Zommies

I was talking with my five-year-old middle granddaughter Jordan not long ago, and, as usually is the case in any conversation with Jordan, our dialogue took an interesting turn. Jordan wanted to talk about zommies. Now, it was around the Halloween season and with all of the current fascination that is focused on zombies, vampires, werewolves and the like, I wasn't too surprised at her topic of conversation and readily pursued it.
"What are zommies?" I wanted to know. "they're munsters" Jordan informed me. "Well, what do zommies do?" "They eat your brain" she answered matter-of-factly, then hastened to add, "but they're not real."
I decided to press the issue just a little farther, you know, just to see where it would go. After all, it isn't every day that one gets to discuss zommies. "You know," I continued, "When I was a little boy we used to eat pig brains mixed in scrambled eggs. Would you like to try some pig brains?" She was riding in the back seat, so I couldn't see the look on her face, but I sure heard it in her voice when she replied, "Papa...that's distusting!" Bear in mind that we had just been talking about zommies eating brains, but even at five she was able to discern between a fictional zommie and actually having pork brains and eggs for breakfast.
You know, Jordan, when I think about it...well I guess pork brains are kind of distusting at that. I think I'll stick with the make believe zommies myself.

First Princess

Tomorrow, November 1, is my daughter's birthday. Thinking of the day she was born makes me miss her more than ever.
I am fond of saying that of all of the things I've done wrong, Jennifer is one thing that I got right. Some may ask, "Do you think that your daughter is perfect?" The short answer? "Yes."
I wrote the following poem just a few months before Eliana was born. I'd been thinking about how much I doted on Rachel and Jordan and called them my princesses, and it occured to me that with all of the attention I was giving the girls I might be neglecting Jennifer, my first princess. The following poem was written for her. (Happy birthday baby girl.)

First Princess

Once my only princess, all lace and pretty curls

I had no way of knowing then, you’d have three little girls

The games we played, the memories made, are now with grandkids done

But not to worry princess, for you were my first one

Without you, there’d be no songs of crows out in the yard

No Cinderella slippers, no children’s handmade cards

A fairy tale is just a book, but children make it live

And because you were my princess, I have all these things to give

I love to watch your children play, but it’s really you I see

I thought that I was teaching you, but you were teaching me

Your little girls love Papa now, but I was first your dad

And I know how to treat a princess, because of the one I had

Little boys are wonderful, and in this world they have their place

But little girls are special, for they teach a man’s heart grace

There’s nothing like a princess, to make a dad feel like a king

And I can grow old happy now, for I’ve had everything

I’ve had music in my soul, and I’ve had singing in my heart

I’ve had little hands to hold, I’ve driven monsters from the dark

I now have two more little girls, and soon, another one

They’ll all be Papa’s princess, because you were my first one.



"Trouble Me Not"

"And he from within shall answer and say, Trouble me not: the door is now shut, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot rise and give thee." -- Luke 11:7

     Ok. I'm the kind of guy that it bothers to be "bothered." If you want to irritate me, just catch me busy with something and demand that I drop what I'm doing and take care of another task...now. My daughter even used to do a pretty good imitation of me. She'd pretend to be sitting at a desk and start moving her hands all over the "desk top" while saying, "Not now, I'm busy...I'm busy."
     In Luke 11, Jesus is teaching about prayer. His point is that if we keep asking and believing, that God will respond. I know I'm about to take the Scripture a bit out of text here, but please, bear with me. I was laying in my assigned place in the bed this evening (the middle, so I can have Rachel on one side and Jordan on the other) watching Shrek 2 for the eleventy-seventh time when the above portion of Scripture came to my mind.
It troubles me that there are only so many more of these moments. I want to look at life and say, "don't trouble me; don't demand for time to go on. Don't make kids grow up and get married and have my grandchildren and move them to Greenville."
     I know...I know. I know all about the will of God being that a man is to leave his parents and cleave unto his wife. I know that my son-in-law is answering a call upon his life that requires this move. I know what an important part of that calling my daughter is to his ministry (at this point, I may know that better than even she does.) I know from my own experiences in this very field. Been there. Done that. I understand and support them in this venture.
     But right now, while Shrek and Donkey try to rescue Fiona, don't trouble me with all of that. The door is now shut, and my (grand)children are with me in bed; I cannot rise and give thee. Just leave me alone for a little while...I'll be ok.

