"A Diós"

Aaaaannnnd... they're off!

The past two months flew by much too quickly, crammed chock-full of laughter and tears and memories to last, well... at least until Sunday.

And when it finally came time for them to leave, somehow I let them go without  saying “goodbye”.

I mean, I told them.  In a million little ways, I told them. 

The long goodbye came in waves...

of early morning visits with the deer...

 and skipping down the lane at sunset.

Waves of goodbye parties... 

overflowing with heartfelt prayers and songs of blessings.

Playdates with cousins...

and cookouts..

and nature hikes.

Tractor rides...

and Spa Days.

Blowing out candles..

and one last handshake with Gran-MiMi.

All without ever saying "Goodbye".

Those little faces... they are my favorite hellos.   It only makes sense they would be my hardest goodbyes.

So, go ahead...  call me a wuss; label me a wimp.  But I swear, every time I tried to tell them 'bye', my eyes got all leaky and my tongue grew thick and clumsy and my voice went up three octaves.

Because there is  no easy way to say goodbye to the ones who take up so much space in your heart.  

Winnie the Pooh said it best...

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Instead, I'll just say 'ADIOS'.

  

Adios doesn't mean goodbye.  

Literally translated, it means "to God".  

And that's right where they're headed.

RADICAL FAITH

There have been times in my life where every breath was an act of faith. Dark times, when I feared what the next phone call would bring. Sad times, when I had to say goodbye to souls who anchored my life.

  

But God was always there.

Even when I didn't want what He wanted, still He was with me... holding my hand, shaking His head at my pitiful faith, laughing at the notion that it's all about me.

I adore Him, this God of mine. Even when He's annoying and starts poking his heavenly nose into my worldly business... slamming doors that I've tried to pry open, taking me out of my comfort zone.  Even then, I love Him so.

And Jesus loves me, too.  This I know.  He loves me. Abundantly.

Everything I know about love, God has taught me... through my family, my parents, my brothers, my sons, my friends, my patients, even through the homeless guy begging for money outside the post office.

But I've learned the best love lessons of all have come from my grandbabies.

There is nothing like Grandbaby Love.  Grandbaby Love is love on crack.

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I was in the middle of the Caribbean when I got a text from my oldest son, telling me he had been accepted to missionary training school in Mexico.

It wasn't a huge surprise... he's been heading in this direction for years. He was so excited to share the news that I couldn't help but be happy for him.

Caught up in the excitement, it took me a moment to realize my Grandbabies would be moving to Mexico with him!  Oh, Noooooooo!!!

I'm not gonna lie, I ugly cried.  I couldn't stand to think about spending days and weeks without these precious lights of  joy and goodness running in and out of my home.

Still, I tried to be supportive:

I was feeling ALL the feels. Humbled by their courage. Proud of their faithfulness. Excited to imagine their future. Swamped by sadness at the thought of being so far away from my babies. The only thing I knew for sure was that all of our lives were about to change.

The other grandmother and I briefly considered hiring a crooked lawyer and suing for custody...

And then, I got a text from my brother. (I don't know about you guys, but God always speaks to me through my brothers. If you don't hear God speaking to you through your siblings, then you're not listening. He also speaks to me through my music boxes, but that's another story.) Kelly wanted to share a new song with me, as he often does. The song he shared was Trust In You by Lauren Daigle. This is the verse that got me good:

Truth is, You know what tomorrow brings,

There’s not a day ahead You have not seen.

So, in all things be my life and breath,

I want what You want Lord and nothing less.

I want what you want, Lord.

Boom.

Straight to the heart.

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It was pretty clear that God wanted my son and his family in Mexico.

I knew the call from God hadn't happened overnight. I knew He had been preparing my son and his wife for years.

Thinking back, I believe Lucas began to feel God's call while attending grad school. Though I doubt he fully understood it or could attempt to explain it, neither could he deny it.

Ten years ago, just to pass the time during a 45-minute commute to school, he taught himself to speak Spanish fluently.

Soon after graduating, Lucas opened an optometry clinic in a primarily Hispanic neighborhood so that he would be able to utilize his Spanish-speaking skills.

The name he chose for his clinic...?

OJO... Spanish for 'eye'.

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I also thought of all the years his angel wife, Cassie, has devoted to teaching and ministering to inner city children... the pre-dawn trips to deliver babies during her midwifery training.

