Great Day, Bad Night

I’ve been making tremendous progress recovering from my shoulder surgery. Each day my range of motion is improving. Each day I have fewer and fewer moments of excruciating pain. Why just yesterday I was able to put on my socks and shoes all by myself. Granted, there were tears in my eyes and I was sweating like a pig by the time it was over, but the fact remains, I got dressed unassisted. Pam even let me drive out to Dad’s Saturday night. I felt like a kid with a learners permit!

Well, last night a minor setback. We had run out of Aleve. It was time for bed, and my shoulder felt pretty good since I had taken my stronger pain stuff only 3 hours earlier, so I took nothing before going to bed. So, at exactly12:45 am, my body, for the first time in eleven days had no pain medication whatsoever in it, big mistake. My eyes popped open and immediately I became aware of a raging fire burning in my shoulder. Weird pulses of terror were running up and down my arm. No cause for panic, I thought, probably just slept funny on it or something. Then I remembered that I had forgotten to take anything before I went to bed. Ok, no problem, I’ll just go down stairs, pop 3 Advil and a hydrocodone and be back asleep in no time. The trip down the stairs was as unpleasant a journey as I have ever endured. Each step rocked the shoulder, and by the time I made it to the kitchen, my hands were shaking like a crack addict on the third day of rehab.

To make a long story short, I finally fell asleep around 4:30 and learned a valuable lesson in the process…drugs are my friend.

Had a great Father’s Day even though both of my pups were away. They both called me with their wishes, and I had steaks on the grill with my wonderful in-laws. Even winged two squirrels in the back yard who should be thanking their lucky stars that I’m on medication, since ordinarily their rude excursion into my yard would have been fatal. Kaitlin sent me an e-mail that had a slide show that she had put together for my Father’s Day present. It was a series of still photographs, with captions and a soundtrack of computerized music trying to sound like 70’s rock and roll. By the time it was over, I had forgotten all about the shoulder. What an incredible gift it was. I thought about posting it on Facebook, so proud I was of it, but then decided it was too private and might come across as bragging. An hour later she had posted it on my wall. In so doing, she further ingratiated herself to her already adoring father and cemented her financial future in my very generous will.

Just kidding

Missing Molly

It’s been 5 weeks since my dog Molly passed away. By now you would think I would be past the raw emotion of her death and for the most part I am. But a day has not passed where I have not had at least one moment of sadness, one instant of loneliness upon her remembrance. One such moment happened last night.

It was a spectacularly gorgeous night, the air was clean, a hint of a breeze stirring in my backyard, the temperature a perfect 76 degrees, like a summer day in Maine. Pam and I were determined to spend the entire evening on the deck, despite the intolerable shrieking of our neighbors’ kids and the howl of lawnmowers from neighbors who always decide to mow their lawns at night just about the time we decide to eat dinner outside. Pam hooked up my cool wireless speaker system and dialed up the Frank Sinatra station on Pandora and soon, we were competing with the annoying soundtrack of suburbia with one of our own, Sinatra, Michael Buble, Ella Fitzgerald, it was no contest! I grilled up some veggies and beef sausages, Pam made some macaroni and cheese and some fresh sweet tea, and soon we were having an amazing night.

After dinner, we sat in our newly purchased recliner chairs, which are every bit as cool and comfortable as they sound, surrounded by beautiful hibiscus plants and Pam’s herb garden. The peacefulness of the moment had all but made me forget about my ailing shoulder. I began to watch the newly filled bird feeder hanging from the tree in the middle of the back yard. There were little wrens and sparrows, competing with rude blue jays, and majestic cardinals. At the base of the tree, an adorable chipmunk was scurrying around for the leftovers.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, Molly came to mind. I imagined her laying in her spot in the yard, that one place where she could keep an eye on us on the deck while keeping a sharp eye out down the driveway into the front yard. It was her favorite place, so much so, she had worn a bare spot there. I glanced over at the spot and noticed it was green and healthy, no longer worn and brown as if finally even the back yard, her kingdom, had forgotten her. Maybe it was the pain meds, but in that moment a wave of sadness came over me, powerful and intense. What the hell is wrong with me, I thought. For a minute I thought I was going to start crying, so I got up from my chair, made some excuse for needing to watch the end of the second round of the US Open or something and beat a hasty retreat. Once inside, I quickly recovered in time to watch Phil Mickelson sink a birdee put on 18.

