carbonated joy

Our granddaughter, the simply amazing Moonpie McLovenugget, is eleven months old.
For most of her life her diet has consisted of grayish formula that smells like plant food.
Lately that has changed!
She is the proud owner of seven and a half teeth!! This opens up endless dining opportunities!
The world is her oyster…WAIT!…Who would give an oyster to a baby? The world is her chicken nugget!
So this means that when we go out to eat, she isn’t just a car seat bound spectator anymore, she is an active participant…sometimes VERY active.
Most of the time she is awesome. She is content to eat a little, flirt with the server, and wave at whoever is seated around us.
But yesterday…
Maybe we should have known better. She was tired. We had been playing at the park for an hour. She was a little fussy.
But, we didn’t read the signs, we were hungry. So we stopped at our favorite Italian restaurant down the street from our house. It’s called Pomodoros, which is Italian for “tomatoes”. You know it’s going to be delicious because they celebrate the tomato. They serve amazing food and play great music, they also have fantastic lunch specials…we were blinded by that.
We were seated right in the middle of everything…awesome.
The Moonpie tried to eat the complimentary kid’s crayons. When we wouldn’t let her eat the red crayon, she flung it across the restaurant. It bounced off a man’s lasagna and skidded to a stop on his table.
Then it seemed she tried to do that magic trick where you jerk a table cloth (or in this case, a large napkin) out from under glasses and silverware without disturbing anything.
She has some work to do.
She has suddenly developed some serious grabbing skills. She moves with the speed and dexterity of an over caffeinated jungle cat ninja. It would be really impressive, if she wasn’t grabbing your sweet tea. She moved with lightning quick quickness to grab anything within her limited reach.
At the same time she was dropping her sippy cup every 47 seconds because it’s funny watching Big Papi try to bend over and retrieve a Minnie Mouse cup.
We had ordered her some noodles, they arrived at the table. There didn’t seem to be that many on the plate. Diana chopped some up and put them on the Moonpie’s highchair.
THAT is when the massacre started.
Those poor noodles never had a chance.
The Moonpie was grabbing noodles in both of her chunky fists and flinging then over her head.
Angel hair pasta was flying around in a crazy buttery pasta frenzy.
She would stop occasionally long enough to make a happy squeal and point at something that she wanted…a French fry, a chunk of bread, the Parmesan cheese jar. She was clearly having a blast.
Through it all, the pasta flew.
Those poor defenseless noodles!
Oh the humanity!!
We decided the massacre must end. We got up to leave and realized that there was a mountain of dead noodles under our table. It seems like the pasta had multiplied in a crazy culinary miracle. Our table was a mess. Sorry Pomodoros!
I had noodles in my beard, Diana had barely been able to touch her lunch.
I got the Moonpie out of her high chair. She seemed to be covered in butter, marinara sauce, and bread crumbs.
As we hastily scurried out the front door, I swear my eleven month old grand baby looked at the hostess and said in a chirpy voice…
“Ciao baby”

I am the proud product of public education in Oklahoma.
Growing up I had some incredible teachers.
They taught me how to read, that changed everything. Suddenly, the world was wide open.
They also taught me how to share my crayons and how to speak in public. I learned how to write in cursive. I learned not to eat paste. I learned math and art (art was my favorite.) I learned about space and spelling.
These hardworking women and men molded my mind, and they helped to shape my story.
They ignited curiosity.
They invited me to a lifetime of learning.
I’m so very grateful.
Their jobs have gotten tougher and tougher.
Every day, in the middle of increasingly hard situations, good teachers show up and create potential, they make something out of nothing.
They do not get thanked enough.
They do not receive enough respect.
They don’t get paid enough.
They are heroes.
They are the music makers…
They are the crafters of dreams.
I stand with them.
From 1,091 miles away…
I stand with them.

Jesus wasn’t a white dude.
It’s no mystery, it’s simple history.
He was brown.
He was a middle eastern man.

I remember when I was a kid we went to the theater to see a movie about the life of Christ called The Gospel Road.
The movie had an incredible soundtrack and narration by Johnny Cash.
That was so stinking cool.
The man in black singing about the man from Galilee.
But, when they made the movie, they seemed to forget that Jesus did come from Galilee.
The movie made Jesus white.
Jesus had blond hair and blue eyes.
At the time, it didn’t phase me.
It seemed right for God to look like a European male model.
But, it was fake news, a misrepresentation of Holy hues.

I’ve noticed that when artists paint or draw Jesus, He inevitably looks a little like them.
We all try to create Jesus in our image.
We are much more comfortable with a Christ that looks just like us.

It’s seems to be a natural inclination.
On the cross, He took our place…
So, we want to give him our face.

He took my place, not so he could assume my image, but so that I could realize that I was created in HIS image.
When Jesus looks at a mirror, he DOESN’T see me.
When he looks at me, he SHOULD see a mirror.
I need to look more like him everyday.
That has nothing to do with race, it has everything to do with grace.
The goal is for me to look like him, in the way I act and treat others.
So, what is the color of grace?
It’s the beautiful shade that is created when we reflect Christ together to a gray world.
Let’s paint Jesus with our actions.

