Still There

I visited the shop that sits a little off the beaten path the other day with Mama Jan to see if it was still there.

Sure, I had other errands in that store that would take some of my time, but I planned a little spot of time in my journey through there to look at it.

If, indeed, it was still there.

I first saw it, hanging on the wall and for sale, about 13 years ago.

It made a deep impression on me.

I tempted myself with buying it back then, but the price was too high.

It had been a few years now since I had been there, and I wondered if, like I said, it would still be there, and if it was, and if the price was right, I planned to buy it.

As soon as I stepped in the door, my gaze traveled to where it was the last time.

It was still there.

I positioned myself a ways back from it so I could ponder its meaning again without being interrupted by a sales person.

Jerusalem, in the painting, was busy.

It looked to be a warm Mediterranean afternoon; heat waves glimmered up from the crowded, bustling city.

Dust, too, filled the air and settled down on anything exposed.

I fancied men flipping product just arrived by ship into nearby gaping warehouses.

I saw, in the upper floors of those prospering businesses, wine passed around and favors traded while deals were made on the goods for sale.

I saw the gold on their hands as they raised goblets that glistened in the afternoon’s rays.

Scanning over to the edges of the sprawling city, I saw the poor, the discouraged, those who toiled under burdens of poverty, grief, and unfair dealings.

I saw the beggars, one in particular, who had lost both legs and one arm, whose only conveyance was rolling himself in the dust to get to the corner where he propped himself up and held his good hand out for anything.  He was old, gray hair sticking sweaty and thick upon a still handsome, still intelligent face. 

I saw the crowd pass him by, and I wanted to run back in time and go help him somehow.

My gaze swung up to the lefthand corner of the painting, and rested upon a lone figure sitting there, looking down upon the city nestled between seven hills.

I saw the look of sadness and longing upon his kindly face.

I knew he saw more than I did, down below.

I knew he saw those who were, even then, plotting his death under a spiritual guise so their coffers would ultimately include almost all of the land under Roman rule.

I knew he saw those bent on their own lust and terrible abominations.

I knew he saw those condemned to die with him in just a few days.

And, I knew he saw those, who, when they saw him, would receive him and let him carry whatever burden they labored under.

Somehow, I knew it was for those he yearned, more than those who had already turned against him.

I edged in closer, and a salesperson asked what I needed. 

I asked the price, and found it was farther beyond my reach than previous years.

But that’s okay.

I know I’ll never be able to pay the price.

And, it comforts me to know that he is still there.

Sitting upon the hillside, looking down upon my need.

Whose Feet They Hurt with Iron

I have my good days and bad days.

On my good days, my mind rolls back, and a panorama of images play across the back of my eyelids.

I see my carefree, young self, running and exploring, back in the hills behind our home. 

I hear the crickets playing their raspy, violin-like tunes, and, as I sit back and relax, I can feel the warm sun soaking through me, warming me while the air remains crisp and cold all around me.

On my good days, I remember my mother.  I can still picture her thick, dark tresses falling around her beautiful face, the face that always made my father look like he owned the world, when he looked upon it.

I remember my mother’s love for me, her firstborn.

I remember climbing the hills behind our home, and, on a bright, clear day, looking down and westward into the bluest sea.  I hear it’s the high salt content in it that reflects the deep blue from the sky so perfectly.

I remember how delectable the marine life was from its waters.  In later years, it would come to be known that the water in our sea only exchanged with the outside water every 100 years or so, creating a nutrient rich habitat for thousands of species to thrive in.

I remember so well that I can almost feel it now.   The wind would start its march around the dial, going from our winter westerly wind towards the springtime easterly wind, bringing in the tangy, far-off smell of salt and foggy mornings.  Our crops couldn’t help but grow when the wind turned like that.

But on my bad days, I’m bound in time and place, and my memories stick fast in my mind like flaming darts, thrown from a skillful opponent.

My world gets smaller and smaller on my bad days.

I think of all that is lost.

I think of my mother, who died in childbirth with my younger brother when I was eight years old.

I think of how my dad, so in love with her, never was the same afterwards.

