I’m one of those people who has a hard time saying no. Particularly when someone comes up to me asking me to support a worthy cause. Especially when that someone is a child. My pantry is full of Girl Scout cookies and Boy Scout popcorn. I’ve bought shampoo, seeds, light bulbs, ribbons, bracelets, and a chance to win a dream home, recliner, cash and jewelry. I have placed ads in annuals, school newspapers, and pageant programs knowing that no one really sees the ads, but I don’t want to disappoint the young man or lady selling to me. When I do make these purchases I have a rule. The child selling whatever it is must sell it to me. Not Mom. Not Dad.
Lately I have not been able to help like I would like to. With the economy slowing down as it has, it just isn’t in the budget. So, rather than giving like I normally would to each person, I have had to be a little more selective in what I support and how much I support it with. I’ll still buy the Girl Scout cookies and Boy Scout popcorn, but I can no longer supply the whole neighborhood with these treats. You can still find my ads in the various publications but the size of the ads will be smaller. Hopefully, one day, I’ll be able to increase the amount of my gifts to the levels they once were. But until then, I have to say no.
Does this mean that I think less of the needs of these individuals or groups? Absolutely not. Does this mean they are less worthy? Again, no. It simply means that I don’t have the money for it. Is this a hard pill for me to swallow? Wouldn’t I like to be in the position to help everyone who asks? Certainly. But I can’t.
So, who makes the cut? How do I decide who gets money this time and who doesn’t? For me, the number one deciding factor is the gratitude of the person to whom the gift is given. I recently supported a local school who was selling raffle tickets to raise money. The raffle was for $5,000. I knew I had little chance of winning (based on my track record), but I purchased 1 ticket. Normally I would have easily laid down the funds for 5 or more. After the raffle ticket I found out I won! No, I did not get the $5,000. Instead I won a thank you note from an appreciative 11 year-old young man. That was worth more than $5,000 to me. His parents have raised him right.
The point in this article is not to impress you with my charity or to have you feel sorry about my economic struggles (like we don’t all have them). No, my point is, if you don’t have it to give, you can’t give it. Sure would be nice if our government knew this – on both sides of the aisle.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Pajama Party... All Day Long
College classes have begun and students are beginning to settle in to their life on campus. It is a life that is free from the restriction of the uniforms of high school. This summer hundreds of students were happily clearing their closets of khaki’s and school color polo shirts. Now they can finally wear what they want to school and, thusly, in public. And their number one choice? Pajamas.
I cannot put my finger on when this trend began. I know it is not new, because I’ve seen it for quite some time now. It occurred shortly after the young ladies started wearing pants with words plastered across their derrieres. That trend was even more disturbing to me because, as an avid reader, I couldn’t help but read. Do you realize how difficult it is to explain to your wife that you weren’t looking, you were just reading?
I do realize that questioning the attire of the younger crowd is not limited to my generation. I know that in the 1980’s there were thousands of adults who were asking me to tie the shoelaces to my high tops. One glance at the picture my father took as his oldest son took off for his first day of college classes reveals shorts that were entirely too short. However, my legs were less exposed than today’s generation because my striped tube socks came to my knees. I wasn’t alone in my choice of attire. Watch highlights from the NBA in the 80’s and you know what I’m talking about.
After thinking about this I began to realize that the questioning of the younger generation’s clothing is not a new thing. Previous generations probably faced the same thing. Research would probably yield the fact that poodle skirts for the ladies and rolled up jeans with white t-shirts for the guys were even criticized. This all got me to thinking about how these things probably transpired over previous centuries.
In 1492 I can imagine one of the native peoples encountered by Columbus laughed at the fact that their visitors wore anything other than a loin cloth. While, later, the Pilgrims probably scoffed at the natives for not wearing buckles on their belts… and hats… and shoes.
In the Roman Empire days, I am sure that some mother looked at her son and said, “Where are you going looking like that? Take those ridiculous pants off and put your toga on like a good little boy.”
As a matter of fact, I think that the only parents who did not question their children’s clothing selection were probably Adam and Eve. “Animal skins rather than fig leaves? I tell you, Adam, that outfit Abel designed is to die for!”
So, now, instead of questioning the clothing being worn today, I am looking forward to today’s generation and what they have to face when their kids get to choose their own clothing!
I cannot put my finger on when this trend began. I know it is not new, because I’ve seen it for quite some time now. It occurred shortly after the young ladies started wearing pants with words plastered across their derrieres. That trend was even more disturbing to me because, as an avid reader, I couldn’t help but read. Do you realize how difficult it is to explain to your wife that you weren’t looking, you were just reading?
I do realize that questioning the attire of the younger crowd is not limited to my generation. I know that in the 1980’s there were thousands of adults who were asking me to tie the shoelaces to my high tops. One glance at the picture my father took as his oldest son took off for his first day of college classes reveals shorts that were entirely too short. However, my legs were less exposed than today’s generation because my striped tube socks came to my knees. I wasn’t alone in my choice of attire. Watch highlights from the NBA in the 80’s and you know what I’m talking about.
After thinking about this I began to realize that the questioning of the younger generation’s clothing is not a new thing. Previous generations probably faced the same thing. Research would probably yield the fact that poodle skirts for the ladies and rolled up jeans with white t-shirts for the guys were even criticized. This all got me to thinking about how these things probably transpired over previous centuries.
In 1492 I can imagine one of the native peoples encountered by Columbus laughed at the fact that their visitors wore anything other than a loin cloth. While, later, the Pilgrims probably scoffed at the natives for not wearing buckles on their belts… and hats… and shoes.
In the Roman Empire days, I am sure that some mother looked at her son and said, “Where are you going looking like that? Take those ridiculous pants off and put your toga on like a good little boy.”
As a matter of fact, I think that the only parents who did not question their children’s clothing selection were probably Adam and Eve. “Animal skins rather than fig leaves? I tell you, Adam, that outfit Abel designed is to die for!”
So, now, instead of questioning the clothing being worn today, I am looking forward to today’s generation and what they have to face when their kids get to choose their own clothing!
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Letter to the Broken Hearted
Recently a friend of mine came to me and asked me if I would write a letter to a family member of hers whose child had recently passed. I've written about it, delivered speeches, and taught lessons about it before and I really don't mind.
If there is something I can say that might comfort someone in their time of grief, then I would love to help. However, rather than write an individual letter, let me write something to those of you who have experienced the crushing pain that comes with losing someone who is supposed to outlive you. Feel free to pass it on.
Dear Friend,
I have been asked to write you a letter that a loving friend of yours hopes will make the pain go away. Unfortunately, no such letter exists.
