You Want It?

First things first ... thank you for your kind words of encouragement and support after reading my previous post. I am overwhelmed by all the love you guys and gals have sent my way over the last few days ... I truly am blessed beyond measure. In the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, however, I want you to know that my intention in writing about what took place in the pharmacy last Monday evening was not an attempt in any way to elicit sympathy for myself. I wrote the post with the hope that it would help others who might find themselves in a similar situation to know that they are not alone and that no one deserves to be treated with such disrespect and animosity. I wrote it hoping that it would make all of us, myself most definitely included, really think about the way we treat people who may be different from us in some way. Again, thank you so very much for your outpouring of love and compassion ... some of your messages had me bawling my eyes out and some had me giggling like a little girl. What would make me super duper happy is if all of you would do something for me over the next few days ... step out of your comfort zone and give away some hugs to folks who aren't the same as you. I know you can do it ... I believe in you ... hug away, friends ... hug away, and make someone's day or week or month or year a little brighter.

If you've been reading along with me for a while, you know that I'm a hat lover, and more specifically, I love ball caps. If I could, I'd wear a cap 24/7 for the rest of my days here on earth ... I really do love them that much. I would imagine I inherited my love of hat wearing from my dear old Daddy ... that man surely did love his hats. From felt fedoras to straw hats to ball caps, it was a rare occurrence to see my dad without some sort of hat or cap atop his balding noggin. Since I pretty much thought the sun rose and set in Daddy, it makes perfect sense to me that I possess such an affinity for various head-toppers myself and that I, like my dad, have quite the collection of them. Me being the weirdo that I am, of course, I have my favorite hats or caps for different activities ... I have lawn-mowing caps, walking caps, snowy days hats, reading hats and caps, and so on. And believe me when I tell you that I will never ever wear my lawn-mowing cap when I go on a walk or wear my snowy day hat if it's raining. Sheesh ... just typing those words makes me sound even more like a weirdo, eh?

Like I said, I have quite a collection of hats and caps, some I purchased myself and some that have been given to me as gifts over the years. I think one of the things I love most about wearing my hats and caps is that each one of them has its own special story. Like my most recent cap purchase when I visited Brad and Shelby in Maine ... a dark green cap with a small embroidered lobster on the front. We had stopped at an adorable little store called The Maine Cheese Company, which just happened to sell t-shirts and caps in addition to cheese. Or my almost completely worn-out Chattanooga Mocs hat I bought at the UTC bookstore many years ago when I took my three children to show them where I went to college. As to the hats and caps I've received as gifts ... oh, my ... it would take way more than this one post to recount all the love and memories that accompany those. But I am going to tell you about one particular cap I was given ... a cap that's become even more special to me over the last three weeks.

It's hard to believe I've had the cap for 23 years, and it's even harder to believe that's how long it's been since my sweet dad passed away. I can't remember if it was on the day of Daddy's funeral or perhaps the day after that I walked outside with my nephew Charlie as he was leaving Mom and Dad's house. We were standing on the sidewalk next to one of the trees Daddy and I had planted in the front yard when I was young, and I remember thinking how very proud Daddy would have been of Charlie. There was an extra special bond between Daddy and my nephew ... they were much more like father and son than grandfather and grandson. Yep, Daddy would have been so very proud to see the young man that Charlie had become ... I would have given anything in that moment for Daddy to have been able to see Charlie standing under that tree ... standing under that tree with his black and yellow United States Army cap planted firmly atop his head.

"I like your cap," I said to my nephew in an attempt to stall having to tell him goodbye.

Without blinking an eye, Charlie reached up and took off his cap and extended it toward me. 

"You want it?" he said as he smiled.

"For real?" I asked with more than a trace of doubt in my voice. "Are you kidding me?"

"Try it on and see if it fits," my nephew said, he smile growing even bigger and his eyes twinkling. His eyes twinkling ... Charlie's eyes twinkle just like my dad's did ... they surely do.

I put the cap on my head and not only did it fit, it fit perfectly.

"Well, look at that," Charlie said. "It's like it was made for you."

I pulled the cap off my head and said, "No, buddy, I can't take it ... this is your Army cap. Thank you, but I can't."

