "burn in the lake of fire." The other says, in part for what is seen "liars and thieves." Each of the protesters are wearing shirts that say something about Jesus that can't be fully seen. The megaphone yells "God is not Allah. God is Jesus." A bottle or some other object whizzes by the camera and the video transitions to the next scene.
Stop right there.
This is taking place at the 2012 Arab Fair, which is obviously geared to those of the Muslim faith. These "Christians" have showed up to protest, much like the Westboro Baptist Church pickets soldier funeral services. They are not guests and from the reactions of people in the video, they are not friendly, either. All of that combined may explain the crowd's reception of this group.
The next scene shows a guy who appears to be the group's leader tells a police officer that his group has been there before. The officer tells the guy they're not going to be allowed to use the megaphone any longer because they're disturbing the peace. Those involved with the protest seem surprised that they are not being protected while they practice their freedom of speech.
After several scenes of angry exchanges with various fair goers, the scene changes and shows the protesters walking away from a large, restless crowd. Then, an older officer addresses the leader of the protesters, telling him he can't guarantee their safety or that of his officers and asks them to leave the event. A voice of reason in the midst of the madness, but it's wasted on the group who think they're doing "God's work." As the group leaves the fair, they are pulled over by police. A voice notes how many police are involved in escorting their group away from the fair and how none of them had been enlisted to protect them when they were still at the fair. The video is intended as some sort of indictment for the city of Dearborn and their support of the Muslim faith. Instead, I think it is a clear indictment of ill-advised and poor Christian behavior in the public square.
The Apostle Paul writes in his letter to the Romans "don't let what you know as good be spoken of as evil." In other words, think about how your behavior can been seen and perceived by those who are not Christians. Is there anything good about Jesus and Christianity that anyone can take away from that day in Dearborn? Not that I can tell. I could see, if these protesters were handing out free bottles of water or other cold drinks and telling people "Jesus loves you;" only to have the crowd turn on them like we see in the video, THAT would be a story. Instead, what we have are people holding provocative signs and banners, saying provocative statements over a megaphone and stirring up the crowd with anti-Christian sentiments. That isn't much of a story, except the protesters were able to get out of the situation without serious injury.
If there really is a war on religion in our society, it's because of ridiculous behavior like this being passed off as being "Christian" and society, at large, is tired of it. And if that's the case, if we find ourselves getting shut down, we're only going to have ourselves to blame in the end.
I heard about this earlier in the week and just now got around to watching the video. Conservative sites said it was a story that had been all but ignored by the media. The troubling thing about the video is what it implies throughout - Christians are being mistreated at the hand of Muslims.
It starts with a clip of President Obama speaking to a group in Dearborn, Michigan, expressing his gratitude for their support of his candidacy. He specifically mentions his full name, as if to say that the Muslim vote, which apparently is significant, played a big part in winning the election. So, in Dearborn, Muslims love their president - with the Muslim sounding name - and they support the rights of Muslims over those of "Christians." That may or may not be the case, but it won't be proven by this particular video.
Then, the video goes to this chaotic scene with people shouting, and a voice can be heard yelling over a megaphone "God is NOT Allah. God IS Jesus." I notice in the background a few banners that are never fully visible, but garner a lot of attention from the crowd. One says in part "burn in the lake of fire." The other says, in part for what is seen "liars and thieves." Each of the protesters are wearing shirts that say something about Jesus that can't be fully seen. The megaphone yells "God is not Allah. God is Jesus." A bottle or some other object whizzes by the camera and the video transitions to the next scene.
Stop right there.
This is taking place at the 2012 Arab Fair, which is obviously geared to those of the Muslim faith. These "Christians" have showed up to protest, much like the Westboro Baptist Church pickets soldier funeral services. They are not guests and from the reactions of people in the video, they are not friendly, either. All of that combined may explain the crowd's reception of this group.
The next scene shows a guy who appears to be the group's leader tells a police officer that his group has been there before. The officer tells the guy they're not going to be allowed to use the megaphone any longer because they're disturbing the peace. Those involved with the protest seem surprised that they are not being protected while they practice their freedom of speech.
After several scenes of angry exchanges with various fair goers, the scene changes and shows the protesters walking away from a large, restless crowd. Then, an older officer addresses the leader of the protesters, telling him he can't guarantee their safety or that of his officers and asks them to leave the event. A voice of reason in the midst of the madness, but it's wasted on the group who think they're doing "God's work." As the group leaves the fair, they are pulled over by police. A voice notes how many police are involved in escorting their group away from the fair and how none of them had been enlisted to protect them when they were still at the fair. The video is intended as some sort of indictment for the city of Dearborn and their support of the Muslim faith. Instead, I think it is a clear indictment of ill-advised and poor Christian behavior in the public square.
The Apostle Paul writes in his letter to the Romans "don't let what you know as good be spoken of as evil." In other words, think about how your behavior can been seen and perceived by those who are not Christians. Is there anything good about Jesus and Christianity that anyone can take away from that day in Dearborn? Not that I can tell. I could see, if these protesters were handing out free bottles of water or other cold drinks and telling people "Jesus loves you;" only to have the crowd turn on them like we see in the video, THAT would be a story. Instead, what we have are people holding provocative signs and banners, saying provocative statements over a megaphone and stirring up the crowd with anti-Christian sentiments. That isn't much of a story, except the protesters were able to get out of the situation without serious injury.
If there really is a war on religion in our society, it's because of ridiculous behavior like this being passed off as being "Christian" and society, at large, is tired of it. And if that's the case, if we find ourselves getting shut down, we're only going to have ourselves to blame in the end.
Friday, June 15, 2012
Father's Day 2012
It was a surprise yesterday to get home and have my wife tell me that I need to log into Facebook to see something. That NEVER happens. So, I logged in an saw this post my son wrote about me as his dad. I've been apprehensive about being a parent - almost from the get go. I always liked kids. But, when I realized that I would be responsible for how my kids turned out, I was quickly terrified. Nobody knows and sees one's warts, spots and shortcomings like those who live with you do. So, to see something written that was so thoughtful and complimentary about me, I almost want to ask "when did all of THAT happen!" Really, I am so very humbled and can't say anything beyond what has already been said. Thank you, Chris.
When I read my son's tribute, I began thinking and was motivated to write about my father. This will be my first Father's Day without my dad. I've already written about dealing with all the "firsts" that have happened since he left us. We might say we miss someone we don't see all that much anymore, but it's nothing like missing someone when they die. I've lost close friends who died in various circumstances at different times in my life and it hurt. Losing my dad was like losing a part of myself. As I write, I feel so many emotions, sadness, sorrow, loneliness, etc. But, I also feel others: relief, peace, comfort. I miss my dad, but I know he's doing alright and is in that "better place."
Much like my son's experience with me when he was young, my dad was gone a lot with work. He got up long before I ever woke up to go to school. Many times he would get home after dark and I would be getting ready for bed. I do remember a few times he would get home early. He said he "snuck out" to get home early for a change. I loved that. I also loved getting to go out with him on the job. He drove this huge truck and it was cool to ride down the road sitting that high up. He would often bring it home and would let me play in it. It was my Millennium Falcon. Some of the most terrifying experiences in my life was on the road with Dad when that big truck had a blow out and lost its transmission - on separate occasions. As I think about it now, I'm sure my dad was terrified, too. He was the one having to control that big rig in those circumstances.
Then, there were the times Dad would take his vacation. He had worked for Texas Power and Light so long that he had vacation that would stretch from the week of Thanksgiving, on through the entire month of December, on past New Year's Day. It was amazing to me, but it could be awkward at times. Like once when he came to pick me up at school while he was off. He didn't know where I was supposed to get picked up. He sat and waited outside the school for over an hour and never saw me. By the time he got home, I was at home, too. And he was mad!
"How did you get here?" he asked. "I was looking all over for you!"
"I walked home. I didn't know you came to get me." I said.
But, the next day he was in the place where Mom normally picked me up. Just as soon as I got used to Dad being around to take me to school and pick me up, he would have to go back to work. That was how things were as a kid.
Later on, when I got to high school, it seemed like Dad wasn't working as late, up until he retired in May of 1986. I can't remember a baseball game that he missed during my junior and senior years of high school. He usually came straight from work to the game and would follow our bus on home, if we were on the road. He actually got to show up in time for warm-ups during my senior year. It was always nice to see that old green truck, that my kids remember as "Oscar," drive up next to the ball fields where we played. We knew we had at least one fan wherever we went.
One time, during my junior season, we were playing in Blooming Grove for a district game. Our rivalry had gotten heated in the two years we were in that district and as a result, I remember the crowd being hostile toward us that day. My dad was the only person from Malakoff in the stands. For a good while he was the only person behind our dugout. While I was pitching, there were all kinds of comments coming from the crowd and questionable calls on the field. During the game, I found myself looking over at Dad every so often. When he saw I was looking at him, he'd either clap his hands or hold out a fist. "Hang tough!" or "Rock and Fire" he would tell me. We went on to lose the game, but it was close down to the wire. I like to think about him being there for us that day.
When I was in high school, I wanted to be a placekicker, but had the misfortune of being a year behind Kyle Summerhill for 3 years. I used to kick balls all around our yard and even broke windows in our house a few times. We were watching a pro game together once and he saw a guy kicking on the sidelines with a "do it yourself" holder contraption. Dad said "you need one of those." This was before such things were sold in sporting goods stores. The very next weekend, he made me one out of PVC pipe. It was an ugly thing, but I used that thing throughout high school - on through college.
During college, I convinced him to actually hold the ball for me before I finally hung up my cleats for good. It was the funniest thing. I'm sure it looked like watching Charlie Brown trying to kick the ball with Lucy holding it. I finally convinced him that I wouldn't kick his hand if he held the ball through the kick. He was so excited to see the ball go up in the air, as if to say "so that's how it works!" Later on, he was giving me tips on how to keep the ball straight and hit from angles. Most people would have thought he was an old coach by then. As I look by now, I probably should have gotten him to hold for me a lot earlier than I did.
I'm also very thankful that I had the opportunity to get close to my dad as an adult. Many times as a teenager and in my early 20s, I felt like Dad and I were just too different. He didn't understand me and I certainly didn't understand him. But, that started changing in my mid 20s. He became my best friend. I would call him about everything. He would often say "I don't know that I can give you any advice. I've never done anything like you have." I would tell him "just try. I trust your opinion and common sense." Then he would tell me what he thought. He always had a better handle on things than he let on.
