Dear people I probably didn't vote for:

Dear people I probably didn’t vote for:

I am not interested in or impressed by your religion.
I do not care if you are Baptist, Buddhist, Baháʼí… or whatever.

I do not especially care about your accomplishments, either…

That you might be the first black something, or the first woman something, or the youngest-ever something, or, for that matter, the youngest, black, gay, queer, trans, or used-to-be-a-liberal-or-conservative-but-now-you’re-a-conservative-or-liberal something.

I mean, good for you! You did it! Whatever that means.

But really, truly, I couldn’t care less.

Are you kind?
I care about that.
Do you have compassion?
I care.
Do you 'love thy neighbor’?

Do you?

All of your neighbors?
Do you really?

What if they don’t look like you, talk like you, act like you, believe like you…
Or vote for you?

Are you self-aggrandizing, proud, and cockily looking down at the rest of us from your victory podium, or are you on your hands and knees peering into a darkness with your light pointed at making a positive difference for the lives of the people you have been… selected to serve?

I care about these things.

I am not interested in or in need of a protector; a defender; a Savior.
I have one of those.

And I am praying to Him for leaders.

Kind leaders.
Compassionate leaders.
Leaders “not just for some of us, but for the sum of us”…

The least of these… us.
The unlovely of these… us.
All of these.

Us.

Leaders who don’t just take a vow, up and down, to serve;
But leaders who are willing to bow down…

And serve.

Dear, would-be leaders, I admit that I probably didn’t vote for you.
But I do have hope for you.
And us.

Lead well, please.
We need you.

More than you know.

Go and Do Great Things

"Go and do great things.” We hear stuff like this at graduations. I heard it last night. It’s an appropriate blessing, I suppose. “You made it. You did it. You graduated. Now… go and take all that you have been taught… all that you have learned… all that ‘we’ have collectively poured into you and prayed over you... and do great things.”

My favorite Bible verse is Matthew 5:16. “Let your light so shine among men that they might see your good works and glorify your Father in Heaven.”

I love this verse because it’s limitless. There’s no set guide or measurable rule that defines “good works.” Jesus simply states, “You are the light of the world… Now, let your light shine.” Let it shine in such a way that when others are touched by it; when others are benefitted by what you do, how you do it, and why… they see it as a reflection and a radiation of something bigger. Someone bigger.

If you’re going to be a doctor, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be a teacher, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be a plumber, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be a performer, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be an athlete, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be a soldier, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be a mechanic, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be a pilot, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be a pastor, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be an accountant, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be a mom or dad, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be an electrician, let your light so shine… If you’re going to be an artist, let your light so shine…

One of the things I have learned over the past few years is that “great things” do not have to be grand things. Simple stuff… small acts… make a big difference all the time. We do not have to do world-changing feats of amazingness to change the world. We’re changing it with every breath. YOU are changing it every day.

So, no matter what you do, where you go, or where you might find yourself wondering what’s next… Go and do great things.

Shine.

Attitude is everything? Really?

Of course attitude isn’t everything. Or is it?

Two kids left at 3:00 am Friday morning for Indianapolis where they competed in a show choir competition Saturday night… and ultimately returned home at 7:30 am Sunday morning.

One kid was at another show choir competition with Bethany in Auburn on Friday night, then left with me and yet another kid at 3:45 am Saturday morning for a fishing tournament about an hour and a half away from home.

Meanwhile, Bethany is prepping for a big work event, and I can’t do anything to help because I am too old for any of this crap and my body hurts as if I have been the one traveling and dancing and fishing and working…

But here’s the point of my post:

The show choir event Friday night didn’t go as we’d hoped. They didn’t win. But, when asked about the event, Quinn smiled and said, “it was so much fun, dad.”

The fishing tournament didn’t turn out great, either. This was the second week in a row that things didn’t go as planned. The fish were there; they just wouldn’t eat. Not for us, anyway. But when I told Ben that I was sorry we “couldn’t bring ‘em in today,” he replied, “at least we got to go fishing.”

The event in Indianapolis didn’t go as expected. After an all night trip Friday, exhaustion, preparation, and, frankly, a remarkable performance Saturday night, the group finished behind where they wanted to be. We got texts from the kids after the results were posted and Merrie Cannon wrote, “our 5th place trophy is as big as our first place ones that we have from other years lol,” and Abe wrote, “last place never felt so good.”

I love it when I see in my people the things I don’t see enough of in myself. These kids have worked hard, practiced hard, worked out, and practiced some more only to be met with disappointments across the board (this weekend).

But they had fun. And they’d do it all again… and they WILL do it all again — hoping for better results and smiling all the way home.