Charlie took the cap from my hands and placed it back on my head as he hugged me.

"It's yours."

I texted my nephew a few days ago and asked him if he remembered giving me his Army cap and I'm going to close tonight's post with his reply, but I have just a couple of other thoughts before I do. Every single time I wear the cap my nephew gave me, I don't only think of the day he gave me his cap. I think about when my daughter and I drove to Nashville to attend his commissioning ceremony before he went to Iraq. I think about him dressed in his military uniform as he carried the caskets of my mom and dad. I think about him coming home safely after his tour of duty. I think about how very proud I am of the man he has become. I think about how very proud Daddy would have been of his grandson ... of his sense of honor and integrity ... of his strength of character ... of his love for his family. 

If you read the post "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown," you know that my nephew was in a freak accident three weeks ago when he fell through a steel grate and suffered a serious injury to his leg. Many of you have messaged me asking how he is and to let me know you're praying for him, and both he and I appreciate your continued concern for his well-being as well as your ongoing prayers for his recovery. His most recent surgery was a little over a week ago in which additional necrotic muscle tissue was removed from his calf, thus increasing the size and depth of the original wound. His spirits remain high and his crazy sense of humor is most definitely intact ... he thinks it's absolutely hilarious that his wound vac makes a noise that sounds very much like a person passing gas. Please continue to send healing thoughts and prayers his way ... for relief from the pain, for new tissue to grow over the exposed tendons and ligaments, for protection from infection and for successful skin grafts once his leg is healed enough for him to have the surgery.

Oh, and by the way, I'm pretty sure Charlie's reply to my text about the cap means I can add Best Aunt in the Universe to my Best Ghee Ever title. When you finish reading tonight's post, go find someone to hug. Tell the people you love that you love them and don't ever, ever, ever take them for granted. Remember that life really is short and it truly is precious, friends ... it really and truly is indeed.

"I do remember giving you that cap. I actually didn't have many Army hats at the time and that one was my favorite. By the way, I've never given anyone else one of my Army hats."

  

It's Not Just Hello

Yesterday morning I woke up with an earache. I didn't think too much about it because one of my ears pretty much always has an ache. If I had a nickel for every time I've gone to my doctor and said, "I think I have another ear infection," only to have her tell me I didn't, I'd be one rich gal. And if I had a nickel for every time I've been at the doctor for a different reason and my doctor said, "Your ear has to be killing you because it's badly infected," I'd be even richer. I think my ear pain can be likened to the frog in the boiling water story ... you know the one ... you put a frog into cold water in a pot on the stove and slowly turn up the heat, and old Mr. Frog doesn't even try to jump out. By the time Mr. Frog realizes his goose, or frog as the case may be, is cooked, he's already a goner. It's the same thing with my ear ... it's generally hard for me to know when I have a legitimate or full-blown ear infection because I'm so accustomed to having pain that I often don't realize the water, or my eardrum as the case may be, is beginning to boil.

I went on to work yesterday, telling myself that I was fine and that my ear was just doing its normal painful thing and that the pain would lessen after a while. But as the day wore on, so did my ear pain, and by the end of the day, all I wanted to do was go home, put hot rags on my ear, snuggle on the couch with Ollie and watch television. Thankfully, every once in a while, I actually listen to my gut and I make a smart decision, which is why I decided to stop at the walk-in clinic on my way home last night. When the nurse told me I was running a slight fever, my first thought was, "Well, crap," followed shortly by, "I bet it's my stupid ear." The doctor only had to take a quick peek inside my ear to confirm my suspicion ... stupid, stupid ear. Two prescriptions and a shot in my butt later, I was on my way to the pharmacy hoping there wouldn't be many people waiting because all I wanted to do was ... well, you know.