I realize I am so blessed to have so many memories of my dad. So many don't get the opportunity to know their dad like I did mine. Others weren't as blessed to have someone to be such a good example in their lives. I remember once, when my wife and I were trying to sell our house in Mississippi. We drove out from Malakoff to try to get the house ready only to discover it was a wreck. Our renters had destroyed the place and we found ourselves overwhelmed, trying to clean the place up. One of the things we had planned to do was to get our refrigerator to take back to Malakoff with us. We wanted to get an open trailer and pull it behind our car, but we found those were only for local rentals. Our car couldn't pull the bigger, one-way trailers. So, how were we to get the fridge home? I called my dad and told him that we would have to come back and get the pickup. "No you don't," he said. "I'll come get it." Literally, 6 1/2 hours later, my dad was on the doorstep with a dolly to take it back with him. We loaded the fridge up and he took off again for Malakoff. He didn't rest, eat any dinner or anything. He just got back in the truck and left. That was the kind of guy he was. Because he came and got the refrigerator, we could stay and finish up cleaning the house.
I wouldn't trade anything for the time we had after they moved away from Malakoff. I know it was hard for them to leave. Dad had been there for over 60 years and Mom had been there over 40. But, they came to Conroe, made new friends and spent a lot of time with us. It was an enrichment for our family. For me personally, I enjoyed the times I got to watch Gunsmoke, Have Gun Will Travel, Cheyenne, Band of Brothers, Saving Private Ryan or any other WWII related documentary or movie for the umpteenth time. Watching WWII movies with Dad was always great because he would talk about things he normally wouldn't. The first time we watched Band of Brothers together, he told me about coming up on a concentration camp in Germany. He never said anything about that. Another time, when we were watching Saving Private Ryan, when that tank comes up over that mound where the soldiers were hiding, he said "that's what it was like when those German tanks rolled by. They would shake the ground." Wow.
When he and Mom broke their hips, we all were stretched to within an inch of our lives (or so it seemed). I knew he needed me and my family like never before. Looking back, I don't know how we made it. We rallied together and even though it didn't look like it most of the time, we felt like everything would be alright. He and Mom bounced back wonderfully from their injuries and things were back to the "new normal" we had adjusted to.
Chris mentioned some of the things I had to do when he and his siblings were younger. I hope he knows that I was just doing what I knew I had to do to take care of us. Taking care of the family was THE most important thing I could do. It was something my dad modeled for me. Whether it was on the frozen battlefields of Belgium, driving a truck back and forth from Dallas for work, helping with the local Royal Rangers outpost or mowing the 7+ acres of property that belonged to their church, Dad did what he knew he should do. He kept his word, did what he said he would do and he definitely didn't gripe and complain about it along the way. There's definitely a need for THAT kind of man in this country. I can only hope I can grow into that kind of man some day. I'm glad I got to see what that looks like.
So, this weekend, Dad, I will be thinking about you. I miss watching Gunsmoke with you during the week. I haven't watched Band of Brothers since the Christmas holidays, when Chris was home. It's mainly because each time I do, I think of all kinds of questions that I wish I had asked you the last time we watched it together. Maybe I'll get around to it this weekend. I certainly know you won't be far from my thoughts. You never are.
When I read my son's tribute, I began thinking and was motivated to write about my father. This will be my first Father's Day without my dad. I've already written about dealing with all the "firsts" that have happened since he left us. We might say we miss someone we don't see all that much anymore, but it's nothing like missing someone when they die. I've lost close friends who died in various circumstances at different times in my life and it hurt. Losing my dad was like losing a part of myself. As I write, I feel so many emotions, sadness, sorrow, loneliness, etc. But, I also feel others: relief, peace, comfort. I miss my dad, but I know he's doing alright and is in that "better place."
Much like my son's experience with me when he was young, my dad was gone a lot with work. He got up long before I ever woke up to go to school. Many times he would get home after dark and I would be getting ready for bed. I do remember a few times he would get home early. He said he "snuck out" to get home early for a change. I loved that. I also loved getting to go out with him on the job. He drove this huge truck and it was cool to ride down the road sitting that high up. He would often bring it home and would let me play in it. It was my Millennium Falcon. Some of the most terrifying experiences in my life was on the road with Dad when that big truck had a blow out and lost its transmission - on separate occasions. As I think about it now, I'm sure my dad was terrified, too. He was the one having to control that big rig in those circumstances.
Then, there were the times Dad would take his vacation. He had worked for Texas Power and Light so long that he had vacation that would stretch from the week of Thanksgiving, on through the entire month of December, on past New Year's Day. It was amazing to me, but it could be awkward at times. Like once when he came to pick me up at school while he was off. He didn't know where I was supposed to get picked up. He sat and waited outside the school for over an hour and never saw me. By the time he got home, I was at home, too. And he was mad!
"How did you get here?" he asked. "I was looking all over for you!"
"I walked home. I didn't know you came to get me." I said.
But, the next day he was in the place where Mom normally picked me up. Just as soon as I got used to Dad being around to take me to school and pick me up, he would have to go back to work. That was how things were as a kid.
Later on, when I got to high school, it seemed like Dad wasn't working as late, up until he retired in May of 1986. I can't remember a baseball game that he missed during my junior and senior years of high school. He usually came straight from work to the game and would follow our bus on home, if we were on the road. He actually got to show up in time for warm-ups during my senior year. It was always nice to see that old green truck, that my kids remember as "Oscar," drive up next to the ball fields where we played. We knew we had at least one fan wherever we went.
One time, during my junior season, we were playing in Blooming Grove for a district game. Our rivalry had gotten heated in the two years we were in that district and as a result, I remember the crowd being hostile toward us that day. My dad was the only person from Malakoff in the stands. For a good while he was the only person behind our dugout. While I was pitching, there were all kinds of comments coming from the crowd and questionable calls on the field. During the game, I found myself looking over at Dad every so often. When he saw I was looking at him, he'd either clap his hands or hold out a fist. "Hang tough!" or "Rock and Fire" he would tell me. We went on to lose the game, but it was close down to the wire. I like to think about him being there for us that day.
When I was in high school, I wanted to be a placekicker, but had the misfortune of being a year behind Kyle Summerhill for 3 years. I used to kick balls all around our yard and even broke windows in our house a few times. We were watching a pro game together once and he saw a guy kicking on the sidelines with a "do it yourself" holder contraption. Dad said "you need one of those." This was before such things were sold in sporting goods stores. The very next weekend, he made me one out of PVC pipe. It was an ugly thing, but I used that thing throughout high school - on through college.
During college, I convinced him to actually hold the ball for me before I finally hung up my cleats for good. It was the funniest thing. I'm sure it looked like watching Charlie Brown trying to kick the ball with Lucy holding it. I finally convinced him that I wouldn't kick his hand if he held the ball through the kick. He was so excited to see the ball go up in the air, as if to say "so that's how it works!" Later on, he was giving me tips on how to keep the ball straight and hit from angles. Most people would have thought he was an old coach by then. As I look by now, I probably should have gotten him to hold for me a lot earlier than I did.
I'm also very thankful that I had the opportunity to get close to my dad as an adult. Many times as a teenager and in my early 20s, I felt like Dad and I were just too different. He didn't understand me and I certainly didn't understand him. But, that started changing in my mid 20s. He became my best friend. I would call him about everything. He would often say "I don't know that I can give you any advice. I've never done anything like you have." I would tell him "just try. I trust your opinion and common sense." Then he would tell me what he thought. He always had a better handle on things than he let on.
I realize I am so blessed to have so many memories of my dad. So many don't get the opportunity to know their dad like I did mine. Others weren't as blessed to have someone to be such a good example in their lives. I remember once, when my wife and I were trying to sell our house in Mississippi. We drove out from Malakoff to try to get the house ready only to discover it was a wreck. Our renters had destroyed the place and we found ourselves overwhelmed, trying to clean the place up. One of the things we had planned to do was to get our refrigerator to take back to Malakoff with us. We wanted to get an open trailer and pull it behind our car, but we found those were only for local rentals. Our car couldn't pull the bigger, one-way trailers. So, how were we to get the fridge home? I called my dad and told him that we would have to come back and get the pickup. "No you don't," he said. "I'll come get it." Literally, 6 1/2 hours later, my dad was on the doorstep with a dolly to take it back with him. We loaded the fridge up and he took off again for Malakoff. He didn't rest, eat any dinner or anything. He just got back in the truck and left. That was the kind of guy he was. Because he came and got the refrigerator, we could stay and finish up cleaning the house.
I wouldn't trade anything for the time we had after they moved away from Malakoff. I know it was hard for them to leave. Dad had been there for over 60 years and Mom had been there over 40. But, they came to Conroe, made new friends and spent a lot of time with us. It was an enrichment for our family. For me personally, I enjoyed the times I got to watch Gunsmoke, Have Gun Will Travel, Cheyenne, Band of Brothers, Saving Private Ryan or any other WWII related documentary or movie for the umpteenth time. Watching WWII movies with Dad was always great because he would talk about things he normally wouldn't. The first time we watched Band of Brothers together, he told me about coming up on a concentration camp in Germany. He never said anything about that. Another time, when we were watching Saving Private Ryan, when that tank comes up over that mound where the soldiers were hiding, he said "that's what it was like when those German tanks rolled by. They would shake the ground." Wow.
When he and Mom broke their hips, we all were stretched to within an inch of our lives (or so it seemed). I knew he needed me and my family like never before. Looking back, I don't know how we made it. We rallied together and even though it didn't look like it most of the time, we felt like everything would be alright. He and Mom bounced back wonderfully from their injuries and things were back to the "new normal" we had adjusted to.
Chris mentioned some of the things I had to do when he and his siblings were younger. I hope he knows that I was just doing what I knew I had to do to take care of us. Taking care of the family was THE most important thing I could do. It was something my dad modeled for me. Whether it was on the frozen battlefields of Belgium, driving a truck back and forth from Dallas for work, helping with the local Royal Rangers outpost or mowing the 7+ acres of property that belonged to their church, Dad did what he knew he should do. He kept his word, did what he said he would do and he definitely didn't gripe and complain about it along the way. There's definitely a need for THAT kind of man in this country. I can only hope I can grow into that kind of man some day. I'm glad I got to see what that looks like.