Schoolwork is a different story, but I’ll not chill my warm-fuzzies with that right now…

#thankfulforthecrazy

O, Ukraine

It has been gut-wrenching to see the fear, confusion, and heartbreak on the faces of the Ukrainian people over the past couple of days — especially the children. One video (shared with me by my son) shows a missile hitting a home while the children next door scream in horror. It made me ache all over.

I have also been wrecked by the fear, confusion, and heartbreak my own kids have experienced because of this war. How quickly innocence and happy ignorance can be veiled by the truth: the world can be a very dark place.

I would never compare “our” feelings with the experiences of those who are actually living this and so many other nightmares, but it is not lost on me that all of us — over here and over there — are in desperate need of light.

The only thing I know to do for the Ukranian people is to pray for them and hope that they might experience a peace that passes all understanding. I suppose that’s all I can really do here, too.

I hope you’ll join me.

#Together

Today is the first day back to work for teachers in my little corner of Alabama. The doors are now open and hundreds of educators, administrators, bus drivers, coaches, school officials, and more are preparing the best they can for what promises to be a crazy start to a crazy school year. 

This time last year, those same school leaders announced the theme for 2019: “Together.” 

No one could have possibly imagined how ironic that theme would become over the next 7 or 8 months. “Together.” Really? 

Actually, yes. Really. It was perfect!

Together.

Even in the darkest times when we were all forced apart last Spring, that theme shined bright. Together. It proved to be true over and over again as we all ventured into uncharted territories. Together.

The theme was perfect then, and it is even more appropriate, encouraging, inspiring and meaningful right now. Together.

No one knows what this school year will bring. There are a lot more questions than answers right now. But here’s one thing we know to be true — no matter what happens, in the good times, bad times, happy or hard times  — the ONLY way forward is together.

Look out for each other. Check on your neighbors. Call that single mom or single dad who is trying to figure out how to do all the things, and help. Make a meal. Smile. Encourage one another — especially our kids — and put action to the positive words you pass along. Pray specifically, consistently, strictly… And then go with the flow.

And by all means, even if it’s the only thing you do, thank a teacher.

God bless our schools.

God bless us all. 

#Together

The Ball Game.

Here are a few things I love:

Peanut butter, baseball, The Avett Brothers… and several of my kids.

There are some other things on the list, but those are the first few that come to mind. Oh, and gummy bears. I love gummy bears.

Anyway, this post is about baseball.

A couple of weeks ago, one of the kids I love had a baseball game — the third game of the weekend tournament — and it began to rain. It was the third inning, I think. It was just a little bit of rain — no big deal. It was refreshing, really — but then the rumbles started.

This particular baseball field sits in a small valley, surrounded by mountains (let’s be honest… central Alabama doesn’t really have mountains, but “hills” doesn’t sound pretty. These hills are pretty). From the Home Team stands, we could see the storm roll slowly over the (mountains) and move East toward the Georgia state line. Nevertheless, in baseball “rumbles” equal “weather delay.”

To a tired, hot, sticky, bad-attitude-having dad whose son wasn’t even in the game at the time of the rumbles, this weather delay was like being told you don’t have the appropriate documentation AFTER standing in line for three hours at the DMV.

I was frustrated. 

“It’s barely raining,” I said out loud to no one in particular. “That thunder was 30 miles away,” I continued, “This is ridiculous. Let them play!”

My voice rose at the end, “Let them plAAY!”

Then I saw them.

The teams were playing.

Their game was still in delay, but the players — the kids — were having a ball. Literally.

I looked to my left and saw my son and three other players huddled — heads down and focused, but giggling like school girls. “What are they doing?” My wife was concerned and stood to her feet. “What in the world are they do…”

The huddle broke, and my son threw a baseball across the infield and rolled it to a perfect stop at the feet of an opposing player. The kid picked up the ball and held his arms up in a shrug as if to say, “what’s your problem?”

“Read it!” A chorus of voices from the Home Team answered.

The opponent glanced at the ball, smiled, and ran into the Visitor’s dugout. A few seconds later, he and a few others emerged and threw the ball back across the field. 

Our guys ran out to retrieve it and hilarity ensued.

Turns out my son had written “Any hot sisters?” on the first thrown ball. The other team replied with a Snapchat handle. Our team wrote something silly and then the other team started a game of tic-tac-toe… and on and on and on. 

At the end of the weather delay, each team had recorded multiple phone numbers, a few new knock-knock jokes, a couple of “your mama’s so fat” jabs, and a lot of unified laughs.

Parents, coaches, and even the grumpy umps watched in awe as the game within the game unfolded and those two teams became one.

Pretty soon, the rumbles passed over the (mountains) and we were back in the middle of the third inning — but a little less concerned with balls and strikes. I honestly don’t remember who won, but I won’t soon forget that ball game.

There’s another tournament this weekend.

I kind of hope it rains. 

Please stay my baby forever.

