Meet the New Master

Hey, folks. This is a post I wrote back in February, but have been too busy to upload. As you read, pretend it's February, there's a foot of snow on the ground, and it hasn't been six months since my last post.

I better not ever hear anyone question my love for my wife. I’m proving it in spades right now.

My wife and kids got a dog. 12 days and 10 hours ago we were at the pet store in the mall. Shelby wanted to get one of the dogs out of its cage to pet it with the kids. So they took the animal to one of the little petting pens and a full-blown love fest ensued.

Shelby was in love. The kids were in love. The little beast seemed to be in love, too. At that moment, I represented either the gateway or the barrier to their eternal happiness – it was my choice. To my everlasting shame, I said, “Let it be so.”

I could defend myself, but that would imply that I think I’m innocent. Trust me – for the next 12-15 years I’m not on speaking terms with me.

To appreciate the grand irony here, you might want to take a look at a post I wrote about dog people. I don’t hate dogs. I’ve wanted a German Shepherd since I was a little boy. My parents weren’t inclined to spend money on dogs, but they were kind enough to let me have a few free mutts. Four, to be exact. And not all at once - I had one a year for four consecutive years. I have no proof, but it seems a bit coincidental that my first dog ‘ran away’ within weeks of an Asian family moving in a couple doors down. I don’t want to judge anyone for their preferred cuisine, but it is wrong to steal a poor boy’s dog no matter how hungry you are. A shocking accusation, you say? I lost four dogs in four consecutive Novembers. I don’t think those folks were having turkey for Thanksgiving.

Anyway, the point is it’s not that I hate dogs. I don’t even hate this dog. I just hate having this dog. I once heard a guy say that a dog that can’t hunt duck isn’t worth feeding. I can sympathize with that sentiment – I think the only dog worth having is one that can kill people. Like a German Shepherd.

That’s not exactly what we picked up at the pet store on that horrible, horrible day almost two weeks ago.




Don’t let appearances deceive you. This animal is cunning and cold. It took about 10 minutes at home with the little devil to realize that having a new puppy is approximately 1.5 times more taxing than having a brand new baby human.

We’re busy people. The last thing we needed was another full time job. I spent the rest of that day vacillating between acute buyer’s remorse and abject despair. Our lives now consist of watching this animal around the clock so that when it relieves itself we can give it a tiny piece of cheese. The beast figured out the system and decided to pee in increments. It releases a few drops and then clamors for cheese. After receiving the reward, it goes and drips a couple more. More cheese.

Oh, and I forgot the pep rally. The potty training book says that every time the dog does this we’re supposed to act like it discovered a cure for pancreatic cancer. I mentioned this in the dog people post, but there is something so backward about this. My wife and kids and I are made in the image of God. And yet, this dog leads us around by the nose, making us, by its very existence, act like imbeciles – we cheer whenever this rat urinates or defecates.

In hindsight the copious cheese treats were not a good idea. What happens to you when you eat too much cheese? Right. We had some people over for dinner the evening after we bought the thing. Looking back now, I realize that the fact that the dog hadn’t moved its bowels since we brought it home wasn’t a good thing. At the time, I thought that was the silver lining of this whole nightmare. I thought we must have gotten the pick of the litter. I know now that all that cheese was acting like a cork. The poop dammed up by the cork liquefied over the course of the day and the dam broke as we were finishing dinner - the dog diarrhea-ed all over its cage. There is too much to tell. Let me just say that the rest of the story involves a doggie hemorrhoid the size of a golf ball, fresh liquid dog squeeze on the hands of one of our guests, and my wife feeling the same bitter regret I had felt over the previous 24 hours.

As a result, we amended the cheese program and now the animal only gets cheese for solid waste. I ask you, who has the power in this relationship? Pooping for cheese – that’s all this dog has to worry about. Nobody gives me cheese…

Sleeping arrangements have been over the top, as well. With a bowel the size of an electron, when this dog needs to go, it needs to go now. The experts tell us that if you let the beast relieve itself in its cage, it will become a “dirty dog” and will never learn to go where it’s supposed to. I think this is patently ridiculous. All dogs are dirty dogs. That’s why dogs should live outside. God gave them fur for a reason. My wife responds that our dog would freeze to death inside five minutes. I have no objection to that.

