Arrogance in nearby, threatening to overtake me, knowing that at any moment I will fall.

Pride is ready to overwhelm me; ready to infiltrate my psyche by overpowering my weakened defenses.

Though constantly questioning myself and finding fault with my ways, still there is within me an air of invincibility; there is within my heart a deceitfulness that declares that I deserve more that what I have.

All of mankind is plagued by a sense of entitlement, by selfishness, by a desire to be acknowledged as vastly important.

The esteem of peers is clamored after; the apiration to be admired is prevalent.

Feeling insignificant, we yearn to be noticed.  Lusting after fame, yet feeling so small.

God, make me remember.  My Lord, shall I never forget.

While there have been achievements, it was only by your good pleasure. 

While others may have praised me, it was only because of your empowerment.

If the Almighty had not strengthened me, if the lover of my soul had not chosen me, if my Savior had not rescued me….

I would be what I was and what I deserve to be.

Nothing.  Useless.  Lifeless.  Utterly without hope.

If there is anything good in me, You placed it there. 

If there is anything good that has come from me, You drew it out. 

If there is anything I have done that has been praised, it is You who deserves the honor.

My transgressions caused my vitality to vanish, but You brought me back to life.

You have set my feet on ground that is forever solid; You have provided me purpose that was previously beyond my grasp.

Let me, O God, forever be humble. 

Let me forever be grateful. 

Let me forever bring praise to the One who is eternally deserving.

Jesus.

The Messiah.

My King.

I never liked Sloppy Joe day at school.  The sloppiness of joe would cause the bread that it was splattered upon to become too soggy to pick up and eat.  Actually eating one was like putting a whole lot of nasty in my mouth and feeling obligated to finish the job by swallowing without really chewing.  Like vomitting in reverse.

Chili day was always perplexing to me.  Nowhere else but in a school cafeteria would chili be served with half of a peanut butter sandwich.  Why a peanut butter sandwich and why only half?  “Here, kid–eat this bowl of barely recognizable swill.  And to go with it, here’s something that makes no sense that you actually might be able to stomach, but you only get half.”

Friday’s were much better.  I approached going to the cafeteria on Fridays with gleeful abandon knowing that I would get to eat something that I half-way enjoyed–a hamburger.  Alright, it was more relief that I didn’t have to try to eat anything gross than gleeful abandon and it was really some type of hamburger that did not contain anything closely related to real meat.  But that didn’t matter.  It was still something that half-way excited me, which is more emotion than I can muster for most foods now.

I still have my favorites.  Chicken-n-dumplings would be good for every meal followed by an overwhelming bowl of Rocky Road ice cream.  I fully expect this to be the menu every day in Heaven.  My wife’s aunt believes that she’s going to have a mansion built for her right beside a chocolate river when she reaches her eternal reward.  My mother-in-law expects to be greeted by all of her dead animals (except for Dolly) when she makes it inside the gate.  It is a widely held belief among certain family members that Dolly, a cocker spaniel with a wicked temper, busted Hell wide open when she assumed room temperature.  Compararatively speaking, my chicken-n-dumpling/rocky road theory doesn’t sound too crazy, does it?

Even though I like those two foods, I don’t really get wild-eyed in my excitement for either.  There is one thing, though, that truly brings out the culinary beast that is lurking deep inside of me.  One thing that causes me to transform from a mild-mannered, nerdish kind of a guy into a hybrid of Paula Deen and the Incredible Hulk.  “HULK EAT, YA’LL!”

And that one thing is….

Seeing the “Hot Now” sign lit up at a Kristy Kreme Doughnut location.  Just wring those words has caused drool to begin forming at both sides of my mouth.  Pavlov’s dogs had a bell, I have the “Hot Now” sign.  I have no problem admitting this and you shouldn’t either.  I know that gluttony is a sin, but you have to eat at least more than four at one time for this to qualify, right?  Maybe not, but that’s what I’ll go with for now.

Kristy and I were drawn to the Krispy Kreme on Broadway by that sign a few weeks ago.  But instead of sinking our teeth into delightly fresh doghnuts, we experienced stunning disappointment. 