In my lifetime, I’ve spent a lot of time in arcades.
I’ve played and worked in arcades.
I’ve spent hours and quarters.
And almost every arcade I’ve ever been in has had the same game.
It’s hidden away in a dark corner back between Ms. Pac-Man and Frogger.

It’s Whack-A-Mole.

It’s a sturdy little colorful game where players use a big mallet to hit random plastic moles.
It can be quite a beatdown, the unfortunate moles get knocked back into their little mole holes.

Sometimes life feels like Whack-A-Mole.
Sometimes it seems like we have Whack-A-Mole weeks.
You try to escape the box and you get repeatedly beat down…
You pop up full of hope and expectation.
You want to try something new.
You want to live out some crazy dreams.
You think that this is your day, your big chance.
You pop out of your past and…
WHACK!!
You get whacked by a person or situation.
WHACK!!
You are reminded of your limitations and shortcomings.
WHACK!!
You are not enough.
WHACK!!
You’ll will never be more than you are right now.
WHACK!!
You are reminded of where you belong, in the hole.
WHACK!!
You MUST stay in the box.
WHACK!!
Shame…
WHACK!!
Guilt…
WHACK!!

But, wait…
Let’s go back to the arcade.
What if the mole revolted?
What if the mole popped up and refused to be beatdown? What if he grabbed the mallet with his desperate little mole fist and he shouted “Not today, Mr. arcade customer!”
What if the courageous mole used the mallet to destroy the box that had served as his coin-op prison?
WHACK!!

Sometimes life feels like Whack-A-Mole.
Maybe it’s time to revolt.
Maybe it’s time to switch places. Grab the mallet!
Do NOT whack other people, that’s NOT what mallets are made for.
Use it to whack the lies and fears.
Whack the shame and small thinking.
Smash the boxes that have imprisoned you.

Lift up the mallet and let it swing!!

It seems…
There has been a lot of finger pointing, and name calling, and rock throwing between different generational camps lately.
We have this natural tendency to lump generations together.
We draw lines.
We classify.
See if this sounds familiar…
Millennials all wear skinny jeans and they hang out in coffee shops, they are all lazy, right? They eat soap, yet they think they can tell us what to do! They feel entitled and they all have iPhones. They don’t settle for busy work, they want their work to matter.
Gen X are a cynical bunch, they are risk takers who like wearing flannel, they don’t like rules. They want their MTV. They’ve all abandoned their families in pursuit of self fulfillment.
Baby boomers are all super patriotic, optimistic and ambitious. They are workaholics who made America great. They aren’t tech savvy, right?

They all look alike, think alike, act alike…right?

We live and die by demographics.
We paint with bold, broad strokes.
But, when we do that, we get it wrong.
We slap a label on a whole generation or group, Forgetting that the whole is made up of unique individuals.
They are people, not members of a clone army.

We are pretty sure we know what to expect from every generation.
But the problem is that there are exceptions to every expectation.
Actually that’s not a problem, we should all be exceptions.
We should defy definition.
Not all millennials are selfish, not all baby boomers aren’t.
We are ALL beautiful hybrids.
We have to get rid of the cookie cutters.
We do people a huge disservice when we stereotype.
It’s a crime against humanity to generalize a generation.
It’s second guessing the creator.
When we lump, we limit.
It cripples potential.
It creates a lid.
You would think that we would have recognized by now that stereotypes stifle spirit.
We need to quit treating people like they are inherently worse than us because they were born after us.
EVERY age is golden in it’s own way AND EVERY age is tarnished in it’s own way.
EVERY generation, since the beginning of time, has BOTH stepped up AND screwed up. It’s a tasty combo platter of our DNA and the consequences of our choices.
But there is hope for all of us, we are ALL equal parts of beautiful AND broken.
It’s about family instead of generation.
We ALL have both nothing AND everything to offer.
Let’s learn from each other during our shared journey.

Everyone on this planet, regardless of when they were born, is uniquely equipped to do something that’s never EVER been done.
It’s based on who you are.
You are wired to be and see different from anyone else.
You don’t have to be defined by your birthday.
Be defined by the reason you were born.
Be defined by all the amazing ordinary extraordinary days that fill your days.

We are ALL the same in the fact that we are ALL different.
That’s not generational, it’s human.
Rather than classify, we need to celebrate the things the make us ALL different AND the things that make us the same.
Moments should define a generation, stories of individuals who stood up or stood out.

I close with these lines from a classic Gen X movie:
“You see us as you want to see us – in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is a brain…
…and an athlete…
…and a basket case…
…a princess…
…and a criminal…”

So no matter, how old you are or what your story is, take a minute and throw your fist in the air and shout “Don’t you forget about me!”

I have a crazy recreational idea…
People are into a lot of different outdoorsy activities that involve wheels.
There are skateboarders, and rollerbladers, and bikers.
That’s all good, but I think there is room for more.
I have a revolutionary recreational idea…

Wagoning.