As a team, my son and his wife have skill sets that would rival MacGyver and Wonder Woman.  Undoubtedly, God will use them in wonderful and marvelous ways. They are extraordinarily equipped for this journey.

But dang it, why did they have to take my babies away???

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Last week while in prayer and meditation, a memory popped in my head.  It was of a conversation between my grandson Matthew and I when he was about three years old. I had asked him if he knew what he wanted to be when he grew up.  His answer astounded me...

"I'm gonna go all over the world and collect all the little kids who don't have a mommy or a daddy and I'm gonna build 'em an orphanage and take care of them."

Boom. Once again. 

Finally, I got it. This is not about me. It has never been about me. Except for the understanding that my greatest contribution to God's kingdom may not be something I DID, but rather someone I raised. Or perhaps even... someone THEY are raising.

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I'm not gonna lie. It's been difficult to watch them sell or give away almost everything they own. Literally. Just like Jesus tells us to do in the Bible. In red letters.

I understand having a desire to change the world, wanting to make it a better place. I can only conclude that there are 'degrees' of World Changers. Clearly, I am not as high on the World Changer Scale as is my son and his wife. In fact, I would say that on a scale of 'Kim Kardashian' to 'Mother Teresa', I'm somewhere in the 'Evita' range. You remember Evita... she was a good woman who really loved her shoes.  Not unlike myself.  We're all called in different ways.  So, don't cry for me Argentina---God isn't making me empty out my closet. Not yet, anyway..

I finally decided that the decisions being made by my son and his wife were not so much an enormous life-changing gamble...

...but the most radical act of faith I have ever witnessed..

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The Dickman and I didn't raise our son to be a missionary. We raised him to be obedient to God.

Extraordinary moves of God begin with ordinary acts of obedience.

And isn't it ironical that my God is using my son---the eye doctor---to teach me the true meaning of walking by faith, not by sight... teaching me to want what God wants.

Radical Faith. Indeed.

Discerning Minds Want to Know...

I know it is time to vacuum when I put my G-boy on the floor and five seconds later, I am plucking petrified raisins, toenail clippings, rogue Legos or hairy dust balls out of his chubby hands.

If he would just leave all that crap alone, I wouldn't have to vacuum. 

But he doesn't.  You know why?

My one-year old G-babe (miracle that he is) lacks DISCERNMENT.

Okay, maybe I skipped a few core developmental stages in there. 

First, my G-baby will need to develop enough Knowledge to understand what toenail clippings are. But Knowledge alone is not enough. Knowing what a toenail is doesn't mean he won't put it in his mouth because, you know... he's a guy. 

It will take him a bit longer to learn Right from Wrong, and even longer to determine Good from Evil. By then, he'll have grown so tall that the dust balls are no longer eye level. (Though he may still choose to eat petrified raisins in full Knowledge and Understanding that they are going to taste Evil, ala Garden of Eden.)

This is where Wisdom comes in. But only with experience. And often from mistakes. For example, every parent knows to pick up the Legos before getting up to pee in the middle of the night.  It only takes one barefooted misstep to gain such wisdom.

Hopefully, Wisdom eventually leads to Discernment.

I say 'hopefully', because the older I get, the more I realize Discernment is not a developmental tool in everybody's arsenal.

Facebook has taught me this lesson well. The sparsity of Discernment on my news feed is downright depressing. Never more so than during times of social and political upheaval.

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We are at war, y'all.

But our enemy isn't angry young men wielding AK-47's or pressure cookers. 

Our enemy is Satan.  And his weapons to destroy us are many.

He uses hate, bigotry, ignorance, deception, defeat, doubt, division. He breaks our hearts, he confuses our minds.  He paralyses our souls with fear...

Then he sits back in satisfaction, watching as we destroy each other.

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These people we call “extremists”...? 

They are making extremists of us all.

We're acting like a bunch of soulless knuckleheads.

When did we forget that we are spiritual beings having a human experience? 

We.Are.Spiritual.Beings.

Our hearts may be broken, but are souls are intact.  We are not defenseless.

The Holy Spirit dwells within us.

Just writing those words gives me chills.  

Yet there are so many believers who never unwrap this God-given gift.  It reminds me of those little wooden Russian dolls that stack inside of each other.  How sad it would be to never figure out how to open the biggest doll and discover the other little dolls nesting inside.

So it is with the Holy Spirit. Open up the Big Gift and you will find seven more:

Do you realize what a gift this truly is?  We have within our possession – within our very soul – every single tool we need to be More Than Conquerors.