Inexplicably, I allowed my lovely wife talk me in to taking her and the kids to a livestock auction in Halls.  If you have never been to an auction of this nature, do yourself a favor and keep it that way.  It was crowded, loud, smelly, and a little fascinating.  Fascination can only overcome so much. 

After the auction was cut short and everyone in attendance was asked leave by people whom I assume were the owners, we did the sensible thing and left.  One of them threatened to turn the electricity off if we all weren’t gone in 15 minutes.  I was amazed at the number of people that didn’t leave.  If there is anything rednecks love more than Skoal and Dale Earnhardt, it’s a good riot.

We drove to a restaurant on Broadway to eat a late supper and that is when we saw the “Hot Now” sign on at the the Krispy Kreme across the street.  I looked at Kristy and she looked at me, our eyebrows went up at the same time, and I knew that we were in agreement about our next stop.  The sign became unlit before we finished our meal, but that did not matter.  We were going.

On our way there, Kristy said that we should get a dozen for us and a dozen for her sister who volunteers on Saturday nights with a local Rescue Squad.  I told her that her idea was fine with me.  She could have suggested that we buy a dozen for us and buy another dozen to mail to Kim Jong-il; as long as I got to have some, it really didn’t matter to me.

I pulled into their parking lot and headed to the drive-thru with my mind enraptured with the thought of feasting on doughuts.  I made it to the speaker and rolled down my window, but before I could place my order the voice on the other end delivered mind-blowing information.

They were out of glazed donuts!

I stared in silent disbelief at the speaker for a few eternal seconds.  Then I looked at Kristy, totally at a loss for what to do.  It was unfathomable and I was incredulous.  I told the bearer of bad news that we would be leaving and drove off, mouth agape. 

How could Krispy Kreme be out of the one thing that they are known for?  When I go to Taco Bell, I expect them to have tacos.  When I go to a bookstore, I expect to them to have books? When I go to a flea-market, I expect them to have a lot of crap that I don’t need.  And when I go to Krispy Kreme, I expect them to have glazed donuts.

Later that night, I began thinking about our trip to Krispy Kreme and the disappointment that ensued.  I came to the conclusion that Krispy Kreme not having glazed donuts is not as bad as Christians not having faith, love, power, courage, and all of the other attributes that should be present.

If you were to read the book of Acts without ever having the experience of being around believers are attending any church services, what would you expect believers and churches to be like?  You would probably expect Christians to be dynamic, full of power, and teeming with excitement.  You would probably expect church services to be a demonstration of the Holy Spirit’s presence.

You probably would not expect to find what you would  probably find; Christians more concerned with style than substance who exhibit little enthusiasm and no power and church services that are dull and lifeless.

There are plenty of theories on how things got this way.  From Christians neglecting the Holy Spirit, to us not praying with fervency for what matters most, to the consumer mindset that has infiltrated so many churches, to a lack of holiness among the Body of Christ, to a whole list of items that could depress us to the point of breaking down.

More important than how this happened is what we need to do about it. 

We need to confess to God our sins.  We need to plead for Him to fill us with the Holy Spirit.  We need to walk by faith and not be sight.  We need to be more concerned with following Christ than we are with our own comfort.  We need need more people interested in serving than in being served. 

We need to be shaken.

I once heard someone say that the Body of Christ is walking with a limp; I’m afraid that we are not walking at all.

Krispy Kreme not having what they are know for was disappointing.  Christians and churches not having what we should be known for is a shame. 

More than that, it is sin.

I pray for forgiveness and for a new awakening among the people of God.  I pray for God to make Himself heard through the noise and chaos that has invaded our lives.  I pray that we are made uncomfortable with how things are so that we will seek diligently for how things ought to be.

And I pray that it happens soon.

How long must this struggle continue?  How long must I wait for the culmination of the victory?

Though I am a new creation, still the urge to depart from Your truth is present; the desire to lean on my own understanding persists.

Day after day I am reminded of Your greatness; night after night all that I see declares that You are exalted above the nations.

