Hypotheticals

1. Would you rather be enormously wealthy or fabulously good-looking?

2. Would you rather be 22 years-old and have a job you love or be 59 years-old and be retired?

3. Would you rather be able to sing gloriously or be able to speak eloquently in front of any group?

4. Would you rather live on a remote hillside in Vermont or a beachside home on Waikiki Beach?

5. Would you rather be able to be fluent in a convenient language like Spanish or be fluent in an exotic language like Russian?

I hate hypotheticals. I apologize for doing this, but it was time for another blog entry.

7th Heaven...17th Heaven?

I spend a lot of time reading books about heaven. One might ask why I "waste" so much time on something that is totally in God's hands. Well, I figure the more I know about heaven, the greater incentive I'll have to go there.

But the problem is the Bible's incredible near-silence on the matter. Jesus barely broached the subject. He spoke way more about hell. And I have all the usual questions I want answered: Will heaven be in heaven or on a re-created earth? Will we know each other? Where are the dead in Christ currently? And dozens more.

The situation I'm currently up against is a book on the hereafter by noted Church of Christ scholar, F. LaGard Smith. He is absolutely brilliant. I had just finished books by Randy Alcorn and Max Lucado on heaven - and I had decided that (1) the dead in Christ are in Paradise, a step below heaven, and (2) heaven would be here on a renewed, regenerated earth, with the New Jerusalem as its centerpiece - a massive, literal city. But LaGard steps into this lovely picture and kicks down the easel. He makes a convincing case that the dead in Christ are "asleep" (N.T. terminology) and will arise when Christ comes again. He also shoots down the earth as the locale for the New Jerusalem. He says heaven will be in such a different dimension so totally beyond our grasp that it precludes accurate description. And that the earth will be totally destroyed, down to the last atom, forever.

Of course, whichever side is right, it's going to be beyond belief. I just wish the New Testament came with pictures.

Listening to the Wind

I'm really ambivalent about this time of year. The in-between seasons of fall and spring offer so much of God's handiwork that is pleasing to the eye. Spring, as we all know, is an awakening. Buds bloom, leaves appear, and atrophied muscles twitch to life after a winter of neglect.

I love to flip the Lang calendar from March to April. But what I almost expect to see instead of blooming flowers is an angry, writhing funnel ripping houses off their foundations. It's true that tornadoes can come any month of the year, but we all know that prime-time for these nasty things is April, May, and June.

One of the more unforgettable days of my life was April 2, 1957. On that day, the deadliest twister in Dallas history carved a path from Singleton Blvd. to Love Field. I had finished throwing my paper route that day and was home watching "My Little Margie" on TV when they interrupted programming to alert us to the tornado. My Mom and I went to the far end of our back yard, looked west, and saw it. Mom was great. Her motherly instincts kicked in as she announced, "It's gonna hit our house!" Fortunately, we were miles away, but since a 9 year-old believes his momma, I was petrified for the rest of the day.

One day later, a local TV station put together a two-hour recap of the tornado. Much of the show was ground-breaking, since rarely if ever had cameramen gotten as close to the funnel as they had the day before. Much of the footage was shown in slow motion, and my impressionable brain was treated to cars flying, roofs sailing, and debris slicing through habitats. I had a bad nightmare that night, the first of hundreds of immensely terrifying tornado nightmares that have persisted to this day. I don't need to join a storm-chasing team to see these midwestern monsters - I just pillow my head and close my eyes for the night.

It's weird. When we lived in Dallas, I was rarely concerned about taking a direct hit from a tornado. Must have been the unfounded assumption that there was added protection from all the houses that surrounded us. Now that we live in the country and have open spaces around us, I suddenly feel more vulnerable...as though the chance of a direct hit has suddenly escalated. Of course, this is silly...we were just as likely to be sliced and diced there as we are here...but the perception remains.

So, I hope I never have to take one of my grandchildren to the back fence, point to the sky, and repeat my mom's words. But I do hope the end result will be the same.

Under Siege

Here's an undate from Camp Under-the-Weather.

Little 1 yr. old grand-daughter Macie had diarrhea on Wednesday and Thursday and was not interested in taking fluids so she had a trip to the ER yesterday for an IV. She is better and slept OK last night.

Macie's dad, Blake, was supposed to drive a big Dallas Christian bus to Abilene yesterday, but he caught the bug too, and spent yesterday morning barfing instead of driving. He is better today and is in charge of Macie at their home.

Poor Carole had dealt with Macie's problems all day Wednesday, then could not sleep during all the storms Wednesday night. So she sleepily took care of Macie through noon yesterday. Well, at midnight last night, she caught the bug and spent the night chunking her cookies. I cancelled out driving the bus this morning to take care of Maddie (she's still healthy, thank goodness) and Carole.

I'm feeling good - the antibiotics and iron have really helped.

Please say a quick prayer for our family. We need the sick ones to continue to improve and the healthy ones to stay that way.

Go Stars, Mavs, and Rangers! They all won last night. How rare is that? Hope they stay healthy.

Superlatives

Best invention ever: the DVR (or TiVo) depending on your provider

Best delicious treat that's good for you: (can't think of one)

Best delicious treat that's bad for you: (tie) lemonade pie and chocolate peanut-butter fudge

Best car I've ever driven: my wife's 2004 Honda Accord

Best preacher I've ever heard: this is a tough one because I've lived long enough to hear many magnificent ones, but I opt for Jimmy Allen

Best holiday: Memorial Day, because summer is not far behind...and that means a lot to anyone in the education business

Best-looking jet: MD-11

Best Bible verse: II Cor. 4:17

Best flower: vinca (only one I've had success with on a grand scale)

Best state: Vermont

Best small town in Texas: Fredericksburg

Best Kellogg cereal: Raisin Bran

Best President ever: Ronald Reagan

Best sitcom ever: The Mary Tyler Moore Show

Best summer sound: Rain on the roof

Best time of day: Sunrise

Best thing I ever did for myself other than marry Carole: Lasik

Reporting in...

