Thanksgiving is such a wonderful holiday. It's so much more than a day off work. It's so much more than a day to spend with family and friends.
Thanksgiving is a day to reflect on the many things we have to be thankful for.
So today, I am thankful.
I am thankful for the most wonderful wife in the world. The woman who loves me in spite of me. The woman who watches over me and completes me. The woman who took all that the cancer threw at her and can stand here today as a seven year Breast Cancer Survivor.
I am thankful for two wonderful, godly sons. Young men who work hard and have turned out remarkably well even in light of the many mistakes I have made along the way.
I am thankful for family and friends who care.
I am thankful for a job that pays me far more than I am worth as I sometimes struggle to get through a day.
I am thankful that I had almost 13 years with Dad and almost 49 years with Mom; both of whom left us too soon.
Most of all, I am thankful that I have a Savior who died on the cross to secure my eternity.
And for all of those things, and many more too numerous to list, I am thankful...
Happy Thanksgiving to all!
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Famous Last Words...
"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest I go to than I have ever known."
Those may very well be the most famous "last words" in history; even if they were merely a quote from a work of fiction.
Some may only recognize those words as a close approximation of Admiral Kirk's words as he reflected on Spock's death in Star Trek II: The Wrath Of Khan. Others appreciate their origin as Sydney Carton's final words to his friend Charles Darnay in Charles Dickens' A Tale Of Two Cities.
We all imagine ourselves to be like Sydney Carton, and utter profound words just before we die. Perhaps some even rehearse the words that they hope they will have the strength to speak as they draw their last breath. Others record their messages to be shared after they are gone.
Yet few of us will know when we may utter those final sounds or draw our last breath.
I don't intend for this to be a macabre writing; nor am I implying that there is an imminent issue in my life that may lead to me uttering my own last words sooner rather than later. Instead, I found myself reflecting on what people would say if they knew their words would be their last as I listened to radio reports of yet another untimely death in the early morning hours as I drove to work after dropping Matthew off at the airport.
What would that person have said if they knew they were truly saying goodbye to friends and family? What words would they desire to have ringing in their loved ones' ears for the rest of their lives as their final message to them?
I always say the words, "I love you," to each person in my family before we part; whether it be merely for the night or a time we will be apart. Those are the words I want them hear over and over in their mind as they think about the last time we were together; whenever that may be.
After all, we never really know...
Those may very well be the most famous "last words" in history; even if they were merely a quote from a work of fiction.
Some may only recognize those words as a close approximation of Admiral Kirk's words as he reflected on Spock's death in Star Trek II: The Wrath Of Khan. Others appreciate their origin as Sydney Carton's final words to his friend Charles Darnay in Charles Dickens' A Tale Of Two Cities.
We all imagine ourselves to be like Sydney Carton, and utter profound words just before we die. Perhaps some even rehearse the words that they hope they will have the strength to speak as they draw their last breath. Others record their messages to be shared after they are gone.
Yet few of us will know when we may utter those final sounds or draw our last breath.
I don't intend for this to be a macabre writing; nor am I implying that there is an imminent issue in my life that may lead to me uttering my own last words sooner rather than later. Instead, I found myself reflecting on what people would say if they knew their words would be their last as I listened to radio reports of yet another untimely death in the early morning hours as I drove to work after dropping Matthew off at the airport.
What would that person have said if they knew they were truly saying goodbye to friends and family? What words would they desire to have ringing in their loved ones' ears for the rest of their lives as their final message to them?
I always say the words, "I love you," to each person in my family before we part; whether it be merely for the night or a time we will be apart. Those are the words I want them hear over and over in their mind as they think about the last time we were together; whenever that may be.
After all, we never really know...
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
The Measure Of Success
Each person has their own measure of success. Hunters are no exception. For some, only a massive buck will do. For others, any deer makes the hunt successful. I don't measure the success of a hunt by what is harvested, but by the memories we have created.
This season was the most brutal weather I have ever experienced for the deer hunt. The temperature was in single digits or, at best, teens throughout the hunt with winds gusting up to thirty miles per hour. The wind chills did not rise out of single digits all weekend. It was frigid and the winds kept the deer from moving very much.