Groans rise up from my soul; despairing groans as one who longs for an unatainable goal.

The holiness of my God is piercing; the righteousness of the Holy One removes my ability to hide.

The war in my members grows in intensity; becoming greater than those who surround me comprehend. 

Staggered by the blows that I deal to myself, I do not dare surrender. 

Wearied by the constant combat; weakened from fending off unseen foes; weeping inwardly for the end to be near.

Surely You have heard my plea, O God!  Surely You care for my life!

Why must there be a delay?  Why must I keep going?

You love me, yet offer no answers; You have known the end from the beginning, but refuse to let me see.

The command to trust the One who I can not see through trials that seem to have no end is placed before me. 

Pleading for strength, I continue on; praying for persistence, I brace for the fight.

Help me trust You, O God, so that my life may bring You glory as the war inside of me continues to rage.

Let me remain near to You so that I may gain wisdom at Your feet.

Keep me in Your path all of my days so that all may see that Your grace is enough for even the weakest of them all.

As I child, I didn’t know many men who looked like Mr. McGowan.  He was the gym teacher at Sunnyview Elementary School and it seemed like he was almost seven feet tall.  Of course, he was much shorter than that.  The illusion of remarkable height was probably made possible by his short, gym-teacher shorts (the ones with the big waist band and way too many pockets), his knee high tube socks with 3 horizontal stripes at the top, and his extra-long torso covered with a skin-tight shirt.  I half expected his shirt to explode open from the strain every time he demonstrated how to do a back-bend.

I remember him lining all of the kids in my class up in rows to begin our state-mandated time of exercise.  He would demand silence and march back and forth like he was a general preparing his wide-eyed pre-pubescent soldiers to storm and seize control of the rest of the school.  I’m not sure how far we would have gotten, but I know we could have taken control of the library before the cross-eyed librarian knew what hit her.  The cafeteria would have been our Waterloo.

As he peered at us, I often felt like I was being watched by a bird of prey.  His nose was elongated and beak-like; sort of like the tip of it was afraid of the rest of his face and was trying to get as far away as possible.  His eyes were also eagle-ish and I am sure that there is no life on other planets; if there were Mr. McGowan would have seen them from here and alerted the proper authorities. 

Now, I am sure that Mr. McGowan enjoyed his job and took seriously the responsibility he had of helping us live better, healthier, and longer.  He was successful at holding our attention and, for the most part, making the class fun.  I really did like him.  However, there were times when I felt like choking him with his own whistle-string.

In my opinion, there are better ways to motivate a child than by calling him a pansy.  Mr. McGowan disagreed.

At the time, I didn’t know that a pansy was a flower.  All I knew was that it was what Mr. McGowan called students when they couldn’t do all of their push-ups or sit-ups or when they couldn’t run as long as the others.  And it sounded far worse than calling someone a sissy.

Most of the time, it really did not bother me.  I knew what he was trying to do and I respected him for pushing us to do the best that we could do.  It did bother me, though, in those times when I did do the best that I could do and he called me a pansy anyway.  Being a kid with a low self-esteem to begin with didn’t help.

Since that time, I have been called things far worse than pansy.  I know that you have, too.  In fact, what people have said and done to you may be far worse than anything anyone has ever said or done to me.  We live in a world filled with evil and we can’t always be protected from it. 

But we can control our reaction to it by not allowing the words and deeds of others to define who we are.

We are not something just because we are labeled a certain way or treated a certain way.  You are not trash, stupid, dumb, ugly, retarded, a whore, useless, arrogant, ridiculous, hateful, mean, fat, brainless, meaningless, slow, gross, hideous, repugnant, scum, filthy, or anything else just because someone calls you that or treats you that way.

You are a creation of Almighty God.  You are one for whom Jesus died.  You have a reason to exist. 

And if you have accepted the gift of salvation, you have the Holy Spirt dwelling within you.

It’s amazing what people believe about themselves.  It’s astonishing that we allow other people to have so much control over our emotions.  It’s sad that so many suffer without knowing the truth.

I am not a pansy. 

You are not worthless.

We have a great God who designed us as we are and loves us completely.

