I’ll always remember the very first time I saw her name in print. “Kelli Sue Woods.” It was written on the little pink card affixed to her clear bassinet at Hinsdale Hospital in Hinsdale, Illinois. She was not yet twelve hours old. Kelli was one of those kids that like to keep you up late at night. The night of her birth was the first time she pulled that trick, making her introduction at 12:08am on September 9, 1980. It was well after 3:00am before I hit the sheets. And then I was back at that little window staring into the hospital nursery just a few hours later, reading that card. “Kelli Sue Woods.” As we left the hospital a couple of day later they gave us her tiny arm bracelet with her name on it and, of course, a copy of her birth certificate came in the mail a short time later. All of them carried the same brand… “Kelli Sue Woods.”
When she was about three we took her to Central Hardware to get her fingerprinted. They were doing one of those special “don’t let your kid get stolen” emphasis. Some elderly lady sat behind a folding table, rolled her little hand on the ink pad, and pressed each finger gently onto a piece of paper. There! Now she is safe from the world and all of its evils. If somebody kidnaps her we’ll be able to show the police what her fingerprints look like. And then all we’ll have to do is check the fingerprints of every blond haired, blue eyed, kid in America to find the one that matches. Then we’ll have our Kelli back. Somehow I think they were hoping we would buy a wrench or something before we left the store.
I remember some year later as she came home from school and proudly showed me her Social Security card. Social Security? She was maybe… I don’t know… seven? But sure enough there was her name all typed neatly in and signed in ink underneath. “Kelli Sue Woods.” This little bundle of energy and cuteness was now officially backed by all of the authority and power of the United States of America! Impressive!
High school came around all too soon. With it came a driver’s license. Ugh. She and I went out in frequent spins around the neighborhood. One of those drives accidentally ended up in Jerry Edmonds front yard. That’s another story for another day. She drove and I prayed. We got through it. A short time later a crazy man at the Drivers License Bureau gave her a laminated card with her picture and name on it. “Kelli Sue Woods.” She was now an officially sanctioned driver in the state of Illinois. Who came up with this system? She was just a kid. Barely a kid! And now she was a kid driving my car.
On graduation day they called her name from the stage, formally proclaiming “Kelli Sue Woods” as a graduate of Civic Memorial High School. I was a little fogged and shocked on that day. My wallet was twitching under me… sensing something huge was about to happen. That something was called… college. Kel started out tamely and ended up like a lion. One and one half years at Lewis and Clark Community College flew by. Then came the transfer… the dreaded transfer… to Greenville College. I had nothing against Greenville. It was just that she wanted to LIVE there. This was totally unacceptable! And yet her mother took her and they moved her into a sleazy little dorm room. Every month I got a bill for the tuition of “Kelli Sue Woods.” She finished college like she finished high school, walking across an over-sized stage to receive a diploma declaring “Kelli Sue Woods” as a graduate of Greenville College with a major in education.
And then just as quickly as she came into being… she ceased to exist. It took Debbie’s mother nine months to make her. I’m not certain exactly how long she was engaged to Mr. Joseph McGill. Maybe it was nine months. Maybe it was longer. But I am absolutely sure it was on their minds for much longer than that. January 11, 2003 found her standing on a stage again. This time she was there with pen in hand, signing “Kelli Sue Woods” for the last time. When she put the pen down I uttered some magic words and turned her into Kelli Sue McGill. One second she’s Woods and the next second… POOF…she’s McGill. She probably never realized it but I was always working magic in her life. Whether it was helping her mother get her started, Loaning her the name “Kelli” (my middle name is Kelly,) letting her make her first road-kill in my car, (a former skunk and now merely a horrifying, crippling, odor,) or baptizing her into her faith and signing her certificate, I really tried my best to make Miss Kelli Sue Woods all that God wanted her to be.
About two weeks ago I finally got use to her being Mrs. Joseph McGill. It took awhile. The dainty smell of cosmetics and girly stuff in her room has been replaced by Scott’s gym socks. That will drive reality home in a heart beat. And then yesterday the most wonderful thing happened. Something good actually came out of the Alton telegraph. Yesterday I saw for what I am certain is the very last time the name “Kelli Sue Woods” in official print. Her former name was in the paper declaring her a “Greenville Scholar” because she had made the deans list at least three times.
Wow. My Kelli. She was gone for more than three months and then she dropped by, quite unexpectedly, to visit. There she is, for the entire world to see. Kelli Sue Woods is a scholar! I never doubted it.
You know how when they build a new ship the navy takes her out for a “shake down cruise?” They go out and sail around the high seas for a while, never getting too far from home, just to make sure all systems are functioning well. Then they drop back by home one more time and then it’s off to see the world. Well… that was my yesterday. Kelli Sue McGill has completed her “shake down cruise.” She dropped back by the old shipyard yesterday, appearing in the newspaper as Kelli Sue Woods, just to let us know that all is well. And then she sailed back out into the world. And hey, it’s ok! She’s ready for whatever comes her way! Because my little Kelli… she’s a scholar…

I needed gas. That is all. I didn’t need a phone call. I didn’t need a lecture. I needed gas. Why can’t a man just get what he needs anymore without having to take everything else the world has to offer along with it.

It was noonish. Yesterday. I had to be someplace. It was not far away but that little “gas pump” light was on and I’ve never seen it light up before on this particular car. So I really did not know how far I could go before the light became battery powered instead of gasoline powered. Know what I mean? So I stopped at my friendly, local Amoco dealer.

The weather was good and the top was down on the car. I slid my debit card through the “pay at the pump” slot and it told me to fill ‘er up. I let the pumping begin. I strolled around to the front of my car. It was covered with bugs and I was just checking to see if I needed to clean anything off with Mr. Friendly Service Station’s squeegee.

My cell phone rang. Actually it vibrated. I can’t hear ringing phones in my car because my stereo is too big. My stereo makes me smile. So I keep the phone on vibrate. As it did I leaned against the front of my car and answered it. (Note: The front of the car places me approximately 7 feet from the nozzle which continued feeding my thirsty gas tank.) The phone call was long distance. So what? Like it matters anymore. When you have a cell phone you can call Bangor, Maine, or you can call East Alton. Same price. This is one of the good things about cell phones.

While standing against the car, seeing the digital numbers drive me toward bankruptcy, talking to my friend on the cell phone, a pick-up truck pulled up behind me. I noticed him right away. Something did not feel right. For some reason I just didn’t think this guy was here for gas. I don’t know why that thought entered my mind… but it did.

(Teachable Moment: For those of us who consider ourselves “Born again children of the Living God,” we need to take these moments seriously. You see, God’s Spirit now resides in us. And sometimes He has a hard time keeping quiet. Sometimes He wants to tell us things. Once we learn to hear Him, if we keep in practice, it isn’t really that hard. So when you get “that feeling”… pay attention. Head’s up. Something just might be about to happen.)

So I turned toward the pick-up truck and watched a man get out. It was a black truck. Nothing fancy. Rather used and slightly beaten is the way I remember it. So was the man. He wore jeans and a “feed and seed” ball cap pulled low over his eyes. I was not even slightly surprised when he began walking toward me. Again… I do not know why. I just was not.

“You are breaken the rules.” He said. We were face to face.

I lifted the voice part of the phone away from my face and said the most brilliant thing I could think of at the time. “What?”

“You are breaken the rules,” he repeated.

I asked the man on the phone to hold on for just a second. I intentionally did not cover the mouthpiece. I wanted to make sure that if I were about to meet my Waterloo, somebody would hear it.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you are talking about.” The man stared at me. I stared back at him.

“The rules! You aren’t suppose to be atalkin on the phone while apumpin gas!” He wasn’t belligerent. He was simply insistent. And he was not happy.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.” I smiled. I turned away from him and resumed my phone conversation. My friend asked what in the world just happened. I told him that I had no idea.

My pick-em-up buddy continued to stare at me. Ok, I guess you could call it more of a glare than a stare by this time. The seconds slowly ticked away. I would suppose that probably 15 or 20 of them passed by before he turned away, walked past my gas pump, got in his truck, and drove away. He did not buy any gas. He did not go into the station. He just left.

This event requires summarization. Here is the best I can do: “While purchasing gas and talking on the cell phone a man pulled up in a truck, got out, and yelled at me three times for doing so. Then he got back in his truck, pulled onto the highway, and left.”

Yep. I just re-read it and that about covers it. I called the owner of the gas station. He happens to be a very good friend of mine. I told him the story. I think he hurt himself laughing. And really… it was funny. But I can’t help but wonder… does this kind of thing happen to everybody? What the heck was that all about? When was the last time you picked up a newspaper to read that an idiot on a cell phone blew up a gas station? You know, maybe if I was smoking a stogie while inhaling the fumes from directly above the hose I would understand. Maybe if I were wearing cotton flannel and climbing back and forth, in and out of my car with cloth seats and then running my hand along the hose of the pump I could understand. Consider this… if it were really that dangerous… don’t you think ALL terrorists would give up on exploding shoes and just start making cell phone calls from rental cars? I dunno. I mean, really. Maybe it’s time to set up security at gas stations similar to airports. You just can’t be too careful these days.

By the way, if you call me on my cell and I answer… and all you hear is a loud KA-BOOM!!!! and then nothing… forget everything I just said.

"Sometimes I sits and thinks. Sometimes I just sits." I don't know why I remember that saying engraved on a wooden plaque in a Ozark souvineer shop when I was a kid. But I do. I didn't understand. How can you "just sit"? I mean... how can you just sit without thinking? How can you do anything without thinking? To turn off your brain is an impossibility. To suspend your predisposal to be the one directing it is almost as hard.

Now, at the age of 47, I think I've got it. I have it figured out. It has taken approximately 3,650 Xanax tablets, over 100,000 milligrams of Zoloft, thousands of dollars in medical bills, and a whole world of patience. Oh, and some pain. Yeah. Pain.

But here's the deal. I was playing with my Pocket PC today. Really... not working. Just playing. And I got bored. How many games of Solitare can you play before your brain shuts off? I sat for about 5 minutes and then... BLINK... the unit turned itself off. Hmm. I don't usually sit around long enough for that to happen. I run a program, read an article, or make an appointment note, and then I turn it off. But this time I didn't and it turned itself off for me. I knew it would do that. I had read it in the instructions. But this was the first time I saw it happen while I was staring at the screen. When the Pocket PC turned off... my brain turned back on. A game of electromagnetic tag. That was a revelatory moment for me. I realized for the first time that everything is built to turn off occasionally. A car cannot run forever. You have to turn it off, gas it up, rotate the tires, maybe put in new spark plugs, and then it will run again. If you don't do those things it will die an early death. A computer has to stop and recharge its battery. It must be "de-fragged" and viruses must be rooted out. Then she's ready to recompute. Why should I be any different?