“Please stay my baby forever”

I’ve said that so many times I can’t even begin to count.

Because it’s true.

All five of them.

It’s true that I love them. I cherish them. I want them to be close. I want to protect them and to know that they are safe. I want them to hold my hand in public. To kiss me on the lips. To ask me question after nonsensical question until they pass out in my arms after a long day of swinging and swimming and bike-riding and running and… whatever the adventures of that particular day held.

I want to take them to dance and to tee-ball and to football and to lacrosse and to swim team and to gymnastics and to cross country and to more baseball and to wrestling and to choir and to church and to baseball again and to dance again and to everywhere in the world. 

I want to take long walks in the neighborhood and look at the trees and leaves and clouds and puppies and birds and cars and light poles and telephone wires and old ladies and old men and lawn mowers and this mailbox versus that mailbox and “oh, what’s that over there?!”

I want to lie in bed with them at night and tell stories and pray. I want to cradle them in my arms and sing “you are my sunshine” until they fall softly to sleep. I want to teach them how to throw a football, catch a baseball, mow the lawn, and brush their teeth. I want to have tea parties with stuffed animals and make-believe that I am the Beast to her perfectly memorized Belle. 

I want to smell that smell — you know, the baby lotion, formula, strained peas, apple juice, faint urine smell. I want to watch The Wiggles and Barney and Bear in the Big Blue House, but not the Teletubbies, because they scare me and what even are those things?

I want to celebrate the firsts and mourn the never agains, again.

I want them the stay my babies forever.

But they’re NOT babies anymore.

So, I want them to leave. Like, soon. 

All five of them.

God willing, school starts back in exactly 39 days, 16 hours, 48 minutes, and 52 seconds. Give or take. 

Can I get an amen?

Amen. 

Breyers or Blue Bell?

I called my wife approximately 37 times the other day. I was at the grocery store — sent there, by her, to “pick up a few things” while she finished up homework with the kids and prepped the water to boil for our spaghetti noodles…

*RING-RING*

“Hello?”
“Hey, babe. Do we get thin spaghetti or angel hair or what?”
“Um. Let’s go with angel hair. Ben likes thin noodles.”
“OK, cool. Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”

*CLICK*
:38 seconds…

*RING-RING*

“Hello?”
“You said to get ‘angel hair’, but then you said, ‘thin’. Which is it?”
“I said, get angel hair.”
“OK. But ‘Ben likes thin’, you said.”
“Right. Angel hair is thin.”
“But there’s thin spaghetti, too.”
“It’s called ‘thin’, but Ben likes angel hair.”
“…K”
“Just get the angel hair.”
“Got it.”
“And don’t forget bread.”
“OK. See you in a few minutes.”
“Bye. Love you.” 
“Love you, too.”

*CLICK*
:19 seconds…

*RING-RING*

“Yes?”
“White bread or wheat bread?”
“Italian bread.”
“Huh?”
“Get Italian bread.”
“Oh.”
“We’re having spaghetti. We need bread for the spaghetti.”
“Oooooh. I thought you meant sandwich bread. Got it.”
“OK.”
“See you in a few.”
“OK.”
“OK. Love you.”
“Love you ,too.” 

*CLICK*
:47 seconds…

*RING-RING*

“Really?”
“Sorry. Last thing.”
“What?”
“You just wrote ‘cheese’ on the list.”
“Parmesan Cheese.”
“OK. You didn’t put ‘Parmesan’, so…”
“We’re having spaghetti. We need parmesan cheese for the spaghetti.”
“Yep. Got it. Anything else?”
“Nope. Just the stuff on the list.”
“Cool. And when you wrote salad…”
“Caesar Salad!”
“In the bag?”
“In the what?” 
“In the bag?”
“Caesar Salad. Yes… In the bag.” 
“Perfect. See you in a few minutes. Love you”
“……”

*CLICK*
:29 seconds…

*RING-RING*

“For godsakes, Billy.”
“Sorry! Just wondering if we need drinks.”
“We have drinks.”
“Do we have tea? Because tea is on sale.”
“I know tea is on sale.”
“Do you want for me to get some?”
“Is it on the list?”
“No. But I didn’t know if you knew it was on sale.”
“I did know that it is on sale.”
“But you didn’t put it on the list.”
“Because we don’t need tea.”
“We have tea?”
“No.”
“But…”
“You know what? Get tea.”
“Really?”
“Sure.”
“OK. One or two gallons?”

