(Every once in awhile I post a column that I have a fair idea is going to rile some people up. This may be one of them. For those I rile and for those who smile, the email address is: thompson1963@gmail.com 

Jack is what’s known in employment circles as “bi-vocational”. He teaches school and also pastors the church at Buffalo Springs Lake, just outside of Lubbock. Somewhere along about a year ago a pretty lady showed up as a Sunday visitor. She came back the next week and the next. She began inquiring about the pastor. Evidently she thought he didn’t look too bad all cleaned up.

They went on a date. Then another. And it wasn’t long before they were keeping steady company. Tonya’s beautiful inside and out. It’s easy to see what Jack sees in her. What she sees in Jack? I teased him that he better pull the trigger and propose before she went to her next eye doctor appointment.

She said “yes” a couple weeks ago. I called him last Tuesday and asked if they’d set a date. He laughed nervously and said, “We’re thinking about this Sunday at the end of church.” Telling only immediate family and a handful of friends, people they would need to pull this off, they put the plan into action.

Every once in awhile they do “Cowboy Church” at Buffalo Springs. A big potluck dinner with BBQ chicken and steak after the service. The place was packed, everyone sporting their Wranglers, hats, boots and pretty dresses.
After a great time of worship, Steve London recited a funny cowboy poem about how young cowboys grow up watching Roy Rogers and Tom Mix and they don’t need any girls around. The only thing they kiss is their horse. But then they grow up and discover a good woman and the horse doesn’t get kissed anymore. “You all know Jack and Tonya are engaged. And they want you to know that when they get married, you’re all invited to the wedding. And since you’re all here, why don’t we just do it now?”

The way the place went nuts you’d think someone spiked the communion juice. People screamed and shouted and clapped. I’d been keeping this a secret from my girls. Annie and Emma’s eyes were big as offering plates. Someone clicked on the music and the speakers lit up with “Goin’ To The Chapel”. The flower girl pulled a red Radio Flyer wagon down the aisle, carrying Tonya’s grandchildren tossing flower petals. Bridesmaids came out at random from the pews. Tonya’s Dad was prouder than ten peacocks walking her down the aisle. As he told me later, “This is every Dad’s dream wedding. All the fun and surprise…and the church feeds everybody steak afterward.”

The youth pastor superbly officiated the simple ceremony. Adding to the charm of the day, it was the first wedding he’s ever done. And I guarantee if he preaches another fifty years he won’t ever do one more memorable. Jack and Tonya got hitched. With only five days of planning, a simple lovely white dress, some yellow daisies, and a couple new pairs of cowboy boots. And everyone will always remember it.

Channel surfing later that night I came across a wedding reality show called, “Say Yes To The Dress”. The contrast was nauseatingly obvious.

“What’s your budget for the dress?”

“$15,000 to $20,000″.

15 to 20K? Really? You’re going to spend the equivalent of a down payment on a house you will live in for years on a dress that you’re going to wear for maybe 12 hours?

That logic makes me think I could start my own reality show called “Are You Smart Enough To Get Married?”

(If you’re wondering where I might be riling people up, this would be the spot.)

Americans spend way too much time and money on weddings. Months and months of planning and tens of thousands of dollars for one day that, if we’re honest, ends up looking like every other wedding that took months to plan and thousands to put on.

If I asked you to detail all the weddings you’ve attended, you’d be hard pressed to differentiate. They’d likely be an amalgam, a consolidated image of all the weddings you’ve ever been to. Guys in tuxedos and too tight shoes and girls wearing dresses the bride promises they’ll be able to wear again but never do. Unless someone faints on stage or the photographer goes National Geographic with the close up camera angles in the middle of the vows, there’s really nothing that sets one wedding apart from another. Even ring bearers and flower girls pitching a fit in not doing what they’re supposed to is as predictable as the feather on the guest book pen.

I’ve often wondered if we could put a dent in the divorce rate by taking half the time and money spent on the wedding day and investing in serious and extended pre-marriage counseling. It couldn’t hurt. Because the grandiose ceremonies and receptions certainly aren’t doing anything to make marriages last longer. My suspicion is that if couples spent as much time thinking and talking about what happens after the wedding as they do planning what color the ascots will be that they’d have a better chance of being together to celebrate an anniversary ten years later.

Weddings are important. God’s idea and illustration of His relationship with the church. Certainly weddings should be memorable. And that’s my point. The memories Jack and Tonya made for themselves and everyone else wouldn’t be any sweeter had they spent six months and thousands of dollars to plan it out. And what’s more important? A showy start? Or a faithful finish?

For those I’ve riled up, don’t worry. You may well have your revenge in due time. Remember, I have 10-year old twin daughters.

And you can bet for the next 20 years I’ll be reminding them how much fun they had at Jack and Tonya’s wedding.

(Yes, I said 20 years. That’s a column for another time.)

Todd A. Thompson – ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

Way back when, it was Emma’s idea to come here for the first time. We were replacing the flowers on 2nd North at Carillon House, visiting with our elderly friends when Emma asked why we didn’t go to the 4th floor, too. I didn’t have a good answer. So up we went.

We’ve been going every week since.

True to her word, we are back the next morning. Emma and Annie are looking lovely in their high heels and fancy purple skirts that spin out beautifully when they twirl and dance, their number one criteria for the perfect dress.

The twins race to see who can punch the elevator button first. Up to the 4th floor. Vista Care’s inpatient hospice unit is located here. A wonderful facility with caring staff. I was impressed early on with how nurses Elizabeth and Kelli handled Annie and Emma’s questions. Not the least of which was Kelli’s answer to one of the girl’s most significant “why?”. Kelli said, “For some people this is the last place they come before they go to heaven.” Annie and Emma are good with that answer.

On this Saturday morning in addition to dresses and heels, the girls have accessorized their outfits with three bottles of bubbles. It makes perfect sense to them. What else would girls in purple dresses and high heels do? They blow bubbles, of course.

It’s pretty quiet on the floor. After chatting with the nurses, they say goodbye and head back down the hall. There’s an open door to the left. A family they’d left flowers with yesterday. The patient, a gentleman who does not look nearly old enough to be here, and two ladies sitting bedside who appear to be family.

I lean against the inside of the doorway, watching Annie and Emma…be Annie and Emma. Their 2nd grade dialogue about random and disconnected topics, engaging the ladies in their conversation. All the while blowing bubbles, watching them float and trying to catch them without breaking them.

Soon they involve one of the ladies in blowing bubbles, too. Smiles all around. Laughter. The laughter that feels and sounds so free; the unfettered laughter of an adult being a kid again. It’s fresh air in this room.

Emma manages a big double bubble. “Whoa! Look! It’s like a Mommy and Daddy bubble!”

Poof.

Annie says, “Daddy bubble just popped.”

More laughter.

“Try to catch them! See? Look!” With her wand, Emma slides underneath the giant bubble she just blew and raises it up. Against the back light of the window I see the shimmering surface tension just before it pops and disappears.

Here in this room that is the last place some people come before going to heaven, life is being lived to the fullest. I dare say there is nothing more or better that anyone here can do in this moment than to blow bubbles and laugh, to enjoy human companionship and the simple delights of children.