But we were hunting. Life pretty much limits us to opening weekend for our annual deer hunting. You take whatever you get when you only have two days and you have to wait an entire year to have another chance.
Matthew and I retreated to our blind for shelter from the wind after only two and one half hours on the stand Saturday morning. The weather was tolerable once protected from the wind, but only barely. We heard almost no shooting from the surrounding farms; which is extremely unusual for opening weekend.
But we sat and we talked and we enjoyed hunting together for the first time in five years.
We made many memories, so this year provided great success and, oh yeah, Matthew got two deer, too.
This season was the most brutal weather I have ever experienced for the deer hunt. The temperature was in single digits or, at best, teens throughout the hunt with winds gusting up to thirty miles per hour. The wind chills did not rise out of single digits all weekend. It was frigid and the winds kept the deer from moving very much.
But we were hunting. Life pretty much limits us to opening weekend for our annual deer hunting. You take whatever you get when you only have two days and you have to wait an entire year to have another chance.
Matthew and I retreated to our blind for shelter from the wind after only two and one half hours on the stand Saturday morning. The weather was tolerable once protected from the wind, but only barely. We heard almost no shooting from the surrounding farms; which is extremely unusual for opening weekend.
But we sat and we talked and we enjoyed hunting together for the first time in five years.
We made many memories, so this year provided great success and, oh yeah, Matthew got two deer, too.
Friday, November 22, 2013
It's Just Not For Joseph
Tomorrow marks Wisconsin's 2014 Gun Deer Season opener. Matthew and I will be in our stand well before the 6:38 AM opening; excited to be hunting together again after Matthew's four year absence for school. The forecast indicates that the windchill will probably be in the single digits all day. It will probably be quite breezy.
None of that matters. We will be in our stand anxiously awaiting the opening of shooting hours so the hunt can begin.
Joseph will still be at home in his nice, warm bed. This whole deer hunting thing just isn't for him. He's a trooper, though. He actually went hunting with me a couple of times in the past. Joseph loves to feast on the fruits of our hunt; generally, though, there are things about deer hunting that make it tough for Joseph.
A deer hunter must be still.
A deer hunter must be quiet.
A deer hunter must be patient.
A deer hunter must be out in the cold.
Joseph's really not too keen on any of those things. The whole idea of sitting quietly for hours in sub-freezing temperature just isn't for him. He feels the need to burst out in song without warning sometimes. His idea of "watching television" with us typically involves actually sitting and watching for a few minutes until he thinks about a song or a commercial comes on television with music that catches his attention, either of which requires him to immediately jump up and head to his keyboard to play and sing. This cycle repeats itself throughout the evening.
That doesn't work too well when hunting; particularly deer hunting.
So tomorrow, as Matthew and I brave the cold in anticipation of seeing deer; Joseph will be back in a warm house in North Prairie singing and talking and moving around and generally doing those things that would ruin a good deer hunt.
It's just not for Joseph.
None of that matters. We will be in our stand anxiously awaiting the opening of shooting hours so the hunt can begin.
Joseph will still be at home in his nice, warm bed. This whole deer hunting thing just isn't for him. He's a trooper, though. He actually went hunting with me a couple of times in the past. Joseph loves to feast on the fruits of our hunt; generally, though, there are things about deer hunting that make it tough for Joseph.
A deer hunter must be still.
A deer hunter must be quiet.
A deer hunter must be patient.
A deer hunter must be out in the cold.
Joseph's really not too keen on any of those things. The whole idea of sitting quietly for hours in sub-freezing temperature just isn't for him. He feels the need to burst out in song without warning sometimes. His idea of "watching television" with us typically involves actually sitting and watching for a few minutes until he thinks about a song or a commercial comes on television with music that catches his attention, either of which requires him to immediately jump up and head to his keyboard to play and sing. This cycle repeats itself throughout the evening.
That doesn't work too well when hunting; particularly deer hunting.
So tomorrow, as Matthew and I brave the cold in anticipation of seeing deer; Joseph will be back in a warm house in North Prairie singing and talking and moving around and generally doing those things that would ruin a good deer hunt.
It's just not for Joseph.
