BUMMER! (SOONER?)

If you've never been to the OU/Texas game (aka: the Red River Rivalry) you need to put it at the top of your Bucket List. To begin with, I went several years and never had a ticket until I arrived outside of the stadium (so don't use that as an excuse). Admittedly, that was before the Internet became the place to buy/sell tickets. My belief is that the intensity is so fierce there, you don't want to show up to the game unless you're positively planning on winning/celebrating; otherwise the aftermath there at the fairground is brutal. So the faint of heart or those with wavering resolve, sell their tickets to avoid the hazing and humiliation that follows a loss; so tickets can be found! For the most part, Texas fans with extra tickets only sell to fellow Texas fans, and OU fans follow suit (keep it in the family, misery loves company, to the victor go the spoils...you name your cliche).

But this storied event has several things that make it truly unique. Yeah, it's an intense rivalry; but there are alot of those across the country. Sure, a bunch of folks are holding up "We're Number One" fingers; but in this game half the folks hold up "We're Number Two" fingers (aka: Hook 'Em Horns) while the rest of the fans hold up the symbol for "Killin' Horns" (aka: yeah, you ARE Number Two; BOOMER SOOMER). Also, the game is held on the fairgrounds of the Texas State Fair, one of the nicest, cleanest, most enjoyable state fairs I've ever attended. Alright, I've only been to THREE state fairs (the Oklahoma State Fair, the Texas State Fair and the Alaska State Fair) so I can hardly be labeled a State Fair Aficionado! But with my intense love for the Great State Fair of Oklahoma, for me to even hint that the Texas version might be superior is deep-fried blasphemy. Oh wait, I have been to the Tulsa State Fair and the Muskogee (State?) Fair (yeah, you're right...those don't count). Anyway, the setting is superb.

Lastly, as you can see in the picture above, the stadium is evenly divided (at the 50 yard line) between OU fans and Texas fans. So, depending on the quarter, your team may be driving the football towards enemy lines or into the welcoming roar of the home crowd. Either way, each endzone is loud; VERY loud; awash in Puke Orange or Perf Crimson.

The result of all this? You have a stadium full of fanatics with basically one opinion; one belief: "Our team is going to win!". The problem with that logic (not counting the pouring rain and 15-15 tie in 1984 that I sat through) is that half the fans are WRONG (it just takes three hours or so to prove which ones are mistaken). Still...you are SURE when you enter that stadium that you are on the RIGHT side of the 50 yard line; the RIGHT side of the BOWL!

Is it wrong to want to be right? I had a life changing epiphany in Mrs. Vandewalker's third grade class at Willard Elementary School in Ada, Oklahoma. She was the only teacher I ever had that I was sure didn't like me. Sure, we've all uttered things like "She hates me!" and "He doesn't like me!" about different teachers we've had, when deep down we knew it wasn't true.  Being challenged or disciplined can often come across as 'dislike' or even 'hate'. Many times God's chastening and/or life's trials can cause us to wonder if we're 'jinxed' like Joe Btfsplk or if we're on God's 'bad side' like a Hittite or an Amorite. As for me, I personally have never thought God was mad at me. I have wondered what He was trying to tell me or what in the Land of Goshen He was waiting on. But I'm His child; and a Father never hates His children. A parent will always love their child. Mrs. Vandewalker was a parent (I think!). But she wasn't MY parent (I thank!).

It all began in second grade. I transferred to Willard (from Shawnee, Horace Mann) in the middle of the year, and I discovered the second graders at Willard were well into writing cursive (and I wasn't).  Old lady Vandewalker was the 'cursive writing' teacher for the second graders. She seemed to have very little patience with my feeble attempts at writing properly and took great joy in grading down my writing papers. Still to this day I'd rather print than write; and outside of my signature and an occasional check, all her efforts to get me up to speed in the writing department were pretty much wasted. Unfortunately (for both of us), she also wound up being my third grade teacher. I vividly remember her passing out a test paper once, and when I saw I had made a 100 on it, I said something out, like "All right! I made a 100!" To which she responded quickly and snidely, "Now if you could just get to school on time!" Talk about lettin' the air out of a kid's balloon. Now c'mon...if you're in third grade, and your mom brings you to school late, then how is that the kid's fault? Excuse me for not riding the bus! I also remember her slapping a kid on the back to get his attention (that might have been me she whacked, but I'm not as sure on that particular memory).

Mrs. Wiggly's 4th Grade Class (first row; striped shirt; post epiphany)

So here's the memory I am sure of...Mrs. V. was teaching geography. She was waxing eloquently in front of the class, but had written something on the blackboard that didn't seem correct to me. I raised my hand and questioned her about it. She kind of shut me down in a hurry (as some of my classmates snickered at my foolishness to question her 'highness') and bulldozed right on with the rest of her lecture. Even though I felt sure of her error, I sat down, shut up, and tried to sink down as far in that wooden desk as possible. But sure enough, a few minutes later, she seemed to realize what she had written was incorrect, she nonchalantly changed it, and kind of patted herself on the back (not to be confused with being 'whacked on the back') for catching the error, and went back into lecture mode. Try as I might to say, "That's what I was talking about!" or "Hey, I told you so!" it was too late! I had wimped out so much in earlier my attempt to correct the teacher, that my moment of 'glory', my chance to take the old gal down, the opportunity to show that I was indeed 'smarter than a fifth grader' (teacher) had passed. Her royal "V-ness" had blown me off; and I in turn had blown it. And that was the epiphany. As small of a moment as it was, I decided right then and there, that I'd rather be embarrassed for loudly saying what I thought to be right, than sit idly by and even be mildly ridiculed by being told I was wrong (as long as I was pretty sure I was right). In other words, no gumption, no glory. If you wrote (or said) something that was incorrect, I wasn't going to be afraid to point it out; to show you how smart I was. It's certainly a confident way to live. But how long is it before confidence becomes obstinance? At what point is it no longer Christlike?

Jesus was never wrong. He knew everything, but He wasn't a 'know-it-all'. He was humble about it. He didn't need to laud his perfection over his disciples. He didn't need to prove over and over to them that He was always right. And I believe He offers me the relief that comes from NOT having to be perfect. I can let my guard down. I don't have to always be right. He says to let HIM handle it. That's not MY burden...that's HIS burden.

Matthew 11:28-30 "Come to Me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. All of you, take up My yoke and learn from Me, because I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for yourselves. For My yoke is easy and My burden is light."

What have I REALLY learned in over 50 years of life? Here it is, so listen carefully. Not only is nobody ALWAYS right, most of the time nobody is EVER 100% right. Now please understand I'm not talking about Biblical rights and wrongs. I'm referring to the 'rights' and 'wrongs' we encounter in our every day lives and in our dealings with others; the difference between "I said this," and "he heard that"; or "she said this" but "I heard that".

It's an eye-opening revelation (certainly much deeper than my third grade one). The subjective nature of how I interpret what you said versus what you meant when you said it are often worlds apart. Yet each one of us (at the time, and certainly later on) are just as sure of what we heard (or said) as the other person is sure of what they said (or heard you say). Confused? Don't be. Just realize that none of us are as good at communicating as we think we are. We think; and then we speak. Even if we speak without thinking, a host of input has gone into that 'blurtation'. Either way, the person we are speaking to doesn't have the luxury of our prior thoughts (or the unique knowledge from which we speak). Therefore the message is never pure; is never exact; is never exactly as the speaker intends it (or as memorable as the speaker might think).

So much of what we say is inflection, that it's very much like 'singing voices'. They always sound 'right' in our heads...not nearly as 'right' on recordings. Music is subjective. Likewise, listening is subjective. The secret to surviving the not-so-exact science of communication is not to be obstinate in your message giving; not to flex your all-knowing muscle about what you say. The solution (at least my contention) to dealing with the inevitability of miscommunication, is to step back, and try to ascertain how the person might have heard the message differently than you delivered it. To me, that's the description of an all-knowing person; the person that can see both sides (and is always looking at both sides). It's not the OU or Texas 'fan' attitude (short for 'fanatical). Because if there are winners and losers, then you're describing a tackle football game or a debate...and debates (or hard contact sports) aren't really fun to be in. Especially, when you thought you were in a conversation.