Since it was going to be only a 15-minute wait for my prescriptions, and since by then I was feeling pretty darn lousy, I sat down in one of the chairs in the small waiting area near the pharmacy windows. I had been sitting there for about 5 minutes when I noticed two women walk up to the counter to drop off a prescription. I noticed them because I knew them ... I noticed them because we used to attend the same church ... I noticed them because there was I time when I believed we were close friends. It's been almost four years since I've seen the two women, and as you might guess, our friendships didn't exactly end under the best of circumstances. I sat glued to the chair in the waiting area with my palms sweating and my stomach churning, praying they would leave the counter and go the other way. The moment I saw them turn in my direction, I knew there was no way they wouldn't see me ... there was nowhere for me to run ... there was nowhere for me to hide. The moment they saw me, I knew I had a decision to make ... I could allow the judgment they had once imposed upon me cause me to lower my head in shame and stare down at the floor beneath my feet, or I could muster up every ounce of courage and strength within me, ignore the fact that the ache in my heart had quickly surpassed the ache in my ear, stand up, look them in the eye and say hello.

I chose to do the latter ... I stood up from the chair and walked toward the two women, and I can assure you that each one of those five steps felt as though it was a mile. I even managed a smile as I extended my hand and said, "Hi ... how are you?" I wish with all my heart that my pharmacy encounter with my former friends last night had a happy ending ... you have no idea how desperately I wish I could tell you that time had indeed healed all the wounds and that the three of us embraced and engaged in polite conversation. But the truth is that the two women stopped and looked at me standing there with my outstretched hand and a smile on my face and they turned and walked away. Two women who once ate meals in my home, came to my children's weddings, attended Christian women's conferences with me, walked with me, spent hours and hours and hours talking with me, laughing with me, crying with me ... those two women stopped close enough to me last night to look directly into my eyes and then they turned and walked away without saying a word. 

For one brief moment, I thought about shouting, "Hey! It's just hello, you know ... that's all, just hello. You won't get any of my gay germs by just saying hello." But of course, I didn't. I lowered my head and went back to the waiting area and sat down. When the gal at the counter said my prescriptions were ready, I paid, picked up the bag, walked to my car and drove home. When I opened the door to come inside, my little Ollie came running to me as fast as his little wiener dog legs could run ... tail wagging, tags jingling, ears flapping. I scooped him up into my arms and finally let loose the tears I'd been struggling to hold in since the encounter at the pharmacy. It took a few minutes, but I pulled myself together, fixed something to eat, heated up a hot pack for my ear, curled up on the couch and went to sleep. 

I stayed home from work today because I was still running a fever this morning and my ear felt as though it might explode ... the first sick day I've taken in more than a year and a half. I've been asleep a good part of the day, and I'm feeling much better ... thank God for antibiotics, hot packs and a faithful little wiener dog to keep me company. During the time I've been awake today, I've thought a lot about what happened last night at the pharmacy, and there's something I need to say. That exchange last night wasn't about just saying hello ... it wasn't about that at all, friends. It's not just hello ... it's common courtesy. It's not just hello ... it's being a decent human being. It's not just hello ... it's practicing what you preach. It's not just hello at all, my friends ... it's knowing that everyone has value and worth. It's not just hello at all ... not at all ... not at all ... not at all. It's honor and integrity and strength of character and respect. It's being able to look at myself in the mirror last night and know that I did the right thing ... it's being able to look at myself in the mirror today and tomorrow and the day after that and all the rest of my days and know that it's always far, far, far more than just hello.

When All it Takes is Tires

One of the things I detest most in life is dealing with car issues ... always have and always will. Maybe it's because my knowledge of the mechanical workings of my car is that I have to put gas in the tank and have the oil changed every so often or it won't continue to operate. I know nothing about spark plugs or sensors or fuses or radiators or timing belts or any of the plethora of other car-related terminology I've heard tossed about in conversations among car type guys and gals. I wish I could tell you that my lack of automotive intelligence has to do with a lack of training, but that would not be entirely true because my dad tried his best to teach me the basics of car maintenance and repair. Nope ... the reason I know nothing about car stuff is because I choose to know nothing about car stuff. And I choose to know nothing about car stuff because I really, really, really detest dealing with car issues. I want to get in my car, turn it on and drive wherever I need to go. It's a bad, bad day when one of those stupid warning lights comes on to signal that there's a problem with my car ... boy, oh, boy is that a bad, bad day indeed.

