The Six Year Fast

Once upon a time, seventh grade marked the beginning of what was called junior high, and I was a socially backward stranger in a new school after a move across town. It took less than five seconds on the first day to realize doom lay ahead. It appeared that everyone there was light years beyond me in sophistication and, worse than that, they were pals from elementary school who were not in the market for new friends. 

Grammar school days had been a picnic—I had a little prestige, a lot of good grades, and plenty of pals. Fast forward to the dawn of 7th grade where I quickly found that I couldn’t make a friend for love nor money. And, of course, the lowlight of every day was lunch, where I really wandered in the wilderness.

With a bit of optimism in the first week, I went through the food line and scouted for girls’ tables with a vacancy or two. My success rate was abysmal as unoccupied seats were always saved, and echoes of “no” became super embarrassing. After enough daily rites of humiliation, trying to eat lunch became a very bad idea. I devised a strategy of grabbing two vanilla ice cream cups with a little wooden paddle and quickly escaping to the outside where killing 25 minutes alone was like killing 25 years. 

I got used to my role of being every team’s last pick--someone eventually had to take me.  Discouraging observations floated in the air sort of behind my back, and hearing I was the fat and ugly sorry kid was always a bit disheartening. While I may have been a semi-fat and awkwardly unattractive ‘tween, I didn’t consider myself all that bad. At dinner on Friday nights when there were dances at school, my parents would mildly inquire, “Do you want to go?” I would say no without editorial, and that was good enough for them. 

High school was more of same. Even with a broader population, there still wasn’t a place to eat, and each day my lunch objective was simply to get through it. Everyone was having fun but I couldn’t work out how to join them. I was a have not who longed to be a have, and clueless about how to get there. Sadly, the good news about the fine art of making friends had yet to reach me. 

At home things were peaceful and fine during these years with my parents their changeless hard-working, well-mannered selves. Another bright spot was the happy relationship we had with our next door neighbors, and I remember very well walking on our street with their 3 year old granddaughter and thinking about how weird it was that my best friend was a preschooler. 

The church we attended was an unusual little place filled with wonderful people of all ages. Monday through Friday school difficulties were contradicted by the loving good found in this congregation on Sundays and Wednesdays. At this church, virtually everyone in every age group mingled a little or a lot with the youth. I was encouraged and reassured every time I was there as so many fine people took an interest in me.

Here we sit in 2022 where it’s commonplace to hear about teens all over who report having a similar deal to mine, and some (perhaps many) don’t fare so well in it. Which makes me reflect on how in the world I muddled through my hard days without telling a soul, and consider who and what made the difference. 

After a great deal of deliberation, I have decided that those who kept me hopeful about the promise of the tomorrows to come were the influences outside the school walls—my family, our church, and our neighbors. These good people had no idea about the impact of their sustained kindness dropping on me at just the right time. I suppose the proof is that giving up never crossed my mind, and I am forever grateful to this entire group. 

It was sort of a slow-moving miracle that, with some years, maturity, and countless providential situations, things eventually turned around. However, I always remember the very difficult life of a kid who couldn’t/didn’t fit in. Life rolling onwards and God in His wisdom have a way of revealing the immense good that can be found in the bad of the past. Somehow, six years of never eating lunch has ended up being a significant benefit. 

With our children many years later, my (formerly) 3 year old best friend Joelly is second from left.

On a side note, an anecdote from Annabelle: Almost 20 years ago, Joelly gave Annabelle the Lizzie McGuire soundtrack CD for Christmas, and it's still in her Tahoe entertainment rotation. 

"An amazing CD that will never go out of style". 

Greetings From Irrelevance

In March, 2020, Annabelle blew in from spring break in Edinburgh, a refugee swept back home after the brand new Covid abruptly preempted her senior year. One third of the way into their final college term, Furman seniors were shown the gate, with no fanfare or fond farewell. 

During her residency here, Annabelle accomplished extraordinary things, the most outstanding of which was pointing out the countless ways I could and should improve my lot in life. 

The highlight from her tenure came around one day as I was pondering what I should wear for an occasion. The details of my wardrobe choice and intended destination have long since faded, but this moment lives on in perpetuity: 

Me:                "What do you think?" 

