My Son a Soldier
I never had a son. It wasn’t for lack of trying. Three times I stepped to the plate. Three times I delivered – or my wife delivered – a girl. I used to tease Lacey (my last-born) that her nickname was “Strike Three.” (She knows she was really a grand slam, so just chill, all you people with the arched eyebrow.)
An American Soldier
I never had a boy, but girls attract boys. For a good while, Ashley (my firstborn) was in the new-boyfriend-every-other-day club and that was fine with me.
Then, it happened. This skin-and-bones kid showed up at my house and introduced himself as Andrew. I didn’t bother trying to remember the name. He’d be gone in a day or two.
But he wasn’t.
In fact, it seemed he was coming around more and more, and this caused me no small consternation. Before long, the talk turned serious. The “M” word was bantered about and Dad was not about to sit still and do nothing. I waxed eloquent time and again about the folly of moving too fast. There was plenty of time for that.
The day Andrew Woolgar (yes, “Woolgar” – amazing, I know, that a kid with the surname Strother could find a beau with an even odder one) asked to speak to me in private will forever be etched in my memory. He was nervous, but not afraid; humble, but not overwhelmed…and that bothered me, to be honest.
He slipped his hand into his jeans pocket and produced a ring.
“I want to ask Ashley to marry me,” he announced. “And I would like your blessings.”
“Well, you don’t have it. Put that thing back in your pocket and forget it.”
“I can’t. I love her.”
“Fine. Maybe you can give her the ring and call it a promise ring or something, but that is NOT an engagement ring.”
I went on to tell him, in less than polite tones, that if he were still hanging around in a couple years, and I doubted he would be, then maybe – just MAYBE – we could have this talk again.
A year later, I proudly walked my gorgeous daughter down the aisle and gave her hand to the man who loved her too much to be run off by a crazy, sharp-tongued, white-knuckled dad. She became Mrs. Andrew Woolgar.
I have a son-in-law.
Andrew enlisted in the army. He became a scout. Then he became a dad.
I have a grandson.
Ty David Woolgar is four years and four months old. His daddy has been a soldier at war in Iraq for more than half of his life. While I soak up the pure joy of having my grandson around all the time, his daddy bravely kicks in the doors of would-be terrorists and assassins. While I teach my grandson how to throw and catch a ball, his daddy spends his days in combat gear under the desert sun, keeping Freedom’s lamp burning.
Not long ago, Andrew called to talk to his wife and son. Before he hung up, he asked to speak to me. We talked about when he would be home and the things we would do. I told him to keep himself as much out of harm’s way as possible. He promised he would. Then, he said…
“Love ya, Dad.”
I have a son…and he is an American soldier.
The Worst Day Fishing…
You have seen the bumper stickers and t-shirts declaring, “The worst day fishing is better than the best day working.” Yesterday, my brother and I put that theory to the test.
It was a gorgeous day, barely into the 80′s, sun shining brilliantly from it’s perch in a clear, blue sky. There was a breeze blowing across Lake Ray Hubbard…a breeze, not a wind, and on a lake given to choppy waves under the slightest provocation, that is an important detail. We had our bottles of water, roasted peanuts, and some fine cigars. We were set.
The boat was in good form, too. Once we puttered away from the no-wake zone, Don opened her up and we were flying across the glassy surface of our fishing heaven about 40 miles per hour. It felt good. I felt alive.
Then, we came to another no-wake zone, crossing underneath Interstate 30. Don shut her down and we puttered politely past a couple of old men – who may have been brothers, as well – Crappie fishing in the shade provided by the busy Interstate overhead. We waved politely, got out into the open water and let the hammer down. Only this time, rather than the whir and hum of a healthy outboard, we heard it spit, sputter, and maybe cuss (or was that Don?), and then die. No problem. Just crank her back up.
Nope. She won’t fire. Turns over like she means to come alive, but just won’t fire. Ah well, the smell of gas is fairly pungent, and I suggest he flooded her like an idjit, so just let her rest. (I had pegged the wrong fisherman with that label, but that is beside the point.) Don decided, heck, we can put down the trolling motor and hug the west bank and see if there aren’t any Sand Bass a’bitin’.
He’s right. There aren’t. Well, one little fellow who would make better bait than dinner jumped on Don’s lure. We let him live and nary another bite.
Maybe 30 minutes passes, maybe 45. Don decides to give her another try. He cranks the cranky engine and she responds with total disinterest. Nothing. We realize this isn’t likely to change. Across the lake, about 3 or 30 miles, there is Chandler’s Landing…on the east bank, with her bevy of proud sailboats and fine cruisers, some of which look like miniature ocean liners. We guess we had better troll that direction and see if maybe there is a mechanic around. It is about 3pm.
It is a few minutes past five when we finally tie off to the dock and Don hops out to find our mechanic. He does find him…clocking out. But the mustachioed mechanic with the half-moon belly, lazy eyes and lazier drawl is kind. He is more than kind; he is awesome. He delays his dinner run to diagnose our problem.
Diagnosis: one cylinder (in four) completely and utterly shot. “Nope, you won’t be able to limp her back 6 or 8 miles to where you put in, boys.”
He is sorry to ruin a perfectly good Spring day with such annoying and expensive news, but what can we do? Shooting the messenger won’t heal a fried cylinder. Besides, he is a great guy who charged us not one thin dime to ruin our day.