Doesn't it make sense to develop these gifts and put them to use? 

Isn't it time?

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This world can seem very dark. We The People, perpetuate that darkness with our divisiveness and judgment. We rush to jump on bandwagons and leap joyfully into piles of false assumptions, seemingly driven by a self-serving desire to be right. 

Discernment is not self-serving, but considers the common good. 

Discernment relies on the Holy Spirit for guidance.

And if our guidance is coming from anywhere else, we're nothing but a bunch of fools...

(Which reminds me, I need to go vacuum.)

No More Excuses

My husband is a wonderful son.

Every Sunday after church he goes by the nursing home and then goes to church again, this time with his Mama. 

I know. Thatsalottachurch. But he loves it, looks forward to it every week.

Except yesterday. Yesterday, he came home sad.

According to him, his Mama was 'out of sorts'. She had missed her hair appointment earlier in the week and refused to eat dinner two nights in a row. She seemed to be having more trouble than usual communicating, which made him feel as though she was slipping further away.

Generally speaking, poking and pestering the Dickman are high on the list of my favorite activities. I'm really good at it, too. But when my guy is sad...? It absolutely swamps me. His sadness is my Kryptonite.

I knew there wasn't anything I could say to make him feel better. Sometimes there just aren't enough words. But I knew there was something I could do that might help.

I didn't want to do it. Just the thought of it made my stomach all wonky.

'Cause I really don't like to go the nursing home.

There. I said it.

It's not something I'm proud of or even understand. I mean, I work with geriatrics all the time. I've taken multiple courses on how to deal with Alzheimer patients. I know all the tricks of the trade.

But it's a whole nuther deal when it happens to be YOUR geriatric in THEIR nursing home.

I could blame it on logistics, as she naps most of the day and is usually up and alert only for meals.

But that's not really the truth. 

The truth is that I am a wuss and it breaks my heart to see her there. And after I see her, I hate telling her goodbye. I hate driving off without her. Even though I know she's much more contented and settled than she ever was at my house, it makes me cry. 

Every. Single. Time.

But I did what any self-respecting slacker of a daughter-in-law would do. I put on my Big Girl panties, packed up my hairspray and headed out.

She was asleep when I peeked into her room. I stood in the doorway and watched her for a moment, hating to disturb her peaceful rest.

My heart squeezed a little as I took note of her weight loss and her messy hair.

“Dora B?” I said as I gently shook her shoulder; “Dora B... your girl is here.” (She had forgotten my name months ago, but still referred to me as 'her girl'.)

Her eyes opened slowly in confusion. She blinked at me as she sat up, no sign of recognition on her face.

“Dickie told me you were having a bad hair day. I came to make you pretty.”

She smoothed her wrinkled hand self-consciously over her hair and stuttered incoherently at me, still trying to figure out who I was and why I was there. 

“I'm Robin. I belong to Dickie. Remember Dickie? He came to church with you this morning.”

Finally, the look of confusion disappeared and her face lit up in a beautiful smile. “Ttttthat's my boy. He, he comes here. Church. Every time. I love him.”

“And he loves you. He loves you very much.”

“Yyyyyyou, you know Dddddd...? I have tttttttwo boys,” she told me proudly as she held up two fingers.

“I know! I know both of them. The other one comes and sings to you all the time, right?”

“Yyyyyes. Oh, yes. And he, he is GOOD!”

I began to comb and curl as her tangled words came out in a jumbled stream. I couldn't understand most of what she said but I got the jest: her beautician didn't show up this week and her hair was ugly and she didn't want anybody to see her like that and she wasn't eating because she didn't like the food and I was a good niece.

After much backcombing and hairspraying (the bigger the hair, the closer to God... amiright?) I walked her into the bathroom to look in the big mirror.

“Oh, my. Tttthat. Gggggood. Better!”

Her delighted expression had me blinking back tears, while giving myself a good kick in the butt for not making more of an effort to spend time with her.

“See how pretty you are?! You're gonna have to fight the fellers away at dinner!” I teased.

And I'll be danged if I didn't catch a glimpse of that old ornery twinkle in her baby blue eyes.

“Seriously, Dora B? You still looking for a boyfriend?”

She grinned up at me coquettishly and shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Why not?!”

We laughed even harder at my pathetic attempts to take a picture of ourselves for the Dickman. I hugged her tight and promised to be back soon.

