Category: 2020-April

My Heroine

Peculiar days. None of us have navigated waters quite like these.

We’re surrounded by heroes.

Nurses. Doctors. EMT’s. Firefighters. Law enforcement. A festival of first responders.

Some are well-paid. Others, not so much. Long hours. Dangerous tasks. Insufficient gratitude.

When patients recover and the flames extinguished and the bad guys handcuffed, little is said.

But, these people… they go home, get a tiny bit of rest, get dressed and do it again. Day after day.

Heroes, each and every one.

Teachers. Folks doing the damn-near impossible day after day amid the criticism and demands of a great many, who genuinely have no idea about that of which they speak.

Soldiers. I dislike clichés, but sometimes, it’s the most appropriate thought. Two people have been willing to die for you and me. Jesus Christ and the American soldier. Think on that.

Heroes.

In the midst of all this unfamiliarity… other, non-traditional, everyday heroes have become vital to our way of life.

Pharmacists. Truckers. Stockers.

So happens, I’m married to a heroine.

Vikki Griffin works multiple jobs. She reports to a local grocery store for her “second” job.

The senior management likes Vikki. (These are my words, not hers.) Why not? She isn’t a kid. She’s a grownup. She’s responsible. She has common sense. She makes good decisions.

Mrs. Griffin has been promoted. They trust her. She can open the store. She can close the store. She deals with ornery customers. She does whatever needs to be done.

Since the “shelter in place” order, Vikki has logged lots more hours at the store.

She is patient and kind with the senior citizens. She rolls into Mother-Ville with the college kids. She never complains. Her work stories are never built on ridicule and exasperation. She speaks with compassion.

In these uncertain times, Vikki Griffin is helping feed the community.

“When I was hungry, you gave me something to eat, and when I was thirsty, you gave me something to drink. When I was a stranger, you welcomed me.” – Matthew 25:35

Vikki, I am proud of you. You are a wonderful example not only for our children, but for the world.

Things are not easy. I’m grateful we’re in this together. We’ll make it. We’ll survive. We always do.

Our Gang

I was not an outside kid. I did not spend a lot of time traipsing through the woods. That doesn’t mean I was vitamin D deficient. I ventured into the sunlight.

I loved football and the occasional trip to the playground. Nannie and I played two-person baseball in her backyard. I won countless championships with nine ghost players beneath the basketball goal in the parking lot at Maple Springs UMC. Mama and I were always welcome at Uncle Larry’s pool.

I did not live in front of the television. Pac Man was not the dictator of my free time.

Don’t feel badly. My childhood wasn’t lacking.

For the most part, I was on stage. Practice. Rehearsal. Repeat. I’m not sorry. I learned a LOT.

I prefer the inside. Folks unfamiliar with theatre, music and dance may not understand.

We weren’t huddled in a corner with a Ouija board. We weren’t lighting candles and smoking cigarettes.

It was a good thing.

I said all that to say this…

I’m not a huge fan of the outdoors. It’s hot. (Unless it’s cloudy and snowing, it’s hot.) Bugs and critters. Hiking. I don’t want to eat outside. Picnics are not romantic. I know nothing about camping, except the possibility of getting eaten by a bear is exponentially higher than it is if you stay inside.

Here and now. The virus. Shelter in place. I can deal with this. It’s not so easy for Sophia and Miles.

Sophia

Our children are outside people.

Bicycles. Basketball. Soccer. Runs. Hikes. Exploring the woods. All that stuff.

I do not want our children to do-over my childhood experience. They cannot live my life, nor Vikki’s life, again.

Sophia has to live her life. Find her own passion. Discover her gifts. Make friends. Create memories.

Miles has to live his life. Find his own passion. Discover his gifts. Make friends. Create memories.

Well… our bouncing baby boy and girl are forging friendships in the neighborhood. Good for them. We’re delighted.

In the midst of these unprecedented times, good things are happening.

Families are cooking and eating together. We’re learning how to play board games we didn’t have the time to play before. People are using athletic equipment that’s been sitting in the garage far too long.

Sophia and Miles are out of the house for hours.

Last night, during our nightly walk around the neighborhood, I watched “the gang.”

There are seven. It’s kinda like the United Nations. Diversity at its finest.

Four boys. Three girls. Two Hispanic, two African-American and three Caucasian kids. Four houses.

Miles

Bicycles. Scooters. Easy-Rollers. Hoverboards. Roller blades. Roller skates. A unicycle.

Age-wise, they’re all within a few years of each other. They look after one another. They exchanged Easter cookies and cupcakes.