It’s the strangest thing, what the loss of this dog has done to me. About most things I am a logical realist, sentimentality not being something most people would associate with me. But when it comes to Molly, the littlest thing can bring on the most powerful emotions, turning me into a sentimental mess. At some point I’m sure it will all pass, and the memories of Molly will bring only happiness and laughter. But it hasn’t happened yet.      

A Fool's Errand

In the Syrian city of Aleppo, a 14 year old boy named Mohammad Qatta was working as a waiter in a coffee shop. A customer asked him to bring him some coffee to which Qatta replied in that overly dramatic, put-upon way so common with 14 year olds the world over, “Even if the Prophet Mohammad comes back to life I won’t!” In America this type of thing would result in Qatta most likely forfeiting his tip. In today’s Syria, it cost him his life.

A group of Syrian rebels happened to be driving by in a black car, somehow heard the remark, went inside the coffee shop, grabbed the kid, stuffed him in the back seat and disappeared. An hour later they returned, having whipped Qatta severely, covering his head with his shirt. After waiting for a crowd to gather, a crowd that included Qatta’s parents, the rebels announced that because the rude waiter had insulted the Prophet Mohammad, he would pay the ultimate price as would anyone else guilty of blasphemy. Then they executed him on the sidewalk in front of the café by shooting him point blank in the mouth and neck.

Yesterday, the Obama administration announced that the United States would begin immediately offering military support and assistance to….the Syrian rebels, murderer of 14 year old waiters. In addition, the Administration has graciously offered to accept thousands of Syrian refugees for relocation here in the United States. I hope they all end up in my neighborhood, don’t you?

Just over a month ago in this very space, I praised the Obama Administration for standing up to the “Let’s get involved in another middle eastern war” crowd, by being prudently cautious towards Syria and maintaining our neutrality. Now, it seems they have changed their minds, having been convinced that the Syrian government of Bashar al-Assad used chemical weapons on his own people. Sound familiar?

So, now we have embarked upon another fool’s errand in the Middle East. We have pushed our chips to the middle of the table in support of a hodgepodge of ruthless rebels who administer justice by murdering 14 year olds in front of their parents. Billions of dollars will be spent, dollars that we do not have. Eventually, American men and women will be asked to risk their lives in a war where there are no good guys, only evil and expedient ones. And as a bonus, we get a batch of new immigrants.

Once again, I have no idea what my government is thinking. What a hot mess!

An Open Letter to the Southern Baptist Convention

An Open Letter to the Southern Baptist Convention,

 

I have been a member of a Southern Baptist church for most of my adult life. I came to faith in Christ in no small part through the teachings and ministry of one such church. My Father is a retired Southern Baptist pastor, having said all of that, whenever anyone asks me about my religion, I never answer, “I’m a Southern Baptist.” Instead, I usually say that I’m a Christian. The reason for that is the subject of this letter.

There are many amazing things about the Southern Baptist church, things of which I am very proud. Through the Cooperative Program, Southern Baptists have found a way to leverage the giving power of 45,000 churches and turn it into an amazing missions organization that supports over 5000 missionaries who serve over 950 different people groups around the world. In the United States, whenever there is a disaster, a tornado, flood or hurricane, groups from local Southern Baptist churches are some of the first relief organizations on the scene and usually the last to leave. As a denomination, Southern Baptists have done more to spread the gospel of Jesus Christ than any other organization I know of. This has been the single focus of our existence and is worthy of great praise accordingly.

But then, once a year we have a convention. Each church elects “messengers” to attend. Speeches are made, songs are sung, and then like the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, we do something stupid. This year it involved the Boy Scouts of America.