So, this weekend, Dad, I will be thinking about you. I miss watching Gunsmoke with you during the week. I haven't watched Band of Brothers since the Christmas holidays, when Chris was home. It's mainly because each time I do, I think of all kinds of questions that I wish I had asked you the last time we watched it together. Maybe I'll get around to it this weekend. I certainly know you won't be far from my thoughts. You never are.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Happy Birthday To You, Dad
It's been a little over 8 months since Dad left us. It all happened so quickly. Knowing Dad, he would have wanted it that way.
The way he died, he wasn't alone and he went quickly. The funeral service, all his favorite songs were sung. Everyone there had something good to say or remembered something significant about him. Those he cared for the most came together to remember him. But, he had a greater purpose in mind. He wanted for his passing to be something to bring people together. He wanted his family to come together and we did. He couldn't have planned it better than it worked out.
In the time since he passed, we've all had to cope with his absence. We've had to deal with him not being there for a birthday or that special holiday. He couldn't be there for that special event or activity that he often took part in. And we've missed him the whole time. I suppose we'll never get over that. For my part, I hope I don't.
Tomorrow is Dad's birthday and to commemorate, my siblings and I will meet at the Carter Cemetery, south of Canton, where most of our family is buried, to see his head and foot stones. They were placed on his grave about a month ago. It's sad that we will be doing this on his birthday. But, this is all we have left and it is fitting to do so. I'm sure we'll laugh and tell stories as we take the opportunity to remember the man he was. I think Bruce Springsteen's Terry's Song describes my dad better than anything "...when they built you, brother, they broke the mold." Yep, that's right.
So happy birthday, Dad. I miss you more than I ever thought I could. If anything has happened to me over the past 8 months, I've come to believe in God and in Heaven in ways that I never have before. Your birthday is a reminder of the hope I have in the resurrection, that I will see you and other loved ones again one day. I may be sad tomorrow, but I will always have hope. It's the same hope you had. Thanks for blazing the trail and pointing the way. We can't be that far behind...
The way he died, he wasn't alone and he went quickly. The funeral service, all his favorite songs were sung. Everyone there had something good to say or remembered something significant about him. Those he cared for the most came together to remember him. But, he had a greater purpose in mind. He wanted for his passing to be something to bring people together. He wanted his family to come together and we did. He couldn't have planned it better than it worked out.
In the time since he passed, we've all had to cope with his absence. We've had to deal with him not being there for a birthday or that special holiday. He couldn't be there for that special event or activity that he often took part in. And we've missed him the whole time. I suppose we'll never get over that. For my part, I hope I don't.
Tomorrow is Dad's birthday and to commemorate, my siblings and I will meet at the Carter Cemetery, south of Canton, where most of our family is buried, to see his head and foot stones. They were placed on his grave about a month ago. It's sad that we will be doing this on his birthday. But, this is all we have left and it is fitting to do so. I'm sure we'll laugh and tell stories as we take the opportunity to remember the man he was. I think Bruce Springsteen's Terry's Song describes my dad better than anything "...when they built you, brother, they broke the mold." Yep, that's right.
So happy birthday, Dad. I miss you more than I ever thought I could. If anything has happened to me over the past 8 months, I've come to believe in God and in Heaven in ways that I never have before. Your birthday is a reminder of the hope I have in the resurrection, that I will see you and other loved ones again one day. I may be sad tomorrow, but I will always have hope. It's the same hope you had. Thanks for blazing the trail and pointing the way. We can't be that far behind...
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Looking Toward 2012: My Perspective
Well, in less that 19 hours, our time zone will be crossing over into the year 2012. My wife and I will be ringing in the new year with a few friends. Our children will be doing the same with a few of their own. In some ways, it seems like we can't possibly be on this threshold already. And, in other ways, I'm really glad to see this year go in the books. It seems that the older I get, the harder it is to keep making the transition from year to year.
I read an online post by another friend a few days ago that said 2011 was a hard year. I couldn't agree more. That same friend and I, along with possibly hundreds of others, will be saying goodbye to another old, mutual friend later today. She was one of many this year who left this world far too soon. I think losing so many friends this year - in particular - made 2011 so hard.
I've written a lot about losing my dad this year. Writing about things I've experienced has always been a sort of therapy for me over the years. Thanks to Facebook, I've been able to bring my therapy to a wider audience (that was intended as a joke). In recent years, I've been too busy to write about what I've had on my mind. I'm not sure whether it has been about having enough time or being unable to get everything in order to write it. Over this Christmas Break, I've had time to go back and read a few things I wrote - back when I had time to write a lot. It's funny actually. I thought I had a grasp on things back then. Those times were really different.
The truth is I don't think anything could have prepared me (us) for what 2011 would bring. In my case, I had tried before to prepare myself for what I would do if something were to happen to my dad, for instance. I didn't have any idea what that would look like. I had been over it a few times in my head. I had even talked with my dad, about his wishes and the things he wanted. I'm often told that people make plans for stuff ahead of time so they don't have to "wing it" when "it" hits the proverbial fan (or something like that). I couldn't agree more - especially now. In my life, I need people who can plan things around me because I can't see ahead of me past my own nose. My wife is one of those people. She makes a plan and works it. I often go with her plan because I don't have one. When the time came and Dad died, composure went out the window. If not for the people around me, who were walking through that with me, I honestly don't think I could have made it.
I think we all learned something in 2011. For me, I learned about being present in the now (as my wife often says). I need to be loving and involved with those I love the most now. I can't expect to get back to someone or something later. They could be gone without a moment's notice. I may not get it right, but I'm going to work at it through this coming year.
So, with that, at midnight tonight, wherever I am, I will sing the words of that old song. I hope you get the opportunity, too:
I read an online post by another friend a few days ago that said 2011 was a hard year. I couldn't agree more. That same friend and I, along with possibly hundreds of others, will be saying goodbye to another old, mutual friend later today. She was one of many this year who left this world far too soon. I think losing so many friends this year - in particular - made 2011 so hard.
I've written a lot about losing my dad this year. Writing about things I've experienced has always been a sort of therapy for me over the years. Thanks to Facebook, I've been able to bring my therapy to a wider audience (that was intended as a joke). In recent years, I've been too busy to write about what I've had on my mind. I'm not sure whether it has been about having enough time or being unable to get everything in order to write it. Over this Christmas Break, I've had time to go back and read a few things I wrote - back when I had time to write a lot. It's funny actually. I thought I had a grasp on things back then. Those times were really different.
The truth is I don't think anything could have prepared me (us) for what 2011 would bring. In my case, I had tried before to prepare myself for what I would do if something were to happen to my dad, for instance. I didn't have any idea what that would look like. I had been over it a few times in my head. I had even talked with my dad, about his wishes and the things he wanted. I'm often told that people make plans for stuff ahead of time so they don't have to "wing it" when "it" hits the proverbial fan (or something like that). I couldn't agree more - especially now. In my life, I need people who can plan things around me because I can't see ahead of me past my own nose. My wife is one of those people. She makes a plan and works it. I often go with her plan because I don't have one. When the time came and Dad died, composure went out the window. If not for the people around me, who were walking through that with me, I honestly don't think I could have made it.
I think we all learned something in 2011. For me, I learned about being present in the now (as my wife often says). I need to be loving and involved with those I love the most now. I can't expect to get back to someone or something later. They could be gone without a moment's notice. I may not get it right, but I'm going to work at it through this coming year.
So, with that, at midnight tonight, wherever I am, I will sing the words of that old song. I hope you get the opportunity, too:
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne ?
and never brought to mind ?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne ?
- CHORUS:
- For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we'll take a cup of kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.
So many things changed in 2011. It's almost like 2012 will be a different world. It will be for a lot of people. So many things seem to hang in the balance in the coming year. 2012 is important for a lot of reasons. It's almost like we need a break so we can get ready for it. But, nonetheless...here it comes. (It's almost 2012 in Australia.) Happy New Year, everyone!
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
All Grown Up Overnight
I started this blog entry a few days after Dad's funeral. For whatever reason I didn't finish it then. But, reading it again now, it's probably as complete at it needs to be.
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It's funny how certain things in this life call a person out to grow up and take responsibility. Around my folks and my brother and sister, I've always felt like I was still a kid - even after I've married and have a family. The past couple of years have forced me out of that kind of thinking - especially the events of the week.
When we first talked to Mom and Dad about moving from Malakoff, TX to Conroe, I was thinking about caring for my parents and ensuring that they were not alone for as long as we possibly could. My biggest fear used to be getting a phone call from someone who would tell me that one of my parents had suddenly died. Having them in an apartment off our patio would be a very good thing, for us and them, because we would all be in close proximity. No more long trips back and forth to their house. We'd all be in one place - together. It didn't take long before the new wore off and I realized that our roles had changed. I was becoming more of a caretaker and my parents needed to be cared for. This became so obvious to us toward the end of 2011 when both Mom and Dad both broke a hip and had to endure extensive rehabilitation to just be able to walk. I wasn't quite prepared for that, but somehow we survived. It had been bearable because we were all together.
Since they've been here, we've had to take away the car keys from my mother. Talk about awkward! For crying out loud - I remember when I was threatened with losing my privileges to drive, for coming home late - one too many times. We realized that taking away driving privileges from them meant that we had to pick up the responsibility to take Mom and Dad wherever they needed to go. I obviously didn't think about that, either, but it was what we needed to do.
The past several days have been about accepting responsibility and growing up for me. Family members have died in our family before. Someone else took care of the details. This time, it was my responsibility. That responsibility came with a lot of things. For starters, I've been coming to grips with my own mortality and that of my family - especially Mom and Dad.
I've never been with someone as they died. I've lost friends who died prematurely, but I wasn't there when it happened. I've lost family members who were close to me, but again, I wasn't there. Now, I've watched plenty of movies where this character or that character died. I've heard the debate about how TV violence makes a person insensitive to real violence and I've often wondered, if what they say is true, if I would know the difference. There was no question for me last Tuesday evening. At the moment of truth, I knew what was happening and was terrified.
I'm proud that I can say I was there when Haynes passed from this life to the next. But, I was scared and out of my mind during those moments. At first I didn't know what to do. I was trying to drive to the hospital and hitting Haynes in the chest with my fist, hoping that I could do something to help him. Then, I realized that I was completely helpless. Jessie was trying to keep him from falling forward in the seat while I zigged and zagged toward the Emergency Room. It seemed like an eternity before we arrived at our destination. I drove up to the ER entrance like a madman. Jumped out and ran around the car to get Dad out. I know now that when I pulled him out of the car, he was already a lifeless shell. With the help of kind bystander, we got Dad out of the car and into his wheelchair and rushed him inside. The ER techs went right to work and did the best they could, but it was too late.