You don't want words of comfort. You want to see your loved one again. It's not that the words of comfort are not appreciated, I can just tell you from experience, that there are no magic words, scriptures or rituals, that will make the pain instantly disappear. What I can tell you is that you are not alone in your feelings. In the first few days you cannot understand why people are still moving along as if the world had not ended.
In the days and weeks that follow your tragedy you will begin to return to a more normal life. Only, it is a new normal. You now have a new level of happiness. One that comes with survivor's guilt. You feel guilty for smiling, for laughing. For breathing. This is especially noticeable when you attend a function you and your child always did together.
You will be angry with the people around you. Don't be. Some feel guilty for still having their child. Others don't know what to say or how to act. You will lose some friends, but you will gain some new ones. Friends that want to hear about your child and the life that they lived. And you won't mind telling them.
They will cry with you. They will laugh with you.
You will get around to getting rid of some of your child's belongings. But you will also have an emotional attachment to things you will not be able to give away. Do this in your own time. It has been 4 1/2 years for us and, while we have given some of her stuff away (and she had a lot of stuff!) our daughter's room remains much the same.
You will handle it. You will handle it in your own time and in your own way. Don't allow anyone to rush you. And, spouses, be mindful of your partner's feelings. Just because you are ready, doesn't mean that he or she is.
You will stand in an ocean of sorrow facing the shore as unseen waves softly lap at your shoulder when, suddenly, a tsunami of grief will hit you knocking you to your knees. You will rise and set your feet firmly determined to stand. Eventually, these tidal waves become fewer and farther between. But they never go away completely.
You will survive. Rely on faith, friends, family and fond memories. Your child is never gone as long as they live on in your thoughts.
I hope this helps.
If there is something I can say that might comfort someone in their time of grief, then I would love to help. However, rather than write an individual letter, let me write something to those of you who have experienced the crushing pain that comes with losing someone who is supposed to outlive you. Feel free to pass it on.
Dear Friend,
I have been asked to write you a letter that a loving friend of yours hopes will make the pain go away. Unfortunately, no such letter exists.
You don't want words of comfort. You want to see your loved one again. It's not that the words of comfort are not appreciated, I can just tell you from experience, that there are no magic words, scriptures or rituals, that will make the pain instantly disappear. What I can tell you is that you are not alone in your feelings. In the first few days you cannot understand why people are still moving along as if the world had not ended.
In the days and weeks that follow your tragedy you will begin to return to a more normal life. Only, it is a new normal. You now have a new level of happiness. One that comes with survivor's guilt. You feel guilty for smiling, for laughing. For breathing. This is especially noticeable when you attend a function you and your child always did together.
You will be angry with the people around you. Don't be. Some feel guilty for still having their child. Others don't know what to say or how to act. You will lose some friends, but you will gain some new ones. Friends that want to hear about your child and the life that they lived. And you won't mind telling them.
They will cry with you. They will laugh with you.
You will get around to getting rid of some of your child's belongings. But you will also have an emotional attachment to things you will not be able to give away. Do this in your own time. It has been 4 1/2 years for us and, while we have given some of her stuff away (and she had a lot of stuff!) our daughter's room remains much the same.
You will handle it. You will handle it in your own time and in your own way. Don't allow anyone to rush you. And, spouses, be mindful of your partner's feelings. Just because you are ready, doesn't mean that he or she is.
You will stand in an ocean of sorrow facing the shore as unseen waves softly lap at your shoulder when, suddenly, a tsunami of grief will hit you knocking you to your knees. You will rise and set your feet firmly determined to stand. Eventually, these tidal waves become fewer and farther between. But they never go away completely.
You will survive. Rely on faith, friends, family and fond memories. Your child is never gone as long as they live on in your thoughts.
I hope this helps.
Monday, August 8, 2011
To Tell the Tooth
There are many who scoff at the idea of going to see a dentist when you are not having a problem. I was one of those – until I broke a tooth that could have been saved if I had taken care of it. Aside from a fun tale, nothing good can really come from a broken tooth. Over the last year I have taken care of getting this tooth replaced in several stages. Please allow me to share.
Stage one: When you are trying to replace a bad tooth you have three choices. You can just have the broken one removed. You can have it removed and a bridge put in which is effectively a cap for two of your teeth and a fake tooth between them. Or, you can choose to have an implant. I chose the latter. The surgeon removes the bad tooth and puts a paste in to fill the holes left in the jaw after the extraction. The paste consists of cadaver bone. The thing I remember most about the recovery was the unique post-surgery taste. Then it dawned on me. I taste dead people.
Stage two: Once the dead people paste has set in my jaw and become one with my bone, the surgeon has to cut back into my nicely healed gums and drill what amounts to a post-hole in the bone. A small screw is put in the hole, the gums are stitched back closed and I am sent on my way again. Post-op was less painful than the first – except for in the wallet. The main thing I realized during this recovery is that my tongue will, of its own accord, try to untie the stitches without waiting for the doctor to cut them out himself. My tongue was unsuccessful – but I can now do serious damage to a cherry stem!
Stage three: This is the easiest stage. The surgeon simply cuts the gums and screws in my temporary “Terminator” like tooth. In other words, you can now see the titanium fence post in my mouth. This procedure was much less complicated, but the anesthesia had an interesting effect on me. Evidently, while sedated, my blood pressure spiked a bit and Dr. Thames had to add some medication to regulate it. I awoke in my bed at home with no recollection of how I got there. My wife assured me that I undressed myself even if I did ask her, shortly after I unbuttoned my shirt, how it got unbuttoned. I think she lied to me because at no time did my hands leave my side – that I can recall. I’m not sure what else I did while in this state, but I have been promised that it will not appear on YouTube.
My dentist can now take over. Within the next month I should be good as new. But that’s another story for another time. Needless to say, I am sure it will be worth it. YouTube video and all.
Stage one: When you are trying to replace a bad tooth you have three choices. You can just have the broken one removed. You can have it removed and a bridge put in which is effectively a cap for two of your teeth and a fake tooth between them. Or, you can choose to have an implant. I chose the latter. The surgeon removes the bad tooth and puts a paste in to fill the holes left in the jaw after the extraction. The paste consists of cadaver bone. The thing I remember most about the recovery was the unique post-surgery taste. Then it dawned on me. I taste dead people.
Stage two: Once the dead people paste has set in my jaw and become one with my bone, the surgeon has to cut back into my nicely healed gums and drill what amounts to a post-hole in the bone. A small screw is put in the hole, the gums are stitched back closed and I am sent on my way again. Post-op was less painful than the first – except for in the wallet. The main thing I realized during this recovery is that my tongue will, of its own accord, try to untie the stitches without waiting for the doctor to cut them out himself. My tongue was unsuccessful – but I can now do serious damage to a cherry stem!