Anyway, Shelby has been sleeping in the living room so that she can hear the dog yelp in the night when it needs to go twoosies. She bolts off the couch and sprints to the back door, trying to catch the animal in time. The dog needs to go at least twice a night. So, we’ve been sleeping alone. I swear, I can hear that little rat cackling in the middle of the night.

The lack of sleep the first week was intensifying Shelby’s buyer’s remorse. I gently approached the subject of treating another family to a bargain-priced bundle of joy. She replied that she didn’t want to sell the dog for less than we paid for it. I said, “No one on earth is going to pay what we paid for that dog. The way I see it we have two options: 1) we can take a financial hit, keep the dog, and let this animal ruin our lives, or 2) we can take a financial hit and enjoy freedom beyond our wildest imaginations. The choice seems pretty clear to me.”

Some of her doggie owner friends encouraged her to stick it out. Thanks, ladies.

Fast forward to right now. She flew out to California to spend the weekend with her two best friends. I’m thrilled that she gets to do this from time to time. It’s usually not a big deal – I’ve finely tuned my survival skills so that a weekend alone with the kids is smooth sailing. It’s mostly fast-food, re-runs, and two naps a day for me and the baby.

This time it’s different. I’m here in Ohio under a winter storm warning with four needy little kids and a tiny dog who thinks I’m its mommy. One of the tiny details about this weekend that didn’t really hit me until my wife was at 30,000 ft was that it was going to fall to me to take Little Evil to the vet for inoculations. As I loaded a small pink dog carrier into my truck and headed out into blizzard conditions, I thought to myself, “I’m risking my life so that this mutt won’t get doggie AIDS or whatever it is that the doggie doctors and doggie drug companies have conspired to convince the general public will befall any and every doggie not given a series of several hundred injections of overpriced doggie snakeoil.” I realized, though, that a deadly doggie disease might be just what the doctor ordered. A natural death would give me my life back. All I had to do was skip the vet appointment and just drive around for a half hour before going home to relieve my in-laws, who were watching the kids for me. But I can’t lie to my wife. Blast it.

I got to the vet’s office and was disappointed to find that they hadn’t closed early to beat the bad weather. When I went in, the desk lady said, ‘What’s the name?’

“My name or the dog’s name?”

“The dog’s name.”

For the life of me I couldn’t remember. I stood there for a couple of awkward seconds before offering, “My last name is Birdwell – I don’t remember the dog’s name.”

The lady looked at her list of appointments and then said, “Is it Razzle?”

“That’s it.”

She instructed me to get the dog out of the cage. As I peered through the gate, I noticed a long, black object on the inside. “Of course.” The dog had squeezed one in the cage. How can such a tiny animal produce such large chunks of stool? I swear, it was the size of a hand grenade. After giving the dog to the shot person, I shared my grenade predicament with the desk lady. She offered me a blue paper towel. I said, “Okay, I’m gonna need like five of those.”

I finished dealing with that just in time to take the dog back from the shot person. The next blow was an expected one, but when it happened it was worse than I thought it would be.
The shot person referred to me as daddy. As in the dog’s daddy. I want to puke just typing this. In past posts, I’ve catalogued some of the reasons I have trouble thinking of myself as a grown man. Being a chihuahua’s daddy doesn’t help.

I told my friend Rick that the dog may not survive the weekend. One could accidentally leave the back door open all night right next to the dog’s cage. One could accidentally drop a handful of Hershey’s Kisses in the dog bowl. One could absent-mindedly leave the dog alone in the same room with my 3-year-old son. If you think of any others, please, please email.

God prepared me for this, though. Last week in chapel at school one of my professors preached from Job about God’s providence in affliction. So I know that God long ago set me apart for this pain. I just never thought it would take the form of a chihuahua.

President of the Christians

Well, Bravo, Brother! You’ve done a great job of painting a picture of yourself as a physically pathetic individual who’s been given the short end of the stick. Today, your readers will know the truth. I emerge from your shadow to reveal that not only are you physically pleasing, but your life has been one award and achievement after another.