The last couple of times I've taken my beloved Subaru Legacy in for an oil change, the guys have mentioned to me that I would need to buy new tires soon. We all know that the use of the word "soon" in regard to buying new tires often means different amounts of time for different people, hence the reason I've been driving on very, very worn tires for the last few months. Well, my interpretation of the word "soon" ... and the fact that I knew that new tires were going to cost me upwards of $500 (that I didn't have, by the way) ... caused me to push my luck to the limit with every extra mile I logged. And I do mean pushed my luck to the very ultimate limit ... when the guys showed me my old tires yesterday after replacing them with a new set, one of them said, "I really don't know why one of these didn't blow out on you when you were driving 70 going down the highway." I didn't tell him, but the reason I finally decided I had to bite the bullet and get new tires was because when I was driving home from work on Friday, my car was shimmying so badly I thought I was going to have to pull over and have it towed. Yeah, yeah ... I know what you're thinking, but I managed to get 63,000 miles out of the original tires on my car, so there.

It only took driving a short distance when I left the tire place yesterday for me to realize just how bad my old tires must have been ... the difference in the ride, the handling and even the braking on my car was like night and day from what it had been just a few short hours earlier. Which, of course, me being me, made me start thinking about how true that is with so many things in life ... we put off fixing things or ignoring problems because we don't realize just how bad they really are. We take big chances with our relationships and our health and all kinds of other important areas of life by not doing what needs to be done to take care of them. When we just continue to ignore the worn out tires ... when we don't take the time to talk to the people we love or spend time with them ... when we don't notice that their hearts are dangerously close to blowing out ... when we think they will just keep rolling along without being cared for ... well, friends, that's every bit as dumb as me driving down the interstate every day on worn-out tires. No ... that's even dumber.

I had to go out and run several errands today and as I drove from one place to another, I kept thinking that my car felt like new again ... it's most definitely not, but the new tires sure do make it feel like it is. I'll leave you to think on that for a while ... all it took for my car to be special to me again, to feel new to me again, to make me proud of it again was for me to give it the tender loving care it needed. People are way more important than cars, friends ... way, way, way more. Think about it ... think about it indeed.

You Win

Though they are the best of friends as adults, there was a time when my two young sons couldn't manage to get through an entire day without arguing over something. I well remember those days of shouting and shoving ... just when I'd think maybe their fighting stage had passed, they'd start going at it again. I think all three of my kiddos would tell you that it took a lot to make me lose my cool back when they were all youngsters. I was ... and still am, for that matter ... a pretty easygoing, laid-back kind of mom. If I had a nickel for every time I said the words, "You guys just calm down and talk it out," ... well ... suffice it to say I'd be rich enough that I'd never have to work another day for the rest of my life. But even easygoing, laid-back, calm down and talk it out moms have their breaking point ... that one moment when the bickering and arguing and shouting and yelling and shoving pushes them over the edge and they head to the store and buy two pairs of red and white boxing gloves. And for those of you who are shaking your heads in judgment and saying that I was encouraging violence between my sons, I have one thing to say ... it was the freaking smartest parenting thing I ever did.

I still remember the looks on my sons' faces the next time an argument erupted between the two of them and I pulled out the recently purchased boxing gloves. They didn't know whether to be terrified of what I had in mind for the gloves or to be confident that they had the coolest mom ever ... not really on the coolest mom ever part, those boys of mine looked like deer in the headlights when I put the gloves on their little boy hands and started lacing them up. And they both looked like they might hurl when I turned them around, opened the door to the basement and calmly said, "Go downstairs and fight it out ... just don't kill each other. And don't ask me for help unless one of you is bleeding." And with that, I pushed them toward the door and closed it behind them. Let me say it again ... freaking smartest parenting thing I ever did.

For those of you who are completely appalled by my lack of compassion and supervision toward my fighting sons, let me assure you that once I was sure my little guys were indeed in the basement throwing punches at one another, I quietly opened the door and crept to the third step of the staircase and sat down. That step was my vantage point not only for monitoring the sounds and intensity of the punches that flew between my two unwary boys, but also for hearing the conversations they had as they fought. Most of their fights didn't last very long, usually less than 15 minutes or so, and neither of my boys ever sustained any injuries ... unless you count some pretty significant beatings of their little boy man pride as injuries, that is. And just in case my sons read this evening's post, I didn't sit on the third step to spy on you guys. I sat on the step to make sure that you didn't hurt each other, physically with the punches you threw or emotionally with the words you said.