I think of how we sort of just existed for a time there; how we really didn’t have any purpose at all.

I think of my older brothers, and how bent on cruelty they could be when the mood crossed them.

I remember the horrible hot winds that blew in from the desert way back behind our place.  The crops and livestock suffered terribly on those days.  Sand covered everything, and slowly snuffed life out.

On my bad days, I ache for my lost mother, and, more recently, my lost father.

My mind tends to get stuck in place, though, and it carves a rut that it can’t jump out of as I go over and over again, the events of that one horrific day, back when I was 17 years old.

I try to think what I could have done differently.

I think of each word I said and wonder what I could have said otherwise.

I try to remember if there was any opening, anywhere, where I could have made a run for it.

The gaping chasm left in my life, from that day on, will never go away or be healed over.

I remember the dread I felt at being locked away, and hearing the footsteps of those I knew and who I thought loved me, fading slowly off in the distance.

I remember so well, the next morning, hearing new footsteps arrive.  For a second, I dared to hope, but when they spoke, and I couldn’t understand their language, I knew all bets were off.

We made do with crude sign language for the first while, as they took me away and made me their property.

And now, after what seems to be an even worse outcome than I ever could have imagined, I am here, over 200 miles away from my homeland and family, if, indeed, any of them remain.

Here, where it is cold and damp all the time.

Here, where I never see or feel the warm sunshine like I did as a child.

Here, where my feet touch the other side of the room before my legs ever really stretch out.

On my bad days, I see my once young and strong body slowly wasting away.

I see my skin go from supple tan to ashen yellow.

I see sores appear and I watch flies dig away at the center of them. 

I make guesses with myself, as to whether I’ll die from starvation, lack of the will to live, or infection from where the iron bands are cutting into my ankles, just a little more each day.

And yet.

My good days are more than my bad days.

Because there is a Presence that I sense each day sitting near me, holding my hand, and ministering to my wounds.

On those days the pain in my ankles isn’t so great.

On those days, I feel more than healing. 

I feel an urgency from him who sits by me to remain. 

To make it. 

To prepare myself for what may lie ahead.

At times I feel him test me on my faith and I see it stretch out to the thinnest of lines between us before he comes near to me and adds to my faith that of his own.

I look at my ankles, and I know I’ll probably always walk with a limp, should I ever go free from this place, but it’s okay.

Because his presence and his words are with me, both now and in whatever we face together in the future.

I am Joseph, whose feet they hurt with iron.

Psalms 105:18-19

In Which I Fail

I really didn’t have a plan when I started this particular writing episode a little over two years ago.

Other than an outlet for a few memories that I wanted to get into print, should certain of my progeny ever wish to read in the future, this venture was aimless.

I thought maybe the caveat that I have at the top of the blog, something about being homespun and other like adjectives, would cover the exceptionally blunt, raw, or otherwise crude ways in which I put my words upon the screen.

I really felt that I had this thing mostly to myself, as far as rules go.

I felt like once I had the initial things on my mind written, and they mostly for my family who may or may not read this, that I could call it quits and be none the worse off. 

Don’t get me wrong.  I still write for my family, first and foremost.  If some of you wish to peek in over their shoulder, so to speak, you are more than welcome to.

However.

Believe it or not, I have considered enrolling in a creative writing course. 

And I have considered trying to change my style.

I’ve considered a different platform.

Because, you see, it’s like this.

Each time I write there’s this little side bar that pops up with a score of the piece I am getting ready to post.

So far, I have failed 186 out of 186 posts.

My title is often a failure.  It says it needs powerful and compelling words to draw the reader in.

The length of the piece is always wrong, and it often tells me it’s far too spread out all over the place.

And pictures.

I need a picture, right under the title that sort of summarizes the whole thing and gives a visual of what your eyes are about to partake of in the form of words.

And then there are the tags.

I’m supposed to tag each post with one or several tags that make good search and summarization criteria for future searches.

I’ve read up on the history of famous authors.  Of those within the last fifty years, nary a one has plunged into the writing business without several accolades from very noteworthy colleges behind their names.

