Waiting For Christmas

Absolutely love all the pictures of families opening presents and modeling fresh Christmas pajamas on Facebook. We have enjoyed a Christmas Eve service at the Altria Theatre featuring our nephew Isaac Nunn leading worship in front of 3,600 people. We had a fabulous dinner at Tarrant’s downtown with the Roop’s.

We have driven around town gazing at the Christmas lights, tacky and otherwise. Our two wonderful next door neighbors and their delightful kids both have visited bearing gifts. We (mostly Jon) have been making quick work of a 1,000 piece Christmas puzzle. Everything has been lovely. The only problem is…Christmas hasn’t arrived. Our presents are still safe and secure under the tree. And today brings more waiting. What in the name of the Grinch is going on here?

Its simple. Patrick and Sarah aren’t here yet. In our family. Christmas doesn’t happen until everyone is present and accounted for. Here’s the deal…

P & S have been busier than one-armed brick layers these past couple days. They have performed at two different Christmas Eve services, dealt with negative temperatures that knocked out their power in Nashville for four hours, and hosted and prepared two fabulous Christmas dinners at their new home—on the same day!! Yes, as a matter of fact, that does sound insane. But somehow they pulled everything off like champs. Here’s just one picture of the gourmet delights they prepared…

Amazing. I swear those two should have their own cooking show!

So as I write this, Patrick, Sarah, and Frisco have hit the road headed to Short Pump, only to be greeted by a snow storm which has slowed their pace. They are hoping to arrive here around 6 o’clock this evening. If so they will be just in time for a soup dinner with 18 of their cousins, aunts and uncles from the White side of the family. We will open presents and make merry until 9:00 or so. Then, if the two of them haven’t already fallen asleep standing up, the six of us will open up our new Christmas jammies and then go to bed so that on Tuesday morning, the 27th of December Christmas will finally arrive.

The extended Dunnevant tribe has also had to wait for Christmas. The cruise director, my big sister Linda and her husband Bill are under the weather and had to cancel the extravaganza until early January. This will be remembered as the long Christmas.

But, it isn't really the day on a calendar, is it? Christmas happens when everybody is there.

The Hand of Fate, or The Will of God?

The wind is picking up and the temperature is falling. Outside, dead leaves tumble across my lawn from the towering oaks across the street. Its finally stopped raining. My oldest and her husband are on the road here from Columbia while temperatures plummet. From Nashville my son sends me a screenshot of today’s conditions. There is a minus sign to the left of the number 2 and a bit of snow on the ground. They won’t be on the highway for home until Monday morning. Over all of these things I am powerless.

As I listen to the wind now lashing the house it occurs to me how powerless I am over a great many things. It is perhaps the most stubborn lie we tell ourselves, isn’t it? This idea that we are the captain of our own ship, that we set our own course, that we are masters of our own fate. Despite a lifetime of difficult lessons teaching us how fragile we are in this life, we have the amazing ability to cling to seductive things—and nothing is quite so seductive as the notion of personal autonomy. Yes, we have agency. We enjoy the gift of free will. But no matter how many wise choices we make in this life, there is nothing protecting us from random encounters with the laws of physics. Car accidents and cancer diagnoses—like rain— fall on the just and unjust alike.

I have made my living helping people plan for the future, specifically to see to it that they don’t run out of money before they run out of life. It is a wise and prudent thing to do. Besides, I’ve found that if a man doesn’t make plans, he will always become victim to the plans of others. But there is space in the planning business for that rarest of human qualities…humility. We do our best to be good stewards of money and resources, but we also have to remain open to the hand of fate. For people of faith, the hand of fate is translated… the will of God.

This morning I saw a beautiful photograph of a young woman who lost her life earlier this year in a horrible accident. There she was, bundled up in a winter coat, a knitted scarf snug around her neck, her hands covered in warm black gloves with a face that radiated hope and potential. Her mother had posted the picture. Of course she would. It was beautiful. I know her mother and father. I know of their great faith. But I cannot fathom the depths of a loss so overwhelming. I fret as my daughter drives home for Christmas. But for my friend, her daughter will never be home for Christmas.