And I meant it.

Cause sometimes you just need your girl...

(RUTH 1:16)

The Times They Are A'Changin'...

"An extra yawn one morning in the springtime,

an extra snooze one night in the autumn

is all that we ask in return for dazzling gifts.

We borrow an hour one night in April;

we pay it back with golden interest 

five months later."

~ Winston Churchill ~

Thanks to ol' Benjamin Franklin, I get an extra hour of sleep tonight. The problem is, I don't need it tonight. I needed it three nights ago.

Wednesday night my sleep was continually interrupted by the snoring declarations of my congested husband competing with blustering wind gusts of biblical proportions. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating, but they were AT LEAST Wizard of Oz proportions. I eventually dozed off about 2 a.m., only to be rudely awakened by a loud crash on my deck. When I looked out the window, I discovered that our patio table had been blown over. Glass was shattered all over our deck. I looked up just in time to catch Toto flying by...

At that point, I just gave up.  I got out of bed, fixed myself a hot cup of tea and plopped down in my recliner to do some pondering.

Unfortunately, I happen to be one of those wacky people who ponders about a bazillion things all at once. Thoughts flit in and out of my consciousness like a twisted string of twinkle lights, going off like tiny explosions. The derailed dialog of my jumbled train of thoughts went something like this:

Man, those winds are horrible! This is how it must feel to be in a hurricane, except without all the water. If I had been in Hurricane Katrina, I would have totally climbed on top of my roof. I must remember to put an ax in the attic in case I ever need to be rescued.  I remember hearing one of the Cowsills drowned during Katrina. Horrible. I wonder if it was the one I had the crush on? Barry? Paul? Whichever one used to sing Indian Lake.  I used to get all tingle-toed every time I heard that song. Now it just makes me sad because, you know... lake/water/drowning. The Partridge Family was written about the Cowsills. I always wondered why Shirley Partridge didn't marry Eddie's Father. They should've cast Shirley as the girlfriend on The Courtship of Eddie's Father because dang it, Eddie needed a mommy! I also had a crush on Eddie's father but I was way too young for Bill Bixby.  Back in those days, I was still perfecting my kissing technique.  I practiced on my pillow and sometimes on my hand because, well... skin. I wasn't sure what I was doing, but I knew enough to follow the KISS acronym --- Keep It Simple Stupid. Which I later found to be a complete waste of time unless you're kissing your grandparents.  The Dickman certainly didn't believe in simple kisses. Crystal Blue Persuasion... that was my all-time favorite make-out song in high school. I'm hungry! What can I eat that is not a carb??? Peanuts! I used to love to put peanuts in my Dr. Pepper bottles. Pry off the bottle cap, pour in a cylinder of salted peanuts, put the cap back on and punch a hole in it with an ice pick. Then I would lay on the floor and sip on my salty Dr. Pepper while watching Gunsmoke with Mom and Dad. Man, that Miss Kitty sure knew how to work her wiles on the Marshall!  I learned a lot from Miss Kitty.  It always bothered me that Festus walked with such a bad limp. Hmmmm... I wonder if Festus is the reason I became a PT? I think I could help him with that Trendelenberg gait of his.  Is Festus even still alive? My brother dressed up as Festus for Halloween one year. Or was it Daniel Boone? Daniel Boone was a man, was a Big Man; and he fought for America to make all Americans free. Where's Daniel Boone when we need him? Today, all the little munchkins dress up like slashers or even scarier - politicians.  The debate sucked. I really don't like Talking Heads with Bad Hair. Snoopy must feel the exact same way when he listens to Charlie Brown. I would rather watch a dance-off between the candidates.  Yeah, that would be great!  Whoever does the best Moonwalk wins the nomination.  I would also take into consideration anybody ballsy enough to give the Donald a noogie, though I don't hate his proposal to build a wall around Texas because, you know... vampires. Which reminds me, I need to buy some candy.

I finally wore my brain out and woke up Thursday morning all fuzzy headed and fatigued. I spent the whole day yawning in everybody's face. (Which is really attractive. Especially when you're too tired to brush your teeth.)

Anyhoo... the point of all of this is just to say: Daylight Savings Time is stupid, y'all. And the only way it will ever make sense is if the Powers That Be can figure out a way to establish a time bank where we can literally deposit or withdraw our personal hours of time.

