Christmas, Moment by Moment

My Christmas season is always in pieces---not the seamless canvas portrayed in magazines, but a picture created by scores of random fragments coming together.

A stained glass Christmas.

Each Thanksgiving, as I spoon leftovers into plastic containers and look for new ways to recycle turkey, I vow that this year I'll get Christmas right. I won't let my priorities get so out of line that I'm running around like an elf on amphetamines. I won't experience a moment of horror when I realize Christmas is only a week away and I haven't written my Christmas letter (Yes, I do write one each year and I'm not ashamed to admit it) and I haven't baked a single cookie.

Yep, that's what I always say. And I have yet to succeed.

As Christmas Day 2015 draws to a close I realize while I may not "do" Christmas perfectly I am often blessed with perfect moments:

Shopping in Costco a week before Christmas, cart-to-cart with fellow last-minute pilgrims, listening to carols echoing through the warehouse, and feeling good cheer settling over us all, from the shoppers to the sample ladies. "Thank you," "Excuse me," and "Merry Christmas" bounce from soul to soul.

Listening to "I'll Be Home for Christmas" on the radio as I run Christmas Eve errands and
remembering how the song made me sad during Mr. Pettit's military service---we made our home wherever we were currently assigned, but we also missed our extended family. As I make my trek to Walmart I think about both sons, their wives and our granddaughter spending the holiday at our home and I'm overwhelmed with the sweet realization that extended family has come to us.

Watching children at a Christmas light show; they jump up and down as if springs are attached to their soles and their shrieks of delight ping back and forth in the crowd, causing even grownups to smile.

Holding Sweet Baby Girl before I put her to bed, swaying in the soft light of the guest room. Her head, damp from her bath, rests on my shoulder and my heart rests in her little hands.

My awareness of my blessings is sharpened by the fact that many of our friends and family have been touched by calamity this year. Indulge me as I quote the conclusion of the aforementioned Christmas letter (which I did mail before Christmas):

I try not to focus on why God didn't stop the bad things from happening. Instead I think about all the moments when He did intervene on the roads and in the emergency rooms and the surgical suites. Then my thoughts turn to the intervention, the reason we set aside every December 25 as holy.

This is how much God loved the world: He gave his Son, his one and only Son. And this is why: so that no one need be destroyed; by believing in him, anyone can have a whole and lasting life. God didn't go to all the trouble of sending his Son merely to point an accusing finger, telling the world how bad it was. He came to help, to put the world right again. Anyone who trusts in him is acquitted; anyone who refuses to trust him has long since been under the death sentence without knowing it. And why? Because of that person's failure to believe in the one-of-a-kind Son of God when introduced to him.
John 3:16-18 (The Message)

May all the colorful pieces of 2016 unite to give you a beautiful and blessed stained glass year.

Merry Christmas!

Staying Afloat

Do you ever feel like you're running even when you're standing still?

As I got ready for work a few mornings ago my brain was spinning like a centrifuge, trying to resolve problems and set priorities. If I were a comic book character lightning would have been shooting from my finger tips. I forced myself to focus: Breathe in, breathe out, repeat.

At least I was standing still, unlike my friend K (no, not the Men in Black character), who described a typical morning in her home in a recent Facebook post (reprinted with permission):

I am extremely jealous of all those mothers who are able to get out of bed two hours before their children...exercise...do laundry...shower...and bake hot muffins for their children to wake up to every morning...greeting said children with a smile and gently getting them off to school...
I, on the other hand, have TWO alarms set...one at 5:45 and the other at 6:20... when they go off, I quickly calculate the joy I will get out of emerging from my cozy bed an hour or so ahead of the boys and leisurely getting ready vs the joy of sleeping in and hitting the snooze alarm...guess which one wins? I typically manage to emerge from the covers at 6:57...race down the hallway to shower while waking (none too gently) (Son #2) with a shout...race back up the hall to dress...
At 7:30, I start encouraging (read talking at an ever increasing volume) (Son #2) to get dressed because we have to leave in ten minutes....I am convinced velcro sneakers were invented because of moms like me...I yell at (Son #2) to hurry up with the shoes and he moves into a higher gear...rampaging snail...stampeding turtle...