Not too long ago I "blinked off." I had done a lot of work. Things had been really, really, busy. Craziness abounded. When it all slowed down for a little bit I forgot how to recharge. I couldn't find a way... a place... to plug in and recharge. And honestly, I forgot that I was suppose to. And then one day I just... shut down. I might as well have been a 1965 Rambler in the Indy 500. I wasn't going anywhere. I HAD to sit. But I never stopped thinking. I thought too much. I struggled to understand, I wrestled in prayer, and I read and studied in order to get well. It didn't help. None of it made any difference.

And then God told me what to do. He told me to stop. Just stop. He told me to be quiet. Stop wrestling. Stop studying. Just stop. And I did. I found a place and I didn't talk. I sat. I walked. I listened. I stopped. And when I did I learned that God was there. Sometimes He spoke to me and I heard Him. Most often He did not tell me to do anything. He just revealed things to me that He wanted me to know. Those things quietly changed my life. They rearranged my understanding of what life is about. They gave me my soul back.

I'm talking too much again lately. Worse yet, I am thinking too much. I am not doing enough sitting, walking, and listening. But today God turned my Pocket PC off... and I remembered. Sometimes I sits and thinks. But I think... for awhile at least.... I'll just sits.

GIMME A V!!! GIMME AN A!!! GIMME A C!!! GIVE ME ANOTHER A!!! GIVE ME A T!!! GIVE ME AN I!!! GIVE ME AN O!!! GIVE ME AN N!!! WHAT'S THAT SPELL? VACATION!!! TELL ME AGAIN!!! VACATION!!!

One of the sweetest words in the human language... vacation. I just finished one up. Two glorious weeks with a new car and a full tank of gas. Sweeeeet. The first week it pretty much rained. No problem! I sat around, read, rested, recuperated. By Thursday though it began to get old. Sooooo... I checked out the old Weather Channel and found that just 250 miles away... in Memphis... it was gonna be sunny and in the 70's all weekend! Woo Hoo! I quickly informed Debbie that she needed to pack a bag because after she got off of work on Friday we were Tennessee bound. And so we went!

You ever been to Memphis? No? Well if you go... don't bother leaving downtown. I mean, there is Graceland. Tacky, tacky, tacky. Trust me, just stay downtown. You'll be much better off. Ok, do go to see Bellevue Baptist Church. But then run... do not walk... back downtown. And be sure to stay at "The Peabody." They have ducks there. They keep them on the roof most of the time. But at 11am each day the "Duckmaster" brings them down the elevator where they exit at the lobby and walk across a red carpet before sliding into a lovely marble fountain. At 5pm they go back home to the roof. Why, you ask? I don't know. They just do.

It rained in Memphis that weekend. All weekend. But it was ok. Even convertibles have tops. So we kept ours up. We walked Beale Street and ate pork sandwiches while watching a pseudo-Elvis serenade us with "Blue Suede Shoes." We dined at the world famous Rendevous and the ribs were supurb. Still... it rained. We went home on Sunday evening. Chris met us at the door. He said it had been sunny and in the 70's all weekend. Hmmmm. By the time we got home it was cloudy. Drizzly. Yukky.

I settled down in front of the weather channel again. It was going to keep on being ugly. But.... Chicago... was going to be nice! Sunny and in the 60's! Poor Debbie had to go back to work but I loaded my own luggage and headed north on Monday morning. It was cloudy when I left Bethalto. It was cloudy in Springfield. Same in Bloomington. Ditto for Joliet. In Chicago... I had to turn the wipers on to keep the snow off of my windshield. The next day, Tuesday was more of the same. I called home. Scott answered. I listened in dismay as he sang "Blue skies!! Nothing but blue skies do I see!" I spent the night, got in the car, drove home. Through the rain. It was still raining when I got there.

I was down to one last weekend of vacation time. Weather.com. The Weather channel. Cindy Pressler. They all agreed... it was going to be cloudy and not so warm. But Kansas City! Kansas City was going to be NICE! West was definately the way to go!

Fool me once... shame on you. Fool me twice.. shame on me. Fool me three times... just shoot me. I stayed home. Saturday I put the top down and cruised town. I fired up the motorcycle and sped up and down the highways and byways. I basked in the rays of God's own sun. Sweeeet.

When will I learn? When WILL I learn? I'll tell you when I'll learn. As soon as I figure out what the heck happened... that's when I'll learn.

It's official. I'm having my mid-life crises. Woo Hoo! I've waited for this for so very long! And the cool part is... I'm not miserable! It doesn't hurt! If this is a mid-life crises I STRONGLY urge you to have your own!

I found myself in Alton today. Had a nice lunch all by myself at Carver Southern BBQ. Yum. That's a great way to kick off a crises. With a virtual one man banquet! I sat and read Newsweek Magazine while munching on dead pig soaked in sweet and mild sauce. Add a bit of baked beans and some potato salad and life is gooooood. I learned while reading an article about MY president that he and I use the same devotional book each morning, "My Utmost For His Highest." Nothing quite like starting your day with the same briefing that the president gets, huh?

The next stop in my crises was to get back in my car and begin driving. Where to? That's the cool part! When you are suppose to be coming apart at the seams you don't have to have a destination in mind! You can go anywhere... or nowhere! And everybody will understand! So I cut back behind the mall and shot down Alby Street. That's where I noticed that the sign on the bank said it was 58 degrees. Now we all know that bank thermometers are lying dogs. But this was just possibly true. I was willing to give it the benifit of the doubt. So I pulled my green Mustang into the parking lot and dropped my top. Then I put it back on and dropped the top on the car instead. It was a tough decision but I think I made the right one. I indulged in several scenic (by Illinois standards) drives, culminating in Sieler Road while winding my way back to Bethalto. The stereo was up loud enough that my hair parted on its own. Sure it was cloudy but so what. This was my first top down experience in my own vehicle. No cloud was going to ruin it.

When I arrive in my driveway I put the top back up, opened the garage door, and warmed up the motorcycle. Mmmmmmm. You gotta love the smell of exhaust in the garage. The roar of the little engine warmed my heart even more. After a few minutes I put the headphones of my IPOD in my ears, hit the "play" button, pulled my helmet on, zipped the cord under my jacket in order to fool any law enforcement professionals (aka: Mike Hogan) and took off. I was only going to Amoco to put gas in the tank but it was just too darn nice. Amoco turned into Meadowbrook. Meadowbrook turned into Edwardsville. Edwardsville turned into back roads easing through the countryside and back into Bethalto. It was a 23 miles gas station run by the time it ended.

Now my crises took me to my mega-chair located before the fireplace in my very own den. I plugged the IPOD into my killer JBL "Creature Speakers" and listened to quiet praise music. Sweet. And then I did my duty. "God. I'm on the front end of a two week vacation. I just took a drive in my long awaited Mustang with the top down. Then I rode my Honda all over, hither and yon. And now I find myself sitting before you... worshipping... all alone... in sweats. God. Life doesn't get any better than this. Amen. And amen."

You know, I'm really not sure how it happened. I was driving along one day in my putrid green Neon, enjoying a sunny day and great gas mileage. Sure it was small, unexciting, and a tad underwhelming. But cars are for transporting... that means "transportation"... and that means getting from one place to another. That really is the essence of what it is all about. I remember the moment. I was drving on I-255, southbound, nearing I-64. I was in the right lane. My plan was to exit eastbound and proceed to "Best Buy" near St. Clair Square. So here I am, cruising along at an altogether legal 65mph (really officer, I was....) and I had crept up next to an 18 wheeler "Smasher of Neon's." I was actually about half way up his trailer and passing him, on the right, at about 2mph faster than he was going. True, HE should have been in the right lane. Not me. But he was not. So you gotta do what you gotta do. (This is technically knows as "mistake #1.) And then... his right turn signal came on. Not good. I glance up at his cab and saw the drivers face in his mirror. I still believe that we made eye contact. When that happened I stopped worrying. (This is technically known as "mistake #2.) I increased my speed to finish going around him so that he could enter my lane. I assumed that he too wanted to exit onto I-64. After a second I glanced to my left... and his trailer was about 18 inches from my car and closing fast. I don't know if I hit my horn first or hit the shoulder of the road first. It is immaterial. I did both. Thank God for the wisdom of the Illinois Department of Transportation! Placing car-sized shoulders on expressways is a great idea! I began to decrease my speed to allow the trucker to go on past me. (This is technically known as "mistake #3") I was almost even with his cab at this point and as I glanced at him again... he was 18 inches from my little car AGAIN and still closing fast. It seems that friendly Mr. Truck Driver did not want the right lane after all... he wanted the shoulder of the road. Now, I never was much at physics. I only learned one thing that entire semester. I think it has a fancy name. You know... "Bobbie's law of singular objects" or something like that. But what it means is that only ONE thing can occupy any given place at any given moment. Mr. Truck-From-Hell had decided to occupy MY space. I honked again and did the only thing left to do. I left the road. Completely. Totally. I departed the kind world of asphalt in favor of green weeds and mud. Serious mud. The lawn that I found myself on was strongly slopped to the right... toward a ditch, about 10 yards of ugly looking bumpy space, and then a state owned barbed wire fence that seperated the highway property from ... from... something. I'm not sure what. It's all kind of blurry because, well, I was still doing well over 50mph. I drove through that ditch and came up on the other side. I crossed nearly all 10 yards of lovely green space and came perilously close to the fence before I was able to make a quick adjustment, fish-tail a little, and head back toward the expressway. By now the mud was taking it's toll on my little 14 inch tires. All 1,500 pounds of Neon really wanted to sink axle deep into the mire. But, as I'm sure you understand, that was just not acceptable. At this point I need to explain something. I learned to drive in Chicago. Lake Shore Drive is my favorite street. I have navigated the Dan Ryan, Stevenson, Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Eden's expressways, at rush hour. I have handled every toll-road that city has to offer. I have driven school buses full of kindergardener's as well as high school students through raging blizzards. But never... NEVER... have I been chased off the road... much less have I ever stalled out in some slimy, mud-infested, ditch. I have two modes of driving. There is my "Country Mode." I use it in and around Bethalto. I drive politely. I wave. I smile. I let people in front of me. I do the speed limit. Well... close to it anyway. And then I have my "City Mode." I use it when I have to go to Barnes, or St. Lukes, or one of those other "take-a-lunch-with-you" hospitals. That mode came in handy in the ditch. It is a fearless.... get outtamywayyoubigdummy... mode. I punched the accelerator (as much as a Neon's accelerator can be punched.) Mud flew. I fish-tailed. I pointed back toward I-255. Unfortunately, in my exuberant adrenaline filled lust for asphalt, I pointed DIRECTLY AT I-255. It quickly became obvious that the term "merge" would not apply. It was going to be more of a 90 degree angle of attack. And it was coming fast. Without bothering to signal I glanced to my left, silently praying that nothing was coming. My will is in order but I have no desire to use it today. The demon-truck was only yards to my left. It had finally come to a stop. I strained to see past it in order to determine whether or not to bother keeping my hands on the steering wheel. That's when I saw him. The truck driver. The man that tried to kill me. His left window was down. His arm was extended out of the window. His hand was pointed in my direction. His middle finger was obviously cramping because it stood out from the rest of his hand. If I didn't know better I would think... well... you know what I would think. I suppose it is possible. Jeffery Dahmer might have flipped-off his victims before he killed and ate them. Jack-The-Ripper might have flipped off the prostitutes before he strangled them and slashed their throats. It is conceiveable that this gentleman was extending his subtle greetings to me in hopes that he had removed me from the gene pool. I was too busy dodging chunks of human-filled steel to pay much attention.