Lip Prints

     A significant part of my job in security is is to fingerprint people during the pre-screening phase of their employment. By the time they get to me, they have already submitted character references along with their application, those references have been contacted, the applicant has submitted to a drug test, and then they come see me to be fingerprinted.
     Instead of the outdated blotter and ink, we use a computer program that allows the individual to press his or her fingerprints onto a glass surface (similar to the scanners seen at grocery stores), and their prints show up on the monitor and are stored in the computer. At the end of the process, I electronically send their prints to the FBI in Jackson, MS for a background check. At that point, my job is finished. I personally do not have access to the results of anyone’s background check. That confidential information stays with the personnel department.
     However, there are certain things I can tell about a person while I am conducting the fingerprinting process. For example, I can usually spot a mechanic by the scars on his knuckles and fingers. It is also pretty easy to spot a guitar player by the callouses on the fingers of the left hand. Then there are the students and office workers who have the tell-tell paper cuts, and those who have a history in working with harsh chemicals because of the difficulty of being able to get an acceptable print (the prints have often been damaged). A person’s prints can tell you an awful lot about them.
     But of all the prints I’ve seen, the ones I saw at home last night will no doubt stay with me from now on. Vicky pointed out an unusual set of prints on the windowpane while we were on the sofa relaxing after supper. Now, with three granddaughters we have become quite accustomed to seeing their little fingerprints smeared all over this particular windowpane. The window is low enough to the floor that even little Ellie has started pulling up and pressing her little hands against the panes.
     But what Vicky pointed out were not fingerprints, they were lip prints. Three little kisses in a vertical row. Too low on the glass for Rachel, too high for Ellie, we looked at each other and said, "Jordan." These, like all prints, tell a very accurate story about the person who made them. It was just like her; creative, bold, independent, and a bit mischievous (ok, maybe more than a bit).
     The random fingerprints left all over the window are the result of the girls pressing their fingers against the glass while they look outside. But the lip prints were placed there on purpose and in a specific order. They say, "Jordan was here."
     I look for this one to leave her unique mark on the world wherever she goes in life. She has already established herself as an individual who cares little for following the herd. She’d much rather stampede it.
     I have nearly five years worth of Jordan stories, and I won’t try to give them all to you at once. Just let me say that in a world filled with middle children who tend to go unnoticed and remain rather invisible, this one ain’t.
     A little Windex will remove her lip prints from the windowpane, but Papa’s heart is covered with indelible Jordan prints that have changed him forever.

A Bouqet of Weeds

As a child, did you ever pick your mother a big bouquet of flowers only to discover later in life that those "flowers" were actually weeds? Probably. So did I.
I was reminded of this not long ago while spending a little time outside with my two oldest granddaughters, Rachel and Jordan. I was showing them how to get a drop of "honey" from a honeysuckle (a rite of passage for all Southern children), much to their delight.
Jordan wanted to know, "What other kinds of flowers can we eat Papa?" At this point I began to question the wisdom of teaching this little honeysuckle trick to the girls...well, to Jordan anyway. I could just see her sampling every blossom, bloom, weed and leaf she came across. I did my best to let them know that only honeysuckles were permissible, and even then only under adult supervision (yeah, I know, good luck with that, Papa). The afternoon ended with Rachel picking a big bouquet of honeysuckles to take to her mother. I wonder, of all the ladies in the world who received flowers that day, how many got honeysuckles?
I remember picking my own mother a bouquet of bitter weeds when I was a kid. To have seen the look on her face and the fuss she made over them, you'd have thought that I'd brought her a dozen long stemmed roses. Once I found out that the "flowers" I'd been picking for mom were actually called "bitter weeds," I stopped picking them.
That's kind of sad, isn't it? Not that my mother didn't get any more bitter weeds, but that children reach a point to where they see a difference between flowers and weeds. From that point on, the world isn't quite as pretty anymore. Something of innocence is lost that we never quite get back. We begin to see people in the same way as we do flowers and weeds. That's when bullies and cliques are created.
I know that thorns and thistles were created as a curse upon the earth for the sake of sinful mankind, but I also know that Jesus wore a crown of thorns, not roses, when He died to redeem us from sin; my curse upon His head.
All I'm saying is that it will not surprise me a bit to get to heaven and find bitter weeds growing right along with the flowers. Not because they're weeds, but because they have pretty yellow petals. If they are indeed growing there, I'm going to pick a big bouquet of them for my mother.