I never really stopped to think about what happened when someone died at a hospital, much less anywhere else before Tuesday night. As far as I knew, someone else had taken care of that. But, this wasn't someone or somewhere else. This is where we were. Some 16 years before, Dad told me, before undergoing a routine medical procedure, that if something happened to him that I needed to take care of my mother. That's what a man did. But, now there was a dilemma. Dad had a custom that he would not view the body of the deceased. I never really talked to him about it, but I figured that he wanted to remember that friend or relative as they were when they were alive and not dead. I started observing this custom myself after Dad's brother, Herbert, passed away in 1990. He was my hero as a boy. He was a giant to me and had a personality that was larger than life. Dad wanted to remember him as he had known him growing up. I wanted to remember him as I had as a young man. With a very few exceptions, I have kept this custom since. So how do I reconcile that and fulfill my responsibilities to both my mother and dad? I realized I couldn't and sucked it up. It took a few minutes to adjust to what was happening, but eventually it wasn't as hard to do as I thought. I like to think that God gave me the strength to be there with my mother and my Dad's remains.
My dad's body was in a curtain-partitioned room in the ER, lying on a gurney. I want to think now that I became a man in that moment. But, I know I didn't do it alone. Mom and Dad's pastor, Lloyd Maddoux, was there with us. Soon, my friends, Raymond and Bobby McDonald and Frank Jackson were there, along with me and my mom. They stayed to the bitter end, when the mortician arrived to pick up Dad's body to take to a local funeral home for the night.
The mortician gave us a final few moments to spend with Dad's body before he would be taken away. Frank asked to pray with Mom and I. After a short, sweet prayer, he started singing the little chorus "surely the presence of the Lord is in this place" with us. It seemed that in that moment all the fear, anxiety, sorrow and concern we'd felt for Dad just melted away. God met us there and had been with us the entire time. We had been where we needed to be, as uncomfortable a place as it had been and it was now a sanctuary, as holy as any church that had ever been built.
More importantly, when my mother and I drove away from the hospital in the wee hours of the next morning, I was no longer a boy in my own mind. I had grown into being a man.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Remembering September 11th
I remember what I was doing 10 years ago when I first heard about the September 11th attacks. I was at work listening to the radio at my desk, when I heard a news announcement "there's a report of a plane flying into one of the World Trade Center towers." The guy said something about how a plane once flew into the Empire State Building during World War II so no one should be alarmed. But, within a few minutes the guy said "wait a second, there's another report of another plane..." I got up and went to our conference room and turned on the TV. They were already showing the first video released of a plane hitting one of the towers. A few minutes later the video of the second plane hitting the other tower started running. I went to get my boss and other co-workers to show them what I was watching. The rest of the day is a blur now.
As I look back, I like to think about the news of heroic feats that were the work of ordinary Americans. The actions of those in local offices and positions of government: police officers, firefighters and regular citizens risked their lives to save the lives of others. These stories were rays of hope amid hour after hour of bad news. The truth is that government failed all of us that day. Ordinary Americans made the difference. Remember them this weekend.
As I look back, I like to think about the news of heroic feats that were the work of ordinary Americans. The actions of those in local offices and positions of government: police officers, firefighters and regular citizens risked their lives to save the lives of others. These stories were rays of hope amid hour after hour of bad news. The truth is that government failed all of us that day. Ordinary Americans made the difference. Remember them this weekend.
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Blessed
The Christmas Season has snuck up on me this year. That's right, it caught me by surprise. Just when I thought it was safe to plan to participate in all the holiday goings-on in our neighborhood and with our church, the unexpected happened. Many of my friends have followed our travails on Facebook. Who could imagine that both parents could injure themselves as severely as mine have this year?! I definitely didn't see this coming when I talked to my parents about moving into the apartment on our patio almost 2 years ago. In the midst of those troubles, time and circumstances have waited on no one. But, as sure as I'm sitting here, in spite of the difficulties, I'm glad my parents agreed to join us.
Please don't misunderstand. I'm not pouting about our misfortune. When I began down the "woe is me" road, I quickly remembered getting the phone call in May of 2009. The caller told me that my mother was in a car accident 3 hours away. Due to previous commitments, I would have to wait for 3 or 4 tortured hours later to go to her side. Talk about helpless...Now, after what we've experienced in the past 5 weeks, I'm so glad that when both parents recently fell injured, someone from our family was at their side within minutes to provide comfort until help arrived. I wouldn't trade that for anything - and I mean that.
Still, tonight, as I wait for the laundry cycle to finish and I hope that I will eventually be able to fall asleep, I think about our circumstances as well as those of others we know who are also experiencing difficult times. I remember a dear friend of our family who is deathly ill. Their family is caring for her, as they have for the several past months. Another co-worker is at the side of a parent who is being treated for cancer a whole state away. At the same time, my dear niece welcomed - at long last - the birth of her third child yesterday morning. Many more friends and acquaintances are coping tonight with grief, sadness and joys that are beyond my capacity to grasp or comprehend. Our family and I face uncertainty with my wife's employment as we race toward a new year. What will any of us do?
In spite of all these circumstances, I can't help but feel how incredibly blessed we are.
In the book of Lamentations, the Prophet Jeremiah writes these words in the midst of believable destruction, suffering and pain:
I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet, this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.
I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him."
Lamentations 3:19-24
As the saying goes "God is good, all the time; All the time, God is good." I realize that what I've written may be considered offensive or be dismissed by some of my friends. That is not my intent in writing.
It is my hope to call to mind all those little blessing that are truly everywhere and are so easily overlooked. I want to take the time to appreciate what I see unfolding around me.
I want to express the deep hope that I have that, regardless of what takes place in 2011, we're not in this thing alone. There are people who care who are within arm's reach. We often need to let them know that WE need their help.
And finally, I want to remind myself - and others - that no matter how bad circumstances may seem, WE can make it.
We can. We are blessed.
Please don't misunderstand. I'm not pouting about our misfortune. When I began down the "woe is me" road, I quickly remembered getting the phone call in May of 2009. The caller told me that my mother was in a car accident 3 hours away. Due to previous commitments, I would have to wait for 3 or 4 tortured hours later to go to her side. Talk about helpless...Now, after what we've experienced in the past 5 weeks, I'm so glad that when both parents recently fell injured, someone from our family was at their side within minutes to provide comfort until help arrived. I wouldn't trade that for anything - and I mean that.
Still, tonight, as I wait for the laundry cycle to finish and I hope that I will eventually be able to fall asleep, I think about our circumstances as well as those of others we know who are also experiencing difficult times. I remember a dear friend of our family who is deathly ill. Their family is caring for her, as they have for the several past months. Another co-worker is at the side of a parent who is being treated for cancer a whole state away. At the same time, my dear niece welcomed - at long last - the birth of her third child yesterday morning. Many more friends and acquaintances are coping tonight with grief, sadness and joys that are beyond my capacity to grasp or comprehend. Our family and I face uncertainty with my wife's employment as we race toward a new year. What will any of us do?
In spite of all these circumstances, I can't help but feel how incredibly blessed we are.
In the book of Lamentations, the Prophet Jeremiah writes these words in the midst of believable destruction, suffering and pain:
I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet, this I call to mind and therefore I have hope:
Because of the Lord's great love we are not consumed, for His compassions never fail.
They are new every morning; great is Your faithfulness.
I say to myself, "The Lord is my portion; therefore I will wait for Him."
Lamentations 3:19-24
As the saying goes "God is good, all the time; All the time, God is good." I realize that what I've written may be considered offensive or be dismissed by some of my friends. That is not my intent in writing.
It is my hope to call to mind all those little blessing that are truly everywhere and are so easily overlooked. I want to take the time to appreciate what I see unfolding around me.
I want to express the deep hope that I have that, regardless of what takes place in 2011, we're not in this thing alone. There are people who care who are within arm's reach. We often need to let them know that WE need their help.
And finally, I want to remind myself - and others - that no matter how bad circumstances may seem, WE can make it.
We can. We are blessed.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Proud Beyond Words
(This was started on Saturday, December 11, 2010. The events of the ensuing week prevented its completion.)
Today, my son became a man. It is Christopher's 18th birthday, which is a landmark in every young man's life. As I look forward to what he will become, I am filled with memories of who he is and who I have known him to be.
As much as I want this day to be special, our circumstances are convoluted. His grandfather was admitted to the hospital a few hours ago. His grandmother is in recovery from a fall a few weeks back. As I sit here writing this, he is en route with his sisters so they can participate in the Christmas Parade in Montgomery, TX. It may not seem like much. But I have to ask: how many older siblings can be trusted with the absolute care of the younger ones? Chris takes his two sisters to and from school every day. And he's always been like that. I'm writing this because I've noticed and I want him to know it is not taken lightly.
As am reflecting today, I also remember another of his birthdays, 13 years ago in fact. We celebrated that birthday just after getting Chris home from the hospital. He had been rushed to the hospital before Thanksgiving that year with pneumonia and, as we discovered later, pleurisy. He was possibly near death and in a terribly weakened state. It was his 3rd bout with pneumonia/bronchitis in his 5 years and just never seemed to get rid of it each time. He was the super trooper throughout the experience, though. He didn't complain, was calm and pleasant throughout the ordeal. It was his demeanor which likely contributed to the condition getting to such and advanced stage. We just didn't know how bad it all was until he got to the hospital. With the help of the state-of-the-art technology at the time and medication, "Mister Christer" made a full recovery and overcame the physical ailments that he had not been able to before. For all who know him now, it is obvious he made a full recovery.
Ever since Chris was born, I was ever proud of him. But, when he was sitting there on the elk skin rug on the floor of my sister's house, I wanted him to grow up so I could play with him. I wanted him to get big enough to do stuff with me. It didn't take Chris long at all. When he was big enough to wear a baseball glove, I tried to get him to play catch with me, but he never cared much for the game, though. He wasn't much for anybody throwing hard balls at him. He did get interested in soccer and I became his coach. We learned the sport together. After 2 seasons, he pretty much had enough. After all, soccer players are not necessarily big kids and Chris had become a big kid and he didn't care for all the running that was involved.