*CLICK*
:06 seconds…

*RING-RING*

“Whaaat?!”
“Sorry! You didn’t answer me.”
“What?!”
“One or two gallons?”
“…..”
“Hello?”
“One.”
“One?”
“Yep.”
“For all of us?”
“We have drinks!”
“OK! Jeez! I’ll see you in a few minutes! I lov…”

*CLICK*
19 minutes

*RING-RING*

“Hello?”
“Hey. Are you OK?”
“What?”
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. Where are you?”
“Because you don’t sound OK.”
“I’m fine. Where are you?”
At the store.”
“You’re still at the store?”
“Yeah, why?”
“It’s been almost an hour!”
“Well, you didn’t put what kind of ice cream, so I’ve been looking.”
“For ice cream?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you find it? Aisle 7.”
”Yes. I found it. How did you…”
”Are you on your way home?”
“Not yet.”
“Why not!?”
“I.…”
“Hello?!”
“Y…..”
“Hello?!
“What kind of…”
“Vanilla! Get vanilla.”
“OK. That’s all you had to say. I’ll be home in a few minutes.”
“Bye.”
“B…”

*CLICK*
3 minutes

*RING-RING*

“….”
“Breyers, or Blue Bell?”

*CLICK*

STUFF I LOVE:

I should really start this post with a note about my beautiful wife and/or our five better-than-average-looking children, but they kind of get too much airtime already if I’m being honest, so, no. Not today, favorite people on the planet. 

Today is about other things.

Valentine’s Day has always been a source of anxiety for me. I’m a romantic. A writer. A thoughtful feeler. A giver. And someone who experiences genuine joy from seeing other people loved well. It’s like I was created for this day. Or vice versa.

I used to be pretty dang good at V-Day — I can write a Roses are Red spin-off with the best of ‘em. I can get creative with “gifts,” too. One time, I had no money, so I printed off a hundred or so pictures of flowers and gave the paper to Bethany with a stupid poem I wrote about not having any money. Cheesy? Yes. Effective? We’ve been married for 20 years and we have five kids. You tell me.  

But, these days, Valentine’s is just too much pressure. I’ve decided that this is a holiday for young people. New lovers. New love. Or even new like-a-lots. It’s not for a balding, overweight, 47-year-old man who picked the romance department clean two decades ago. 

Paper flowers? I mean, come on.

That said, I do have love in my heart (for the aforementioned as well as a few other things), so I thought I’d share 8 GREAT THINGS I LOVE with you today, because maybe you will love them, too. I’m a giver.

Happy Valentine’s Day, everybody!

4 THINGS I LOVE THAT MATTER:

1. My “Be Kind” hoodie from THE HAPPY GIVERS. I’ve posted about this thing before, but since then (about 6 weeks ago) I have worn it every single day, and it’s better than ever. Also, buying it made me feel good about myself and my contributions to the world because monies from each purchase go to a really good cause. Also, also, I think it’s fun to wear a constant reminder that we could all be doing a little better. 

2. HELP ONE NOW. In 2007, Chris Marlow met a starving young child living in an abandoned gas station in Zimbabwe. That encounter compelled him to start Help One Now and dedicate his life to seeking justice by empowering leaders and organizing a wide table of people to do good together.

I met Payton Junkin a few years ago after he reached out and said, “I don’t know why, really, but I think we should be friends.” I initially said “yes,” because his name is Payton Junkin and that’s cool and weird at the same time, but then found out that he was right. We hit it off right away, and I immediately became fascinated and inspired by Help One Now. Payton is the “strategic partnerships director” for HON which, today serves in some of the poorest communities in the world — where people live on less than $2 US per day. Please check these guys out. They are the real deal… doing unreal things to change the world!

3. WHAT’S YOUR OMELET? My friend, Bryan, has ALS. It’s an awful, evil disease that hits super-close to home for me. I met Bryan at a speaking engagement in Tennessee. I was telling my ALS story (my Dad) when I noticed a beautiful woman in the back of the room crying. Long story short, she is Bryan’s wife and it turns out MY story hit too close to home for her. The next day, I met Bryan. That’s the only time I have ever spent with the Gallentine’s, but I feel as though we are forever connected, and I will cherish our friendship forever. Bryan can tell you about “What’s Your Omelet?” better than I can. Check this out:

In 2017 I was diagnosed with terminal ALS- also known as Lou Gehrig’s Disease. Knowing the life expectancy is just a brief 2-5 years, I started trying to figure out everything that I wanted to see and do in the time I have left. One of those things was learning how to make an omelet!  Pretty silly in some ways, pretty awesome in others. Basically “What’s your omelet?” turned into a motto of mine. What’s something that you’ve always wanted to do- or learn how to do.  It can be something as simple as learning how to make an omelet, or as big as climbing Mt Everest. We never know when our time is coming- so what are you waiting for?

Check out Bryan’s website (he’s also a brilliant songwriter and sells some of his old records on the site) and get some “WYO?” merch. To quote Bryan… What are you waiting for?