Watching the bubbles hover over the bed, I am reminded that God tells us our life is like a vapor. Just like these bubbles. Delicate and beautiful. Incredibly fragile. Floating and fleeting. And in the time it takes to “ooh” and “ah” and giggle…poof!

They are gone.

It’s time to leave. Emma and Annie hand their bottles to the two ladies. Emma says, “Now you can blow bubbles all day even after we’re gone!”

“Are you sure, girls?”, the ladies want to know.

“No worries”, says Annie, “we’ve got lots of bubbles.”

“LOTS of bubbles!”, Emma affirms.

When you’re 8, it feels like the bubbles will never end.

The man in the bed understands better.

The man in the doorway is understanding that better, too.

“Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while then vanishes.” – James 4:14

 “Teach us to number our days aright, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12  

Todd A. Thompson – www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

After the sun and sugar had their way the girls were ready to go home. We loaded our loot from the silent auction into the car and rolled down 19th Street, happily chatting about how fun it was to smash confetti eggs on people’s heads and when we were going to use the movie tickets we’d just won.

In mid-sentence Annie said, “Whoa, Daddy. Funeral.”

We all looked to the right. Resthaven Cemetery. The familiar roll away green awning. A small group of people huddled in a semi-circle. An American flag fluttering in the wind in front of the honor guard from the VFW.

At 45 miles per hour the solemnity passed quickly.

We were all quiet for a moment. Even Annie and Emma, about to turn 8, seemed aware of the contrast. Just a few blocks away kids are running and laughing, playing ring toss and bouncing around on giant inflatable moon walks.

Such a short drive.

Near where I grew up in Iowa there is a quaint country church, surrounded by corn and soybean fields. A big shade tree sits on their property, the perfect spot for the playground equipment they erected…right next to their cemetery. Not even a fence to separate.

I recall thinking how odd to see monkey bars and swings so close to headstones. As if one has nothing to do with the other. Then a moment later realizing that, intentional or not, this was a picture of life. In the scope of eternity, the distance between the playground and the burial ground is shorter than we think. A quick ride down the slide and we’re bumping against the granite.

Glancing in the rear view mirror I see my daughters. My beautiful, sun-kissed, sweaty, sticky mess squirrely girlies.

Take them home.

Hug them.

Hose them off.

Hug them.

Eat lunch.

See if they’ll share some of their Pixy Stix while we watch Scooby Doo together and remember my childhood as I enjoy theirs.

It’s such a short drive.

“Teach us to number our days that we may gain a heart of wisdom.” – Psalm 90:12

Todd A. Thompson - www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

“Friendship is the greatest of worldly goods. Certainly to me it is the chief happiness of life. If I had to give a piece of advice to a young man about a place to live, I think I should say, “sacrifice almost everything to live where you can be near your friends.” I know I am fortunate in that respect.”

Are you blessed to live near your friends? And should God move you, have you developed friendships that will transcend time and distance?

Having relocated six months ago to this new place, I am acutely aware of the importance of friendships. I sadly left behind 14 years worth of relationships in the Phoenix valley; people I had invested in and who had invested in me for over a decade. I miss them greatly.

What I’ve realized by being alone in a new place is that the only way friendships can transcend distance is if they were nurtured and developed with lots of “face time” before you, or they, moved away. In short, if you haven’t developed good friends before it’s time to rent the U-Haul, it’s too late. That I can call my friends, who now live hundreds of miles away, and pick up where we left off is because we spent lots of time together making memories and helping one another grow.

Sometimes the silliest things can help create a bond of friendship that, as Solomon said in Ecclesiastes 4:12, “isn’t easily broken.”

One evening in October of 1983 during my junior year at Northwestern College, my roommate Craig Pennings and I were studying in our dorm room. On my desk was a box of Ritz crackers that I was munching on. I offered him some and he said “No, thanks”.

I said, “What’s the matter? My crackers aren’t good enough for you?” He said, “Hey, I’m not hungry.” When he left the room, I put the box on his desk. Later, without a word he put it back on mine. And so it went for a couple days. One day when I got them back on my desk for the umpteenth time, I put them away.

Before going home for Christmas that December, I dug those crackers out, tied them up in their wax paper wrapping, and stuffed them inside a shoe in his closet. I scribbled a note that said something like, “Since you didn’t eat them in October, I thought you might be hungry by now.” Then I laughed and left. By the time I came back for second semester, I had forgotten all about it.

In May 1984 after final exams I was packing up to go home for the summer and found the crackers stuffed in one of my shoes with a note from Craig that he thought I should keep them.

I did keep them.

For a whole year I kept them.

I kept them until graduation in May of 1985 when I went to his closet and stuffed them back in one of his shoes just before leaving the dorm for the last time. I attached a note that said, “Thought you better have these crackers since you wouldn’t eat them in October of ‘83. You thought I’d forgotten about these, didn’t you?” I laughed, thinking it was the last laugh, and left.

In April of 1988, three years after we graduated from college, I got a package in the mail. Inside were the crackers, along with a note that said, “Remember these? I thought you might be hungry.” 

This was entirely too much. Thinking for three years that you’ve had the last laugh only to realize you were just dealing with a very patient person is a real jolt.

In 1991, I mailed them back to Craig with a note.

For my birthday in 1993 he mailed them back to me with a can of Cheeze Whiz.

In May of 1996 I sent them back to him with a note, “Roses are red, old buckets are rusty, after 13 years, these crackers are crusty”.

I got them back in the mail in 2000 as a belated birthday present.

While preparing a sermon on friendship in September of 2004 I realized I had the crackers in my closet. I thought it would be an appropriate occasion to send them back to him.

These crackers or, more accurately, cracker dust, gets mailed back and forth every 2 to 4 years. Always after the other guy has forgotten all about them. And always with a note stapled on top of all the other notes we’ve written. It’s been going on for almost 25 years. Being the good friend that I am, Craig knows that if he dies before I do and the cracker dust is in my possession, I will find a way to get it inside his casket. Being the good friend that he is, I know he will do the same for me.

To anyone else that bag of Ritz cracker dust is worthy of a trash can. For Craig and I it’s part of the legacy that is our friendship. This running joke is evidence of a friendship that goes much deeper. Craig is one of the most loyal friends I’ve ever had. He has been there for me during the most difficult times in my life. He is an encourager with a caring heart and one of the most dependable people I’ve ever known. The kind of guy you can call in an emergency on zero notice to drive two and a half hours to pick you up at the Omaha airport from a midnight flight and then drive you another two hours to Sioux Falls, South Dakota where your Dad is in the hospital after a stroke.

In his song “The Times of Our Lives“ Paul Anka wrote that, “Memories are times that we borrow to spend when we get to tomorrow.” Before memories can be spent, they must be made. How are you doing making memories with your friends? Are you making memories on purpose? Or by chance? Are you taking the camera with you when you go out to dinner? Are you playing the practical jokes that make for good stories later? Are you taking road trips? Going to concerts together? All these experiences now become valuable pieces of the “I remember when…” game later. They are all part of the legacy of friendship.

Here’s hoping you are blessed with friends near and far. And that wherever you’re living, you’re investing in friendships that will transcend time and distance.

If you’re not making friends, you might want to start. Your life will be richer for it.

