HAPPY FATHER'S DAY 2024!
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Holidays. Show all posts
Sunday, June 16, 2024
Sunday, March 31, 2024
Monday, December 25, 2023
Happy Holidays From Samson Society
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Thursday, December 14, 2023
The Harsh Reality of Xmas (Re-post)
We live in a day and age of deeper and deeper still - personal lifestyle facades. Facades that we work to constantly perfect to the point that we actually begin to believe they're our reality, and I suppose eventually a facade, if it ends up deep enough, will serve to replace reality itself. Wait a minute, nope. That's not possible. Scratch that.
In the past, it was consumerism that fed this pursuit of lifestyle facade construction, but today, it's also social media and any / all forms of technology that serve to buttress our camouflage.
The end-of-the-year holiday season can serve to ramp up that work on said facades when in actuality, there's tremendous experiential pain going on behind the scenes. I became aware of this as a teen right around this time of year when there presented itself a breach in my serendipitous reality one Xmas eve. Read on.
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When I was a boy, my father spent Thursdays out of town (in the MS Delta) for business, and often wouldn't return home 'till late Thursday night. On one particular Thursday night where he was absent from the homestead, my mother and I were spending the evening watching Christmas television programming in the den (or TV room). The home in Madison I was reared within was +/-1,800 square feet, therefore like the abode I reside in today, a loud enough yell or scream would easily resonate throughout. The den was on the east end of this ranch house with a "formal" living / dining room on the front (north side). That "formal" room was always cordoned off since it was "reserved for social gatherings".
Our TV consumption was interrupted when we heard something that sounded like a knocking on our front door (which was only accessible through the living / dining room). My mother noticed it first. This motivated me to investigate.
I remember just as soon as I breached the "formal" part of our abode, I heard a very loud banging on our front door along with muffled cries from someone on the opposite side. The solid core door had an arched glass window close to its head, but it was too tall to see out of. Nor were there any windows within close proximity to peer through prior to opening the door. I wasn't sure how to proceed so I hesitated.
I remember clearly the harsh white light streaming through that arched door window into the dark living / dining room. The source of that light was the ground mounted PAR lamp out in front of our door. This cheap lighting stunt was the typical suburban attempt to ring in the season by highlighting your home's Xmas entrance décor. At this point in time, I found myself leaning against the back of the door attempting to hear more from the other side, wishing all the while that my father were home to handle this (more and more) frightening situation.
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So, I eventually opened the door, and what I witnessed changed my perception of Xmas forever.
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An athletically built white teenager was crouching on our stoop in obvious emotional and physical distress. There was no doubt in my mind that he needed help, but in that moment, as we stared at one another, neither of us could even begin to fathom how best to clearly articulate anything of any substance. Nonetheless, this strange teen he'd ended up at our door, and he looked to be on the run from something or someone. And here I was peering out at him awestruck.
The next thing I remember was a station wagon coming to a screeching halt at the STOP sign in front of our house. It slid to a stop due to the street being slick from an early evening rain. When I attempted to take a closer look at it, despite the harsh glare of the floodlight, I made out the driver frantically exiting the vehicle right there in the street. The man rushed around the back of the car before sprinting towards the teenage boy through our small front yard.
All the while, the boy was continuing to plead for help, but when he became aware of his impending doom, his pleas turned to stark panic. At this point, time seemed to stand still, and I became frozen as I watched this bizarre scene unfold.
Within seconds, the man had the boy by the back of his coat, lifting him with ease off of our front stoop. From there, he dragged him back to the station wagon prior to tossing him into the backseat. The teenage boy went kicking and screaming all the way as the man repeatedly punched him in the head with his fist as he yelled obscenities at him.
Then I remember the car speeding away, but only after the man glared back at me right before opening the driver side door. What little I could make out of his looking at me was a combination of both threat and satisfaction.
By now, my mother was also in our front room, standing silently not far behind. From what I recall, she only witnessed what she could see from within the room itself. Eventually, I turned back to her, and we found ourselves standing there in stunned silence for a few seconds wondering what exactly had just happened.
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This was no doubt a once in a lifetime event. Madison, at the time, was countryside. Few people lived there, and those that did were church-going, lower to lower-middle class folks. Even today, I wonder why this boy picked our house to look for help, and of course, the greater question is why didn't I choose to respond in lieu of simply standing there like a pansy? It would have been so easy to simply let him inside our house, locking the door behind us. There was plenty of time for me to execute a rescue.