Moreover, it was only just beginning to be ruined. First thing had to be done was hail someone to come pick up Don and transport him back to the truck and trailer whilst I attended the boat. An hour or so later, Don is back and we are untying. We intend to use the trolling motor to navigate around the rather large dock and back up to the ramp. Ah, but all that trolling across the great expanse of the lake had taken it’s toll. The battery on the trolling motor was done.
Nothing to do but haul out an oar. THE oar. The only one. And it is a fine oar if you are in a dadgum canoe and not a motorboat. We row, row, row the boat around the head of the dock. But when we start for shore, the breeze is more like a little wind and we are rowing, yes, but going pretty much nowhere. The waves want to carry us over to the boat slips and we decide, fine, go with the flow. We can use the noses of boats and pillars to grab and thrust ourselves toward shore, then I can jump out with the lead rope onto the bank and tug the boat on around to the trailer.
The plan works. It isn’t easy, but it works. I am ashore and pulling the boat with ease and success. It is the best headway we have made all day. I get her to the dock nearest the ramp and we tie her off. I stand there, pretty well gassed, watching Don back the trailer down. When he gets her situated, I turn to untie the boat…
But I was beaten to it. The boat had untied herself and was now 40 yards from shore and drifting out to sea. Cussing was invented for just such times and I realized where the term “cuss like a sailor” must have originated.
Don is standing beside me and we are watching the boat drift away.
“One of us is going to have to swim for her, Don.”
“Yeah.”
He agrees, but he isn’t taking off his dadgum shoes. I am. Off with the shoes. Here, hold my glasses, oh and my wallet and cell phone. How cold you reckon the water is?
So, here I am, roasted in the sun. Frazzled. Diving into the refreshingly cool water and swimming like Johnny Weismuller (and I don’t mean when he was a champion swimmer or playing Tarzan; I mean how he might swim today, being dead and all.) Actually, I am a pretty good swimmer. Pretty fast. For about 20 yards, maybe 30. But this is turning into a 100 yard dash.I know I have to swim faster than the boat drifts.
So, while the previously disinterested revelers around us watch and wag their heads, I am swimming in my cargo shorts, t shirt, and socks.
I do finally reach the boat. It is then that I realize all of my muscles are mush. Atrophied. Fried. Useless. I cannot haul myself out of the water and into the boat. I do finally get a leg hooked over the edge, and I am 3/4 of the way there when that sock I forgot to shed slides and slips and I splash right back into the water.
As I bobbed there beside the boat, wondering if this is how I would die, welcoming a watery grave because I am too tired to breathe anyway, I thought about that declaration…
The worst day fishing is better than the best day working.
Yeah. I can buy that.
Give Me a P! Give Me an R! Give me an I! Give me a D! Give me an E!
The Bible has a great deal to say about pride…and none of it is good. Over and over again, pride is roundly condemned. It is listed among the seven deadly sins. God goes so far as to say that when a person is filled with pride, He hates the look on that person’s face. [See Proverbs 6:16-18.]
Why then has it become vogue for Christians to tout their pride? They are proud of their church, their preacher, their kids, their jobs, their accomplishments, ad infinitum. I know that we Christians love to do ideological and theological gymnastics to defend our own faults…and even to paint them, not as faults, but as strengths. Church pride can’t be a bad thing, right? I mean, after all, the church is all about Jesus and Jesus is all about the church…so if I go around smacking everyone in the face with how my church rocks the most, that just has to be something Jesus would high five me on. Right? And community pride. I mean, come on! I am a Texan. How can I not rub that in the face of everyone who isn’t? And my grandkid? He is way cuter than yours and I have the pics to prove it.
It isn’t any wonder that many thinking people are turned off more by Christians than they are Christianity. Too often, we pretty much do what we want and interpret the Bible in a way that supports how we wanted to live in the first place. Then, we puff out our chests and look down our noses at all the poor, ignorant slobs who aren’t as enlightened as us.
We pat ourselves on the back, so proud of all we are…and all we aren’t.
Lest you think me unqualified to speak on this subject, I would draw back the curtain to my own heart and reveal that my besetting sin is – and always has been – pride. I didn’t preach to any church yesterday. I am not pastoring one today. I won’t be overseeing one tomorrow. I am where I am because of pride.
I’m not proud of that. I am proud of myself for recognizing and acknowledging it.
Um, wait…
Eye of the Beholder
Most people, I think, readily affirm that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” and I suppose that is right. In many instances, the beauty of a thing is subjective. To accept that as a blanket statement of absolute truth, however, I am reticent to do.
Memaw-n-me
Some things are universally acknowledged as beautiful: A perfect sunset or sunrise, for instance; or a majestic mountain capped in pure, white snow; or a baby’s laughter; or a puppy’s clumsy playfulness… these and so many other things are examples of objective beauty. They are beautiful in and of themselves. They do not require debate or chin-scratching criticism to discern or define their beauty. They only require the nod of your head, because you know, instinctively, that they are beautiful.
I know a woman whose beauty is just so. There need be no debating it. Just observe the stately way she carries herself, the grace with which she meets every circumstance, the steadfast faith by which her life and her every decision is governed, and the ageless wonder of her physical beauty…and nod.
Nod, because I know you know…and there is no debate. She is beautiful.
If you still insist that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, then I humbly suggest…
Behold her.
For Mary Weir
By Her Devoted Son-in-law
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The JourneyMan by D. Gene Strother is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Based on a work at genestrother.com.
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