And speaking from experience…

…if God decides to move you, it’s nice to have help loading the U-Haul.

- Todd A. Thompson

www.ASliceOfLifeToGo.com

And what I wouldn’t give to have a mandatory nap time again. How great would it be to stretch out on the floor at 1 o’clock every afternoon? Annie and Emma were so giggly during rest time that they were getting me in trouble. I almost had to pull a ticket and get my name put on the board.

But before rest time I got to do lunch with the kindergarteners. 

Whatever else you have to say about school lunches you can always count on interesting menu combinations. Give me a week and a stack of cook books and I’d never think of corn and blue Jell-O cubes as good compliments to a beef and bean burrito. (If you cringe reading the words “blue Jell-O cubes” and “beef and bean burrito” then, trust me, the visual would be entirely too much for you.)

I squeezed into place at the table between Annie and Emma. Our dining companions for the next 30 minutes were Alissa, Alessa, and Zach. Almost in unison the five of them freed their yellow plastic straws from the cellophane wrapper by pounding them on the table, not unlike veteran smokers tamping down a fresh pack of cigarettes. Together they expertly stab their “bag” of white, chocolate or strawberry milk and take a drink. 

Annie starts the dinner conversation by informing everyone that she has a really, really, really loose tooth. “See?” She wiggles it back and forth.

Alissa, her jet black hair pulled back into a ponytail, says, “I lost 4 teeth already.” She smiles to verify her claim.

Zach, a brown-haired dry wit with a future as an attorney or a stand-up comedian deadpans, “I lost a thousand already.”

“A thousand? Wow. You must have had a lot of teeth to start with.”

“I so did.”

Alessa, not to be confused with Alissa who sits next to her, listens as she proceeds to take the fruit on her tray and make her own fresh squeezed orange juice.

“If my tooth comes out tonight then the tooth fairy will come! Daddy, what’s the tooth fairy’s real name?”

“Gertrude. At least that’s what it says on her driver’s license. But she doesn’t really like that name so she goes by Tooth Fairy.”

Strangely, this makes sense to them.

Emma takes a bite out of her apple. “Where does the Tooth Fairy live, Daddy?”

A good question. Everyone knows Santa resides at the North Pole. But what about the Tooth Fairy?

“Well, she travels all the time. And she’s got to cover both coasts and everything in between so she lives in the middle of the country. In Kansas City, I think.”

“The Wizard of Oz is in Kansas…..did you know my birthday is in October?”

Nobody does random conversations like kindergarteners.

Zach stares at me. “My birthday is in October. I’m having a party. You wanna come? I’m inviting the whole world.”

Alessa, done squeezing oranges, brushes her tousled dirty blonde hair off her face. It falls right back again. She smiles at me. Then picks up her yellow straw and begins doing chocolate milk titrations into her blue Jell-O cubes.

It’s time to clean up and line up. A quick look around says I hope the trash can is hungry for beef and bean burritos.  The girls head left and I head right. Along the way two second grade boys who don’t know me but must think I’m big enough say, “Hey! Can you help us with this?” 

“Sure.”

Two sealed fruit roll ups. Only after they press them into my hand do I realize they’ve spent considerable spit trying to open them with their teeth. Thankfully I don’t have to resort to using my own incisors to free the fruit.

At that moment Annie runs up with a shout. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy! My tooth came out!” She smiles, pulls down her lower lip and shows me the empty space. “Is it bleeding?”

“No, Annie. Not bleeding.”

For the rest of the day it was show and tell for Annie. “Hi! I’m Annie. I lost a tooth! Look!”

God, thank you for little girls and boys. For their tousled hair and sticky fingers. For wiggly teeth and the Tooth Fairy. For their love of life and delight in the present moment. I learn so much from them.

One wiggly tooth down. And, God willing, lots of wide-eyed wonder to go.

“No.” She pulled her arms in a bit and gathered her purse closer to her.

Thanks to the “print your boarding pass the day before” option at Southwest Airlines I was in the “A” group. Which means I was at the front of the cattle call free for all in finding a seat on this flight from Las Vegas to Lubbock. If you’re ever unsure about which gate for a flight to Texas, you just look for the one with the most cowboy hats.

Two rows over a young 20-something couple were sleeping upright, using each other for a pillow. Her head on his shoulder, nuzzled in so tight all you could see were cheek and chin. To my left and down a bit a large woman on her cell phone, laughing so hard and so loud that she was wheezing. Directly in front of me a nervous man in a western shirt, Levi’s, boots and a cowboy hat, fumbling with his Bluetooth ear piece as he tried to make appointments. “Is that better? Can you hear me now?”

However old the silver haired lady was, she dressed young. A snappy black and white outfit and burgundy polish on her toes and fingers. She had a firm grip on the boarding pass, her thumb covering her last name. The first name read “Melba”.

Sometimes I read and keep to myself. Sometimes I like to see what I can learn from a stranger by asking questions. I had a couple good books in my briefcase. But then again, when would I see Melba again to ask her anything?

It’s now or never.

“So are you living here and going someplace else? Or live someplace else and visit here?”

She said, “Just here to see my granddaughter. I’m going back to Ft. Worth today. I live there. Have to drive to Dallas to catch the plane but I leave my car at a friend’s house so it’s pretty easy. I live alone but I’m fit and active and want to be on my own as long as I can.”

“So does living in Texas mean you have to be a Cowboys fan?”, I asked. She looked too smart to be a Cowboys fan but every person has their weakness.

“Let me tell you, football is my sport. The Cowboys, the college teams. I love it. I went to the University of Oklahoma so I really follow the Sooners. That’s where I met my husband. He was a World War II veteran.”

“So were three of my great uncles. Did you ever read Tom Brokaw’s book, “The Greatest Generation”?

“I love Tom Brokaw,” she fairly beamed. “I think he’s the man.”

“Well, I think he’s a little full of himself, but that sure was a good book he wrote.”

She bristled a little at that. But even Tom Brokaw’s mother thinks he’s full of himself.

“So where did your husband serve during the war?”

“In the South Pacific. Saipan. Gaudalcanal. He was a nurse in the Army. He wanted to be a doctor but ended up going into the service when the war broke out. When it was over and he came home, he wasn’t able to pursue medical school. So he went into sales. And he was darn good at it. Made a good living selling air conditioning systems for the big office buildings. We were very happy. We had a vacation house on the lake. It was the best time to have our family and friends there. A lovely place.”

Her eyes looked up to the ceiling for a moment. Remembering, I think, the lake. And him.

“We cooked these big meals and sat around the table together with everyone. What a wonderful place that was.”

“Do you still go there?”

“I sold it after my husband passed away. Couldn’t keep up with it anymore. And it just wasn’t the same.” She sounded wistful. Like seller’s remorse.

“I’ve had a good life. Great family and friends. And lots of wonderful memories.”

Perhaps remembering she was talking with a stranger she collected herself, smoothed a wrinkle on her sleeve. Then looking me in the eye she reflected with sober certainty, “Memories. At my age you live on a lot of memories.”

Memories.

You have to make them before you can live on them. God-willing I live as long as Melba, I want a lot of memories to live on. Living life in the moment, making memories on purpose rather than by chance is the only way to do that.