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My mother and I continued to look at each other without saying a word, and from there, both of us did the most shameful thing I care to admit to here. We returned to the den on the east side of the house prior to locking the front door and settled back in to watching television on our 19" Toshiba CRT. There was no telephone call to law enforcement. No discussion regarding the incident with my father. Nothing. The event was treated by us as if it had actually only existed as part of our TV programming.
Why?
Because we were too busy existing within our facade, and what we had just been sucked into didn't "fit" within that artificial construct. And this reflects perfectly of my entire growing up years and how shallow they truly were. It was like living within a Norman Rockwell painting in so many ways. A very deeply unoriginal Norman Rockwell painting.
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Xmas is a harsh, difficult, uncaring, brutally wicked time of year for so many folks, and all of these negative superlatives seem to only ramp up during the holidays in contrast to the traditional merrymaking. But, this ugly truth is so often hidden from view until you have it show up on your suburban doorstep.
If this reality decrees itself within your world during this Xmas season, don't cower away as I chose to do. Instead, come to the rescue of those in need. Open the damn door, swing it wide, and let the suffering inside for safe keeping. To hell with the devils of this world, but especially here at Xmas.
Tuesday, November 21, 2023
Dr. Addison's Reverse-Engineered (Holy Spirited) Catfishing
My sixth grade Sunday School teacher at First Baptist Church Jackson was an up-and-coming local attorney. He had a beautiful young family (wife / two elementary-age children), and they lived not too far from where we reside today.
This man was an only child (if I remember correctly) who was reared exclusively by his mother. And, oh my goodness, did he ever love his mother relative to the single-parenting duties she'd endured (he reminded us most every week of the arduous task she endured therein).
Up to this point in my childhood, I remember little of my Sunday School teachers / coursework. And I believe that's because I didn't attend regularly enough for proper memories to crystallize.
I believe Sunday School attendance became more of a priority for our family - around my sixth-grade year - due to my father being ordained a deacon (at FBCJ) around this same time (1985). For deacons are expected to fully commit to church attendance for themselves and their families.
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There were only 5-6 of us boys (no girls allowed in this particular class) who regularly attended this sixth-grade Sunday School class, and it was only because we had no other choice. Those who did have a choice attended only once before never returning.
Dr. Addison (as we covertly salutationed him) was incredibly earnest and so very hellbent to make a distinct spiritual impression on each of us boys. Whilst looking back, I can appreciate that, but his heavy handedness / dourness was always too much for us preadolescent children to endure.
For example, at the very beginning of the "school year", he announced that we'd each be expected to submit a paper - on a predetermined theological topic - at some fixed point during the spring. Each of these papers would then be adjudicated, and the winner would receive - wait for it - an NIV Study Bible! Too, he'd on occasion have us boys pray quietly there at our stackable chair - down on our knees. Each of us would place our '80s freshly blow-dried hair into our hands (elbows supported via the plastic seat), and with our eyes closed, quietly recite our verbiage to God (until given the go-ahead to get back up).
In short, every 45-minute Sunday School class was militantly executed by a man who had not one iota of fun / humor within his staunch makeup. And we, do doubt, were the absolute wrong audience for this. Yet, we were stuck with this dude at the outset of each and every Lord's Day.
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Around Thanksgiving of that year (1985), on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, Dr. Addison had us meet him at his abode with a grocery bag of predetermined (list) food items in hand. From there, we prayed together that God would lead us to a needy family to gift these staples to.
After driving a half hour or so into the city, our teacher's SUV pulled into the driveway of a very small, nondescript house in a part of Jackson that I'd never been to. From there, Dr. Addison knocked on the door beneath the carport before stepping inside to (seemingly) explain our serendipitous intentions. Around 5-10 minutes later, he returned to his idling vehicle full of sixth-grade boys to retrieve the collective goods. I remember sitting quietly there within the back seat with the others who'd come along, all the while feeling excited yet strange as this took place.
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Eventually, our surprisingly happy teacher returned to the driver's seat, having delivered all of the grocery sacks, before we sped away. But this was without any of us boys having the opportunity to visit with (or even be introduced to) our now bequeathed, needy Jacksonian family.
It was during our return trip to the suburbs that our devout leader divulged that God had miraculously led us to his maid's home for these non-perishables to be delivered / gifted to for the holiday season.
Let me repeat that:
It was during our return trip to the suburbs that our devout leader divulged that God had miraculously led us to his maid's home for these non-perishables to be delivered / gifted to for the holiday season.