Stage three: This is the easiest stage. The surgeon simply cuts the gums and screws in my temporary “Terminator” like tooth. In other words, you can now see the titanium fence post in my mouth. This procedure was much less complicated, but the anesthesia had an interesting effect on me. Evidently, while sedated, my blood pressure spiked a bit and Dr. Thames had to add some medication to regulate it. I awoke in my bed at home with no recollection of how I got there. My wife assured me that I undressed myself even if I did ask her, shortly after I unbuttoned my shirt, how it got unbuttoned. I think she lied to me because at no time did my hands leave my side – that I can recall. I’m not sure what else I did while in this state, but I have been promised that it will not appear on YouTube.
My dentist can now take over. Within the next month I should be good as new. But that’s another story for another time. Needless to say, I am sure it will be worth it. YouTube video and all.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Independence Day 365 Days a Year
July 4, 1976. Our nation’s bicentennial. I can vividly remember celebrating by ringing a small Liberty Bell replica that my father had mounted to the wall outside the back door. Life was simpler then. The only thing I remember about politics was that presidential addresses would interrupt Little House on the Prairie. That summer was spent with the other neighborhood kids running up and down the street or, when it got really hot, praying the Tatum’s would take us to West Hill’s Country Club for a dip in the pool.
Here I sit, 35 years later, and wonder at what time the innocence of youth was lost. What happened to the joy of living in such a wonderful country? Is the average pre-teen aware of the current political situation or are they as carefree as I was back then? And, if they are not as thrilled at the thought of living in this country as I was at that age, why not?
Just as Christmas should not be all about getting presents from a large man in a red suit and white beard, Independence Day should not just be about who has the best fireworks in the neighborhood. Sure, there is a lot of fun in watching the bright colors burst in mid-air, but the real joy should be in the fact that the booming concussion and the sparks that fly in the sky are followed by oohs and ahhhs and not by screams of terror.
Yes, we are still blessed to live in the land of the free and the brave. We could just as well live in a country where the explosions are real and we cower in a bomb-shelled building praying for our lives. In spite of the fact that for 235 years each generation has claimed that things were so much better when they were kids (except for the uphill walk to school - both ways), America is still an incredible country.
So this year, why not ring a bell for freedom at your house. Teach your children and grandchildren what it means to be able to live without the fear of war in your own backyard. You spend time trying to convince them to be good for the other 11 months of the year, not just December, so show them how to be proud to be an American for 365 days a year – not Just July 4th.
Happy birthday America. And a special thank you to the soldiers that fight to keep us free. God bless you and God bless America.
Here I sit, 35 years later, and wonder at what time the innocence of youth was lost. What happened to the joy of living in such a wonderful country? Is the average pre-teen aware of the current political situation or are they as carefree as I was back then? And, if they are not as thrilled at the thought of living in this country as I was at that age, why not?
Just as Christmas should not be all about getting presents from a large man in a red suit and white beard, Independence Day should not just be about who has the best fireworks in the neighborhood. Sure, there is a lot of fun in watching the bright colors burst in mid-air, but the real joy should be in the fact that the booming concussion and the sparks that fly in the sky are followed by oohs and ahhhs and not by screams of terror.
Yes, we are still blessed to live in the land of the free and the brave. We could just as well live in a country where the explosions are real and we cower in a bomb-shelled building praying for our lives. In spite of the fact that for 235 years each generation has claimed that things were so much better when they were kids (except for the uphill walk to school - both ways), America is still an incredible country.
So this year, why not ring a bell for freedom at your house. Teach your children and grandchildren what it means to be able to live without the fear of war in your own backyard. You spend time trying to convince them to be good for the other 11 months of the year, not just December, so show them how to be proud to be an American for 365 days a year – not Just July 4th.
Happy birthday America. And a special thank you to the soldiers that fight to keep us free. God bless you and God bless America.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Charity begins at home
Over the years my travels have taken me across this great nation of ours. On those trips the one thing that stands out to me is the generosity of others.
I wanted to share with my readers some of the things I have witnessed when it comes to the charitable giving of others.
In Atlanta I once sat at a hotel looking out of the lobby window when I saw a man carrying a large brown paper grocery bag.
He was being approached by a homeless gentleman. When the homeless man asked for money to buy some food I watched the man put down his bag, reach inside and pull out a loaf of bread and peanut butter and make a sandwich.
This was an ingenious way to immediately satisfy a need without possibly contributing to another vice.
In New York City I watched as a man took his leftovers out of a restaurant and immediately placed the food on top of the nearest garbage can.
I thought he had forgotten his doggie bag as he walked away, but before I could say anything I watched as another individual who was living on the streets came along and took the food from on top of the can rather than having to dig through a disease-infested dumpster.
A recent trip to San Diego showed me another side of charitable giving as many of the restaurants would round your bill up to the nearest dollar.
The difference in the actual bill and what you paid went to nearby neighborhood kitchens to help them feed the needy.
Charity doesn't always have to be about the homeless. Last week I had to opportunity to purchase the best lemonade and cupcake you could ever hope to taste.
I bought it from a little friend of mine named Sam. Sam had set up a lemonade stand where he and his mom sat for four hours on both Friday and Saturday in the blazing heat. Sam wanted to raise money for a worthy cause - to help children who were suffering from cancer.
Over two scorching afternoons Sam managed to raise just over $1,000.
They say charity begins at home. That is certainly the case at Sam's house where his parents both taught and learned a valuable lesson.
Sam's parents listened to his little heart and instructed him to be a cheerful giver. He truly touched my heart when he said he also wanted to add all of the money he had in his piggy bank.
You may think that at 6 years old Sam doesn't know the value of a dollar to be willing to part with it so quickly. I think Sam knows the value in helping an individual in need better than most. And that knowledge is worth every penny.
When I grow up I want to be just like Sam.
I wanted to share with my readers some of the things I have witnessed when it comes to the charitable giving of others.
In Atlanta I once sat at a hotel looking out of the lobby window when I saw a man carrying a large brown paper grocery bag.
He was being approached by a homeless gentleman. When the homeless man asked for money to buy some food I watched the man put down his bag, reach inside and pull out a loaf of bread and peanut butter and make a sandwich.
This was an ingenious way to immediately satisfy a need without possibly contributing to another vice.
In New York City I watched as a man took his leftovers out of a restaurant and immediately placed the food on top of the nearest garbage can.
