A stunning moment delivered to this old stoic at church this morning. The final sentence of Matthew 9:36—10:8.
“…Without cost you have received; without cost you are to give.”
This was meant to carry a resonance all its own.
Mission accomplished.
Though I am not quite a changed man, I am definitely on that path.
That is for certain.
So once this laborer has more time to reflect on this revelation, I will return.
I am better knowing my role in it.
I attended a celebration of life this past weekend for my head football coach in high school, Gene Strode.
The stories shared by his children and friends still swells my heart. He was such a great father, husband, coach and man. He cast a living and lifelong impression on thousands.
It is fitting that he returned to farming upon his retirement.
I say that because he spent his entire career planting the seeds of potential, performance and passion within his players, assistants, kids, friends and community. He could see in others what they could not yet see in themselves, until they blossomed. And being the farmer that he was, he nurtured a continuing, healthy and prolific growth though out the season of his life.
He was careful to eradicate the weeds we grew by acting out of character. Minimized the manure we told our ourselves and tried to sell others. Watered us just right with praise, affirmation and discipline.
He radiated genuine, fatherly guidance and love to all that came his way. That is what made us grow so upright and strong. To this day, and to a lasting extent, we are who we are because we were all raised the same way by Coach.
A farmer of men.
Even though it has been close to fifty years, I could still feel all of that and then some when me and some of my teammates huddled this past Sunday. We did some truly great things together. Cause he saw it in us.
Then cube that sensation when all of us huddled together, as one, for Coach.
Every fall, he he grew us to be his bumper crop.
And every fall since, there hasn’t been a season gone by that I don’t feel his presence in my life. Whether it is the weeding, an awareness of an overabundance of fertilizer, or his way of watering us for growth, his radiance remains.
Now I get to walk those fields too.
For he taught me to be a farmer.
My true vocation.
Thank you Coach Strode.
well, actually, there could be three.
Not having a plate of cheeseburgers, with everything, from White Castles, preferably in La Grange.
Or, neglecting to go to Portillos and have a dog. Their crinkle cut fries are amazing, washed down with a large root beer.
These might carry you over for the first three of the day. Back in my youth, sliders might have been a very early breakfast, following a very late night. But I digress.
For din din?
Rocky’s Pizza in Westchester.
Bon appetit!
Maybe we are not the only ones, but at birthday parties for my kids – and now grand ones – the cake ceremony has been rendered the opportunity to belt out your absolute worst rendition of “Happy Birthday” ever.
A cacophony of the off-key, off-kilter, off-rhyme, off-everything by all in attendance. As long as it maintained a “G” rating, anything was allowed. Atrocious acapella. Raspy rhythms. Squealing. Animal sounds. Flatulence.
Provided you remained in “Happy Birthday”, all bets were off.
Can’t you tell how much she loved hers?
Now, two things have since happened.
First, since my kids have all growed up and left the nest and have the latest version of an Apple or Android, the old man calls them early on their birthday and leaves a sonnet on their voicemail. You have no idea how well you can sing hands free in a car making your way to your first call. Only once has one of them answered the phone. Sorry to say, he got the live version. I bet his ears are still ringing.
Second, now that I have three grandkids, they too get a voicemail version of “Happy Birthday” from the old fart. I just coordinate with momma and let it rip.
I hear it makes them giggle and laugh.
I bet mine do too.
They just won’t admit it.
But I will.
...my temporary assignment. 