But as I studied the photograph closer the thought occurred to me that I might have it all wrong. My understanding in this matter could very well be spectacularly wrong. Maybe…she is home. To my unbelieving friends this at best is a harmless fantasy, at worst a delusion of the simple minded. I can offer not one shred of physical evidence to prove my belief in God and an afterlife. I only have scripture and the tender urging, sometimes feint but never silent voice of the Holy Spirit…absent from the body, present with the Lord. It is the hope of the Gospel, that transcendent story that began in Bethlehem. One of the pastors at my church has a catch phrase that he is famous for…You go nowhere by accident. Its his summary of something that the old prophets said thousands of years ago…A man’s heart plans his course, but the Lord directs his steps. 

Something to ponder on this blustery day.

Dad Jokes—Christmas Edition

Everyone knows what tonight is, right? Of course tonight is the night before the night before the night before Christmas—and time for Dad Jokes—Christmas Edition.

How is Christmas exactly like your real job?

You do all the hard work, then some fat guy in a suit gets all the credit.

How come Santa didn’t sign up for Obamacare?

Because he has private elf-care.

What do you call a snowman with six pack abs?

An abdominal snowman.

What’s another name for Santa’s little helpers?

Subordinate Clause’s 

Incidentally, before publishing these jokes I ran them by a friend of mine who is probably my worst critic. Let’s just say that although she is quite talented in other areas, her sense of humor isn’t what anyone would call…robust. I would share her name, but I don’t have her permission so I’ll just refer to her by her initials—SHERRI MATTHEWS. Anyway, she loved these jokes. In fact, its safe to say that she was speechless. Her favorite one wasn’t really a Christmas joke but since she almost actually chuckled, I’ll end with it:

Did you hear where the Mother Superior down at the Nunnery has banned all perfume immediately?

She made it absolutely clear that she wasn’t about to tolerate any…

…nun scents.

Testing My Patience

I am desperately weaving in and out of the insane traffic between my house and Sonic near 6 o’clock tonight when I receive a text from my wife. It appears on the screen in the middle of what used to be called a dashboard. I read the words with eyes that dart to and fro at the red tail lights in front of me. Time had gotten away from us both, which happens a lot in the days leading up to Christmas. We looked up and it was time for dinner and neither of us wanted to cook or be bothered with going out to eat. The least obnoxious alternative turned out to be the short one mile drive down Pump road, then a right on Broad street, and finally a left into the Sonic drive thru. Pam’s instructions were bewildering:

Pam: PLAIN Sonic Cheeseburger (this comes without lettuce and tomato)- - with ketchup and mayo. Tots.

Perhaps it was the traffic or my hunger. My spoken answer was equally confusing:

Me: That text makes no sense. It’s contradictory. What do you want? Lettuce and tomato or no lettuce and tomato?

After hashing out this crucial point, I finally arrive at the drive thru menu board. Thankfully there is no one ahead or behind me so I have time to consider my options. I make the executive decision then proceed to the little window level microphone and speaker where I am greeted by the crackling sound of a Latina teenager, who asks me the question of the moment in a thick Central American accent: How can I help you?

Me: Yes. I would like a PLAIN cheeseburger with ketchup and mayo along with a…

Crackling voice coming through speaker: You want cheeseburger without ketchup and mayo.

Me: No no…I do want the ketchup and mayo.

CVCTS: Ok..no ketchup and no mayo.

Me: No dear…I want the ketchup and mayo. In fact if you don’t put the ketchup and mayo on this cheeseburger, my wife will not be happy.

CVCTS: I see. What you want is cheeseburger with ketchup and mayo. Is this right?

Me: Perfect!! Now I also want a medium order of tots…

CVCTS: Is this a combo?

Me: No. No combo. Just the cheeseburger and tots.

CVCTS: Combo would be cheaper.

Me: Perhaps. But we have water at home. I also would like the Crispy Chicken sandwich along with the medium chili-cheese tots.

CVCTS: Thank you. Your total is $15.95. Please drive around.

First of all, don’t judge me for ordering the chili-cheese tots. I’m very much aware of the calorie count and total absence of any nutritional value of this particular item. But before you go all Ina Garten on me, I will simply ask you one question—Have you tasted them? If not, shut up.