So let me go all Stuart Smalley on you for just a minute (or at least look in the mirror). It's not that I was right and you were wrong. It's not even that I said one thing and you heard another. If I say that you weren't listening closely enough, it's just as likely that I didn't communicate effectively; that I didn't work hard enough to get your full and undivided attention. I can reverse the pronouns if that helps clear it up for you. And darn it, you need to understand it (if you want people to like you).

Miscommunication is not a win-win; it's not a win-lose; it's a lose-lose. "You didn't hear it right" is synonymous with "I failed to get my message across". Neither one of us succeeded. I am no more to blame than you are. So how can either one us be sanctimonious and proud about being correct?  What a 'burden' that is to live with.  That's what the world calls pompous (and sometimes adds other words that can be found in the Bible, but aren't appropriate here).

If you can mold yourself, to be more considerate, to be more understanding of the art of communication, you may find yourself to be a person that is much more pleasant to talk with and to deal with. You will be a person folks don't avoid, but like being around. A gentle person. An humble person. More like the person of Jesus. If you're a Christian, shouldn't that be your goal?

"Communication Breakdown" is not only one of the all time great Led Zeppelin songs, it's something that happens a lot...I contend that it happens all the time. Maybe every time. In fact, the sooner you assert that you know what you meant, the sooner you can be sure you were probably misunderstood (at least partially). And you know what they say happens when you 'assert' don't you? (Well, maybe I heard that one wrong, but you get the point, don't you?)

Still sometimes, the best way to communicate, is to listen. And if you find yourself always explaining (defending) your point of view, it may be time to listen. But beware; you can be just as misunderstood when you don't speak (but if no one's listening, then does the 'tree make a sound?').

So how do I tie this all together? Well, besides already sounding like a preacher that can't wrap up his sermon, let me summarize it like this: the more you talk, the louder you speak. The more you listen, the louder you communicate. The SOONER you get this, the better you'll be. In other words, TEXAS BITES!

Now do you get it? BOOMER! (Did you think I said "BUMMER"?)

The Show Must Go On

My mind tends to wander. That was one of the reasons behind naming this Blog, 'Randym Thoughts'. I wanted to be able to bounce around from topic to topic, from thought to thought, with the barest of connections. In literacy, it's called 'stream of consciousness' writing; a 'free association' of ideas, much like our thoughts tend to ramble; here and there; to and fro; very randomly! So let's meander!!

This first thought is not so random, because it has totally affected my life for the last few weeks (although the action that caused it was random). It took over 30 years, but I broke my second bone, my right wrist, about three weeks ago, falling off of a step ladder trying to help my daughter decorate her first teaching room. Refusing to admit that I might actually be hurt, I continued to use my good hand to help put up posters on the wall and borders around blackboards until the swelling got so bad, that we realized a trip to Immediate Care was inevitable. Funny how all the attributes of that super light, really portable step ladder that is easily transported from room to room, and is niftily folded and stored in the closet...those same attributes that made me buy it, are the same attributes that caused it to fold up, flip out from under me, and toss me to the floor (rump first). Since then, I have toted it out to the garage with one hand with the greatest of ease, swiftly folded it up, and tossed it in the garbage (rung first) never to speak of its portability again. Naturally, I couldn't allow a little something like a broken wrist to slow me down! Below is a picture of me the following night, singing my hard (cast) out! Notice the right arm in its permanently bent position!

Live at the Rodeo Opry

I've always been a big believer in the adage 'the show must go on'. As far back as college, it didn't matter how sick I was (or members of my band were), I expected all of them (including me) to show up for a gig, and play through whatever ailments we encountered. I can remember literally running off stage (is that why they call it the 'runs'?) in the middle of a song during the guitar solo at a gig we had at Bishop McGuinness High School, so that I could make it to the bathroom long enough to 'gather my wits' and stumble back to the mic to finish the song (and the set). In fact, as I was coming out of the stall, a kid washing his hands looked questioningly at me and asked, "Aren't you in the band?" as he listened to the loud music coming from the auditorium down the hall. I nodded my head to the affirmative as I 'ran' back to my place on stage.

That's why dutifully, Saturday night, with my cast barely 24 hours old, I stepped up to the mic and sang two songs for the Rodeo Opry Anniversary Show. Then early the following morning, I showed up to the church, and played our church's beautiful Steinway Grand Piano (with just my left hand).

We all have certain personality traits, that both define us and shape our behavior. At times, just like the step ladder that now sits in a landfill somewhere, the same traits (quirks) can be both positives and negatives. Take honesty, for instance. After all, it's said to be the 'best policy'. It's one of the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not lie. When the 'truth' is in our favor, we welcome it. "Tell it like it is!" "You tell 'em, brother!" But when the 'truth' goes against us, we suddenly aren't as big a fan of it. Isn't that why we like shows like People's Court (in my day) or Judge Judy? Both parties think they're in the right; and we get to sit back and watch while at least one of the complainants (and sometimes both of them) are told they are in the 'wrong'! Why does America love to hate Simon Cowell? He tells the truth (or at least his version of it). His willingness and eagerness to openly point out singers' shortcomings, either endears us or reviles us. Same trait...different results.

My wife is honest. She honestly believes whenever I sing or lead worship, that it's wonderful (even when I played that Sunday with one hand tied behind my back). Now, certainly you want your mate to be a big fan...I can't imagine it being any other way. But if she tells you it's great, no matter how bad it is, she ceases to be a good barometer of what's transpiring. I, on the hand, stay acutely aware of every little mistake, every transition that could have been smoother, and any note that I didn't like (not necessarily a wrong note, but just not the one I wanted to sing or play) and so therefore, I see most performances as 'sub-par'; which in music is a BAD thing. On the other hand, in golf a sub-par performance is a great thing. Even if you didn't hit the ball well, or missed a lot of fairways, if you're sub-par, you're really good!

Sometimes 'really good' can translate into 'arrogance'. So, how about 'arrogance' on the golf course? I think Tiger Woods had a bunch of it (in his prime); a sense of 'invincibility'. Once he lost it, he became much more 'human', but much more 'defeatable'. What was good for his personal life (being humbled) hasn't been so good for his golf game. Many of the more aggressive traits, so lauded in the field of sports, and also rewarded in the corporate world tend to have more downside than upside.

"A Face In The Crowd" - Andy Griffith and Patricia Neal 

The film debut of Andy Griffith called "A Face In The Crowd" is still one of my favorite movies; and is a superb example of how certain traits, like 'arrogance' and 'invincibility' that can help you get ahead in life, can also come back to haunt and destroy you. Find a way to watch this movie if you've never seen it.

Another of my favorite flicks combined the 'arrogance' of a ship's captain, Quint, with a town's mayor who wouldn't accept the 'truth' about sharks. "Jaws" has a great character interaction out at sea late one night in the interior cabin of the boat between Quint, police chief Brody, and marine biologist Hooper, where the three are discussing/comparing their injuries, scars and breaks. The seriousness of the scene is 'broken' as Hooper points to his chest to indicate the scar left by Mary Ellen Moffett from a 'broken heart'. All of us who have seen this movie know that ultimately Quint's 'arrogance' comes back to bite him.

 As I alluded to earlier, I've had one other thing broken in my life (not counting broken hearts ;).



Seretean Center - OSU

I was in college, and we were having our dress rehearsal, the night before the opening of Godspell at OSU (where I played the dual role of John the Baptist and Judas). As the call was made for, "Places!", I bolted down the right aisle of the Seretean Center just as the lighting crew was adjusting the lights in the auditorium. They turned them off for just a second, and I misjudged (couldn't see) the last step at the bottom, landed with my heel on that last step, my toe on the floor, felt my ankle twist and the little bone on the side of my foot crack. The ankle and foot swelled instantly, and after a trip to the Infirmary doctor (who also happened to be the doctor for the football team), it was decided that all that could be done for the bone was to wrap it tightly with an Ace bandage, and send me back in the game! So, instead of the traditional tennis shoes I was planning to wear, I borrowed my roommate's combat boots that were about a size or two bigger than what I wore, laced them up, one fit tightly around my Ace bandage, the other with five pairs of socks on the unswollen right foot, and soft-shoed my part the next night like a pro. The only time that I truly felt the pain (over the meds) was the scene where (as Judas) I leave to betray Jesus. The scene called for me to run off the stage, slip and fall on the steps (I had already rehearsed that part), look back at Jesus and the disciples, then run on up the aisle out the back of the auditorium. I noticed about the third performance that I was pushing off with my left foot on that last sprint exit (ouch!). Once I corrected that, I was golden (drugged, but golden) for the full two week run of the production.