Recently the BSA changed its rules and decided not to prohibit openly gay boys from joining. Actually, the wording stated that being gay could no longer be the sole reason for an applicants’ disqualification. For reasons that escape me, the Southern Baptist Convention decided that it needed to get involved in the membership controversy of an organization that has nothing to do with the Southern Baptist church. Well, that’s not exactly true. In the United States, over 100,000 scouts do hold their weekly meetings in some 4,000 local Baptist churches. But the Convention has no power to force a local congregation to prohibit such meetings, so, why make a statement about it, which you had to know would be the one single headline to come out of your entire meeting, “SOUTHERN BAPTISTS SLAM SCOUTS”

I understand that homosexuality is a sin in both the Old Testament and the New. But, it has a lot of company, and gets nowhere near as much attention as good old fashioned adultery, dishonesty, pride and greed. Why no statement about the rampant adultery and divorce among the faithful? How about a statement coming out against the pornography business which has destroyed more traditional marriages than homosexuality ever thought about destroying?

I guess my problem with you guys is one of emphasis. Why pick a fight with the Boy Scouts? With all the problems facing the world today, it’s the Boy Scouts membership policy that tops your agenda? With traditional marriage divorce rates hovering around 50%, why do you spend so much time railing about the sexual practices of at best 10% of the population? And, what are we to make of this statement? Are we trying to encourage local churches to not allow local troops to meet in their buildings because they may have a gay member? Does this mean that we are against gay people coming to church? I guess I just don’t understand the method to this madness. Homosexuality is a sin. I get it. Lots of things are sins. The entire world is full of sinners. Isn’t it the job of the church to reach them with the message of salvation through Christ? How does this Boy Scout statement accomplish this? What it does accomplish, is reinforce the stereotype of Southern Baptists as a bunch of people who are against everything. We’re against drinking, gambling, dancing and gays. Well, there goes 75% of the country, and 100% of Washington DC.

Good luck dealing with the fallout from this. Oh, and the next time you’re sitting in a meeting pondering the problem of declining membership and influence, you might want to consider coming up with a list of things that you’re FOR.

Graduation Gift

Dear Graduate,

Congratulations on this important achievement in your life. I have no idea what the future will hold for you, and I’m not sure you do either. But, something tells me it’s going to be special. Ever since I’ve known you, God has had his hand on your life. Of all of the members of your wonderful family, you have always been the one who has reminded me most of myself. You have a rebellious streak, like me. You have a devilish wit and a gift for sarcasm, and the ability to not take yourself too seriously, things that I have been accused of all my life. Where all of these gifts will take you is anyone’s guess, but I bet it is going to be amazing, which brings me to your gift.

This United States 100 dollar bill is not just any old 100 dollar bill. It comes with strings attached. This is not to be spent on some new outfit, or Justin Bieber tickets, (I swear, if you buy Bieber tickets with this money I will hunt you down!!!). This 100 dollar bill is to be folded neatly a couple of times and hidden away in the depths of your wallet and forgotten about. First of all, an adventurous world traveler should never leave the house without a 100 dollar bill stashed away somewhere, but besides that obvious truth; God has plans for this money. Let me explain.

Someday, you might find yourself down on your luck, in a very hard place, thinking that you’re at the end of your rope. Then suddenly, you will remember this 100 dollar bill, and for you on that day, it will be a miracle, given to you not by me, but by my obedience to God. Or maybe, one day you will meet someone in your travels, someone destitute and truly at the end of their rope, for whom this 100 dollar bill just might save their life. You know better than I that in many parts of the world, 100 US dollars is life changing money. Imagine how awesome you are going to feel when you discover that God has used you as the instrument of their deliverance! Perhaps a day will come when you are presented with an amazing opportunity to do something for yourself, a chance to learn a new skill, or take a class, but it costs 100 bucks that you don’t have. Then you’ll remember this bill in your wallet, you’ll take that class, learn how to convert ocean water into gasoline and become a bazillionaire.

The point is, this is seed money. The huge string attached is this; whenever you use it, you have to tell me the story. Knowing you, you’ll probably be living in some hut in Zimchikastan somewhere so you’ll have to send me a letter or email. If you’re living anywhere near me, I’ll expect a personal visit. It may be next month, next year, or twenty years from now. If I’ve already passed away, tell the story to my wife and kids.  Another thing, don’t worry about using the money. Don’t think, “Man, if I use this money for this thing, he’s going to be disappointed.” No, when the time comes, God will let you know that it’s the right time. I can’t wait to hear all about it.

