It’s All in the Name

Early in my healthcare career I found it most difficult to be separated from my family for great lengths of time. To ease the burden of being away from my small children for weeks and sometimes months at a time, I’d go shopping. I found looking for small gifts for my three children and wife, made me feel like I was keeping them ever in the forefront of my mind.

A little tourist store called Dog Patch near the town I worked, was a frequent stop for me. I could buy little Knickknack toys or t shirts relatively cheap. One such day, I found the perfect t-shirt for my little three-year-old daughter. Red, it had emblazoned across the front in big white letters the words, “I Love My Daddy”, then in smaller letters under that sentence read the words, “This advertisement paid for by him.” It became one of my daughter’s favorite shirts until she outgrew it. Once hanging nearly to the floor, it seemed after only a few short years, her little legs had grown like gazelles and it now fit perfectly. That shirt did two things for me, it identified who that little girl belonged, and it gave evidence everyday that my “little” girl was no longer so little.

Several years ago while on vacation to Florida, I had forgotten a most important item. I had forgotten the power cord to a medical device I needed. Calling several medical equipment businesses, I found one place in Tampa that had the exact cord I needed. The individual on the phone told me that it would cost $40 plus tax to secure it. Grumbling, I had no choice, I told the lady I would be coming for it within the hour.

Since I was on vacation, I had my ever present New England Patriots ball cap on when I entered the establishment.
The receptionist pointed me to a large and loud salesman and as he approached, his distinct Bostonian accent was clear. Before I could say a word, He said, “Are you a New England-dah too?” I replied with the most authentic accent I could muster, “Yessuh, I am.” I was bawn up nawth of Bosty in Andovah! With a big grin, he said, “You wore the right hat today, I’ll sell you the cord much cheapah because of it!” We parted with a smile as he was glad to help a hometown person, and I was most happy to save some coin.

I’ve grown up hearing the adage, “It’s who you know.” But I gathered something a little deeper. As believers in Christ, it’s not enough that we wear some article of clothing professing our association; what is most important is, is His identifiable mark on us somewhere? Do we profess Him with our actions and deeds? When we open our mouth, like the Bostonian salesman, can people readily identify where our true home lies?

It would be so easy if we had a shirt like my daughter that showed progress on how much we’ve grown over the past year; not physically but spiritually. No I’m not going to get rid of my ball cap that reads, “Prayer, Just do it! It’s still one of my favorite hats. I’m hoping that maybe today and everyday, whomever I come in contact with, they will look at me like they once did my little daughter and see that I’m growing, and know that God does loves me and I Him. Oh, and if I did wear such a Christian shirt proclaiming His love, it would have to state, “His advertisement “the cross” was paid for by Him.

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Technology Doesn’t Work for Me

I recall my first run-in with technology foibles when a text message I sent went horribly awry. I had an angry individual who perceiving I did something wrong, sent me a less than kind text message. Endeavoring to soften their displeasure, I sent them back a message where I simply typed, “I extend to you my humbleness.” I later learned my phone’s auto-correct changed the word “humbleness” to “bumblebees.” So far, I never did hear a response from my “buzz” word but then again, maybe my message stung a little.

Technologies are supposed to lighten our load, ease our burdens, but not for me. When we bought our new car recently, our son said, “You’ll love the Siri voice technology! Push a button, tell the corresponding voice what you want it to do, and voila, you’ll be on your way!” Fat chance! Seldom does the blasted thing work correctly. Tell it to call Mom and it will say, “Don, Tom, Ron? Tell it to navigate you to Olive Garden, it will map out directions to Olive Branch (MS). At this point, my Siri capable voice activation is like most highway work crews. They only work about 25% of the time.

Another wrinkle in my phone is that it is bluetooth connected to my car and even when I don’t want it to, the car will sync with my phone and all my stored music will begin to blast. I can’t tell you how many times I have entered my vehicle in sweet meditation on the way to church only to hear blasting from the car speakers with no warning, Razzy Bailey singing the country song, Midnight Hauler.” I’d ask my kids how to keep this from happening but then they’d just make me feel stupid by rolling their eyes.

This week I had a technology emergency I’d never experienced before. As a habit, I bring my cell phone everywhere with me; this includes the bathroom. Oh, I’ve received phone calls there and have been grateful like I’m sure you all are, that the phone manufacturers offer a mute button as an option. However, this was far different. Very rarely do I panic and if I’m tempted to do so, I always have a backup plan. Just not today!!!

While I was just getting comfortable on the porcelain goddess, my phone rang. Thinking nothing of it, I picked it up; it was a FaceTime phone call. For those not familiar, this type of phone call is a video chat operation. As I panicked over whether to answer it, several things immediately came to mind; if I do answer the call, is the front video lens activated or is it the back lens? Will I have to hold my head up, or will the camera point down or vice versa? If the video is activated, will the wrong lens inadvertently show me from the viewpoint of a fish eye lens where it will make me look like Humpty Dumpty on a porcelain egg? I feared hitting the wrong button so greatly that I felt like James Bond choosing which wire to cut on the bomb to defuse the catastrophe.