The nervous man had managed to set a couple appointments while trying to get his Bluetooth to work. The large woman was still on her phone, but breathing normally now. The young couple woke and stretched, him wandering off in search of a restroom or a coffee. And me and Melba, boarding passes in hand, waiting for our plane.

Just thirty minutes at the Las Vegas airport on a Thursday morning.

Memory made.

“Memories are times that we borrow, to spend when we get to tomorrow.” – Paul Anka

Ours is covered with photographs and the obligatory magnets to hold them all in place. It’s a hodgepodge of themes. An Andy Griffith Show magnet holding a photo of Allison, Shelby and Shaun; our nieces and nephew. A Chicago skyline magnet securing a winter photo of my Uncle Ev’s farm in Iowa. The profiles of Evelyn and Josie, two girls from South America we sponsor through Compassion International. And there are advertising magnets with crucial phone numbers like Ben Franklin Plumbing and Hungry Howie’s Pizza. The best photos on our fridge are of our kids. There are lots of those. They’re all fun, especially the one of Sara in the rocking chair with a baby in each arm.

Six years ago this morning, October 18th, Annie and Emma were born. Seven and a half weeks early at 3 pounds 9 ounces and 3 pounds 14 ounces, respectively. After a month or so in the NICU in Spokane, we brought them home. We asked our dear friends Linda and Lisa to pick us up at the airport.

Sara had been gone for at least six weeks, staying with the girls while they were in the hospital. So when we got back to our house, there was a lot to do. After we got in the front door, Sara handed Annie to Linda and I handed Emma to Lisa. They sat down on the love seat and held the babies while we set about unpacking. Before they left, we took a picture of the four of them. After the film got developed it got put on the fridge. A year later at the girls’ first birthday party, we took another picture. It’s been a tradition ever since.

After this week there will be seven pictures of them sitting on the love seat, Linda holding Annie and Lisa holding Emma. When you see the pictures grouped together in sequence on the fridge it’s a striking reminder of how quickly time passes. And it makes me thankful that we stumbled on a simple way to mark the most significant life event for our family that we celebrate every year.

What’s on your refrigerator doors? Hopefully some great snapshots of the people important to you. Pictures that make you laugh and smile and remember. Pictures that take you back to a different time and place; images that remind you who you are and where you come from.

When we’re purposeful in capturing our Kodak moments, we’re marking time and making memories. Marking time keeps us honest about our mortality and tempers our tendency to take life for granted. Making memories builds a legacy for us and our children.  

Yesterday Annie and Emma were standing in front of our fridge looking at all the pictures. It was a conversation between twin sisters, a delightful privilege for me to overhear. They were discussing a photo of themselves taken a couple years ago at their pre-school graduation. Dressed in their blue mortarboards and tassels, they are striking a classic pose with two of their friends. After reliving the memory together, Annie sighed and said longingly, “I miss those days.”

I miss them, too. But the best I can do is make memories at every stage. And take more pictures to put on the fridge.

 “Memories are times that we borrow, to spend when we get to tomorrow.” – Paul Anka

I was blessed to live near all my grandparents. I got to see them all the time. Grandpa and Grandma Thompson lived the closest. A short half mile down the gravel road on the farm. In the summer of 1981 they had been married for 56 years. That the marriage happened at all was a tribute to my Grandfather’s considerable charm and persistence. In a letter my Grandmother wrote to my cousin, she said, “I once told your Grandfather it would be a cold day before I would ever marry him. And it was. 34 degrees below zero on Christmas Eve in 1924.”

Grandpa Thompson was quite a character. A gifted conversationalist. A skill that served him well as a salesman and in talking his way out of speeding tickets. He had a dry sense of humor and a keen wit. He was a great story teller. An excellent woodworker. He taught himself to paint in his 70′s. He had a green thumb, loved to grow raspberries and roses. Best of all he was a quietly strong Christian role model. A Grandpa who was a wealth of wisdom and seasoned life experience for his grandkids.

About a month before he passed away, a big storm blew through. Summer storms in our part of Iowa always came from the northwest and this one had been building all day. It wasn’t a matter of if it was coming, but when it would arrive. We knocked off work at 4 pm, poured some lemonade, watched the horizon and waited. According to the radio, this one wasn’t some wannabe wind. This was going to be a “head for the basement and it wouldn’t hurt to pray” kind of storm.

The clouds were more ominous than anything I’d ever seen. Rolling, dark blue, then fading to black. The radio station said this weather cell had spawned a couple tornados and was leaving a trail of serious damage. I stayed out by the field taking pictures until I felt the air temperature quickly drop. Then it was a sprint to the house with my Shetland Sheep dog right on my heels.

Everyone went to the basement but me and my Dad. We looked out the window and watched the wind flip the switch to high. It was as impressive as it was sobering. Then just as quickly, the switch flipped off. Completely off. It was the first and only time I’ve literally experienced the “calm before the storm”. Everything outside in an instant went eerily still. Not leaf moved. There was no sound. The sky was a scary green gray. The air felt charged. It made my skin crawl.

Dad said, “Look out. Here it comes.”

Wham!

The storm after the calm shook the house. Trees bending, shingles flying and it sounded like a train was rolling through our living room. We went to the basement to ride it out. Time passes. Slowly and fearfully when you’re thinking your house could blow away.

After the noise died off, we went upstairs. The house was still there. But outside, what a mess. We’d be cleaning this up for days.

My cousin Jack, in a voice of urgent concern, said, “Man, we better get down the road and check on Mom and Pop. I hope they had time to get to the basement.” They were 81 and 82 years old. Trying to navigate those stairs in a hurry would be dangerous for them.

We jumped in the truck and headed south. All the way down the road we zigzagged to avoid the debris. Heading up the lane we saw chunks of corrugated steel roofing draped over power lines like laundry hung out to dry. A couple small buildings had fallen in. The tornado had hit the edge of Grandpa’s farm. It tore the roof off the hay shed and sent it screaming across the acreage. There was a ten inch hole in the siding where the wind had javelined a tree limb into the side of the house. A huge branch was blocking the front door. Jack and I scrambled to lift it out of the way.

Flinging open the door we instinctively headed for the basement but there was no light on down there. Curious. We poked our heads around to look up into the kitchen. There sat Grandpa and Grandma at the table, drinking coffee and having an afternoon snack.

Jack went off. “Pop, what the heck are you doing up here? Why aren’t you in the basement?! Didn’t you know it was storming outside?”

“Yep.”

My turn. “Then why the heck are you up here? Don’t you know a tornado lifted the roof off the hay shed and blew it over your house? It knocked your chimney down!”

“I thought I heard somethin’.”

“Heard somethin’?! You’ve got a hole in the side of your house! Another two feet over and that tree’d come right through the window and killed you. Why aren’t you in the basement?!!!”

He looked at us and without pause graced our 18 year-old questions with an 82 year-old answer.

“Because if you’re gonna go, you may as well go eating pie.”

And with that he put down his fork.

I can’t speak for Jack. But in my memory that was perhaps the first time I realized that in the sovereignty of God, when it’s your time to go, it’s your time to go. The best we can do is make sure we’re living life to the full every day, even in the storms, until we go. In this, we have a choice.