Fans and Family, let me introduce myself. My first name is “Aren’t you Greg’s little sister?” My middle name is, “He is such a great guy.” This is often abbreviated to “Godly.” My last name is, “Tell him we said, ‘Hi! – we’re praying for him.’” For short, you can call me Shelbi. Let me just say, it doesn’t escape me that I share the same name as his wife.

I’ll start from the beginning…the grand state of Texas. I coasted through life, enjoying a bumpless road until the 2nd grade. Greg and I are 3 years apart, so that would put Greg in the 5th grade. At this time, through a series of illnesses, it was discovered that Greg has 3 heart defects. Before any of you shed tears…please know that Beloved is fine. This diagnosis was the best thing to happen to the medical community and the worst thing to happen to me. Greg has been called a “medical marvel,” “a modern day miracle,” and “God’s most creative creation.” He was the buzz of our town and a permanent prayer request of our small church. Greg was deemed the holy child created for greatness. I overheard one lady tell a visitor of our church, “It’s as if the Lord is pumping Greg’s heart with his own two hands.” In the same breath she told the visitor as they both glanced at me, “She must be going through an early puberty!”

“Greg the great” did not disappoint! In the years to follow it was discovered that Greg had a singing voice that was “schooled by the angels.” He could write music that made old men think of better days and he could preach sermons that drew crowds like Billy Graham. The “medical miracle” was sixteen and it was said of him that he was gifted, talented, and called. It was said of me that maybe it wasn’t baby fat after all!

When we were teenagers, my dad got a job offer in Ohio. I was the only kid in our family that was excited. Finally, I was going to a place that knew nothing of Greg and his wimpy heart that was “created for Christ’s cause.” When the town found out, they were devastated to lose him. The closer the time came to our leaving, the more baked goods arrived for “Greg’s” trip to Ohio. I was given sugarless gum. I was packed and ready for the promise land…ready to leave this desert behind. The day before we were to leave, Greg’s wussy heart freaked out and he ended up in the ICU. Our small church did not take the news well. Tears were shed, knees were bent, and roses sent! Brother delayed my trip a whole week! When we finally did leave, there was a parade for Greg’s big send off. He was given the key to the town. The town is still waiting for the second coming of Greg…the trumpets are waiting to play.

I was an idiot to think that Greg’s reputation would be limited to our small community. Apparently, until we arrived Greg was just an urban myth amongst the northern youth ministers and church ladies. Whispers of his arrival spread through Ohio like Aslan’s return to Narnia.

Our new youth minister was smitten! He courted, flirted, and called Greg on a daily basis. He begged Greg to disciple him. Whenever Greg made a comment during a youth gathering the youth minister asked us to remove our shoes, “we were on holy ground.”

One night, our youth group got together to play a game of underground church. Our minister was explaining that there were two teams. One team was the secret police and the other team was the Christians. Each team needed a leader! One idiot shouted out over the crowd, “I say, Greg be President of the Christians!” It was unanimous! Greg was hoisted onto the shoulders of his followers. The cheers and applause delayed the game 30 minutes. I was the last one to be picked for a team. Apparently, weight is considered a handicap.

Youth choir…another light to make Greg shine. Our choir director cried for one full hour after hearing Greg sing. She kept mumbling stuff like “You pray for things, but you never dream of something this precious.” Greg was always on the front row. He sang every solo. We were always silenced during rehearsal, so Greg could demonstrate how the song should sound. I was often told to just be silent. One Sunday evening, our director said we were going to elect officers to represent the choir. The same idiot as above shouts out, “I say Greg be President of the Choir!” Once again, unanimous! We didn’t elect any other officers…ever! It was as if Greg was all the leadership we needed!

As we have gotten older, Greg’s shadow has only gotten bigger and darker. He has continued to chase after God’s heart, striving for a heart like His. In this continuous pursuit, Greg has memorized whole books of the Bible. I have continued to strive to escape the title of “Greg’s little sister.” In order to achieve this, I had to join a Bible study 30 minutes away from the town. My older sister joined and enjoyed with me this weekly escape from Brother’s reputation. One day we (the ladies in our Bible study) were discussing Jewish customs and all the Scripture they committed to memory. A lady my family doesn’t even know stood up and said, “I was convicted to memorize Scripture when I heard that “her brother memorized the whole book of Romans!” Who is “her”? “Her” is me. She was pointing to me, not my sister…she was point to me…only! This was the final straw! Before leaving the study forever I yelled, “He’s just a man!” True story!!