Annabelle:     "You look fine. But, at your age, no one really cares”.

~~~~~

I wrote down the details of this moment quite a while ago and, ever since then, I’ve been working out what I feel about this, the greatest writing prompt ever in the history of the world. I pondered all the directions I could go, but never quite landed on exactly what I wanted to say. 

Then Greatest Writing Prompt II came along two weekends ago: 

Annabelle was looking through my phone and came across a screenshot photo of a beautifully understated staircase with a landing halfway along, before the stairs turn and finish going up. 

Annabelle: “What’s this?”

Me:         “A staircase I love, just in case I ever get to build a house again”.

Annabelle: “Well, that’s never gonna happen”. 

~~~~

Firstly, it should be noted that Annabelle and I are big big pals; for as long as I can remember, she's been my novelty child on whom I can count to keep me walking the straight and narrow. We have a lot of fun, her counsel is usually right on target, and conversation with her is always a joyously direct riot. I really have the perfect set-up with both Annabelle and William, my messengers from the young world, ever ready to bring me all the news.  

So my best friend forever Annabelle presented me the Golden Ticket, thereby freeing me up from concerns about how I present myself to the world. In a somewhat subtle and sneaky fashion across time, I have also gotten wind from the outside world that I have arrived in the land of irrelevancy. It's not a bad thing at all, it's just how life works. But, that being said, I'm not quite ready to give up. I'll just work away with whatever scraps I have left, here in obscurity. 

In all fairness, there was a time when I had the very same perspective about the lesser degree of relevance held by people dwelling in all those decades above me.  I looked at them like I was a tourist in their strange land--there couldn't be that much fun, surprises seemed limited, and I figured living vicariously through one's grown children filled up the time. It would amaze my younger self to know I was well off the mark--there is plenty of life and joy available for those who are willing. 

Save for some latter day miracle, the flaming arrow launched at my ever-enduring home-building fantasy is, alas, a likely bullseye. But I do have a charming house, and I can dream and think about all sorts of ways to make it more fabulous--and that is plenty. 

By the time one reaches this age, many of life’s biggest mysteries have been revealed—growing up is long finished, schooling complete, lifestyle in place, the children are well and truly here, and the career path is mostly known.  Once upon a time, the future was a vast and hazy mystery, and so much time was spent wondering about how things would turn out. Now knowing a heaping helping of life's story--and how quickly it all went by--can't help but conjure up both astonishment and thankfulness. 

Right along with those fading looks in the mirror. my hopes and expectations have naturally shifted and changed across the years. But I love to think there is work left to be done, things to be learned, more friends to know and love, and certainly there are adventures out there to be had. I'll just get back to trying to make something nice with what I have, for now and the tomorrows ahead.

And, should I need further enlightenment, I'll just wait patiently for Annabelle to do the business. 

We like each other just fine

The great fitness test

A long time ago on a pretty spring 4th grade afternoon, our teacher, Mrs. Nancy Gladish, announced that the class would be heading outside for the President’s Physical Fitness Test. With limited explanation and a clipboard in her hand, she herded us out to the playground where the fun would begin. 

The presidential requirements that I can remember involved successful completion of pull-ups, a one mile run, sit-ups, long jump, push-ups, and something called a shuttle run. All were uncharted territory for me as my athletic training to that date was limited to bike riding, rollerskating, and jumping rope on Alabama Avenue. As I waited and watched my colleagues do pretty well, I knew I was doomed. When it was my turn to give each event a go, I tried, but pretty much fell short of the mark every single time. 

It was after lunch several weeks later when Mrs. Gladish stood in front of our class to present the President’s Physical Fitness Certificates. As she called out my classmates’ names, each one stepped forward to receive congratulations along with his or her award. I can still see the crisp white papers emblazoned with the official red, white, and blue banner at the top, and I was more than startled to hear her call out Ellen Tucker. 

And here is what happened next: In a horribly awkward and humiliating moment, I went up and told Mrs. Gladish (and thereby the whole class) that I did not earn the award so I could not accept it. And I started to cry and sat back down. I vaguely remember a surprised Mrs. Gladish saying something nice about what I had done, but that part is a big blur. 