I was too young, naive and intimated to question Dr. Addison's sincerity here. In fact, as a 12-year-old boy, I bought it hook, line & sinker. And I believe my peers did the same.
Whilst looking back, I have to wonder what his intentions / motivations truly were.
Saturday, December 24, 2022
Christmas Eve in My Hometown
There's so much to remember
No wonder I remember
Christmas Eve in my home town
'Cause there were carols in the square
Laughter everywhere
Couples kissing under the mistletoe
I can't help reminiscing
Knowing I'll be missing
Christmas Eve in my home town
Nothing can erase the mem'ries I embrace
Those familiar footprints upon the snow
There's so much to remember
No wonder I remember
Christmas Eve in my home town
I'd like to be there
Trimming the tree there
And there's a chance that I might
I can hear singing
Steeple bells ringing
Noel and Silent Night
Wise men journeyed far, guided by a star
But though I'm not a wise man, this I know
Through dreams and just pretending
I'm there and I'll be spen-ding
Christmas Eve in my home town
Those familiar footprints upon the snow
There's so much to remember
No wonder I remember
Christmas Eve in my home town
I'd like to be there
Trimming the tree there
And there's a chance that I might
I can hear singing
Steeple bells ringing
Noel and Silent Night
Wise men journeyed far, guided by a star
But though I'm not a wise man, this I know
Through dreams and just pretending
I'm there and I'll be spen-ding
Christmas Eve in my home town
As I sit in the semi darkness my living room, surrounded by the warm glow of the lights emitting from the Christmas tree, my world is all at peace. Truly, it is my most favorite night of the entire year. It is Christmas Eve, that magically enchanting time when the world lies in stillness on the eve of our dear Savior's birth. With my kid safely tucked in bed dreaming sweet dreams of what Christmas day will bring, I once again savor the moment that I possess to steal a few hours of quiet solitude. With the fire going in the fireplace and my faithful little dog curled up in my lap, my soul is at peace, at least for this moment. Although many claim Christmas Day as their favorite time of the year, for me, Christmas Eve has always been that special moment that I look forward to all year, and savor when it finally arrives. As a child, I never really paid much attention to Christmas Eve. But as an adult, I eagerly look forward to the time when the nightfall approaches on that special evening each year. With the television playing in the background, I briefly close my eyes and store this precious moment safely within the depths of my memories, held there to look back on for years to come.
When I was growing up, I had a great childhood but there was not a lot of stability in my life when it came to putting down roots and staying in one place for an extended period. Due to the nature of my dad's job, we frequently moved around quite often and never seemed to stay in one location more than a few years.
When I was a kid, my parents owned a few LP records (left over relics from their teenage years in the 1970s) that I found myself fascinated with. One set of records that they owned was a six volume Christmas collection produced by Reader's Digest records in the 1970s. I have always loved Christmas music, and to this day, I still find myself playing Christmas music in in my office at work all day long beginning on the first of November. As a kid, I dearly loved that record set because it contained all the Christmas staples such as Elvis Presley's "Blue Christmas" and being Crosby's "White Christmas." Now, you must realize that this was in the time before Sirius XM, Amazon Music or Spotify. No, if I wanted to listen to Christmas music, this set of records presented my only opportunity to do so throughout the Christmas season. Sure, there might have been a radio station or two that played Christmas songs, but if I wanted Christmas music on demand, this was it.
As a kid, I remembered one song that caught my attention and I found myself listening to it over and over through the years. The song was Kate Smith's "Christmas Eve in My Hometown." I remember being fascinated by Ms. Smith's hauntingly beautiful contralto voice. I grew up in a day and age where there was no Wikipedia or even the Internet as we now know it. If you wanted to find out something, your only option pretty much was to go to the local library and look it up in the World Book Encyclopedia. As a result, I grew up never knowing who this woman with the magical voice was. I just knew that every Christmas I looked forward to hearing her sing of a place that I longed for in my heart but knew would never exist for me.
This October marked the 15th year of my wife and I living in what I now consider to be our "hometown" of sorts. Neither my wife or I had a stable childhood, and we seem to both have developed a sort of "PTSD" when it comes to moving as an adult. Perhaps that is why we have never left our town after 15 years (our entire married life)? We have been in our same house for 12 of our 15 years of marriage even though many of our friends have bought and sold, and are now in their second or third house. We have had the same dog for 14 years. I have had the same old Ford truck for 12 years. Are you seeing a pattern here? Stability. Hanging on. Putting down roots. Finding a hometown.