Please don’t get me wrong…I love the guy! He is talented, gifted, and called! But remember – just like all celebrities and movie stars, the “President of the Christians” is just a man!

Just Call Me Smee

Our youngest just turned 1 and I’m holding out hope that this one will stay enamored with me. At this point, she is the only one of the four who isn’t a professional feelings- hurter.

The other three, however, are lovers of the cold, hard truth. They don’t really have the ‘speaking the truth in love’ thing down. They aren’t malicious, they just like to say whatever is on their minds. I suppose I should be thankful for the truth-telling, but hopefully with time it will be tempered with a smidgeon of sensitivity.

From what I gather from my kids, I am fat and I am ugly. And I smell bad. I didn’t hear these kinds of things when I was a kid myself, the time of life when one expects to be ridiculed and beaten down. No, during my childhood I felt very well accepted by all. It is fatherhood that knocked me down a few notches. I brought these little sinners into the world and they thank me by making off-the-cuff derogatory remarks about my physique.

Wyatt is about to be four. His insults seem to be the most innocuous, mostly because they are simply an unpremeditated, stream-of-consciousness type of degradation. Recently, I went in to my bedroom to get ready for work. Wyatt walked in and inquired as to what I was doing. “I’m about to change clothes.” He responded, “Is it going to be scary?”

I understand I’m no Fabio, but I’d like to think that the prospect of my taking off my shirt doesn’t result in a general state of fear among my offspring. And yet, that seems to be the case. What kind of hellish nightmare must my wife have been enduring all these years?

Blake, our 6-year-old daughter, is the most troubled by my shirtlessness. When the baby was born, she and Blake were sharing a room. During those first few nights when the baby was up all hours, I would go in and get Blake to trade beds with me. She could sleep with her mom and I would sleep in her bed, so that they would be able to sleep well and I could take care of the baby. On the first of these nights, I went in shirtless and woke Blake up, telling her to go sleep in my bed.

Sleepily she asked, “Where are you going to sleep?”

“In your bed,” I replied.

Suddenly, she was wide awake, and the troubled look on her face turned to stark terror as she whimpered, “What are you going to wear?”

Is she afraid of the dark? Monsters in the closet? Chucky? Murderers? Corporal Punishment? No. The greatest fear in her young life is the idea of her half-naked father’s skin touching her Hello Kitty sheets.

Last summer we went to my wife’s family reunion. Her aunt and uncle have a pool so the kids were worked up for weeks ahead of time about going swimming for two whole days. I looked forward to it as well – I have fond memories of swimming with my dad. I had slow-motion daydreams about throwing my kids through the air and seeing their beautiful faces beaming as they squealed with delight, just like when my dad did it to me. Unfortunately, none of us foresaw my attire being an issue. When I got into the pool wearing nothing but swimming trunks, Blake reacted as if I were a 170-lbs. chunk of toilet food floating on the surface and coming to smother her. The boys were only slightly less disgusted and the only reason Wyatt let me touch him was because he can’t swim and he decided that I was a lesser evil than water-borne death. So as a general rule, my children are frightened of me with no shirt on.

They also think I could stand to shed a few pounds. One day, out of nowhere Blake referred to me as Mr. Smee. For those of you still boycotting Disney I’ve found a picture of him.

This is what my little girl thinks of when she hears the word “Daddy.”

Wyatt apparently feels the same way. While trying to get him to eat his vegetables, my wife asked him, “Do you know what’s going to happen to you if you eat nothing but junk food?” He said, “I’ll get fat like Daddy.”

I’ll get fat. Like Daddy. These things aren’t easy to hear.

It gets worse. My wife was on the internet reading the news when our dear little Wyatt pointed to a picture of Michael Moore on the computer and said, “Daddy.”

The only thing worse than agreeing with this man is looking like him.

A while back my wife was trying to get me to wear clothes that weren’t so baggy, so she bought me a long-sleeve tee that was a little more form fitting than I was used to.