At 7:42, I start looking for my car keys...which I can't find...Found the keys...and my wallet...woo-hoo...and pulled out of the driveway at 7:46...we made it to school with two minutes to spare...and then I went home to do it again with (Son #1)...who we have nicknamed Lurch because he's approaching 6 feet at age 13...and, well, his top speed isn't much higher than (Son #2's) first thing in the morning...

Does reading that make you tired, or is it just me?

I love K's reference to the muffin-making moms. In the ancient, pre-Web days you didn't know what early morning miracles these women performed until you spoke to them at work or church or in your neighborhood. Even then they might take in your dirty sneakers or not-quite-styled hair and show mercy by not talking about their good works.

But now we live in the age of Facebook, and the only thing missing from some posts is the newsboy's cry, "Extra! Extra! Read all about it!" The paragon K described might write something like this:

A bit of a busy morning here. Had to shorten my run (only three miles today!) because I promised Jasper I'd help him finish up his diorama about the Iroquois. Then I realized I haven't made buckwheat pancakes in at least a week so I whipped some up. After a quick shower (can't forget to exfoliate!) I drilled Jasper on his multiplication tables while I braided Theodora's hair---then she and I chatted about Charlotte's Web while I finished packing their lunches. Both are on the bus now so I better finish getting ready for work. I hope we can figure out that last piece of the genetic code today. Bye bye for now!

I can't get too high-and-mighty about Facebook because I use it myself. That's how I get the word out about this blog. And I think we're all guilty of a bit of spin now and then, tweaking details here and there to make our lives look extra bright and shiny.

It occurred to me the other day, the morning my brain was buzzing, that I tend to make things harder than they have to be. I throw rocks into my mental backpack then wonder why I'm bent over with the load. I toss in one stone after another: Do I meet the expectations of others or do I fall short? How do I measure up to my peers? Did I say too much or too little? Why do I have so much trouble conquering (Insert bad habit here)?

I've spent my Sunday mornings with preschoolers for a number of years and I think I've learned more from their pared down lessons than from any lofty sermonizing. I especially like the story about Peter---audacious, impulsive, fiercely loyal and yet terribly fearful Peter---and his reaction to seeing Jesus walk on water.

Shortly before dawn Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. When the disciples saw him walking on the lake, they were terrified. "It's a ghost," they said, and cried out in fear. 
But Jesus immediately said to them, "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."
"Lord, if it's you," Peter replied, "tell me to come to you on the water."
"Come," he said.
Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, "Lord, save me!"
Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. "You of little faith," he said, "why did you doubt?"
And when they climbed into the boat, the wind died down. Then those who were in the boat worshiped him, saying, "Truly you are the Son of God."
Matthew 14:25-33 (NIV)

I tell my preschoolers that Peter was fine as long as he kept his eyes on Jesus but he started to sink when he turned his attention to the wind and waves. I need to remind myself of that on a daily basis. No "to do" list, no matter how long and involved, can overwhelm me when my eyes are fixed on my Savior. His is the only approval I should seek.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. Do everything for an Audience of One.

Listen to the Music

Warning: The following column is rife with pop culture references. If you spend all of your free time listening to Vivaldi and reading the classics phone a friend or wait for my next post.

Back in the summer of our nation's bicentennial year everybody was movin' and groovin' to a cool song about death. But I'm not sure they realized it.

All our times have come
Here, but now they're gone
Seasons don't fear the reaper
Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain
(We can be like they are)

Come on baby
(Don't fear the reaper)
Baby take my hand
(Don't fear the reaper)
We'll be able to fly
(Don't fear the reaper)
Baby I'm your man.

