Okay, okay, okay…

Boo – I want my waffle with syrup and jelly.

Me – Syrup and jelly? That doesn’t sound very good. Are you sure?

Boo – Yes. Syrup and jelly.

Me – Do you want the syrup on the jelly, the jelly on the syrup,

Boo – …

Me – or the jelly on one side and the syrup on the other?

Boo – Jelly on one and syrup over there.

Me – Do you want the waffle cut?

Boo – …

Me – Do you want me to cut the waffle so the jelly and syrup don’t mush together?

Boo – Yes.

Me – How do you want it cut?

Boo – In pieces.

Me – You want it cut in half?

Boo – Yes.

Me – This way, or this way?

Boo – No. That way and that way.

Me – In squares?

Boo – …

Me – In squares, so there are two pieces with jelly and two with syrup?

Boo – Yes.

Me – Okay. Let’s cut it in half like this?

Boo – Yes.

Me – And we’ll put the jelly on this side and the syrup on this side so they don’t mix. Okay?

Boo – Yes.

Me – Now I’ll cut the jelly side?

Boo – Yes.

Me – Now watch. I’m going to wash off the knife so we don’t get the jelly on the syrup side. See it’s all clean. Now can I cut the syrup side?

Boo – Yes.

Me – See? Now there’s two syrup waffles and two jelly waffles. Here you go Boo.

Boo – NOT LIKE THAT!!! I Want a new waffle!

Me – Where’s my coffee?

I wake up to the stale taste of blood and alcohol. My nose is full of cotton and my pockets are empty. Socks off. Shoes on. I lay in bed with the lights on. It’s 4am. The phone’s ringing.

I slip to the floor and crawl to the nearest pile of wrinkled clothes and torn papers. My fingers find the phone. My head pounds. I answer.

“Who’s there?” I say.

The voice on the other end barely lets me finish. “Get over here now Jack,” it says.

I hang up.
Where’s my pants?
I find a shirt and pull it over my legs. Sleep presses itself upon me. I remember the bar, the last drink, kissing the floor. My nose is throbbing.

“Who’s Jack?” I mutter.

Blackness returns.

Tommy is a solemn little guy. An elf. He wears a studious face and speaks with a soft library voice.

When he does smile the room glows with him. The walls turn porcelain to match his skin. The air sings rays of sunlight. His laughter fills the air with the fragrant melody of a dancing fiddle.

Tommy is almost four years old.

He doesn’t mind to try new foods – as long as he can consider them afterwards.
He likes video games – bugs bunny, not necessarily to play but to watch and to share time with his brothers and his dad.
He loves to draw Spongebob Squarepants,
and Patrick.
He likes to get his way and can be calmly persistent in doing so.
Or he can throw a fit.

He likes to listen to Jazz music.

20 Hills ahead of me.
If I run past them I will miss 40 more waiting to be explored.
So, I will take patience as my friend,
Wisdom will be my guide.
I will count each step and forget to number the days that pass by.

Those who can’t do… teach.

Those who won’t do lecture the rest of us how to get it done.

Nine years ago today I shed my first tears as a husband. They were joyful tears, salty and full of amazement. Friends and loved-ones witnessed the commitment my bride and I made to take a lifelong journey together. The promise of grace and love and the adventure of the unknown overwhelmed me. I knew (and still do know) the certainty of that commitment. I felt the weight it carried and struggled to comprehend the great responsibility set before me. I wept through most of our ceremony, struggling to contain the joy dancing within my soul. My bride was calm.

Time carries us on its current – years moving like days, days drifting like years. We’ve danced joyful waltzes. We’ve sung hymns of prayer and praise. We’ve clung to each other as rafts against the flooding rain. Despite and because of the changes we’ve faced we’re reminded of the day we promised to hold steady to each other in love.

Today we give thanks for the journey taken. My wife and I celebrate the promise of days to come, yearning to turn pages of a novel written long before either of us were knitted together. Our plot will bring tears of pain, of anger, of sorrow, and of joy.

We choose to love each other knowing the tears will form a pool in which, one day, we’ll be able to see the grace that was our lives bound together.

Given recent comments from my shocked wife regarding the last post I figured it a good idea to explain myself a bit. In case you read Another Worthless Night and thought is was anything other than fiction let me assure you it was fiction.

When I was a teenager my favorite author was Isaac Azimov. I read every book, short story, novella, and article I could find. (And he wrote a lot of books – hundreds actually). In one of his short story collections, Azimov describes a type of fiction he was once asked to write which would fit on a single postcard. The story, “About Nothing,” is one of the shortest complete stories ever written.

I can’t say I ever set out to write postcard fiction, but I rarely manage to write anything longer than that either. For what it’s worth, “Another Worthless Night” might go somewhere and it might not. If it does it most certainly will be tossed out one small reluctant blog at a time.

It’s not always easy to keep the smiles flowing and it’s not always necessary. A quick drink will just as easily do the trick and it costs less than therapy.

Problem is one drink often turns to many and well, here I am again. I don’t want to go through with it this time. I don’t. But something is pushing me to be here. So here I sit staring at the little glass with it’s clear poison. How did the complex get to be so simple?

I look at the clock, trying to squeeze the time from blurry numbers. 11:00? 10:30? Where did the time go? I’ve been here five hours.

The man next to me mutters something about his girl. “She ain’t coming back,” the barkeep says. “If she was you wouldn’t be here.”

If only it were a girl. At least I’d have an excuse.

I catch the bartender’s eye. A quick glare tells me it’s time to pay up. Oh well, I fish through my left pocket for the cash, fumble it to the wet bar and turn to leave. The floor catches me on the way out…

From the Gulf Coast many walk away carrying nothing more than the burden of uncertainty. Is misery or hope their guide?

Misery paralyzes the soul. It steals from the future to feed the ravenous desire of selfish pity. Those who choose to stay to loot are worshipping pain. They reap reward from tomorrow which can never be used. They feast on meaningless power which will ultimately be paid in death and despair.

They are brave who walk away. Nothing to give, yet investing all in the hope tomorrow brings. They leave behind the past – grieving loss, but looking forward to rebirth. They will wait.

More valiant are the ones who set out from their safe harbors to sail the waters of sacrifice. They will come quietly – a few at first – their steps swift, their footing sure, and their number increasing. These selfless ones wear faith on their chests and hope on their heads. They will serve. They will clean. They will restore, and they will rebuild.

Their efforts will be planted by love, nourished by sweat, and made whole by the song of anticipation humming in their souls…

We are trav’ling in the footsteps
Of those who’ve gone before,
And we’ll all be reunited,
On a new and sunlit shore,

Oh, when the saints go marching in
Oh, when the saints go marching in
Lord how I want to be in that number
When the saints go marching in

And when the sun begins to shine
And when the sun begins to shine
Lord, how I want to be in that number
When the sun begins to shine

Oh, when the trumpet sounds its call
Oh, when the trumpet sounds its call
Lord, how I want to be in that number
When the trumpet sounds its call

Some say this world of trouble,
Is the only one we need,
But I’m waiting for that morning,
When the new world is revealed.