Nothing more was ever said about this event, and I pretty much forgot about it.  

~~~~~

I share this long-buried tale because it just recently came back to me, and I am mystified about how a little kid had the presence of mind to (rightfully) turn down an award that was not deserved.

It would be convenient to reflect on my having been a holy and deep-thinking child, but I was not. I was ordinary. All I can figure is that particular moment had to have been an homage to my parents, family, schoolteachers, Sunday School teachers, neighbors and, yea, even the television shows of the era. Their combined influences seem to have imprinted a strong sense of right and wrong in little me. 

It seems unfashionable of late to acknowledge and promote the value found in earning good things in life. 

If I am to believe what I constantly see and hear, I deserve a whole lot of things—money, a fancy car, happiness, a great life, glamorous vacations, a beautiful home, expensive clothes—the list is endless. Apparently, I deserve all of these and more, just for living and breathing. But what stands between the buy-in and me is what I have always known--even in a simplistic way in 4th grade--one must put in some effort to earn great honors, privileges, and great things.

While my children William and Annabelle grew up in the world of participation trophies, they still saw only the best players making All Star teams. Their hardest working classmates with the highest GPAs were presented with the most attractive college options. Now as adults, for the most part, they see their more accomplished peers landing the more prestigious jobs with accompanying fringe benefits. 

As for my current view, I see persevering peers and colleagues achieving incredible things, including some looking forward to comfortable early retirements. In the best way the world works, diligence pays the dividends, and I wish I had also possessed a better grasp of this long ago when I was nine years old. 

While we in 2022 can look back and see the imperfections found in years gone by, I wish for some of their higher shared ideals to be more popular amongst us here in this fast, super-connected, and sophisticated world. I would gladly invite my kaleidoscope of understated influential people from long ago to join us and work their magic today. 

53 Sympathy Cards

When my mother died unexpectedly-ish in August, 2008, I was a busy Atlantan running the lives of two children. Up in Chattanooga, Margaret had loved her life surrounded by treasures from a host of late relatives ("I'm sentimental", she often observed). When the day arrived for this pile to become all mine, it was more than a little overwhelming. With a tight deadline, I took the easy way out, jettisoning what seemed unneeded and shoving the rest into a 10' x 10' storage unit. I rolled down the door and headed back to Georgia to pick up my life where I left off, never looking over my shoulder at that crowded space. 

While time marched onwards, I routinely wrote a check every month, and the eventual stick of dynamite dispatching me to frozen-in-time storage came with an August, 2021 rent increase. Thirteen years of denial were over and, amidst this heap of my mother's earthly residue, I ran across a department store paper bag bearing Margaret's precise printing, "Nannie's Sympathy Cards - 1972". 

Nannie--my grandmother--was an elementary school teacher who made wondrous sugar cookies.  Nannie was also the first person in my world to die; I was crushed when she had a stroke and was gone. 

Reading 53 sympathy cards one Sunday evening was a miniature visit to a faraway world. 

The overture to a day gone by jumped out with handwriting. My grandmother's and parents' contemporaries of 1972 were accomplished cursive artisans, writing with flair in mostly blue ink. Pretty handwriting on envelopes mirrored the script alphabet lines that once traveled the walls of elementary school classrooms everywhere, back when cursive education was part of the deal. 

The cards themselves presented expressions of kindness in respectful tones. There were several senders who wrote about their regret in having missed the funeral, and more than a few thoughtfully enclosed a clipping of Nannie's newspaper obituary. 

In the formal department, there were many folks who signed cards with titles attached to their names ("Mr. and Mrs. Clyde Love", "Miss Knapper"). It was all quite gracious, reflecting a forgotten day when  familiarity with one another was a phenomenon that evolved across time in association. (It took 20 years for my mother to progress from calling our long-time next-door neighbor "Mrs. Balch" to an informal "Ruth", likely a world record). 

Sympathy cards in 1972 cost 15 or 25 cents, and the ones featuring glitter ran the price up to 35 cents. All the eight cent stamps featured Ike's reassuring soft smile. Whether sprinkled with glitter or not, the printed sentiments were thoughtful and kind, with all of them acknowledging loss and sorrow with encouraging comfort from God and the senders. The pain of losing a loved one was palpable and recognized in '72---celebrations of life would be a brand new idea waiting in the future. 

I sort of remember little bits about many of the senders through vague memories of my parents talking about them, and I know these people represented a constituency from many walks in life. But the common thread amongst them all was extraordinarily uniform grace, decency, and dignity. From the Cafeteria Lady at Nannie's school to our longtime housekeeper to more prosperous friends, there was no distinction found in decorum, benevolence, or even handwriting.

Lastly, the vast majority of these understated card senders have also departed across the decades, many of them, like Nannie, long gone. After all this time has passed, an opportunity to read the kind words they left behind is a privilege. 

~~~~~

Stepping back 49 years in the calendar for glimpses of old-fashioned mores was a surprisingly meaningful evening. Once upon a time, refinement was popular and pursued by many. Much like letter writing, it seems to have lost its appeal across time. 