The refusal to let life (or circumstances) stop you or hold you back is a good trait. But it can lead to stubbornness and can be a little annoying. Kids can be like that. Once they learn how to do something, they'll holler, "Me do it! Me do it!" whether you want them to do it or not. When sick people won't let you take care of them and insist on doing everything themselves, not only does it further endanger their health, it robs someone of the blessing that comes from helping. Plus, if you're not at 100%, then why not allow others who ARE at their best (even if you think your 75% is better than their 100%) to step in and step up! In the final analysis, what I kind of already knew, but rediscovered with this most recent incident: there's just not much 'patient' in this patient!

So, what's the take-away from this break-away? Take your gifts, your abilities, your personality, and harness 'the way you are' in a way that pleases God and is most pleasant to those around you. Take your attitudes and make them attributes. For example, if you're a perfectionist, use it to raise your level of performance, but don't allow it to cause you to only see the imperfections or shortcomings in another person's performance. Others will not like being around you if they know they can never measure up. Also, allow yourself the freedom to enjoy what you do; even when it isn't perfect. We aren't expected to (nor can we) live a perfect life; but we should strive to live justly.

Or if you are proud about how truthful, straightforward and honest you can be, make sure you combine that truth with mercy, and administer your truth with grace. Time and time again the Bible combines them: truth and mercy, grace and truth; because they belong together.

He has shown you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.  Micah 6:8

That sounds like a pretty succinct recipe for good living to me. So what about your gifts; the things at which you excel? It's fine to be confident in your abilities; there's nothing wrong with being good at what you do. But the more humility you show, the more people will admire your abilities (rather than be put off by them). And if your humility causes your abilities or your performance to go unrecognized, don't worry about it. I would submit, though, they are rarely ever unnoticed and are probably discussed; just not with you. If you brag on your abilities (or are just really self-absorbed) then very few people will admire or acknowledge you. They won't need to because you've done it for them. Jesus told a great parable about 'recognition' that not only teaches a great lesson, but is really good advice regarding 'tooting your own horn'!

Luke 14:7-11
When Jesus noticed that all who had come to the dinner were trying to sit in the seats of honor near the head of the table, he gave them this advice: “When you are invited to a wedding feast, don’t sit in the seat of honor. What if someone who is more distinguished than you has also been invited? The host will come and say, ‘Give this person your seat.’ Then you will be embarrassed, and you will have to take whatever seat is left at the foot of the table. “Instead, take the lowest place at the foot of the table. Then when your host sees you, he will come and say, ‘Friend, we have a better place for you!’ Then you will be honored in front of all the other guests. For those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted.”

Confused-us says, "He who toots his own horn plays in a one-man band."

Shakespeare said, ""All the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players; they have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts."

Arte* says, "It's not that 'the show must go on', the show does go on; and on and on."

In summary, as you pursue your role in life, and hopefully attempt to live justly, to show mercy and to be humble, the best advice I can give you is this: "BREAK A LEG!"

That's why He sent the messengers,
And He gave us the Law,
Then He showed up for questions,
And He answered 'em all,
He conquered the grave,
Completed His role,
In God's show.**

__________________________________________________________
*Arte = R.T. (aka: Randym Thoughts)
**Lyrics taken from "It's God's Show" from the CD "Red Letter Day"

Can't See the Trees? "Run Forrest, Run!"

Is there anything more mischievous and wonderful than water balloons? We just recently had a 4th of July picnic at our church, and we broke up into teams and basically played dodge 'water balloon' ball. Water balloons, and dare I say, water in general brings out the child (aka: immaturity) in all of us. Naturally some of the younger guys (at least younger than I am) attempted to continue the water atrocities long after the games were over, and of course it got out of hand, cell phones and innocent bystanders got wet; and 'horseplay' suddenly became an 'incident'. But rather than 'preach' on self-control or forgiveness, and 'out' the perpetrators, I'd rather use myself as the bad example for this object lesson. Because many years ago an incident that started out somewhat innocently definitely ballooned out of control. It happens to be one of my most favorite stories from my high school days and it does involve water balloons...at least that's how the whole thing got started.

As I recall there were four of us (junior and senior boys from Putnam City High School). We had begun a long school trip for the summer that involved Washington, D.C., then New York City and ultimately Europe. Of course, one of the guys had brought along several packages of balloons with the idea of creating some havoc on the other side of the ocean. But there was no way we had the discipline (or desire) to wait that long (or to stay out of trouble until then), so we busted out the balloons at our first stop in Washington, D.C.

We were staying on the third floor of a modest motel there at the nation's capital, and that afternoon we'd made several attempts to 'nail' passersby on the street below from our tiny patio that overlooked the street. Up to that point, one rather large, fat gentleman in a blue Ban-Lon shirt had been the highlight of the afternoon. But as the day was drawing to a close, we noticed a man with car trouble, who had parked his car there on the street and popped his hood to see why his car wasn't running properly. Leaving the hood up, he returned to the driver's seat, and began to rev the engine and listen to the motor. As he leaned over the steering wheel and listened more intently, one well-heaved latex projectile landed on that hot carburetor and immediately exploded with enough force to scare the pistons out of the poor guy. No doubt he assumed the engine had exploded (certainly his heart had blown a gasket). He nearly fell over himself trying to get out of the driver's seat to get a safe distance away from that car. When he finally worked up the courage to give it another go, he spent an hour trying to discern what on earth had happened beneath his hood. Meanwhile, we were watching all this from afar, rolling on the floor laughing our balloons off (ROTFLOBO)! Darkness and hunger brought an end to that day's festivities. As we ate, we all decided that surely this was the funniest thing we'd ever see. But we were wrong; and early the next day we packed our bags and our balloons, and headed off to the Big Apple.

That next night we checked into an old flophouse hotel in downtown Manhattan. This time we were about twelve floors up, with huge floor length windows out of which to launch. It was a little harder to be discreet...after all, the big open window with the boys jumping up and down and laughing hysterically would have been hard to miss; in reality, just timing the toss out of the window, down a dozen stories, across the street onto fast moving taxis or briskly walking pedestrians proved to be a real challenge, and we were having trouble even drawing enough 'bal-lood' to possibly get 'bal-lamed'! In fact, by the time we felt like we were finally getting the hang of it, we suddenly realized we were out of balloons. So, now what?

Although it was a little riskier, we started filling up cups of water, and attempting to time it, so that as an innocent bystander made their way down the sidewalk, we could disrupt their day with a wet slap on the head (or shoulder). We at least were hoping they would think it was spit or the random act of an insensitive pigeon or even someone emptying mop water out of their apartment window. But alas, those little plastic cups, so abundant there in that hotel room, were having no perceptible effect on the New Yorkers below us. A combination of bad aim, swirling wind, and a minimal amount of moisture was ruining our fun. We tried to ramp it up some, and one cup at a time soon became one in each hand, and ultimately became all four of us trying to dump our cups in unison. Our feeble attempts at escalation had only resulted in the minor annoyance of one or two of the patrons of the nearby drugstore/deli; and although we were a little nervous about being 'found out', we thirsted for more. We had no concept of 'when to say when' (that little catch phrase hadn't been coined yet). So, now what?