"Don't Fear the Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult

(Donald Roeser)

I wondered back then how many of my friends listened to the lyrics. After all, once that cowbell kicked in all you wanted to do was roll down the windows and drive fast through a sparkling South Carolina night. (I assume my younger readers are familiar with this song only through Will Ferrell's brilliant sketch on "Saturday Night Live" in 2000.)

In a 1995 interview with College Music Journal Mr. Roeser said he was talking about eternal love, not suicide, but that's not the impression I got in 1976. It still isn't. 

Everyone has a list of irritants that's as unique as our personalities. One of mine is double-edged: I can't fully enjoy a song if I can't understand the lyrics and if I don't like the lyrics I can't enjoy the melody. (Okay, I do like "The Joker" by The Steve Miller Band even though he speaks "of the pompatus of love." There's an exception to every rule.)

This column came to mind as I listened to "Bang, Bang" by Jessie J, Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj the other day. The opening, sung by Jessie J, reminds me of Beaker on "The Muppet Show," although I don't think Beaker ever went "bang, bang" on anyone. I watched the video to figure out who was singing the first lines. I admit I hoped it was Ariana Grande, because I wanted an excuse to bring up her penchant for doughnut licking. Oh, wait, I guess I just did...

Anyway, in the spirit of Casey Kasem, back to the countdown. "Independence Day" by Martina McBride seems to be regarded by many as a triumphant anthem:


Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing
Let the whole world know that today is a
Day of reckoning
Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong
Roll the stone away, let the guilty pay
It's Independence Day.
(Gretchen Peters)

The storyteller in the song is recalling the summer she was eight. She sings about how Mama escaped her abusive marriage by setting fire to the house with Daddy in it. The thing is, she renders herself extra crispy at the same time, leaving her daughter an orphan. Loretta Lynn wouldn't have done it that way. She would have sent hubby to Fist City and run off with her little girl to Nashville.    

And then there's my Grand Prize Winner for Most Annoying Song of All Time: "Imagine" by John Lennon.

I see you out there, your faces painted with stunned disbelief. "Imagine"? The inspirational song about peace and harmony?

You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you will join us
And the world will be as one.
(John Lennon)

Let's hold hands and sway around the campfire to that verse. But what about the others?

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people living for today

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people living life in peace...

Oh, I get it. If only we could get rid of religion and the whole concept of an afterlife we'd be living for today, which brings the film The Purge to mind. I'm all for "Carpe diem," but I disagree with Mr. Lennon's contention that we'd be better off without eternity in mind. For me, it's the eternal that helps me keep the temporary in perspective.

As for getting rid of countries, "nothing to kill or die for," well, it might be considered backward or arrogant or rude these days, but I'm thankful to be an American. As a Christian I believe one day there won't be any borders or conflicts, but until then dictators and madmen will continue to spring up like weeds and work to subjugate their fellow man. And when they do others will rise to defeat them and people will die.

Sorry to leave you on such a low note. How about this instead, courtesy of the group "Walk the Moon"?

 "Don't you dare look back.
Just keep your eyes on me."
I said, "You're holding back, "
She said, "Shut up and dance with me!"
This woman is my destiny
She said, "Ooh-ooh-hoo,
Shut up and dance with me."
(Ben Berger and Ryan McMahon)

All you need is love

If love wins, what loses?

"Love wins" has been a rallying cry for those who support same-sex marriage. After the Supreme Court’s 5-4 decision in Obergefell v. Hodges a celebratory post on the White House blog proclaimed that “Today, gay and lesbian couples won their right to marry. Today, love wins.” After all, the writer adds, “Love is love.” 

Back to my question: Winning goes hand-in-hand with losing. You can’t have one without the other. So the logical follow-on statement to “Love wins,” is “Hate loses.”

And just like that, those of us who disagree with this decision are branded as hateful or, at the very least, backward. After all, what decent human being would ever take a stand against love?