4. Candle of the Month Club from GRACE FLAME. My wife signed me up for a candle of the month club, because, basically, I am a girly-man and I like things that smell pretty. She heard about these particular candles through Ann Voskamp, who is incredible, and serves on the Board, but this isn’t about her. It’s about me being a girly-man. Anyway, I got the first candle — Eucalyptus + Sweet Snow — a few weeks ago, and I squealed like a 13-year-old girl at a Bieber concert. I should be getting the next candle any day now, and I can hardly wait. What’s next? Magnolia-Clementine? Oh, be still my flame-happy heart!

Also… and this is the best part: 100% of all funds not only empowers artisans around the world, but partners with Mercy House Global to support several homes for young women and their babies in crisis pregnancies in the slums of Nairobi, Kenya. 

4 THINGS I LOVE THAT DON’T REALLY MATTER:

The Avett Brothers. “I and Love and You” is one of the all-around best albums I’ve ever heard. “No Hard Feelings” from True Sadness makes me cry EVERY time, and I kind of want to move to Concord, North Carolina and be the third, less talented, but equally good-looking older brother. 

The Great British Bake Off. There are seven seasons of this glorious program, and I have watched them all. Twice. I don’t know how or why this has become a thing for me, but the show is both relaxing AND nerve-wracking, and it’s the best thing on TV right now. You’ll not convince me otherwise.

Post Malone. I’m not sorry. This guy’s face tattoos scare the crap out of me and he uses language that makes 98% of mothers everywhere cry. But he is “mad-talented,” and “Hollywood is Bleeding” is on repeat right now on the ol’ iTunes, because “shorty mixin’ up the vodka with the lee-croix” is pure poetry. You’ll not convince me otherwise.

The Atlanta Braves. It’s an addiction more than fandom, I think. I listen to or watch every inning of every game. This is something that threatens my marriage every season, but I still do it. I must be addicted, right? There’s no way I would willingly risk losing the best thing that has ever happened to me for BASEBALL. #ChopOn

That’s it. That’s my list. Eight things. That’s all the love I can give. Happy Valentine’s Day. Blah, blah, blah… give me some Twizzlers. Strawberry, please.

Make that 9 things I love.  

A strange, dull headache

Screams came from the hallway this morning at 6:39 AM:

“Oh, my gosh! Dude! What the… Oh, gross. What’s that smell!” 

I heard one kid gagging at another kid.

“What!?”

The other kid shot back — the way a guilty man might feign being offended at being asked where he was the night of November such and such in 1983.

“Dude, it’s your backpack. What the crap is that?”

The first kid was appalled and literally gagging now.

Pulling away and trying not to make eye contact with anyone, Stinky looked toward the ground and simply shrugged his shoulders.

I stepped into the hallway and it hit me.

“Sweet Lord. What’s in there?” My throat tightened. 

“I don’t know,” he whispered, still looking down.

“Well, have… you… checked?!” My voice was getting higher and louder with every syllable. 

Knowing that he was defeated, he dropped the backpack at my feet and slinked away. The smell was sour and musty, but also sweet; like a flooded basement full of old lip gloss. 

I unzipped the bag.

Over the winter break — a day short of three entire weeks — a lot of things occurred: 

Countless Christmas gatherings, parties, concerts, shopping trips, hiking trips, card games, movies, a weekend jaunt to Atlanta to see my brother and his family, and — good grief — we even went on a cruise. All seven of us. From Mobile, Alabama to Cozumel, Mexico and back home again. We visited a whole ‘nother country a couple of weeks ago! It was a pretty remarkable break. My goodness, we even rang in a brand new year! A new decade!

A pretty remarkable break, indeed.

And while all of that was happening: the gatherings and parties, and family adventures and what-not; this backpack… A blue one, with gray piping and big, white, stitched, block letters that read: “QUINN”… sat in the corner of a closet… festering.

Have you ever almost fallen down because of a smell? I hadn’t either until this morning. My knees buckled and I dropped the bag, grasping for the wall to hold me.

I guess he just wasn’t hungry the day I packed the Turkey and Cheese sandwich, raspberries, yogurt cup, Doritos, fruit snacks, and chocolate milk, because the lunch sack remained — smashed and leaking — exactly where he had shoved it back in mid-December. Last month. Last year. 

He’s on the bus now, unbruised (by God’s grace) and unfazed. His backpack is in the washer. I have a strange, dull headache. And I’m going back to bed. 

Happy New Year. 

Like no one's watching

I walked in on (one of my kids) dancing the other day — spinning, jumping, gyrating, and singing at the top of (his) lungs. It was so incredibly unbound, gleeful, genuine, and care-free.

I can’t remember the last time I did that.

What about you? When was the last time you picked up a hairbrush, tennis shoe, pencil, or Pringle’s can and bounced wildly around the room with your “microphone,” while scream-singing your favorite song? If you’re like me, it’s been a while.