The doc said my strep was back...in fact, it never went away. And that I was a bit anemic. So I've been put on a stronger antibiotic plus multivitamins with iron.

I took today off after sleeping nearly 12 hours last night. I hate missing work. I have it in my mind that somehow the job won't be done just the way I do it when I'm not there. I'll try to drive again tomorrow and keep the students from thinking I'm a malingerer.

Officially Sick of This...

Four weeks ago, amidst a 14-hour field trip, I contracted strep throat. Since then, I've made marginal, flimsy attempts to rejoin the world of the healthy, but the efforts have been half-hearted. I couldn't really pronounce myself well since I could still hear a rattling in my lungs when I coughed, something left over from associating with my wife when she had pneumonia a couple of weeks ago.

Now here I am in San Antonio, not for the Final Four, but to finally spend some time with our elder son and his family. The weather today is as close to perfection as God allows us mortals. No wind, clear skies, low humidity, and high temps in the 70's. And I sit here feeling like someone has whipped my body with an ugly stick.

I'm able to function...I'm not skipping any of today's activities (Zach's soccer game, Ethan's birthday party, and a quick photography assignment at the San Antonio airport), but it is a crime to be feeling yucky on a day such as this.

Monday, I'll again return to the doctor and see what can be done for slow healers such as I.

and 161 more to go!

I'm watching the first baseball game of the year. It matters not that the Rangers will probably blow it. What matters is that the greatest game is being played after a long winter of discontent. I won't get to see every game...come summer, I'll spend a lot of evenings pulling weeds with my trusty radio tuned to the affair.

It is the greatest game. Its pace allows conversation and verbal strategizing among friends. It was made for fathers and sons, with an occasional Brooke thrown in there. And the most amazing thing is that one simply cannot go more than two games without seeing something that you've never seen in a game before.

And, once I step through heaven's gate, I'll grab my glove and get to play catch with my dad again.

Trimmings

I've reached a bit of a crossroads in my life. You see, I have male pattern baldness. I also have male pattern ignorance, but that's for another blog. I'd love to blame someone, but my mom's dad was such a sweet soul and he and I got along famously. But the topographical chart of my hair is identical to what his was at this point in his life.

The problem is that as my hair has gotten progressively thinner, it has become less manageable. Also, I've found that silver hair (I don't have gray hair) doesn't stay where you put it like brown hair. The result is that I more and more wear a ballcap to keep from having people stare and point at me.

What I'm leaning toward is having the stylist put a quarter-inch attachment on the clippers and attack the whole head, army-style. The only thing keeping me from doing this the reaction I'll get from family members and friends. I'm not sure I can handle a lot of negative criticism on this. If they universally hated it, all I could say in return would be a feeble, "It'll grow back", while having a failed smile on my face.

But for ease and convenience, this would be worth it. No more trying to coerce cooperation from unwilling strands or worry that I'[ve reached the comb-over stage. Isn't a comb-over the most transparently sad move a man can make? Doesn't it look silly when the wind blows it upright like a row of cornstalks? I never want a comb-over!

Today, I'm going back to Kristi, a stylist who usually cuts my hair but whom I've somehow missed for the past few months. If she can do her usual magic and leave me with a decent haircut, one that leaves me a fighting chance, I'll postpone the army cut. But if this fails, I'm putting on the fatigues and going to war with all this follicle frivolity.

Absolutes

These cannot be challenged:

1. Cobbler is the ultimate dessert, unless you factor in frozen key lime pie.

2. 99% of high school coaches don't impart the kind of values that I'm interested in.

3. Lakes and rivers weren't put here for recreational purposes but for scenic appreciation.

4. I would rather fall off a tall building than be locked in a trunk for an hour.

5. Martin Luther was one brave fellow.

6. Ricky Nelson was overrated; Roy Orbison was not.

7. Brunettes. Always.

8. Getting up at 3:15 AM every day of my junior and senior years in high school for my Morning News paper route taught me more than everything I learned in college.

9. We've gone some time now without any good presidential candidates.

"Ennui"

"ennui" - "ahn-we"

That's a word I've never used in a conversation. But I may have to incorporate it very soon. It means "a feeling of weariness and dissatisfaction".

Carole and I sit here on a gorgeous spring afternoon, as immobile as sphinxes, trying to recover from various ailments, each attempting to out-cough the other. I'm so desperate that I've ached for the opportunity to pull weeds. Between us, and using our laptops, we have exhausted the internet. Happened about 3:03 this afternoon.

The situation is getting comical...almost. Yesterday we got a call from Carole's mom that resulted in us taking her to the doctor. Turns out she has shingles. We were in no condition to make the trip, but taking care of our mommas is a priority.

Of course, we remain extraordinarily blessed. Neither of us has a terminal illness. We are surrounded with loving people. We each had something to do today until 3:03. Life is good, summer is coming.

And germs cannot survive the Texas heat.

Help!

Carole has been toughing it out, putting off going to the doctor until today. She had gamely kept the grand-girls last week and nursed me along, all the while feeling rocky herself. Meanwhile, I was kind of proud of my strep throat, milking it for all the sympathy and work-avoidance possible.

Well, she's seen my bid and raised me. She has pneumonia, richly garnished with a sinus infection. She got a shot, two kinds of antibiotics, and must have 3 breathing treatments a day. She's sick.

So, for the second time, we must postpone a trip to San Antonio to see the grandsons. At this rate, the next time we see them, McCain will be president.

Getting Right with God

I was privileged this evening to read a blog post by a minister named Terry Rush. His blog is entitled, "Morning Rush", and can be found here. It stuff I already knew, but boy do I need reminding about it sometimes. Enjoy.