I never did learn who called, and I don’t care. I don’t need that kind of stress in my life! I threw it in the sink and covered it with a towel. Today I am at peace, I averted disaster by fixing my high tech problem as any intelligent older person would do. My phone now sports two sticky note flaps on each side of my cellphone. Next time you call me for a Facetime call, you didn’t call a canary, my sticky pad is yellow.

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Man Looks on the Outward Appearance

With my wife gone for the week taking care of our grand babies, it’s been hit or miss for me in the kitchen. Tired of cereal and toast, I opted to visit a place my wife simply refers to as “Awful House.” I don’t know why she has an aversion to a place that brings you waffles and hash browns in abundance. Sure you don’t have to swallow since most of the food slides down; but where else can you go and see such an eclectic group of people? Don’t say Walmart, it’s in a class (less) all of it’s own.

As I awaited my meal I couldn’t help but notice the clientele. Just on my side of the restaurant there was a Muslim couple with the wife in her headscarf (they didn’t look happy) a grandmother, daughter, and grand daughter sat at the second table, they didn’t look happy either. The young granddaughter sported a nondescript fish hook piece of jewelry in her nose. Then there was the gay couple, who spread out over the whole two seats with their combat boots and tufted hair styles. At the far table, three old men sat talking about the old days. Oddly, they were the most animated in the whole room.

It took some time for my order to arrive, so I sat and studied the remainder of the room. I should have been more patient since the cooks today were all trainees; apparently a new place was opening up across town soon. After my meal arrived, my confidence in the trainers went out the window. My waffle tasted like an oven mitt with an uncooked center, my toast wasn’t toasted. It merely tasted like the bread came from a bread bag that had been left open all night long.

However my expected meal was forgotten as I studied my town’s smaller version of the United Nations.  Except for the old timers in the corner, not one person in the place smiled even once the whole time I ate my breakfast. It was sad really.  The waitress complained of her car having transmission problems to another customer, someone needed $300 for something else and the remainder had their heads down either phone surfing or just trying to ignore the world.

I often wonder as I sit in a strange place what others may think of my presence. Am I just as odd to them as I sometimes think they must be to me? Herein lies my thought process. I scope a room and I don’t see much that impresses me at all. My training tells me God on the other hand does the very same thing but He sees something I don’t; individuals who are extremely valuable. No matter the hair style, jewelry, or background, He can take the same occupants from this sad room and do some amazing things with them. He did it with a bunch of course fisherman once, why not an unenthusiastic group from this diner?

My breakfast wasn’t memorable, but it didn’t have to be.  The “Good Book” encourages me to always view a roomful of people with the same eyes God has. If I do that, then I will recognize this bit of truth, a lousy meal is easier to swallow when you are among friends. After all, family reunions taught me that!



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I Propose a New Cable Show

Having traveled extensively around the country over the past year, I’m always intrigued by the accents of various regions. None fascinate me more than where I was born, New England. I can tell the difference between Massachusetts, Maine and Vermont accents. In this whole region, the letter “A” replaces the “R” at the end of the word and vice versa. I remember a young woman I worked with a number of years ago who went by the name of Donna. Frustratingly for her, our boss always called her, Donner. I used to joke with her at Christmas if she was going to bring her friends, Blitzen and Cupid to the Christmas party. She always stuck her tongue out at me.

In other parts of the country like Kentucky, eastern Appalachian people merge words together to form a new word. The phrase, “No More” is converted to one word, namore. In Maine the words “No Sir” are converted to No-Sah.

It is with this in mind that I came up with a brilliant new show for cable. Throughout my travels, one thing has been universally constant, the wearing of yoga pants is being abused. You’ve heard of the show, “Say Yes to the Dress” right? I suggest a Down East citizen of Maine hosting a show with a heavy accent entitled, “Say No-Sah to the Yoga!” I can imagine the host saying in typical Maine flair, “Yess-uh, we bout seen a bit too much of a wicked good thing he-ah (here).

I can hear their colorful play-by-play even now with every episode. Announcer: “Mutha (Mother) is behind them curtains they-ah and she’s checkin out a new fangled ex-acise suit. I’m hopen she looks more like a Volkswagen beetle cuvvah (Cover) than a sausage casing!”

For all of us, you can’t tell me that you haven’t seen your own version of Ipecac, in spandex. I was returning to my car this week when I saw the worst form of spandex abuse ever. The woman’s tight yoga outfit made her look more like a large python from Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. The kind that has eaten a baby rhino and is now sunning itself on a rock. I couldn’t help but think, “Does she own a mirror?”

I’m not trying to shame individuals with girth, I’m one. But there’s a reason why at my age when I go to the beach, I don’t don a Speed-Don’t bathing suit. This is the reason why homes have blinds, seeing too much, is most often too much! I get it, we all want to think of ourselves as having the perfect body, but in spandex unless you have the body of an Adonis; you are going to look like a kielbasa ready to explode.

One thing about Mainers, they know where to buy their outfits; L.L. Beans of course. Besides, it’s perfect. After 4X comes tent right? I’m sure I can get a bargain if I don’t need the tent stakes.

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