But now I'm paying attention. And I'm not at all happy. And I'm wondering... what the heck was that all about? He looks at me in the mirror... he signals that he's coming over... he runs me completely OFF the expressway... he watches me go where only farmers combines have gone before... he sees me hurtling toward a car-filled expressway at an unholy angle... and then he flips me off? Is there no justice in the world? In Washington DC tonight there are "Stinger" anti-aircraft missles pointed sky-ward. They are connected to computers and radars, searching, ever searching, for planes that shouldn't be approaching downtown. In New York, roving radiation detectors drive the streets trying to find nasty explosives before they can be blown-up. And in southwestern Illinois truck drivers are trying to kill Neon's.

I gave my little jade Neon to my youngest son this week. Earlier I had given my oldest son my purple Neon. Earlier still I gave my daugther my cobalt blue Neon. (Hello. My name is Ron and I am a Neon-a-holic.) I'm now driving a bright green Ford Mustang. I didn't trade because of the truck. And I don't expect anybody will try to run my sons or daughter off the road. But wouldn't it be sweet to have one or two of those Washington heat-seeking missles mounted to the front of your car? These are the things I dream about. These are the things that make America... America. Some people will call it revenge. I call it.... justice.

Odd how the world works. Sunday was the Super Bowl. They tell me it was a good game. I missed it, choosing instead to eat pizza with 5 teenagers. Their exuberance was contagious… as it always is. Monday was nothing. Today was the State of the Union Address by the President. On a national scale we are off to quite a week. If the pattern holds, tomorrow will be a zero. Thursday worries me. I suppose we'll have to wait and see.

On a personal level the entire week has been… off beat. The doctor that prescribes my "brain candy," a leftover from a touch of exhaustion a year or so ago, tells me that I live life in never-ending "crises mode." I don't remember asking his opinion. He told me I need to get over it. I told him he needs to tell me how. We don't get along very well. Usually he just gives me whatever pill he wants me to take and I go home happy. Well, not really happy. Not until I find a crises anyway. You see… if I don't feel needed I'm not sure why I'm breathing. Silly? Probably. Yet true.

So this morning I entered my office to face ridicule. I knew it was coming. You see, I was wearing a black, double-breasted, suit. Nice tie too. 100% silk. I even got the knot right. But all I have to do to get abused is to show up on a weekday dressed like a "real pastor." No biggie. It gives me an adrenaline rush. That makes me happy. I told them that I was going to be doing a funeral. A potentially interesting funeral. I explained and they looked at me like… like I had 3 ears and one was in the middle of my forehead. I love it when they do that. It energizes me.

After telling my story, Byron, one of the maintenance guys flipped me a quarter and told me to give it to the corpse. (See yesterday's funeral song for details.) I absorbed his teasing smirk and slid the quarter into my pocket. It was only 10:30am and I was already up twenty-five cents profit on the day! That gave me a rush! I gathered up my materials and drove to the funeral home.

Upon arriving I spoke briefly to the funeral director and the family of the deceased. I planned out the order of service for the big event and notified the main players. There weren't many of those.

Quickly enough the funeral began. I strode to the podium and thanked them for the honor of sharing such a holy time with them. I read a scripture and I prayed. Then I returned to my seat while a young lady, a lovely 13-year-old granddaughter of the man in the box, read a poem written especially for the occasion. She did well, even though the theme of the writing centered on the moment he stopped breathing for the last time. As she sat down the music began. Yes… "THE music." The family smiled, grinned, laughed, and began singing with Joe Diffie as he sang "Prop me up beside the jukebox if I die." I reached over and clicked on a mini-cassette recorder I had hidden behind flowers near my seat. This moment just MUST be documented! Joe really gets going in his little ditty. I was amazed that it would even enter anybody's thought patterns to put sand in their boots so that they could stand near the jukebox for time eternal. I looked at the sons of this soldier. One wore a coat and tie. The rest wore their very best work boots. Their feet tapped and their heads swayed as they sang. Even mama got in on the big number. Her gray streaked hair and brown streaked teeth flashed to the rhythm of the line "remember I prefer blondes…" I felt a rush of energy course through my bloodstream. It was that "put me in coach!" feeling. I was so ready to get up and tell these people… uh… tell these people… um… how was I going to tell these people that because of Jesus they'd be able to see their loved one again. Did I really believe that in this case? The only reason I was doing this ceremony at all was because "Gary" had "Baptist" embossed into his army issued dog tags. I could just as easily have been a bartender or a bouncer. Actually, that would have been more appropriate. I suddenly found myself reaching for my shirt pocket and felt the little bump of insurance called "Xanax." I remember thinking… "You and me, buddy. We'll get through this." And then the song ended and I was up. I glided purposefully toward the podium and read Psalm 23. "The Lord is my Shepherd. I shall not want…." I finished the scripture; looked at the mini-sermon I had prepared, folded it and tucked it into the back of my bible. Desperate times calls for desperate measures. It was time to launch out into the world of the unknown. I now had no notes. I did not have President Bush's speechwriters or his teleprompter. I had the Holy Spirit in my fleshly temple, a Xanax trying it's best to synthesize itself through a layer of cotton and into my flesh, and suddenly… adrenaline. Energy. I pointed out that the author of the Psalm had much in common with "Gary." Both were servants. Both fought enemies for the good of others. Both loved their families and their countries. I found the groove. I hit the stride. The family sat somberly, occasionally nodding, never looking away from my gaze. Having no notes, I also had no reason to take my eyes off of them. I was one with my Macoupin County, Jerseyville, boot-clad buddies. I told them that Gary missed some Christmas dinners at their table because he was off defending their right to celebrate. I told them that Jesus missed some family occasions too because He was off serving the sick and seeking to set free the captives. They squinted, trying to not miss my meaning. I appreciated it. I had not seen any tears. Nobody had hunched over in grief. They were listening. They hung on my words. I pointed out that Gary had a very special beret resting near his hands. It was awarded to him, along with several obtuse, unexplained medals, for service performed that he could never talk about. Rumor has it that the service was on the wrong side of the Vietnam/Thailand border during the war in the late 1960's. Oh how easy it was to explain how Jesus, too, found Himself on the wrong side of borders. He often sat in taverns and bars with the rebels and the down and outers. He was there because He wanted them to know that, no matter who they are or what others thought of them… He loved them.

All too soon I ran out of words. (I might point out that it was "all too soon" for me. The family was probably quite ready to move on to poor Gary's resting place.) But I had a dilemma. How do I wrap this thing up? The only words that sprung to mind concerning the decease was "hell-in-a-hand-basket." Somehow… that just didn't seem productive. It was too late for poor old Gary. There is absolutely no evidence that He ever even knew that Jesus was the Son of God or that He had died for anybody's sins. But there is no pleasure and no point in making it obvious or rubbing it in. What to do?

I turned to face the casket, which stood about 10 feet to my left. The lid was open. The soldier lay inside. I remembered the quarter. I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. Did I dare? How could I not? More adrenaline… more energy. Gary… it's too late for you, my man… but I'm going to take this hill. I moved slowly toward the casket, finding my voice again.

"Gary, I'm so sorry I never got the chance to know you. It sounds like you were a man Jesus really would have gotten along with. And I never got to serve in the same Army that you served in. But I do know what it means to be a servant like you were. You served in your countries army and I serve in the Army of the Lord. When I got to my office today, Gary, they laughed because I was wearing a coat and tie. And then I told them that I was coming here, to pay my respects to a soldier that gave years of his life to protect me. One of them stopped laughing. He is an old soldier too, Gary. And I told him about the song we were going to sing. The one about propping you up next to the jukebox and putting a quarter in when we come by to pay our respects. I told him that it was an odd song but that it reflected the way you lived your life. Gary, that old soldier reached into his pocket and he handed me this quarter. He told me to give it to you Gary. So here it is, my friend. Your first quarter for the jukebox up there. Thanks for taking care of us, Gary. We'll miss you."

And I heard a wail. It was a mournful sound. It reminded me of the sound an injured animal might make when wounded or dying. I turned away from the casket to face the family of the soldier. I looked up and found that the wail originated from the son that told me that he wanted to lay his father out in the woods, a buffet for our animal friends. The one that insisted on the odd musical selection. His brother collapsed on him. And then the entire front pew began to moan. The wailing swept its way through the family filling the front seats and spilling over into the friends sitting in the back. I stood at the head of the casket looking at the scene before me. The rear doors of the chapel opened and the funeral director entered. He whispered to the occupants of the back seats. They stood and made their way down the middle aisle toward Gary's body. As the first couple stopped to say their final goodbye, the man of the family took a quarter and placed it on the soldier's chest. The next person approached and another quarter was produced. I watched in fascination as the quarters found their way from trembling hands into the casket. Not everybody gave but then, that never surprises a minister. My best estimate is that we buried somewhere in the neighborhood of five dollars with the soldier today.