Watch for the word righteousness in the Bible. This refers to anindividual being right with God. While there are matters of importance which God lays out before those who seek Him, getting right with Himis surely key. Seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness (Mt. 6:33). Why are we called to seek His righteousness? Ours is a flop. No preacher, no faithful church attendee, no Bible reader can get themselves right with God on their own good deeds. Many try. Others believe they succeeded. But if it’s not God’s rightness, it isn’t valid. If we don't know to look for God's righteousness to be applied to ourselves, we will conclude the pursuit of God is vain for we will decide we aren't good enough. Be encouraged by II Cor. 5:21: "He made him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf that we might become the righteousness of God." There it is! The way anyone gets right with God is not based on our religious efforts but on Jesus’ bad deeds? What? Yes, one is right with God on the basis of how bad Jesus became on the cross. He became each of our sinful acts. Jesus became kitty litter on the cross to absorb everydark sin we’ve committed. He traded places with us. No one gets right with God on their own goodness. He makes us right just as he made Jesus wrong. The trade has been completed. It might encourage you to take a good look at Jesus. He died for you…that you could live for Him. What a trade! What a God! What a Savior!

Two by Two

One of the idiosynchrasies of my very old school bus is that its roof leaks during heavy rain. Probably during heavy fog, too, but I haven't had heavy fog to deal with yet. So it's truly wonderful that I had to take today off to be my lovely wife's chaperone for an extended medical appointment.

Folks, it is raining cats and dogs. Or more like lions and St. Bernards. We've had in excess of 4 inches and probably have several hours more on tap. My neighbor called and reported that water is seeping up from somewhere into his master bath. He's been there a couple of decades and this has never happened.

American Airlines has shut down its operations at DFW Airport for the remainder of the day. They had to divert flights right and left today, even sending an LAX/DFW flight to Abilene. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We regret to inform you that we're gonna have to put down in a little West Texas town, and you will be spending the evening in Abilene, a town where night life consists of parking next to the Union Pacific tracks and watching freight trains go by. Enjoy!"

I often wonder how the pioneer families survived all the conditions that hit them day after day. Today is one of those days when I'm glad I'm dry and secure in a modern home and not spinning wildly down a swollen river in a covered wagon.

I Love Mondays

It's late Sunday afternoon and I can't wait for Monday morning. The strep is almost gone and I feel like I'm about 75%. After 9 days of this stuff, feelin' good feels good. So when the alarm goes off tomorrow, I will smile.

Let's shift gears. Do you believe in UFO's. Aliens?

I almost do. I got interested in UFO's during my high school days. We had what's called a "flap" over North Texas, a time of increased UFO sightings. During those days, I had a morning paper route, and I always finished the morning by walking four city blocks and finishing up the deliveries. I can remember spending those days with my eyes skyward, hoping that I might see a saucer. No luck. But I have done enough research to convince myself that something is out there, something not of this earth. There have been too many sightings by pilots, astronauts, law enforcement types, and regular folks that cannot be explained. Carole and I have good friends who are believers because of what they witnessed one night. Were it just a couple of incidents, I'd say "no way". But there have been thousands of these episodes.

The question then becomes, what happens to my faith if an alien craft crashes into terra firma and removes all doubt that "they" are out there? My answer is...nothing. Nothing will ever rock my faith. What it would make me do is look again at scripture and see if we've missed something. However, other than Roswell (what did happen there?), we are still waiting for the first alien faux pas. And I still keep my eyes skyward.

There's a name for how I feel...

After a miserable night when it was obvious my health was regressing again, I did the prudent thing and saw a doctor this morning. Diagnosis: strep throat. Apparently there are several pretty bad strains of strep on the prowl in Texas. Bad timing as far as we are concerned; we're having to cancel a weekend trip to San Antonio to see Brett, Jenny, and the boys.

The medical folks are begging folks to habitually wash their hands to keep from getting this stuff. So take heed.

Also, click on the above picture. It was taken at DFW Airport last week by a good friend of mine. Sure shows how things can change quickly weather-wise around here.

The Power of the Name

I had made some plans for this morning. About 3 times a year, the kind folks at Love Field allow me to go up into the old control tower to enjoy an hour or so of photography angles that are special. But as I got ready this morning, I heard on the radio of a massive traffic tie-up on I-30 stretching from Jim Miller Rd. to the LBJ freeway. Since this is the only effective route to Love Field and since my schedule couldn't handle any delays, I postponed the photo op.

It wasn't long after that when I heard about the mother throwing her 6 and 8 year-old sons from the Jim Miller bridge onto the freeway below and then jumping herself.

To me, one of the most fascinating aspects of New Testament times is the amount of demon possession experienced by those folks. And when Christ or an apostle encountered a possessed person, there was high drama being played out as ultimate evil ran head-on into ultimate good. We don't talk much about demon possession now other than to perhaps casually mention that some acquaintance or relative had to "deal with their demons" at some point in their past.

But instances like today's tragedy convince me that there's a whole lot of possessin' goin' on. Of the three family members who fell two stories into the traffic this morning, there were three last names. The lady already had a long rap sheet. Neighbors say she had mental problems. Obviously, the devil had a tight grasp on her life. Occasionally in my teaching career, I encountered students and parents whose behavior was so markedly abnormal, so "out there", so dark, that I could almost hear the chilling hiss of Satan as I dealt with them.

Another fascinating aspect of Scripture to me is the emphasis on the name of God or Jesus. It is overwhelmingly apparent that the name "Jehovah God" or "Jesus Christ" has incredible significance - trillion times more power than "Ricky" or "Tom" or "Mary". It's that those all-powerful names are entities unto themselves rather than being just identifying labels. And when Christ encountered demon-possessed people, he would call out his own name to force the demon out of the individual.

This sounds crazy, but I'm dead serious. Had I been casually walking across that bridge this morning and seen the drama unfolding, I believe I would have run up to the lady screaming, "In the name of Jesus, STOP!!" From what I can gather from all the New Testament stories, Satan cannot withstand the POWER OF THE NAME! And I'm just crazy enough to think it might have worked. What do you think?

We've got it good...

It's so easy to throw a pity-party when you're sick. After all, I'm sequestered in a far-off bedroom and the isolation is killing me. Carole is having to care for Maddie and Macie today - both are sick as well. Were it not for the fever I had at 10PM last night, I'd be in there doing what I could to help. But here I sit, feeling (and probably looking) gray.