Thursday, November 21, 2013
My father's son...
Mom often used to exclaim - with great exasperation - that I most certainly was my father's son. I always took those words as a compliment; even if she didn't always intend it as such.
I was sitting in Mom's hospital room the morning of Bryan and Tess's wedding the last time I heard her say those words. I'm pretty sure she hadn't intended it to be a compliment that time, but I choked back tears as she spoke those words.
To understand the context of Mom's comment, you must first understand that Diane lovingly starches and presses the shirts that I wear every day. I can't think of anything more comfortable than a crisply starched shirt; one that would stand on its own if leaned against the wall. I used to take my shirts to the cleaners where I specified heavy starch only because they didn't offer extra-heavy. The cost of having my shirts cleaned and pressed gradually crept up to the point that Diane decided that she would do it, instead. So Diane washes, then starches (no spray starch for my shirts) and wrings out my shirts. She presses them and hangs them in the closet for me to choose from each morning.
I had worn one of those shirts to the hospital that morning. Mom reached out and rubbed the fabric between her thumb and fingers; reminded, I'm sure, of the many hours she had spent starching and pressing Dad's shirts. That's when she said, without prompting, "You certainly are your father's son."
My thoughts immediately went back to the memories of a now distant past. You see, Dad never changed out of his "work clothes" when he got home; he hung up his jacket and took off his tie, but he kept on his crisply starched shirt.
I remembered Mom with a shaker cap in the top of a Pepsi bottle filled with water to dampen his shirts as she pressed them.
I remembered sitting in Dad's lap as he taught me to manually calculate square roots in the margin of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.
I remembered him holding me as I cried during Gayle Sayers' speech at the end of Brian's Song.
I remembered him sitting on my bed to tell me Tanda had died.
I remembered being snuggled against him as we sat in the emergency room at Cardinal Glennon hospital when I got a concussion.
I remembered the house on Mardel and the days when my biggest worry was a looming test.
I remembered the days at The Lodge.
I remembered being a kid again.
Mostly, though, I remembered the feeling of Dad's shirt against my cheek. I loved the feel of those shirts on my cheek as I snuggled against him in his chair.
I sat beside Mom's hospital bed as she continued to rub the fabric of my shirt; awash in the emotions of my memories and the grief of knowing that I would never hear her speak those words to me again. Perhaps she, too, was also thinking back to those days of starched shirts.
The silence was finally broken as we said, "I love you," to each other.
I suppose it was in that fleeting moment, with Mom's hand still on the sleeve of my shirt, that we really said goodbye.
I was sitting in Mom's hospital room the morning of Bryan and Tess's wedding the last time I heard her say those words. I'm pretty sure she hadn't intended it to be a compliment that time, but I choked back tears as she spoke those words.
To understand the context of Mom's comment, you must first understand that Diane lovingly starches and presses the shirts that I wear every day. I can't think of anything more comfortable than a crisply starched shirt; one that would stand on its own if leaned against the wall. I used to take my shirts to the cleaners where I specified heavy starch only because they didn't offer extra-heavy. The cost of having my shirts cleaned and pressed gradually crept up to the point that Diane decided that she would do it, instead. So Diane washes, then starches (no spray starch for my shirts) and wrings out my shirts. She presses them and hangs them in the closet for me to choose from each morning.
I had worn one of those shirts to the hospital that morning. Mom reached out and rubbed the fabric between her thumb and fingers; reminded, I'm sure, of the many hours she had spent starching and pressing Dad's shirts. That's when she said, without prompting, "You certainly are your father's son."
My thoughts immediately went back to the memories of a now distant past. You see, Dad never changed out of his "work clothes" when he got home; he hung up his jacket and took off his tie, but he kept on his crisply starched shirt.
I remembered Mom with a shaker cap in the top of a Pepsi bottle filled with water to dampen his shirts as she pressed them.
I remembered sitting in Dad's lap as he taught me to manually calculate square roots in the margin of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch.
I remembered him holding me as I cried during Gayle Sayers' speech at the end of Brian's Song.
I remembered him sitting on my bed to tell me Tanda had died.
I remembered being snuggled against him as we sat in the emergency room at Cardinal Glennon hospital when I got a concussion.