Several weeks later the entire extended family was gathered at our house for dinner. We grilled steaks and hamburgers, ate sweet corn, drank iced tea and enjoyed being together as we had so many times before. Grandpa Thompson was at the table, relishing the conversation and the laughter and his family when he fell out of his chair and died. A massive stroke or heart attack. I think he was gone before he hit the floor.

He was drinking a cup of coffee.

And eating a piece of apple pie.

“Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life.” – Psalm 39:4

01:02:03; 04/05/06

It won’t happen again for a hundred years.

We tend to take note of events that don’t come around often. Halley’s Comet makes an appearance every 76 years. If you didn’t see it in 1986, you have to wait till 2061. Which for many of us means we won’t ever see Halley’s Comet. It’s the same feeling I have when I try to put “Super Bowl Champions” and “Minnesota Vikings” in the same sentence.

When thinking of things astronomical, we understand that certain alignments of planets and stars happen only once, if you’ll pardon the metaphor, in a blue moon. So what is it about the ordinary moment that makes us think they are ordinary?

This morning I took my parents to the airport. They have been visiting for the past week. I remember thinking when I picked them up that the days would fly and before I knew it I’d be taking them back to the airport. And that’s what happened. We thoroughly enjoyed our time together but the week was a blur. This morning it dawned on me that we were so busy having fun that I didn’t take a single picture while they were here. So engrossed in the moments that I didn’t think to capture any of them to look at later.

It’s good to be fully alive in the present moment. Yet this week I was reminded again how easily it is to take the present moment for granted. My parents commented on how much Annie and Emma have grown since they last saw them. It’s not as obvious to me because I see them everyday. Yet how important to pay attention to the ordinary day. Each day, a little growth. A little change. A little here and a little there and before you know it you’re picking out high school graduation announcements.

It’s a wonderfully cool, Winnie the Pooh blustery day in Phoenix. All my windows are open. The leaves of my orange/lemon tree are scratching on the window screen to my office. Roses are blooming in my backyard. My grapevine is leafing out. The chimes hanging on my patio play random compositions with each gust of wind. Palmer the Eskimo Dog is chilling in the grass. And I’m about to go play Chutes and Ladders with Annie and Emma while we listen to some Big Band music.

We won’t see 01:02:03; 04/05/06 on the calendar again for a hundred years.

We will never be where we are with the people we’re with on this day again…ever.

That makes this ordinary day extraordinary.

Carpe diem.

“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” – Psalm 118:24

Growing up in Iowa, fall was my favorite season. Cooler days and nights sent the chlorophyll into retreat, revealing brilliant reds, yellows and golds in the maple leaves. When their colorful autumn show closed in late October and the leaves took their final bows, the resulting leaf piles were magnificent to kick through and jump in.

Here in Phoenix, October temperatures can still be 100 degrees. For the leaves on the trees, it’s business as usual. Not until late December or early January do trees start looking fall like. Until then, the only way we know winter is approaching is to watch the license plates change colors.

“Daddy, can we make a pile of leaves and jump in them?”, Annie and Emma ask again. I start to say no. I mean, really. Fig leaves? It doesn’t seem right. When’s the last time you heard someone reminisce about their childhood saying, “Fig leaves were my favorite. The boring browns and dull greens. Fabulous.” No, when it comes to leaf piles, I’m pretty sure fig leaves aren’t regulation.

“Daddy, can we? Make a pile and jump in?” Annie and Emma persist. I look at them and feel sad. Sad that they have so little to work with. My kids want to jump in a pile of leaves just like Linus in “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” and the best I can do is a shallow pile of pathetic fig leaves. What kind of Dad am I?

“Daddy, please!!!”

Then I realize that Annie and Emma don’t care about the leaves. They care about the moment. Taking what they can find in front of them and having fun with it. Twenty minutes ago it was a couple of river rocks they put in a plastic pail. Twenty minutes from now it might be a pretend tea party with their stuffed animals. Right now it’s a pile of fig leaves.

“Sure. Why not?”

God, thanks for the privilege of learning from my kids. They teach me the value of the present moment.

That it’s a pile of fig leaves isn’t important.

What’s important is that they jump.

“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” – Psalm 118:24

“No, Annie. You’re five now. Happy Birthday!”

For weeks Annie and Emma have been talking about how they would soon be five years old. Now that the day is here, they seem a tiny bit wistful pondering that being five means they are no longer four. I understand that. We look forward to arriving and when we do we can’t help but look back.

Driving them to pre-school, we stop at Fry’s Grocery to buy some cookies to share with their classmates. Annie and Emma announce to the checkout clerk that today is their birthday and they are now five years old.

“Really? If it’s your birthday then you need balloons!” An attentive employee walking by hears the conversation and is back in a flash with two balloons, one pink and one orange. The girls giggle, toss a thank you over their shoulder and bounce out the door.

We are pulling out of the parking lot when my Dad calls. He can barely find the words to say that Steve Logemann, a high school acquaintance of mine, has died in a farm accident.

Steve was a couple grades ahead of me at North Kossuth High School. I didn’t know him well except to say hi to him in the hall between classes. He was very tall and very nice. The kind of person your parents would describe as “a good kid”.

Two years ago and 23 years removed from our high school days I received an email from Steve. Somehow one of my “Slice of Life” columns had found its way to his inbox and he asked to be added to the distribution list. Steve and his wife Gail now had four kids and a family website with pictures of their Iowa farm and of their children. The website is called www.twinkleye.com, a not so subtle reference to the Biblical passage in 1 Corinthians 15 that speaks about how believers in Jesus Christ will be changed in the “twinkling of an eye” when He returns. And that because of Jesus’ death on the cross, “death is swallowed up in victory”.

Pressing the end button on my cell phone, I turn right on to 40th Street. Annie and Emma are chattering happy twin talk in the back seat. Driving a little slower than normal, I look around. Palm trees are swaying and gray clouds are rolling on an unusually cool and windy Phoenix day. A phone company technician bends over a junction box, making repairs. Kids with packs on their backs and I-Pod’s in their ears head for the bus stop. A McDonald’s semi truck on its way with a supply of everything needed to make Big Macs and Egg McMuffins. Two ladies aerobic speed walking down the sidewalk. A Dad pushing a stroller. And me driving my kids to preschool on their 5th birthday before going off to work.

The thing about death is that it happens in the middle of life.

Pulling into the school parking lot the kids unbuckle their seat belts and we do what we always do. We have a little talk. We talk about how important it is to be a good friend to others, to be respectful of their teachers, to take care of each other and to remember that they can talk to God anytime about anything. On this day I add that 5 years ago my whole life changed when God blessed me with their lives. I tell them how proud I am of them and how much I love them. We hug for a little longer than usual.

Getting out of the car, Emma says, “Daddy, let’s let the balloons go and watch them go high in the sky.”

“Is that ok with you, Annie?”

“That’s a great idea! I go first!”

“Ok, go ahead…no. Wait Annie. Please. Just a second. Daddy needs to get something.”

Maybe it’s because today is their birthday. Maybe it’s because I’m thinking about Steve’s wife and kids and how terribly much they are going to miss their Daddy. Maybe it’s because with all my formal theological training I don’t have a single satisfying answer as to why bad things happen to good people. Maybe it’s because all of the above makes me remember that life is short and oh so unpredictable.