Here in the 21st century, a text or email of sympathy gets the job done, and with limited effort. While the method of conveyance is efficient and the sentiments are no less sincere, I see how I fall short in going out of my way for others ("Putting yourself out", as Margaret would say). Presentations of kindness are still as lovely and significant today as they were in 1972, perhaps even more. 

Of course, I love the super convenience of my laptop and iPhone, and I happily testify they make life a cakewalk, opening windows on the world, serving up perpetual entertainment, and putting writing at my fingertips. All of which leave me convicted of not being an outstanding card sender and letter writer. I'm pretty sure this reflects an acquired laziness on my part. 

While we have gained tremendously more in an easy lifestyle over 49 years, I have a feeling some significant riches were gradually lost along the way.  Restrained familiarity suddenly seems like an excellent means of showing respect as we grow to know others in our orbit. And I can't help but wish for a reacquaintance with beautiful handwriting, cards in the mailbox, and the embrace of everyday civility with one and all. 

The Good Time We're Having

For a good stretch of years, Wednesday was the busiest day of the whole week, and there was but one big thought in my head as I made up my bed on those mornings: 

I'll be so glad when this day is over and I can be back here. 

Wednesdays went down like this: 

Rise at 5:30 to straighten up for our housekeeper Brenda who arrived at 8:00 to make sense of the place. In the midst of my cleaning efforts, there were two children to get up, feed, and dispatch for school. Every other week, Brandon Morning Mom duty meant scooting up the street for an extra early school arrival. 

A work day followed, then school pick-up, miniature homework launch, a drive with Brenda over to MARTA, children's church choir (with Choir Mom duty), and dinner with friends in the fellowship hall. The finale: get home, last chance at homework, baths x two, bedtime for all. It was certainly a day serving up a bonanza of conviviality,  but all I thought about was getting through it.

~~~~~

In the homestretch of of 2020, everywhere I turned--at work, with friends, in public, in passing--there was a spoken chorus with just one verse: 

"I'll be so glad when 2020 is over".  

And my thought, the same with every one:  Please don't wish time away.

I agree that 2020 was a year like no other in our lifetimes. Everything unfolded differently than expected, with a succession of events that hurt and affected so many--lives, fortunes, and feelings of well-being caught in wax and wane. While acknowledging and having profound respect for the depths of sorrow and the harshness that were 2020's theme, there are still some remarkable things that shouldn't be wished away. 

Through 365 days, in spite of all the bad, we had birthdays, made new friends, probably reconnected with some old friends, saw sunrises and sunsets, felt deep emotion for others we know or maybe don't know, and perhaps even slowed down enough to consider that life isn't the cake walk we often believe we are promised and/or owed. 

Life is hard, always bringing both joy and pain. However, somewhere in the mix is the opportunity to appreciate the here and now we are given, and especially the chance to still participate in the game, come what may. 

In the show Ted Lasso there's a line, "Every disadvantage has an advantage", and that's a comforting--and challenging--thought. With the luxury of hindsight, I find invaluable by-products for every hard time in my life--albeit while I struggle to find peace in the painful accompanying losses. I'm striving to be thankful, and to find the good in things that seem bad. 

~~~~~

With the passing of years, the wisdom of my late parents becomes more meaningful, and one of Margaret's pronouncements stands out in splendor of truth. When we reminisced about both significant and mundane times gone by, my mother would say these words, always like a brand new idea:

"We didn't know what a good time we were having."

And this is where I live every day. All those ATL Wednesdays blend with countless ordinary days, both in the deep and recent past. Whirlwind years with little children seemed happily endless. Flying great (or not) trips with friends was taken for granted, and just how the months fell into place. And here in the pre-2020 world, visiting with my wonderful pediatric friends in their offices was the best part of how life worked. 

The kids are grown and making their way in the world. Brenda is still my friend and I am the housekeeper. I work on the ground and not on jets anymore. Our dear friends are still around, with wonderful ones having been added along the way. And I will be so glad when life returns to its normal rhythm, complete with time spent side-by-side with others in the same place. 

Life has changed a thousand times over and, in the last year, the world has turned upside down in most every way. But I'm still here--along with you. 

May we all know the good times we are having, no matter what. 