And more form fitting than Blake was used to or could handle. She stared at me and said, “Is that mom’s shirt?”

On another occasion with similar attire, she commented, “That shirt looks weird. Why are you wearing that?”

So I’m fat and ugly. These in themselves are bad, but not crippling. Character is what matters, right? Well, Jackson, our oldest, dealt the heaviest blow by mixing the physical flaws and character flaws together. We went to the Columbus Zoo. We were having a good time.

Until we went to the gorilla exhibit. We were treated to the site of a huge silverback eating his own poop. In front of a large and diverse crowd, Jackson announced, “That lazy gorilla looks just like you, Dad.”

The large and diverse crowd howled.

I have to wonder if my first-born really thinks I eat my own poop. I mean, that’s the epitome of lazy, is it not? You don’t even get up to get new food, you just recycle what you had yesterday. You see, this particular insult, though devastating, has a beauty to it. It addresses so many issues. With one sentence, my son compared me to a lazy, hairy, smelly, poop-eating primate.

But the baby loves me. For now. How long will it last? 6-9 months based on previous experience.

Then it’ll be time to have another.

________________________

If you have second and need a laugh, check out humor-blogs.com.

I'll Believe Anything

This is a guest post from my wife, Shelby. (Not to be confused with my sister, Shelbi.) I'm afraid every word of it is true. Not that you'll trust me.

I love my husband more than anyone in the world. He makes me laugh out loud on a daily basis, and we have been blissfully married for over twelve years. He is the head of our home, a scholar, a gentleman, a comedian, a great dad, a wonderful husband, a gifted teacher and preacher, and a talented drummer, guitar player, and singer.

He is also an accomplished liar.

Well, “liar” may be too strong. “Storyteller” or “tale-spinner” is probably a more appropriate description. Or maybe “one who will say the most off-the-wall, ridiculous things, just to see if his wife will believe him.”

It started early in our marriage. He never told lies to try to get away with things—it wasn’t like that. He just thought that it was funny that I believed everything he said.

I worked in an office for a short time and dressed up for work each day. It was a Wednesday and we had choir/orchestra rehearsal at church and I wasn’t going to have time to go home first to change clothes. I called Greg and asked him if he would pack a few things that I would need and he agreed. I started to give him the list, and he told me to wait while he got a piece of paper.

Greg: Okay, I’m ready.

Me: Okay, I need my dark blue jeans.

Greg: Daaarrrk...bluuuue...jeeeeeans. Got it.

Me: White t-shirt.

Greg: Whiiiiite shirt.

Me: Socks.

Greg: Sooocks. Next?

Me: Long-sleeved shirt.

Greg: LSS. ‘K?

Me: Please don’t forget my brown boots.

Greg: Boots...Got it. Anything else?

Me: Um, yeah, go ahead and bring my toothbrush and some toothpaste, please.

Greg: Toothbrush. Toothpaste.

Me: Thank you.

Greg: You’re welcome. Did you really think that I was writing all of that down?

Not long after that we were with my family. My sister and I were discussing the breaking news story about how JFK, Jr. had died in a plane crash. Search teams were still combing the water for his body, so my sister and I were speculating over the possibility of recovery when Greg said, “Didn’t you hear? They found his body.”

“Oh, they did?” we asked.

“Yes. I can’t believe you didn’t hear this. It’s so weird. When they found him he was still sitting in the plane on the ocean floor, and he had a lit cigar in his mouth,” he replied.

I know this is so stupid, but we actually sort of believed him. “What?! That is so strange,” we said.

Greg just started laughing and shaking his head.

A couple of years after the JFK incident, we had moved to our second apartment in Nashville . Not too many weeks after we moved in we discovered that the area of town in which we were living had a bit of a cricket problem. I hate crickets. All bugs, actually, but I have a particular distaste for bugs that can jump up and try to kill me. Only these were not your everyday crickets. They were camel crickets. They were brown, they were huge, and they and all of their friends had a fondness for our unit.