I don’t dance anymore.

What keeps us from that — or any freeness such as that: casting aside any and all inhibitions and expressing unadulterated joy simply because emotion overtakes us, the beat of the drum moves us, or maybe, just maybe we think that no one is watching?

Perhaps, as we get older and more tired, it’s the weight of the day that keeps us grounded; the busyness and the constant running from here to there and yon; the responsibilities of the responsible that still our feet and bind our flailing arms.

Whatever it is, I want less of it in my life.

I want more dancing. I want more laughing and smiling and spinning and jumping and singing and losing myself in the music or the moment… or whatever!

Don’t you? 

Do me a favor, though. Dance with your clothes on, for goodness sakes! My kid was buck-naked, and it was preeeeetty gross.

And awesome.
And hilarious.
And, well, kind of impressive, actually…

Developing Character

July 11, 1988. 16 days before my 16th birthday. The day my father went to heaven. Good grief, that was 31 years ago! Sounds like a long time when you say it out loud, but that day — that day still seems like it was this week. I remember what I was wearing when I found him. I remember what I did as soon as I knew: I ran out the back door of the house and into the back yard, screaming obscenities, trying to make myself cry. I don’t really recall a lot after that; the days that followed, or even the funeral.

Those memories play back like scenes from television reruns. Bits and pieces seem clear, but most of the dialogue is paraphrased, muffled, or blurred.

I do remember his mustache – he had a great Tom Selleck mustache that would disappear into his coffee cup, and it stung my face when he kissed me goodnight or gave me a “zerbert” before school. I remember his laugh. And I remember his eyes. He had happy eyes.

As I grow older, the more and more thankful I am for my Dad and the influence he had on my childhood. But I think I am most thankful for the impact he has had on me since he’s been gone. Let me explain: After people die we tend to remember the best of them. And as time passes, memories play back like a “Best of…” highlight reel.

Not many people sit and ponder the douchey things their dead relatives did. And even then, there’s a kindness and fondness to the memory. My memories of my father are all good ones. I’m sure he yelled sometimes, but I don’t remember, and I bet he had a good reason if he did.

Probably my sister. 

I’m sure he had annoying habits and flaws that bothered me and others. I’m sure he smelled bad from time to time. But I can’t recall.

I just remember him being there. At practices, games, performances, church and the dinner table. I remember his smile. I remember playing football, wrestling, skipping rocks and skipping church to watch John McEnroe defeat Bjorn Borg in the 1981 Wimbledon championship. I was nine.

He sounded kind of like a seal being eaten by a larger seal when he laughed. He’d listen so intently as I recounted silly stories or made-up jokes and then he’d belly laugh as if I were the funniest 14-year-old on the planet. 

I don’t remember a single time when he was disappointed or angry. I don’t remember him telling me to get my shoes out of the middle of the room or to go make my bed. Of course he did all of those things, but that’s not who he was. He was the guy who taught me how to juggle by tossing around pieces of my grandmother’s fine china. The man who threw me flailing through the air at the swimming pool, and then again and again, because, “I think I can get you farther out there this time.” He was the one who let me ride on his shoulders while climbing Stone Mountain. The guy who sweated through telling about how men and women are different and how babies are made when those “differences” bump into each other.

I remember throwing the football with him. Once, maybe. We played a lot of football, but I only really remember that one time, in the front yard. I remember the Willow Tree that we'd established as the end zone. Maybe it was a Dogwood.

I remember that my dad ran a lot. He was a marathon runner, actually. But I don’t have a clear memory of him actually running. Not a single one.

My dad loved Jesus, and he loved to tell people about how God had changed his life. After he got sick, he was even more excited and vocal about God’s love and grace. I remember getting frustrated about that. I was a healthy, confused, and pissed off teenager, and he was about to die with those happy eyes. I didn’t get it back then. I do now.

My story — like all stories — is full of major and minor characters that have impacted me in one way or another. Like the lady I saw in the checkout line at Wal-Mart this weekend. She was a minor character. True, I will not soon forget the chain she had connected to rings in her ear and her nose, but she simply made an impression.

My father, on the other hand, was a major character. Someone around whom the plot of my story has been cast. He helped shape me, mold me, guide me, and direct me to where my story will ultimately lead.

I’m getting to a point, I promise.

We all have a unique opportunity to help shape the people around us. Every day we’re here. The things we do and the memories we create – no matter how faded or heightened they become over time – can make a real, meaningful, and forever-difference in the stories of folks we love. And here’s the really great part: We don’t have to do great, big things to make a difference.

