Give it up for our new Granddaughter!

Hannah Lynn Brown

April 26, 2009

7lbs. 1 oz.

Congratulations to Joel & Amber Brown

A chain-smoking co-worker told me an interesting story several decades ago.

Seems that ole’ Eddie had been smoking since he was about 15 years old. His cousin lit his first one for him out behind their Grandma’s barn and Eddie lit the rest for the next 19 years.

It wasn’t until his little eight-year old daughter tearfully begged him to quit smoking that ole’ Eddie finally threw away his cousin’s lighter for good. Quitting smoking is a great idea and fulfilling an eight-year old daughter’s wish is a grand one to say the least.

It is always good to stop something bad. But is it always bad to stop something good? Even when the good looks bad.

I know anytime we toss out the word “always” we leave ourselves wide open for someone to snicker and say, “What about when” or “What if?”

I have sat through enough Philosophy classes to know the noise of trying to define what “bad” is and “good” isn’t. And I know about that Latin word that sounds like Sonny Bono. And that it clearly defines what the “highest good” is for any and all situations of existence.

But I also know that sometimes in the development of something beautiful and good, that there is also the possiblity of long periods of that which our label maker would label as bad and ugly.

Doubt me?

Then just ask Walter Disney (I know he has passed) about his seven bankruptcies before Mickey Mouse ever cut the ribbon at Disney Land.

Or ask Tom Edison (I know he has passed too) about the ten’s of thousands of experiments that appeared to accomplish little if anything at all.

Or ask Babe Ruth (I know…) how many times he struck out in ratio to how many times he hit a home run.

Maybe that is why it has been said that, “Lack of results is not a good enough reason to quit.”

Unless maybe your eight-year old daughter tearfully presents and airtight case as to why you need to throw your cousin’s lighter away.

Have a great weekend!

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The school was hardly out of diapers when Mrs. Brown and I attended there. The college was born in 1968 and she hit the campus in the fall of ‘74. I have always kinda’ liked a little bit of attention when I show up someplace so I waited and enrolled in January of ‘75.

The place certainly made an impact on our lives because all three of our children have gone there. In fact, #27 on this year’s baseball team wouldn’t even exist to pitch anywhere if it wasn’t for this campus.

It’s kinda’ interesting to hear the kids talk (And complain) about some of the events and activities that we talked and I complained about. I really think that complaining about workloads and work days is just a college-age thing. Many semesters removed, I now see an angle that I didn’t see when I was a student there. 

I am not really sure how many rings the tree trunk must have before an activity changes its name to Tradition, but one tradition of our Alma mater is a day called, Blue-Green Day. 

Blue and green are the official colors of the University, so it just makes sense that the one day of the year set aside for intense care of the campus would be called….Blue-Green Day.

On this day all classes are canceled and almost all of the administrative offices are closed. The elderly answer the few phones that are left to ring and everybody under 90 puts on their work clothes and works their tails off beautifying the campus.

Professors work with students. Students work with administrators and it is rather amazing the amount of work that is accomplished in a very short period time.

Rumors always circulated that only the Professors were allowed to handle the shovels. Evidently the school’s insurance company was a little leery of students holding the shovel while the Professor who flunked him the semester before was standing beside an open hole.

If my memory serves me correctly, I think the day is capped off with a good ole’ cookout so everybody can talk about how sore they are going to be in the morning.

But I have a confession to make. One that I am not very proud of. In fact I think I am going to have to make this wrong right before I die. 

My confession is that I only volunteered one of the four years that I attended college there. I am not proud of that. It’s just at that stage of my development I chose to sleep in or go golfing instead of engaging in community.

Several weeks ago I drove to the campus to watch the baseball teams do battle. After the game I talked to Justin through the fence and we decided to go out to eat and take a couple of his buddies with us. They had to shower and change before we could go so I had some time to invest while I waited for them.

I decided to walk around the campus…..a very beautiful campus. I walked down one sidewalk and reminisced. I walked to the part of a sidewalk where I met Mrs. Brown when she was still Miss Dodds and I gave thanks.