One particular Sunday morning as we were preparing for church, I was standing in front of the open refrigerator trying to decide what to have for breakfast. In my peripheral vision I caught sight of a monster crawling out from under the fridge, right by my bare feet. I screamed like a banshee, slammed the fridge door, and ran into the living room, jumping up and standing on the couch. Greg had been sitting at the table in the kitchen and had witnessed the whole event, but I still was shaking and crying and begging him to kill it.

I heard him close the cabinet where our trash can was contained, and he calmly reassured me that it was okay, he had killed it.

It took several minutes for my nerves to settle down and the shaking to subside, but I was able to gingerly step back into the kitchen, my eyes darting about the room in search of any of the cricket’s wicked relatives. I was certain that the coast was clear and walked back over to the refrigerator to resume my hunt for breakfast. As I stood there, déjà vu of the worst kind took over, and I looked down to see yet another cricket emerging from beneath the fridge.

I’m assuming that my screams woke up every tenant in our building.

My vision blurred as I ran out of the room, crying like a baby. I waited for my knight-in-shining-armor to rescue me once again, when I heard him say the words that would forever stain our bond of marriage and cause me to never trust him again:

“It’s okay, Shelby . It was the same cricket.”

Every muscle in my body tensed up and I froze half-way to the couch. In slow-motion I turned toward him, and with a voice that I can only assume sounded like I was possessed by an evil spirit, I seethed through clenched teeth, “it...was...WHAT?!”

Greg shrugged and said, “It ran under the fridge and I couldn’t get to it. I didn’t think it would come back out.”

Needless to say, every single time in the last ten years that he has killed a bug for me I have made him file a report on the incident and show me the corpse.

Stop me if you can stomach no more, but on we go to lie number four. (Hey, that rhymes...)

We had gone to bed particularly late one night, and Greg needed to rise early the next day for work. We were talking about needing more sleep, and Greg said, “I’ll be okay as long as I wake up after 6:00.”

“Why 6:00?” I asked.

Greg replied, “Oh, I just read about this. It’s called the ‘Threshold of Rest.’ They say if you sleep until 6am you will have rested thoroughly, even if you didn’t go to sleep until, say, 3am. But if you wake up at, like, 10 ‘til 6:00, you haven’t reached the Threshold of Rest.”

I was intrigued. “Hmm. That’s interesting. I’ve not heard that before.”

“That’s because I just made it up.”

I’m sure that I could tell you stories all day, but I won’t. Let me conclude with this: as exasperating as the love of my life can be, I can tell you that every day is an adventure and no one on the face of the earth could ever take his place.

Believe me.

_____________________________

If you enjoyed this post, check out the other accomplished liars at Humor-Blogs.com.

The Rolodex

Guest Blogger: Christi Harrison

Let me say from the very beginning that I am not as talented a writer as my brother. I will not be incorporating imagery into this blog entry and I am pretty certain that the word onomatopoeia will not be used either. Who uses that word except college English professors who read War and Peace for fun on the weekends and have pictures of Emily Bronte taped to the inside of their briefcases? But I digress.

My name is Christi Harrison. I am Greg’s older sister, although, many people have thought that he is the oldest. This tickles me. For those of you long-time readers, I am married to the West Virginian, who is the love and joy of my life! We have four beautiful, precocious little girls. Yes, all girls! My husband has told them that they can either go to college or have a wedding, we can not afford to do both. In addition to spending time trying to look younger than my brother, I also spend a great deal of energy trying to blend into the woodwork. So it is rather ironic that my claim to fame is that I have the most embarrassing moments on record-bar none!
We have all been there; the Sunday school social, the office or dinner party where someone stands up and says the dreaded word "ice breaker". Then he or she goes one step further and suggests that everyone tells their most embarrassing moment. Why is it socially acceptable to emotionally strip ourselves bare in order to make it easier for people to talk to us? Why not just get naked and complete the nightmare. But that isn’t the part that stresses me out, because while everyone else is trying to come up with one embarrassing moment, I am mentally pulling out my rolodex of embarrassing moments and trying to decide when the host was wanting said incident from. You have to be more specific. Do you want it from elementary school? A holiday? From September of ‘84? Or maybe you want a specific genre; dancing with a midget (actually happened), passing out naked, or peeing in front of an audience. You have to narrow the scope of your search people. So, for the interest of time, I have narrowed the field to my top four.