But a strange thing happened a few years ago. I began to realize that people and places change, and nothing stays the same. To think that everything would stay the same forever goes against the very law of nature. When I was growing up, my late grandparents lived down in Crystal Springs, Mississippi. My grandmother's house, built in 1890, was the one constant in my life. I spent every holiday there as well as much time each summer. In fact, my aunt still lives in the house to this day, so it remains in the family. When I was growing up, some of my happiest memories were centered around that house and that town. Even though I never physically lived in Crystal Springs, Mississippi, it was such a constant in my life that it became sort of a pseudo-hometown of sorts for me. In fact, my wife and I were even married in that town in my late grandmother's home church. After my grandmother passed away in 2010 and my late grandfather moved in with his sister at her house in Terry, Mississippi (where he lived until his passing in 2015), I never went back to my late grandmother's house much, if at all. It was just not the same and it was too difficult for me. Many years passed and I did not go back down to Crystal Springs Mississippi at all. The one or two times I did go back down there to visit, nothing seemed as I remembered it. People had died, and places were gone.
Life is a strange thing. After my mother finally retired a few years back, she and my dad found a house that they wanted to buy down in Crystal Springs and decided to move back to my mother's hometown. Ironically, it is right around the corner from my late grandmother's house. Life had come full circle and I now had more of a reason to visit the town that had meant so much to me growing up.
Like life, memory is also a strange thing. When you go back and attempt to revisit places and scenes from your past, you find that they simply do not exist anymore. Indeed, the only place that they exist anymore is within the dim, cobwebby recesses of your imagination. Although we are making new memories down in Crystal Springs, Mississippi, it will never be the same as it was in the 1980’s and 1990’s.
As I sit back in my chair, I turn my attention back to “A Christmas Carol” playing on the television. Sadie adjusts herself as she nudges closer and sighs before drifting off to a doggie dream. My wife is sitting close by, drinking hot cocoa. And my son is fast asleep in his bed, dreaming happy thoughts of what tomorrow will bring.
The Christmas Eve of now looks different the Christmas Eve of my past. And in the future, I’m sure that it will look different than it does now. But no matter, what, Christmas Eve will always be my favorite night of the year. It’s that magical time where the past, present, and future all collide together. It’s the eve of my savior’s birth, and a time where I am blessed and happy to be alive.
You can never physically go back to a moment in time. Even if you were blessed to have had a stable, steady hometown while growing up, it will not be the same when you’re 42 as it was when you were 12. But Christmas Eve in my Hometown still exists. It exists in all the happy moments in time, which gather and come rushing forth in unison to greet me on that most special night of the year. Christmas Eve in my hometown is NOW. It is going to the candlelight service at church with my family. It is coming home to eat taco soup as we watch a Christmas movie before putting my son to bed. It is staying up with my wife to watch television in the dark on Christmas Eve.
One day, these joyful moments of the present will also be gone. And I’ll long for them with as much fervor as I do for the years spent at my grandmother’s. But they’ll be safe. They’ll be a part of the memories stored in those dim, cobwebby recesses of my memory. And I’ll sit back and smile once more. Christmas Eve in my Hometown exists. It exists my in my heart. As Ms. Smith sings:
“Through dreams and just pretending
I'm there and I'll be spending
Christmas Eve in my home town”
Monday, July 4, 2022
Saturday, December 18, 2021
Thankful
Thankful
Saturday, November 6th –
As the sun
slowly began to set, I observed hundreds of tiny dust particles, brilliantly illuminated
by the late afternoon sunlight shining through the branches of the old oak tree. As
I embraced the gloaming moment of that waning day, I noted that the temperature
had begun to drop considerably. In typical Mississippi fashion, the weather
that week had been notoriously mercurial. What started as a hot and humid week
had quickly morphed into a Saturday afternoon that held the promise of glacial weather to
come, as the wind nipped at my nose. While my son played with his friends
outside, I had occupied myself with blowing the leaves out of my garage, and away from my
driveway and front porch. It was one of those lazy Saturday afternoons where I
went outside and puttered around just enough to make me feel that I had been
sufficiently productive in the way I spent my afternoon.
My wife has
never been a gardener. However, she will occasionally make quick suggestions or
observations about how we can spruce up the landscaping or the exterior of our
home. Then, just as quickly, she will lose interest or forget about it entirely.