As someone who strives to use language with precision and skill I have to admit to a grudging admiration for the way the advocates for same-sex marriage framed their argument. They skipped discussions about the historical role of family in society and the ramifications of changing the definition of marriage and went straight for the heart. He loves her, he loves him, she loves her; it’s all good. Let’s get together for dinner tonight and watch “Modern Family.”

The only folks who aren’t on the receiving end of this goodwill are people like me. Disagreement cannot be tolerated. In his dissenting opinion Justice Samuel Alito summed up the result of Obergefell v. Hodges better than I ever could:

Today’s decision usurps the constitutional right of the people to decide whether to keep or alter the traditional understanding of marriage. The decision will also have other important consequences.

It will be used to vilify Americans who are unwilling to assent to the new orthodoxy. In the course of its opinion, the majority compares traditional marriage laws to laws that denied equal treatment for African-Americans and women.  The implications of this analogy will be exploited by those who are determined to stamp out every vestige of dissent.

Perhaps recognizing how its reasoning may be used, the majority attempts, toward the end of its opinion, to reassure those who oppose same-sex marriage that their rights of conscience will be protected. We will soon see whether this proves to be true. I assume that those who cling to old beliefs will be able to whisper their thoughts in the recesses of their homes, but if they repeat those views in public, they will risk being labeled as bigots and treated as such by governments, employers, and schools. (Emphasis mine)

At church yesterday our pastor reminded us that Christians are commanded to do two things: Love God and love people. They're simple directives but I've obeyed them with varying degrees of success---I am a work in progress. It's especially hard to love people who hold you in contempt. To be honest, I can't do it, not on my own, anyway. I need the help of Jesus Christ, the One Who paid the price for my sins. “I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing." John 15:5.
  
I attended an Episcopal school from sixth through 12th grade and this weekend I remembered a "contemporary" song from our chapel services. I think it's more than coincidence that it comes to mind now:

We are one in the Spirit

We are one in the Lord 

We are one in the Spirit 

We are one in the Lord

And we pray that all unity may one day be restored
And they'll know we are Christians by our love, by our love
Yes, they'll know we are Christians by our love
(Peter Scholtes)

 

Fathers, Day by Day

It's not hard to spot the good ones.

Around two weeks ago I turned on my TV and watched a grandfather squeeze his grandson’s shoulder, sharing his strength with the little boy at a critical moment. Then he kissed the child on the head and hugged him once again as they prepared to go into a church for a funeral. Even as the father mourned for his son he didn’t close up his heart. Instead he reached out to his grandson, his granddaughter and daughter-in-law and offered them a steady presence on which to lean.

Vice President Joe Biden is a man terribly familiar with loss. You've probably heard the story: A week before Christmas 1972, shortly after Mr. Biden was elected to the U.S. Senate, his wife and three children were in a car accident.  His wife and baby girl were killed and his two sons were seriously injured.  He wound up taking the oath of office in his sons' hospital room.

Mr. Biden cared for his sons in the midst of personal catastrophe, something you'd expect of a parent. What truly impresses me is the rest of the story, how he chose to continue to live in Delaware even while serving as a Senator in Washington, D.C.  His daily train commute tells me he understood that a successful father isn't born in the delivery room or even in the peaks and valleys of his children's lives.  A man becomes Daddy, Dad, Pop or Papa one day at a time: At the kitchen table, on the soccer field, in the grocery store aisle and the school auditorium.

I can't imagine the pain Mr. Biden must continue to endure as he mourns for his son Beau, who died May 30 at the age of 46. But I think it's likely he has been spared the sting of regret in this regard: I get the impression Beau knew just how much his father loved him.