Furthermore... We The People should be allowed to decide precisely which hour(s) we want to subtract from our life and which hour(s) we choose to spend more wisely.

For example, I would really like to subtract the hour I spent watching Caitlyn Jenner determine the best way to duct tape her junk so she wouldn't look all bumpy in a one-piece swimsuit. I mean, I feel for you Caitlyn... I really do. And I sincerely hope you find the peace you are seeking (along with the balance necessary to walk in heels).  But I don't need to spend any more time picking up what you are laying down. Capeesh?

There are other hours that I would like to erase... hours that resulted in pain and sadness; hours that could have been, should have been spent dispensing love and kindness rather than anger and judgement.

As for that extra hour of time... ah, let me count the ways! Without hesitation, I would cash in those extra hours for more time with my Daddy and my Grandmother Flodie, and others who ran out of hours before I was ready.  I would spend that extra time just sitting by their side... resting my head on their shoulder... breathing them in... showing them pictures of my grandbabies and doing anything to make them laugh. Oh, to hear their laughter and have another chance to trace the lines of their face until they were memorized in my soul! Because this time I would realize how quickly those memories fade away...

If I had any time left over, I would go back and tuck my little boys into bed one more time... whispering words of thanksgiving into their ears for all the wonderful ways they will bless my life.

Now that would more than compensate for all the time I've lost sitting in the Dairy Queen drive-through or waiting on 'hold' with my homeowners insurance.

The truth is, no matter how many times we set and reset our clocks, there really are no do-overs. And regardless of whether we fall back or spring forward, there are only 24 hours in a day. (This will be proven tomorrow when the analog clock on my Buick will once again be right, by the way.)

Time is an illusion, no matter what the government or Ben Franklin might have you believe. 

Ben Franklin is not the boss of me.

Heck, I'm not even the boss of me. I'm a 58 year old menopausal woman... I can't even control my own bladder.

All I'm in control of is changing the time on my clocks.  And I can't even do that without an instruction manual.

What I CAN do is choose to make a conscious effort to make every hour of every day count.  To find divine purpose amid the frustrations and brokenness of this crazy, happy, heart-breakingly beautiful world. To live my life without regrets for misspent hours and wasted time. 

I'm pretty sure the Lord laughs (politely, of course) at our feeble attempts to add and subtract from the days He has given us.  I doubt he even owns a watch.  But that's okay.  

Because He is my God and my time is in His hands...

PSALMS 31:14-15

THE ROAD LESS TRAVELED

I just returned home from a weekend in the Hill Country. I drove my big ass car all by myself. And I got lost all by myself.  Coming and going.

What should've been a six and a half hour drive ended up taking seven hours. Coming and going.

I will admit that my sense of direction is not much better than Stevie Wonder's sight. Still, I'm blaming my lostedness on my low-carb diet.

Carbs give me clairity. And hope.  And happiness.

Nothing happy about This Diet. I can eat anything but sugar and bread and dairy and, well... food. Hardly any carbs. And I'm pretty sure my Spirit Animal is a Carbohydrate.

Whatever the reason, I missed my turn in Abilene. Bless my heart, I was halfway to Fort Worth before I realized my mistake. After much swearing and gnashing of teeth, I somehow stumbled back onto the loop (AKA: The Circle Of Hell). But then I needed to pee. At a Stage 4 level of bladder distress.

I stopped at one of those multi-purpose stations where you can get gas and Burger King fries and a passport and a shower and very likely, an STD.

I mowed over three burly truckers on my way to the restroom and made it Just In Time. I promised myself I would be more disciplined about doing those blasted Kegels.

As I exited the restroom, I noticed a huge sign hanging over the deli: “WE SELL BLUE BELL ICE CREAM”.

I immediately performed a military precision pivot turn and headed straight for the dude behind the counter.

“Blue Bell?” I asked in a reverent whisper. “You have BLUE BELL?”

“Well... not exactly. I mean, we WILL have it when the trucks make their way up to us.”

“And when will that be? Today? Tomorrow?” I asked hopefully.

“Uh, no ma'am. It'll be at least January.”

I tried to hide my utter disgust as I dismissively nodded my head and headed dejectedly to my car.

Not ONLY had I gotten lost in Abilene... my Blue Bell hopes had been crushed to smithereens. Clearly, the universe was in cahoots to keep me carb-less.

Miraculously, by the time I arrived in Fredericksburg I had regained my will to live.

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On the way back home, I found myself lost again.  But This Time, I found salvation instead of frustration.