It took a while for it to happen, but eventually all of my boys' boxing glove fights ended in the same manner. One of my sons ... and no, I won't tell you which one ... would always say, "Okay, okay ... you win." For a long time, I worried about my son who always bowed out of the fight by conceding defeat to his brother. I worried that he was giving up too easily and that he believed he didn't deserve to win. Many years later when I mentioned my worries to him and asked if the boxing glove fights had done serious damage to his self-esteem, he said, "Mom, I started telling him 'You win' because I was tired of getting the crap beat out of me. One day I realized I was never going to win against him because I wasn't as good of a fighter as he was. He was stronger and better than me from the start. I finally wised up and just told him he won ... I just wish I would have done it before he punched the hell out of me all those times."

I've been thinking a lot in recent weeks about how hard that is for me to do ... to come to a point when the only thing left for me to do is say, "You win." I'm sure there are plenty of you who totally get what I'm saying. You get it because you've been there yourselves ... you've experienced the gut-wrenching pain that comes with accepting and admitting certain truths in your own lives. For me, some of the hardest "You win" times center around friendship ... when I'm forced to take a step back and see a friendship for what it truly is, or what it truly is not, as the case may be. I think those may be two of the hardest choices in life ... choosing whether to stay in the fight even though you know your heart is going to get the crap beaten out of it time and time again to say, "You win," and walk away.

I'd like to believe that I'm a good friend ... I'd like to believe that I'm a friend people are proud of ... I'd like to believe that I'm a friend people enjoy spending time with ... I'd like to believe I'm a friend people know they can depend on to be there for them no matter what ... I'd like to believe I'm a friend who has a kind and caring and good and honest and open and real and transparent heart ... I'd like to believe I'm a friend who would be missed if I weren't there. But honestly, I'm feeling kind of beaten up in the friendship area tonight ... tonight, I'm having a hard time believing any of those things are true. I read a quote the other day, and it seems to be a fitting way to end my post this evening ... "It hurts because it matters."

You win, friend ... or do you?

You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown

I was almost 10 years old when he was born, and I've loved him since the first time I held him in my arms. When he was old enough to talk, he called me "Ree Ree" because he couldn't say "Terrie." By the time I was old enough to drive, he harassed the heck out of me ... always wanting to go with me everywhere, begging me to take him for ice cream at the Dairy Delight, hitting me up for an extra large Icee at the Golden Gallon, swiping my Big Chew bubble gum out of the glove box of my car. When he was a teenager, we would sit on the roof of the garage at night and talk for hours about everything under the sun ... or moon, as the case may be.

When he started dating the girl who would eventually became his wife, he would get this goofy look on his face whenever he talked about her and I knew he was falling in love. When he called to tell me they were expecting their first child after nine years of disappointment, we cried happy tears together over the news that he was finally going to be a dad. And those memories are only the tip of the iceberg ... I've loved him since the day he was born, and that bond of love between us is unbreakable.

He's my sister's only son, the youngest of my five nephews, and his name is Charlie. If you've been reading along with me for a while, you may remember him because I write about him from time to time. Charlie is a truly good man ... a man of honor and integrity ... a man who would fight to the death to protect his family, his friends and his freedom ... a man who has a heart that reminds me so much of my dad. He is kind and caring and compassionate, and he has this crazy, infectious laugh that can cause the saddest person in the world to smile. I know that Charlie will always stand beside me ... no matter what the future may hold, I know he'll be there.

I know he'll be there ... the events of this past week have had me thinking a lot about those words ... I know he'll be there ... they've had me pondering how I so often take for granted that those I love will be there. You see, my nephew Charlie was in a freak accident last Monday evening while he was at church helping out with Vacation Bible School. He fell through a rusted steel grate and suffered a very serious injury to his leg. Falling through the metal grate was an accident for sure, but my nephew would tell you really quickly that not one thing that happened following his fall was accidental in any way. The pieces of heavy metal grate that fell in on top of him didn't hit his head or puncture his lungs or pierce his heart or abdomen. He stayed conscious and calm even though he knew he was in shock and that he was in danger of bleeding out from the wound on his leg. There were people on the scene who knew what to do to help him until the paramedics arrived ... people who quite literally saved my nephew's life. Charlie would tell you that God was watching over him and protecting him from the second the grate began to crumble beneath his feet ... and I would wholeheartedly agree with him.