Whatever it was made me grab the camera.

“Ok, girls! Let ‘em go!”

Annie was right. It was a great idea. We watched them dance into the clouds and out of sight.

Happy Birthday, Annie and Emma. I love you more than you’ll ever know.

See you later, Steve. Thanks for reminding me to look forward to the “twinkle eye” time. You’ve arrived. I’m sure there’s lots to do on your first day in heaven, but if you happen to see a couple of pink and orange balloons float by, just know they’re from friends in Phoenix who are looking forward to the day of no more looking back.

“Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life.”
-Psalm 39:4

“Thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.” – 1 Corinthians 15:57

I remember my Grandfather saying these words. “My roses are blooming. Wanna come see?” He’d want me to follow and I would. Not because I had a passion for roses. More out of respect for Grandpa. Oh, I liked them ok. But he loved them. He even painted pictures of them. Me, I would lean over and smell them and say they were pretty with as much enthusiasm as a kid could.

Now that I’m (much) older I’m seeing what my Grandfather saw. I’m developing a passion for roses. Not just for the beautiful blooms, but for the entire process of cultivating and tending them. For example, since we don’t have a real winter in Phoenix, roses won’t go dormant on their own. If you want beautiful flowers in the spring, you must force them to take a three month rest. You accomplish this by stripping them of their leaves in January and pruning them back to naked canes. When you finish, if you step back and think you’ve surely killed them then they are probably pruned about right.

In March the rose bushes begin to wake up. They begin leafing out. Roses are big drinkers and big eaters. Ample amounts of water and fertilizer help the buds begin to form and in April they begin to bloom. I have twenty rose bushes in my small backyard. Hybrid tea roses, grandifloras, climbing roses and floribundas. They have delightful names like Rio Samba, Moonshadow, Sheer Bliss, Brigadoon, Midas Touch and Garden Party. Everyday I go out to enjoy the palette of colors and literally stop to smell the roses.

A few days ago I laid my nose on a perfect rose. I closed my eyes and inhaled the intoxicating scent. That’s when I noticed the bloom next to it. It had opened several days earlier and looked nothing like the one I was admiring. Its petals were spread out and displayed a different shade of yellow and pink. Only several days earlier it was a perfect rose.

Looking at the two of them I was reminded of a truth that God reminds us of. Our life, He says, is like the flower of the field. We bloom and then the wind passes over and we fade away. Which is to say our life, even if it’s long, is short. What’s 80, 90 or even 100 years in the span of eternity?

The challenge when you’re not a rose is that you’re slow to see your bloom fading. We tend to think of ourselves as younger than we are until birthdays and class reunions remind us that time is passing quickly. God instructs us to number our days so we’ll make the most of the time He gives us. Given that, it’s good to ask each other questions while the wind of life is blowing over us.

Do your kids know how much you love them? Have you told them specifically how they delight you? That you love to hear them giggle? That you are proud of them? That when you look in on them when they are sleeping you’re so overwhelmed by God’s blessing that it brings tears to your eyes?

Do your co-workers and employees know you as more than the person who gives the orders and checks off the checklists? Are you using your God-given talents and abilities? Are you chasing the American dream at the expense of God’s peace in your life?

Are you living today? Or are you wasting valuable time trying to change the past and/or fret over the future? Are you making a daily difference in the lives of others? What are you doing today that will last forever?

What are you doing while the wind is blowing over? What are you doing before your bloom fades?

My roses are blooming. Wanna come see? Better hurry. They won’t last long.

“As for man, his days are like grass, he flourishes like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more.” – Psalm 103:15-16

What will your kids be looking at in the picture albums when they become adults?

Children learn what they live. What kind of environment are we creating for our children? What are we doing to help them develop a sense of identity and place? How do we teach our kids about God and His faithfulness?

Joshua 4 is a wonderful account that teaches a valuable lesson in “building rock piles to remember”.

(Presented to Hope Covenant Church – Chandler, AZ – 6/13/2004)

Surrounded by appropriately noisy young families juggling kid packs, baby strollers and otherwise testing the limits of allowable carry on luggage, this matched pair sat quietly together with only their jackets and boarding passes in hand. Their appearance was pleasant. He in a tweed sport coat, she in a turtleneck and heavy gray sweatshirt with “Charlevoix, Michigan” elegantly stitched across the front in navy blue thread. They would be flying along with us and a DC-10 full of holiday travelers from Phoenix to Minneapolis. As I watched them I silently wondered what kind of Christmas they would have.

Upon arrival at my parent’s home one day later, we were told that my Grandfather had suffered a heart attack. He stabilized a bit for a few hours, but died early Christmas morning. My Mom woke me up to say simply, “Grandpa’s gone.” I guess if you had a choice of where to spend Christmas, heaven would be right up there.

My Grandmother asked me to speak at the funeral. During the next several days I sorted through the memories I had of my Grandfather. One memory in particular elbowed its way to the front of my mind. When I was a small boy, I loved to play in the snow. If I happened to be outside at my Grandparent’s farm when Grandpa Walt was headed toward the barn to do chores, he would pull me across the snow in a scoop shovel.

I remember the first time he ever pulled me. “Sit down and hang on.”, he said.

“But Grandpa, this is not a sled!”, I said.

“Sit down and hang on.”, he said.

“But Grandpa, this is a scoop shovel!”

“Sit down and hang on!”

So I sat down in the scoop and grabbed hold of the handle. Even as a preschooler I dripped with firstborn perfectionism. I spent every second of that first ride to the barn worried that this was not a sled. It was a scoop. Sleds are for pulling. Scoops are for scooping. This is not practical.

Before I knew it we were at the barn and the ride was over. Grandpa went in to milk the cows. I was left to look back toward the house and ponder the trip.

Sometime after that first ride in the scoop I quit worrying that it wasn’t a sled and started to enjoy the ride. I held on for dear life when Grandpa spun me in a circle over icy packed snow and swung me high and wide up the sides of giant drifts. I laughed and shrieked when he broke into a run; a mere eighth inch of aluminum between me and the frozen ground. Always before I knew it we were at the barn and Grandpa would go in to milk the cows.

I confess to you that I have spent too many of my nearly 40 years worried about what I’m riding on through life. I’ve wasted too much time wishing my scoop shovel was a sled or a sleigh or a snowmobile. And I think I’d hate to know how much excitement and joy I’ve missed by being practical instead of enjoying the ride. We Americans are particularly good at working for the future at the expense of the present. We’re so consumed with upgrading to a sled that we rarely experience the thrill of riding in our scoop.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2 tells us that “there is a time for everything”, including a time to be born and a time to die. In between those two events is the trip to the barn. Are you enjoying yours? Are you hanging on for dear life and allowing God in His sovereign love and plan to swing you high and wide over the big drifts of life during this thrilling, exciting and sometimes scary pull? Or are you still trying to explain to God that your scoop should be a sled?

Whatever God wants to pull you in, sit down and hang on. Enjoy the ride. Before you know it, you’ll be at the barn. At the end when you’re left to look back and ponder the trip; you’ll want memories, not regrets.