I remembered the house on Mardel and the days when my biggest worry was a looming test.
I remembered the days at The Lodge.
I remembered being a kid again.
Mostly, though, I remembered the feeling of Dad's shirt against my cheek. I loved the feel of those shirts on my cheek as I snuggled against him in his chair.
I sat beside Mom's hospital bed as she continued to rub the fabric of my shirt; awash in the emotions of my memories and the grief of knowing that I would never hear her speak those words to me again. Perhaps she, too, was also thinking back to those days of starched shirts.
The silence was finally broken as we said, "I love you," to each other.
I suppose it was in that fleeting moment, with Mom's hand still on the sleeve of my shirt, that we really said goodbye.
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Fat Chickens
We spent most of my vacation weeks at Mom and Ted's farm when the boys were young. They played in the creek, fished in the pond, ran through the fields, played with the dogs and cats and fed the chickens.
Matthew seemed to think it was his calling in life to make sure the chickens had enough to eat. He couldn't go outside without scooping up a bucketful of chicken feed; spreading it as he wandered through yard. The chickens quickly figured out that Matthew meant food and swarmed him as soon as he stepped foot in the yard.
Matthew was right at home among the chickens.
Sometimes he would spot a chicken moving about in the yard as he looked out the kitchen window. He immediately informed everyone that he needed to go out and feed the chickens because they were looking for him.
And out he would go.
Once on the porch, he would scoop up a bucket of feed; which was the equivalent of calling every chicken in the yard to race toward the porch to greet him as he came down the steps. I'm sure he was as thrilled to see the chickens as they were to see him.
Mom used to laugh as she watched him; exclaiming that, for the week Matthew was there, she had the best fed chickens on Earth.
I'm pretty sure she was right.
Matthew seemed to think it was his calling in life to make sure the chickens had enough to eat. He couldn't go outside without scooping up a bucketful of chicken feed; spreading it as he wandered through yard. The chickens quickly figured out that Matthew meant food and swarmed him as soon as he stepped foot in the yard.
Matthew was right at home among the chickens.
Sometimes he would spot a chicken moving about in the yard as he looked out the kitchen window. He immediately informed everyone that he needed to go out and feed the chickens because they were looking for him.
And out he would go.
Once on the porch, he would scoop up a bucket of feed; which was the equivalent of calling every chicken in the yard to race toward the porch to greet him as he came down the steps. I'm sure he was as thrilled to see the chickens as they were to see him.
Mom used to laugh as she watched him; exclaiming that, for the week Matthew was there, she had the best fed chickens on Earth.
I'm pretty sure she was right.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Camping
As a kid, I never realized that one of the reasons we went camping on our family vacation each year was that we really couldn't afford to do much else. I always thought we went camping because camping was fun!
We spent many days at Meramec State Park; catching tadpoles and crawdads, digging holes in the sandbar and playing in the Meramec River. Nightfall brought a campfire and lightning bugs.
The campground was its own little community, with new "neighbors" on each trip; all there to share in the fun and camaraderie that made camping unique. As a general rule, the people were friendly and respectful of those around them.
I loved our camping trips. We didn't have anything fancy; just a simple, canvas tent. Dad had built a wooden box that held all of our standard camping supplies. We had to haul water in a large, plastic jug from the spigot the campsite provided. Mom cooked on a Coleman campstove or, occasionally, over the campfire.
We scrounged around for just the right stick for roasting marshmallows.
Yes, camping was fun. I thought camping was the most wonderful vacation possible. It wasn't until I was an adult that Mom told me we camped because we couldn't afford to do some of the other "vacation" things. It wasn't that we all (Kim excluded, of course) didn't LOVE to camp; just that we didn't have many other options.
We couldn't afford to do "real" vacations with our kids, either. Most of our vacations when they were young were spent at Mom and Ted's farm. We took a couple of weekend "trips" when the boys were older, but mostly we just stayed home. The only "real" vacation we took with the boys was when we spent a week in Northern Wisconsin with some friends.
I regret that we couldn't do more with the boys, but we enjoyed the things we did. I hope they look back on those trips someday with the same joy that I do about our camping trips.
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