Love and the Other Half of The Bean

  ***I have chosen not to post pictures to enhance this post. I do not want it to take away from the text. I wrote this a year or so ago for a writing competition on Valentine's Day. To me, Frank and Sarah Channell do not need "enhancements." Their life said as much. They lived for the Lord. They lived their life with the love Hallmark movies are made of.***
    
        This isn’t your typical love story. It’s certainly not one that would normally fit Valentine’s Day, but it does happen to be one of the few times in my life I was able to see true love with the greatest clarity. No, not the mushy sort of emotion that reveals itself in hugs and kisses, but something much more. It’s when love comes from some place deeper than the heart. A love like this can only be digested by the soul because it’s a love that only Jesus can give, and it’s only through His leading that it can be given to someone else.
           

           Midsummer, 1986. I was ten years old, and my father had been laid off from his job a few months earlier…again. He worked various jobs throughout my childhood, and our family economy usually reflected the status of his employment. We never had much anyway, but during these times of joblessness it was all my parents could do to put food on the table. And because our garden was about done producing for the year the prospect of going hungry was very real and present. That thought had my young mind thinking of the Channell family.

          Frank and Sarah Channell were the sort of folks that some people feel sorry for. They had nothing, materially speaking, and it seemed that their lot in life was one of perpetual struggle. Like us, they were poor. In fact, they were the only family I knew that were poorer than us. Their home was made of pine logs, recycled tin, and tar covered cardboard used to insulate frozen goods during transport. Their rough finished concrete floors were covered with some used carpet remnants from a church member who owned a carpet store, and their bathroom was nothing more than an inside room with plumbing that ran to an old outhouse. I felt sorry for them even though they were our closest friends, and our families spent a lot of time together.

          I’m not sure I can remember a time in my life when the Channell family wasn’t there. Frank and Sarah had two daughters that were around the same age as my brother Jeff and me, and they attended the same church we did. My earliest memories are of our families’ killing chickens, cutting wood, and canning vegetables together. Their daughters, Tracy and Corry, were around our same age, and they seemed to understand, as we did, that life for us was not the same as other children in our church. We seemed isolated together on an island of poverty that lacked a map for escape. We were stuck…but we were stuck together, and our mothers seemed to be the caretakers of the rich love our two poor families shared.

          I also don’t remember the first time I heard my mother or Mrs.Sarah talk about the “other half of the bean,” but it was always in our family’s lexicon. As poor folks with nothing, our mothers would say to each other, “If I was down to my last bean, I’d give half to you.” It likely started as a joke between the two of them, because neither of our families went hungry. Mr. Frank and Mrs. Sarah always cultivated a huge garden, and it complimented our own small plot of fruits and vegetables. In the Summer months we seemed to live at each other’s house picking and canning all that the Lord gave us through our labor. Nothing was easy, but we never had less than we needed. This time, however, was different.

          I remember going to the grocery store one Friday evening that summer when things were at their worst. The tension was palpable. There was no money. What little we had bought that day, sugar, flour, and few pounds of ground beef, filled only two bags where we usually pushed a full cart to the car. The four of us walked to the car in silence, and the two-mile drive home was equally as quiet. None of us seemed to know what to say. Words have never filled an empty cupboard.

          As soon as we pulled into our driveway my brother and I grabbed our baseball and gloves from the carport and started to run towards the back yard. There were a few minutes of daylight left, and that was more than enough time for us to throw the ball a little; baseball for us was an escape from the dark clouds of poverty. Before we reached the back of the house, however, we heard a sound that stopped both of us in our tracks. A scream…a mournful wail that pierced through the walls of our home and into our ears. My momma’s voice! Both of us started running.

          Bub and I sprinted back to the front of the house. There we saw our father standing just outside the open kitchen door. His face was ashen, and he slowly shook his head from side to side as tears welled his soft brown eyes. In front him was our mother, collapsed on the kitchen floor with her head in her hands, sobbing. The wailing was now replaced by indistinguishable words, broken by emotion. In front of her, covering every inch of our kitchen floor, were paper grocery bags; filled to the top with more food than we would have normally bought in two weeks. In her hands, a small piece of paper with one sentence faintly scribbled down. “Here’s your half of the bean.”