Jr High rolled around and Chris discovered tackle football. He knew I had played, as well as his namesake, his 1st cousin, Chris Smith. During the Christmas Holidays before he started the 7th Grade, he and "Big Chris" talked about playing football. It was during that college bowl season and the NFL Playoffs that he started watching games with me so he could understand it. As the school year and football season approached, we went to the high school practice fields to run wind sprints to start conditioning. Chris, ever being the good sport, didn't complain much. I guess it was better than doing it alone. For those who know him, he's never been the aggressive type and football didn't necessarily suit him. He's sort of the "Ferdinand The Bull" among other bulls. He ended up playing for 3 seasons. In 7th grade, he tackled a kid and broke his arm and soon was given the nick-name "Knox-em Out." That nick-name followed him on into high school. During his Freshman year he hurt his back and endured the injury for several weeks before his mother and I sought medical attention effectively ended his season. I think it was that point where he began considering his future. Football would involve a lot of pain and Chris decided to look into his options.
During Jr High, Chris had taken interest in playing guitar, which is like saying Michelangelo picked up his first paintbrush. I gave him my Yamaha dreadnought acoustic guitar and he began playing it day and night. But, his musical abilities began to show long before he ever took interest in the instrument.
At the tender age of 3, his mother and I were youth pastors at a church in Kaufman, TX. One night, after church services were over, I was in my office and heard the sound of someone playing the drums from the auditorium. I didn't pay it any mind because usually any number of the teenagers in the church would go in there and play the drums when no one else was around. As I finished up in my office, I realized that I didn't know where Chris was and started looking around. It never occurred to me to check the auditorium. After checking everywhere else, I walked in to see my 3 year-old son teetering on the over-sized drum throne and drum kit. When he saw me, he smiled and stopped playing to say "Look, Daddy, I playin' da' drums!"
Now, my son is big enough to do things with. We've played in bands together, alternating between the two of us leading the band and playing guitar and bass. I truly enjoy getting to share the stage with him. He is so easy to play with and and he is a delight work with as a musician. I unequivocally can say that he is much more talented than I am musically and I can only imagine what he will become. It almost seems unfair now that when I am so thoroughly enjoying doing the things we do together that he is considering leaving home to go explore the opportunities that await him in the wide, wide world. But, I realize we have been preparing for this from the first time I saw him in the delivery room in Victoria, Texas 18 years ago.
I'm so thankful to God for giving us such a wonderful son. The truth is it has nothing to do with his incredible talents. He is an incredible human being. I give his mother credit for that. I'm just glad he has my last name. Love you, Chris!
Today, my son became a man. It is Christopher's 18th birthday, which is a landmark in every young man's life. As I look forward to what he will become, I am filled with memories of who he is and who I have known him to be.
As much as I want this day to be special, our circumstances are convoluted. His grandfather was admitted to the hospital a few hours ago. His grandmother is in recovery from a fall a few weeks back. As I sit here writing this, he is en route with his sisters so they can participate in the Christmas Parade in Montgomery, TX. It may not seem like much. But I have to ask: how many older siblings can be trusted with the absolute care of the younger ones? Chris takes his two sisters to and from school every day. And he's always been like that. I'm writing this because I've noticed and I want him to know it is not taken lightly.
As am reflecting today, I also remember another of his birthdays, 13 years ago in fact. We celebrated that birthday just after getting Chris home from the hospital. He had been rushed to the hospital before Thanksgiving that year with pneumonia and, as we discovered later, pleurisy. He was possibly near death and in a terribly weakened state. It was his 3rd bout with pneumonia/bronchitis in his 5 years and just never seemed to get rid of it each time. He was the super trooper throughout the experience, though. He didn't complain, was calm and pleasant throughout the ordeal. It was his demeanor which likely contributed to the condition getting to such and advanced stage. We just didn't know how bad it all was until he got to the hospital. With the help of the state-of-the-art technology at the time and medication, "Mister Christer" made a full recovery and overcame the physical ailments that he had not been able to before. For all who know him now, it is obvious he made a full recovery.
Ever since Chris was born, I was ever proud of him. But, when he was sitting there on the elk skin rug on the floor of my sister's house, I wanted him to grow up so I could play with him. I wanted him to get big enough to do stuff with me. It didn't take Chris long at all. When he was big enough to wear a baseball glove, I tried to get him to play catch with me, but he never cared much for the game, though. He wasn't much for anybody throwing hard balls at him. He did get interested in soccer and I became his coach. We learned the sport together. After 2 seasons, he pretty much had enough. After all, soccer players are not necessarily big kids and Chris had become a big kid and he didn't care for all the running that was involved.
Jr High rolled around and Chris discovered tackle football. He knew I had played, as well as his namesake, his 1st cousin, Chris Smith. During the Christmas Holidays before he started the 7th Grade, he and "Big Chris" talked about playing football. It was during that college bowl season and the NFL Playoffs that he started watching games with me so he could understand it. As the school year and football season approached, we went to the high school practice fields to run wind sprints to start conditioning. Chris, ever being the good sport, didn't complain much. I guess it was better than doing it alone. For those who know him, he's never been the aggressive type and football didn't necessarily suit him. He's sort of the "Ferdinand The Bull" among other bulls. He ended up playing for 3 seasons. In 7th grade, he tackled a kid and broke his arm and soon was given the nick-name "Knox-em Out." That nick-name followed him on into high school. During his Freshman year he hurt his back and endured the injury for several weeks before his mother and I sought medical attention effectively ended his season. I think it was that point where he began considering his future. Football would involve a lot of pain and Chris decided to look into his options.
During Jr High, Chris had taken interest in playing guitar, which is like saying Michelangelo picked up his first paintbrush. I gave him my Yamaha dreadnought acoustic guitar and he began playing it day and night. But, his musical abilities began to show long before he ever took interest in the instrument.
At the tender age of 3, his mother and I were youth pastors at a church in Kaufman, TX. One night, after church services were over, I was in my office and heard the sound of someone playing the drums from the auditorium. I didn't pay it any mind because usually any number of the teenagers in the church would go in there and play the drums when no one else was around. As I finished up in my office, I realized that I didn't know where Chris was and started looking around. It never occurred to me to check the auditorium. After checking everywhere else, I walked in to see my 3 year-old son teetering on the over-sized drum throne and drum kit. When he saw me, he smiled and stopped playing to say "Look, Daddy, I playin' da' drums!"
Now, my son is big enough to do things with. We've played in bands together, alternating between the two of us leading the band and playing guitar and bass. I truly enjoy getting to share the stage with him. He is so easy to play with and and he is a delight work with as a musician. I unequivocally can say that he is much more talented than I am musically and I can only imagine what he will become. It almost seems unfair now that when I am so thoroughly enjoying doing the things we do together that he is considering leaving home to go explore the opportunities that await him in the wide, wide world. But, I realize we have been preparing for this from the first time I saw him in the delivery room in Victoria, Texas 18 years ago.
I'm so thankful to God for giving us such a wonderful son. The truth is it has nothing to do with his incredible talents. He is an incredible human being. I give his mother credit for that. I'm just glad he has my last name. Love you, Chris!
Wednesday, December 01, 2010
Remembering A Good Friend
I heard just a few minutes ago that an old, dear friend of ours passed away suddenly today. His name was Ed Courtney. My wife and I met Ed several years ago while we were youth pastors at Southside Assembly of God in Jackson, Mississippi. When I was hired, I was young and green and didn't know anything about being a paid church staff member. I learned a lot of difficult lessons and when it was all over, there were a few people that we managed to stay in touch with in the years that followed. Ed and his wife, Syble, were two of those few people. We've been able to keep track with them through the years as they traveled the globe as missionaries and allowed us to read of their adventures online. I wish I could say that I knew Ed longer than just the short time that we lived in Mississippi. But, God had other plans. However, as I'm grappling with the news of Ed's untimely passing, there is one life-changing encounter that Ed participated in with Danelle and me that probably no one - possibly Ed included - ever knew about.
In the fall of 1997, my wife and I were looking for direction and answers. We had been youth pastors in Mississippi from 1993-95 and we then returned to Texas to be on staff at First Assembly of God, in Kaufman, Texas. We were on staff there for 15 months before I resigned my position and returned to Malakoff, with my family, to live with my parents. My wife and I had 2 small children and were expecting our 3rd. We were in debt up to our eyes, we were emotional basket-cases and our marriage was in shambles. What were we to do? Where would we go? We had no idea.
About this time, I heard about a revival that was going on in Florida. It started in 1995 and was still meeting nightly. I had spoken to others who had been to this revival and it had made an impact on them and became convinced that I had to go and experience it for myself. My wife, being the good wife she is, she tried to be supportive. But, it was clear that taking a trip from Texas to Florida and back was probably not in our best financial interests. She tried to dissuade me, but I was convinced that we needed to go. So, she reluctantly went along with me.
We arrived in Florida on a Friday evening. We checked in our hotel and then went to the church service that night. We saw some crazy stuff. But, that's what we came to Florida for. After the service, we went back to our room got some sleep and prepared for the next day. While in the parking lot, we ran into our friend, Ed Courtney. He had come in from Jackson to catch the Saturday night and Sunday morning services. Ed had attended many of these services and was quite familiar with the schedule. After the Saturday services, we went and grabbed a bite to eat. Over dinner, Ed talked about the things that were going on in the church he was attending, River of Life, back in Jackson, MS. We discussed our plans and told him we'd be going back through Jackson on our way home. Ed asked us if we'd be interested in stopping by the church services at ROL. I was more interested in what was going on in Florida, but my wife told him we'd try to make it by there on our way. The next morning, we attended the morning service at the church in Florida with Ed. After it was over, we followed him to Jackson and went to the Sunday night service at ROL.
At River of Life that night, they had a special speaker, a missionary to Poland. He ministered to orphans who were released from Polish orphanages and had nowhere to go. He told his story and then offered to pray for anyone present who wanted any kind of special prayer. In the course of praying for people, he asked Danelle and me if we would let him pray for us. In the course of his prayer, he told us "you are going to experience a new beginning. God is going to start showing you things, what to do and what not to do." Those words stuck with us and carried us back to Texas the next day and the 13 years since. Within a month of returning from Florida, I took a job in Houston which marked a clear change in direction in my life and family.
Now, as I'm sitting here thinking of that weekend in Florida, it wasn't the trip to Florida and the revival that really made an impact on me. It in was that service in Mississippi that made the difference. In such a small way, I like to think Ed was responsible for that.
I wish I could tell this personally to Ed...I know I'll get to at some point...thanks for spending that weekend with us in Florida. You probably never knew it made such a difference for us, but it did.