I had been on the road for less than half an hour before I realized my mistake. Driving into a strange town was my first clue.

I parked in a empty lot in Harper-Freakin-Texas and pulled out my well-worn map (soiled with shame) in an attempted to find myself.

According to my calculations (nebulous,  at best), FM 634 was only a half-inch long and would get me to Mason much quicker than backtracking.

So there I was, cluelessly traversing the backroads of the Hill Country. No phone service. No GPS.  No carbs.   No hope.

Trying to make the best of it, I put on a James Taylor CD and began performing Kegels to the lucid tunes of Fire and Rain.

But then... I started to notice the spectacular scenery outside my windshield. Slowly, I found myself relaxing and actually enjoying my impromptu detour. Because really, who could possibly stay upset while passing flocks of fluffy sheep and herds of long-horned cattle grazing on miles and miles of rolling Texas ranchland?

Apparently, not I.

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I saw the cross from way down the road.

It was beautiful. At least 10 feet tall and made out of hand-carved wood.

Awed by the beauty of the cross, it took a minute before I noticed the old rancher.

He was kneeling on one knee with a hand touching the cross and the other holding onto his cowboy hat. His head was bowed in prayer.

I quickly took all this in as I drove down the country road. When my heart caught up to my brain, I wanted to make a U-turn and go back to the cross.  But I didn't.

I realized what I had witnessed was holy and ordinary; precious and personal.

I imagined the rancher performing the very same ritual every single day of his life... saying his prayers at the cross.

Completely unaware of my presence.  

But I couldn't stop thinking about him. Of his humility and vulnerability.

Of his faithfulness.

These are the days where the darkness of the world is often overwhelming; where the hope of a brighter tomorrow seems like a foolish dream. Where listening to the news becomes a daily test of faith.

Yet, all it took was the sight of this singularly righteous rancher kneeling in front of a cross to restore hope, renew faith and to remind me that God sometimes sends us down the road less traveled to refresh our spirit.

I was so humbled by the old rancher that I said a special prayer just for him. I prayed that God would deliver Blue Bell straight to his door. 

On earth as it is in Heaven.

In Jesus name,

Amen.

Independence Day

We turned into the driveway of my brother's home and my Mom exclaimed, "Look at all those little ones running around... aren't they just the cutest things you've ever seen?!"

"They're all yours, Mom," I replied. "You are indirectly responsible for all that cuteness."

She sat through an entire two hours of pyromania display, watching the exploding sky with a smile on her face.  Watching her great grandbabes with wonder in her eyes.

My brother had downloaded a concert of patriotic songs to play in the background.  He's just corny that way.

In perfect time to the grand finale (Big Bad Mudder!) the heart squeezing sounds of 'Proud To Be An American' wafted through the smoke-filled air.

I looked around at the gaggle of squealing cousins defying the darkness with their spitting sparklers and neon necklaces...

Grandparents and Great-grandparents sharing homemade ice cream with the littles...

My son and nephew, once little boys who liked to blow things up, now grown-ass men who like to blow things up...

My eyes settled on my tiny G-boy, lying peacefully on top of his G-dude, eyes wide and shining.

It pulled on my heart to realize there are moments like this he will never remember.  Moments I will never forget.

He turned to me and smiled, reached for me to hold him.

And that's all it took for me to know that he will always remember what really matters...

He will never forget that he is loved.

             

I am mostly proud of this country my G-boy has inherited, though I can't help but wish it was more like the one I grew up in... the one Lee Greenwood celebrated.  

Truth is, some of My Fellow Americans seem to have gone a bit bonkers... climbing upon their high horses, jousting at pastel rainbows, arguing over artifacts, hating the sin of their neighbor because it's different from their own.

Because apparently, voicing one's opinion has become a National Sport.

What a waste of precious time.

They're like buttholes, you know... opinions are. Just cause you have 'em, doesn't mean you should share 'em with everybody.

It's all noise. 

So. Much. Noise.

Clanging cymbals.  Loud gongs being banged in self-righteousness instead of love.

Independence Day of 2015 is history.  

The smoke from the fireworks has cleared.  The bombs bursting in air, the rocket's red glare...? Not even a blip on my G-boy's radar. Loud, bright, explosive... and momentary.

The only thing he remembers is the love that surrounded him.

I'm going to try to be more like that little guy on his first Fourth of July.  

Because everything else is just noise.