NYC is known for its cast of characters. They have long been the subject of jokes, monologues and stories made famous by comedians, late-night talk-show hosts and sit-coms, from the taxi-drivers to the street walkers, from the pigeons to the rats. We had watched in amazement the hustle and bustle of the streets, and had actually noticed three different 'ladies of the evening', each on their own street corner, each one confronting/addressing/admonishing those with whom they came in contact. Throughout the afternoon, we had been casually observing to see if any of them would make a love connection for the evening. One gent appeared to have entered into negotiations with one lady, but he subsequently had walked off, gone around the corner, checked his wallet, and thought better of it. The unfortunate thing from our perspective, was that although their three respective corners were within sight of our hotel room, they were nowhere near close enough to assault (especially without even so much as a single balloon at our disposal). We voiced aloud that maybe one of them would cross over to the empty corner nearest us, and therefore have to cross beneath our window. Or better yet, perhaps they would escort a 'client' to our hotel, and on their way cross near enough for us to get a shot off. Just in case, we decided three or four ounces per cup wasn't going to have the impact we needed (I mean if we truly wanted to make a statement). We didn't have a mop bucket (no maids were in site) but we did have a nice, big metal trashcan in the bathroom. It was way too big, however, to fit underneath any of the faucets (even the one in the bathtub); so ounce by ounce, cup by cup, we painstakingly worked to fill that bad boy up. Then we collectively dragged and carried it over to the window, precariously balanced it on the sill and tried to be ready to lock and load if by some chance we had the opportunity to single out one of the 'singles'.
We nervously watched...and waited.

Suddenly the planets aligned. Like a puppet on a string, one 'lady' crossed the street and began talking to her competition/counterpart on the other corner. We had no idea what the conversation was about; perhaps there was a sale on hair spray at the drugstore, or a buy one/get one deal at the cosmetic counter for heavy eyeliner and black mascara. It had to be something 'special', because it also attracted the interest of the third 'pro', and she strolled down the street to join in on the conversation. Now remember, these weren't your MTV video hip-hop/rap starlet wannabes masquerading as ladies of the night. This was 1972 and these three were vintage Baretta/Starsky and Hutch white girls of the streets with big Amy Winehouse (r.i.p.) beehive hair-dos, wearing layers of make-up to cover up the layers of living they had experienced. This was way before Madonna had made it fashionable to wear underwear in public, so all three 'professionals' were outfitted in lady of the 'evening dresses'; the original dress for success from the original profession. These girls had definitely spent some time getting ready for their night out, and it was just a matter of time before some working class moth was going to be attracted to the flame.

Whatever they were discussing, the net result was a change of venue. Apparently, those three corners had dried up, and they were looking for greener (wetter) pastures. They were about to find them. Like one big mass of female humanity, they all three suddenly turned and began to walk, side by side, down the sidewalk that ran directly below our hotel window. We were absolutely giddy. We had hoped for one...but we were about to get the who' hat trick, as all three made their way toward the drugstore, in the direct path of our air to surface missile. Despite our big boy bravado, we momentarily just stood there, all hands on can, hesitant to pull the trigger; first looking at the street below, then at the huge can of water, and then at each other. Should we? Dare we? We'll be sorry! Wait! No, don't wait! Do it?? Yes, do it!! Now? Now?? Yes, now!!! And with a sudden rush of adrenaline coursing through our bodies, in unison we flipped that old rusty trashcan topsy turvey towards the street, spewing gallons and gallons of water into the air and stood there mesmerized as it headed straight down to the sidewalk below. It seemed like slow motion as the giant blanket of water floated to and fro, parallel to the side of the building, a huge wet umbrella passing floor after floor, going window by window on its way to infamy. Those three women continued their stroll down the walk, oblivious to their fate. In fact, for just a split second they literally disappeared beneath a massive sheet of water. But then suddenly, BOOM! Like a miniature monsoon they were engulfed in a cascade of water; and we could see them freeze in their tracks as the hairspray was instantly removed from their bouffants, and they went from high and dry to soaking wet; from sultry to saturated. In an instant, (and I mean with the speed of sound) we heard Halloween-like shrieks and shrills bouncing off the pavement, ascending twelve flights and piercing the stillness of that hotel room (and the surrounding city block). They were stunned and they were loud! We immediately felt that same sinking feeling you got when you were a kid after hearing the shatter of fine china or the crash of Grandma's big decorator lamp in the corner and you realized, "Oops. We screwed up! What were we THINKING?" So, now what?

There was no running for the dust pan or fumbling for the super glue! This was not going to be swept under the rug or pieced back together. We immediately ducked back into our room, flipped every light off, double-locked and chained the door, then cowered in the shadows, all the while listening to the commotion below. Finally, one of us dared to sneak a quick peek. A crowd had gathered and they were ALL looking up, pointing fingers, and searching for retribution. We were afraid to move. We literally feared for our lives. Could they tell from which window the attack originated? What if someone dared to knock on our door? We wondered if the throng of people below would ever give up without a sacrificial lamb. After all, this was America and justice needed to be served! We huddled together praying we wouldn't hear the NYPD Blue bull horn calling for us to put the trashcan down and come out with our hands up. So now what?

When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. 1 Corinthians 13:11

It's hard not to be childish sometimes. It seems to me, that one of the main attributes we gain (and need to develop) as we get older, is the ability to see the consequences of our actions; to look past the temporary thrill or satisfaction of a deed and ultimately see the ripple effect; how a cup of water here, and a few cups of water there will ultimately overflow into one big honkin' trouble-causing can of chaos (did we perhaps unknowingly event the term 'open up a can'?).

When we venture into a gray area now and then, chances are no harm will befall us. When we speak unkindly of somebody here and there, it may not cause a scene. But that's the short-sided mindset; the mindset of an immature person; the thought pattern of a child. How subtly and easily things balloon out of control! Too often what doesn't hurt us, does hurt others.

Looking at it one way, you could say, "Anything goes. Because of God's immense generosity and grace, we don't have to dissect and scrutinize every action to see if it will pass muster." But the point is not to just get by. We want to live well, but our foremost efforts should be to help others live well. 1 Corinthians 10:23

That's the Apostle Paul writing a letter to the church at Corinth and I think he really got it! All of us will hear that internal voice speak to us, "Should we? Dare we? We'll be sorry! Wait! No, don't wait! Do it?? Yes, do it!! Now? Now??" Our response, based on our own desires, will naturally be, "Yes, now!!!" Not until we think about others will our reponses change.

The challenge is in this self-centered world in which we live, there's not much stopping us from doing just about anything we feel like doing. We can speak any way we want. We can eat anything we want. We can show out in any number of ways. We live in a culture where 'doing your own thing' is celebrated! But when we live out of control and without restraint, there are going to be times when we can't hide in a dark corner and get away with it; when someone's day is ruined and you have to deal with the consequences.

Of course, hurting someone is not always an intentional act. Sometimes you look up and realize you've stumbled into a bunch of hurtful old trees; into the Sure Would (but Shouldn't Have) Forest. You got carried away, didn't realize what you were doing, where you were going, but nevertheless, you are there...in the wrong! Then of course, the conditioned response is to, "Run!" At that juncture, no matter what our intentions were, things turn out better when we come clean, admit we were wrong, and ask for forgiveness. Simple to write...hard to do.

It sure didn't happen that afternoon in New York City (God was probably our only shot at forgiveness that day; and believe me, He definitely heard from us). We got the entertainment we wanted, unwittingly provided by three consummate 'professionals'; and we're lucky there wasn't a high price to pay. Fortunately, the crowd eventually dissipated. I assume the girls clocked out early and called it a night. I know we did!! (how's that for gettin' off the 'hook'?!?)

Sorry Mrs. Gump, but life's not really like a box of chocolates. It's like a big bucket of water; and you have the free will and imagination to use it any way that you choose. The possibilities are endless. You can use it to do something as simple and basic as satisfying your thirst or washing your hands; or something more creative and fun like filling up squirt guns or bobbing for apples; it can be the vehicle used to perform something as life-changing as baptism or as life-threatening as waterboarding. Radically different examples, to say the least, but no more radical or different than the lives we can choose to live.

In this story, the lesson to be learned had nothing to do with whether that big old trashcan was half-full or half-empty...only that it was haphazard (characterized by lack of order or planning; having no forethought concerning the outcome). The moral to this glass, class, is to think before you play in the water; anticipate that everyone's liable to get wet; and assume that somebody's not going to be happy about it.

So, now what?  Before you run, think Forrest, think!