            Folks, our society needs more families like this. We need mothers and daddys who are willing to put pride aside and love each other through our hardships. I will always hold our female counterparts, Tracy and Corry with the highest regard. They continue, as me and Bub do, to show the love for family that our mothers created. We need more of this today. We need to see the love of Jesus in each other as we continue to search for our half of the bean.

The "IOU" Christmas

     

           Christmas day 1983, and I had just turned 8 years old the month before. It was cold; unusually and bitterly cold by Alabama standards. There would be very little playing outside that day, or at least until the afternoon. The high was supposed to be 17, but the early morning sun was struggling just to push the temperature past 2. Daylight had begun to filter through the layer of blankets over my head, and although I wanted to see what presents lay under the Christmas tree, the heavy blankets felt too good compared to the cold air in the house. 

    Anyone who has ever felt the cocoon of warmth an old heavy blanket provides can testify to what I’m talking about. It is a magnificent feeling. One that I cherished, even as a child. I wanted to get up, but those presents weren’t going anywhere, and neither was I until the house warmed up some.

I stuck my nose out from the heavy layer of blankets on top of me and knew instantly that Dad was already up. The fire had been rekindled in the old Ashley wood burning heater, and the smell of smoke had lingered in the air after he closed the door. After only a few moments the smoke began to lose its battle with the bacon Mom had cooking on the stove. With the knowledge that both my parents were up, I thought about getting up myself. I recovered my head; deciding to wait until that heater had pushed some warmer air down the hallway. That’s when I felt my brother, two years older than me, start to stir.

My ten-year-old brother Jeff and I shared a room, a bed, and pretty much any and everything else growing up. We were poor, so there weren’t any duplicates on most things. What he wore was what I would wear two years later. But there were some things we had to ourselves…I did have my own toothbrush, so there was that.

Jeff rolled over, the covers still over his head, and met me under the old, tattered blankets.

          “What do you think we got?” he asked.

 

“I don’t know. What do you think we got?”

 

“I don’t know, but I doubt it’s very much. You remember what they said, don’t you?”

 

          My brother has always looked out for me, and even now I can look back at that moment and see that he was being an extension of my parents. He, at ten years old, was trying to manage my expectations of what might be under that tree. He didn’t have to. I knew. This Christmas felt different. Most years Mom and Dad were joyful in the weeks and days leading up to Christmas, but not this one. There was a serious concerned look on their faces each time we asked how many days were left until the 25^th. Each time that question was asked it was always answered the same way,

 

          “Boys, don’t expect much this Christmas. Things are just tight right now.”

 

          I hated that phrase; “things are tight.” When weren’t they? But this was different. Dad had been laid off again, and he hadn’t been able to find any work for several months. It seemed that no one wanted to give a man who never finished the seventh grade a chance. To this day I don’t know how he kept his head up. But I’m glad he did; especially on this Christmas Day.

          I felt the cold air subside about the time Momma said breakfast was ready. Jeff and I crawled out of the bed and half ran to the kitchen table. I glanced at the tree as I jogged by, an image I can still see clearly today; more floor than presents under the lowest branches. I guess my mom saw me look, and she repeated, once again, the phrase that I hated. Dad just sat at the table. He said nothing. He just stared towards the kitchen. I looked across the table just as Jeff was sitting down. He scolded me with his eyes even though I had said nothing to warrant it.

          After breakfast the four of us took our places in the living room. Mom handed out our stockings first, and they were half full of what was usually in them, a few candy bars and a couple of off brand matchbox cars. To this day, I’m almost 49, my mother still puts cars in my stocking. After seeing what was in the old, decorated socks, we turned our attention to the tree.