About an hour later I walked into my office and sat at my desk. I looked at the paperwork sitting, waiting for my attention. I quickly checked my email. I thought about the youth calendar that I needed to work on. But it just wasn't happening. The adrenaline was gone. The energy burned. I was done. I got up, told the secretaries I'd be back later, and made my way to TR's Café where I ordered up a bottle of Fitz's Root beer… cold but no ice. And keep another bottle handy. This one's for you, Gary. I'm hoping you found your jukebox.

The man is most certainly dead. Like a stone. He is layed out in a rather inexpensive casket with an American flag on a pole embroidered into the fabric of the inner lid. He is wearing the dress uniform of a Master Sergeant in the United States Army. Good thing... he's going to be facing that flag for a very long time. Let's call him... Gary. Gary died too young. He was 64. I hope to be driving a Mustang at 64 and letting the air blow over my hairless scalp. I'll probably still be a youth pastor. I hope so anyway. But Gary died of Alzheimers. 64 is definately too young to forget your life. I never met Gary when he was alive, which turns out to be just as well because he would have forgotten me anyway. Nobody introduced us until he was dead. All of a sudden, Sunday afternoon, a local funeral home is calling me up trying to ruin my Tuesday. They pulled it off. It seems that not only was Gary dead, he was dead without a pastor, a church, or anything but a totally clueless family. They wanted to know if I would say some nice things about him... over him... and then give the signal to drop him into the ground. I said, "Sure." What are you suppose to say? "No thanks. I'd rather sit around and hope a tele-marketer calls?" So tomorrow at 11am I'm going to bury Gary. So today I thought I should go by the funeral home and meet with the family as they go in to view his body for the first time. Nobody should have to go in and see their husband or father or grandfather or uncle dead without having a representative of the Almight present. Some guys sell used cars. Some guys make pipes fit together. Some guys write newspapers. I go in with families to see dead guys. What can I say? It isn't particularly fun but God told me to do it.

So I went. Sure enough, he is dead. The funny thing is... nobody seemed very upset. You see, Gary's wife was present. Actually she was his double wife... he married her. He divorced her. He married her. He died on her. She went by the casket but didn't seem to upset. He had three sons and a daughter there as well. I didn't see anybody cry. There were some grandkids. They were more interested in the flowers. I don't get it. So I gathered them around what's left of Gary and I prayed for them. I had been scoping out the family, trying to figure out who is in charge now that dad/grandpa/hubby is gone. It seemed to be Randy, his oldest son. So I asked Randy to sit and talk to me for a few minutes about his dad. I asked him for some memories. It seems that his dad was a 20 year army vet that majored on tanks. He drove 'em. He fixed 'em. He shot their guns. And then he taught others to do the same. When he retired from active duty he kept on doing the same thing as a civilian employee. He moved all of the way to Kansas so that he could drive 'em, fix 'em, and shoot 'em at Fort Riley. Then he got sick and he came home. He remarried his former wife. And the family hunted, camped, and fished with him for a few years until he died. And now we are pretty much up to speed.

That's when Randy said it. He just came out and said it. He said, "If it weren't for going to prison there wouldn't be no funeral attal." He stared across the room toward the windows. It became obvious he wasn't going to say anything else and there was no way I could let that go. So I asked him what he meant. Randy said, "If it weren't for getting sent to prison I'd do what daddy wanted me to do. I'd take him out and lay him in the woods and let the animals eat off him." Selah. Pause and reflect. This was new. This was interesting. I had never heard this one before. I'd like to go on record at this point as saying that I had no reply. If Randy and I were still sitting in those chairs I still would not have said anything. I still haven't figured out what an appropriate response is to that statement.

After a few quiet moments Randy broke the silence. He told me there would only be one song at the service. He said they have it on CD but that the family would be singing alone with it. I admit that the theme song for "Deliverence" began playing in my head. But no, I could not be that fortunate. Randy again needed prompting and so I asked him the name of the song. He said that he suspected that I, as a man of the cloth, would not appreciate the song but that they were going to sing it for daddy anyway. He said, "The song is called, 'Prop me up beside the jukebox when I die.'" We sat in silence. He said it was his daddy's favorite song. I thanked Randy for his help and told him I would see him in the morning. I went into Jason's office. Jason is the funeral director. I asked him if he knew what we were singing at the funeral tomorrow. He looked down at his desk and mumbled. I asked him if he had a copy of the song. He handed me a CD. It was by a country gentleman by the name of Joe Diffy. He personally penned these words...

Well I ain't afraid of dying, its the thought of being dead
I wanna go on being me once my eulogy's been read
Don't spread my ashes out to sea, don't lay me down to rest
You can put my mind at ease if you fill my last request

Chorus
Prop me up beside the jukebox if I die
Lord I wanna go to heaven, but I don't wanna go tonight
Fill my boot up with sand, put a stiff drink in my hand
Prop me up beside the jukebox if I die

Verse 2
Just let my headstone be a neon sign
Just let it burn in memory of all of my good times
Fix me up with a mannequin, just remember I like blondes
I'll be the life of the party even when I'm dead and gone

Repeat Chorus

Just make your next selection and while you're still in line
You can pay your last respects one quarter at a time


When I was young I wanted to be a policeman. I went to school to study criminology. Then I changed my major to photography. Then I studied journalism. Finally, I gave up and became the pastor God was telling me to be. I went to school for 9 years. 9 years. I graduated with enough credits for you and I both to have a degree. But never... never... did ANYBODY tell me that I would get to minister to people that wanted to feed their daddy's body to squirrels and possums. NOBODY told me what to do when they want to sing drinken songs about propping their daddy's cold stiff body up against the juke box right after I tell 'em about Jesus. And you know what scares me? There was this look in Randy's eyes. It tonight it occurs to me... there just might be a juke box at the funeral home when I get there tomorrow...

Random thoughts of no particular consequence but extremely serious intent...

-Whoever decided to put zippers on nylon goose down jackets should be feather whipped. I am incapable of zipping even ONE without jamming it on the fabric. And it's not my fault, darn it. They just don't work.
-The entire expense of a wedding reception is worth it simply for the experience of the "Father/Daughter Dance." Why did I have to spend thousands of dollars and give away my kid to figure this out?
-God loves me. I know He does. So why does He seem to delight in putting me into circumstances where .... oh yeah. Nevermind.
-I love my new son-in-law. I'm glad he still calls me "Ron." That's my name, ya know. And he already has two dads. Being Ron is what I do best.
-I've loaded some old favorite albums onto my high tech I-pod Mp3 player. And you know what? The music is flat. Was it flat back in the 70's when it was recorded? Or is it just flat compared to what today's technology does to today's music? Carol King's "Tapestry," one of the biggest sellers of all times... sounds anemic. This is a loss. I mean... "SmackWater Jack... He bought a shotgun....Cause he was in the mood for a little confrontation..." Ya had to be there I guess.
-My dog's still dead. My house smells better. I could still re-build him from the left-over hair. But he's still dead. And yet... I continue to step over him at night when I get up and walk through the house in the dark.
-My daughter took the NBC Studio's tour while on her honeymoon in New York. She told me that some of the coolest sets... like Tom Brokaw's... are put together useing duck Tape. That means my water bed mattress is state of the art.
-A snow fall doesn't count if you can still see the top of the grass sticking through. This should be the official measure.
-I own 3 Neon's and they are all the same color... salt gray.
-When Jesus walked on the water and calmed the storm... do you think His clothes got wet? When He fell asleep in the back of the boat and the disciples woke Him in a panic to get Him to help... and He calmed the storm by rebuking it... do you suppose he needed a towel?

I am officially out of things to say. My bag of tricks... my box of ideas... empty. Not just empty. Scraped clean. No scraps remain in the bottom. No crumbs to expound upon. Everything has been said and everything has been done. But just for memories sake...

Walking my daughter down the aisle... a surreal moment in history. It has not even been 12 yours and yet I struggle for the memory. I remember wondering what was going on in the sanctuary when suddenly Patti Lash pointed at us and directed us to the doorway. Kelli took my arm. She was so beautiful. A vision. On oasis of loveliness on a desert of ordinary. As we stepped out in the aisle my main memory was not of imminent loss. It was pride. Pride in this young woman that somehow managed to turn out so well even when my direction and leadership has been so sporadic. As we walked I looked at her more than I looked in the direction I was going. I did not want to be the only one in the room to miss out on her radiance. We talked but I don't recall what we said. But we made it a happy walk... a walk into the future rather than out of the past. There is something bittersweet that has gone on today. Most everything about Kelli is sweet. And that's what brings a touch of bitterness. It isn't that she's 22 years old, married, and moved out. It's that the old days are over. Someway, somehow, that just... is sad.

Conducting the cremony was one of the oddest moments of my life. I felt as though I were giving away my own head... or my right hand. The presence of this lovely daughter in my home and my life is so expected... so common place... that I really can't concieve of life without her in the room next to mine. Eye contact was very important to me during the ceremony. I did not want to look at the papers in my hand. I wanted to look into their eyes. I Kelli's eyes I wanted to see joy. I wanted to see expectation and satisfaction. In Joe's eyes I wanted to see commitment, resolve, and trustworthiness. I got what I wanted in both instances.The up's and down's of the service amazed me. The full whiteness of the decor brought a sense of purity and holiness. It was perfect. It was Kelli.

And now her room is empty. She still has "stuff" in it but there is no more "she" in it. And she was what filled it. I'm so happy for her. I'm so thrilled for Joe. I am not sad for anyone... especially her mother and I. Wait... I am a little sad for Scott and Chris. They seem to be in a state of shock over the marriage and subsequent departure of their sister. I watched in awe this weekend as they served her by serving her guests. I saw them cry. I saw them hug her. I heard them tell her that they love her.

You know, this fatherhood thing really isn't so bad. I mean... it's really, really, hard. There is pain involved. Most of it is pleasure but when it hurts... man it's bad. I guess that's what "bittersweet" means. But over all I love being a dad. And now I want to be a great dad to two single sons and a married daughter. And I want to practice being a great father-in-law. It will take some time and some effort. But the dividends will be incredible. I don't care much about money. I am not too concerned about things. But today, during the reception, I have a thought. Almost every person that I love... nearly everyone close to me... was in that room. That, my friend, is satisfaction.