In the fall of 1997, my wife and I were looking for direction and answers. We had been youth pastors in Mississippi from 1993-95 and we then returned to Texas to be on staff at First Assembly of God, in Kaufman, Texas. We were on staff there for 15 months before I resigned my position and returned to Malakoff, with my family, to live with my parents. My wife and I had 2 small children and were expecting our 3rd. We were in debt up to our eyes, we were emotional basket-cases and our marriage was in shambles. What were we to do? Where would we go? We had no idea.
About this time, I heard about a revival that was going on in Florida. It started in 1995 and was still meeting nightly. I had spoken to others who had been to this revival and it had made an impact on them and became convinced that I had to go and experience it for myself. My wife, being the good wife she is, she tried to be supportive. But, it was clear that taking a trip from Texas to Florida and back was probably not in our best financial interests. She tried to dissuade me, but I was convinced that we needed to go. So, she reluctantly went along with me.
We arrived in Florida on a Friday evening. We checked in our hotel and then went to the church service that night. We saw some crazy stuff. But, that's what we came to Florida for. After the service, we went back to our room got some sleep and prepared for the next day. While in the parking lot, we ran into our friend, Ed Courtney. He had come in from Jackson to catch the Saturday night and Sunday morning services. Ed had attended many of these services and was quite familiar with the schedule. After the Saturday services, we went and grabbed a bite to eat. Over dinner, Ed talked about the things that were going on in the church he was attending, River of Life, back in Jackson, MS. We discussed our plans and told him we'd be going back through Jackson on our way home. Ed asked us if we'd be interested in stopping by the church services at ROL. I was more interested in what was going on in Florida, but my wife told him we'd try to make it by there on our way. The next morning, we attended the morning service at the church in Florida with Ed. After it was over, we followed him to Jackson and went to the Sunday night service at ROL.
At River of Life that night, they had a special speaker, a missionary to Poland. He ministered to orphans who were released from Polish orphanages and had nowhere to go. He told his story and then offered to pray for anyone present who wanted any kind of special prayer. In the course of praying for people, he asked Danelle and me if we would let him pray for us. In the course of his prayer, he told us "you are going to experience a new beginning. God is going to start showing you things, what to do and what not to do." Those words stuck with us and carried us back to Texas the next day and the 13 years since. Within a month of returning from Florida, I took a job in Houston which marked a clear change in direction in my life and family.
Now, as I'm sitting here thinking of that weekend in Florida, it wasn't the trip to Florida and the revival that really made an impact on me. It in was that service in Mississippi that made the difference. In such a small way, I like to think Ed was responsible for that.
I wish I could tell this personally to Ed...I know I'll get to at some point...thanks for spending that weekend with us in Florida. You probably never knew it made such a difference for us, but it did.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Welcome to the Surreal Life
I've heard for most of my life about how everyone in the United States has been over-stimulated in regard to violence. So much so that we might not be able to tell the difference between reality and fantasy. At least that was the argument whenever some kid shot his childhood friend, sibling or some other party seemingly without remorse in the news. "They simply couldn't tell the difference between reality and fantasy." There was a lot of this kind of talk when our country was experiencing the rash of school shootings during the late 90's and earlier this decade. I'm sure we all can recall hearing that talk at some time or other, probably more than once. Having heard the same thing most of my life, I don't know that I have an accurate point of reference to even compare the two. Unfortunately, I do now.
Yesterday evening, on our way to the grocery store, while waiting our turn at the traffic light outside our neighborhood, a jogger attempted to cross a major roadway. He was crossing at a time when the light changes to allow the cars in the turning lane to turn, stopping the flow of traffic in one direction and letting it continue in the other. I'm guessing now that the runner had never been this direction before and wasn't aware of how the traffic signals worked at this intersection. All I remember is hearing the sound of a collision and screeching brakes. I looked up to see the image of this young man in the air, next to a moving vehicle, then seeing him land and sliding to a stop in the gutter. Life changed for everyone at that corner in that brief moment.
I was thinking that this young man had fallen out of the bed of a pickup that just passed. My wife screamed "that boy was just hit by that car!" We pulled over to the parking lot at the corner and ran to his side. The boy was lying in the gutter face down and blood was clearly on his head and arms. He was breathing very labored breaths and his legs were shaking. In that second I realized, as surreal as the circumstances were, that what I was seeing was real.
Other people came to his aid as we did, calling 911, trying to comfort him as much as possible without moving him. Many people prayed openly and out loud, others told the boy to hang on, help was coming. Within minutes, possibly the fastest response I have ever seen, the Conroe Police and Fire Departments were on there administering aid. As they left, they told the crowd that gathered that the young man appeared to have good vitals, no broken bones and was regaining consciousness. Police questioned many of the people standing around to find those who were eye witnesses to find out exactly what had happened. Fortunately there was no shortage of witnesses. Unfortunately, the runner had no identification and no one present knew who he was. Someone mentioned as he was being loaded into the ambulance that his parents had no idea what had happened to their son. All I could think of was how this boy was literally all alone.
While all everything was going on at the corner, a mere 100 yards away was another scene. The crowd saw no sign of the driver who had hit the young man and assumed they had left the scene. Sentiment was rising against this person. "This was a hit and run" someone said. Another person said they saw the car turn into the parking lot next door. I looked over and could see the car. So, I walked to the parking lot and approached the vehicle. The windshield was caved in, lights on and engine running. The driver was shaking and in tears. Within moments, the police were there questioning her. There police were trying to determine who was at fault. The vehicle that hit the young man had a green light and the right of way. (As of today, there was no story in the local paper, no word on who was at fault or how the young man was doing or where he was.)
After we left the scene of the accident and went on our way, my wife told me to write about what we had seen. I asked her "what can I say?" After describing what we saw yesterday evening, I can't help but think how quickly life changed from normal to surreal in a matter of seconds. The runner was getting some exercise. The driver was on the way home from work. We were going to the grocery store for crying out loud.
The truth is we lead very hectic lives. If you're like me, you're probably running late and often that pesky traffic signal, if it catches you, means the difference between being on time or being late. What does it matter if I rush through the signal to beat it? That's what was happening yesterday. After seeing that, it's a good idea that I slow down a bit. Or, better yet, get an earlier start. If you're like me and you wonder if you could tell the difference between reality and fantasy, take it from me, you can tell the difference, but you don't want to see it. As the commercial says, "Life comes at you fast...". It can change in a moments' notice and change drastically.
I'm not really sure how to end this blog entry. I know I've been changed as a result of this experience. I guess I hope that no one who will read this will ever have to experience anything like it...or worse, think that it can't happen to them.
Yesterday evening, on our way to the grocery store, while waiting our turn at the traffic light outside our neighborhood, a jogger attempted to cross a major roadway. He was crossing at a time when the light changes to allow the cars in the turning lane to turn, stopping the flow of traffic in one direction and letting it continue in the other. I'm guessing now that the runner had never been this direction before and wasn't aware of how the traffic signals worked at this intersection. All I remember is hearing the sound of a collision and screeching brakes. I looked up to see the image of this young man in the air, next to a moving vehicle, then seeing him land and sliding to a stop in the gutter. Life changed for everyone at that corner in that brief moment.
I was thinking that this young man had fallen out of the bed of a pickup that just passed. My wife screamed "that boy was just hit by that car!" We pulled over to the parking lot at the corner and ran to his side. The boy was lying in the gutter face down and blood was clearly on his head and arms. He was breathing very labored breaths and his legs were shaking. In that second I realized, as surreal as the circumstances were, that what I was seeing was real.
Other people came to his aid as we did, calling 911, trying to comfort him as much as possible without moving him. Many people prayed openly and out loud, others told the boy to hang on, help was coming. Within minutes, possibly the fastest response I have ever seen, the Conroe Police and Fire Departments were on there administering aid. As they left, they told the crowd that gathered that the young man appeared to have good vitals, no broken bones and was regaining consciousness. Police questioned many of the people standing around to find those who were eye witnesses to find out exactly what had happened. Fortunately there was no shortage of witnesses. Unfortunately, the runner had no identification and no one present knew who he was. Someone mentioned as he was being loaded into the ambulance that his parents had no idea what had happened to their son. All I could think of was how this boy was literally all alone.
While all everything was going on at the corner, a mere 100 yards away was another scene. The crowd saw no sign of the driver who had hit the young man and assumed they had left the scene. Sentiment was rising against this person. "This was a hit and run" someone said. Another person said they saw the car turn into the parking lot next door. I looked over and could see the car. So, I walked to the parking lot and approached the vehicle. The windshield was caved in, lights on and engine running. The driver was shaking and in tears. Within moments, the police were there questioning her. There police were trying to determine who was at fault. The vehicle that hit the young man had a green light and the right of way. (As of today, there was no story in the local paper, no word on who was at fault or how the young man was doing or where he was.)
After we left the scene of the accident and went on our way, my wife told me to write about what we had seen. I asked her "what can I say?" After describing what we saw yesterday evening, I can't help but think how quickly life changed from normal to surreal in a matter of seconds. The runner was getting some exercise. The driver was on the way home from work. We were going to the grocery store for crying out loud.
The truth is we lead very hectic lives. If you're like me, you're probably running late and often that pesky traffic signal, if it catches you, means the difference between being on time or being late. What does it matter if I rush through the signal to beat it? That's what was happening yesterday. After seeing that, it's a good idea that I slow down a bit. Or, better yet, get an earlier start. If you're like me and you wonder if you could tell the difference between reality and fantasy, take it from me, you can tell the difference, but you don't want to see it. As the commercial says, "Life comes at you fast...". It can change in a moments' notice and change drastically.
I'm not really sure how to end this blog entry. I know I've been changed as a result of this experience. I guess I hope that no one who will read this will ever have to experience anything like it...or worse, think that it can't happen to them.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
A Dangerous Trend
I've always liked the Bruce Springsteen song "Glory Days." When the song came out, I was still in high school, playing football and baseball. I knew then that when I would be, say 42 years old, I would talk about the "good 'ol days," just like Bruce depicts in the song. Inevitably, there is always a point that comes up in the story where I, or one of my buddies from back in the day will say "back in OUR day, we did such and such. And it wasn't like how they do today." No school like the old school. Get me in the right setting, I'll be glad to fill you in.