          The first thing I saw was two airplanes. They were made of 2x4 lumber, had furniture wheels for landing gear, and were painted differently. My brother and I chose the one we wanted, placed them in front of us, and started looking for what was left under the tree. There were just two small boxes left and about 10 or so small pieces of wrapping paper folded up hiding something very small and thin.

          My mother repeated the phrase I hated once again and handed us each a small box. I opened it, not knowing what to expect, and I found a small handmade pouch sewn by my mother. It was a little bigger than a change purse, blue in color, and it didn’t have a snap, clasp, or zipper. I opened the mouth of it expecting to find something inside, but this scrap of material was all there was. I looked over at Jeff. He had the same reaction I did. I looked at my father, who simply sat there with this pained look upon his face. Glancing back at my mother, whose eyes were laden with tears, she said, “That is for you to put the rest of your presents into,” as she pointed to the remaining pieces of wrapping paper under the tree.

          Reaching underneath, she grabbed all the little presents and handed my brother and I an equal number.

 

                   “Go ahead boys. Open them. See what you’ve got.”

 

          I opened the first one about the same time my brother had. It was a piece of paper with a handwritten note in my mother’s perfect handwriting.

         

                   “I owe you a trip to Dairy Queen.”

 

          “Dairy Queen? We’re going to Dairy Queen?” I shouted.

 

          Before my mother could respond I heard my brother shout the same question, this time with McDonalds as the establishment. My mother told us that we’d have to wait until things got better before we could redeem them, but that the pouch she made would keep them safe until that time. My brother and I both opened four more of the little presents, all of them IOUs, and each to a different place to eat or shop. It was a promise that better things were coming. It’s a Christmas I’ll never forget.

          My parents made good on all those IOUs; each and every one of them were redeemed, the last being almost three years later. We also still have the two airplanes. Although they were made of out nothing with lasting value, they will always be priceless to me and my brother.

          I also see that our “IOU Christmas” was the one that taught me more about the true meaning of the day we celebrate. It was on that night, two thousand years ago, with love, an IOU was written in a manger. That first Christmas present was opened by a virgin, a carpenter, some shepherds, and a small town that no one really cared about. No, it wasn’t written because He owed us anything, but it was a promise of a better time, a better relationship, a better covenant. It was a promise of the cross, a sacrifice so that we may have life, and life abundantly. That’s what my parents gave me then; a sacrifice of themselves and their pride to give me a better life. A life I hope I’m able to give up for my own children. You might say I’m still passing down those IOUs.

 

 Merry Christmas folks.

Living to Make a Dead Man Proud

 

        He was born on September 16, 1914 in Ashville, Alabama, or at least that’s what the grave marker reads. He fathered two sons, had three grandchildren, and he left a legacy that I’m still chasing today. From everything I’ve been told by family and friends, he was the best man since Jesus to walk the earth.

His life is probably forgotten by most who knew him, if they’re still alive, and he will likely be nothing more than a name on a census paper once I’m where he now resides. His name was John Philemon Partain. He was my dad’s father; the only grandpaw I had who chose to be part of my life, and I still miss him. I still want to make him proud. In a way, I’m still trying to be half the man he was.

His father, John Wesley Partain, was a Civil War veteran; a man who had remarried later in life after his first wife passed. I was told it was a marriage of convenience because she had nowhere to go and he needed a wife. However it worked, he gave a home to a Tennessee woman with a child born out of wedlock.  He passed in May of 1931 when my grandfather was just 16. That left him with a choice; continue farming or find another trade. John Philemon chose to be a blacksmith.

          

I don’t know when he swung his first hammer into red hot steel, although I do have a “journal” that he used as a ledger for his “smitty” business that starts in 1939, so I would assume he apprenticed somewhere before striking out on is own. He also used that ledger for personal items; like buying a hog, the cost of feed for it, and what it weighed when he butchered it. I wonder what he’d think about processed pork wrapped in plastic and Styrofoam. Probably just shake his head and walk on.