It was a little warm on my walk so I sat on a bench to rest before I went down to pick up the hungry victors. And as I sat on the bench under a large shade tree, it dawned on me that I remember when that tree had been planted. And I also remembered that I wasn’t the one who did the digging. There is a good chance I was living my agenda when the hole was dug and the burlap bag was dropped into the ground.

And as I sat there I kinda’ wondered if it was even really right that I be sitting there. That maybe I shouldn’t borrow its shade. I even looked around to see if Campus Security was approaching me and going to tell me to move out into the sun’s hot rays. That I had not earned the right to sit in the tree’s shade because while others worked I didn’t and while they gave….I took.

But I was shown grace because nobody came and told me to leave. Even though I could stay my mind couldn’t help but wonder how much more meaningful those moments in the shade would have been if I had given and not taken.

Grace is a lot like a shade tree. It gives the most to those who deserve it the least.

Keyboard is closed today.

Taking a personal day! (Per my contract)

Thank You!

 

Few things are more enjoyable to my ears than the sounds from an excited child.

When Joel was about six or seven, I took him and his cousin (My nephew) to a professional baseball game. No, it wasn’t the Big League guys, but our home town has a Triple-A franchise which means the players at that level are simply one injury to someone and one phone call to them from the Majors. So at that level you are still seeing some very talented players.

Well, we got there early and dropped a hot dog on the ground and spilled a Coke or two before most people had even gotten’ off work. Kids don’t miss much and it didn’t take them long to notice that some of the players were signing autographs in the lower box seat area. They didn’t want left out so I said “yes” to their “can we’s” and minutes later they were in the middle of the action.

They caught on quickly and were hollering things like, “Mr. #27″ or “Mr. #15 could we please have your autograph?” “Would you please sign my program?” They were so excited I was afraid the Coke that they did manage to drink was going to end up on the ground as well.

The player (#27) would come to the rail, sign their program then they would hand it to me and I would read the name aloud. They would jump and scream with excitement as if I had read the name of Babe Ruth or Mickey Mantle.

The routine continued.

They would ask a player for an autograph…the player would sign….they would hand the program to me….I would announce his name and they would repeat the name several decibels louder.

I would say….Mike Stover. And they would shout….MIKE STOVER!!!!

I would say….Pat Tabler. And they would shout…..PAT TABLER!!!!

We did this pattern six, seven….maybe eight times. And they were loving it and I think the players were even kinda’ diggin’ our format.

But then they went and asked a fella’ who could throw a better curve ball than write in cursive. He signed….they handed it to me….and I strained and I squinted. I started to read, but stopped. I turned the program 45 degrees to my right and then 45 degrees to my left. Held it upside down. Strained and squinted some more then finally said, “I can’t read it” and at that moment one of the boys screamed at the top of his lungs….

“KENT REDA.”

In response I said, “No…..I can’t read it!”

The boys laughed. I laughed harder and the player slipped into the dugout as if he hadn’t heard.

There are some scratches and scribbles in all of our lives that for some reason we just can’t seem to make sense of. We have squinted and studied. Held the program up to the light and pulled it into the shade. And what we emphatically argued was a  “J” really turned out to be a ”G” and what we thought was a “T” was really an “I.” 

We have tried times….yes…countless times to decipher the scribbling, yet we still can’t get our arms around the concepts or fully understand what all the smears actually mean.

But instead of scolding the boys for asking or scolding the player for answering…..do you know what I think I am gonna’ do?

Next time I can’t translate the scratches and scribbles, I think I am just gonna’ sit back….drop a hot dog or two on the ground. Maybe even kick over a Coke and I am gonna’ enjoy the game and trust the answers we need will come to us exactly when we need them.

I know he is big enough to speak up for himself, but I don’t know exactly where we got the idea that God is a selfish God.

Maybe it’s because sometimes in the extreme anguish of loss we have heard …or we have said…”God took him” or “God wanted her for himself.” But I know from experience that broken hearts sometimes say things that just aren’t true and God doesn’t always seem to defend himself like I can.

I don’t mean to over step my boundaries here because I know he is big enough to speak up for himself. But I have reviewed his resume’ and I can’t find him being selfish anywhere on the page. In fact, the more I review it the more I believe he is a very generous God….a giving God. He doesn’t seem to have a selfish streak in him.