WINNING! (Part Two)

Sure this story may seem insignificant to you. Most things are that way. What's important to me is NEVER going to be as important to you (unless it involves you). Without the 'like' button or the 'comment' button or the 'retweet' button, social media would die. Yes, social media is a good way to keep up with your friends (current or otherwise). It's also a great way to stay in touch with your family (especially if they live several hours away). But it's the Internet's way of saying "Me too! Me too!" by thrusting your name, your picture and your comment into the lives of every one of your so-called 'friends'. "Don't just look at them! Look at me! Look at me!"  "I like that, too!" "I'm laughing out loud, too!" "I'm shaking my head, too!"

Conversely, it's a great way to avoid looking at pictures of kids and grandchildren (other than your own). Just say, "YES, I saw those on FACEBOOK!" and then quickly change the subject (or go home and post some of your own). C'mon now...newborn puppies aren't that cute (I'm talking about the hairless mole ones). Kittens with closed eyes and no hair...hideous. Every picture taken at a hospital right after a birth...squished and frowny. The best thing you can say about a newborn baby is, "He's a C-section baby! Isn't he cute?" Meaning, the size of the head, although still largely out of proportion, hasn't been altered like an orange sherbet push-up that was just squeezed through a keyhole. As for my babies (see, you just got less interested) they were the cutest around; but that first week, they were more 'fetus' than Fabio; more 'goober ' than Gerber. And if your babies happen to look like your previous babies (and they probably will, since they all look alike) the flooding of memories will mask what you are actually cooing at and fawning over, and will make them even more wonderful to look at (through your eyes). But it's just God's great auto-tuner. Every family thinks their kids can sing. Every family loves to look at pictures of their babies.

"Beauty is in the eye of the beholder." That's not from the Bible. That phrase first showed up in the novel Molly Bawn, about 1878. In 1953, there was a great episode of The Twilight Zone (Eye of the Beholder - Episode #42), where the ugly woman in need of a make-over was Donna Douglas (the original Elly May Clampett). The problem was everyone in her world was grotesquely deformed. She, on the other hand, looked like Elly May in a hospital gown; but alas, her operation fails, she keeps looking like Elly May and she never achieves the 'ugliness' she desires, in order to blend in with society (based upon the very subjective definition of beauty that dominated that world; see what I mean?).

If you can only find one person on earth that thinks you're beautiful, tell your mom you love her too (but I'm sure there are others!). If you find a thousand people that like your singing, you've got a platinum record! But that doesn't mean you sing good, now does it? Most things in life are pretty subjective that way. Even athletic ability is relative to who you play with and whether that ability increases or decreases in the clutch.

As for me, I always liked black and white things as a kid (not the colors, but clear cut things). I thought math was one of the fairest subjects around. Either you got the answer, or you didn't. No teacher favoritism (or lack of favoritism) could hurt you either way. No essay questions or term paper variables that were dependent on your point of view or who you were; just get it right (or it was wrong). Spelling pretty much works the same way. So naturally, I found myself buzzed (pun intended) about the eighth grade spelling bee.

This was in and around 1968, and the Vietnam war wasn't over; so there hadn't been a large influx of Vietnamese (or Asians for that matter) entering America and signing up for spelling bee contests yet (therefore it was easier for a country kid from Muskogee to 'nguyen', so to speak). It was also before the kids from India realized how easy two and three syllable English words were to spell, especially when compared to the multi-syllabic words in their language. Even having to spell some of those tough two syllable winning words like 'guerdon'* and 'stromuhr'** must have seemed like taking Gandhi from a baby to them! For instance, the names of the last two years' winners: Anamika Veeramani and Kavya Shivashankar. Let's face it; those kids had to be pretty smart just to put their NAMES on their papers!

I knew about none of this, of course; but I did know spelling came easy to me. I almost had a photographic memory back then (it's hard to find film these days, though), and I prided myself on knowing the spelling of words. Like most kids, I grew up screaming at the top of my lungs, "Mom, how do you spell 'multi-syllabic'?" to which she would reply, "Look it up! You may need to use it in a Blog someday!" Alright, I made up that last part, but my mom NEVER spelled a word for me. It was "look it up" or make it up!

Eighth grade happens to be the last grade in which you can qualify for the national spelling bee. My family had just moved to Muskogee, Oklahoma, and I was determined to make a name for myself (like anyone else really cared). I took that study book they had given me home, and tried to make myself study it. But there were hundreds of words! Luckily, the book was divided into three word groups based upon difficulty; and I figured the kids would drop like flies long before we got to the tough words (plus I had things to do; like PLAY) so I gave most of my limited attention to the first two sets of words (assuming that would be more than sufficient to 'guerdon'* the coveted title to myself).

So there we were, in a classroom at Alice Robertson Junior High in Muskogee, Oklahoma, and sure enough nearly all the other little competitors had fallen to the curb; all of them except one little plump red-headed girl named Suzy Smith. I could be tacky and talk about her freckles or her lack of friends (therefore her ample time to study compared to the rest of us) but the fact is, the little girl could spell. She was a southern girl, and like most of us had a bit of a drawl. She was also very soft-spoken. She kept quietly spelling those 'little ole' words and then turning to me as if to say, "Your turn."

We had finally begun to enter that dreaded group of 'tough' words and I was winging it on sheer brain power (luck). I knew eventually I was doomed. My only hope was that maybe she would trip up. Then suddenly she did. The word was 'marsupial'. Now I had done a book report in 7th grade on kangaroos and other marsupials; so I stood there like a 'possum in wait, ready to 'hop in' with the right spelling if she faltered; and therefore it pleased me to no end when she spelled: m-a-r-s- (hesitation) -u-p- (more hesitation as she decided one 'p' was sufficient) -i-e-l (followed by a look of desperation as she heard gasping from around the room; suddenly realizing she had worried so much about the consonants, she'd tripped over the vowels). The sweet old teacher who was monitoring from the back of the room, sat up in her chair, leaned forward (trying to be nice), and politely asked her, "What was it you said, honey?" As I mentioned, Suzy spoke very quietly; and indeed had barely exhaled those last three letters. The looks and sounds of the room had told her she had 'zegged' when she should have 'zagged'. So, when she repeated it, she succinctly said, "m-a-r-s-u-p-i-a-l, marsupial".

Now everyone in the room had heard it right (or should I say, "wrong") the first time. So when she corrected herself, the teacher dutifully asked her, "I thought you said 'e-l' the first time," to which the little girl replied in her best southern drawl, "Sometimes my a's kind of sound like e's."

Say what? Does Steve Nash tell the refs he was really saying 'Fudge' when they 'T' him up? Does Kevin Durant say "sometimes my dribbling looks like walking!" when he flails out of control into the lane and expect the reps to call off the traveling call? Does Tiger Woods claim, "I thought I had the five iron! No wonder the ball went in the water!" in hopes of getting a mulligan? Of course, not. Tiger screams 'fudge', drops a ball and takes the penalty strokes. There are no mulligans in spelling bees!!! But what was the teacher going to say? My suggestion would have been, "Liar, liar, hair on fire!" I mean, what kind of 'kangaroo court' were we dealing with?? But the teacher had to take her at her word; and after all, she had spelled it right (the second time).

Needless to say, I was reeling from the whole ordeal or no deal (no telling what the 'stromuhr'** would have registered at that juncture, because my blood was pumpin'!). Not surprisingly, I loudly and confidently misspelled the very next word, and little Suzy Smith became the spelling bee 'winner' and went on to represent Muskogee at the next level. Meanwhile, I went on to the ninth grade, never to enter a spelling bee again. I did sing 'Harry the Hairy Ape' later that year and won the talent show, but it didn't make up for the wrong that had been done. For several years after that, I didn't care much for redheads or koala bears. And I determined in my mind that I would never do anything like little Suzy had done to me. After all, words mean things!

Psalm 34:12-14 Does anyone want to live a life that is long and prosperous? Then keep your tongue from speaking evil and your lips from telling lies! Turn away from evil and do good. Search for peace, and work to maintain it.

James 3:8-9 ...no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison. With it we bless our Lord and Father, and with it we curse people who are made in the likeness of God.

So I hope all of us can learn from this by choosing our words (letter by letter) very carefully. That's one of the main reasons I wanted to write this blog; to pass on experiences I've had and how they've affected the way I live my life.