However...I read a book in its entirety Saturday while on that long field trip. It was written by Dr. Paul Lanier, a Dallas anesthesiologist who passed away recently. He had contracted ALS (Lou Gehrig's disease) in 1998. Most ALS patients don't make it six years. He hung on for nearly ten.

Extra years for an ALS patient isn't necessarily good. Dr. Lanier described the pain of lying "lifeless" on his bed, unable to turn yet still feeling all the pain from sore joints. Of being totally dependent upon others, even to the point having them clean up after you, if you know what I mean. Of having every muscle totally atrophied. ALS robbed him of his voice. He wrote the book with the aid of a device where basically a cursor could be aimed at a letter with the focusing mechanism of his eyes. Meaning he "wrote" it one letter at a time.

He could no longer hug his wife and three daughters or even speak to them. And he knew that death, when it came, would be brutal. Most ALS patients die of pneumonia, which occurs because the muscles that control swallowing become weak and uncoordinated. Then when they swallow food, drink, or saliva, they aspirate (meaning that substances go down the trachea into the lungs instead of the stomach). They also get pneumonia because they can't cough or take a deep breath.

So the point of today's little essay is that most of us, especially me, have it good if not great. If Dr. Lanier withstood a decade of ALS, I better be able to handle a couple of days of inconvenience. By the way, the name of his book is A Change in the Flight Plan. He was also a private pilot and flying was one of the countless things he had to give up. Here is his obituary: <http://www.legacy.com/dallasmorningnews/Obituaries.asp?Page=LifeStory&PersonID=104727406>

Survived the trip...I think

I caught a bug of some sort during the day yesterday. Felt fine (but sleepy) during the morning hours, but awoke from a bus-nap in the early afternoon feeling very rocky. By the time we were ready to start the 1.5-hour trip home, I really was hurting. Had I been 100% safety-conscious, I would have alerted the bus lot and had them ferry two drivers and a different bus to Emory, but that sure would have been inconvenient. So I tried to tough it out.

From the time I left until I made it back to the bus lot, there was an overwhelming desire to go to sleep. Well, that would have got a lot of folks killed. I spent the 90 minutes praying for alertness. It worked and I got the students and their sponsors back to Townview.

Carole took my temperature when I got home, and it was 102.4. By bedtime, it had backed off to 101.8. Kind of sounds like the flu except I haven't been nauseous.

So now I begin my spring break week. It's off to a dashing start, eh?

Heading east...

Will be arising at 4:00 Saturday morning. Will be taking some brilliant students from Townview to Emory, TX, a little place near Lake Tawakoni. There's an academic decathalon happening there. My field trip time frame is from 6AM - 6PM.

I've driven this group several times before and they are a total joy. Very polite and studious.

The critical question is...will my bosses insist that I drive the antiquated bus#301 or will they have sympathy on me and bequeath a modern, new bus to me for just one day? The world wants to know.

Things I Really Abhor

1. Organ music.

2. Floral prints. Anywhere. Don't like them on wallpaper, linens, elderly ladies' dresses, or paintings.

3. Hominy. It's nothing but wet popcorn.

4. Misspelled words on business signs. I see two every weekday that elicit a primal scream from me: One is a burger joint on Dolphin Rd. with a sign that says "Hambugers". The other is a car repair place that has this..."Wheel Alighnment".

5. Screaming three year-olds in the grocery store. It's only taken 36 months and the parents have already ceded control to these kiddoes.

6. People who drive through the alternating red lights of a school bus. I had a student get hit by such a driver once. The impact of car on body was so violent that it knocked the young man out of his shoes. He was airborne for 50 feet. And survived with only a broken femur. Please pay attention, folks!

7. Meetings.

8. Car salesmen who utter the words, "Here's what I can do for you."

9. Body piercings, tattoos, hoop earrings, cornrows, and visible nosehair.

10. Waxed paper. All the other kids at my elementary had their sandwiches wrapped in Saran Wrap. Guess my parents' budget only allowed waxed paper. It was akin to living on the wrong side of the tracks.

Once again, Steve Morris

Be sure to enlarge the above picture. It is so surreal that it almost appears to be a painting. Instead, it is still another jaw-dropper from the lens of one Steve Morris, a retired British Airways pilot. Most of us are little more than point-and-shoot photographers. Steve is an artist who sees stuff that we mortals miss. Oh, yeah. He owns one of the biggest zoom lenses known to man.

If ole Steve ever opens up a photographer school, I wanna be first in line.

As far as the east is from the west...

I was hoping that my expectations weren't too high. We all know the hurt that comes of expecting Aspen and getting Fargo. My mental picture of what I'd see in the bus mirror this morning was of studious, introverted girls sitting in their bus seats reviewing yesterday's homework. I nailed it. What I hadn't expected was seeing laptops out with with their glowing screens popping up all over. Every girl at Rangel gets one.

Something else I was hoping for was politeness. Of the 57 boys I used to transport, only one ever made a habit of saying "thank you" while passing by me. Today, more than half of the girls said the magic words.

I think I made a big impression on the ladies because I had spent nearly two hours scrubbing years of filth off the walls of the old bus. They picked up on that right away. I also fixed two windows from rattling like a western diamondback. It's hard to transform ole #301 into a modern Greyhound, but I'm trying.

All in all, a job that I already enjoyed just got even better. Will a brand-new bus be the next blessing?

A coincidence or...?

All week long, I've been reading Hank Hanegraaff's great book "The Apocalypse Code", a study that debunks Tim LeHaye's "Left Behind" series. Hank gets into the book of Revelation and does a wonderful job of showing parallels with John's vision and details in the Old Testament. Over and over, Hanegraaff discusses the importance of the number 7. As you know, and as he emphasizes, this number represents "totality" or "completeness".