Many of them have years of experience in the field abroad and nearby. 

All can take a severe critiquing of their work and make the proper changes without a whimper.

Yesterday, I and my friend Jed who is also my barber, had a discussion on various and summary. 

Towards the end of my haircut, he asked me what I thought of ChatGPT. 

I told him I had been intrigued with the concept, but never checked it out.

He gave me some pointers, and last night, I made myself an account with the site and checked in for my first bit of a homestay. 

I am in the middle of another piece, entitled simply, “Boy.”

I thought, “Why not?” and copied and pasted it into my little nook over there on Chat.

More quickly than I could read, it printed out a edited copy of my piece.

I read it and compared it to the original. 

It was good.

It had a really nice title and instead of my one sentence paragraphs, which I seem to have a soft spot for, it had everything condensed into nice blocks of palatable reading.

And, if I didn’t like that version, all I had to do was click the ‘regenerate’ button at the bottom and it gave me yet another version to contemplate. 

It had a nice opener, a comprehensive spot of color for the main text, and a decent flourish to finish it all up.

In the end, I come to this.

When it comes to writing, it appears I fail.

I don’t have the titles, pictures and all the other adders that make for a Pulitzer prize piece.

I just have me.

Which is, quite possibly, all there will be.

In Which She Becomes Family

She has definitely found her way into our hearts.

From the get go, I could tell she was a real lady.

None of this tough macho stuff that leaves you strangled for breath.

No.

She proved it by her graceful ways.

Ways in which she sat patiently by my chair at mealtime, willing to wait until the meal was over without complaint for her tidbit.

Or the times she eases in beside me when I’m lying on the floor and gently checks me over to see that everything is okay and leaves me with a tiny lick as if to say, “rest easy, love.”

Yes, she’s gotten her fair share and more of my cookies. 

I know.  You are chastising me for giving her chocolate.

But that’s okay.  Our dogs get chocolate and get away with it for some reason.  (I really think it helps them live longer, happier lives, but that’s just a personal opinion.)

And yes, she is a fan of my ice cream and chocolate sauce. 

And, on a rare occasion, she got her own meal from the McDonald’s drive through. 

She certainly isn’t all saint, as Mama J can testify to when on a certain day, she came in to find her sewing patterns shredded and the fabric she had been saving for just the right occasion had three fang marks in it.

And somehow, she has learned how to open the doors into this house, and it’s been more than once that we’ve come home to see the tails wagging and shaggy grins greeting us at the door, as a sort of welcome committee.

Or, if one were to crawl under the table, they might see little teeth marks on the wood. 

But those are small slights, and easily forgiven somehow.

And her place with us seems solidified.

Especially, when I saw her climb up on Mama J’s chair, and Mama J comes over to move her computer off so she had the whole chair to herself, and then, in unconscious motherly gesture, shut the lights off so she could sleep the easier.

Business

I’ve done business there for the better part of ten years.

He’s been there all that time, and, judging from little comments here and there, was probably there a long time before I ever came in.

The first time I did business with him I was almost sat back on my heels by his behind-the-counter behavior.

I wasn’t sure I had ever met a more unfriendly, gruff, or crude person.

I decided, as I left the place, that surely it was a one-time deal; I couldn’t see him keeping his job if it wasn’t.

But I found out the next several times I was in there that it wasn’t a once only deal.

When I meet someone like him, I think I respond in one of two ways.

I am either freaked out or feel so defeated that I make every effort to keep out of their way in the future, or, my interest is piqued and I wish to see what makes them tick.

After seeing another contractor getting the same treatment and handing it right back without too many bruises, either verbally or otherwise, I decided to take on the challenge of him.

I started small.

I began by being thankful for his service and, when it didn’t seem too intrusive, I tried to understand what made him happy.

Through the years I’ve found out that he—

Likes to gamble and is confoundingly lucky with it.

Likes mini coupers.  Especially black supercharged mini coupers.

Likes cigarettes.  Two packs per day, twenty per pack.

Likes L.A., and if he had the money, he’d move back there in a heartbeat.