For instance, if it sounds like I'm talking about someone behind their back, it's just that sometimes when I voice my concerns about a person's behavior or actions, it sounds like gossip.  And sometimes it sounds judgmental when I'm really just pointing out obvious shortcomings. And yeah, it may sound prideful and arrogant when all I'm doing is calling it the way it is. See what I mean? I learned a valuable lesson there in eighth grade.

And I may say I'm doing this or that for God when it appears like I'm actually doing it for myself. Or even when I'm fully aware of what He expects, it may seem like I quite often do what I think is best for me. But don't jump to conclusions; pay closer attention! Because sometimes my "He's" kind of sound like "me's".

What do you mean you bet I can't spell 'obedient'!??

Can I get a definition?

Can I get a witness??
_________________________________________________________
*2008 winning word-Sameer Mishra correctly spelled 'guerdon'
     (n. a reward - vb. to give a guerdon to, reward).
**2010 winning word-Anamika Veeramani correctly spelled 'stromuhr'
     (instrument for measuring the quantity and speed of blood flow).

About a year or so after the spelling bee-bacle, the country tune 'Okie From Muskogee' hit the airwaves and our little town became quite famous (plus it gave folks something to talk about besides how I was robbed in the 'spelling bee' ;). Even though my family moved to Oklahoma City in 1972, I ended up going back to Muskogee to sing/play several times during my 'rock-n-roll' years, and the band I was in during those days, Marin, wound up playing a unique version of the song one night in 1977 at the Muskogee Civic Center. Our sound guy, Mark Hendricks often carried a Teac reel-to-reel with him and he captured the audio live on tape. Recently, I threw together a slide show to go with it, including a few pictures of the band members here and there. Anyway, I've been looking for an excuse to post it to the Blog...so if you neglected to click on the link above, here it is!

WINNING! (Part One)

Well folks, our family's week on Family Feud has rolled back around and our shows will air the entire week of March 28 at 1:00 p.m. on Channel 34 locally. If you are out of the OKC area, you can go to http://www.familyfeud.com/, type in your zip code and find your local station. Most of you don't know this, but Family Feud was not my first experience with 'winning' on television, although it was certainly my most successful one.

My first actual TV appearance was when I was about six or seven years old. My mom carted me up to Oklahoma City (from Ada) and I appeared on The Foreman Scotty Show. For those of you that are as OLD as I am, you'll remember it as a local kids show (similar to Ho Ho the Clown) that featured a studio full of kids each week day, with the host, being Foreman Scotty.

Foreman Scotty

That first time that I was on the show, I got to sit on Woody, the Birthday Horse. Yes, of course it was my birthday. That was one of the few perks of having a birthday during the summer when school was out; you were free to skip town, and do special things. After all, it was difficult to invite very many kids to a birthday bash, since they too were out of school, hard to reach (life before FACEBOOK), and often on their OWN family vacations.

The second time that I appeared on the show, my Uncle Rickey went with me (my mom and his mom, Granny Bo, drove us from Shawnee where they lived, up to Oklahoma City for that appearance). Rickey was my uncle, but he was only about three years older than me. Once we got to the studio, there was a shuffling for kids to get seated on the risers there. Being short (it runs on that side of the family), Rickey and I got to sit on the front row. That was one of the few perks of being short; you got to sit on the front row for pictures, choir concerts, and on Foreman Scotty.

I loved Foreman Scotty. He was on every day at 4:30. I always thought that Foreman was a strange first name. It didn't click to me until years later that he was the 'foreman' on the ranch; the Circle 4 Ranch.  Foreman Scotty ALWAYS wore a hat. I think that when I perform and/or sing at the Rodeo Opry, I just don't feel right unless I wear my hat. I blame that on Foreman Scotty (besides, the 'hat' makes me look taller).

Two really exciting things happened every day on The Foreman Scotty Show (for all the kids that were there). Each show they gave away a 'Golden Horseshoe' and a 'Golden Zoo Key'. Now in order to win the 'Golden Horseshoe' you had to EARN IT. The point was for you to make the funniest, most ridiculous face you could make or jump up and down doing the silliest thing you could imagine in order to get the attention of the camera; which in turn had a lasso superimposed on the screen, that panned crazily to and fro until it landed on (lassoed) that special, crazy kid who was making the funniest face (or making the biggest fool of himself). Honestly, it probably would normally go to the cutest little girl or darlingest little boy no matter what they were doing; but we were sure that it was an award based purely on merit and we were both intent on earning it.

As I mentioned, we were on the first row of chairs; in fact I was in the very first seat on the end and Rickey was in the second seat right next to me. During the first commercial break Rickey turned to me and asked me to switch seats with him.  "Why?" I asked. Turns out Rickey was going to be doing some kind of a 'bird thing', with his fists in his armpits, and his elbow-wings flapping (think Red Skelton and the two seagulls, Gertrude and Heathcliff for all you fellow old-timers) and he needed the extra room on the end there, for his routine to really take flight. Being the acquiescent little nephew that I was, I switched seats with him. So the time finally came for the 'Golden Horseshoe'. I began to contort my face. Rickey flapped his wings. I stuck out my tongue and turned up my nose. Rickey flapped his wings even harder. And guess what? That's right...neither one of us won! Some little cute girl on the second row left that day with the Golden Horseshoe. We couldn't believe it!

During the next commercial break, we sat there whining like Kobe Bryant looking for a foul call, lamenting to each other about had badly we had gotten robbed. We almost didn't notice when the cameras started rolling again and it was time to award the 'Golden Zoo Key'. We both were startled when they announced that the winner of the 'Golden Zoo Key' was whoever was sitting in SEAT TWO! You see, you couldn't earn the Golden Zoo Key. You couldn't lobby and beg or even hope to perform your way into winning it. The Golden Zoo Key (at least the way we understood it) was a random drawing of a random seat number, and once it was pulled out of a hat (or from whatever orifice they extracted it from), the random child received it as his or her 'lucky' prize. The problem that day was that Rickey HAD been sitting in SEAT TWO. But he, of course, had swapped seats with me, in hopes of securing the 'Golden Horseshoe' and thereby forfeited the winning ticket, as it were, by now sitting in SEAT ONE. In his mind, I had taken his 'Zoo Key'; in his mind, he was supposed to win it; but I got it, since I was sitting in SEAT TWO: his seat. I got what he deserved.

Now I could make all kinds of parallels here but let's start off here:

Isaiah 53:4-6 (New Living Translation) Yet it was our weaknesses he carried; it was our sorrows that weighed him down. And we thought his troubles were a punishment from God,a punishment for his own sins! But he was pierced for our rebellion, crushed for our sins. He was beaten so we could be whole. He was whipped so we could be healed. All of us, like sheep, have strayed away. We have left God’s paths to follow our own. Yet the Lord laid on him the sins of us all.

Put simply by Paul and Peter: Christ died for our sins.
Put simply by me: He swapped seats with us.

Does that mean we get the 'Golden Gates Zoo Key'? That analogy might be a bit of a stretch although I certainly didn't earn it or deserve it. Perhaps I would have won the key even if I hadn't switched seats (after all, I'm sure I was the 'darlingest little boy' there that day ;). I do know that every time we went to the zoo with that side of the family from then on, and I would pull out my 'Golden Zoo Key' and use it to hear about the animals, Rickey would immediately start in on how it was his key and how I had been sitting in his seat!

Oh the joys of winning!

Conversely, we've all had times in our lives when someone else has gotten something that we felt like we deserved...when we wanted to be the winner, but someone else got the prize. Those times are not nearly as pleasant but are every bit as memorable; and they perhaps shape our character more than winning.

Oh the heartbreak of losing...

(to be continued)

DEATH AND 'FACTS IS' (Part Two)

This whole Blog was not meant to be about vacations; but about the permanent vacation, aka: death.  As a worship leader and default pianist for our church, I play and/or sing at a lot of funerals.  Most have been dear saints who were at the end of long, mostly productive lives (to my knowledge, anyway), so tears of grief were mixed with those of joy and relief.

But there have also been some folks die quite unexpectedly recently (technically before 'their time', as 'they' say).  A couple of them were riding motorcycles and that in itself gave me reason to reflect.  A pretty good friend of mine (not a 'BFF', but a good buddy) named Doug Jones died the final day of my sophomore year at Muskogee Highschool while leaving school. It was a sad ending to what is normally a pretty happy day ("School's out, school's out..."). He was a guy that I went to both school and church with; and he was widely hailed as the 'toughest guy in school'. You never expect one of your highschool classmates to die...but especially not one as tough and rugged as Doug. He was one of those Timex guys, that could take a licking (and keep on ticking). I observed a couple of his playground fights; and afterwards was always glad that he was my friend (and not my enemy).