Well, today I wrapped up my final trip after many years of driving the same two DISD bus routes. I pulled bus #450 into its slot and dutifully recorded the odometer reading, as required by our organization. And what was the odometer reading?

97,777.7

Certainly not Scott(s) free...

First, a bit of history. When we built a home out here in countrified Rockwall, a bulldozer had cleared the land...leaving us a home with no grass and a tremendous erosion problem. After about 3 years of hard work, maybe too hard, we had a pretty good yard established. Then I made the mistake of going organic and holding hands with Howard Garrett, the self-proclaimed "Doctor of Dirt".

So the next few years were spent shunning chemicals and instead, scattering on my yard massive amounts of barnyard poop, Texas green-sand, and something called "Garrett Juice", a smelly concoction composed of blackstrap molasses and compost squeezin's. The result was a rapid deterioration of the lawn quality and a migration to my yard of every weed known to man. All our hard work was in vain.

In desperation, I did something that I had chided folks for in the past: I hired Scotts Lawn Service for growing season 2007. It worked. By the middle of the summer, my yard was as green as a fairway at Augusta. The turf was so thick that my mower had to be set on the highest cut possible or it would clog up and shut down.

But then I noticed that Scotts made a trip to put some sort of something on the grass in January. And then in February. And then I got a bill for nearly $400. Today they called and asked why I hadn't paid up. I told them I had not signed on for another year. And that I wasn't going to re-up under any circumstances. The lady asked me to check my previous statements and look for a little statement, "Service is continued from season to season for customer convenience." And it's there all right. Pretty small print, too.

Tonight I emailed the general manager accusing him of deceitful practices and telling him that I won't be paying. I tried to use whatever latent journalistic talent I have to tell him what I thought of the "for customer convenience" line. If only Scotts and other companies realized that the way to repeat business is through REAL customer service, not slimy, stinky, used-car salesman-y tactics that smell worse than Garrett Juice.

The scenery will change...

God smiled on me today and I got official clearance to begin a new bus route on Friday. Again let me emphasize that this story only has merit because I'm blessed to live a quiet, semi-relaxed life now. I've noticed that elderly can talk for hours about whether bananas should be eaten ripe or not. I think I'm almost there.

So on Friday I will jettison two bus routes that I've driven for years and years and begin picking up studious and ambitious young ladies and transporting them to the Rangel Leadership School for Young Women. Instead of looking into my rear-view mirror and seeing 57 testosterone-engorged middle school boys trying to outscream each other, I hope to see 35 or so young ladies who look like Marie Curie with their noses in their books.

The only downer about this move relates to the all-important school bus. I had tried for 2+ decades to upgrade from what can kindly be regarded as the worst school bus ever. Finally, two years ago, I persuaded my boss to let me have bus #450, a nice, mid-level bus whose former driver was retiring (at age 77!!). I have loved this bus. It has air-conditioning and is as solid as a tank. But in our organization, the bus stays with the route...and now I must inherit (regress to) bus #301, a sweetheart of a junker with 153,000 miles and a future as a Peruvean tour bus. I've heard that its (her?) air-conditioner is weak and that the only heater that works is the one near the driver.

This morning I heard something that immediately curled me up in a fetal position and caused me to whimper uncontrollably. Turns out the boss-man was ready to replace 301 with a brand-new bus, but the driver was lazy about turning in required paperwork and thus lost the chance to tool around the lot in a 2008 BlueBird. Had this clown just put forth a bit more effort, I would have a great new route, a pay raise, and a plush new bus. Oh, well. Maybe this means that I get the next new bus to be delivered (I always turn in my paperwork on time...usually...sometimes).

Now that I have you on the edge of your seat, I'll tease you by saying there will be a report Friday evening on how the first day went. And if I felt any withdrawal from dear, sweet, clean bus #450.

Met a hero tonight...

Yes, I had the distinct privilege and honor of meeting a WWII combat pilot tonight. He is the father of one of the ladies in our Sunday night Bible study group. After the study, I sat down next to him and asked him one question, "How did you get interested in aviation?" Well, over 30 minutes later he was still going strong so I gently interrupted him and told him I wanted to resume the conversation the next time he visited Rockwall again.

What an amazing generation he was a part of! One of the things he mentioned was how every single pilot in flight school dreamed of becoming a combat pilot. Nearly all of them already had a wife and some had kids, but the overwhelming attitude was one of patriotism and determination to stop anyone who would threaten our freedom. He said he kept begging to go to the "action" but was so proficient as a flying instructor that he was kept stateside to train others. Finally he got his wish late in the war and flew missions against the Japanese prior to the dropping of the atomic bombs. He mentioned that he also rode a train through Hiroshima some time later and that made an incredible impression on him.

What a national treasure these men (and women) are! Tom Brokaw was correct in his calling them "the greatest generation". And soon they will no longer be amongst us. That's why I was so honored to shake Ken Scattergood's hand tonight and thank him for his sacrifice to our country.

Oh, yeah, he even walked away from a "crash and burn" accident at one point in his aviation career.

See ya, boys?

I have an opportunity that could be pretty cool. Now for those of you who have real jobs with real stress, this is pretty meaningless. I have the utmost respect for you because I remember working hard. This is a mere blip on the radar.

A new school bus route has opened up that I'd love to have. I would be picking up middle school girls and taking them to the (you ready? are you sure?) Irma Lerma Rangel Young Women Leadership School. What were Mr. and Mrs. Rangel thinking? Irma Lerma? Anyway, this is a school for the best and brightest of DISD's girls. I would be picking them up from three East Dallas middle schools and transporting them to Rangel, located at Collum and Pennsylvania on the west side of Fair Park.

There are two reasons for wanting this change. There are more hours involved so I'd make a bit more. And, perhaps more importantly, I'd have passengers who have mastered social graces and are studious in attitude. Compared to those I currently transport, this is as far as Carnegie Hall is to the Sportatorium.

I put my name in the hopper today. On Tuesday of next week, the "applier" with the most senority will automatically get the job. Then that person must begin the route the next day. There are very few folks at the bus lot who have more senority than I (25 years worth). I'll keep you posted.