I thought he had forgotten his doggie bag as he walked away, but before I could say anything I watched as another individual who was living on the streets came along and took the food from on top of the can rather than having to dig through a disease-infested dumpster.
A recent trip to San Diego showed me another side of charitable giving as many of the restaurants would round your bill up to the nearest dollar.
The difference in the actual bill and what you paid went to nearby neighborhood kitchens to help them feed the needy.
Charity doesn't always have to be about the homeless. Last week I had to opportunity to purchase the best lemonade and cupcake you could ever hope to taste.
I bought it from a little friend of mine named Sam. Sam had set up a lemonade stand where he and his mom sat for four hours on both Friday and Saturday in the blazing heat. Sam wanted to raise money for a worthy cause - to help children who were suffering from cancer.
Over two scorching afternoons Sam managed to raise just over $1,000.
They say charity begins at home. That is certainly the case at Sam's house where his parents both taught and learned a valuable lesson.
Sam's parents listened to his little heart and instructed him to be a cheerful giver. He truly touched my heart when he said he also wanted to add all of the money he had in his piggy bank.
You may think that at 6 years old Sam doesn't know the value of a dollar to be willing to part with it so quickly. I think Sam knows the value in helping an individual in need better than most. And that knowledge is worth every penny.
When I grow up I want to be just like Sam.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
We All Need The Human Touch
When you really break it down, there are two kinds of people in this world; those who like physical touch and those who do not. And when those two people get together it is like when a cold front meets a warm front. Thunderstorm, here we come.
The physical-touch crowd is easily recognized. They are the ones who must put an arm around your shoulder or a hand on your hand when they speak to you. Words are not enough to convey what they mean. A simple squeeze of their hand lets you know they are trying to show how sincere they are. The funny thing about the physical-touch person is that he is totally unaware he is doing it.
PTers should not be confused with space-invaders. Space-invaders get as close to you as possible without actually making contact. You need reading glasses to look them in the eyes. PTerswill at least speak to you at arm’s length. Far enough away to not feel they are threatening, but close enough that they can touch you at the moment of deepest sincerity.
Those who prefer not to be touched are also easily identifiable. They are the ones who are in a full sprint in two strides when they see a PTer come near. You will find them standing (sitting makes them vulnerable) with their arms crossed soaking in all that is around them. This includes the nearest exits.
Non-PTers can sometimes seem unfriendly and non-inviting. That is usually not the case though. Non-PTers may not be touchy-feely type people, but when they love you, they love you for life. While everyone is a friend to the PTer, the non-PTer has fewer but deeper, more meaningful relationships.
By now you have already put yourself in one of these two categories. You have certainly tagged someone you know with one of the two labels. A good friend once told me that there is good touchy-feely, and there is bad touchy-feely (actually I think she used the word “creepy”). Being captain of my local PTer chapter, I worried about which category she put me in. Fortunately, she wasn’t running away when she said this. Perhaps because I was hugging her shoulder too tight.
Recently my father and brother and I went on a trip. For four straight days I went without holding a baby, hugging a friend, or tussling the hair of a toddler. Was it any wonder that my brother asked if he could have a room to himself the last night on the road? I missed my wife. I missed the babies I get to keep each week in the church nursery. And, although I thought this impossible, I missed my daughter even more.
So, if you see a non-PTer running through your hallway followed by a PTer, consider yourself warned. A thunderstorm is on the way.
The physical-touch crowd is easily recognized. They are the ones who must put an arm around your shoulder or a hand on your hand when they speak to you. Words are not enough to convey what they mean. A simple squeeze of their hand lets you know they are trying to show how sincere they are. The funny thing about the physical-touch person is that he is totally unaware he is doing it.
PTers should not be confused with space-invaders. Space-invaders get as close to you as possible without actually making contact. You need reading glasses to look them in the eyes. PTerswill at least speak to you at arm’s length. Far enough away to not feel they are threatening, but close enough that they can touch you at the moment of deepest sincerity.
Those who prefer not to be touched are also easily identifiable. They are the ones who are in a full sprint in two strides when they see a PTer come near. You will find them standing (sitting makes them vulnerable) with their arms crossed soaking in all that is around them. This includes the nearest exits.
Non-PTers can sometimes seem unfriendly and non-inviting. That is usually not the case though. Non-PTers may not be touchy-feely type people, but when they love you, they love you for life. While everyone is a friend to the PTer, the non-PTer has fewer but deeper, more meaningful relationships.
By now you have already put yourself in one of these two categories. You have certainly tagged someone you know with one of the two labels. A good friend once told me that there is good touchy-feely, and there is bad touchy-feely (actually I think she used the word “creepy”). Being captain of my local PTer chapter, I worried about which category she put me in. Fortunately, she wasn’t running away when she said this. Perhaps because I was hugging her shoulder too tight.
Recently my father and brother and I went on a trip. For four straight days I went without holding a baby, hugging a friend, or tussling the hair of a toddler. Was it any wonder that my brother asked if he could have a room to himself the last night on the road? I missed my wife. I missed the babies I get to keep each week in the church nursery. And, although I thought this impossible, I missed my daughter even more.
So, if you see a non-PTer running through your hallway followed by a PTer, consider yourself warned. A thunderstorm is on the way.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Being Tardy minded
As originally posted in the Hattiesburg American 5/2/2011
Let me begin by saying, I m not a hoarder. However, within arm’s reach on my small desk are enough items that would make me a millionaire if Monty Hall were to offer me $100 for something as obscure as an alcohol prep pad, a used tube of lip balm or a book of matches. No, I am not a hoarder. I prefer instead to think of myself as a collector.
Truth be told, I am just a disorganized wreck. I know that my disorganization is not intentional. I have just reached that time in my life where the memory banks are full. I can remember the colors of the umbrella on the street in the background during the assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan but I cannot remember where I put my keys. It seems that my internal computer is dumping the wrong memories.
At home my wife will get a phone call from someone thanking her for what we did for them only to listen in wonder because I have failed to tell her what exactly we did. It’s not that I am telling her a lie – not even a lie of omission. It’s that I simply forget to tell her the important things - but I don’t hesitate to tell her about every stroke on the golf course.
Don’t call me absent-minded (which really presupposes that there was a mind to begin with). No, I am tardy-minded. My memory comes flooding back, just as I get comfortable on the couch. That is when I remember that I left the drink I made for myself on the kitchen counter.