What ultimately gets done (or does not get done) outside typically falls squarely on the
shoulders of yours truly. Earlier this summer, we had gone to Home Depot for
one small thing (which I now can’t even recall), when these beautiful annual
flowers in hanging baskets caught my wife’s eye and attention.
One of the
features that we loved about our home when we found it many years ago, is the
big, long, Southern-style porch that runs the entire length of the home.
Although we have a porch swing, wicker furniture, and a rocking chair which all serve
to grace the front porch, the temperature seems to always be either too hot or too
cold, or the pollen count seems to be too terribly dreadful. So, while we often admire
our front porch and talk about how much we love it, we seldom actually sit
outside and enjoy it. One of the things that we noticed when we first moved
into the home is that the previous owner had installed a series of plant hooks
strategically placed across the front of the porch. This was a definite plus to
my wife, and occasionally through the years, she has brought home plants, had
me hang them up, and then promptly proceeded to forget all about them. As a
result, we often end up with a porch full of half-dead (or in some cases, fully
dead) plants that are usually pathetic-looking.
On that day
in early summer, my wife came home from Home Depot with about seven beautiful
annuals, all potted in hanging baskets. Joining them on the front of the porch,
was an ugly, scraggly looking fake plant that had once been an artificial
philodendron or some other type of vine-looking plant. Over the past eleven
years, we have watched countless generations of birds who have torn the plant
apart, and built nests on top and down inside the Styrofoam of the plant. Since
the plant hangs right outside of our living room window, we have sort of let
the birds take it over, and we have enjoyed watching generations of baby birds
growing up inside of the nest and then fly away at the end of the springtime.
On that
chilly November day, as I finished blowing the leaves off the front of my
porch, my wife came outside and suggested that we take down all the formerly
beautiful (but now dead) annual plants that we had bought at Home Depot this
summer. Wanting to make the outside of our house look a little less like the
Addams family home, I quickly agreed and started the process of taking each of
the plants down and discarding them in the trash can. When my task was completed, my
wife suggested that we go ahead and throw away the ugly fake plant which had
long ago reached the point of no return in the beautification department. As I
stood up on my ladder, I peered down inside of the plant to ensure that it was
devoid of any occupants. Quickly reassuring myself that there were no birds,
eggs, or babies in or around the plant, I took it down and put it inside of my
big 64-gallon, pink garbage can. Having completed my task, I went to round up
my son and called him inside for dinner.
Recently, I
was talking to my oldest and best friend who now lives in Nashville, Tennessee.
We have been friends since before our high school days and our friendship has remained steadfast through the years. As I talked to my friend, he was bemoaning
the fact that his local Walmart store in Tennessee had begun to put out Christmas
decorations at the beginning of October. “What about Thanksgiving??” he asked
me during our conversation that day. His main issue with the Christmas decorations
appearing in Walmart and in other stores at the beginning of October was the
fact that he felt like Thanksgiving was being ignored altogether. While I
agreed with the point he made as well as his observations to an extent, I quickly reminded him
that we are to be thankful year-round, not just once a year on Thanksgiving Day.
As I reminded him, gratitude is something that we must choose to actively
practice each day.
I have
always been a deep thinker, and many people over the years have referred to me
as an “old soul.” While I have always been a deep thinker, the older I get the truer
that seems to become. In my 40s, I think deeply, feel deeply, and love deeply
with a capacity that I did not possess in my teens, 20s, or 30s. Granted, a
part of that has to do with my personal growth as a person. I think that as we go
through things in life and gain life experiences, those said experiences touch
us, change us, and transform us. If they don’t, then we should probably take a
good look at ourselves internally and reevaluate ourselves as human beings.
When I was
younger, I used to believe that the measure of a man’s success came from his
material possessions. Indeed, I believed that the type of car that he drove, the size of the home that
he lived in (as well as the location of said home), and the size of his bank account defined
him as who he was and whether or not he had been successful in life. But the
older I get, the more I realize that this mindset is so wrong, and these things
are so not what defines a person as a successful human being. Rather, I now
feel that a man’s ability to love others, show kindness, and do the most good
that he can possibly do in this broken-down world of ours is what truly defines a
successful man. Now, I am not saying that men who live in big homes or drive
fancy cars or possess a hefty bank account are not successful. I have known a number of men who have had all the above-mentioned things and still managed to be
successful in the way that they lived their life and spread kindness around
them. I believe that the true measure of being successful is when we learn how
to be grateful and we actively choose to practice gratitude every single day that
we are given to be alive. When we possess the ability to be grateful for what
we have been given, no matter how or great or how small those things may be, is
what defines us as successful humans.