After some 10 years of playing football in junior high, high school and college, I had run the course and couldn't play the game anymore and was relegated to the sidelines. By then, my body was telling me it was time. I had often thought of becoming a football coach, but my career interests sent me in another direction. I would occasionally attend a game here or there, mostly homecoming in my home town, whenever I could take off in time to get there for the game. After several years away, now that my kids have gotten older, their interests in school brought me closer to the game again. I've always watched professional & college football on TV and even attended a few of those games here or there. That experience isn't the same - not even close! Now that I have two children in the Jr & Sr high school bands, I'm always at a football game it seems. That's not complaining, either. I hadn't realized, over the years, how much I missed the sights, sounds and the smells (Yes, SMELLS!) that accompany a high school football game. As I've often told my girls, since they got in band, Friday night football is often one of the highlights of school life. It's a community event unlike anything else. I think all of my children would agree.
One of the things I've noticed, since I've returned as a spectator of the high school game, how often players helmets come off during a game. Is this just me? In saying that, I'm not talking about when a player unsnaps the chin strap and takes their head gear off. No, I'm talking about where in the course of a play, the helmet comes off and the player is helmet-less, like this kid, until the end of the play. Just last Friday night, I saw a kid from our own Montgomery Bears lose his helmet in the course of a tackle. He was treated for an eye injury and did not return to action in the game (to my knowledge, he is OK and should play again this Friday night). Two other players also lost their helmets during the same game but did not sustain injury while doing so. Do a search for "gets helmet knocked off" on You Tube and you'll get some 430 hits. I'm sure there are more clips out there. I think this is possibly the worst I've seen.
According to Wikipedia, the 4-point chin strap (2 straps on either side of the helmet, that attach in front and behind the ear hole) became a requirement in 1976 for collegiate football. High school and youth leagues soon followed suit. It took a while for this to catch on at the pro level. In light of the recent interest and concerning the physical & psychological implications of concussions in professional football, the NFL now requires all players to wear 4-point chin straps to be fastened while on the field of play.
Back in the day, I remember seeing Brian Bosworth lose his helmet on more than one occasion when he was at the University of Oklahoma. When "the Boz" did it, it was a big deal. Love him or hate him, in college "the Boz" was a machine. [Pro football was another story (remember this? Watch this to see it in context, and at full speed.).] He really looked tough when he would lose his helmet and make a tackle. He always seemed to get his helmet knocked off and would come away with a bloody cut on the bridge of his nose or something. It just added to his persona. As I think about it, I don't remember it happening to anyone else.
In my 10 years of playing football, I never lost my helmet once. I particularly remember a time I would have loved for my helmet to have come off when it didn't. It was during a practice in college and I was running with the ball. I came through the line and one of my teammates on defense lunged at me and missed. But, as he went by, he reached out grabbed my face mask and pulled me over backwards. My chin strap held firm and my poor neck has never been the same. (Thanks, Tubby. I'll never forget you!) I digress...
If anyone is still reading this far, you might be asking "so, smart guy, what are you getting at? Why are you so fired up about kids and their football helmets coming off?" I'll tell you why...back in my day, we didn't have this kind of problem. Helmets stayed on, plain and simple. Though the game was just as violent, we didn't have to worry about sustaining massive external head injuries because our helmets might get dislodged during a play. It is very troubling to me because the game has in effect become more dangerous in recent years. Players are much bigger, faster and stronger than they were 10, 20 or 25 years ago. If anything, with all the bodies flying around, it's much more important for a kid to keep the helmet on their head now than ever before.
I think the reason this is happening is that chin strap button snaps are different today. If you played football back in the 70's, 80's or 90's, you remember them. Those old metal snaps that would rust, they were hard to unsnap and they would sometimes break off when they got old. When they got rusty, which usually would start happening about midway through a season, it would often take a flat head screw driver to remove them from a helmet. I would venture to say that the straps that are coming loose are the cheaper, plastic variety. Yes, they are cheaper and don't require a screw driver to take them off. But they don't stay fastened either. I think there's no place in football for plastic chin strap snaps and if they continue to be allowed, eventually someone is going to get hurt really bad. If you know somebody who plays football, find out what kind of chin strap they use. Encourage the coaches of the football teams in your area to make sure they use the metal snap buttons. It is such a small thing, but it could be a matter of life and death - really. It is definitely a serious safety issue.
After all, the whole point of a song like "Glory Days" is to live long enough to tell the tale - even if Bruce Springsteen says he doesn't care to listen.
After some 10 years of playing football in junior high, high school and college, I had run the course and couldn't play the game anymore and was relegated to the sidelines. By then, my body was telling me it was time. I had often thought of becoming a football coach, but my career interests sent me in another direction. I would occasionally attend a game here or there, mostly homecoming in my home town, whenever I could take off in time to get there for the game. After several years away, now that my kids have gotten older, their interests in school brought me closer to the game again. I've always watched professional & college football on TV and even attended a few of those games here or there. That experience isn't the same - not even close! Now that I have two children in the Jr & Sr high school bands, I'm always at a football game it seems. That's not complaining, either. I hadn't realized, over the years, how much I missed the sights, sounds and the smells (Yes, SMELLS!) that accompany a high school football game. As I've often told my girls, since they got in band, Friday night football is often one of the highlights of school life. It's a community event unlike anything else. I think all of my children would agree.
One of the things I've noticed, since I've returned as a spectator of the high school game, how often players helmets come off during a game. Is this just me? In saying that, I'm not talking about when a player unsnaps the chin strap and takes their head gear off. No, I'm talking about where in the course of a play, the helmet comes off and the player is helmet-less, like this kid, until the end of the play. Just last Friday night, I saw a kid from our own Montgomery Bears lose his helmet in the course of a tackle. He was treated for an eye injury and did not return to action in the game (to my knowledge, he is OK and should play again this Friday night). Two other players also lost their helmets during the same game but did not sustain injury while doing so. Do a search for "gets helmet knocked off" on You Tube and you'll get some 430 hits. I'm sure there are more clips out there. I think this is possibly the worst I've seen.
According to Wikipedia, the 4-point chin strap (2 straps on either side of the helmet, that attach in front and behind the ear hole) became a requirement in 1976 for collegiate football. High school and youth leagues soon followed suit. It took a while for this to catch on at the pro level. In light of the recent interest and concerning the physical & psychological implications of concussions in professional football, the NFL now requires all players to wear 4-point chin straps to be fastened while on the field of play.
Back in the day, I remember seeing Brian Bosworth lose his helmet on more than one occasion when he was at the University of Oklahoma. When "the Boz" did it, it was a big deal. Love him or hate him, in college "the Boz" was a machine. [Pro football was another story (remember this? Watch this to see it in context, and at full speed.).] He really looked tough when he would lose his helmet and make a tackle. He always seemed to get his helmet knocked off and would come away with a bloody cut on the bridge of his nose or something. It just added to his persona. As I think about it, I don't remember it happening to anyone else.
In my 10 years of playing football, I never lost my helmet once. I particularly remember a time I would have loved for my helmet to have come off when it didn't. It was during a practice in college and I was running with the ball. I came through the line and one of my teammates on defense lunged at me and missed. But, as he went by, he reached out grabbed my face mask and pulled me over backwards. My chin strap held firm and my poor neck has never been the same. (Thanks, Tubby. I'll never forget you!) I digress...
If anyone is still reading this far, you might be asking "so, smart guy, what are you getting at? Why are you so fired up about kids and their football helmets coming off?" I'll tell you why...back in my day, we didn't have this kind of problem. Helmets stayed on, plain and simple. Though the game was just as violent, we didn't have to worry about sustaining massive external head injuries because our helmets might get dislodged during a play. It is very troubling to me because the game has in effect become more dangerous in recent years. Players are much bigger, faster and stronger than they were 10, 20 or 25 years ago. If anything, with all the bodies flying around, it's much more important for a kid to keep the helmet on their head now than ever before.
I think the reason this is happening is that chin strap button snaps are different today. If you played football back in the 70's, 80's or 90's, you remember them. Those old metal snaps that would rust, they were hard to unsnap and they would sometimes break off when they got old. When they got rusty, which usually would start happening about midway through a season, it would often take a flat head screw driver to remove them from a helmet. I would venture to say that the straps that are coming loose are the cheaper, plastic variety. Yes, they are cheaper and don't require a screw driver to take them off. But they don't stay fastened either. I think there's no place in football for plastic chin strap snaps and if they continue to be allowed, eventually someone is going to get hurt really bad. If you know somebody who plays football, find out what kind of chin strap they use. Encourage the coaches of the football teams in your area to make sure they use the metal snap buttons. It is such a small thing, but it could be a matter of life and death - really. It is definitely a serious safety issue.
After all, the whole point of a song like "Glory Days" is to live long enough to tell the tale - even if Bruce Springsteen says he doesn't care to listen.
Friday, July 09, 2010
The Phenomenon of Pixar, Toy Story and Other Such Movies In My Little World
I recently saw the movie Toy Story 3 with my youngest daughter. She, along with her older brother and sister, don't know of life without the Toy Story franchise - like millions of children their age. Watching the movie was almost like reliving my childrens' collective childhoods within an hour and a half. Buzz and Woody, and the rest of the Toy Story toys, were involved in nearly every daily activity of my kids' lives for much of the past 15 or so years. They were involved in everything from bedtime, to meals, to potty training for our oldest child for crying out loud ("you don't want to mess up your Buzz and Woody underwear, do you?!"). We had all the plates, cups, clothes and, of course, the toys.
I distinctly remember a fantastic outing several years ago at Six Flags Over Texas when my son threw up on his Buzz and Woody shirt. That shirt was his favorite, which we had to wash 3 or 4 times a week because he wouldn't wear anything else. He was distraught that his shirt was dirty and wanted to go home. But the park had only been open for 45 minutes. We went to the bathroom to clean the shirt. When that didn't work, we stood on the bridge at Splash Water Falls (or whatever it's called today) so he could wash his shirt. The poor kid got pelted by a gigantic wave (smothered is probably more appropriate), but that shirt got clean enough so we could stay for the rest of the day. On the way home, his Buzz and Woody dolls sat in his lap for the drive and slept in his bed at home. That was how important those characters were in just one kid's life.
But, this wasn't just my kids' childhood. Children all over the world undoubtedly saw those movies, bought the toys and played make believe with them. For the longest time, the image of Buzz, Woody, Mr. Potato Head and others could be seen anywhere. Oddly enough, many of those same toys in the two previous movies (with the exception of Buzz & Woody) were in my own toy box, at one point in time or other. Particularly, there were others that I wanted but never got (I still want a set of Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots). There they were again, drumming up every memory possible of when those same toys entered my own life. They were alive!