Likes Taco Bell and Subway.

Likes guns. Assault rifles.

Likes women and thinks he has what it takes to charm them.

I’ve also learned that—

He had a very severe case of Meniere’s disease; so bad that he was rendered helpless on several occasions and once had to crawl from where the bus dropped him off by the exit off the interstate to the hospital.

He had to have surgery to eliminate the Meniere’s disease, but it left him deaf in one ear.

He was the oldest of 7 children, and, due to the disappearance of his dad, had to help with the raising of all his younger siblings.

He had to change his sibling’s diapers, and that was when they still wore cloth diapers, and then he was responsible for washing out the diapers and hanging them on the line to dry.

He is the fastest one to get my parts, if he is in a good mood.

He’ll say they don’t have or are out of stock of what I need, even if they do have it, if he is in a bad mood, leaving me helpless on the wrong side of the counter.

He has no scruples talking bad about or making fun of me behind my back, even when my back isn’t turned.

*****

Ten years is enough time to learn to recognize the subtle innuendos emanating from him when he is having a bad day, and I’ll give him space.

On his good days, I’ll give him a bit of a bad time about sharing his gambling earnings with me, or ask when in the world he is going to have surgery for that bad knee of his, or caution him about eating too much Taco Bell due to its explosive nature.

I could tell he liked my teasing by the way he handed it back to me and others with the rarest of twinkles in his faded old eyes.

I guess, though, that I’d need some psychiatrist to explain to me why I’m feeling the way I am about things today.

I walked in the other day with only two items I needed, and I knew about where they were in back, that it wasn’t too far for him to walk and in a jiffy, I’d be out of there.

Maybe that is why I missed all the signs, if there were indeed signs, because my order was so small, and I knew it wouldn’t inconvenience him to get it for me.

I sat in silence for a bit while he entered what I needed into his computer and then, still dialed in to what seemed big in my small world, I asked him why he didn’t have to wear glasses.

And the floodgates burst open.

I was deluged in four letter words that started with s, f, and a.

I was asked if I had anything at all for a brain in, again with very descriptive words, that head of mine.

For a moment I was too stunned to reply, and that is probably a good thing.

The next moment had me wondering if I should walk out.

Finally, I pulled together what little remaining self-worth I had and sat quietly, waiting for the storm to blow its fury out.

When it finally did, I gathered my two items, thanked him for helping me, and walked out.

*****

I dunno.

How should a person feel after something like that?

I felt sick, angry, and offended all at once.

For a few hours, I really had to talk to myself to keep from calling his manager and telling them what I thought of it all and where I thought he needed to go.

Each time I go in there, now, I hope like everything someone else will be at the counter to help me and that I won’t have to use him.

Regarding this incident, I think back often to a certain blog post by Seth Godin where he says,

“When in doubt, look for fear.  When someone acts in a surprising way, we can begin to understand by wondering what they might be afraid of.”

That helps to put it into perspective, but it doesn’t take the sting out of it.

Did I become too invested in the ten years previous?  Maybe, but I almost doubt it, because I could see early on that he and I would never click.

Do I feel offended because I wasn’t offered a fair trade for the efforts I made to make his world a bit of a happier place?  Again, maybe, but on the other hand, I couldn’t ever really tell that I was making a difference.

Perhaps it’s the injustice of being blindsided without warning in relation to a comment I didn’t feel was worthy of a fight.

I’ll keep going in there for product, because I have to.

Nevertheless, I certainly know a little bit better how I want my employees to treat any customer of ours, regardless of what kind of day they are having.

ed, or, ing?

Does it make a difference?

For sure.

Especially if it involves little humans and the word train.

To end that word with ed gives temporary relief to the urgent task at hand, but likely will yield disastrous results long term.

To end that word with ing may seem discouraging, and the task may look like it will never end.

And that’s the truth of it. 

It never ends.

And in a way, that is encouraging.

Because we always have the chance then, if we choose to take it, to improve on yesterday and seed hope for tomorrow.

Hang in there, young parents, schoolteachers.

Settle in for the long haul and enjoy the little moments each day with your little human.