When I was a child and feeling down, I would wait until my mother sat down and work my way onto her lap.  I knew if I made it there that I would be comforted, loved, and encouraged.

It is the same with God.  As we come to Him, we can know that He will never turn us away and in His arms we will always find perfect comfort, unending love, and divine encouragement. 

Maybe you need to stop whatever you are doing and rest in His lap for a few moments.  There is nothing quite like it.

As I rose this morning and peered out at the world, I knew again of Your greatness.

Fog, dew, creatures all bathed in the light of the early morning sang praises in my soul to Your great name.

With the morning came busyness and distractions,

Yet You created in me a heart meant to praise; so I gave glory to You in the midst of chaos.

Your attributes, Your character, Your complete otherness astounds me;

The miracle of Your love for those so unworthy takes my mind into captivity.

Compared to Your grandeur, O God, I am less than a worm, more putrid than a maggot, below the level of uselessness.

But You have chosen to lift me up;

You have chosen to redeem;

You have chosen to sanctify.

Having no speck of goodness in my flesh, You chose to gift me with the righteousness of Your Son.

It is in Christ alone that I am able to stand before You;

It is in trusting the sacrifice that He gave.

Though I was once counted among the heathen, I am now counted as Your child. 

Though I was once doomed for destruction, I am now walking in the Spirit.

Though I was born in iniquity, I have been born again to live in Your presence.

O my God, may the splendor that I see in Your creation be apparent in my life;

May Your brightness that is displayed in the heavens be reflected in my countenance;

May I ever be found bringing glory to Your name.

Though the years pass and my body grows weary, may I be found praising God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit,

Forever.

Amen.

When it seemed as though I had arrived at a point of loving you tremendously; when all the signs pointed to my faith being strong…

I failed.

In ways that I had previously, I failed. 

In ways that infuriate me, I failed.

In ways that I should have expected, I failed.

Feeling like a fraud, like a con-man, like a hypocrite.

Disgusted and dismayed , I knew that a beating was deserved.

Finding no one to pummel me, I did it myself.

With words and with thoughts; with hatred for myself and anguish in my heart.

Until….

Until you called my name.

Until you made yourself heard.

Until you reminded me who I am.

I am Yours. 

Your child.

The apple of Your eye.

One whom You created for Your good pleasure.

The grace in Your voice, the love in Your eyes, the openness of Your arms drew me back to the only one I need.

You.

You called me to repent and provided the ability to do so. 

You picked me up and placed me on solid footing. 

You did for me what I did not deserve, what I could not do for myself.

Now I am….

Forgiven.

Cradled in Your arms.

Empowered by Your Spirit.

On my way Home.

Depending on You.

Forever.

Well, I’ve been on Facebook for a while now and have really enjoyed it.  It is easier and more efficient than Myspace (in my humble opinion).  If you haven’t joined in–you should.  It’s pretty fun.

Anyway, here is my address:  www.facebook.com/seekingpastor.

My family and I are now living in a large, seven bedroom rental house.  We have enjoyed it so far, but my head has not.  Since we have moved in, I have subjected my cranium to abuse at least every other day. 

It’s not funny.

The main reason for this regular occurence of cranial embarrassment has to do with my height compared with the lowness of the two ceiling fans in our den.

I am 6′7” tall, or as my diminutive wife likes to declare, “freakishly big.”  The ceiling in the den is an adequate 6′11″, but the blades of the fans are at a height of 6′4” and the bottom of the globes attached to the bottom of the fans is at 5′9″. 

The first few days were a nightmare for me. 

Every time I went into the den, I hit my head.  If I was lucky, I would barely tap one of the globes.  Most of the time, I was getting whacked rapid-fire style by the blades of the ceiling fan. Pow-pow-pow.

I thought I had the problem taken care of after a few days of it not happening.  This caused me to become so careless that I travelled through the den toward the kitchen in such a hurry that I shattered one of the globes into approximately 2,785 pieces.

I didn’t lose too much blood.

To be truthful,  I can’t really blame our new abode for my proclivity for cranial injury.  I’ve been damaging the uppermost part of my body all of my life.