I have been blessed by a circle of fathers. Daddy has been gone almost 27 years now but few days pass
that I don't think of him. So many moments: His making up songs for me as we drove to school, going to the first "Star Wars" movie together, studying the skies with his telescope in hopes of seeing aliens, going to the Dairy Queen for a treat after working in my grandmother's yard. Daddy was there for the major events of our family---the weddings, the births and the deaths---but I remember him for the multitude of little things.

Mr. Pettit departed from the Southern tradition of calling fathers "Daddy" when he held our older son for the first time and told him, "I'm your Papa." Daddy can't protest my praise but Mr. Pettit surely will if I take this opportunity to gush about what a fine father he has been and continues to be to our sons. Suffice it to say he became "Papa" through multiplication tables and
camping trips and countless games of catch and football.

Last summer our younger son became a father when he and his wife welcomed our Little Miss. It's beautiful to watch him become "Daddy" as he feeds and dresses her and changes diapers and flies her through the air. A host of little things that, when taken together, become significant.



Happy Father's Day to the men who take the time to live up to the title.

Voice Lessons

Those of you who know me only through this blog are unaware of an important aspect of my identity.

I talk funny.

I didn't come to this conclusion on my own. Unlike the flaws I dwell on when I look in the mirror or examine my thoughts, I had no idea my voice was anything other than perfectly fine until Mr. Pettit and I left South Carolina for Lubbock, Texas, in the spring of 1982.  From that time on, as we moved from state to state---nine in all---whenever I've met someone new, I've waited half a beat, wondering if the Question were imminent.

"Where are you from?"

Occasionally the Question is accompanied by a compliment, such as "I love a Southern accent!"  More common is "Say something else!" or my personal favorite, a really bad impression of a Southern accent, something about as authentic as collard greens in New York City:  "Waaayylll, I thawwt you must be from the Sowwth."

I've joked that if I ever have critical information to impart no one will hear what I say, only the way I say it.  Maybe this is why I'll never be in a Mission Impossible movie:
Ethan Hunt (played by Tom Cruise):  If this bomb goes off we'll be thrown into a nuclear winter, cats will rule the earth and I'll go bald!  Can't somebody defuse it?!
Rita:  I can! I can!
Ethan: Where are you from?

Here's where I acknowledge that on the continuum of burdens to bear the recurring commentary on my accent is about a negative 5.  I suppose I should be over it by now, that such remarks should have lost their sting.  But I haven't figured out how to make that happen anymore than I can ignore a wasp circling my soft drink.

I haven't rambled on about this in order to elicit a series of comforting statements from my friends.  I bring it up because I had a revelation in France.

Mr. Pettit and I love to travel and our most recent journey took us to Italy and the French Riviera.  It was wondrous and exhilarating to visit so many places I've dreamed of since middle school.

In St. Tropez we joined an excursion to the towns of Grimaud and Port Grimaud.  I took French in high school and college and have continued to study on my own.  Although I'm far from fluent I had been looking forward to practicing with our guide.

So of course I greeted Helen with a chirpy "Bonjour!" when we met.  She replied, "Parlez vous francais?"  To which I responded "Un peu." ("A little.")

Helen seemed surprised and said something I'll never forget: "You have a beautiful French accent."

Dumbo learned how to use his big ears to fly.  The Ugly Duckling became a Swan.  And the accent that had been the object of curiosity and even derision became beautiful.

The lovely streets of Grimaud

The next time I meet someone and they ask, "Where are you from?" I'll give my standard reply: "I'm from South Carolina but I keep my Southern accent wherever I go."  But in my heart I'll revisit the moment when I gained a new perspective on my voice.

Merci beaucoup, Helen!

Trying Times

I'm a substitute teacher.  Not exactly the exciting title I dreamed of as an ambitious high school yearbook editor.  I didn't set my sights on the White House, Broadway or the boardroom, but I hadn't ruled out the possibility of some fame and fortune, even if the Pulitzer Prize selection committee never called.