Quick story:

I got cut from my school’s basketball team in eighth grade, and I was devastated. Truth be told, I should have been cut because I wasn’t very good. But my dad knew I was upset, and he ached with me. Later on that day, he proceeded to give me one of the the single, greatest gifts he ever gave me. That night, after I had gone to bed, he wrote me a note. It was scribbled, and hard to make out because he had to write it with his left hand. He was born right-handed, but the disease he had rendered his right arm useless. So, he sat down at the kitchen table that night and wrote this with his left:

Today is going to be a great day. 

It’s your day. No one and nothing can make your day anything other than what you want it to be. If the weather calls for rain, decide now that you will enjoy being wet. If the test score is low, work hard to make sure the next one is higher. If treated unfairly for something, smile and be thankful for the many things you’ve not been caught for. 

Attitude is everything. Today is not yet anything. Fill it with laughter.

—Dad

I kept that note for a long time. Somewhere along the way, I lost the original, but the idea of that note – and the words he wrote – have stuck with me. Hardly a week goes by that I don’t think about him and what he must’ve been going through when he took the time to encourage me and reveal some truth about what really matters.

It was such a simple act, but the mark it made on me is indelible.

Now, I may not remember all the details of my relationship with the man I called “Dad,” but I hope that the life he helped shape can become a meaningful character in the story of others. 

What about your day today will be remembered? More important, what about your life today will shape the people around you?

Thirteen Dollars

My Mom used to visit every so often. She’d come in for the kids’ ballgames, recitals, and other events where her presence was often undervalued, and always marginally appreciated by those she came to honor. “I’m so proud of you! Great job! You are so talented! Mimi loves you so much…” She’d pour out her accolades and delight with the excitement of a raving fan, sometimes even following up the charge with, “can I have your autograph?”

She always came bearing gifts, too. But not like “real” gifts. She’d bring plastic things. Gadgets, knick-knacks, trinkets, baubles, and tchotchke she’d pick up at the Kangaroo gas station or Dollar Tree between here and her home in Newnan, Georgia. Oh, and candy. Good lord. Always with the candy. She’d spend a month’s social security on Gummy Worms. 

“Tell you what,” I’d say. “Next time, just bring us $300 for the cavities we’re gonna have to get filled, OK?”

And I was only half-joking. Her incessant “gift” giving was a little bit annoying. “Why do you bring them these silly things? You do know this stuff breaks before you even make it back to your house, don’t you? It’s kind of a waste of money.”

She’d purse her lips and smile. “Oh, let them enjoy it,” she’d say. “Even if it’s just for a few minutes. Haven’t you ever heard ‘it’s the thought that counts’?” 

Yes. Yes I have. I’d mumble to myself. So, how about thinking of something else next time…

No matter how hard we’d try to convince her that she was wasting her money; buying things the kids would never use again; and really kind of pissing us off by going against our wishes and continuing to fill our trash bins with useless crap… she’d always show up with a sackful of Gummies, cap guns, action figures, hair bows, and .99 cent knock-off Barbie dolls.

And she was always trying to give me money! Always. Big bills. Small bills. Change from the bottom of her purse…

“Mom, for cripe’s sake, I don’t need the money. Stop. I don’t need it. You feel bad? Why do you feel bad? Trouble? You’re no trouble. Why do you think you’re trouble? You’re family. Stop apologizing for coming to visit. No. I’m not taking your money. And don’t give it to the kids. They don’t need it either. They don’t need anything. We’re covered up as it is already. My gosh, there’s enough candy in there to kill an Oompa-Loompa. I’m not going to tell you again. No. I’m not mad. Why do you think I’m mad? I’m just saying. We don’t need your money. YOU need your money. Keep it. Put it back in your purse and we’ll see you in a few weeks. Go. We’ll see you later. Leave. See you soon. I love you, too. We all do. Bye. Thank you. See you later. Buh-bye…”

One time, a few years ago, my daughter and I went out to the car after one of Mom’s visits, and I found a wadded-up paper towel in the driver’s seat. I opened it up and found several bills  crumpled inside and a note that simply read: Love you.

After shaking my head and rolling my eyes, I put the paper towel in the cup holder and started to back out of the driveway. “How much money is that?” My daughter asked, picking up the folded bills and counting. “It’s thirteen dollars,” she said. “Why would Mimi give you thirteen dollars?”

Exactly, I thought to myself. How weird is that? Why in the world would she give me thirteen do…? And then it hit me, sure as I am typing the words today. She gave me thirteen dollars because that’s all she had.

She gave me everything.

If she’d been able to find an ink pen, peppermint, Band-Aid, paperclip, coupon, or gift card in her pocketbook, she would’ve wrapped that up in a paper towel, too.

She gave us everything.

Gosh, we miss you, Mama.

What a woman.

#lovelikemimi

Go team, go.

Being a parent is hard. Especially for moms. Now, I’m not 100% positive this is true because I have a penis, but as the father of five I can say with great confidence and conviction that Mom’ing has got to be the most difficult thing in the world.