I do believe that I am caught in a time warp. It would appear that Capt. Kirk was correct all along. In 62 hours I will walk my infant daughter down the aisle and give her away. She was just born last week but somehow this young guy named Joe has captured her heart. How? Don't ask me. She was sitting there watching Sesame Street and suddenly she's driving a car, collecting diploma's, and wearing fancy schmancy diamond rings. I don't recall giving her permission to date yet? And what's this about her having her own apartment in Edwardsville?

It appears that I am going to have to have a talk with the Almighty. Somehow He has let time get all out of kilter. My friends try to tell me that it is 2003 but they lie. I'm not sure what is in it for them but I suspect Debbie told them they can hold the baby if they can convince me. And yet... the date on the newspaper does indeed say January 9, 2003. I noticed it on the bottom right of my computer screen too. I just don't understand.

Exactly how do you go about this, God? Giving your daughter away, I mean. There must be a trick to it. Like when I played first base back at the old ball yard across the street from our house in Tinley Park. I couldn't get a runner out to save my life until the coach taught me to streeeeeeeetch for the incoming ball. Base runners starting trotting back to the dugout on a regular basis. Or maybe like when I was learning to drive a school bus and they made me back up without looking over my shoulders. I just couldn't get the hang of that until one day the windows fogged up and I had to use the mirrors if I ever wanted to park that thing. I learned to trust them that day and never looked back again.

So what is the trick to giving Kelli away? Do I put a bow on her head like I did that year when she was just months old and sitting under the Christmas tree? Where is that picture anyway? It was here just yesterday. Do I make Joe sign a "letter of intent" promising to really house her and feed her for the rest of her life?

I am use to her room being empty most of the time. Between college dorms and her apartment it's pretty rare that she's here. And yet... sometimes she does stay over. That's the weird part. She's done "sometimes staying over." No more, "I think I'll just stay here tonight." And not only that, I am not suppose to ask her to call me when she gets home so that I'll know she arrived alright. Joe's suppose to do that. What if he doesn't? Has anybody told him that's part of his job? Is he suppose to just know that automatically? Doesn't sound likely.

The aisle is going to be the hard part. I'm use to standing on the platform, speaking, even marrying couples. No big deal there. As long as I look at the words I'm going to say and don't spend much time looking at the lady behind the veil, I'll be just fine. I think. But how the heck do I get down that aisle? She'll be on my arm. She's NEVER been on my arm before. And now she finally grabs ahold and it's simply so that I can lead her to another man. What's the deal with that? She's been on my shoulder. She's been on my lap. She's been on my back. But I finally get her on my arm and she's useing it as a launching pad into another realm.

God, didn't you say that I'd never be faced with a temptation that was not "common to man?" What's so common about this? I also seem to remember that you mentioned in passing that Jesus faced every temptation we face. Suddenly I'm wondering about that one. Did you ever face the temptation to hide your daughter under the house and keep her all to yourself? Ok, that wouldn't be a good idea. Even if they didn't find her she'd sneak out. She's that way. Always having an opinion and doing what she wants. I didn't teach her that trick either.

I guess I'll just give her away. He seems to make her happy. They seem to get along. She's 22. She has a college degree. She has a job. She's almost as old as I was when I got married. I didn't have a degree yet and my job... well, I had two of them. We called it, "making ends meet."

Kelli, I know you don't read my blogs but should you happen to accidently surf by I just want to tell you a couple of things. Things I might not have mentioned. First and foremost... I love you. Always have. Always will. Please remember that. You know all of those times I climbed your frame for different things... I thought it was for your own good. You turned out great so maybe I was right. But I'm sure I blew it sometimes and I really am sorry about that. That last guy you dated... the one before Joe? He was a loser. I'm glad you realized that or this would be a truly sad week. I'm glad you are happy. If anybody makes you unhappy I promise I'll help Joe break their face. I didn't really mind that you didn't clean your room very often. I had to say that I did because dad's are suppose to. I read that somewhere. Oh, that bike that Grandpa bought you... your first one... you know, with the training wheels. You looked really good on it. Very self-confident. Even with the pig-tails. You did not write me letters very often and you almost never responded to mine. But I think I still have everyone you did write me. You are prettier than I ever imagined you could be. Actually, you are prettier than I ever imagined any girl could be. You look a lot like your mom did when she was 22. Good thing for you... my looks were the alternative.

Ok, I'm only going to say it one more time... Drive careful. Set your alarm. Don't forget to lock the doors. Go to bed early. Make sure you have enough gas in the car. Carry your cell phone. Wear your seat belt. Eat your vegetables. Wear a jacket. Don't lose your umbrella. Call your mother. Check your oil. And please, please, please... call home every now and then.

I love you forever. I like you for always.
Dad

I know this isn't much of a blog but it's is my random thoughts of the day...

1. Thank God the holiday's are over. I'm thinking that God probably agrees.
2. Tonight I sat in a friends outdoor jacuzzi. We got out and rolled in the snow before jumping back in. I've heard that they do that in Sweden. This proves what I've long suspected. Swedes are idiots.
3. Speaking of Swedes, I actually met a member of the Swedish Parlament last week. He tried to tell me a joke but was not successful. I think he rolls in the snow a lot.
4. Last month I had my dog put to sleep and one week from today I will give my daughter away. They charged me to kill my dog for me. They are charging me for the privilege of giving my daughter away. I thought "sleeping" and "giving" were free? This "free market society" thing is out of whack. Big time.
5. They called school off here for Thursday before a snow flake had fallen. They called school off for Friday when you couldn't find a snow covered road to save your life. I believe that these decisons are being made by the Swedish Parlament. When I was in high school I was listening to the school closings on the radio and they announced that the principal of my school, "Lincoln-Way," was snowed in his home and could not get out and, therefore, school would start 2 hours later than usual. Men were men. Women were women. Snow was for shoveling, not fearing.
6. I wish people would stop talking about the Rams like they just had a bad year and they will be back. They stink again. Get over it.
7. My left front tire has a slow leak. How does that work? What decides if a leak will be fast or slow? Is the air tired? I mean, a hole is a hole. How big of a hole does it take for air to get through. Not a big one I would imagine. You would think if it just did it's job it would leak fast... like an air matteress at 3am. They never leak slowly.
8. My brother lost his cell phone today. He works for the Salvation Army. He was getting some sandwiches for a hungry Mexican guy. While he was in the kitchen getting them the hungry Mexican guy stole his phone. I wonder if he used it to order up a pizza?
9. Now that Chrysler has stopped making 15 passanger vans it is going to take us 22 mini-vans to get to Centrifuge this year. I find that fascinating. God has to find me 22 people willing to drive them or I need a lot of rope.
10. Like I said, I'm marrying off my daughter one week from today. How cool is that? All of these years she's slept at my house and now I can't even find her. We went from father/daughter to "hey, how ya doin?" in about 10 days. It's the cycle of life. While I approve I can't help but wonder why it is that the people I like best are always leaving and the people I can't stand the site of just always seem to be around? It is a far bigger mystery than crop circles and yet I don't think anybody has done a documentary on it. It's a pulitzer waiting to be claimed.

So here we sits... Christmas Eve, 2002. How cool is that? Approximately two thousand and two years after the birth of the Son of God. Amazing. Something else amazing has already happened this Christmas. It's kind of hard to believe. It's true though.

How many gifts do you think are for sale in the average mall this year? Ten thousand? One hundred thousand? Maybe a million? Is that a low number? I have no idea. Suffice it to say there are a lot of gifts out there on the market. My kitchen is already full of fudge, chocolates, home made breads, assorted cookies, and truly wonderful "turtle popcorn" made by Ashley and Kelli Brown. I happened into their home one day this week. As you know, Ashley is in the process of beating the tar out of a nasty case of Leukemia. I don't know how else to phrase it. She has her down days but all in all... she's kicking it's butt. She's my first 13 year old hero. But baby, she's earned the title. Anyway, a lot of cool things have already come my way. If Christmas ended now I would already be blessed way beyond the imagination of most people in the world.

But something unique... even weird... happened this year. I don't cook very often. Debbie discourages me from entering the kitchen unless it's for a glass of orange juice or maybe I'm allowed to cut through to the garage. But cook? It just doesn't happen. And yet this year I received something I have never owned before. A friend gave me a fork. A big fork. A truly large fork. This is, perhaps, the mother of all forks. It's one of those big jobs that you use to stick into a roast or maybe a turkey to either flip it over or pull it out of a pot. You have seen a hundred of them in stores and kitchens far and wide. But this fork is a little different. It is a product of the new millenium. It is... a digital fork. That's right. When you stick this fork into a piece of meat it gives you a digital read-out of the tempreture of the meat. Not being a cook, I'm not totally sure why I want to know this bit of information. I suspect it has something to do with making sure it is done. I know enough about cooking to realize that nasty things like... salmonella, exist in poorly cooked meat. I've always wondered about salmonella. Did it originate with salmons? Did some fish get sick while swimming upstream? Maybe he had the fish sniffles, or a sore fish throat. Did the sickness slow it down so much that maybe.. oh... a moose caught it and ate it? And then a hunter caught the moose and ate it? And then the hunter got what the fish had and so they named it "Salmonella?" It makes sense, don't you think? You have to wonder about these things. If you don't ... you just are not thinking.

Ok, I'm getting off track here. Where was I? Oh yeah.

So now I have this mega-fork that tells temperature. But wait.... that's not all! I got another gift yesterday. It came from my father-in-law in Richmond, Virginia. His name is Jim. "Jim the father-in-law" I call him. That's because I also have a "Jim the brother-in-law" and simply a "Jim the brother." Most men that I know are named Jim. If you don't believe me ask Jim George, Jim Barzee, or Jim Gregory. I don't know why it is that way but it is. But Jim the Father-in-law mailed me a Christmas gift. My kids made me open it becuase they already had and they wanted me to see what it was. That's one of the really special things about my kids. They like to check my gifts out ahead of time. It's probably because they want to make sure I'm going to be happy. Or maybe they know that Jim the father-in-law has always wanted me dead for stealing his daughter and so they check to make sure my "gift" isn't going to explode. Nah. The kids love me but they aren't that passionate about it. So anyway, I opened the package. SURPRISE! I got another fork. This one also tells the temperature of the meat. But wait... that's not all! You can unscrew the computerized handle and screw it onto a cool spatula that will now also tell you the temperature! And then you can unscrew that and screw it onto some other nifty utensil... I forget which one... but you get the drift. In reality THIS is the mother-of-all-forks/spatula's/utensils. Because this one also.... talks. You read me correctly. It verbally tells you the temperature of your meat. I'm not sure who gave me the original mother-of-all-forks but if you are reading this... you just got "one-upped."