The Greatness of Mimi

Sometimes folks who are serving are so caught up in their service that they are oblivious to the miracles they are dispensing. Over the past two weeks, I've been observing Carole (Mimi) become a modern-day Dorcas, Ruth, Naomi, Miriam, and Florence Nightingale rolled into one.

We opened up the house to daughter Brooke and 1-month old Audrey because husband/father Michael was sent to Little Rock on business for two weeks. Naturally, we were thrilled, particularly since for a while, Brooke thought she and the baby might accompany Michael and stay with him in some hotel. But then late in week #1, Brooke developed abdominal pain that sent her to the ER. The initial diagnosis by the doctors was appendicitis, but a CT-scan and a sonogram revealed the problem to be an ovarian cyst. Michael caught the next flight to DFW and showed up about the time Brooke was sent home from the hospital.

To make a long story short, my wife has been spectacular. She managed to continue the normal challenges of keeping one-year old Macie and 3-year old Maddie during the Monday-Friday time frame while keeping me, Michael, Brooke, and Audrey cared for. She dispensed her maternal wisdom to Brooke when needed. She cooked and cleaned. She was pure magic with Audrey, who is suffering with colic. Sometimes, I would be taking my turn with the baby who would be screaming like Tarzan missing a vine. Carole would step up and ease Audrey out of my trembling hands and miraculously the little angel would sense the difference and quickly stop the crying. She was doing the work of 3 people at once.

Another thing I noticed while all this was transpiring was that Brooke is a natural when it comes to mothering. Some mommas of newborns seem awkward at the job and impatient with their new angels. Brooke has adapted to motherhood with ease and grace, displaying mothering characteristics usually reserved for veteran mommies. Little Audrey doesn't know it yet, but she is the benefactor of having masterful women in her life. What a massive blessing this is! And how heart-breaking is it that so many babies are born into a world just the opposite of this.

So hats off to Carole/Mimi and Brooke/Mommy. (Oh, yeah. Michael's a great hubby and daddy, but he's just a guy. Like me.)

Carpe Diem

There's something called "good ole days syndrome". It's the tendency to over-rate experiences of the past, experiences which in reality weren't that spectacular. Such as, "Those possum liver casseroles Granny made sure were yummy" when indeed those casseroles were quite ordinary. Something about all those years going by that dull our evaluative talent.

Often, however, this syndrome isn't accurate. It turns out that the experiences we remember really were that spectacular. So spectacular, in fact, that they should be the focus of our remembrances. So wonderful, if fact, that we should never let time dilute our memory of them. It might be those times Dad played catch with you or when Grandma let you help her cook. These are timeless experiences that give us a glimpse of what heaven will be like.

That's why I think it's critical to recognize those moments now which decades from now will be truly meaningful. Our tendency, of course, is to let extraneous details distract us while these events are happening. I'm trying hard to not let this happen to me. I'm getting unforgettable interractions with our grandkids at this juncture in my life...and I'm doing my best to grab onto them as they're happening, to realize the miracle of the moment, if you will. Often, Zach or Ethan or Maddie will say something funny, noteworthy, or profound and immediately Carole and I exchange a meaningful glance and smile, knowing that we just saw the curtain of heaven pulled back a bit. Or it's some interaction with the younger two, Macie or Audrey, that sets off the glory alarms.

I guess what I'm saying is how wonderful it would be to live so as to have no regrets later on in life - specifically, no wishing I'd paid more attention to the daily miracles that were occurring right before me. It's not as easy as it looks. Satan, the father of lies, is adept at getting us thinking more about stuff and more stuff instead of things eternal. But with prayer and meditation (thinking on those things above), the Holy Spirit is well able to scrape the scales from our eyes and allow us to "seize the day". Or more accurately, seize the moment.

Learning the Hard Way

About a month ago, I was at a bit of a crossroads in the physical therapy for my shoulder. There's this guy, Larry, whose job it is to push, twist, and stretch my right arm in an unnatural direction and then hold it until election day. I had always heard that you should listen to what your body is telling you and trust it. Well, my body was screaming in my ear that Larry was a sadomasochistic fiend.

Conveniently for me, circumstances conspired to give me time to assess this opinion. My work schedule was altered due to semester exams, then there was the Kansas trip, and then I got sick for a week. I ended up skipping a bunch of therapy appointments. The pain that Larry had inflicted upon me subsided somewhat and I smugly thought that I was right about this deal. But then I noticed that I was losing some range of motion - not good, since this was part of the reason I had the shoulder scoped in the first place.

I returned to the rehab place on Tuesday and practically had to re-introduce myself. I went through the solo drills and noticed they were significantly more difficult than I remembered. Then, because Larry was off (yeah!), the owner of the joint, Randy, took over the job of manipulating the arm. Well, it didn't take long before Randy had me begging for a phone to call Larry and apologize. If Larry is a 747, Randy is the Concorde. I try not to show my pain, but trust me, there was weeping and gnashing of teeth...and Randy cared not one iota. The whole idea, he said, is to break through any scar tissue and also to keep any more scar tissue from forming.

When Randy finally tired of my whimpering and allowed me to leave, I noticed how much more free the shoulder was. I did my personal exercises at home that night and again last night. I returned to therapy today and got the usual torture, this time from Larry. Again, I walked out with a good looseness in the shoulder even though I had been in agony just minutes before on Larry's table.

So, I guess these folks know their craft. I've realized that P.T. may be one area where one shouldn't necessarily listen to one's body, but instead turn a deaf ear.

Super Bowl Week and other mistakes...

See that irate pilot? He feels the same as I about the week that is now upon us. To me, nothing better exemplifies our society's misplaced priorities than the over-blown garishness of this annual disappointment. This entire week will be devoted to parties and debauchery, meeting and greeting and out-of-control spending. It will be important years from now (they think) to be able to tell your minions that you were there for the '08 Super Bowl.