They are moments of “The Boys vs. The Girls,” but there is no finger pointing. There is no “We vs. Them.”

A trampoline in one yard. A primitive club house in another. A soccer goal and a basketball goal. Sidewalk chalk. They share walkie-talkies.

We don’t remind them to stay apart. They monitor themselves. They play in cycles. When two retreat for lunch, the others shift to a different location and the adventures continue.

Everything is outside. No video games. Imagination and freedom and respect and responsibility.

It’s the kind of behavior for which all parents hope and pray.

I wish the adults in the world would follow their example.

It’s not hard.

Our kids are in a gang. Our gang. And we couldn’t be prouder.

Good Friday

A difficult day. It’s not fun. It’s not joyful. Movies and sidewalk chalk and cupcake decorating are out-of-place. The darkest day in the history of ever.

I know what’s coming, but…

Children don’t really understand. Maybe, they do. Kinda. Sorta. Not really.

I didn’t.

School is always out on Good Friday. Whether the school calendar said so, didn’t really matter. At least, not to my mother.

“We won’t be going to school on Good Friday. It’s not a school day.”

And so, Margaret and Jeffrey Griffin never ever went to school on Good Friday. I have news for the world. Jeffrey, Sophia and Miles Griffin will never ever go to school on Good Friday. That ain’t gonna happen.

Somewhere along the way, the people at Maple Springs United Methodist thought is was a good idea to have a Good Friday service.

Great. Another church service. I was less than excited. Friday lunchtime. A handful of people sat in the sanctuary. The preacher did his thing. We sang slow, boring hymns. It didn’t last long, maybe thirty minutes.

The altar and the cross were draped in black cloth.

For me, the best part was lunch in the fellowship hall after the service. Pat Craver served grilled cheese sandwiches. Elinor Starling made vegetable soup.

The Good Friday service at Maple Springs continued for years. A lot of years. It might be happening right now. I don’t know.

Eventually, I started to understand. I noticed nobody smiled during the Good Friday service.

I tried to say something mature and wise. “Y’all know, He’s gonna rise. The Good Guy wins.”

I should have been quiet.

Sometimes, it is impossible to look past the loss. The grief is overwhelming.

Mel Gibson made the movie. “The Passion Of the Christ.” Alright. The world was paying attention.

Somebody at church thought we should gather in Craven Hall and watch the movie on the big screen. Good Friday night. Well, fine.

Are we gonna have soup and grilled cheese for dinner, too?

I had no idea. Preachers have a way of painting pretty pictures with words. Nothing I had ever heard or read or sang had prepared me for what I saw.

Are we really capable of such?

I’d always thought the crucifixion was brutal, but I had not visualized the pain. The agony. The rejection. The guilt.

Nobody smiled that night.

It finally made sense. All those noontime Friday services on Reynolda Road.

It’s not a show. I’m not being dramatic. Good Friday is hard. I don’t pick. I don’t laugh. We don’t play games.

I hurt. It takes a Herculean effort to climb out of the bed and be even minimally pleasant with my family.

I relive every harsh word I’ve spoken. Every ill thought. Every flash of anger. Every poor choice. Every betrayal.

How is this a good day?

“Y’all know, He’s gonna rise. The Good Guy wins.”

Hush, Jeffrey. Hush.

Storytime With Dad-O: “Marvin K. Mooney Will You Please Go Now!”

These are a different kind of days.

You may have children at home. Grandchildren. Kids from the neighborhood.

To help navigate the waters, I’m recording a children’s story each day. The audio file will be available here.

Feel free to have your kiddos read along or simply listen. Share. Enjoy the time together.

Storytime With Dad-O: “Would You Rather Be a Bullfrog?”

These are a different kind of days.

You may have children at home. Grandchildren. Kids from the neighborhood.

To help navigate the waters, I’m recording a children’s story each day. The audio file will be available here.

Feel free to have your kiddos read along or simply listen. Share. Enjoy the time together.

Storytime With Dad-O: “A Visitor For Bear”

These are a different kind of days.

You may have children at home. Grandchildren. Kids from the neighborhood.

To help navigate the waters, I’m recording a children’s story each day. The audio file will be available here.

Feel free to have your kiddos read along or simply listen. Share. Enjoy the time together.

Storytime With Dad-O: “Red Leaf, Yellow Leaf”

These are a different kind of days.

You may have children at home. Grandchildren. Kids from the neighborhood.

To help navigate the waters, I’m recording a children’s story each day. The audio file will be available here.

Feel free to have your kiddos read along or simply listen. Share. Enjoy the time together.