My first head injury occurred when I was a baby.  After a rainy Sunday evening, my dad was carrying me down the steps of the old Stoney Point Baptist Church building.  The steps were steep and the rain had caused them to become slick.  About half-way down, my dad began to fall.

It is strange what a person can think of in the span of a second or two; especially when he and someone he loves is in imminent danger.  In the moment that it takes a person who is falling to realize that he is falling, my dad decided it would be a good idea to toss me into the air.

He was trying to pitch me into to the grass to save me from being crushed beneath him on the hard steps.  He didn’t put quite enough “umph” into it and I landed head-first on the concrete sidewalk.

Fortunately, I wasn’t hurt too badly.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that Dad suffered more from my mom’s wrath than I did from my first and last circus act.

Unfortunately, it was only a preview of injuries to come.

There was the time that I was riding my bicycle down my driveway and tried to jump over a mud puddle.  The puddle was cleared, but my landing left a little to be desired.  My head hit the ground with such force that I worried I might have amnesia.  It turned out that I had just watched too many episodes that summer of Days of Our Lives.  Amnesia is far more common in Salem than in Knoxville. (For the record, my brother liked “his stories” far more than I did–I completely quit watching after Jack and Jennifer started having so many problems.)

There was also the time when I was in college that I was shooting basketball with my pastor’s young son.  The goal had been lowered to about two inches above my head.  As we were goofing around, I thought it would be cool to reach up and goal-tend his next shot.  Apparently he figured out my plan and shot it extremely high, causing me to jump to swat the ball away.  This would not have been a problem, except for the fact that I was standing directly beneath the rim.

My head hit the rim in such a way that both sides of my head were sliced by the metal pieces that hold the net in place.  As my pastor was checking out my wounds and applying pressure where necessary, his son came up to me and asked, “Do you gots bwain damage?”  The answer all depends on who you ask.

None of my head injuries, though, compare in embarrassment or pain to what happened a few months after I began my after-college career at a finance company that specializes in manufactured housing loans. 

Normally at trip to the restroom does not result in a subsequent trip to the emergency room.  This was not a normal trip to the restroom.

I had gone in there during my afternoon break to take care of some “personal business” and finish reading the newspaper.  After entering the stall and turning to shut the door, my badge inexplicably fell to the floor.  Naturally, I reacted by bending down to pick it up.

You know that metal hook that is attached to the inside of a bathroom stall door?  The one that normal-sized people never have to worry about?

When I bent down to retrieve my badge, my head and that metal hook became intimately acquainted as the hook sliced into the top of my skull right where I normally part my hair.  The sound of it digging deep into my skin and the pain caused me clutch me head in agony and fall back onto the toilet seat.

Immediately, the blood began to pour out of the wound and drip onto the floor.  The combination of my agonizing moans and the sight of the blood covering the floor probably caused the guy in the stall beside me to wonder what I had eaten for lunch. 

I did the best I could to clean up the mess I had made while holding a few paper towels to the wound.  Then I made my way out of the restroom and down the hallway to my desk.  I showed my supervisor my head and told him what had happened.  He hurriedly discussed it with his supervisor, a woman who apparently had never learned the art of keeping a secret, and decided that he should take me to the emergency room.  So I loaded up in Larry’s little-bitty pick-up truck and headed to the hospital with my knees implanted firmly into the dashboard. 

When I arrived at the hospital, the first thing that they wanted me to do was to pee in a cup to make sure that I wasn’t intoxicated in any way when the accident occurred.  I wasn’t too thrilled about going into another restroom so soon after my last excursion ended up with me almost being decapitated by a 2 inch hook, but I complied. 

A little while later the doctor  took a look at my head and determined that 5 staples would be required to mend what the dastardly hook had done.  When I arrived back at work about an hour and a half after the incident, just about everyone knew about what had transpired on my ill-fated trip to the potty. 

As I think back on all of these instances and the hundreds more that I didn’t mention, I am struck with an aggravating thought.  Even though I have hit my head more times than I want to remember, I know that I will more than likely keep hitting my head on various and sundry items the rest of my life.  Being the size that I am and living in a world constructed for normal sized people makes this a real possibility.