Second of all, what happens next tested all of my powers of patience and forbearance. My Latina clerk appears at the checkout window looking as if she was so bored a whisper of a wind might blow her off her feet. I handed her my credit card and she soon handed it back to me along with my receipt, then slammed the window shut. This gave me a moment to inspect said receipt for any errors. Sure enough, I see that I have been charged for one medium tots. No chili-cheese tots to be found. About this time the window snaps open rather violently and Miss Guadalupe hands me a bag. I open it and see a cheeseburger and a chicken sandwich along with the chili cheese tots (which I have not been charged for) but no regular medium tots (which I have been charged for). Needless to say, I am perplexed. I try to explain to her about the missing tots, but she looks at me like I’m some crazy Gringo with two heads. Soon a Latino attendant shows up and I try to explain the situation to him and he seems to get it, smiles effortlessly and takes the bag out of my hand while once again slamming the window in my face. I look in the rear view mirror and am relieved beyond words that there is no one behind me. At least I am not holding some family of four up from their dinner. Latino dude then slings the hapless window open and hands me the bag with a confident, “thank you!!” I open the bag and could immediately feel the hair standing up on my neck. Inside the bag was the cheeseburger, the crispy chicken sandwich and an order of regular medium tots…but no chili-cheese tots. 

At this point I’m trying to remind myself that they are only kids. It’s almost Christmas. I consider myself a Christian man. It’s my duty to extend grace during the difficult encounters of life. I’m trying very hard, but in my heart I know that there is no damn way that chicken sandwich is still crispy at this point!! Still, I take a deep breath and conjure up a smile…

Me: Excuse me. I see that you have included the regular medium tots but now there are no chili-cheese tots in this bag. Where did my chili-cheese tots go?

Latino Attendant: I thought you said you wanted regular medium tots instead of chili-cheese tots.

Me: No no…I’m rather sure I said I wanted both…(window slams for the third time during the middle of my patient explanation)

Another couple minutes slip by while my chicken sandwich devolves further and further away from crispness. Then suddenly an African-American youth appears at the window and I spot the manager name tag. He seems to be studying a screen carefully and with practiced skill. Once again the window buckles open with a rude jerking motion (perhaps it needs some WD-40 by now) and the manager speaks:

Manager: So, what you want is a cheeseburger, a chicken sandwich, one regular tots and one chili-cheese tots, correct?

Me: Thanks God in heaven…YES!!!

Manager: Ok, that will be $4.95.

Me: Excuse me?

Manager: Yeah well…we didn’t charge you for the regular medium tots the first time…

I wasn’t about to use a credit card to pay for one regular medium tots so I fished through my wallet and was surprised to find a ten dollar bill. 

By the time I made it home my chicken sandwich was the consistency of a dill pickle slice but at least vaguely warm. 

But the chili-cheese tots were absolute money! 

Before I go to bed tonight I’ll pop a couple Pepcids

You Don’t See One of These Everyday

I made the huge mistake this afternoon around one o’clock of venturing over to Dick’s Sporting Goods to do some Christmas shopping. The problem was that everyone else in Virginia had the same idea. The resulting surge of humanity resulted in me having to park three football fields away over in the American Family parking lot. While making the quarter mile hike from my parking space to Dick’s I happened by the most freakish vehicle I have ever seen in a parking lot at the mall. It was the sort of thing that was so bizarrely stupid and nonsensical, I just had to stop and take a couple pictures. As I was doing so a fellow shopper stopped and saw me taking pictures, looked at me and said, “I know, right?? Who would go shopping in that monstrosity?”

As I got closer I started to notice the absurdity of the thing. It bulged out of the parking space with one end and lapsed at least six feet into a second space. As I approached, I noticed that the bottom of the passenger door came up to my waist…and there was no step. What manner of human being would buy such a thing, let alone drive it?? He obviously is single. How would a girl get inside the cab without pole vaulting?

To protect his/her reputation, all of the windows in this thing were darkened—which I thought was illegal in Virginia. But as weird and jacked up as this laughable phallic symbol was, the best part was the thing hanging off the tailgate…

 So, this cowpoke is ready to tow damn near anything, apparently. I’m sure one of my readers can give me a perfectly rational explanation for why Bubba here needs a towing package with six different possibilities. But the question remains—why would you chose this thing to run by the mall? I’m thinking that if your rig requires two parking spaces, you might want to consider taking the bus. Besides, if this dude lives in Beaverdam or Montpelier, he probably can’t get to the mall and back on one tank of gas.