I can think of a lot of uses for this puppy. I've already told Chris that there will be no more skipping school because of some mysterious phantom fever. Now if he wakes up and wants to stay home I simply jab the talking fork into his rib cage... and wait for a verbal report. If it says anything even close to 98.6 I send him packing off to school. I think this will cut down on his tendency to want to stay home or stop by the nurses office in the middle of the day asking to go home because he feels poorly. I can use it to test the coolant level in my home and auto air conditioners. A simple jab of the mega-fork into the coolant system should reveal everything I need to know. And then there is the toilet seat dilemma. You know how you hate sitting down on a cold toilet seat in the middle of the night? Well, if I leave the fork on the toilet seat I can pick it up before I sit down so I'll know what to expect. Of course, if someone else gets up to go to the bathroom and doesn't know the fork is there... well, that will probably only happen once.

What a happy Christmas this has been and it's only Christmas Eve! I love this gift giving thing! At the present rate I may have 7 or 8 mother-of-all-forks before the holiday is over! Feel free to come on over. I'd be happy to try it out on... I mean with... you. Merry Christmas!

I have a problem. Most of my friends say I have more than one. But I wish to key in on just one for a minute. Indulge me. I am concerned and maybe talking about it here will help. Listen up.

I have two doctors. One is your everyday general M.D. He handles your sore throat, your ear ache, your sinus problems. The basic stuff. Recently he tapped into my system and stole about a pint of blood. At least it felt like a pint. I was woozy for days. Ok, I'm kidding about the woozy part. But in my opinion he took more than he needed. His wife is probably a vampire and he has to keep her well fed. Who knows? Anyway, he sucked the lifeblood from my veins. The next week I got a letter in the mail telling me my cholesterol was 311. You might remember this story from an earlier blog. Indulge me. So the doctor gets all upset and tells me I have to start taking medicine and working out again. I have not worked out seriously since January of 2001. That is due to having gone through a bout of Adrenaline Exhaustion. This is where doctor #2 comes onto the scene. Doctor #2 is an honest to gosh psychiatrist. I go to a shrink. How cool is that? There are not any shrunken heads in his office but there are frogs. That's an entirely different story. Anyway, doctor #2 tells me I cannot work out. He says working out injects adrenaline into my system and that is a no-no for 30 months from the onset of adrenaline exhaustion. Makes sense to me but what do I really know? I'm a pastor. Adrenaline is my addiction. It is what wakes me in the morning and sings me to sleep at night. It has for years. 28 of them to be precise.

So there is my dilemma. Do I work out or do I not work out? Do I listen to the doctor who thinks I could have a heart attack or the doctor who tells me working out could throw me back into the hell of last year. Hmmm. How come I never get to choose between... oh... say, a backrub and a foot massage? How come I never get to choose between Club Med and Cancun? The best choice I get to make at the moment is between a heart attack and adrenaline hell? Geez. To complicate the issue, Doctor #1 gave me this little white pills. They are oblong and very cute. Unfortunately, they hate me. They are suppose to lower cholesterol. I started taking them and within 48 hours I thought Debbie had been beating on me with a baseball bat in my sleep. It's still possible that is what happened but I don't think so. I stopped taking the pills and the pain went away. So, being the wise guy that I am, I called doctor #1. He told me to stop taking the pill for two weeks. If the pain goes away start taking it again. (huh?) And then if the pain resumes we will know for sure that the pill is causing it. So I did what he said. I've been taking the pill for 2 weeks now. All I can say is... ouch. My body doesn't like me. I won't get any more graphic than that. But I don't like it.

Here is where the real problem comes in. As you know if you show up on this blog very often, last week... a week ago today... I killed my dog Bear. Death by lethal injection at the hands of a veternarian. He was not guilty of any crimes. Bear was not the Timothy McVeigh of the canine set. He was just... old. And his hips had gone. And he was getting miserable. So, bam, I made the call and down he went. Now, I started taking the pill AND working out. I voted against the heart attack. Now I can barely walk. After two weeks of running again my right knee is singing the blues. Loudly. It's a duet because my left knee agrees. It just isn't singing as loudly. My hips are fine, thank you. But my back feels like Barry Bonds has been taking batting practice on it.

Are you getting the picture? I am suffering from the same things that I killed my dog for a week ago. Sadly painful legs. Lack of energy. Undefined aches. Debbie keeps looking at me with that look. It's the look she used on Bear about 8 days back. I noticed her putting pills in my meat tonight and leaving it on my plate, thinking I wouldn't notice. I saw her talking quietly to a friend on the phone tonight while looking at me... staring at me. She occasional tests me, asking me to sit up straight... putting a cookie across the room and then watching me walk toward it. She looks at my knees when I put on gym shorts preparing to go to bed at night. And most ominous of all... I noticed my orange juice mugs are now being stored in the back of the cabinet.... as though they are not going to be needed.

Well, I just wanted this behavior noted. I wanted it written down somewhere. If I turn up missing... please... make sure her next husband sheds even more than I do.

Today I killed the only friend I’ve ever had that never talked back to me. I gave the order and he was executed. The politically correct way to say it is, “I had him put to sleep,” or “I put him down.” No matter. I looked him over, judged that he was unfit to continue to live, and I had him put to death. His name was Bear. He was a Golden Retriever. He trusted me up to the very last minute and I betrayed him.

It would be easy to say, “Bear was just a dog.” That is what I usually think when other people tell me that they killed their family pet. Usually I’m right. But Bear was not just a dog. You see, if being good would get you into heaven, Bear would be the first one in. He obeyed better than anybody else in my family.

I know you’ll find this hard to believe but it is true. If I told Bear to go get in the bathtub… he went and got in the bathtub. I didn’t teach him that. Nobody did. He figured it out after his first few baths. Bear took great pride in only going to the bathroom in his dog run. It is a simple concrete slab encased in a chain link fence. The dog run has a gate, which I never locked. It still managed to swing shut on it’s own though it did not latch. When Bear wanted to go outside he would walk to the kitchen door and run around in circles. A wise man would pay attention to that signal. Then he would run out of the door, make a courtesy lap around the back yard, and then he would open his own dog run with his nose and his right paw. If I am lying I will use the dog run myself for the rest of my life. I have had neighbors come to me and ask how I taught him that. I could not take the credit. Bear was a self-taught dog. When we would take Bear on trips I always thought he was going to explode until he finally decided, out of desperation, that any concrete would do in a pinch. Bear would sleep by my side of the bed every night. Every night I would get up in the dark to go to the bathroom and I would step on him. He never complained and he seldom moved. We had this working relationship. He knew it was coming and I knew he would still be there when I got back. He would forgive me for the first time and I would avoid him on the second.

One night Bear woke me with an unusually stern bark. It was a bark that said, “Hey, somebody get up. This is for real.” I crept into the living room where he was staring at the front door. I trusted his judgment and peeked out of the window. There was a police car on the street sweeping my house with a spot light. I decided to wait the situation out. After a few minutes the doorbell rang. I peeked out and a policewoman was waiting on my porch. As I opened my door Bear ran by me at the speed of sound. In an instant the officer was on the curb trying to decide whether to shoot him or hire him. It turned out that my chimney was putting out an inordinate amount of smoke and she was checking to see if we had a chimney fire. She should have called Bear first.

But perhaps his proudest moment came when I taught him his famous “Milky Bone Trick.” You see, Bear loved Milky Bones. He was especially fond of “Old Roy” Milky Bones from Wal-Mart. I use to hand them out to him for free whenever he wanted one. I kept them in the laundry room and when I was down there he would come and just stare at me. His penetrating eyes told me the story of his stomachs desire. I would almost always toss him one and he would trot away happily to eat it under the kitchen table. And then one day I realized that I was doing all of the work and Bear was getting all of the fun. And so I waited until he came for a Milky Bone. I hesitated and then said, “Bring me a dirty sock.” He looked at me like I was from Mars. And then I walked him to Scott’s room, picked up a dirty sock off of the floor, and handed it to him. He took it in his mouth and together we walked back to the laundry room. I said, “release” and he dropped the sock. (I don’t know where he learned what “release” means either.) I picked up the sock, praised him, and handed him a Milky Bone. We repeated this little escapade 3 times… and he had it down. For the last few years of his life he would find me in the laundry room and start staring me down. Sometimes I would toss him a complimentary Milky Bone and sometimes I would say “Bring me a dirty sock.” When I said it… he always complied. Oh, he might bring a bath towel. He might bring a tennis shoe. He might bring underwear. But he would always run to the kid’s room and bring me something. I decided not to press the “sock” issue. I always rewarded him with the almighty Bone. Eventually he learned not to wait for the command. He would show up in the laundry room with dirty clothes in his mouth, effectively cutting out the middleman and about 30 seconds worth of waiting. One day he actually came to me with three bath towels, a pair of underwear, and a tennis shoe, dangling from his mouth. I gave him three bones. I knew he was smart but I didn’t know he was so athletic.

I have a vision. I have never believed in a doggy heaven. I think that God gives us animals as gifts. We are to take dominion over them. We are also to care for them with love and respect. This is especially true of domesticated animals that God has given us as personal pets. But maybe I am wrong. Maybe… just maybe… there IS a doggy heaven. If there is I fear that I am in deep trouble. My vision is of Bear arriving at the gate this afternoon and meeting doggie St. Peter. He is immediately asked why he has arrived early as he was not due for a year or two yet. Bear replies, “My owner had me killed.” As doggy St. Peter opens the gate allowing Bear in he promises to pass this bit of information along to the human St. Peter. The vision goes downhill from there.

I called Bear, “The King of Canines, The Prince of Pooches, The Duke of Dogs.” I miss him tonight. I keep hearing his choker collar clinking against his dog tags. I ate pizza for dinner and caught myself just before I threw the crust on the floor. Bear was sick. He had a seizure this morning and I held his head in my lap until it passed. His hips didn’t work anymore, and they were not going to get any better. He was having trouble controlling bodily functions. I think … if he is still out there somewhere… he is probably pretty ticked off at me. He was my friend and I loved him. But I think… had the shoe been on the other foot… he probably would have done the same thing for me.