When we boarded the plane in Minneapolis for our return flight to Phoenix, there they were. The Tweed and Charlevoix couple. Row 5, seats E and F. I wondered what kind of Christmas they had.

I can’t say for certain, but it looked to me like they were riding happily in their scoop.

Sound advice for drivers approaching railroad tracks.

It’s also good advice for parents.

At 11:30 this night I stopped, looked and listened in the doorway of my babies’ nursery. Opening the door slowly, I peeked in. Maybe it was fatigue from a long day at work or maybe it was a reflective moment. But I stopped there, leaning against the door frame, not moving, the handle still in my hand. It’s only been 20 months but I honestly can’t remember how the room looked before it became a nursery. It’s Annie and Emma’s room now.

The room is peacefully serene. A nightlight tosses a soft yellow circle on the wall while a small globe lamp on the wood dresser provides backlight to the Brambly Hedge mural painted there. I’m biased but I think it’s the most beautiful painting any baby room has ever had. Annie and Emma fall asleep each night watching Shell, Pebble, Primrose and Wilfred, the furry field mice characters, happily playing in their own cozy nursery.

A giant size copy of “Guess How Much I Love You?”, a gift from dear friends to mark the day of the twins’ adoption, sits on top the bookshelf. Above it, a sheer canopy drapes from the ceiling, looping over antique porcelain doorknobs and old metal face plates mounted on the wall on either side of the linen curtains. Slivers of moonlight sift through the arch window while the leaves of the honeysuckle shadow dance outside.

Stuffed animals, species wild and domestic, have escaped the toy box. An unlucky brown squirrel who usually inhabits the crib rests this night face down on the floor, evicted by Emma. Books, including some Golden Books from my childhood, are loosely stacked in the corner.

Emma sleeps with her head resting on a blanket, hand crocheted by her Great Grandma Thompson. An embroidered fleece made by her friend Pat is wrapped around her arm. Annie has kicked her blankets aside. She has her fuzzy lamb in a sleeper hold. Laying there, stretched out on her bed, she seems so long. When I stop this night to look, I see baby girls who aren’t babies anymore. The feet of their pajamas that once flopped behind them as they crawled on the floor are now filled out to the toes.

The first time I looked at Annie and Emma, they were in separate incubators in a neo-natal intensive care unit. I’d never seen babies so tiny. Annie’s finger was no wider than my ring. How is it possible that a big guy like me could be wrapped around a little finger so small?

There were sounds that night. Beeps and chirps of heart monitors and oxygen sensors, the clicks of pens as busy nurses noted their vital statistics on charts and clipboards. The hum of fluorescent lights and high-tech equipment. The tiny squeaks of preemies as they were handled and fed.

The sounds were both comforting and unnerving. Beeps and chirps assure you everything is ok. Beeps and chirps would also alert you to a problem. The more time I spent in ICU, the less I noticed the sounds. I remember thinking that could be dangerous. To no longer hear sounds that contain a message.

The sounds I hear now each day are different than the sounds of the NICU. My daughters’ tiny squeaks have developed into shrieks and laughs and loud “Da Da!”s. The sounds contain a message.

Stop. If you don’t, you’ll be blind sided by a fast approaching future.

Look. You need to see what’s coming down the track.

Listen. Because the sounds you hear contain an important message.

The train is moving. It rolls from infant to toddler to child to teenager to adult without a stop.

Stop. Look. Listen.

When the train has passed, you’ll be glad you did.

“Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life.” – Psalm 39:4

Plopping down with my briefcase next to me, I chugged some of my Coke and bit into my cookie. A Ghirardelli chocolate chip fell to the floor. About .42 worth, I estimated. Oh, well. I’ve had chocolate chip cookies before, but how many opportunities will I have to eat one in the Omaha airport? Even ordinary moments only come around once. I took another bite and leaned back to look around. There were the usual newspapers with fingers peeking around the edges, gate agents fielding questions about departure times, and a few tired travelers like myself with $5.80 expressions on their faces.

You might say I heard the thunder before I saw the storm. “C’mon! Let’s go!” Headed my direction, darting through people and Samsonite suitcases as big as himself was a brown haired, three year old tornado in a jean jacket. “C’mon, Dad!”, he yelled to the grown up bouncing along behind him like a guy being walked by a Great Dane. The kid was on a mission, whatever it was.

It was in the days pre-9/11 when you could meet your party at the gate. They stopped in front of Gate 20. “Is that the plane?”, the son wanted to know. “No, not that one. Mommy’s plane isn’t here yet. Pretty soon.” He heard his Dad’s answer but just to be certain he asked about every plane he could see through the giant glass windows overlooking the runway. After about 10 minutes, which feels like forever to a small boy waiting for his Mom, an America West plane docked at the jet way. “Is that the one?”, he squealed. Dad, anticipating a breakaway attempt,  slowly and gently firmed his grip on his son’s little shoulders before answering. “That’s the one!”

Ever try to hold a tornado by the collar?

Passengers began filtering off the aircraft, slowly at first then en mass. The small one’s mission had just been elevated  to red alert status. I watched his eyes perform rapid fire reconnaissance on every face coming through the door. He knew who he was looking for and when he finally made a positive ID there was no holding him back. “Mommy!” Using a masterful “squirm and sprint” technique, he left Dad grabbing the air. Mom, too, heard her little thunder before she saw him and smiled at the thought. As if knowing he would find her, she dropped to one knee just in time to be hit with a flying hug that almost knocked her over.

After welcome home kisses, the three of them walked toward baggage claim. They had  traveled only a few feet when the tornado fell back a few steps behind his parents. Like a wide receiver in motion he ran past his Mom, tagging her on the leg as he blazed by, laughing hysterically. Mom laughed, too, and catching up to her son tagged him back before running on ahead. Their jubilant game continued all the way down the concourse until they were out of sight.

I looked around the way one does just after they’ve seen a shooting star. We want to know if anyone else saw the same streak across the sky. About 20 feet away, in front of me and to my right, sat a businessman dressed to the nines. Soft leather briefcase and overcoat, silk tie, Italian leather shoes, and a suit that was definitely not off the rack. If it was Gucci, he carried or wore it. Certainly he had to have seen what I saw. But he hadn’t. His nose was buried in a book. When I walked by to throw away my empty Coke cup I looked to see what he was reading. It was a self-help selection from the airport newsstand on how to get more out of life.

I felt sorry for Mr. Gucci. He was busy searching a paperback theory for wisdom on how to get more out of life and missed the living, breathing, whirling cyclone of joy that danced right past him. Tempted though I was, to judge him was to judge myself. How many times have I been reading about life instead of living it? How often have my eyes been open to my book and blind to God’s blessings?

The businessman and I had something in common, I decided. We both paid too much for what we bought at the airport that afternoon. Still, even at .42 per chocolate chip I think I got the better deal. That 3′ dynamo who laughed loud and hugged hard saved me a future fortune at the bookstore.

Airport layovers. Diet Cokes. Chocolate chips.  Little boy laughter.

Even ordinary moments only come around once.