Maybe that is why I was sitting on the edge of my chair a few weeks ago when the fella’ speaking for God boldly said, “We satisfy ourselves with so much less than what God intends for us. He has so much more blessing for us than we experience.”

Evidently the fella’ speaking for God really believes that because he said it in front of 2,000 people and if it wasn’t the truth somebody in a crowd that size would certainly stand up and call him a liar.

And if he really believes that then I think I am gonna’ believe it too!

In a new way…..a fresh way. In an exciting way that causes me to live on the edge of my chair. Because the more I review his resume’…it doesn’t appear to me that he has a selfish streak in him.

Several years ago a man who attended church where we attended invited our family out to dinner.

Between me and you, I wasn’t too excited about the offer, but somehow I had gotten’ into my mind the hair-brained idea that it’s rude to say no and always more polite to say yes.

I didn’t know the man and his wife very well. They seemed “nice enough” and “sincere enough” and “safe enough.” Not that I was sitting in judgment of them or anything like that. But it is important who you turn your appetite over too. What if he took us somewhere I didn’t care for like some Catfish Cafe’ or The Vegetarian Villa?

But the kids were small and so was our budget…. so….Why not? “Sure Mr. Jones we would love to join you for dinner. Thank you for the invitation.”

We agreed on the when and the where of the invitation. Quickly nailed down the time and shook hands as if we had just became partners in some big oil deal. I thanked him a couple more times and we went in opposite directions to start our weeks.

I briefly saw him on Wednesday night and he quickly said something about “still being on for Friday night” and that he was looking forward to it. And the next thing we knew it was Friday night and he was smilin’ like a possum holding the door of the restaurant open for us as we entered the building.

We were seated….menus were being studied….he even told the kids to get whatever they wanted. So they did and because they did….I did….and because I did Mrs. Brown did and the next thing you know we are diggin’ in and trading bites and telling jokes and matchin’ stories.

We turned down desert (Thank God) because we were about to break our belts. And all was just fine and dandy until the server brought him one bill and the Big Spender who invited us told the server that the bill needed split.

That he and his wife was on his ticket and that the kids and the lady were on mine and as the server left to follow his instructions the Big Spender started telling a story as if nothing was peculiar with the instructions that he had just given.

I about fell out of my chair!

Was he joking? Did he prep the server earlier and was gonna’ point at me and say “Gottcha’” when the server came back? Did he frame us? Did I miss something the night he invited us?

My mind was swirling.

What was I going to do when the server came back with a bill for me that I couldn’t pay?

I started to do some math in my head. Lindsay had this and Joel had that. Justin wasn’t born yet so we didn’t order anything for him. How much were my pork chops? When is our electric bill due? How much cash do I have on me and does Char have on her?

The only option I had short of saying, “Look Slick, hold on a second here” was to pull out that new credit card that I had put in my wallet a few weeks earlier and get out of this awkward mess. In fact, I had gotten’ the card for “EMERGENCIES” and I think being blindsided by this Big Spender was certainly an emergency.

Being blindsided means you didn’t see it coming. You weren’t ready….you weren’t prepared. It came out of nowhere.

If you would have know the storm was blowing in you would have boarded up some windows. Saved some more money or trusted “whomever” less. Maybe you would have asked more questions or been more committed to your hunches.

I truly wish I was wrong when I say this, but I can’t help but believe that some of my dear friends reading this have been blindsided far more severely than I was with a simple little dinner tab.

But do you know what we often do when we are blindsided? We blame ourselves far beyond our involvement.

“I shouldn’t have been so trusting.”

“I should have seen it coming.”

“How could I have been so stupid….so blind…..so unprepared for this?”

“Nobody is getting near me again.”

You are going to have to trust me when I say that I have been blindsided a ton of times more than this dinner fiasco. Some hits have been harder to take than others. You know it’s not just Quarterbacks who get whacked in the head and the heart and never see it coming.

And I have said those things and felt used and abused. And I have vowed to pull in my horns and never say “yes” again because the hurt wasn’t worth the risk.