Before you know it, the hardest part will be behind you and all you’ll have to claim are the memories.

(Thanks for the good visit today, Wes.)

Rite of Passage

Something happened to me the other day.

Sort of, you might say, a rite of passage.

But in reality, the rite of passage probably began almost forty years ago.

Let’s go back there.

*****

I’m a little squirt of a boy in the 3^rd grade.

I am easily distracted from the real work, which is, schoolwork.

One of the distractions is a new fad, or so it seems, that has taken my grade by storm.

I hear rumors that the fluorescent light fixtures in our school are emitting strange frequencies that slowly but surely knock out vision.

Lots of my compadre’s are getting glasses. 

Soon, I am one of the few who doesn’t have glasses.

And then, the scourge hits me, and I am squinting and squenching just to see what’s up on the chalkboard, let alone make out if it is a drawing or letters.

My mother and I make the acquaintance of a nice eye doctor who confirms the worst, or best, depending if you are one of the few who aren’t in the ‘in’ group who wear glasses.

The adults in my world see my new ‘look’ and say I look scholarly.

I’m not sure if they mean the way I look at things through my eyes, or what they are seeing through their eyes.

It’s not long before the frames on my new glasses are bent in different directions than they used to be, and the lenses are usually in a hopeless state of smudge. 

I develop my own unique style, like everyone who wears glasses does, of getting my glasses pushed back up on my nose without ever touching them with my hands.

But it’s not until that first Sunday that I get the shock of my life. 

I’m sitting on the balcony, and, I may or may not have been behaving when I glanced up at the minister some 100 some feet away, and saw his face looked really strange.  It was so narrow, and angular.  I couldn’t remember hearing of anything that might have changed his visage in such a way. 

And then it dawned on me; I slipped my glasses off, and he looked normal.  Just a long-distance face that had no features whatsoever.  I was amazed.  I finally decided that he must look ‘right’ with my glasses on, even though he really looked completely wrong to me. 

Maybe those lights over in that school room had really done a number to me. . .

*****

It’s about twenty years later, I am going through moderate to severe problems with my contacts.

My right eye does fine, but my left has an attitude of its own. 

The contacts are supposed to last two weeks, or, as it tends to happen with me, four weeks. 

At first, my left eye does its trick at about the three-week mark.

Then it dials back to two weeks.

Towards the last, it only makes it a week or less before it goes into extreme spasms and regurgitates my contact, after which I can’t begin to get it back in. 

My eye doctor says no more contacts.  My eyes are rejecting them from the almost twenty years of constant wearing them.

He suggests surgery. 

I’m a huge fan of his suggestion.

A few weeks later, we are in Oklahoma City, and, after 45 minutes during which I am subjected to two terrifying minutes when my sight completely left me due to the suction they used to immobilize my eye for the initial cuts, my vision is 20/10, and I walk out in a daze.

On the way home, I marvel at how I can read the road signs long before my wife and family can.  (I still can, for that matter.  Just had to toss that out there, for certain of my family to read.)

But alas, reality has other plans and strikes back. 

Literally.

Just like the first Sunday with my glasses, I come smack up against a startling difference.

I am teaching the 7^th and 8^th grades at this time in our little country school. 

Of course, it is my prerogative, as the only male teacher, to save face in whatever situation with my students.

Pre surgery, I employ several methods to do this. 

One is out on the ballfield. 

I am second to none. 

Every pitch is destructed under my merciless, unrelenting swing of the bat.

But post-surgery . . .

I strike out.

Every time I get up to bat.

Every. Lasting. Time.

And my students, at first quite surreptitiously, try to hide their smirks and gentle chuckles.

And me? 

I am flabbergasted at myself, and I let it be known. 

Of course, it’s the surgery.  It has to be.

My depth perception is off when I back up to trailers, so it has to be what the deal is.

But my students . . . finally don’t even bother to hide their smiles and their chuckles turn into real laughter, even as I vociferously speak my mind about depth perception and how I never struck out before the surgery. 

They just smile at that last remark.