I’m not a biologist or psychologist or anyone worth quoting, really, but you can trust me. I had a Mom, I know a lot of Moms, and I snore next to one of them — the best one, in my opinion — every night. That last fact alone is proof enough that the female sex endures the most harrowing existence there is, and that the Mom, the Mom, is the strongest and bravest and smartest and most formidable of the species without even a shadow of a doubt.

Being a dad is like being an assistant coach on a professional basketball team. I work kind of hard, I guess. I’ve got a clipboard with all the rules on it. I yell a lot and wave my arms, and look pretty busy on the sidelines with my shiny shoes and ten dollar haircut. I shake my head disapprovingly sometimes, but mostly I just give high-fives and slap people on the butt as they walk past, not listening to a single word I say.

Taking the basketball analogy excruciatingly too far, I imagine that being a mom is like being the head coach, lead cheerleader, star player, mascot, team owner, chief executive officer of basketball and game day operations, and the ball… all at once.

I guess what I am trying to say is that the mom my children came out of is pretty special. And I’m not just writing that here because she’s my wife and I’m a little bit scared of her; I write it because it’s true.

She is gorgeous and wonderful and perfect in almost every way. She’s someone that catches your breath and your heart, and you oftentimes get overcome by the simple fact that you share the same planet as this beautiful creature. She’s the everything, but willing to become the nothing so that everyone around her can shine a little brighter. She’s the real deal and the reason I smile most of the time, and I just thought you should know.

Actually, I don’t smile most of the time — because I am a parent and being a parent is hard — but when I do, it’s usually because of her.

Go team, go.

I USED TO BE IN LOVE WITH A SIX-FOOT-TWO-INCH BLACK ANGEL.

I used to be in love with a black woman. And before you go thinking to yourself: “what difference does race make?” let me just tell you… it matters.

Louise Harper was the first person I saw as I stepped off of the bus at Rockbridge Elementary School in 1979. It was my first day of school, and to this day I remember the fear with which I took my first steps onto my new school's front lawn.

Would I be able to make friends? Would I understand their language? I’d spent most of my life in Tennessee where the children and teachers spoke in 'tennessean'. The kids dressed like me, looked like me, were like me. Stone Mountain, Georgia was a different world. 

I’m pretty sure I wore khaki shorts and a white and blue striped button-down oxford shirt on that day. My seat-mate on the ride over had on blue jeans and a black Zeppelin t-shirt. He carried a notebook with the words 'Andy Gibb is a fag' scratched into its cover. 

I actually kind of loved the Bee Gee's, and felt my tear ducts begin to swell like the tide before rain.

Mrs. Harper's eyes met mine almost immediately. She saw me. She understood. But as she made her way through the sea of scrappy-haired kids to me, I looked frantically for a direction in which to escape. She was huge. Her jet-black hair rested, hard as a rock high atop her gigantic head. Her bright red fingernails — a foot long if they were a centimeter — reflected the light of the morning sun, making it seem as though she was approaching me with 10 bloody swords.

My bottom lip quivered uncontrollably. And then with a slight, knowing tilt of her enormous noggin — she smiled. As if she’d been there before; like maybe she had been forced to endure being different at some point in her life; feeling lost and alone; maybe she didn’t look right or dress right or listen to the right kinds of music. It was the most beautiful and sincere thing I'd ever seen. Suddenly, my fear turned to acceptance and I began to weep. Literally. My arms fell limp to my sides and I stood there, crying, resting in the arms of a black angel.

She took me to the boys restroom, cleared the place of a few ne’er-do-wells who were lingering before class, and she cleaned me up. Then we entered room 119 together. She held my trembling hand in hers and guided me to my third-row seat between a beautiful girl named Kelly, I think, and a kid named James, who was chewing on his shirt collar:

"Boys and girls, I want to introduce Billy Ivery. He just moved here from Tennessee."

"Ivey," I whispered, afraid to not look directly into Mrs. Harper's beautiful brown eyes. 

"Ivery." Mrs. Harper said once again, smiling at me as if I were a newborn. 

She called me 'Mr. Ivery' for the rest of the year, but I didn't care. I loved her. And she loved me back. We shared something much more powerful than words or names. Ashamedly, we lost touch over time, and I am embarrassed to admit that I don’t even know if she’s still alive, but I will never forget my first and purest love. A 6-foot-2-inch black woman named Louise.

She might not have been the perfect teacher, but she was my perfect teacher. She taught me to read. She taught me multiplication and division. She taught me cursive. And she taught me to trust; about a love much greater than flirtations, romance, or time. She taught me about compassion, empathy, and unconditional acceptance during a crazy time… in a crazy world. 

I thought about her this morning for some reason, and I’m glad I did. I needed her back then, and I need her today.

Thank you, Mrs. Harper.