But I also know that sometimes it’s best to trust again. Because I don’t want to be like the dog that was left out in a thunderstorm when he was a pup and now he bounces off the walls every time lighting flashes.

What do you say we try trusting again?

If you aren’t quite ready yet….that’s fine….move at your pace, but at least do yourself the courtesy and know that it wasn’t you….it may just have been somebody who talked a better game than they walked.

 

PS 1: I don’t make these stories up. They really did happen!

PS 2: Keep healing….you are going to make it through this.

 

Other than a few years in South Carolina, Mrs. Brown and I pretty much raised our family in the same town where my parents raised me.

It doesn’t happen as much as it used to, but every once in a while I will see a house and remember when a chum lived there. Or I will go to the bakery and for a flash think that I need to get back on school property before the bell rings or my Dad finds out.

There isn’t a time I drive past the Whittier Elementary playground without remembering the recess after lunch when a teacher confiscated my buddy’s transistor radio and told him to quit making up stories about someone shooting President Kennedy.

One day last week I was out running some errands and found traffic a bit congested on the street through our downtown area. I was in a hurry to get to Office Max, so I started to weave my way through the same side streets and back-alleys where I used to ride my 20″ Roadmaster.

I turned left….then right….then right again and as I passed through a four way stop I passed the lot where we once built a pretty snazzy tree-house.

There has been a house on that lot for years now. I haven’t checked their portfolio lately, but if the original owners still live there they have probably been mortgage-free for at least 20 years now.

But before the house was there the vacant lot had a large enough tree on it that our little construction crew, with my brother serving as foreman, decided to build a house in that big ole’ tree.

New homes were being built several lots down and after the big construction crew would leave at five our little construction crew would arrive at 5:10 to dig through the scrap pile and help ourselves to whatever we needed.

It was shortly after the flooring went in and wood for the walls was being lifted up to the foreman and his assistant that something happened that scared me for life.

I was part of the helmet-less crew on the ground that was handing wood up and either the foreman’s or his assistant’s foot knocked a hammer off the platform and it landed on my head and put a pretty nice gash in the top of my noggin.”

The phone call to my mother reported that “Freddie split his head open.” And the next thing you know we were sitting in the parking lot of the local Medical Center waiting for Doctor Newland to leave his cookout and bring his keys to the back door so we could go in and get his sewing kit. The doctor got his thread out and before we knew it Mom was getting her wallet out and the only thing I got out of the deal was a pretty nice looking scar.

It’s not as deep or long as some other scars I have seen. Probably not as impressive as the one you got when you ran into that parked pickup or the one your brother gave you when he plunked you in the cheek with what felt like a boulder.

I am not sure if you have ever been embarrassed about your scars, but in the beginning I was pretty self-conscious about mine. I couldn’t go anywhere without wondering if somebody had noticed it or if they were talking about it on the far corner of the playground. Every once in a while a sensitive young soul would mention that he couldn’t help but notice and ask how it happened. I would mumble something about building a tree-house and a hammer getting kicked and by the time I mentioned the sewing kit he was long gone.

Fortunately the Beatles came to Shea Stadium about that time and brought with them the idea of maybe growing a little longer hair to help cover-up some of the nicks on all our noggins.

Maybe it’s human nature to find something to hopefully cover our scars. But even though my hair covers what you can’t see, I still know it’s there.

I will probably never hear how you got some of your scars, but I know you have some. They may be on your wrist or your thumb or ankle. They don’t hurt anymore and the stories of their birth may have lead to roaring laughter in more than a few shelter houses.

But there is also a chance there are some scars on your hearts and on your dreams that still hurt and may never reach the funny story stage.

I don’t know exactly where or how you are scared. Or what attempts you have made to hide them from an insensitive world. But understand every one of us has them. And that’s understandable and more than fine.

But, on this Good Friday do you mind if I remind you that God knows a thing or two about scars and scarring.

And no matter how hard we try to cover up or scrub away the reminders of our pain……his scars for your scars go deeper. And because his go deeper there is no reason in the world for your scars to bully you any longer.

Have a wonderful Easter!

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