Most of us have experienced that kind of death at least once in our life.  Think about some of yours for a moment; when you had a schoolmate or someone about your age die suddenly; or even just some kid who lived down the street who died needlessly while going about his or her normal, everyday routine...for the last time.  I'm not speaking about that group that lives 80 plus years, and dies after a long illness or extended nursing home stay, as sad though as that can be.  I'm referring to the unexpected news; that interruption of a life that seemingly would go on and on and on. Doug Jones. Michael Freeburg. Trevor Roberts. Diane Smith. James McLish.  Truthfully, the longer I sit here and think, the more names that come to mind.  Most of them didn't get to marry or to have kids.  They didn't get to worry with bills and mortgages or find themselves without a job and struggling to make ends meet.  They didn't see the Murrah building blow up or the Twin Towers fall.  They didn't get crows feet and worry lines.  They didn't lose their hair and their looks.  They didn't get to retire.  They didn't get to live...at least, not very long.  And not as long as you or I have.

But you see...that's what living is; lots of good...lots of bad...lots of routine; for who knows how long. Too often the bad can overshadow the good and the routine can overtake it all. I stop and realize that I don't even know what my dad's little brother's first name was. Fact is, I don't know the names of people in your lives that were unexpectedly taken. All any of us have right now, besides a houseful of 'things', is RIGHT NOW; a life that was extended longer than several others that we came in contact with. It doesn't make us more valuable or 'special' because we're still among the living; it doesn't even mean that we have a higher calling or a worthwhile purpose that they didn't have. It just means we're still here. The fact is we don't know 'why'.  We don't know 'why not'. The fact is most of us won't take time to sit and reflect on it; or even to put it down in a Blog (or to divide up our houseful of 'things' in a 'will'). I can also tell you that I don't know if that's good, bad, routine or somewhere in between! If the place they are in, is indeed a 'better place', then maybe the joke's on those of us still here on earth.

I always tried to encourage my kids to enjoy the 'now'. I warned them that when you got to junior high, you'd wish you were still in grade school (but wanting to hurry up and drive). When you got to highschool, you were wishing you were back in junior high (but wishing you didn't have a curfew).  When you got to college, you realized how easy you had it in highschool (but you couldn't wait to get out and get your own job).  Too much time spent pining for the good old days, yet wanting the next milestone to hurry up and arrive.  Sigh!  But it should make us all stop...and appreciate our life; the one we have TODAY. It makes me thankful; not just to be alive, but thankful for those who, although they perhaps did die 'before their time', managed to touch my life in the process.

So part of me thinks, "I've got so much to do. Put the lid down and step away from the laptop!"  But here I am, typing away.  "Oh look! The sun's finally out." Get off the computer; and DON'T get on Facebook.  But here I sit, still typing.  When we tally it all up, maybe we've WASTED more time (and more key strokes) than the aforementioned folks actually lived (or typed).  Hopefully that's not true; but let's all at least resolve to try and quit wasting time; or at least as MUCH time (in their honor!).

Yes, we're lucky (blessed) to be alive. I believe I've been blessed by the good AND the bad things of life. We'd be so boring if we didn't lose sometimes.  We'd become way too self-reliant if we didn't have to call on others (especially God) to get us through the tough times. But with that being said, I do want to focus on the 'good' things in my life and choose to joyfully live (and acknowledge the gift of) each day.  To that end, you probably won't see me post statuses, tweets or blogs about the 'routine or the in-between'...like I said, I don't want to focus on that.  I may even choose to blog less...but hopefully live more; so that when I do blog, you'll be glad you invested your time to read it.  While you're at it, read Psalm 51 which includes this verse:

Psalm 51:12 Restore to me the joy of Your salvation, and uphold me by Your generous Spirit.

Just for fun, go to my Red Letter Day CD and listen to Can't Take My Joy Away! It's a good five-minute aerobic tune about holding onto your joy (actually it's a three minute song with a two minute jam!).  So, hit play...then start dancing (think 'Snoopy Dance')!  Let it roll while you work around the house, clean in the kitchen or wrestle with your kids (or your spouse). Value today. Pursue joy! Then hold onto it (for dear life!).

...whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable-if anything is excellent or praiseworthy-think about such things. Philippians 4:8

Don't debate them.  Don't over-analyze them.  Just meditate on them.  Be content.  BE HAPPY!  You're alive!  Enjoy the fruits of the spirit.  I'm particularly partial to these: patience, kindness, gentleness and self control.

So, exercising my 'self control', I'm going to now stop typi

DEATH AND 'FACTS IS' (Part One)

My family always took vacations.  Every year, we'd load up in the car and drive somewhere.  When I was really young, a couple of times it involved staying with relatives along the way.  It was both a chance to see them, and to get a free room for the night.  Mostly though, there never seemed to be a lot of vacation planning.  In fact, a few times, my dad would sit down the night before we were to leave, open up a map of the United States and ask out loud, "Which direction should we go this year?"  Then he would 'kind of' plot our route.

We only actually flew somewhere once, which not so coincidentally was the first time I flew in a plane.  But that flight was preceded by a long and winding road through New Orleans, down the coastline and on to Panama City Beach.  Somewhere along the way we decided to catch a flight from Panama City to the Bahamas.  If we could've driven to the Bahamas, I'm sure my dad would have done that instead, to save the money.

The problem with flying out of the panhandle of Florida was this: we had to take off and land three times to just get to Miami, lay over about six hours, and THEN fly to the Bahamas.  I tended to get a little car sick when we drove, and taking off and landing that many times in the same small plane about did me in.  By the time we reached Miami, I was miserable.  To quote the Beatles, "All the way the paper bag was on my knee, man I had a dreadful flight!"  I sat there in the Miami airport with my head in my hands, trying not to throw up, hoping to rid myself of that horrible nausea.  I wound up being VERY thankful for the six hour layover and a chance to finally return to my normal color before I boarded that last flight to Nassau.

I'm sure the Bahamas was my mom's idea.  She was always interested in seeing the world.  She made sure she got to see Hawaii and Israel before she died.  They used to put 'stickers' on your luggage when you flew, and we had the 'Nassau, Bahamas' stickers on the sides of our suitcases from then on. We lived in Ada at the time, and not too many folks had even flown that lived there, more or less been to the Bahamas. She dropped the 'Bahamas' bomb whenver possible in conversations (to impress). But from my perspective, I had only bad memories of that trip.  Whatever last minute hotel we booked in Nassau wasn't really on the beach, just near a not-so-nice public beach; and after the initial 'flying' experience, I spent most of our time in the Bahamas dreading the flight back.  I have no desire to go there again, so I won't be buying any timeshares in the Bahamas!

One year my dad plotted out a trip to the Northwest. We managed to take in Mt. Rushmore, Yellowstone, and the Great Salt Lake during that 'swing'. We never really went to cities; we just aimed for National Parks or tourist destinations (although on the Bahamas swing, I think we DID actually take a half day guided tour of New Orleans.  I just remember the above ground graves.  Those things stick in your head as a kid).  As usual, we never booked a hotel in advance.  We always drove way longer than we should have each day, and waited much later than we should have to find a hotel.

Remember, there wasn't the plethora of hotels back then that we have now, so normally it was a small one-story motel by the side of the road, where you parked in front of your door, and stayed the night.  The ritual always involved finding a neon 'no vacancy' sign, where the 'no' wasn't lit up (think Bates motel).  Then my dad would go to the front desk, get a key for a room, and go look at it first, to be sure it was clean and presentable before he'd ever actually secure the room.  I can remember many times when he'd come back to the car, when the room WASN'T worth renting (even for him), and it was back on the road until we got to the next town, and the next motel with a vacant room.  It was a rare occassion when we would decide to stop driving about 5:00 to stay at a motel with a pool, so that there'd be time (and daylight) to swim; but never more than once a road trip.