The older I
get, the less material things seem to matter to me. Indeed, as long as I have my
humble little house (with its oft unused porch), my wonderful son and my lovely
wife, the love of my friends, and my three annoying but very devoted dogs, I am
a wealthy and blessed man. Each morning when I wake up, I thank my heavenly
father for all the many blessings that he has bestowed on me. I actively choose
to practice gratitude. As I reminded my friend in Nashville during that recent
conversation, we should be grateful every day of the year, and every day that
we are alive is Thanksgiving day! Instead of looking at the Christmas
decorations (which magically seemed to appear at the beginning of October) in a
negative light, I suggested that he look at it as the beginning of a three-month-long season in which he could progressively give thanks each day as he
moved towards the Christmas season. He thanked me for that suggestion and
admitted that he had not thought of it that way before. So yes, while
Thanksgiving does seem to be a forgotten holiday in the commercial sense, it does not need
to be forgotten in our hearts. Thanksgiving is every day. The peace that we find through the hope that we embrace as we enter the Christmas season is not a one-day-only deal. That hope that we have in our hearts is there 24 hours a day, seven
days a week, 365 days a year! We have 365 days in which to be thankful.
·
For
the 18-year-old car which once belonged to my grandfather that I hang on to and drive back and
forth to work each day strictly out of sentimental reasons, I am thankful.
·
For
the curly-haired eight-year-old little boy who has given me so much gray hair of
my own, but has brought so much joy into my life, I am thankful.
·
For
my wonderful wife who has never given up on me even though I have probably
given her lots of reasons to, I am thankful.
·
For
the humble little house that is been my home for most of my married life and
has been the only home that my son has ever known, I am thankful.
·
For
the tiny little stray dog who wandered up to my house and claims me as her
very own human as she curls up in my lap each night while I fall asleep in my
recliner, I am thankful.
·
For
all the people who love me and care about me and keep me from falling into that
dark pit, I am thankful.
·
For
the career and the job that I did not choose, but “fell into” and grew to love,
I am thankful.
As my son got situated and cleaned up
for dinner inside the house on that cold November night, I went outside one more
time to make sure that I had put all my tools and other stuff back in my
garage. As I walked the length of my front porch to make sure that I had not
left anything outside, I observed three little, tiny brown birds, either
finches or sparrows, frantically flying and searching at each of the seven
porch columns. As I watched the birds, I saw that they eventually gave up in
defeat and landed on the swing, where they sat watching me. Suddenly, a
lightbulb went off in my head. “Oh no!” I exclaimed to myself. I bet we threw their
house away. Quickly, I went inside to share both my observation and revelation
with my wife.
“Absolutely not!” She said as I told
her of my plan to get the ugly, fake plant out of the garbage and hang it back
up. “I am not going to have that ugly thing hanging back up on my porch!” But
you know what, my wife is a softy when it comes to animals just like I am. So
eventually, after much pleading and cajoling on my part, she agreed that we
could retrieve the ugly plant out of the pink garbage can and hang it up on the
porch. Fortunately, it had been the last item that we threw away, so it was
safely on the top and had not been damaged in any way.
Dragging my ladder back out from the
garage, I proceeded to hang the ugly plant back in its rightful place. After
putting the ladder back in the garage, I peeked around the corner, curious to
see what would happen. Suddenly, out from a bush directly beneath where the
plant was hanging, popped out the three little brown birds. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!
They all flew straight into the plant and proceeded to settle themselves in for
the night.
Later that night, after I was sure
that they were asleep and that I would not disturb them, I grabbed a step stool and
went outside. Using the light from my cell phone, I peered into the plant and
watched the three little birds huddled in one mass together as they braved the
fierce cold of that frigid November night. Since that day, checking on them has
become a ritual of mine. Every morning, I look to see if the birds are gone,
and they are; obviously, they must leave at the first light of day as they are
gone by the time that I leave for work. Each night, since that cold evening in
November, I have checked on my three little birds. They are always there,
grateful to have had their humble abode restored to them. It does bring me some
measure of comfort knowing that I had a part in making sure that those three
had a nice cozy place to ride out the winter.
To my wife and I, it was (and still
is) an ugly fake plant that has seen better days! But to those three little
birds, it is home. And I am sure, in their own way, they continue to
experience an immense sense of gratitude and thankfulness for what they have been given.
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