I consider myself a freelancer.  The title "substitute teacher" is associated with victims and villains: The pitiful soul tormented by a group of devious hellions, the disinterested chair filler who reads a novel while her students play poker in the corner (and who later shows up in a viral video); and the crone who took lessons from the witch in "Hansel and Gretel."

On the other hand, I think Mary Poppins was a freelancer.  Mary was a free agent who chose her assignments carefully.  She dropped into situations with a spoonful of sugar and a satchel filled with common sense.

But titles don't really matter much once the door to the classroom closes and you're left alone with 20 or so children, armed only with a substitute folder and some lesson plans.  Sometimes things click, the children learn, harmony reigns, and you walk out of the building feeling like a master, a guru, the Child Whisperer.

Other days, not so much.

That was the case with a class of fifth-graders I worked with not long ago.  They weren't bad kids, but they loved to talk.  A lot.  I've seen this sound wave phenomenon before: A conversation or two bubbles up during a lesson.  I call out the offenders and move on.  Things are quiet for a few moments, then more children start chatting.  I put on my Sergeant Stryker persona (a John Wayne character) and begin doling out warnings, followed by penalties as prescribed by the teacher's discipline system.

But still the talking continues.  It's a tide of sound, rushing in, receding, then rushing in again, each wave a bit louder than the last.  The students seem incapable of silence; it's as if they're overwhelmed by the need to verbalize every thought passing through their minds.

By the end of my day with the class in question the talking had subsided---finally---and I was able to drop my tough-guy facade and enjoy a bit of conversation with the students.  (One young lady revealed to me that every situation is improved if you wear a cape.  Maybe I'll try that next time I pay my electric bill.)

Several girls asked to leave  "Welcome back" messages for their teacher on the whiteboard.  (You don't know what you've got till it's gone...)  I read them after they left and one in particular jumped out at me:

A short note, good news mingled with an apology, probably intended to blunt the effects of a bad report written by the substitute.  It has stayed with me, and I've thought of it often this Holy Week.

No matter how hard I try I can't be perfect.  This has been a lesson a lifetime in the learning.  Thanks to Jesus of Nazareth, Whose resurrection I celebrated today, I don't have to be.  He's already paid the penalty for all the times I've stumbled.  I only have to learn to dance to His rhythm rather than trying to force the music to follow my own beat.

He is risen!  He is risen, indeed!

For Buck

He introduced himself as Buck when he and Mr. Pettit met at the University of South Carolina almost 39 years ago.

You may have noticed that I'm careful not to use real names in these columns in order to shield family and friends from any blog-related repercussions.  But Buck wasn't his real name, a fact I didn't learn until much later.  

And today he passed away.

Mr. Pettit and I had been dating for a couple of years when he transferred to USC in his junior year.  I had just started school at a women's college across town so I quickly became acquainted with Buck and the other guys who lived in the dormitory, although "dormitory" makes it sound like a sprawling, up-to-date university facility, which it most definitely was not.  It looked like a small mom-and-pop motel on the verge of bankruptcy; only the roaches found it well-appointed.  I heard the building was scheduled to be condemned but the school managed to return it to serviceable condition when it needed the space.  The dorm was named "International House" because it had once been used to house foreign students, but Mr. Pettit and friends just called it the IHOP.

Buck hailed from Connecticut and I think he may have been the first Yankee I ever met.  I still don't know what possessed him to travel south for college but apparently when he crossed the Mason-Dixon line he got it into his head that he needed a new name for his new, if temporary, home; a kind of nom de Rebel, if you will.  And so "Buck" was born.  He and the rest of the IHOP crew welcomed me into their circle readily and became the big brothers I never had.

The beauty of it is, they still are.

Because this column isn't about wistful recall of college friendships.  The guys of the IHOP graduated and got jobs and married and had children and the circle kept expanding, never breaking, until today.

Mr. Pettit and I traveled on the outskirts of that circle during his military years, when his service took us far away from our Palmetto roots.  But we stayed in touch with the gang, and when we finally moved back to the East Coast we were welcomed back into the fold.  