The first one occurred my freshman year of college. It was a Saturday night and I was going on a group date to the football game. The cute sophomore who sat beside me in my Western Civilizations class finally asked me out and I was so nervous. All of us girls who were going, lived in a high-rise dorm with a lobby that you had to walk down about five stairs to get to the couches and T.V. This was where we were meeting our dates and because it was football night the place was packed! When the guys got there we exchanged small talk and decided to head out. My date and I were the first ones to the stairs. On the very last step, I tripped. As if that were not bad enough, I had enough momentum going to fall and actually slide 10 feet and hit my head on the lobby desk. As you can probably imagine, I never saw that guy again.

The next one also took place in college, although it was a different school. This happened during my junior year at Cedarville College. It was finals week and I was stressed out trying to maintain my place on the Dean’s list. It was the only time I had even come close to being on a Dean’s list, thus, my stress. I admit that I had not been sleeping and eating properly, if at all, and it had started to get to me. The morning of a particularly hairy final, I woke after a minimal night’s sleep and went to the showers. In this dorm there was just one large community bathroom and shower area for roughly 25 girls and all of us were there that morning. Upon getting into the shower and starting the bathing process, I began to feel light-headed and the room started to spin. About the time I figured it might be a good idea to sit down, I went down like a tree in the forest! Once again, it was not enough to fall down. No, I fell out of the shower and onto the floor in front of 24 girls. Luckily, I came to about the time that they said the word "squad". The "squad" was composed of the male nursing and pre-med students there on campus. I was panicked! I managed with some help to make it to the side of the bathroom and cover up with a robe in time for Cedarville’s finest ( and most handsome) to come and check me out. Needless to say, I didn’t date much in college. One small blessing was that my future betrothed was also a nursing student, but luckily was not on the squad.

This next story is my sister’s favorite. So, Shelbi, this is for you. Fast forward a few years after college and I was working as an assistant-manager in the fragrance shop at Victoria’s Secret. It was the last Saturday before Christmas and the store was beyond packed! As my dad would say, we were stacked in there like cord wood! I was there dressed to the nines in my beautiful, black suit and perfectly coifed, when a very handsome man comes and asks for help finding a gift. I tell him I have the perfect item and as I am telling him to take a whiff of the scent I have just sprayed on the card, the loudest fart you have ever heard comes ripping out of me from nowhere. I can honestly tell you that you have never heard a room get so quite so fast! To this day I have no idea where it came from. You can ask anyone who knows me, I am not one to actively participate in this kind of behavior. My own husband has only heard me fart twice in the 12 years that he has known me. I was beyond embarrassed and managed a very meek, "I am so terribly sorry". What happened after that is a blur.

This final incident took place at the rehearsal dinner the night before my wedding. Whenever I bring this story up to my husband, he gets a very nervous look on his face and tells me I had to have dreamed this some night because it never happened. Unfortunately for him I have MULTIPLE eyewitnesses, most of whom are dear loved ones. My husband’s best friend was a ventriloquist. After telling said spouse that Nathan absolutely could not perform at the wedding reception, I decide to compromise and let Nathan perform at the rehearsal dinner. BIG MISTAKE!! Everything was going quite smoothly and Nathan was doing very well until he asks Aaron (my husband) and I to come up and stand with him. My sister says that what happened next was the most painful thing she has ever had to watch. Nathan tells Aaron and I that he is going to put his hand on our backs and we have to be his dummies! We have to move our mouths and arms in time to him. He then proceeds to sing , but I can’t tell you what the song was because I was trying to decide how to give Aaron the ring back. The West Virginians that were there look back and describe it as a delightful memory. My mother, on the other hand, still can’t talk about it.

Well, that is me in a nutshell, a shy, quiet wife and mother with a past that is anything but. Maybe sometime I can tell about the time I danced with the midget.

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Intermission

I know its been over a week since I last posted. The Spring semester has begun and I'm pastoring a new church - I'm swamped. I will do my best to keep things up, but I'm afraid the frequency is going to decrease a bit. I intend to get some guest bloggers to put some content up. If you get sick of checking the site to see if a new post is up, you might consider subscribing to the blog by email or RSS feed (the links on the left side of the screen).