I miss ya, buddy. Sleep good.

While traveling with my wife in Minnesota recently I came across a store in the mall of America called the “Lake Woebegone Shop.” It was a typical tourist trap. But in the back of the store I found a true treasure. Treasures don't come your way in life very often and when they do you need take advantage of them. You need to soak in them as though they were a hot bath on a cold winter's night. You need to remember them much as you would remember a quiet conversation with a good friend. The back corner of the store was called “Old Lutheran”. Evidently Lutherans inhabit much of Minnesota and so they needed a place to purchase their own memorabilia and artifacts. Although I've never been a Lutheran I do know a good time when I see one and there was one waiting for me in the back of this little shop. I found Lutheran T-shirts, Lutheran coffee mugs, Lutheran beer steins ( those Lutherans drink you know,) and a vast array of other Lutheran produced holy hardware. But the crowning glory stood 8 inches tall and had a big head on it. You can keep your Mark McGwire, your Sammy Sosa, your Barry bonds. I am now the proud owner of a Martin Luther bobble head doll. He sits on my shelf clutching his Bible to his chest, wearing his jaunty hat and looking for all world like a centuries old reformer should look. You have to admire those Lutherans. They know how to turn a buck. At least they made one off of this Baptist.

Speaking of Baptists, what is wrong with us? Why don't we have our own Holy hardware, our own Jesus junk? When was the last time you saw an old Baptist beer stein? OK, maybe that was a bad example. But have you ever seen old Baptist golf balls? Have you ever seen old Baptist baby bibs? Have you ever seen old Baptist pencil holders? I think not. We make Sunday School literature. We print bibles. This is all well and good but who is going to hold my pencils? I have to turn to the Lutherans.

Fortunately for the Southern Baptist Convention I am here to save the day. More specifically, I have come up with a plan with which the First Baptist Church of Bethalto can raise $5.9 million in record time. It will not require any fund-raising dinners or signed commitment cards by weary, over giving members.

Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce you to the John the Baptist bobble head doll. This is a doll unlike any other doll. Purchase a John the Baptist bobble head doll and the head is sold separately. That way we double our money! The doll itself should cost $20. Purchasing the head should cost an additional $20. Here is the beauty of the plan ... when you put the head on the body, every 20 minutes it pops off and lands on a silver platter! I figure if our overhead runs 50% we will have to sell 147,500 John the Baptist bobble head dolls and 147,500 John the Baptist bobble head heads before we find ourselves sitting in grand comfort in our new auditorium.

Deacons. Building committee. Trustees. Church members. I say we take this hill! First Baptist Church ... let's roll!

Things I am most thankful for...

1. God
2. God's love.
3. God's love shown through His Son.
4. God's love shown through His Son's sacrificial death.
5. God's love shown through His Son's sacrificial death applied to my life.
6. Grace
7. Grace that is sufficient.
8. Grace that is sufficient for me.
9. Grace that is sufficient for me to forget the past.
10.Grace that is sufficient for me to forget the past and not fear destroying my future.
11.My family.
12.My family being home.
13.My family being home and enjoying each other.
14.My family being home and enjoying each other with laughter and joy.
15.My family being home and enjoying each other with laughter and joy big enough to make them hate to go to bed.
16.My friends.
17.My friends that love me back.
18.My friends that love me back and let me be real.
19.My friends that love me back and let me be real even when I am obnoxious.
20.My friends that love me back and let me be real even when I am obnoxious with little chance of getting better.
21.Other stuff...a cozy fire in the fireplace/Debbie's corn casserole/quiet conversations about things that matter/funny conversations about things that don't matter/milky bones that makes Bear forget about my cookies/music that brings me into the presence of God/fresh hot cinnamon rolls/gadgets/medicine/plungers/sleep/a fall day warm enough for motorcycles/leaf blowers/kids that get excited when you show them how to serve others/digital camera's/vanilla/coke/vanilla coke/ice/candle's/friends that understand/the laughter of my children/the smile of my wife/standing ovations deserved/back rubs/carpet.

Everybody needs a good dog. I have the best. his name is Bear. And here are the BEAR Facts...

1. I want to be as good a person as Bear thinks I am.
2. If being good would get you into heaven, Bear would be the first one there.
3. Bear, unlike most people, understands the meaning of "shame." When he makes a "mistake" on the floor he hides. When my kids make a "mistake" on the floor they just lay on the couch and watch tv.
4. I want to love God as much as Bear loves me.
5. Bear is satisfied with a pat on the head and an occasional milky bone. I want to be satisfied with the knowledge that I'm doing right and an occasional vanilla coke.
6. Bears hips are giving out. I have not been hip in years.
7. Bear chews his butt. This is where my parallels breakdown!

Stay tuned, world. A star is about to be born. The Tanner Brown Express is preparing to leave the station! I have an official autographed copy of Tanner's latest composition, the aforementioned song written for his sister, Ashley. I have procured the services of one Joseph McGill to produce Mr. Browns first "single" to be ready for airplay before the end of the holiday weekend! All that is left is to get the 9 year old to name me as his agent. Then we'll hit the road with our first North American tour!

I thought you might enjoy reading Tanner's song entitled... "Jesus." Here you go...

There's only one way to heaven
The way is through Him
But let me tell you something
He's the number one man
It's real easy to get through
All He asks is this
To believe the Christ and Lord
To believe in Jesus
To read the bible, that's for sure
And to pray for forgiveness when you sin
Because there's only one way to Heaven
The way is through HIm
But let me tell you something
He's the number one man
It's real easy to get through
All He asks is this
To believe the Christ and Lord
To believe in Jesus
To read the Bible, that's for sure
And to pray for forgiveness when you sin

So how does it happen that a 9 year old kid manages to pull off something like this? You get to see lots of things as a youth pastor. Today was what I will call an "onry day." I got to deal with some onry situations... onry people. That's being kind, really. Onry makes it sound like just some good old boy (or girl) that is in a mood but usually can be counted on. Ain't necessarily so. Sometimes kids manage to develop a mindset that says you OWE them your attention. ALL of it. And if you do not give them what they are owed they will manipulate and conive until they get what they feel they deserve. I do not respond very well to that attitude. Today I actually surprised myself. I had to deal with one of those attention-grabbing kids. And this 8th grader did not like what I did. She did not feel I was giving her the attention she deserved and so she implied, through an email, that she was considering suicide. My response was to contact her schools social worker, a social service agency, resulting in the young person being pulled out of class and interviewed until the social worker was convinced she was not going to harm herself. After school I got a phone call from the little darling. She planned on taking me to task for my actions. The poor girl lost for the second time today. After hearing her arguments and long moments of silence following my questions, I informed her that I do not take kindly to manipulation and that anytime she makes a threat in my presence it will be reported. She "accidently" mentioned that she didn't know why it was wrong to cut herself. This is a troubled child. She mentioned it a second time just in case I had not caught it the first time. I informed her that God made skin for a reason and that it is suppose to hold her insides together. Furthermore, anybody that intentually poked holes in skin for the singlular purpose of watching blood flow out was unstable and needed serious help. She was silent. I asked her if she understood what I was saying. 10 more seconds of silence. I concluded our conversation by stating that I cared for her and that was why I will consistently hold her feet to the fire and that if she was going to be a part of my youth ministry she would be expected to deal in truth and integrity. Silence. I asked her if she had any further questions. She responded with, "No." I said, "Then have a nice day, young lady" and I hung up the phone. Rumor has it she called my house tonight to apologize but I did not take the call. I was busy reflecting on the meaning of dust.

And then there is Tanner. He writes songs about Jesus to his 13 year old sister with a life-threatening case of Leukemia. Tanner doesn't expect all of my attention all of the time. If he had it he probably would not want it. Geez, even I get tired of me. But I owe the kid a debt of gratitude. Today I needed somebody to remind me that not everybody in the world has gone of the deep end. I needed somebody to inject me with a ray of hope that the human race might still be worth saving. Thanks, Tanner. I owe you one.

Last night I went to see Ashley Brown. We had a great visit. We sat around in her room while she showed me picture albums she is putting together. Very cool stuff. Her mom and dad came up and we talked about life, the world, and how it can all change in the blink of an eye. And then it was time for me to go. As I walked downstairs I ran across Tanner. Tanner is Ashley's 9 year old brother. He began telling me about a song he had written for Ashley. He showed it to me. As I read it I was shocked. It was titled, "Jesus." The topic is... heaven. I asked him to read it to me and he did. And then he sang it to me. His mom had to leave the room. His dad chewed on his lip. I raved about the song to Tanner. He ate it up. And then I told hm that I have a friend that can help him record music and put the song on tape so he could remember the song he had written for his sister while she was very, very, sick. I took my leave of the Brown household knowing that God is doing something special in this little family. A crises beyond compare is turning their home into a place where Jesus is showing up on a regular basis.

Speaking of Jesus showing up, I saw her tonight. Yes, her. Tonight I "saw" Jesus in the form of a female high school student. We call the event "JPL-Dress For The Mess." I have been doing various forms of JPL on Thursday nights for 25 years. We have been known to throw sardines at each other, blow egg yokes in each others mouths through a tube, eat entire chocolate cakes face first, and too many other odditys to mention. We have even bobbed for banana chunks in Raspberry Jello. Did you know that if you stick your face in Raspberry Jello for extended periods of time your face will turn red? It will. Trust me. I am one of the few people on the planet that know this.

Our latest edition of JPL took place tonight. I was short on adults and long on kids. That's been the norm for a decade or so. It is no big deal. We get through it, usually with the building intact and no serious bodily injuries. But this night was just... different. A lot of kids that I do not know have been showing up lately. Tonight I had a kid with tattoo's from his wrists to his biceps. One of my junior high school girls was hanging on his arm. I have no idea who he is or where he goes to school. He was nice enough. He just keeps mistaking his skin for canvas. Some of my regular kids are pierced in odd places so I guess I can handle a tatoo or 5.

Anyway we started off the evening with an old favorite called "Wink-em." It's an goodie until you play it for five minutes. They you remember why you hate it. You go home with no knees. So we shifted gears and began playing "Steal The Bacon." We played it and played it and played it. In the middle we stopped for pizza and cokes. Later we played some "Fruit Basket Upset" too. No, we didn't break any chairs. The trustees can sleep well tonight.