This much ado about so much nothing exactly parallels the blight of materialism that afflicts America. We're snookered into thinking that the car of our dreams (or house, TV, toupee, whatever) will escort us into happiness that we'll never lose. With the anticipatory buildup that longing for toys brings, we soon find that, even with the Lexus in the driveway for all to see, the unabashed joy we initially felt has vanished and we're back to life as usual with all its problems.

Advertisers and networks will spend this week breathlessly extolling next Sunday's game as the game to end all games. It's that way every year. But the results are all too familiar - usually a lopsided game that makes one wonder why there was all the hoopla in the first place.

Jesus told us the He was the way and the truth. Sadly, too many of us have detoured down the path of glitz and bling and have missed the way. Remember that this week as you turn down the volume on all the hype.

The Story of One Photo

I took the above photo on Tuesday of last week. That plane belongs to the Navy and its mission is top secret. It hangars at Love Field, and I've asked numerous officials there about why it flies off each day from Dallas. I get the same answer every time: "That plane does not exist". Of course, they know it does, but the government wants them to act like nothing is going on. The rumor is that it is involved in drug interdiction along the Texas/Mexico border.

I posted the shot on "a.net" and it quickly began to accumulate hits (or views). Within a few hours, it had 21,000 hits and had become the hottest photo for the previous 24 hours. What was causing this was the little phrase I put in the caption, "That plane does not exist". Several websites picked up the shot and posted it. Turns out those websites are frequented by thousands of folks daily. Some of the sites are devoted to conspiracy theories and are way out there. I've also gotten numerous emails asking me if there is anything else I know about the plane.

The last time I checked, the number of hits was approaching 70,000. The great thing about this hobby is that the unexpected happens with regularity. Totally random shots can generate a little income if some magazine wants a picture exactly like it. With this shot, I had no idea any of this was coming. Now I'm wondering what will happen next.

Trip Notes

Well, it's back to daily routine. The wife and I didn't have a single unpleasant moment while staying with her brother and his family. We had a blast. In fact, such a blast that we promised them we would return at least once in '08, hopefully when the temp is above freezing.

There were good points and not so good points about Kansas City's airport. We got through security in record time - there was not even a line. But after we were on the other side, I noticed that all the shops were gone...they were on the pre-security check side. I wanted something to drink, so I had to exit the gate area, find a shop, buy a Sprite, return to security, take my shoes off again, and walk through the metal detector again. DFW has them beat big-time in this matter.

Once aboard our plane, I was deeply distressed because the lady in front of me wanted to sleep. (see picture below) And if you want to sleep on a plane, generally you lower your seatback. I'm a hair shy of 6'5" and this little maneuver effectively swallowed up what tiny space my knees had. I just think this is the height of selfishness. So I responded by making sure she felt my kneecaps for the next hour and a half. I was sure she would react to my bony knees by putting the seat in its original position. She kept sleeping. As we were leaving the plane, I saw her face and instead of having horns and pointed canines, she appeared to be a gentle and sweet sort...and I felt bad for what I had done.

Another problem was the 5 year-old girl who sat across the aisle. She had the whiniest voice I've ever heard (and this includes Tiny Tim's "Tiptoe Through the Tulips). And she whined without pausing for the entire flight. I told Carole that I felt like I was in auditory purgatory.

And finally, about halfway through the flight, the plane made a sudden turn. I happened to be looking out the window at that time and noticed another jet coming straight at us on a route perpendicular to our. I grabbed the camera and took the shot you see below. I had to act fast because it was closing on us at 500+ mph. It's hard to believe, but it passed just under us. I'm gonna assume that no FAA separation rules were violated, but mercy, it looked close.

Meanwhile, here in KC...

On our flight north yesterday, the pilot kept reporting that the current temperature in Kansas City was -1, as though he were performing some sort of public service. Then the flight attendant came on and said the temp in KC was a "balmy -1". We saw plenty of mini-icebergs floating in the Missouri River.

I think the lowest Fahrenheit I'd ever experienced prior to this trip was a +1. When we stepped outside the terminal, Carole and I were immediately taken aback by how sharp and invigorating the air was. But it was a good thing her brother quickly pulled up in his vehicle since I would guess "invigoration" would turn to frostbite and hypothermia rather quickly. You know it's cold when the natives up here are saying that it's really cold. Seems like if it's that arctic outside, we should be able to see the northern lights.

Doesn't look like I'll get to experience the blizzard I wanted. You know, the kind that causes the farmer to get lost when he tries to walk the 20 feet from his house to the barn. I just don't know how the early settlers to the Midwest dealt with all the weather. They had stifling heat in the summer, blizzards in the winter, tornadoes in the spring, plagues of grasshoppers every now and then, and no Weather Channel. I would have stayed in the covered wagon until we got to Santa Monica.

To this point, our little trip has been pure joy. Smooth flight up, nice snow-covered scenery, wonderful hosts, and twin 2 year-old nephews to play with. We went to the Overland Park Church of Christ this morning and enjoyed a very inspiring worship. Sure did have to step sprightly from the parking lot to the church building, though. Didn't want any more invigoration than necessary.

Off to K.C.

No eloquent, gripping blog today. But I've got some ideas ricocheting around the cavernous open spaces of my brain. One is an expose' of the street where my beautiful wife grew up. It will be thrilling stuff, methinks.

We are off to Kansas City tomorrow morning for a 3-day visit with Carole's brother, Joe, and his family. Temperature should be in the single digits when we touch down and will probably stay under 32 the entire time. Uh, I have no plans to do a lot of outdoor activities. I do admit that I was secretly hoping for a blizzard because I've never been in one. That's fairly stupid, like longing to be struck by lightning just to feel my fingertips tingle.

We are looking forward to this little excursion, if for no other reason than to get away from the daily routine a bit. Of course, anything involving flying is stimulating to me. The only drawback I see is the ever-humiliating interaction with the TSA screeners, whose job is apparently to reduce me to a mental midget, and a barefoot one at that.