One evening my wife and I were having a discussion on the merits of remembering to tell her things. Of course, I have probably forgotten half of what was discussed that evening, but I think it had something to do with the Cubs game that was on TV. A simple look at my truck will help you understand. When I clean out my truck I try to take everything non-essential out, in less than a week I find my door pockets filled with everything from hand-sanitizer to sidewalk chalk.
There are obviously two sides to every story. As you read this you are either agreeing with me, or you are looking for the scissors so you can cut it out and hand it to someone you know. So, for those of you who stand on common ground with me; let’s pledge to do our best at concentrating on one item at a time. For those of you that think I’m lazy and disorganized; please love me for my wonderful creativity and my ability to at least START many wonderful projects. And, for my loving wife, in case I have forgotten to tell you, I mentioned you again in an article. Hope you like it.
Let me begin by saying, I m not a hoarder. However, within arm’s reach on my small desk are enough items that would make me a millionaire if Monty Hall were to offer me $100 for something as obscure as an alcohol prep pad, a used tube of lip balm or a book of matches. No, I am not a hoarder. I prefer instead to think of myself as a collector.
Truth be told, I am just a disorganized wreck. I know that my disorganization is not intentional. I have just reached that time in my life where the memory banks are full. I can remember the colors of the umbrella on the street in the background during the assassination attempt on Ronald Reagan but I cannot remember where I put my keys. It seems that my internal computer is dumping the wrong memories.
At home my wife will get a phone call from someone thanking her for what we did for them only to listen in wonder because I have failed to tell her what exactly we did. It’s not that I am telling her a lie – not even a lie of omission. It’s that I simply forget to tell her the important things - but I don’t hesitate to tell her about every stroke on the golf course.
Don’t call me absent-minded (which really presupposes that there was a mind to begin with). No, I am tardy-minded. My memory comes flooding back, just as I get comfortable on the couch. That is when I remember that I left the drink I made for myself on the kitchen counter.
One evening my wife and I were having a discussion on the merits of remembering to tell her things. Of course, I have probably forgotten half of what was discussed that evening, but I think it had something to do with the Cubs game that was on TV. A simple look at my truck will help you understand. When I clean out my truck I try to take everything non-essential out, in less than a week I find my door pockets filled with everything from hand-sanitizer to sidewalk chalk.
There are obviously two sides to every story. As you read this you are either agreeing with me, or you are looking for the scissors so you can cut it out and hand it to someone you know. So, for those of you who stand on common ground with me; let’s pledge to do our best at concentrating on one item at a time. For those of you that think I’m lazy and disorganized; please love me for my wonderful creativity and my ability to at least START many wonderful projects. And, for my loving wife, in case I have forgotten to tell you, I mentioned you again in an article. Hope you like it.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
The Crying Game
Over the years I have developed a fairly high tolerance to physical pain. I cannot remember the last time I shed tears due to suffering an injury. This includes sprains, broken bones, and even kidney stones. You also can’t speak poorly of me and expect me to cry. That ole “sticks-and-stones” thing has evidently stuck with me. With that being said, I will confess, I am a crier.
Who knows when this began, but it becomes very evident when I watch certain movies. Toy Story 3 and The Blind Side are recent culprits. Sports movies like Radio, Rudy, The Rookie, and We Are Marshall, not to mention Brian’s Song, are no escape. TV is guilty too as Home Makeover requires a box of tissues every week.
Grief is a given, but a variety of other emotions can turn on the taps. As we near football season I have to steel myself to the National Anthem being played as my patriotic heart swells and I think of all the men and women who have given their lives to make this country great. Tears of joy have also overcome me at times. It’s gotten to the point where I am being invited to parties. “Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the Incredible Crying Man.”
Tears come when I see a child hurting, a loved one suffering, or when I am overwhelmed by love and generosity. I cried watching the news reports of the 9/11 terrorist attack and the effects of Katrina on our own gulf coast. I cried even more witnessing the generosity of friends from across the nation as they attempted to help us recover.
I keep telling myself that crying is okay. It is a natural reaction. And, as long as it’s not in baseball, crying is acceptable (because everyone knows there’s no crying in baseball). I have now come to believe that crying doesn’t make me less of a man. It just makes me more of a human.
Musician and lyricist Bob Carlisle penned the following words, “When a grown man cries, you can feel the thunder. He can call down angels with signs and wonders. He’s a powerful man with a weary soul, and his tears can touch the very heart of God.”
Who’s Bob Carlisle? He’s the man who shared the story of his daughter growing up in the song “Butterfly Kisses.”
Yeah, that song gets me every time.
Who knows when this began, but it becomes very evident when I watch certain movies. Toy Story 3 and The Blind Side are recent culprits. Sports movies like Radio, Rudy, The Rookie, and We Are Marshall, not to mention Brian’s Song, are no escape. TV is guilty too as Home Makeover requires a box of tissues every week.
Grief is a given, but a variety of other emotions can turn on the taps. As we near football season I have to steel myself to the National Anthem being played as my patriotic heart swells and I think of all the men and women who have given their lives to make this country great. Tears of joy have also overcome me at times. It’s gotten to the point where I am being invited to parties. “Ladies and gentlemen, introducing the Incredible Crying Man.”
Tears come when I see a child hurting, a loved one suffering, or when I am overwhelmed by love and generosity. I cried watching the news reports of the 9/11 terrorist attack and the effects of Katrina on our own gulf coast. I cried even more witnessing the generosity of friends from across the nation as they attempted to help us recover.
I keep telling myself that crying is okay. It is a natural reaction. And, as long as it’s not in baseball, crying is acceptable (because everyone knows there’s no crying in baseball). I have now come to believe that crying doesn’t make me less of a man. It just makes me more of a human.
Musician and lyricist Bob Carlisle penned the following words, “When a grown man cries, you can feel the thunder. He can call down angels with signs and wonders. He’s a powerful man with a weary soul, and his tears can touch the very heart of God.”
Who’s Bob Carlisle? He’s the man who shared the story of his daughter growing up in the song “Butterfly Kisses.”
Yeah, that song gets me every time.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Childhood Memories
Life in 1977 on Sunset Drive was everything this boy could hope for, and I could not have experienced it in a better neighborhood. Oh the stories that street could tell.
On Sunset Drive the light posts still bear the marks of Frisbees flung in countless games of disc golf.
The yards were so spacious then, allowing us to throw 30-yard bombs from the Tatums' driveway end zone to the Hewitts'.
Neighboring houses would quake in fear that a coverless baseball wrapped in black electrical tape would find itself resting among the shards of glass on the living room floor. And the Christmas footballs had a life expectancy of about two days around the Galloways' yucca bushes.
After a hot morning playing ball we would all gather at my friend Les' house in the hopes that his mother would take us to West Hills Country Club so we could go swimming.