My nephew is home from the hospital this evening, and, in his words, "is doing as well as can be expected." Needless to say, he's in a great deal of pain ... the rusted steel grating pierced his leg just to the right of his shin bone and tore away a significant amount of tissue and muscle. He's had one surgery to remove additional tissue and repair as much as possible, and to have a wound vacuum inserted. He'll have additional surgery in the coming weeks to place skin grafts over the baseball-sized wound, and I'm sure he'll have to endure some painful physical therapy to regain the full use of his leg. As I Skyped with Charlie and his wife and precious little daughter last night, chills ran up my spine as he told me the details of his accident. I managed to hold back my tears while we were chatting, but you can be assured that I cried like a baby after our conversation ended because I knew ... I knew that I could have lost my sweet nephew last Monday night, friends ... had the steel fallen in a different direction, I could have been saying a whole different kind of goodbye. 

I know I say it a lot ... I know I say it a whole, whole lot ... but I'm saying it again tonight, and I'll say again and again and again for as long as I breathe. Life is short, and we need to stop taking one another for granted ... I need to stop taking the people I love for granted ... because not a single one of us is guaranteed a tomorrow. We need to remember that what truly matters most in this life is each other. It's not things ... it's not money ... it's not power ... it's not success ... what truly matters most in this life is each other.

In case I haven't told you in a while, you're a good man, Charlie Brown ... you're a good, good man indeed, and I will love you forever. Do what the doctors tell you to do, take it easy and get lots of rest, don't push it and for gosh sake's, don't try to be a tough guy. Take care of you, nephew, and feel better soon. I'm proud of you for the man you are ... the husband, the father, the son, the brother, the nephew ... you're a good man, Charlie Brown ... you truly are a good man indeed. I love you to the moon and back, buddy, and I always will. 




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The Ordinary Day That Wasn't

I'm sitting on my comfortable couch in my air-conditioned little house as I type ... my belly is full, and a glass of cold iced tea rests on the small wooden table to my right. My smart phone reclines on the arm rest below my elbow, and there are three sleeping wiener dogs snuggled in next to me. Minus a couple of the dogs ... I'm granddog sitting for a week ... tonight is a carbon copy of most of my evenings. Tonight is no different from any other Friday evening for me, or any other evening, for that matter. When I woke up this morning, I fully expected today to be an ordinary day and tonight to be an ordinary night. 

I would imagine that the two young men who were killed by police officers this week didn't wake up on those fateful days knowing that it would be their last day on earth. I'm guessing the police officers who were murdered last night in Dallas didn't go to work thinking they would draw their last breath before the day was done. Not one of those men ... not the young men and not the police officers ... not one of them knew when they walked out of their homes on those days that their lives would soon be ending. To each of them, it was just an ordinary day ... an ordinary drive ... an ordinary place to be ... an ordinary job. It was a day like every other day ... it was just an ordinary day.

As I drove home from work this evening, I thought about the families and friends of the two young men and the police officers. Families and friends who are grieving the loss of people whom they loved ... people whom they expected to return home on those ordinary days. As I thought about those families and friends, I wondered about their final moments with their loved ones ... moments they didn't know were final ... embraces they didn't know they would never feel again ... words they didn't know would be the last ones spoken. My heart is especially heavy for those whose last moments with their lost loved ones may not have been good ones ... the ones who may have spoken from a place of anger or impatience or jealousy. I cannot begin to imagine the magnitude of the searing pain they must be feeling, and I cannot begin to conceive the weight of guilt they may well carry for the rest of their lives. Those are the people my soul hurts so deeply for, friends ... the people who would give their very lives for the chance to have those final moments back again.