          Sometime during the years of blacksmithing he acquired a nickname, “Pony.” My guess is that it came from shoeing horses, or it could be that he was not as tall as other men. I don’t know. But that’s what most people in Pell City knew him by, and that’s the name my family always used when talking about him.

          I am also unsure of when he and my grandmother first met, but I  know that it was at the drug store/soda fountain in the downtown square of Ashville. The two were married on the 12^th of October 1940, choosing to begin a family during one of the worst times of poverty this country has ever seen.

    

      

    My father was born in the Spring of 42, and my uncle two years later in April of 44. It was around the time my dad was 8 or 9 that Pony took up auto mechanics and trained at Ramsey’s Garage in Ashville. Pictures of him during that era are rare, but I do have a few that I hang onto. He was a man’s man; farming, blacksmithing, mechanics…he could fix or make anything he needed. I have some of the tools he fabricated and used, and they’re priceless to me.

          When I came along in November of 75, he had already experienced his first heart attack. I have been told that I was “his baby,” because the two of us were inseparable. He was my person, and I was his. I was his third, and last, grandchild, and I only have one picture of the two of us together captured on Christmas day of 1976. It’s just as priceless to me as those tools are.

    

          His second heart attack came in April of 77. He didn’t live through that one. 62 years on this earth was all he got. I was 17 months old when he passed, but the legacy his life left became the goal of mine. As far back as I can remember I wanted to be just like him.

          The problem is I don’t remember anything about him; the sound of his voice, his personality, the way he moved…nothing. I have only the smallest pieces of what I’ve been told he was to form an image of him in my mind. Since I was 5 or 6 years old, the memories of others gave flesh to a dead man, and from that time on, I’ve wanted to make him proud of me. I wanted his approval of the man I was to be.

          Everything he did in his life inspired me in drawing the blueprint for mine. Work? Hard work? Yep. Sign me up. Helping others, being known as trustworthy, honest, dependable…everything in Webster’s dictionary that describes what a good man should be?…that was my goal.

          I used his tools; I tried to emulate this real-life hero that I had built in my heart, manufactured from the memories of others, a couple of pictures, and the few items I had of his. To say I idolized him and his memory would be an understatement. I tried to build my life on it. But I missed the tree for the forest. As good of a man as Pony was, his life is still a shaky foundation to start construction on.

          Over the years, it has taken my dad, my Uncle Robert, and an old family friend, Adrian Kelly, to put things in perspective for me.

          After I had been ordained as a Deacon in 2006, my dad gave me Grandpaw’s ordination certificate. He said, “Pony would’ve been proud. He’d want you to have this.” That didn’t do it. I needed more. Something was still missing in the puzzle to recreate my grandpaw.

My uncle told me a few years later that he could see his father in the things I did, and the way I could work with my hands. He told me I was a good man as he watched me under the hood of my dad’s truck. Nope. Nothing. Still didn’t feel like I measured up.

At my other grandfather’s funeral in 2013 there were 6 men standing in a circle in the foyer of the funeral home. My father, brother, Uncle Robert, me, Adrian, and Bo Kelly. Bub and I were listening to the stories of Pony, because all of the men in that circle had worked with him; they knew firsthand the man he was.

So, I asked Mr. Adrian what Pony was like, specifically about his physical characteristics. I wanted someone else’s perspective of him; another tape measure to run against the man I had become. He looked intensely at my brother and me, almost as if he had no idea that we longed to know more about our grandpaw.

 

“Do you really want to know what Pony was like?”

         

“Yes sir, please.”

 

Mr. Adrian pulled up his arm and pointed his finger at my father.

 

“Right there. That’s him in every way.”

 

Bub and I began to weep. Until that moment I hadn’t considered the obvious. Pop was him. He bore the image of the man I wanted to be.

Of course I have always wanted to be like my father, but I wanted more than that; I wanted to be like his father…never understanding that my father was pointing me, not only to him,…but to Him.