Sunset Drive had enough boys on it to field our own football teams so our own Super Bowls were Sunset vs. the world.
While we won more than we lost, the record wasn't what counted. It was the tales we told later that would have had the Dallas Cowboys quaking in their boots.
The city seemed much safer then as we rode our bicycles everywhere in town. The trip to Cloverleaf Mall was a simple jaunt through the woods that today are decorated with the colors of the fashion season on the racks at Walmart.
If trees could talk the leaves would tell of prepubescent war heroes that would get shot, count to 30, and get back up to fight again. The bark would smell of gunpowder and the forest floor would be littered with rolls of expended caps.
Al, John, Les, Steve, Jay and the gang have all grown up and gone their separate ways. Our world has gotten bigger and the neighborhood houses and yards have gotten smaller over the last 30 years or so.
I witnessed that fact myself when I rode past my old house the other day. The trees now dwarf the houses and the houses themselves seem so much smaller than they were in the days of my youth.
But if you walk down the street today and listen carefully, you can probably still hear the screams of joy. If you climb into the trees of the vacant lot and look far enough you can probably still see the Frisbees making their way down the street. And somewhere among those sites and sounds you can imagine all of the things we left undone for the next generations.
I hope they have as much fun as we did.
On Sunset Drive the light posts still bear the marks of Frisbees flung in countless games of disc golf.
The yards were so spacious then, allowing us to throw 30-yard bombs from the Tatums' driveway end zone to the Hewitts'.
Neighboring houses would quake in fear that a coverless baseball wrapped in black electrical tape would find itself resting among the shards of glass on the living room floor. And the Christmas footballs had a life expectancy of about two days around the Galloways' yucca bushes.
After a hot morning playing ball we would all gather at my friend Les' house in the hopes that his mother would take us to West Hills Country Club so we could go swimming.
Sunset Drive had enough boys on it to field our own football teams so our own Super Bowls were Sunset vs. the world.
While we won more than we lost, the record wasn't what counted. It was the tales we told later that would have had the Dallas Cowboys quaking in their boots.
The city seemed much safer then as we rode our bicycles everywhere in town. The trip to Cloverleaf Mall was a simple jaunt through the woods that today are decorated with the colors of the fashion season on the racks at Walmart.
If trees could talk the leaves would tell of prepubescent war heroes that would get shot, count to 30, and get back up to fight again. The bark would smell of gunpowder and the forest floor would be littered with rolls of expended caps.
Al, John, Les, Steve, Jay and the gang have all grown up and gone their separate ways. Our world has gotten bigger and the neighborhood houses and yards have gotten smaller over the last 30 years or so.
I witnessed that fact myself when I rode past my old house the other day. The trees now dwarf the houses and the houses themselves seem so much smaller than they were in the days of my youth.
But if you walk down the street today and listen carefully, you can probably still hear the screams of joy. If you climb into the trees of the vacant lot and look far enough you can probably still see the Frisbees making their way down the street. And somewhere among those sites and sounds you can imagine all of the things we left undone for the next generations.
I hope they have as much fun as we did.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Change your stars
It was late spring in 2006 when I learned a very valuable life lesson. A lesson that can only be learned through reflection. My wife had plans for the evening leaving my daughter and me to fend for ourselves.
One of Beth's chores each week was to change out the cage for her pet hamster. While she got him tucked away in his hamster ball, I turned on the television to watch my Cubbies play. After a few minutes Beth came out of her room with the aquarium that served as GusGus' cage.
She asked me if I could help her dump the wood chips outside in the burn pile. So I begrudgingly pulled myself away from the ball game, took the tank from her, and followed her out the door.
As soon as she pulled the door shut behind her we knew we were in trouble. We were locked out of the house.
We tried all of the things you could think of to break in and I am happy to say that my house was secure.
Rather than bore you with details, let's just say that my daughter and I enjoyed some time laying on the trampoline in the backyard and talking. After almost three hours we began to take a moonlight stroll around the neighborhood to keep warm. Halfway through our walk my frantic wife finally drove into the subdivision. She was understandably upset at not being able to reach us. Especially when it looked to her like we were taking an evening stroll without a phone on us.
Before she had a moment to voice her displeasure I gently shook my head. She understood. She still fumed, but she understood.
Upon returning to the house my daughter took her mom in the back room and shared with her the events of the evening. Then she told her the one thing that stood out from our time together. She said, "Mom, he didn't get mad."
When we became parents we felt it was important to discipline for the right reasons. An accident was not a reason for discipline. It was an opportunity to teach. We taught our daughter that we need to take responsibility for our mistakes and clean up after ourselves, but, no matter how hard we try to avoid them, accidents will happen. Locking the door behind her was an accident. We all have accidents. The better of us learn from those mistakes and hope not to make them again.
I did not get angry at my precious daughter that night. Instead I realized one important thing. We all have a decision in life. We can choose to let circumstances change us or we can look to change the circumstances. That night I am glad I chose the latter.
One of Beth's chores each week was to change out the cage for her pet hamster. While she got him tucked away in his hamster ball, I turned on the television to watch my Cubbies play. After a few minutes Beth came out of her room with the aquarium that served as GusGus' cage.
She asked me if I could help her dump the wood chips outside in the burn pile. So I begrudgingly pulled myself away from the ball game, took the tank from her, and followed her out the door.
As soon as she pulled the door shut behind her we knew we were in trouble. We were locked out of the house.
We tried all of the things you could think of to break in and I am happy to say that my house was secure.
Rather than bore you with details, let's just say that my daughter and I enjoyed some time laying on the trampoline in the backyard and talking. After almost three hours we began to take a moonlight stroll around the neighborhood to keep warm. Halfway through our walk my frantic wife finally drove into the subdivision. She was understandably upset at not being able to reach us. Especially when it looked to her like we were taking an evening stroll without a phone on us.
Before she had a moment to voice her displeasure I gently shook my head. She understood. She still fumed, but she understood.
Upon returning to the house my daughter took her mom in the back room and shared with her the events of the evening. Then she told her the one thing that stood out from our time together. She said, "Mom, he didn't get mad."
When we became parents we felt it was important to discipline for the right reasons. An accident was not a reason for discipline. It was an opportunity to teach. We taught our daughter that we need to take responsibility for our mistakes and clean up after ourselves, but, no matter how hard we try to avoid them, accidents will happen. Locking the door behind her was an accident. We all have accidents. The better of us learn from those mistakes and hope not to make them again.