It begins with them in their high chairs. Goldfish crackers in the crease of their shirts and peaches in their hair. Sweet, sticky faces with baby tooth grins. They signal dinner is over by backhanding their mostly empty sippy cups onto the floor. Palmer the Eskimo Dog sits at anxious attention waiting for his chance to clean up any leftover chicken nuggets they might throw his direction.

I run the water. Not too hot. Not too cold. Make sure their bath chairs are securely suctioned to the bottom of the tub. Get the supplies. Towels, soap and pear scented baby shampoo, a gift from their friend Andra. Wash cloths, one green and one pink. And from the bag o’ tub toys toss some of their favorites into the water. The blue octopus and the red crab. A yellow rubber duck and some blue foam stars.

Returning to the holding pen that is the family room, the stripping process begins. Pants and one sock. Who knows where the other one is. A turtle neck that was white when the day started. Annie helps. All she needs is a one sleeve start and she does the rest. Her sister is wiggly. Take off the pants, catch Emma and bring her back. Take off the shirt, catch Emma and bring her back. Finally we’re down to diapers. Two 13-month old squealing babies circling the coffee table like chairs at a cakewalk, waiting for the water games to begin.

Annie and Emma know the routine. They find their way to the gate. I pull it out of the doorway and give the command, “Release the hounds!” With happy shrieks they head toward the bathroom, Emma running and Annie doing her best Frankenstein walk. A minute and a fall or two later, they’re leaned up against the tub. Annie was born a minute later than her sister but thinks “first” is her birthright. She bends my eardrum but good when I put Emma in before her. Emma grabs the green wash cloth, lets out a belly laugh and drapes it over her head. Annie takes a quick breath when she feels the water, latches on to the pink washcloth and promptly splashes water all over my glasses. Daddy wanted to stay dry. Twins win.

Twin babies in the tub. Two silly baby sisters. Emma is fascinated with the wash cloth. Wraps it behind her neck and stretches like a self-administered chiropractic treatment. Annie just wants to splash. Both hands flat slapping the water like a beaver’s tail. Suck the water out of the pink washcloth. Pull the green washcloth away from Emma and suck the water out of it. Emma looks at me with her big eyes and lets loose her unique “it sounds like I’m coughing but I’m laughing” laugh and splashes water up her nose. Coughing, not laughing.

The red hook on the yellow plastic fishing pole in Emma’s grip catches Annie’s attention. Tug of war in the tub. Grunting. Pulling. They both look at me, yelling something in baby talk that loosely translated means, “Mine!” Soap and shampoo break up the dispute. The rinse off, a Rubio’s plastic tumbler of water over the head, gets their attention. Annie sneezes. Emma laughs. Annie points at Emma’s hair, overhead rinsed straight down over her nose, and giggles.

Towel time. Wrapped up like a couple of terrycloth burritos, we carry them down the hall, their little popcorn toes dripping water all the way into the family room. Preferring to run naked if given the chance, they are confined under protest to the couch. Dried off and Lubriderm lotioned, it’s diaper time. Emma executes a reverse kick escape that would make Dan Gable proud. Annie practices her drama queen routine, this night’s scene on the injustice of being stuffed and snapped into a cotton sleeper. Emma follows Mom around the house as she picks up the wet towels before nuzzling in on Mom’s lap with her bottle. Ears cleaned, hair brushed, and dressed for dreaming, Annie kicks back on her Daddy’s chest at a Lazy-Boy angle and grabs her bottle.

At the 4 ounce level, she pauses to talk to me. I can only guess what she said. Whatever it was, it sounded pretty well thought out. Reflective even. She punctuated her point by one-handing her bottle, tilting her head back and patting my face with her free hand. Then it was back to the bottle and watching ESPN Classic. Game 7 of the 1987 World Series. St. Louis and Minnesota. Annie falls asleep just before Kent Hrbek makes the last out. Twins win.

Tonight was bath night for the girls. Just like every other bath night. Except it used to begin at the kitchen sink with water in a tray no bigger than a Tupperware bowl. Tonight was just like every other bath night. Except that just three months ago their little diaper butts crawled down the hall to the bathtub. Tonight was just like every other bath night. Except that by the next one they’ll be two days removed from splashing water on Daddy’s glasses and two days closer to growing up.

Tonight was bath night for the girls. Just like every other bath night. Just like every other bath night on December 10, 2001 at 8:12 PM Mountain Standard Time in Chandler, Arizona, USA.

“Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life.” -Psalm 39:4

Last night I made a wonderful holiday memory. I surprised my Mom with floor seat tickets to the Boston Pops Holiday Concert at America West Arena. Just the two of us for an evening of Christmas music performed by a world famous orchestra. Music is one of my loves and I’ve listened to everything from blues in a bar to steel drum reggae on a cruise ship. Hearing the Boston Pops live with my Mom easily makes my top five.

During the first couple songs I was simply overwhelmed by the sound. Listening to music on your stereo and being a member of a live audience is the difference between talking on the phone and speaking face to face. Communication is 90% non-verbal. Music is no different. The movement and synchronicity of an orchestra is its captivating non-verbal message. To hear a melody is to hear a voice. To see the conductor’s dancing baton and to watch rows of wrists slide horsehair bows across the strings of violins and cellos is to look into the eyes of a song; to see and sense her mood.

Years ago one of my high school band directors, Jim Gosnell, taught me how to listen to music. He taught me how to isolate each instrument on a recording and hear only that part. Last evening, after my ears and brain became acclimated to the whole, I began to listen to the parts. It didn’t take long to realize the significance of every instrument.
There is only one piccolo player in the Boston Pops. Tiny instrument, the piccolo. Fits easily into a good sized jacket pocket. The instrument voted “Most Likely To Get Lost On The Bus.” Yet the musical story of “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” wouldn’t tell nearly as well without the piccolo’s rapid and timely arpeggios.

And what about the harp? Garrison Keiller defined the harp as an instrument that “takes 14 hours to tune and remains in tune for twenty minutes or until somebody opens a door.” It sat quietly on the end of the stage behind the second violins, thankful for a microphone just to have a chance against the trombones. Without the harp, “Silent Night” would be “Empty Night”.

Are sleigh bells and temple blocks really instruments? In a day care center they’d be tossed in the toy bin with the rattles and Lincoln Logs. In Christmas music they are the sounds of horses and motion; the brisk open air trip down snow covered roads ending with hot cider at Grandma’s house. Musically speaking, “Sleigh Ride” without sleigh bells and temple blocks is “Let’s You and Me Sit In This Wagon Without Wheels and Freeze.”

Could the Boston Pops play without the piccolo, harp, sleigh bells and temple blocks? Sure. Everyone would still recognize the melodies. Yet the audience would go home saying, “Something was missing…it didn’t sound quite right.”

The Boston Pops played at America West Arena for over 10,000 people last night. They could have crammed into an elementary school gym and played to an audience of 100. In either venue, without the piccolo, harp, sleigh bells, and temple blocks, the music isn’t complete.

It’s not about the size of the stage on which you perform. It’s about the importance of the role you play. Whatever your life’s stage, make sure you trill, pluck, jingle and clip-clop your best this week. People are listening for your part. Without you, the music isn’t complete.

“The body is a unit, though it is made up of many parts; and though all its parts are many, they form one body. So it is with Christ.” – 1 Corinthians 12:12