A few years later, as a matter of fact, in 2018, I stopped by Mom and Dad’s house, the same home I grew up in to surprise my dad by taking him to lunch. I had a class in Leeds, so I purposely left early so that I could eat lunch with him. When I opened the door, I was met with Pony. I was met with what made my grandpaw worth the admiration I had….Pop was sitting at the table…he was reading his Bible.

I never saw my dad reading scripture when I was younger. I don’t know why. The evidence was there, but I guess I never paid attention. That afternoon I saw Pony in my father. I saw the image of what I had been trying to emulate all of my life. It wasn’t Pony. It wasn’t my dad. It…It…was Jesus.

What made Pony special, what made him a great man was the same thing that made my father great…It was following Jesus; putting Him first in everything he did.  

Pony sought him. Pop sought him. I was seeking them…I was wrong. To be like Pony? To be everything my soul said it wanted to be? It wasn’t a dead man I should have been emulating, it was the one who was raised from the dead.

I wanted to know my grandpaw and be like him. I wanted to make him proud. For the longest time I didn’t realize that all I needed to do is focus on the same hero that he did. What I needed to become like him was what my own father showed me. Jesus. Follow Jesus.

The moment you see pictured changed me somewhat. That was my Pop; a carbon copy of Pony, showing me the only way to be a man like they were. No words were spoken as he read The Word. They weren’t needed. Just the sight of my dad, in the midst of studying his Bible… for me, the tape measure of works was finally put away for the finished work of grace.

So today, I no longer live to make a dead man proud…not Pony, not my father…I seek the living Savior, One who has conquered death, and is already proud to call me His own. Matter of fact, that pride has nothing to do with what I do…but everything to do with what He’s done. 

So, my question for you is this: Whom are you trying to model your life after? Who are you imitating? Who do you want to make proud at all costs? Don’t be the fool I was. If it’s not Jesus, you’ll never measure up. With Jesus? If you have given your life to Him…He says you already do, and you can put the measuring stick away.

The Blue Stocking with Silver Glitter

 

    

    The fire was roaring, crackling, and popping. It was Monday December 24^th,, 2007, Christmas Eve. All felt right in our home that night. We weren’t waiting on Santa, because we had already received our gift months ago; after almost six months in the NICU, our son was home. We were a family at peace, on a night that defines peace, and we were grateful for a miracle son. You might say that we found common ground that night with another couple that came 2000 years before us.

          No one came bringing gifts, however, but we knew that the night was still special. We didn’t need gold to understand that what we had was precious. In fact, our son’s name was written in silver across a blue sock just above the fire that warmed us. God had already provided our miracle that year, and we were in awe of His grace and mercy. That stocking was a reminder of His faithfulness.

          Still, I couldn’t help but look at Eli’s stocking; his name glistening in glitter, against the fire, across the front of an old blue sock. That sock held his entire body a year before, when he was still struggling for life in the NICU. We couldn’t have imagined this day back then. It seemed impossible. But that’s selling God short. Christmas should tell us what He is capable of. A son born 5 months early is nothing to Him…Mary gave birth as a virgin…enough said.

          Elijah was resting on soft bedding we kept near our coffee table. He seemed entranced by the fire. What little vision he had was focused on the flames that kept us warm. Looking back, it was a prelude of the fires to come. This would be his last Christmas…but we couldn’t have known that then. We celebrated in ignorance…and I’m glad we did.

I’m writing this tonight as Paige puts out our Christmas decorations. Her dad brought a tree down today, as he normally does after Thanksgiving, and it kickstarts our celebration of the Lord’s birth. It also begins a season that challenges us to see the miracle…no, not of our son, but of His. 

          It is because of this day that I can celebrate my own son. Because if there’s no miraculous birth, no crucifixion, and no resurrection, then what do I have to hope for? My son is simply gone; another tragic event in life to be eaten by the worms of this world. But my soul tells me different…and yours does too.

          Something in us tells us that there’s more. When we see a mountain or ocean view, our children’s birth, or another event that stirs us in a place we don’t have words for…that’s God image in us, asking us to see Him…to accept Him and His plan for salvation. Yes, even in a world that shuns His name and all that He has blessed us with, there’s still the whisper from his mouth.