I did not get angry at my precious daughter that night. Instead I realized one important thing. We all have a decision in life. We can choose to let circumstances change us or we can look to change the circumstances. That night I am glad I chose the latter.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
These are the people in my neighborhood.
I imagine that in major metropolitan areas where people cram themselves into subways, buses, and trains, eventually you get to notice your regulars. Maybe you even strike up a conversation with them. You may even learn their names and become friends.
In our less-urban settings, we don't have that luxury. But that doesn't mean we don't commute to work with our own set of regulars. Since I have not spoken to them personally (although a few of them I have certainly spoken at), I still have assigned names to each of my mobile neighbors and would like to introduce you to them.
My first regular I usually pick up coming out of the neighborhood and onto the highway. I just call her Sunshine. She almost always had a smile on her face, and her little car is brightly colored. Her smile gets brighter as we travel as she applies the bright lipstick and equally luminous eye shadow as she manages the wheel with an unseen set of hands.
Then there is a woman I call Bountiful Betty. I haven't met her, but I know she has a husband and four kids as well as three dogs and a cat. I'm afraid that if her family gets any larger there will be no room on her back window to add another cartoonlike character.
The Quick Cajun is my next co-commuter - at least for the brief moment he's riding alongside me. QC has magical powers that allow him to go so fast that the green, yellow and red of a traffic signal blur into one color only he can see.
QC should in no way be mistaken for Lane Change Larry. Poor Larry wishes he had similar magical powers because he invariably picks the wrong lane every time. We travel together quite often as I tool along in my lane and watch him pass me on one side before I pass him right back.
Turning Terry is also my traveling buddy. The turn lane was made especially for Terry. Terry will be turning - eventually - even if he does pass through several intersections to get to his turn.
One-Eyed Juanita is next. While most people can cross their eyes side to side, Juanita can mystically move one eye up to watch the traffic and one eye down as she lowers her head and says her Blackberry prayers.
So, if you should happen to see Sunshine, Betty, QC, Larry, Terry or Juanita, please give them a big hello from Too Kind Keith. He's the one who lets absolutely everybody into the lane and drives the vehicle that looks suspiciously like mine. Be sure to honk as you pass him. Everyone else does.
In our less-urban settings, we don't have that luxury. But that doesn't mean we don't commute to work with our own set of regulars. Since I have not spoken to them personally (although a few of them I have certainly spoken at), I still have assigned names to each of my mobile neighbors and would like to introduce you to them.
My first regular I usually pick up coming out of the neighborhood and onto the highway. I just call her Sunshine. She almost always had a smile on her face, and her little car is brightly colored. Her smile gets brighter as we travel as she applies the bright lipstick and equally luminous eye shadow as she manages the wheel with an unseen set of hands.
Then there is a woman I call Bountiful Betty. I haven't met her, but I know she has a husband and four kids as well as three dogs and a cat. I'm afraid that if her family gets any larger there will be no room on her back window to add another cartoonlike character.
The Quick Cajun is my next co-commuter - at least for the brief moment he's riding alongside me. QC has magical powers that allow him to go so fast that the green, yellow and red of a traffic signal blur into one color only he can see.
QC should in no way be mistaken for Lane Change Larry. Poor Larry wishes he had similar magical powers because he invariably picks the wrong lane every time. We travel together quite often as I tool along in my lane and watch him pass me on one side before I pass him right back.
Turning Terry is also my traveling buddy. The turn lane was made especially for Terry. Terry will be turning - eventually - even if he does pass through several intersections to get to his turn.
One-Eyed Juanita is next. While most people can cross their eyes side to side, Juanita can mystically move one eye up to watch the traffic and one eye down as she lowers her head and says her Blackberry prayers.
So, if you should happen to see Sunshine, Betty, QC, Larry, Terry or Juanita, please give them a big hello from Too Kind Keith. He's the one who lets absolutely everybody into the lane and drives the vehicle that looks suspiciously like mine. Be sure to honk as you pass him. Everyone else does.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
I said YES!!
On February 4th, 2007 my daughter came to our room to tell us she had a bad cold and did not feel like she could make it to church that morning. We knew she was really feeling poorly because she didn’t want to miss church. Her youth choir was singing that morning and she loved to sing. We told her she would have to call Mr. Charlie and tell him that she could not make it to sing that morning.
The day was uneventful as we sat around and watched movies. At one point Beth looked up at me and asked me if I would help her build pom-pom buddies. These were little creatures she would make out of the little puff balls and an occasional pipe cleaner. I told her that I would as soon as the movie we were all watching was over.
As is usual, when that movie ended another began and we started watching it. A few minutes into it Beth turned to me and said, “I guess we will wait until this movie is over to make the pom-pom buddies.” So I told her that I promised her we would make the crafts when the first movie was over and she just needed to bring the stuff into the living room. She hopped up and ran and got her supplies. We put paper down on the coffee table and got out the glue and the brightly colored puffs of yarn.
Not being creative I immediately made what any man would make. A caterpillar. I figured it would be easy to glue a series of these puffs in a row, make a set of antenna, and put a couple of eyes on the first puff. Beth was much more creative than I was so she made a frog for her friend Hillary who evidently liked frogs. Not to be outdone I grabbed a larger, bright orange puff. I put smaller puffs at the base of it and, three eyes later, as well as a small set of red “lips,” had an alien. She loved it. It reminded her of a creature on one of the cartoon movies she liked.
The look of joy on her face was worth every minute. It was definitely time well spent. It would have been a memorable day regardless of the circumstances that would follow just a few hours later.
Today the caterpillar sits atop her desk in the study looking down on the empty space that once held her books. The alien protects her mother as it rides on the dashboard of her car. And the frog? It made it to its intended destination.
There are a few things that I look back on 4 years ago. Some with dread, but some with joy. I cannot imagine how I would have felt had I said no to her request to do arts and crafts with Beth that day. But instead I said yes.
A few hours after playing with my daughter I was holding her in my arms as she was disoriented by what I thought was either the flu or a virus. I snuggled behind her in bed and held her close praying for her to feel better. Suddenly she sat up in bed, spun around, and hugged me extra tight. I didn’t know it then but my holding her then and telling her that everything was going to be okay would be the last time I would speak to her. I believe, and will never be convinced otherwise, that she saw Jesus and turned to give me one last hug before running to her reward. I believe she was telling me good-bye and thanking me for saying yes.
My intentions in sharing this with you is to make you understand, not the pain in losing a child, but the joy in spending time with them. It will not be time wasted and I guarantee that you will get more out of it than they will.