I don't wake up every morning with the thought that I may not live to see the next day ... but I should. I should live every single moment of every single day being mindful that the words I say to the people in my life could end up being the last ones they ever hear me say. As I turned into my driveway, my mind was filled with thoughts of the words I said today followed closely by the words others said to me. Tears filled my eyes when I opened the door into my house and little Ollie the wiener dog was there waiting for me, tail wagging, trying with all his wiener dog might to climb into my arms. I scooped him up and held him close ... just like I do every day ... just like I do every single ordinary day.

It was just an ordinary day for the men who lost their lives this week ... until it wasn't. None of us are guaranteed even our next breath, friends ... be mindful of the words you say ... be mindful of the words you don't say ... be mindful of the words you should say. Take the time to listen to the ones you love ... take the time today, friends, because today could be the only day you have.

Human vs. Walker

It has finally happened. Though in my own defense, I've stood firm for a really long time ... way longer than tons of other people have. When everyone around me was doing it, I stuck to my principles and refused to follow the masses. I was strong enough to not give a rip what anyone else thought about my decision to abstain. They could call me a prude or an old fuddy-duddy or say I was out of touch with the times or even ... horror of horrors ... they could even say that I wasn't cool, but I didn't care. I didn't even have to think twice when I was encouraged to participate ... my answer was always the same ... "No, I won't." Until last weekend ... last weekend, I stopped fighting and gave up. Yep, that's right ... in a moment of weakness I caved under the pressure and started watching "The Walking Dead." And now I can't stop. 

One quick sidenote: I know my sons will naturally assume that they were the ones who finally convinced me to join in on watching the zombie apocalypse series on Netflix. So this is for just the two of you, my dear sweet zombie-loving sons ... it wasn't you who broke down my resolve about not watching a show that was absolutely guaranteed to give me nightmares. It was your baby sister who convinced me that I needed to give the snarling, blood-thirsty, uglier than sin zombies a chance ... just thought you boys should know that little tidbit of information. I'm almost finished with Season 2, so please don't message me with any spoilers ... I still have four seasons to watch before Season 7 debuts in the fall. And yes, unless I'm a zombie myself by then, I fully intend to watch Season 7 when it airs.

Now I know some of you are probably thinking, "The person who has more irrational fears than anyone I know is hooked on a show about zombies ... not a good idea." And to those of you who are thinking that, please let me assure you that I know zombies aren't real ... geez, everyone knows zombies aren't real. We all know that I would never go out for a walk after dark last night and see two people sitting on the trail and think they were zombies and grab Ollie and run the other way. No, no, no, I would never do that ... of course I wouldn't. But seriously ... they could have been zombies ... it was dark and we ran away so I can't be sure they weren't. Hmmmm ... hang on a sec while I check to make sure all the doors and windows are locked. But I'm not scared ... nope, I'm not scared because everyone knows zombies aren't real. They're not, are they?

I think it's interesting that the zombies on the show are called walkers ... not zombies, but walkers. At first, I thought walkers was such an odd choice for a name for the not dead dead people, but the more episodes I've watched, the more I think it's actually quite brilliant. Why do I think walkers is the perfect name for the not dead dead zombies on the show? Because it makes me wonder how many people around me are walkers ... people who want only to satisfy their own hunger or quench their own thirst with no regard for the needs of others. All you have to do is watch the news ... there are walkers all around us, friends. Walkers with no regard for human life ... walkers with no conscience ... walkers with no concern for anyone but themselves ... walkers who will stop at nothing to get what they want ... walkers who have no heart. 

But ... but ... but ... but then there are the humans ... thank God there are the humans. The story line of the TV series revolves around a group of humans who come together in an effort to stay alive. These people who were strangers before the zombie apocalypse band together in the fight against the walkers ... they know they are stronger together than they are alone. These humans protect each other and care for each other and help each other. Even when they disagree on the whys or the hows or the what ifs or the whens, they stand together side by side in the fight against the walkers ... willing to fight to the death to protect their own. Think about it ... if it were not for the humans, those who are willing to sacrifice themselves for another ... if it were not for the humans, there would be no hope. And if there is no hope, the walkers will surely consume us all.