          This evening, I am watching my wife, a woman still hurting from the loss of her son and her mother in the same year, yet still choosing to live a life of joy…choosing to show that joy to our daughter in spite of the heartache that may come from hanging that old blue sock on our mantle. 

    The blue sock, with silver glitter, that can remind us of what we’ve lost…the same sock that can show us what we must look to forward to. The old blue stocking that bears, not only our son’s name, but also the faithfulness of God. The item that may be the greatest Christmas decoration we can put out. It just may be the one sight that helps me understand just what God gave up to give us the joy I celebrate each year...in spite of what it looks like I've lost. In truth...it's one of the many things that keeps me at the feet of Jesus. 

         

          Merry Christmas folks.

Just an Ol' Brown Dog

 

 

She came with our house when we purchased it. She was just an “ol-brown-dog;” one like you would find roaming through any Alabama back road or city street corner. The kind that shelters are full of. The sort that often don’t have a place and a person to love unconditionally.

The previous owner of our home had left her there with her 6 puppies. No food. No water. He just abandoned her; left her to fend for herself for over two weeks. I believe you can tell a lot about a man by the way he treats his dog. I dare someone to try and prove otherwise.

I had met this dog when we first looked at the house. She played with one of the man’s horses in the pasture before coming up to greet me with a great big smile. I love a smiling dog. I had always wanted one, but that’s not something you find every day.

I was puzzled by the name he gave her, June. I was pretty sure that Alabama has a law that forces you to name a smiling dog something to do with their grin. If not, they need to pass that legislation today. Smiling dogs deserve to be recognized.

Once she was ours (when we moved in) her name was changed to Smiley. That just felt right. It seemed to suite her. She was our “outside dog,” because we already had our two Italian Greyhounds in the house, but that didn’t last long.

During the first hard freeze, she leaned up against the wood door, shivering from the cold. The old door was vibrating in its frame, and I told Paige that we needed to put her in the basement. “Just for tonight,” I said. Then the basement door started vibrating. The rest is history. She liked to lay on the end of the sofa that Paige sat on.

Smiley was one of those rare dogs that understands what you want and need from her. She was always where she needed to be, and she always obeyed…always. She’s the kind of dog that you never forget, and one that every person should have before they leave this earth. She was special.

About a year before Maddie was born, one of our friends came over with their small son. He was barely walking. We were talking in the driveway when I noticed that Smiley was always a step behind the boy as he walked away. She wasn’t leaving him, and as he was about to disappear from our sight, I called to Smiley. She just looked at me and through her eyes said, “I’m doing what I was created to do.” Everywhere that boy went, she went. She was a silent sentry shadowing his every step. That was the first time.

When we brought Maddie home from the hospital, Smiley greeted us on the back porch. She sniffed all around her car seat and put her nose against Maddie’s. She welcomed her home. That was fitting I guess since it was Smiley’s home before it was ever ours.

When Maddie first started crawling Smiley was her play partner. She climbed all over the dog, going back and forth across her midsection. Smiley never complained. It seemed like she was happy being a little girl’s jungle gym. Maddie was her person. Smiley was her best friend.

Several years later I was watching Maddie as Paige went to a craft club meeting. I was using the tractor to move the rotten crossties from our front yard as Maddie was playing on her playset. I checked on her each time I drove past, ensuring that she was still there before I moved. I had made several trips to the burn pile already when I drove by the playset again. Maddie was swinging with Smiley looking on just a few feet away, so I drove up the hill to grab another load. I started to back up when I saw Smiley standing behind the huge right rear tire.

“Smiley move!”

She just stood there, looking at me.

“Move dog!”

She didn’t budge.

I was cussing under my breath as I throttled the tractor down and set the brake. I was going to move that dog myself. I turned to my left to exit the tractor in anger…Maddie was standing there. Smiley was just behind her.