God bless.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Uncovered Boss
On Feb. 7, 2010, much of the country celebrated with us as we cheered the Saints on to a Super Bowl victory. However, if you happened to be one of the millions who stayed tuned to CBS after the Super Bowl, you began another emotional journey that continues each week.
Undercover Boss has quickly become one of my favorite television shows. Each episode puts an executive officer of a Fortune 500 company on the front lines. This means that the suit is exchanged for a uniform and the grunt work begins. At the end of the program the executive reveals himself to the people he worked with for a day.
After a year of watching I have wondered two things. First, are there not any Fortune 500 companies that have a female boss? And second, are the CEOs that work at these companies really that out of touch? The first question is an article for another time. I want to concentrate on the second question.
As a small business owner I am in a unique position. There is not a job in my store that I have not done before or will not do again. I will admit that many of the things I do at my office are done better by the others I work with. But I can scrub a toilet with the best of them.
When I see these corporate decision-makers struggle to clean a room, fold a shirt, or face a customer, I wonder how they became so disconnected. Is it any wonder, according to the show's intro, that the average consumer has become disenchanted with the executives and the companies they represent?
Small business owners are often forced to spend time away from our customers to deal with the mundane paperwork and other necessities to make certain our business survives. But, at almost any given moment we can be called out to greet our regulars. We also get to witness the daily interaction of our staff with the customer. As a result, small business owners can truly count many of our customers as friends. That is not as easy for an officer in a multi-million dollar company.
Good customer service is not limited to small businesses. I've experienced it at the larger companies as well. Which is why I return to those stores regularly. I would, however, like to encourage you to support the local entrepreneur - even if it means you are going to my local competitor. Local business keeps most of your money here. Local business owners need to especially support their brethren.
Now, if I could get only one of my customer/friends to help me scrub my toilet.
Undercover Boss has quickly become one of my favorite television shows. Each episode puts an executive officer of a Fortune 500 company on the front lines. This means that the suit is exchanged for a uniform and the grunt work begins. At the end of the program the executive reveals himself to the people he worked with for a day.
After a year of watching I have wondered two things. First, are there not any Fortune 500 companies that have a female boss? And second, are the CEOs that work at these companies really that out of touch? The first question is an article for another time. I want to concentrate on the second question.
As a small business owner I am in a unique position. There is not a job in my store that I have not done before or will not do again. I will admit that many of the things I do at my office are done better by the others I work with. But I can scrub a toilet with the best of them.
When I see these corporate decision-makers struggle to clean a room, fold a shirt, or face a customer, I wonder how they became so disconnected. Is it any wonder, according to the show's intro, that the average consumer has become disenchanted with the executives and the companies they represent?
Small business owners are often forced to spend time away from our customers to deal with the mundane paperwork and other necessities to make certain our business survives. But, at almost any given moment we can be called out to greet our regulars. We also get to witness the daily interaction of our staff with the customer. As a result, small business owners can truly count many of our customers as friends. That is not as easy for an officer in a multi-million dollar company.
Good customer service is not limited to small businesses. I've experienced it at the larger companies as well. Which is why I return to those stores regularly. I would, however, like to encourage you to support the local entrepreneur - even if it means you are going to my local competitor. Local business keeps most of your money here. Local business owners need to especially support their brethren.
Now, if I could get only one of my customer/friends to help me scrub my toilet.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Have you ever had the opportunity to play a video game? If you grew up in the United States anytime after the 1970's I'm almost positive you have.
Have you noticed how addictive they are? I'm sure during the school break for the holidays many a parent heard their child asking for just one more minute so he or she could complete a level.
If you have played a game you know that a minute's frustration leads to a moment of joy as you finally defeat the enemy on the 32nd attempt.
When you finally find yourself on the 5th level you remember back to when level 1 was so hard. And you never thought you would make it past level 3.
Do you ever wonder how you did it? How is it that you can go back now and play the game breezing through steps that you once thought too difficult to master?
No matter how prodigious a gamer you may be, you can never get through the game without failing at least once. Even if you bought one of those guides telling you how to play and win the game, you had to have failed at least once.
And even if you searched the internet and found a "walkthrough" written by someone who has already completed the game, you had to have fallen to the enemy more than once. How did you do it?
I think I have the answer. I think you did it by not giving up the first time you failed. Look at a child beginning to take her first steps. Yes she falls but she gets up and tries again. Why? Because she desperately wants to achieve her goal.
In life I believe we all want to succeed. We set goals we want to achieve. We buy the guides to walk us through the steps necessary to attain those goals. But all of the goal setting, all of the manuals, all of the preparations we make will not keep us from falling occasionally. It is how we respond when we fall that truly makes those goals obtainable.
This year, when you find yourself stumbling, don't GIVE up. GET up. Dust yourself off and don't tell yourself you will never get there.
Find yourself a guidebook, a mentor, a role model (for me it is my Bible, my pastor and my father), and convince yourself to not give up because you've failed 31 times.
If you've set a resolution for the year, remember, the year isn't over just because you slipped. The journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step, but so does a journey of 999 miles.
Have you noticed how addictive they are? I'm sure during the school break for the holidays many a parent heard their child asking for just one more minute so he or she could complete a level.
If you have played a game you know that a minute's frustration leads to a moment of joy as you finally defeat the enemy on the 32nd attempt.
When you finally find yourself on the 5th level you remember back to when level 1 was so hard. And you never thought you would make it past level 3.
Do you ever wonder how you did it? How is it that you can go back now and play the game breezing through steps that you once thought too difficult to master?
No matter how prodigious a gamer you may be, you can never get through the game without failing at least once. Even if you bought one of those guides telling you how to play and win the game, you had to have failed at least once.
And even if you searched the internet and found a "walkthrough" written by someone who has already completed the game, you had to have fallen to the enemy more than once. How did you do it?
I think I have the answer. I think you did it by not giving up the first time you failed. Look at a child beginning to take her first steps. Yes she falls but she gets up and tries again. Why? Because she desperately wants to achieve her goal.
In life I believe we all want to succeed. We set goals we want to achieve. We buy the guides to walk us through the steps necessary to attain those goals. But all of the goal setting, all of the manuals, all of the preparations we make will not keep us from falling occasionally. It is how we respond when we fall that truly makes those goals obtainable.
This year, when you find yourself stumbling, don't GIVE up. GET up. Dust yourself off and don't tell yourself you will never get there.
Find yourself a guidebook, a mentor, a role model (for me it is my Bible, my pastor and my father), and convince yourself to not give up because you've failed 31 times.
If you've set a resolution for the year, remember, the year isn't over just because you slipped. The journey of 1000 miles begins with a single step, but so does a journey of 999 miles.
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