So who are you? Are you a human who puts the good of others ahead of your own? Are you a human who protects and cares for and helps others? Are you a human who stands behind the people in your life? Are you a human with a good and loving and compassionate and loyal heart? Or are you a walker? Are you a walker who doesn't think twice about ripping the heart out of those who aren't like you? Are you a walker who is driven by your hunger and thirst for more power, more money, more stuff, more success? 

So who are you? Are you a human or a walker? Think about it, friends ... a life without a heart for others is a life without living. So who are you? Are you a human or are you a walker? 

Watermelon-Flavored Kindness

My daughter and son-in-law live in a small rural town in central Missouri a little more than an hour away from the suburb that I call home. Their little town is pretty famous for its 4th of July celebration ... it lasts for several days and includes everything you would expect and more. From carnival rides to food trucks to craftsmen selling their wares to a prettiest baby contest to a talent show to a parade to the best diet root beer in the entire universe to live music from various bands to the longest-lasting fireworks display I've ever attended, the little town that has stolen the hearts of my kids does it up right when it comes to the 4th of July.

I've suspected for a while that while they look forward to and enjoy their town's public festivities each year, what Meghann and Barrett love most about the days-long 4th of July celebration are the various family events they are invited to attend. I can't even remember how many times I heard the words, "These two kids are family to us," during the course of this past weekend. Those of you who are parents know how good it feels when people tell you how great your kids are? Well, multiply that feeling by a million when people tell you they love your kids like they are part of their own family. Seeing my daughter and son-in-law be accepted and included and loved on by so many people in their church and their community is just plain old awesome. And getting to tag along with them and eat some of the best home cooking I've ever tasted is definitely a nice bonus.

I'm not sure how many years Meghann and Barrett have been invited to an extra special family celebration after the town's fireworks display, but I do know it's become a tradition for them to attend. The family who hosts the homemade ice cream and cake party are very, very dear to my kids, and the love they have for one another is deep and real. The mom and pop of the clan, Dixie and Roy, are two of the finest people I've ever met, and I so appreciate how they've made my daughter and son-in-law a part of their extended family. Their children are great people as well, and their grandkids ... well, you know me and kiddos ... I had a high old time building blocks with the 2-year-old little guy of the group and chit-chatting with the elementary-age kids as well. 

It doesn't bother me at all when my kids or granddaughters eat sweets in front of me, not even a little bit. I don't feel uncomfortable or different or out of place at all. But when I'm in a group of people I don't know very well and they're all chowing down on dessert, I often feel like a fish out of water. Even though my brain knows they aren't, I feel like everyone is staring at me while they wonder why I'm being so rude by refusing to eat dessert like everyone else. It doesn't happen every time, but last night, maybe because I was extra tired, when the ice cream and cake came out, I instantly felt my heart start pounding and the sweat begin to bead up on my forehead. After my second or third, "No thanks" in response to the well-meaning and very kind people who asked if I wanted ice cream, I felt like a had a neon sign stapled to my chest that said, "Rudest person on earth." And just when I thought I was going to have to make a run for it so as not to further embarrass Meghann and Barrett, an angel appeared and asked me if I'd like some watermelon. Actually, she's Dixie and Roy's daughter-in-law, but at that moment, she really was nothing short of an angel to me.

Here's the thing, friends ... I'm not sure if that sweet young lady noticed the look of panic in my eyes or if perhaps someone in her family has diabetes or if she simply knew I felt completely out of place. And you know what else? It doesn't matter to me one bit what motivated her to offer me some watermelon ... what matters to me is that she wanted me to feel included in the party ... what matters to me is that she was kind to me ... what matters to me is that she took it upon herself to make me not feel like an outsider. That little bowl of watermelon that sweet young woman placed in my hands last night meant more to me than she'll ever know. She didn't have to do that, you know ... there was a lot of activity in that house last night, and she didn't have to notice. But she did. 

Watermelon-flavored kindness ... I'll never eat another bite of watermelon without thinking of a young woman's kindness on a 4th of July in a small rural town in Missouri. I'll never walk into a room of people and not look for that one person who may need a bowl of watermelon all their own. I'll never forget a special young woman who took the time to dish me up a great big bowl of watermelon-flavored kindness ... nope, I surely, surely won't.