I'm a little weird about movies. I like to read movie reviews before I watch any movie. (I want to know what other people are saying before I put down the big bucks to see a movie in a theater. I save the self-discovery for home video.) I read reviews extensively for this movie. I wanted this one to be fabulous, not be some knock-off sequel. One of the reviews I read beforehand said that this Toy Story movie covered some new emotional ground not seen in the previous movies. That is possibly the biggest understatement in showbiz within the past 2 decades. I wasn't prepared for this installment. I laughed. I cried. Then, I cried some more.
Without giving anything away, the toys find themselves at the end of the line with their owner, Andy, who is preparing to leave for college. Who could imagine the emotion from the perspective of a toy - the proverbial "fly on the wall" - in a kid's life?! That emotion takes a turn and makes that emotion connect with the viewer. It's not just the toys who are dealing with the changes of growing up. Everyone around them is having to cope, too. Suddenly, I began to see the parallels in my own life and I feeling all those same emotions first hand. That is HEAVY stuff for a kids' movie!
Everybody grows up and they have to cope with the process. Toy Story 3 depicts coping with growing up, which makes it such an incredibly gripping movie. Toy Story depicts an American life which could belong to anybody...me, you or the family next door. When a story does that, it's gone from being just a story to being a phenomenon. Pixar is a master of churning out those stories. What will they come up with next?!
So, if you haven't been to see Toy Story 3 yet, go. Just be sure to take along some Kleenex. You're going to need it.
I distinctly remember a fantastic outing several years ago at Six Flags Over Texas when my son threw up on his Buzz and Woody shirt. That shirt was his favorite, which we had to wash 3 or 4 times a week because he wouldn't wear anything else. He was distraught that his shirt was dirty and wanted to go home. But the park had only been open for 45 minutes. We went to the bathroom to clean the shirt. When that didn't work, we stood on the bridge at Splash Water Falls (or whatever it's called today) so he could wash his shirt. The poor kid got pelted by a gigantic wave (smothered is probably more appropriate), but that shirt got clean enough so we could stay for the rest of the day. On the way home, his Buzz and Woody dolls sat in his lap for the drive and slept in his bed at home. That was how important those characters were in just one kid's life.
But, this wasn't just my kids' childhood. Children all over the world undoubtedly saw those movies, bought the toys and played make believe with them. For the longest time, the image of Buzz, Woody, Mr. Potato Head and others could be seen anywhere. Oddly enough, many of those same toys in the two previous movies (with the exception of Buzz & Woody) were in my own toy box, at one point in time or other. Particularly, there were others that I wanted but never got (I still want a set of Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots). There they were again, drumming up every memory possible of when those same toys entered my own life. They were alive!
I'm a little weird about movies. I like to read movie reviews before I watch any movie. (I want to know what other people are saying before I put down the big bucks to see a movie in a theater. I save the self-discovery for home video.) I read reviews extensively for this movie. I wanted this one to be fabulous, not be some knock-off sequel. One of the reviews I read beforehand said that this Toy Story movie covered some new emotional ground not seen in the previous movies. That is possibly the biggest understatement in showbiz within the past 2 decades. I wasn't prepared for this installment. I laughed. I cried. Then, I cried some more.
Without giving anything away, the toys find themselves at the end of the line with their owner, Andy, who is preparing to leave for college. Who could imagine the emotion from the perspective of a toy - the proverbial "fly on the wall" - in a kid's life?! That emotion takes a turn and makes that emotion connect with the viewer. It's not just the toys who are dealing with the changes of growing up. Everyone around them is having to cope, too. Suddenly, I began to see the parallels in my own life and I feeling all those same emotions first hand. That is HEAVY stuff for a kids' movie!
Everybody grows up and they have to cope with the process. Toy Story 3 depicts coping with growing up, which makes it such an incredibly gripping movie. Toy Story depicts an American life which could belong to anybody...me, you or the family next door. When a story does that, it's gone from being just a story to being a phenomenon. Pixar is a master of churning out those stories. What will they come up with next?!
So, if you haven't been to see Toy Story 3 yet, go. Just be sure to take along some Kleenex. You're going to need it.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I Think I'd Rather Ride A Mule...
Last Saturday, my dad and I went to Washington DC on the 5th, and last, Lone Star Honor Flight. It was such a wonderful experience for both of us. I know I'll never forget it. I'm sure it meant a lot to my dad, too. He smiled the entire day - even when we were disembarquing at 2:15 AM. The volunteers did so much to make the entire trip and experience as meaningful as it was. They also went to great lengths to ensure the safety of the 115 veterans who were on the trip and sought to make everything as convenient as possible. However, there was one part of the experience that was inconvenient and quite a hassle, not just for my dad, but for every veteran on the trip...security screening at the airport.
I'm not a frequent flyer, so I was a little surprised at how involved the screening process was. Because of the shoe bomber, people now have to remove their shoes - in addition to taking off every piece of clothing or accessory that has metal in it (metal detectors are nothing new, but are just as much of a hassle). The screeners also have to go through a person's carry-on baggage. I carried my laptop on the trip and found out I had to remove my laptop and allow the screeners to go through it as well as my bag. No biggie - except I forgot a data cable crimper in my backpack. "You have a tool with handles in your bag." I forgot it was there. I had taken everything else out of my bag EXCEPT for that. I talked to the screener and was given the option of checking my soft-sided backpack along with my laptop. "Uh, no thanks. Go ahead and keep it." That cable crimper is now in a bin of contraband somewhere in the George HW Bush Airport in Houston. But, I understand. Because of a few wackos I'm being inconvenienced. That's the way it is. Somebody eventually ruins everything for everybody. And, in this case, I'm a young man and can handle such inconveniences. Many of the 115 veterans on the Honor Flight couldn't take it so well.
Picture this: 20 plus men in their 70s, 80s or 90s approaching the security check point in wheelchairs. "Empty your pockets and take off your shoes, belts and jewelry." These men are heroes and would never pose a threat to this great country. What striking irony!
The screeners proceded to check these men - who fought for the freedom of this great country on foreign soil - screening them as if they were potentially terrorists or criminals. It was an embarrassing sight. Many of the men in the wheelchairs had great difficulty standing on their own, which was why they were in the wheelchairs anyway. Ironic indeed.
In the case of my dad, he couldn't take his shoes off by himself and needed help putting them back on. As we were leaving the screening station, Dad said to me "I hope we don't have to do that again. I'd rather ride a mule than have to go through that." I told him "we're probably going to have to do it one more time, when we get ready for our return flight." Dad didn't like hearing that and I was sorry to have to tell him. And, just as before, the experience on the return trip didn't disappoint. Only now all the chair-bound men were exhausted after their excursion in Washington. The process seemed to last forever.
I know everyone is submitted to the same screens. Those with mobility issues seem to be inconvenienced the most. The TSA maintains that they are fair to every passenger because they check everyone the same way. I heard someone say in the course of being screened "I guess that's the price of freedom nowadays." That freedom seems cheap and flimsy, in light of what I saw later that day. An inscription at the Wall of Freedom inside the World War II Monument (A wall covered in a field of 4,000 stars that represent the 400,000 lives lost of US Servicemen) says "Here we mark the price of freedom." Quite ironic. The definition of freedom must have changed drastically in 65 years.
I am reminded of the words of Benjamin Franklin: "They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." When freedom is given away, it's extremely hard to get it back. Wars have been fought to do that very thing.
As I told my dad Saturday, "I'm sorry, Dad, but there's no mule handy. You're going to have to take off your shoes..."
I'm not a frequent flyer, so I was a little surprised at how involved the screening process was. Because of the shoe bomber, people now have to remove their shoes - in addition to taking off every piece of clothing or accessory that has metal in it (metal detectors are nothing new, but are just as much of a hassle). The screeners also have to go through a person's carry-on baggage. I carried my laptop on the trip and found out I had to remove my laptop and allow the screeners to go through it as well as my bag. No biggie - except I forgot a data cable crimper in my backpack. "You have a tool with handles in your bag." I forgot it was there. I had taken everything else out of my bag EXCEPT for that. I talked to the screener and was given the option of checking my soft-sided backpack along with my laptop. "Uh, no thanks. Go ahead and keep it." That cable crimper is now in a bin of contraband somewhere in the George HW Bush Airport in Houston. But, I understand. Because of a few wackos I'm being inconvenienced. That's the way it is. Somebody eventually ruins everything for everybody. And, in this case, I'm a young man and can handle such inconveniences. Many of the 115 veterans on the Honor Flight couldn't take it so well.
Picture this: 20 plus men in their 70s, 80s or 90s approaching the security check point in wheelchairs. "Empty your pockets and take off your shoes, belts and jewelry." These men are heroes and would never pose a threat to this great country. What striking irony!
The screeners proceded to check these men - who fought for the freedom of this great country on foreign soil - screening them as if they were potentially terrorists or criminals. It was an embarrassing sight. Many of the men in the wheelchairs had great difficulty standing on their own, which was why they were in the wheelchairs anyway. Ironic indeed.
In the case of my dad, he couldn't take his shoes off by himself and needed help putting them back on. As we were leaving the screening station, Dad said to me "I hope we don't have to do that again. I'd rather ride a mule than have to go through that." I told him "we're probably going to have to do it one more time, when we get ready for our return flight." Dad didn't like hearing that and I was sorry to have to tell him. And, just as before, the experience on the return trip didn't disappoint. Only now all the chair-bound men were exhausted after their excursion in Washington. The process seemed to last forever.
I know everyone is submitted to the same screens. Those with mobility issues seem to be inconvenienced the most. The TSA maintains that they are fair to every passenger because they check everyone the same way. I heard someone say in the course of being screened "I guess that's the price of freedom nowadays." That freedom seems cheap and flimsy, in light of what I saw later that day. An inscription at the Wall of Freedom inside the World War II Monument (A wall covered in a field of 4,000 stars that represent the 400,000 lives lost of US Servicemen) says "Here we mark the price of freedom." Quite ironic. The definition of freedom must have changed drastically in 65 years.
I am reminded of the words of Benjamin Franklin: "They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety." When freedom is given away, it's extremely hard to get it back. Wars have been fought to do that very thing.
As I told my dad Saturday, "I'm sorry, Dad, but there's no mule handy. You're going to have to take off your shoes..."
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