*****

I stepped into my eye doctor’s office for a regular exam the other day, almost twenty years after the surgery that left me with stellar vision and a plummeting batting average.

I had a new eye doctor this time, like I had the last time. 

Seems like they are so young anymore, but, what with today’s beauty aids and all it’s not surprising they look that way.

The doctor suggested I get fitted for glasses.

She quickly propped up my deflated ego by saying that I had fighter pilot vision . . . long range. 

(See there, family?)

But then she held this little card up to me.  I think they spite you just by the size of the card to begin with.

And then they put this impossibly small print on it and ask you to read it in the presence of other young things in the room.

“Can you read the bottom line?” she chirped.

“Absolutely,” I said, before a little later adding, ‘not.’

So, I manned up and ordered myself some glasses, but only on a trial basis.

And today, I get them fitted.

And the young thing that is fitting them asks if everything looks all wacky, because, ‘some people go crazy with these for the first few days.’

And I remember, oh how well I remember, those first few days for my wonderful wife. 

I’m not sure who was the craziest by the time it was over, but anyway.

But I was delighted to tell the young thing that honestly, ‘nothing seemed too out of whack with them.’

She gave a knowing smile and said, “That’s wonderful!”

Upon which I got myself back to my truck and proceeded on homeward.

Other than putting a scratch on the right lens within an hour of being fitted all seemed to go swarmingly.

At least that’s what it seemed to be going like.

My neck began to tire quite soon from the rapid jerky movements it was subjected to due to eye commands.

And I repeatedly took them off to check for the obvious smudge that must be on them, because, just like post-surgery, it couldn’t be related to me.

And even as I type this, the computer seems to be playing a fiendish game of ‘now you see me, now you don’t,’ with the words and letters. 

But, perhaps, it’s the words of one of the sweet daughters that urges me onward.

“They make you look younger,” she said, of my stylish new glasses.

Which begs the question—What did I look like before?

Again, I’m not sure if she means the way I look at things through my eyes, or what she is seeing through her eyes.

This rite of passage looks to be a wiggly waggly walk in the park.

But I will admit, I have been getting mighty tired of taking pictures of any type less than say, a quarter inch tall, and then blowing them up so I can see what it says.

And restaurant lighting?  Don’t even get me started. 

What’s in a Win?

The instructions flittered through the group several weeks before the end of school.

There would be a contest, they said.

The Dads and their children who were in the 7^th and 8^th grades would be in this contest.

The instructions were basic.

The school would supply wood, kindling, matches, and eggs.

Each child and their dad needed to bring something to fry an egg in, and, if they wished, a hatchet or like instrument to chop up the wood.

No paper to help light the fire. 

No lighter fluid.

Just matches, luck, and wood.

Whoever could fry their egg, and eat it first, won.

My sweet daughter and I discussed different options to fry the egg in. 

She was more for the original route of using the skillet her mother used to fry eggs in.

But, her mother didn’t like that idea, thinking the fire would stain her skillet.

I, on the other hand, was thinking of the physics (if there is such a thing) of heat.

I suggested one of those thin disposable aluminum pie plates.  My argument was that if we got a big enough one, we could hold it right down on the fire without burning our hands and the heat would get through that thin aluminum much quicker than through a skillet.

The daughter acquiesced and other than deciding who would crack the egg, who would turn it, etc., our plans were made.

*****

The last day of school dawned brightly.

And breezy. 

I suspicion folks who read this that live down south might have called it windy, but no matter.

Us Dads met at the shop where the wood for the event was stored and took stock of the situation. 

There were nice sized chunks of wood that would take hours to burn down.  These, we pushed aside.

There was kindling, as promised, but it was going to need some pairing down if we were to expect even a prayer of a fire.

We set to work with hatchets, but it was tough going.  We mostly had chopped up pieces of still too big kindling.

My friend Travis had the real deal.  Having spent some time in the D.R., he knew firsthand how to get a fire going with only the bare essentials. 

He cut paper thin slivers and shavings off with his machete, wielding that two-foot knife expertly. 

He cut plenty, and, owing to his generous nature, offered what he didn’t need to the rest of us. 