Now go out there and do something great with your life.

Your Financial Advisor on Percocet

Progress is being made, just completed my second consecutive night without getting up at 3am to take pain meds. Now, the discomfort level at 5:30 was high, but this is progress, no?

I have gone into the office two days in a row, and each day started well, but after 3 hours, I was done, shoulder throbbing and incredibly sleepy. So today, I’m dialing it back a bit. I will stay home today, and spend my waking hours writing.

Its funny how on the two days I was in the office, the phone rang off the hook with client after client asking me question after question about highly complicated financial things. My response was always, “Well, Bob, I’m not sure I feel comfortable answering that question on Percocet.” Then the client would laugh and say, “Oh yeah! I forgot that you just had your shoulder worked on! Tell ya what, why don’t you call me next week.”

Actually, a conversation with your financial advisor when he is taking Percocet might be rather entertaining:

CLIENT #1: Doug, I’m starting to worry about how I’m going to put little Johnnie through college. Can you explain this 529 thing, and do you think it would be a good idea for me to start one?

ME: Can I be frank, Frank? From what I’ve seen of your little Johnnie, he doesn’t stand a chance in hell of going to college. He’s dumber than a box of rocks. So, forget the 529 and invest in a baseball glove instead.

CLIENT #2: Doug, I know that you’re uncomfortable with my level of debt and the fact that I keep taking withdrawals from my IRA and all, but I don’t believe in life insurance. Betty and the kids and I have always trusted God to take care of us, and I think that if I buy life insurance it’s like showing a lack of faith.

ME: Look, don’t blame God for the fact that you’re one paycheck away from bankruptcy.

CLIENT #2: What do you mean? I’m not blaming God!

ME: You just said that you’ve always trusted God to take care of you. You’re 55 years old, 385,000 in debt and you’ve got 12,713 dollars left in your retirement account. If this is how God “”takes care of you”, he’s incompetent. AND since I know that God isn’t incompetent, it’s more likely your total lack of discipline, horrible choices, and personal malfeasance. You’re fired!

CLIENT #3: My neighbor says that he invested $100,000 in Siberian beach resort bonds that have a guaranteed 50% yearly return. How come you haven’t told me about this?

ME: Because your neighbor is a liar. Look at a map.

 

Yeah, think maybe I should stay home today.

Recovery Part I

When I first learned that my surgery was scheduled for June 5^th, it occurred to me that the appointments I had set in Atlanta for the 11^th “might” have to be rescheduled. But then I thought about it and decided that I could probably do just fine, after all, I had one good arm, and my suitcase is on wheels and 6 days will have passed since the surgery, so what’s the big deal? My assistant listened patiently to my travel plans, trying not to burst into laughter. Later, when I ran my idea past Pam, she was less patient and just cut to the chase, “There is no chance that you are getting on an airplane 6 days after shoulder surgery!!” Then she looked at me with that expression she gets sometimes. It’s like she is a scientist and I am some rare example of a species long thought to be dead. She quenches her eyes up, her mouth hangs open, and she starts slowly shaking her head from side to side. Then she lets out a heavy sigh and walks away.

The very idea that I thought that I could fly to Atlanta, rent a car, drive to two different appointments, stay overnight in a hotel, then fly back to Richmond six days after this procedure is actually pretty hilarious. So far, all of the stories I was told about the amount of discomfort associated with shoulder surgery have proven to be accurate. I was hoping that they were overblown exaggerations. No such luck. The Percocet helps a lot with the dull ache, but the sharp ice-pick pains that come upon you at the oddest times, caused by the smallest, most insignificant movements are beyond the reach of mere narcotics. When one of them hits you, you just grab something and hold on for a minute or so until it finally stops.

Today, Pam will be driving me over to the office where I will hopefully not have to take any calls from clients. I will do some paperwork; bring some of Pam’s cupcakes to my office buddies, and plan my very light week. It will be good to get out of the house.