The same scenario played out that year when we arrived at Yellowstone.  Once we got there (which was pretty much in the middle of nowhere) we discovered the only rooms to be had were in and around the park.  Of course the 'lodge' was booked up.  However, my dad found us a great deal on a tiny one-room cabin in the heart of the park.  There wasn't a bathroom (I think we all shared a large one, that was down a path through the trees) and I'm not sure there was even electricity in the darn thing.  Even though it was summer, it was, of course, high up in those mountains, and that night it was frigid.  The ONLY heat in that cabin came from a small open woodburning stove in the corner.  Thank the Lord my dad was a country boy, and knew how to get that little stove percolating.  However, it was still really cold (you could see your breath), and the only way to stay really warm, besides keeping several layers of clothes on or crawling in bed underneath a ton of covers, was to stand right in front of that stove.

Like most kids, I was never good about heeding warnings.  I had a small scar right beneath my eye for many years from running with a screwdriver in my hand in spite of the fact that I'm sure I got the "you'll poke your eye out" warning many times.  I swallowed a marble when I was about five even though I'm sure I got the "don't put that in your mouth" warning many times also (that marble never DID show up although we watched and waited for its arrival for several days after that).  So, this time was no exception.  My dad quickly said, "Don't get too close to that stove.  You'll catch on fire."  Once again, this would have probably fallen on young, 'deaf' ears, but then he added a little something that really DID get my attention.  "Back on the farm," he said, "I had a little brother that burned up from one of those stoves."  That stopped me in my bare tracks (pun intended).

You see my dad grew up in a one-roomed house north of Seminole, Oklahoma; and that was how THEY kept warm in the winter (way back then).  And it was news to me that he ever had a little baby brother.  I knew about his sister Linda, and his brother Dan.  But I guess there was a fourth Whittern child that got a little too close to the woodburning stove as a toddler, caught his pajamas on fire and died as a result.  Needless to say I was stunned.  Needless to say I NEVER got very close to that fire...no matter how cold I got that night.  It's a warning I never forgot.

The Bible contains many warnings...way more than the infamous TEN that the world has done all it can to hide.  But like all warnings, they're not much good if they stay hidden or remain unread and/or unheard...or unheeded.

Death itself is a warning.  A reminder that tomorrow is not promised and today is all you have to work with.  And that YOU were given a day that someone else wasn't given.

James 4:13-14 Look here, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we are going to a certain town and will stay there a year. We will do business there and make a profit.” How do you know what your life will be like tomorrow? Your life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then it’s gone.

(to be continued)

TOO LEGIT TO MITT

As previously stated here, I never had a desire to be 'Mr. Fix-It'.  Nor did I have a yearning desire to be 'Mr. Food'.  I learned to cook out of necessity ("stew or die").  I could barely cook mac and cheese when I left for college, but with the help of roommates and trial and error, I figured out a dish or two along the way.  I definitely learned more things from my mom after I left home than when I lived there.  No doubt, I was a more willing and interested student when I had to eat my own cooking.

Unlike my tool drawer (see 'Tool' blog), I have LOTS of kitchen gadgets in my kitchen drawers.  My kids make fun of us because we will stroll through all the kitchen stores at the outlet malls.  I love Tuesday Morning because of their kitchen stuff.  They always have the weirdest items.  Things you'd never ever see (or pay $20 for) at a normal store, but at cheaper prices.  Bed Bath & Beyond: I'm digging the 'Beyond'.  They probably have every kitchen invention that comes down the pike (but not at cheap prices, whether you use one of the coupons they send you every week or not).

A few years ago my favorite spatula developed a crack in the handle and part of it finally broke off.  I still try to use it, but you can't really 'baby' a spatula.  It's your main weapon in your kitchen arsenal!  You have to be able to dig and scrape and pry those good crispy crusts of the fried potatoes from off the bottom of the skillet...that's why you fry 'them taters'.  Since my spatula became a wounded veteran of the kitchen wars, I've been on a mission to find one JUST like it.  I've looked all over the world. I keep bringing them home, but none of them quite measure up.  It's like Chef Ahab looking for his 'great wide spatula'.  I'll probably never find another one like it.  I suspect Farberware just quit making them.

Oven mitts are another staple in the Whittern kitchen.  But they get dirty (or charred) so quickly that there never seems to be enough (clean ones) around. I always hate it when that big nasty thumb gets stuck into a freshly cooked meal (yuck).  It's also a little scary when I brush up against the 'heating element' in the oven and get to endure the aroma of freshly burnt 'mitt'.  Don't expect any pics of oven mitts forthcoming.  None of our mitts are really 'post-worthy'.  Wish I had one that said, "Kiss My Mitt!" (as a throwback to "Kiss My Grits").  When I have my oven mitt on, you will hear no MC Hammer music.

Started wearing mitts pretty faithfully after an 'incident' in college.  I was getting ready for an out-of-town gig and thought I'd cook some green beans before I left.  Now cooking green beans (back then) was pretty simple: open the can, dump 'em into a pan, turn the heat on and stir (I do much more seasoning with bacon and brown sugar now).  But during the college days, it was pretty mindless stuff...and that was the problem.  It was so mindless, that it slipped my mind that I had put the beans on the stove.  A bunch of the band members and I lived in a big yellow two story house on Duck Street (a few years before Garth Brooks lived in it) and I was upstairs showering and getting ready to go.  When I trotted downstairs, I could see the lonely pot of beans on the stove from across the house as I instantly remembered putting them on to cook.  I sprinted across the room and nervously looked into the pot, only to see the dried up, mostly burned now-black beans stuck to the bottom of the pan!  Luckily, I had left the spoon in the pan so I quickly grabbed it to try and stir the beans in an attempt to release them from their fiery grave.  BIG MISTAKE.  The fire hot spoon virtually stuck to my hand.  College boys don't have oven mitts.  They also don't have sense enough to NOT leave a spoon in a hot pan either.  I did have a tray of ice cubes in the freezer, though and I managed to hold one all the way to the gig that night.  WOW, that hurt!!!

I'm not saying that mitts are impervious to everything.  I've held a pizza pan or corningware dish right out of the oven a little too long a time or two and started feeling the heat ("If you can't stand the heat, get out of the mitten").  And yes, I wasn't kidding about brushing up against the oven element and starting a small 'mitt fire'.  Mitts are glorified gloves.  So naturally the thicker the glove, the harder it is to affect the hand.

I used to use rubber gloves alot in the kitchen...at least to reach down into a nasty college-boy sink to do week-old dishes (no tellin' WHAT you might stick your hand into in those sinks).  You could still feel the cold, but the wetness and the slimyness was somewhat kept at bay (sorry spellcheck, you just can't drop the 'y' in 'slimy').  Unfortunately, I too often would reach too far in, and that rubber glove would fill right up with nastiness (or I'd discover a previously unnoticed rip in the glove and realize that my thin wall of protection was pretty much nonexistent after all).

The other day our pastor was talking about the war between good and evil, between God and the devil, and how the only real way for the devil to 'get at' God was through God's people.  I got to thinking, if God's spirit lives in me and directs my life, then it's like I'm the glove and He's the hand.  Now sometimes I'm all 'fit like an oven mitt' and it'd be hard for old Slewfoot to cause any damage during those times.  Other times, though, I'm like an old yellow rubber glove with a hole or two here or there. Not good for much; and an open sieve for all sorts of nasty, slimy gunk.  Paul paints a word picture about the armor of God in Ephesians 6. But since I've never been stuck by a spear or been wounded in battle (other than taking a paint ball in the eye once), it's a bit of a reach for me to fully envision that.  But I definitely can relate to the 'oven mitt' of God...and the three-edged 'spatula'; protected, yet armed for whatever task that lies ahead.

Hebrews 4:12 For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any... (a. two-edged sword, b. double-edged sword, c. surgeon's scalpel, d. triple-edged kitchen spatula).* 

Whatever translation you prefer, the NKJ, the ASV, the Message, or even the RTV*, you get the metaphor.  In life, in battle, in the operating room, or in the kitchen...you need to be protected, prepared and properly equipped.

Just don't ask me to put on the apron of God! Them's frying words!

*a. New King James, b. American Standard, c. the Message, d. Randym Thoughts Version