When it was all said and done I called all of the kids together. I read them scripture about how a woman lacking wisdom is like a fine gold ring in a pigs snout. They seemed to like that one. Especially the boys. Then I read one about how a man lacking wisdom is walking in the darkness of death. The girls applauded for that one. So I talked to them for a few minutes about wisdom, what it is, how to get it, and why you might want it. Then it was time to pray. We shared a few prayer requests. I finished them off by telling them how Ashley is doing. All is going well except for "The Great Wig Hunt." Nothing has turned up yet. They are working on a place from St. Charles, Mo. I can't help but think about what it must feel like to stop worrying about saving enough money to go to Disney World and saving to buy a wig for your child with Leukemia instead. We live in a land of extremes.

Finally we prayed and I told them that they should go home now and be back on Saturday for the "Rake 'n run." They all left happily, noisely, except for one girl. She lagged behind. I don't remember ever meeting her before. Her name is also Ashley. This Asley asked me how much hair the other Ashley was going to need. I told her, "Alot. A full head of the stuff." I asked her why she wanted to know. She said, "Because I have the same hair color that she has and I want to give her mine." I looked, and yes indeed, her hair is a pretty good match. The length is right. The color is nearly perfect. I asked this Ashley if she knows the other Ashley. She replied, "No but I have seen her and I know who she is." I thanked her very much and told her that as wonderful as her offer is it really would not be necessary. I am sure a store will turn up a good fit for the other Ashley. She looked a little disappointed. Or maybe a little cheated. She said, "Ok, but here is my email address. if you decide I can help please mail or call me." And then she turned and went home.

What do you do with a kid like that? How can you ever wrap your mind around that kind of sacrifice? Several adults have contributed of their own free will and I have no delivered to Ashley's mom approximately $850 toward near hair for Ashley. That is quite a sacrifice. And then one kid... one little high school girl... trumps them all with an offer of her own hair. For free. For a girl she doesn't even know. Why? Because she loves. It is that simple. Andit is that complicated. I will never tire of watching God do what He does in the life of a kid. When He gets their heart and mind... ANYTHING can happen.

God bless you Ashley #2, wherever you are. Please... keep your hair on your own head. We will find some for Ashley #1. And please know that your heart touched the slightly jaded heart of a youth pastor tonight just when it needed touching.

The world is ending. There are no more surprises to be had. The last one just happened. Today, at 3:13pm... I was attacked by the WalMart greeter. It was vicious and unprovoked. My lovely daughter and I walked through the big automatic doors, expecting to have a fine shopping experience. She moved a few steps ahead of me (you know how women are in WalMart.) As I hurried to keep up and to grab some of those prices that keep falling, I reached out for a cart. Actually I grabbed the front end of one as I walked by. A terrorist disguised as a grandmother was behind the cart. She, in theory, was pulling them out toward the onrushing crowd, making it easier for us to get our cart and get to shopping. But when I latched on to the cart of my choice... she would not let go. I was not even looking at her. As I said, I just latched on to it with my hand as I tried to keep up with Kelli. The tension from the greeters grasp rushed through the cart and up my arm, whipping me backwards and spun me around to face her. I'm pretty sure I tore my rotator cuff in the process. I pulled the cart toward me again. She pulled the other way. Now she had my full attention. I wanted my cart. I pulled. She pulled. I pulled. She pulled. I pulled harder. She let go and turned to look at me in surprise. She said she didn't know that I was there. In order to believe that you have to also believe A) She thought the cart was trying to run away on it's own; B) She tought that all of those carts she kept putting out there were just stacking up because obviously nobody was taking them. I have my doubts.

No, I was definately attacked by the WalMart greeter. I am proud to say that I was victorious... though injured. Probably seriously. Surgery could be in my future. I am sad to say that nobody seems to believe me. I mean, even Kelli had her doubts and she almost witnessed it. She turned around just in time to see the little monster in the blue vest give me a grandmotherly smile and let go of the cart. She missed the evil intent. She missed the vile grip with which she grasped the handle. She missed the snapping of my tendons.

So I just felt the need to get the word out. WalMart greeters are terrorists. Do not trust them. I suggest that you only go to WalMart in groups. Watch each others back. If you see a cart unattended in the parking lot take that one instead of expecting one from an employee. If a greeter offers to open a door for you watch your blindside. There could be another one about to hit you low. Who would have thought that it would be "WalMart" that turned you into a "Target."

THE TOP 10 THINGS I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS THIS YEAR
10. I want Osama Bin Laden and Saddam Hussein accidently showing up at a Teamsters Convention
9. I want Whitey Herzog to buy the Cubs
8. I want a cholesterol number lower than Barry Bonds batting average
7. I want a scientific study proving that caffiene is good for you
6. I want the development of a hybrid orange tree that thrives year round in Illinois
5. I want new hips for my dog Bear
4. I want a youth building at church that will hold more kids than a school bus
3. I want a self-cleaning chimney
2. I want a red convertible Mustang GT with a Khaki top, 6 CD changer, automatic transmission, and a blonde named Debbie in the passanger seat
1. I want a perfect job for Joe McGill in St. Louis

I believe in living a symmetrical life. Things should look right. Right should match left. Left should match right. Who wants one bushy eyebrow and one skinny one? Who wants one brown sock and one black one? No one, that's who.

A week ago I went to the doctor. I needed a refill of Nasonex. Nasonex is this really great, effective, medicine that you shoot up your nose once a day. In exchange for humbling yourself in that way you forego the joys of sniffling, sneezing, and crying through allergy season. And as I have learned, allergy season lasts 365 days in these parts. The stuff really works and I was running low. I called my doctor's office for a refill and they said I'd have to come in and see the doctor to get one. So I made an appointment and I went. That, as I said, was a week ago.

Really all I wanted was the refill. Just write me the script and I'm outta here. No such luck. An hour after I arrived I left, prescription in hand. I also had a reciept for a chest x-ray, EKG, blood work, urinalysis, and the ever beloved male mid-life thrill... the prostate exam. Woo-hoo. And he didn't even buy me dinner first.

But I got what I wanted. And then I got more than I wanted. The mail came today, and with it, the results of my testing. EKG looks good. I have a heart, it beats, and seems to stay in sync. (Who says I ain't got rhythm?) I am an expert pee'r too. That's a relief. I figured it was pure caffiene. My chest x-ray indicated the presence of lungs. They function. This is good because I've become attached to breathing.

And then there is the blood work. I knew it was coming. There really wasn't any doubt. About 10 years ago I was walking through Northwest Plaza with friends when we stumbled across a booth in center court where they were doing a cholesterol screening. I had never had mine checked, so I went for it. Uh oh. It was 211. Not good. I went to the doctor and he gave me medicine. The medicine made me sick. Actually, it made me wish I was dead. Everything hurt. I went back to the doctor and he ran more tests to find out why I hurt. There wasn't a reason. I threw the bottle of medicine in the toilet. The next day I was healed. Sometimes a good move in the bathroom relieves a multitude of symptoms.

I found a new doctor and he told me to work out more and eat better. I was already working out 3 days each week. But ok, I do want to live to see my grand kids. I upped the work outs to 5 days a week. I would run 3 miles each time, stair-master 100 floors, and finish up with 5 nautilus machines. Then it was off to the hot tub and the pool. A quick shower later and I was on my way home. I didn't touch a french fry for months. Chickens feared me. Turkeys had nightmares about me. I went back to the doctor and... miracle of miracles... my cholesterol was 187! My triglycerides were down from 800 to 300! He told me I was his poster boy. Eating well and working out NEVER works because no one ever really does it. I did. And it did. I was soooo proud.

And then last year came and the roof fell in. I got sick. Just a little thing brought on my over useing my adrenal system. Suddenly it stopped working. Not good. Let's just say it was a year in hell and leave it at that, shall we? If you wanna know more ask me. Other wise, suffice it to say, it was not fun. And a part of the problem was that I was too avid about my work-outs. I kept competing with myself... trying to beat my best time. Trying to always raise my total weigh lifted. Trying to climb 100 flights of stairs faster than last week. So what was good for me... was bad for me. It saved one system and trashed the other. Or at least it helped trash it. So I quit working out. I had to. I could not run, climb, or lift. So I took time off. Over the past few months I've worked out a little but nothing like I use to. I keep promising to get on an even keel and work out at a healthy, less driven and yet equally advantageous level. But everytime I start something goes wrong and I start feeling the old symptoms. So I quit. I have become a couch potato without a couch. (The kids occupy that spot.)

So today when I got the results of the blood test I didn't think I'd be surprised. But I was. I was REALLY surprised. Since reading the numbers I swear I can hear my blood as it oozes through my veins. If I cut myself I'm quite certain I'll clot quickly. Shouldn't be a problem. As a matter-of-fact, I think I'd probably clot if you cut my juggler vein. I am considering draining all of my blood, skimming the fat off the top, and putting it back in. Shouldn't be too hard.

This is where the symmetry problem comes in. My cholesterol is 311. That's three hundred and eleven if you don't do numbers. But my triglycerides just laugh at that number. You see, it comes in at a nice and tidy 1111. Again, that is one thousand one hundred and eleven. 1111 is symmetrical. But it ceases to be if you put it either before or after the 311. You wind up with 3111111 or 1111311. That three just gets in the way. And I don't think I'm going to be able to get my cholesterol down to 111 anytime in the near future. So, for the sake of symmetry, I have no choice but to try to add another 3. I need my triclycerides to go from 1111 to 1113. Then my composite number can be 3111113. THAT, my friends, is symmetry.

And I'm going to make it happen. I might have already achieved it tonight. I decided to celebrate my statistics with dinner at my favorite restaurant, Cannolli's. I really got them to dish it up! I started with fresh baked bread dipped in olive oil with parmesian cheese and pepper. I polished off a salad with more cheese and french dressing. Next was a nice hot bowl of pizza soup. I didn't put the pepperoni or the sausage on the napkin either! My main course was... get ready... a lovely plump Calzone. I finished off the evening with the restaurants namesake... a triple chocolate Cannolli. Yum!

I don't suppose I'll ever really know if I made it to 31111113. I started on another lovely pill tonight. It's your basic anti-fat-in-your-bloodstream-causing-massive-cardiac-arrest drug. I added it to my already formidable arsenol of meds. I'm starting to like pills more than ice cream.

Well, it's late and I need to go to bed. I use to hear my heart beat sometimes when it was really quiet late at night. Now I hear this oozing sound. I wonder if it has any significance. Nah...