I’m afraid I took more than my share of them, noticing how the breeze seemed to be picking up.

The time of the contest drew near, and we each staked out our area and set up camp.

The school handed out whole boxes of matches, even two, to some who asked for them. 

I was very worried that if we didn’t get it right, those dry fluffy shavings would go up in smoke and we would be left with the choice of either eating our egg raw (I never heard that it wasn’t an option) or bowing out entirely.

The daughter courageously played her part, cupping her hands right close to the flame I was touching against the little wood pile, risking getting a healthy burn out of the whole deal.

Our brave little flame took off, but the fire was still far too small to do any cooking with, and I could see we were entering the crucial stage where the shavings would be used up, and the larger kindling wouldn’t have caught.

Amazingly, the wind died down at that instant.  I couldn’t believe our good luck.

The kindling took off and we put our egg into the pie pan and spread as thin as we could.  The school board went above and beyond and offered salt and pepper to those who wished for it. 

Our egg was frying along nicely; I didn’t figure we would even have the kindling used up before it was cooked, as long as the wind stayed calm, like it was.

It was about then I looked up, having had my attention riveted to the fire building process thus far.

And I almost forgot to fry the egg.

There, on windward of our cheerful little fire, stood four of my nieces who had traveled out from Mississippi to be with us during the last day of school festivities.

They were crouching low to the ground, and each one had their skirt spread with their hands out to the side as far as it would go.

There was very little wind that made it through the barrier they were providing.

We finished right up and actually won that contest.

I heard later that some of the contestants used two boxes of matches to try to get their fire lit. 

But can you blame them? 

They didn’t have a living windbreak.

And who really won? 

Without Travis, or the sweet daughter, or those lovely nieces of mine, we wouldn’t have even made it to first base.

So, did we win? 

Is any win singular? 

It seems to me that every win out there has had participants who aided the process.

They say more than 400,000 people were involved in putting Neil Armstrong on the moon. 

Did Neil win?

Oh. 

Back to us.

The egg was really gritty, but it tasted okay.

Does it Matter?

A while back, I attended a Zoom meeting where the question was asked,

“How do you think you are known, or how would you like to be known?”

I wonder what the first thought was that flitted through your mind as you read that. 

Are you known as the person you would like to be known as?

Does it matter?

In a word, what is your identity?

And, how important is identity?

Very, according to my therapist.

Identity is the core of each person, and is comprised of three parts, she said.

Who I think I am.

Who my close friends think I am.

Who God thinks I am.

When all three agree, that is my identity.

And, it doesn’t take very much looking to see what happens when any one of those three doesn’t match the other two, or, worse yet, when all three disagree. 

I’d venture an opinion that some of the larger buildings and businesses in this land stem from such a disagreement.

Perhaps even national empires.

That they agree matters.

Undeniably.

Every Morning

I am planting wheat.

The field I am on is hilly, and I can’t always see the all the way to the end of the pass I’m on.

The tractor I am driving is old, and doesn’t have GPS on it.

Each time I turn around at the end of the pass I am dismayed at how crooked it is.

I look it over.  I make a plan to try to make it straighter this time. 

But it never works.  Each pass is as crooked as the last one.

I finally finish the field.

*****

The next field I move to was last worked with a tractor that had GPS.

I see the faint marks of each pass that the last rain didn’t quite wash out.

Each pass is arrow straight to the north.

I pick out a small furrow to follow and make my first pass.

When I get to the end, I see it isn’t too crooked.

But, as I turn around, I realize there is a new mark to follow.

I line up, set my gaze down the long straight row, and make the next pass.

*****

And then the truth tumbles into the cab with me.

The first field was like I tried to live my life for so many years.

Each day, I tried.

I tried so hard.

I tried to line up, but so often I couldn’t even see the end of the field, and my path got lost somewhere in it all.

And it was always crooked, and a disappointment.

And the second field?

Well, I figure that’s what happens when I let God help me.

And every morning is a new start; I forget the mistakes of yesterday, and I set my eyes down the straight and perfect mark set before me.