But, like they say, there is no accounting for taste. To each his/her own. Maybe this dude is seven feet tall and this is the only vehicle that fits him. Perhaps he runs a towing business. Maybe he lucked into it by being the winning bidder at a blind auction. Or maybe this was like a company Christmas Party White Elephant exchange that got out of hand.

All I know is that somebody sure could have used that extra parking space.

An Argument I Once Had With My Mom…

My Mom once told me to stop making breakfast puns.

She warned me that if I did I’d be toast; she said she just pancake it anymore. How waffle, right? I was in a real jam, so I learned to be syrup-titious about it. At least Dad, a cereal punster himself, kept egging me on. He was such a ham. Whoever sausage a thing?

When Mom realized how crestfallen I was she apologized. To which I said, “Omelet it slide this time.”

I can’t begin to eggsplain how hurt I was by her rejection of my puns. It was eggstraordinarily painful. It certainly didn’t go over easy. But Mom and I eventually hashed it out. Ultimately the yolk was on her though. I figured out that there were a brunch more meals to make puns about.

It was only years later when I discovered that she was laughtose intolerant. That’s when I realized I shouldn’t have Benedict about it.

I guess I should stop now. Don’t want to milk this too long.

Happy Hollandaise, everyone!

When Dogs Die

One of the great dogs in our neighborhood passed away yesterday. Our next door neighbor’s French Bulldog, Vander crossed the golden rainbow, leaving them sad and bereft. I’m not sure but Van probably was there at the birth of all three of their kids, so the loss will be even harder for the kids. Ever since I found out, I’ve been thinking about the dogs I have lost. The memories are both bitter and sweet.

Our first Golden Retriever was a beautiful big-headed blond named Murphy. Pam and I had only been married for a year when we got him. We immediately built a fence around our backyard to accommodate Murph. Although he spent plenty of time inside with us, he was largely an outside dog. Both of our children were born while Murph was with us and he loved them dearly and endured all of their horseplay with supreme patience and dignity. The first winter after we moved into this house, Murphy passed away on Christmas Eve. It was one of the worst experiences of my life. Prior to Murphy, all of my childhood dogs had been outside animals and would quietly wander off deep into the woods when it was their time to go, sparing us the sadness. But, there I was laying on a cold tile floor at Gayton Animal hospital on Christmas Eve holding Murphy close while they administered the injection. Nothing I had ever experienced in life had prepared me for that moment.

Twelve or thirteen years later it was our second Golden, the indomitable, never to be replicated Molly who left us after a beautiful life. She was without question the most loving, affectionate animal I have ever known, and easily the smartest. She was the unofficial dog of the Grove Avenue Baptist church 200 student strong youth group. She was raised in a house crawling with teenagers on the weekends and she quickly warmed to the task of being showered with affection. When she was diagnosed with cancer at age eleven we were devastated. The Vet told us she had two weeks tops. She made it three and only showed outward signs of suffering in the last 24 hours. She died in our arms on the living room floor at four in the morning. It was excruciating. I’m not sure that Pam has ever gotten over it, she loved her so.

Now, our crazy neurotic Lucy is only eight and healthy as a horse. She has plenty of time, but her day will come and it will be horrible. Its the bargain we all make when we introduce a dog into the family. God allows us the privilege of their company for a limited time, and then he calls them home. The joy and happiness and laughter they bring to our lives means that when they go home they owe us nothing. They have given everything they had to us, holding back nothing.

But with the passing of time, I have a different perspective of their passing. I think that it should have been a time of celebration. Our dogs lived wonderful, full lives. They were cared for, adored and pampered. They enjoyed the love and devotion of children. They spent their days sleeping in front of warm fires and snuggling with us on sofas. They truly lived their very best lives in our care.

As far as Van is concerned, I would tell those sweet kids that he lived a great life and I bet if he was given the chance to live that life over again, he would chose them…again. Why wouldn’t he? What greater life could there be than one where you are loved and cherished by your family? Would that all of us could say the same.