Inexplicable

The first quarter of the Cowboy game just ended and I'm upset with myself for caring so much. This whole business of sports and the passion they stir up is hard for me to get a handle on. Even though I'm totally wrapped up in the game (the Cowboys just tied it up), I can no more explain why (oops, the Giants are challenging the score) than I can tell you why my Dad ate licorice.

I mean, other than a vague geographical connection (touchdown upheld!) to the Cowboys (isn't that a strange thing to call someone..."cow" "boy"?), why should I care? Those fellas are not my neighbors, they make far more money than I, and in most cases, their core values are light years different from mine. I have as much in common with Terrell Owens as I do a Chilean ocelot. And even given the local connection, why should I be so excited that some athletes who reside in the Metroplex can whup up on some other athletes who have New York addresses?

And I have always felt that the enormous importance society places on winning is curious. I remember (vaguely) my college days...and a bunch of us guys played a lot of tennis. On rare occasions, I would win a set. And I always felt a bit sorry for my opponent. I mean, had I rendered him suddenly inferior as a human being? Of course, he surely felt devastated after losing to a ridiculous excuse for a tennis player. But why should we draw joy from doing something better than someone else? Is that a Christian fruit of the spirit? (Marion Barber just got a big first down.) Maybe the attitude should be, how can I help my opponent win today? There's an interesting verse in Galatians 6: "Each one should test his own actions. Then he can take pride in himself, without comparing himself to somebody else."

Back in the '90's, I would get absolutely livid about 4 times a year. Those were the occasions when Dallas Christian's basketball team would play against First Baptist. If you weren't cued into the situation, you might surmise that these would be polite affairs, filled with "excuse me's" and "how are things?". Nay, nay. Folks from both sides checked their Christianity at the door and spent the next two hours screaming at the refs and belittling mothers of the other side's players. I wanted to go to mid-court and scream, "THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU'RE DOING! IT MAY HAVE ETERNAL IMPLICATIONS!" (The Bovine-boys have a nice drive going.) I'm so proud of my son Blake because he maintains his Christianity even in his role as a coach. I'm so proud of both my sons because they refereed games during their college years as their part-time jobs. They both endured crazy fans without pulling a gun and teaching them a lesson.

Well, there's a minute left in the first half and the Calfboys have a 3rd down and goal. It's a critical time.

Or is it?

(Pssst. They scored!)

Fun and Games

On Monday, I had the challenge of helping Carole babysit two of our grandkids, Maddie (age 3) and Macie (11 months). Macie is decidedly low maintenance most of the time and is the best baby I've ever seen. The tricky part would be entertaining Maddie, a smart, high-energy bundle of curiosity.

Lately I've been teaching Maddie how to use my camera - the same camera I use to take pics of airplanes. She is fascinated by it and I would love to have her someday become a serious photographer. Yes, I know it's risky to have a 3 year-old mess with something this expensive, but hey, I need an excuse to upgrade my equipment. Monday, I thought I would show her how to set the camera up for "delay" shooting, where you can focus the camera, push the shutter button, and run get in the picture before it fires away. Well, one thing led to another.

Soon, we had the camera resting on a coffee table. Maddie would push the shutter button...and at that point, there would be 10 seconds before the picture would be snapped. Then, she would run to the other side of the table and plop on the floor, where I was waiting. The game was, we would lie there on the floor pretending not to care about having our picture made. Then with about 2 seconds to go, I would yell out, "PICTURE!", and we would quickly pull up just in time to get in the shot. For some reason, we both found this enormously hilarious. It was certainly fun for this 59 year-old to act like a kid again. Here are some of the shots that resulted from this frolicking:

Tonight, there is hope...

Yeah, I know. Some of you saw the title to this blog entry and thought maybe our commander-in-chief had figured out how to pronounce "nuclear".

But no, this is about food. For the past few years, I have been on a quest that rivals the search for Noah's ark. Yes, friends, the art of restaurant-style home-cooking has become such a lost art that I've basically been depressed (not to mention under-fed) for the better part of two decades. I remember the first time I sampled a Black-eyed Pea, I thought a culinary zenith had been achieved and that my homestyle hankerin's had been assuaged forever. But then they got bought out and food quality dropped.

Actually, I had found chicken-fried nirvana as a college student in Abilene in the late '60's at a boarding house called "Ma Brown's". Miss Brown basically sold seats in her dining room to outsiders and baby, it was all you could eat for fifty cents. I and some of my buddies put her out of business. We wore black arm bands for a month.

But for a long time, the search has been on for someone, yea anyone, who could make decent mashed potatoes and chicken fried ________ (feel free to fill in the blank). And tonight, I'm proud to report the astoundingly good news, both to fans of southern cooking and cardiologists alike. The strange name of the place is "Cooppies". Carole and I found it in the Firewheel area of Garland this afternoon.

Fried chicken with the best crust ever. Mashed 'taters better than Fran Clift's, something I never thought I'd say. Macaroni and cheese better than Mom's. Sweet tea. I made such a fool of myself that there simply was no will left in me to sample their crumbly cobblers. And had Carole and I opted for water instead of tea, our check would have been around $17.

So for those of you in the Dallas area, check it out. Take a few friends. My number is 972-771-xxxx.

Audrey at 17 Days

Update on Mom

Since Carole and I will be in the Baylor area tomorrow afternoon, I thought it would be the perfect opportunity to pick up Mom's car and remove any temptation to take just one more trip. But I was worried that when she heard my plan, she might change her mind and put up a protest. But she didn't. She said that she briefly thought about trying to drive to the beauty shop again, but got scared. She said that, as a result of her "incident" the other day, she had lost all confidence behind the wheel.

My siblings and I can decide how best to dispose of the car during the next few days. The important thing is to get the car out of her garage. By the way, it's a 1997 Olds with a whopping 26K miles.

We are really blessed in that my bus lot is very close to Mom's house. It will be very convenient for me to run her errands and get her groceries as needed on my way home in the mornings.

I feel an overwhelming sense of relief at the moment.