I’m sure my face was ashen. I wouldn’t have moved that tractor without laying eyes on Maddie, but Smiley didn’t know that. Tears fell from my face as I embraced the ol-brown-dog. The dog that one man threw away.

Smiley also slept in Maddie’s bed. She was Maddie’s protector. Maddie never worried about the monsters in her closet or the boogie man under her bed. She had Smiley, and Smiley had her.

One day we were walking in the creek that runs in front of our house when I saw Maddie lose her balance on top of one of the huge boulders. She grabbed the fur and skin on Smiley’s back until it was raised 3 or 4 inches from her back. Smiley braced herself; she never yelped or barked. She just tensed up so Maddie wouldn’t fall.

There are other stories I could tell you about her. She was just that kind of dog. The kind that licks your tears away when you lose a son or gives you a smile when you can’t find one of your own. She is where you wanted her to be, doing what you needed her to do. Maddie could roam all over our property unsupervised because Smiley was there. She was a four-legged extension of us.

So, the next time you see an ol-brown-dog walking around looking for someone to love, consider letting it love you. Because you might just be giving a home to the best dog you’ve ever had…the standard by which you measure all others, and the one whom your children will always hold in their hearts. Smiley was that for us.

That ol-brown-dog, that one man didn’t want, wanted us, loved us, and gave us all she had until she had nothing more she could give. And on that day, years ago, she gave us one final gift. She let us know that it was time. She went peaceably where all the ol-brown-dogs go; to a place a dog like her deserves... where I hope she still looks over a special two-year-old boy.

The Last Good Day

  

   

          November 20, 2008 was an ordinary day. Our two-year-old son Elijah had been brought home from Children's Hospital on Hospice a couple of weeks before with a terminal liver disease. We knew our time with him was limited, but we didn't know just how many days or weeks we had left with him. The night before Paige and I had talked about taking a day to ourselves. Eli's issues were at something of a standstill; he wasn't getting better or worse. In retrospect, it was the calm before the final storm. We decided that we would take the next day, and we would enjoy each other before the hectic week of Thanksgiving started. We didn't know then that God was wrapping a present for us. We couldn't have known that night the blessing tomorrow would be.

          So today was the last good day, or, at the very least, one that could be interpreted as such. I took off from work on a Thursday, the day after my birthday, for no apparent reason. We took Elijah and Maddie to Prattville for a day out, even though we knew people would likely stare and make rude comments about his condition. We put out Christmas decorations that night while listening to Christmas music…before Thanksgiving. We had never done that before, and we sure haven’t done it since. There was a lot out of place that day, a lot of decisions we made that still puzzle me to this day.

          There's no way we could have known that in less than 24 hours the beginning of the end would come, and our happiness would be turned. This day in 2008, we simply enjoyed the moment God had given us. Even though in the span of four more days our son would be gone, we didn’t know it. We couldn’t have known.

          Maybe that day I would’ve stayed up longer, went farther, did something more fun…who knows? But what I am certain of is this: God orchestrated a beautiful day, because He knew. He knew what we needed before we did. He allowed us to enjoy the day with each other. He knew it would be the last good memory we could hold on to some 16 years after his death.

          I’m sharing this to force you to think about what you traded your time for today. This could be your last good day, the last for one you love, or maybe the last for someone you need to make things right with. You don’t know any more than we did that uneventful day, so don’t waste the time you have with routine and schedule. Cross out your to-do list and live….love…and enjoy life with those your hold dear, because today may be the last day you have to hold them.

           I don’t remember why we chose to forget our routine a decade ago, and I don’t really care anymore. I don’t recall what I had to do at work that day or what project I needed to finish at home. Those things are forgotten. What I remember is the precious hours spent loving my son and sharing what little time he had left on this earth.

          So, take a look around you today, and forget those things pressing on your mind. Focus on what is pulling at your heart and spend your time with them. You never know when God’s call will bring them home. You never know when an ordinary day will be the one day you will hold on to for the rest of your life.