Those of you who are new to the blog, the archive has a few posts that you might enjoy.

Take it easy, everyone, and I'll talk to you soon.

Guest Blog: How I Destroyed the Emperor

My wife and I are trying to instill a love of writing in our kids. So, we have a special treat today, a guest blogger, my 8-year-old son Jackson. When I asked him to pen something for the blog, I had no doubt that the theme would involve Star Wars. The saga has been a part of his identity since he was about 18 months old, when I first showed him Episode 1. He sat motionless in my lap for the entire movie. After that it was all over. Following his introduction to the original trilogy, all he wanted to think or talk about was “Dah Bader.”

When he was four I took him over to my parents’ house for a special presentation. I, too, had been a Star Wars junky as a child. Wisely, I kept every shred of merchandise I’d collected over the years. I brought him down to the basement and showed him a large box. He peered inside and looked as if he had found the Holy Grail. Millenium Falcon. X-wing. AT-AT. Cloud Car. Snowspeeder. A Darth Vader carrying case with approximately 50 action figures. Et cetera. For a brief moment, I came to mean more to him than Emperor Palpatine.

Every birthday and Christmas we add to the collection. He has a Darth Vader piggy bank with theme music, sound effects, and lightsaber action. He has blasters. He has five lightsabers. He has costumes. He has the movies in DVD and VHS (while he does enjoy the digital, he’s still a purist – sometimes he likes to go old-school and use the VHS). He has five Star Wars video games for Xbox. Books. Pajamas. Underwear. T-shirts. Notebooks. Posters. Magnets. Christmas tree ornaments. Lego sets. Shoes. You name it.

When he was five, we used to take a metallic balloon and pound the hooey out of it with lightsabers. It was his favorite game. He named it “Lightsaber-Smack-Balloon-Good”.

A couple of months ago, he and I almost got into a fist fight over who is more powerful, General Grievous or Darth Maul. I was trying to tell him that Grievous doesn’t even know the ways of the Force. Like a broken record, he kept replying, “Dooku trained him to use the Force – and he has four lightsabers instead of just the double-bladed that Maul has.” He’s completely delusional.
I’m not sure why, but from the very beginning, he had a soft spot for the Dark Side. Odd for such a sweet, affectionate kid. My wife, Shelby, was a bit troubled by it, thinking he might be headed down the wrong path. As much as we tried, we could not win him back to the Good Side. He’s convinced that the Dark Side is stronger. I suspect he’s right, but he doesn’t know that. Shelby and I still try to impress upon him that good always prevails over evil. He simply doesn’t see it that way. In his opinion, you can’t argue with Force lightning and the Force choke.

Probably nothing conveys a sense of Jackson’s dedication to the Dark Side more than a conversation my parents overheard between him and his cousin, Rylie, a few years back. They were arguing over a toy when Rylie reminded him, “Jackson, life isn’t all about you. Life is about other people.”

Jackson solemnly replied, “No, Rylie. Darth Vader. Life is about Darth Vader.”

So, he’s pretty serious. With that said, I’ll get out of the way and let you read his very first blog entry.


How I Destroyed the Emperor

One day I was playing lego star wars 2 [Xbox]. I was soon at the end of the levels in episode six. I was battling the emperor in that level. at the end the emperor’s last heart was beating. I was being darth vader at that point. I ran after the emperor. when I got to him I got my lightsaber and jumped once into the air and swung my lightsaber for the final blow. pow! then I saw vader kill the emperor. then I saw luke drag vader to the shuttle. then I saw vader die. then I saw luke push vader into the shuttle. then I saw luke pilot the shuttle into space and into endor. the level was completely over.

by Jackson


It comes so naturally to him. Did you notice the plot development towards the end? The onomatopoeia for dramatic effect? The sense of finality woven into the conclusion? The boy is brilliant.

But he’s not our only prodigy. My 6-year-old little girl, Blake, is working on a piece entitled “The Lion Who Ate the Exploding Hotdog”. She’s got a rough outline and I like where she’s going with it. Stay tuned.
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If you enjoyed Jack's blog, click here to get him some exposure over at Humor-Blogs.com. He's gonna be famous.