So, what should I do about this?  Should I spend the rest of my days crawling around on the floor or curled up in bed?  Should I wear a helmet 24/7 or attach a pillow to my head with duct tape?  Should I undergo surgery to make myself shorter?

None of these things are appropriate, so I will keep doing what I have been doing and hope for the best.  I will try not to hit my head.  I will keep my eyes open and myself alert. 

And occasionally I will hit my head.  When this happens, I will be thankful that God loves me in spite of my stupidity and has promised to sustain me by His grace.

I think this strategy can work with my sins as well.

Just like my history of head-hitting, I began being disobedient at an early age as well.  In fact, the Bible tells me that I was born with a sin-nature. 

All throughout my life and in various ways, my proclivity to sin has been there.  Some of my sins have caused me greater embarrassment and pain than others, but all of my sins have been my own fault. 

Even now, after being a follower of Jesus for over 20 years, I still sin and fall far short of the glory of God.  Being human and living in a sin-cursed world, I know that I will continue to fail the rest of my life.

What should I do about this problem of sin?  Should I spend the rest of my days beating myself up because I just can’t get it right all of the time no matter how hard I try?  Should I give in to my sin-nature completely and just do whatever I feel like doing?  Should I allow myself to be of no use to Jesus, the one who died on the cross to atone for my sins?

None of these things are appropriate, so I will keep doing what I have been doing and hope for the best.  I will try not to fail.  I will keep my eyes open and myself alert. 

And occasionally I will sin.  When this happens, I will be thankful that God loves me in spite of my stupidity and has promised to sustain me by His grace.

This is made possible because I have put my faith in Jesus.  When I fail, His love prevails. 

And I couldn’t be happier, even on those days when my head takes a beating from a ceiling fan.

After temporary pleasure, disobedience produced in my soul such despair that I longed to be cut off from all that I hold dear.

Unworthy and ashamed, I found no hiding place from the fierceness of your wrath.

Cowering in a corner,  your light shown into my darkness; my sins were revealed to be so putrid that I feared that I would be suffocated by the stench.

The voices of those who should know better declare that there is good hidden within me; that if I look closely enough I will discover a champion.

Oh, how wrong they are! 

There is nothing good within my flesh; there is nothing worthy of your blinding Holiness.

I was altogether undone.  Hopeless, weary, alone.

Then you called me.  You spoke my name.  From the depths of the grave I heard your voice.  Only by your power did I hear it.  Only because you declared me as one of your own.

Undeserving of your love, yet grateful.  Unable to repay your kindness, yet joyful.  Unable to give to you what you gave to me, yet accepting of your free gift.

Now I walk as one who once was dead, yet made alive.  Free from the past, made alive by your grace.

Even now, though, I falter: even now I wander.

Thankfully, mercifully, sweetly your grace continues to sustain me; your love is still my great joy.

Lord, let me still praise you.  Master, allow me to worship you.  King, let me serve your great name.

By your love, I am yours.

My mother is an exceedingly private person.  Really.  There may be some people around her that do not think so, but they are wrong.  She rarely volunteers information about herself, especially her childhood.  When I was a kid and wanted to know anything about her life, I always had to ask.  

This is the reason I was so shocked at what the lady told me on the phone that day.  She didn’t know it, but she revealed a secret that opened my eyes and changed how I perceived the woman that I call “Mom.”

It was during the summer between my Sophomore and Junior years of college.  I was working a lot of hours that summer as the night clerk at a local Super 8 Motel .  This why I was asleep during the day when the phone rang.

Sometimes I would let it ring and go back to sleep and sometimes I would answer it.  It all depended on how much time I had recently spent worrying or dreaming about someone I love being killed in a car accident or being mauled by a escaped lion or being forced to belly-dance against their will.  At those times, every call felt like it could make the difference between life, death, or embarrassment.  Normally it was a telemarketer. 