We attended Carolina football games together and went to Buck's 50th birthday party in Connecticut.  No doubt some of his guests questioned the decorations on his cake: A giant garnet and black bird (USC's mascot, the gamecock) alongside the Confederate battle flag.  But Buck liked it and everyone, Rebel and Yankee alike, had a grand time.

Buck seemed to carry grand times with him.  He had a kind of Santa Claus twinkle to his eyes when he smiled.  It was Buck who flagged down some random vehicle---I'm not even sure it was a cab---and insisted that the eight of us should pile in when the heat became oppressive as we toured Washington, D.C.  When we reached our destination we tumbled out like clowns at a circus.

Later on we let him pick the restaurant for dinner, something we quickly regretted when we realized a meal at the steakhouse would equal the cost of a week's worth of groceries.  Buck brushed aside our whining and talked about how great his steak was.  

Buck had a run-in with cancer years ago, back when Mr. Pettit and I were on the edge of the circle.  We didn't realize how sick he had been until we moved back East.  Maybe that brush with mortality accounted for his incredible joy, his wonderment at the life he had been given.

Buck loved his work and spent long hours building a successful business.  He loved his Gamecocks and at our last reunion, two years ago, he was trying to figure out how the IHOP group could buy a condo overlooking the football stadium.

Our Connecticut Yankee loved his state and refused to back down from his belief that native son Gustave Whitehead beat the Wright brothers to the air by two years.

Buck loved his wife and three daughters most of all.  They are the ones I'm thinking of tonight.  Our friend fell ill again last fall and this time he didn't get a reprieve.  

The IHOP circle has been emailing and texting for almost a month, exchanging messages about his condition.  We knew hospice had been called and we've all been waiting for today, praying for Buck and for his dear family.

So now the circle is broken, at least on this side of eternity.  When Buck was getting wound up about something his voice would spiral higher and higher and his words would start sliding together.  We all teased him about that.  I like to think that when we come together for his memorial service next week I'll almost hear his excited voice calling out,  "Look at this!  Look at this!  You've gotta see this!"

Grace and peace, my friend.

"I'd like to thank..."

What would you say if you were given 45 seconds to speak to about a billion people?

First we have to assume you would seize this opportunity, not faint or run screaming into the night.  And let's establish that you're not an Oscar winner, so you don't have to worry about thanking your director, costars, agent and Mrs. Quincy, your high school drama teacher.

Award winners seem to go in one of three directions:  

The straightforward words of appreciation

The political statement or preach-able moment

A combination of the first two, quite often commingled with a bit of babbling

The thank you note can get you off stage quickest:  "Thank you," and you're done.  But what are you thankful for?  Remember, you're not grasping a golden statue of a strangely featureless naked guy.  And to whom are you saying "Thank you"?  The risk here lies in forgetting someone if you go beyond those two little words. God will forgive you for such an omission, but human beings won't forget.

To go the political and/or preaching route you've got to be all in for a cause.  Don't waste your moment before a global audience with a tepid reference to world peace.  What topic gets you fired up?  I think awards shows give bonus points to folks who discuss obscure issues, as in "Join with me and demand that the Federal Reserve be audited!"

Finally there's the combo plate, and I admit that this is my favorite, perhaps because this is the way the human brain works when unaided by notes or teleprompters.  Here's an example:

"I'd like to thank God for all He's done for me and my friends and family for their love and support.  We all need support, like when the man at the traffic light has his sign and he just needs support, you know.  He's hungry and cold and climate change is making it colder.  The changing and the hunger are what he knows and we've got to care about people like him and stop driving and just paying attention to ourselves and care about the world, care about the planet, care about that man with the sign and all the men with signs..."  (Cue the orchestral music; go to commercial break.)

I haven't decided on my 45-second speech yet.  Have you?