I want to ride in a spacious red wagon (with a cup holder) as it is pulled by someone younger than me…why cant that be a thing?
Picture it with me…
Instead of skate parks there would be wagon parks.
Each city could have well lighted wagon trails.
We could form local wagon gangs. We could cruise around and listen to our own theme song,
“Born to be Pulled”.
I have to say that, even though I don’t have the motor skills to rollerblade, I would be a natural at wagoning.
Because of my vertically challenged height, I would need a low rider wagon.
I would wear a special protective wagoner helmet and do semi-impressive tricks, like a modified “almost wheelie”, and the death defying “HEY LOOK, I’m standing up in the wagon while it’s moving” trick.
Eventually, I could be a professional wagoner! I could get sponsors NASCAR style and slap advertisements all over my wagon. BOOGITY! BOOGITY!
EVERY day would be a parade! I could wave and throw candy and cheap trinkets to onlookers. Nobody gets left behind because wagons don’t move very fast and they don’t require special skills.

It could be the next really BIG recreational thing.

I just have to convince someone to pull me around…that might be tricky.

In the meantime, I think I’m going to take a walk.

I discovered three amazing stories today.
It was like unearthing hidden treasure.
It’s a curious thing…
I could have easily missed it if I wasn’t paying attention.
They were hiding there in plain sight.

The first story came to our house.
He was a repairman there to work on our dish washer.
He was the rarest of repairmen, he actually got there on time!
He possessed a slow southern drawl, a cool graying bouffant hairstyle and an American flag patch on his sleeve.
We discovered that, he too has a granddaughter that he calls Moonpie.
His Moonpie is a teenager, our Moonpie is about to turn 1.
We talked about our love for Moonpies, both the grandkid type and the delicious marshmallowy treat type. He was suddenly craving a Moonpie and an orange Nehi.
He grew up on the Carolina coast.
We talked about bowhunting, and deer, and where to get really good barbecue in Charleston.
It’s a curious thing…
If you listen you can hear people dream out loud…
He has a curious dream, He wants to hunt in Iowa. He has hunted all over the East coast and he has heard stories about the cornfields in Iowa being a big buffet table for deer.
We love Iowa.
We have special friends and family in Iowa, we are hoping someone has some land that he can bow-hunt on.
He fixed our dishwasher problem and gave us homespun advice about how to keep it working.
We made a friend.
He became part of our story.

The next story showed up on our sidewalk.
She was wearing pigtails.
We were walking the Moonpie, pushing her around the cul de sac in a rainbow colored stroller.
The little girl that our neighbor watches, came over to talk.
I think she is 4.
It’s a curious thing…
She was carrying an old tire pump, the kind that you use on bicycles.
I thought “hmmm, that’s curious…”
I asked if she was working on bikes.
She informed me that she is a doctor and that she was going around the neighborhood offering her services. She was using the tire pump to blow people’s lips up. I’m pretty sure that she was trying to practice some weird form of unregulated organic Botox.
Clearly, this child has watched some reality TV.
She sweetly offered to use the tire pump on the Moonpie.
I said “ummmm…no thanks, we wouldn’t be blowing up her face today”.
She sighed, stroked my granddaughter’s hair, and said “okay, her’s so sweet”.
She told me that she really wants a baby sister but, her parents really aren’t up for the challenge.
I told her that I understand.
She became part of our story.

Finally, we met an elderly gentleman at the card counter at Wal-Mart.
He had a lifetime etched into his face, and on top of that face sat a Dallas Cowboys hat. I commented “are you a Dallas fan?” Suddenly he pointed at me with one bony hand, balled up his other fist like he was ready to punch me.
“Are we gonna have a problem?” He asked with a mischievous spark in his eyes. He is used to people giving him a hard time about his choice of team. I assured him that I’m a Cowboys fan too.
It’s a curious thing…
Everything changes when you realize that you are on the same team.
He has lived in North Carolina all his life, but early on, he decided that the Cowboys were his team.
On his face, under the ball cap, there was the strength, tenacity and character that comes with growing up as a black man in the south in the mid 1900s.
There was hardship and hope in his face, the kind of courage that comes with doing what you have to do every single day.
I don’t know why we try to hide the wrinkles on our faces, they are the roadmap to our journey.
He was picking out a birthday card for his wife. She is turning 76. He asked us to help him find a card. So, Diana, our new friend, and me looked through a lot of brightly colored cards.
Finally, Diana found one that he thought was perfect.
He and his wife are also celebrating their 56th anniversary this week. They are having a big party with a roomful of friends and family who, he was quick to point out, are all buying their own dinner.
We also met his wife, she had been in the back of the store looking for a new pillow. There was a beautiful story written on her face too, but it was getting late.

Story.
The greatest treasure that I can collect is story.
It only happens through observation, interaction, and listening. I have to slow down and be present. I have to look strangers in the face and start conversations that magically transform them into friends.
I need to live with the constant awareness that every single human that I encounter today has a story, and each story can make ME a wiser, richer, better human being.
Like the pirate I am, I go in search of treasure today.

What stories surround you?
It’s a curious thing…