Once, after a particularly tiresome stretch where I worked 15 straight nights without a break, I was awakened by the phone ringing and went to answer it only to discover that both of my arms were “asleep” and, thus, not in working order.  I mulled over trying to knock it off of the hook by slinging one of my lifeless arms into it and then hitting the talk button with my nose, but decided against it.  Some things are beneath even my dignity level. 

 On this day, however, I made to the phone and gave a groggy sounding greeting. 

“Hullo,”  I mumbled.

“Yes, is this Dorothy Cotter’s residence?”   I didn’t know who the lady was, but I could tell by her cheerful voice that she was unaware of my sleep schedule.

I blinked a few times to wrap my mind around what she was asking.  I even pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it; as though I could pick something up from the receiver’s body language.

Finally, I answered.  “Y-yes.  B-but Cotter was her m-maiden name.  Her l-last n-name is Cannon n-now.”  She may have realized that my stuttering was due to me still being half-asleep, but she probably just thought that I was working on my Porky Pig impression.

“Well, that’s great news,” she said excitedly.  To me it was a boring fact, to her it was similar to finding out that petting kittens cured cancer.  Great news!

She continued.  “My name is (something I don’t remember), and I am trying to get together a reunion of all of the past Riverdale Community Club Beauty Pageant winners.” 

Had I been more informed about my mother’s past, I probably would have said something fairly intelligent.  Instead, I said–”Why do you want my mom?”. 

The voice on the other end of the conversation then proceeded to tell me that my mom was the winner of the 1970 Riverdale Community Club Beauty Pageant. 

I took the lady’s phone number and told her I would pass on the message.  Then I hung up the phone and let the information that I had just been given slowly sink in.  Then the transformation happened. 

In my mind, my mother went from being Dorothy Cannon: normal, hardworking, loyal mom to Dorothy Cannon: Beauty Queen Mom!

I was shocked and in awe.  I was several steps past flabbergasted.  I was rendered speechless and utterly amazed.

Even though I had been told by a countless number of people throughout the years that my mother has a beautiful face, I never gave it much thought.  My mom, like myself, has struggled most of her life with weight issues, so the idea of her being a beauty pageant winner never crossed the threshold of my mind. 

It’s amazing what one phone call can do. 

A phone call from one world leader to another can do wonders to help, or hurt, diplomatic relations.  A phone call from married woman to a divorce attorney can begin the process of dissolving a marriage.  A phone call from the governor to a warden can keep a convicted killer alive.

And a phone call from a reunion organizer to a sleepy nineteen year-old can change how a son views his mother.  It can also help change his perception of everyone else.

Up until that point of my life, I looked at people from a shallow perspective.  From this view-point, a person that I met was what he was at that particular moment in time and had never been or done anything else. 

If someone led a dull existence, I never pictured them as being anything other than dull.  If someone was old, I never fathomed that they had once been young with dreams and hopes for their future.  If someone was full of energy and life, I never envisioned them ever having setbacks or being depressed.

People were what they were and had never been anything else.

The phone call I received that day changed my perspective. It led me to realize that our lives are made up of more than what is happening in the present.  The events from our past that work together to help shape who we are suddenly became far more intriguing to me.

This event caused me to listen more carefully to the stories people tell about their lives.  Doing this has given me a greater ability to empathize with what people are dealing with in the present and it helps me to have a higher degree of compassion on those who far too often are disregarded by those who should love them most.

It is difficult to understand why people are the way that they are without having knowledge of the events that helped to make them that way.  When we know a person’s past, it is easier to understand and accept their behavior in the present. 

When we assume we know a person without truly knowing that person, we do a disservice both to them and to ourselves.  Our relationships would be far deeper if we learned to ask each other probing questions and actually listen to the answer.  It would also helpful if we opened up about our own experiences. 

There is another benefit to all of this.  Knowing more about each other would be beneficial when we feel like no one else understands what we are going through.  By sharing our lives with each other, more of us would realize that problems we face have been overcome by a large number of others.  It could give us the courage to fight when we feel like giving up.

Speaking of fighting–if you know my mother, please don’t tell her you know anything about any of this.  She packs a big punch for a former Beauty Queen.