Happy 2021--

ET

Good times and bum times, I've seen 'em all

And, my dear, I'm still here

Plush velvet sometimes

Sometimes just pretzels and beer, but I'm here

I've run the gamut, A to Z

Three cheers and dammit, C'est la vie

I got through all of last year, and I'm here

Lord knows, at least I was there, and I'm here

Look who's here, 

I'm still here

From "Follies", Stephen Sondheim - reference inspired by the late John Hardesty

2020

  

The Early Bird Lunch Club

The sign on the restaurant door says it opens for lunch each day at 11:00 a.m., but for the the over-age-75 regulars, a table awaits somewhere in the neighborhood of 10. Through the front door and to the right, there is a rather ordinary dining room containing tacitly reserved tables for these every day diners. If you are one of the early birds and not in your place by 10:30, you cause big worry for your fellow faithful and owe everyone an explanation when you return. (Doctors' appointments are excused). 

It's a Groundhog Day kind of place, where the only things that change in 24 hours' time are the typed daily specials for the menu, and the wardrobe of the folks whose paths only cross here at lunch, five days a week.

Retired college professor Gene holds down the first table. A confirmed bachelor, Gene is the picture of urbane preciseness and a fount of knowledge about all sorts of topics. His specialist subject (with me) is how English grammar has gone into the gutter (we totally agree), and he is known to favor a Panama shirt every now and then. He lives alone and, at departure time, his waitress magically appears with styrofoam and plastic bearing his evening meal. 

The snowy haired and primly dressed Mrs. Evans sits two tables over. She is a reserved and reasonably spry 91 year old widow who offers a polite hello and a goodbye to her fellow diners, and is quiet-ish between the two. Mrs. Evans usually reports she is "just fine" as she sits alone at the same four-top, always facing the window a few feet in front of her. 

Occupying a far table towards the outside wall is Howard. The others often whisper Howard has never gotten over his wife's death 10 years ago, and now travels through life with a perpetual dark cloud over his white-haired head. He stops by all the other tables as he arrives to say hello and share whatever is his current dilemma. After eating, Howard bids a farewell to everyone as he passes back through, with solutions for solving his latest problem thrown from every table like pitches from the mound at Yankee Stadium. He sports a big gold chain around his neck and a large gold belt buckle, which make him appear somewhat jaunty and maybe a little more lost. 

One table over from the window is the only married couple I have ever seen in the early-lunch crowd, a retired minister from a small conservative church and his wife. Together they inject a beatific and subdued presence into the dining room, with their table almost altar-like. They are prayerful and perpetually poised, with an understated word for everyone that comes close to being a blessing. 

And the rowdiest one in the whole place holds court over in the corner by the window, my 92 year old aunt. In decided contrast to the preacher and his wife next door, she is hopelessly irreverent and chatty, with not one worry in the world about the others appreciating it or not. She was an English teacher in the local junior high, and is as free-wheeling as one can be in her 90s. From time to time, a former student drops by, and it's always a big deal. She gleefully recalls otherwise forgettable things about each one, a rousing laugh is shared, and her day is made. 

The only reason I ever came to know that this room of early-eaters exists is because my aunt invited me to lunch. While my work schedule features a noon lunch time, we agreed that every now and then I would juggle my endeavors so she and I could dine together at 11:00. And so I arrive precisely at 11, always to find her polishing off her meal. I have become accustomed to seeing her at work on the remnants of her favorites, Spaghetti and Pinto Beans (with an onion slice), or "Men-noot Steak" (some call it Minute Steak), while I wait for my lunch. 

Before the room fills up with various others and outsiders, the early diners catch up on the scoop, with news about weather, health, and the perils of Howard telegraphed from table to table with amazing efficiency. Since I am such a random visitor, my aunt is more than happy to provide almost-not-loud updates on the travails of everyone else whilst she cuts up her onion.

As she marches onwards to a staggering array of other topics, from world history to what happened yesterday in London's stock market, I often look around and wonder what these folks' lives are like beyond dwelling here on their private table islands in a little sea of coincidental friends.

~~~~~

My objective when I wrote this seven years ago was to acknowledge this unassuming little society and the arms-length companionship they enjoyed for a number of years, once upon a time. 

In 2013, this group was in its heyday. Since then, one by one, they have all drifted away, save for (I think) the preacher and his wife. First Mrs. Evans died, then Howard was moved by his niece to assisted living north of Atlanta where my aunt reported he was miserable. Gene died after going down the slippery slope of chronic bad health. My aunt gradually lost her independence--but remained irreverent and informed--right up to her last day in 96 years. 

The truth is, any time I visited, I was always a welcome guest parachuting from the outside world into their miniature universe. I often wondered what it would be like for them to abandon their solo tables and, for once, trade shouting across the room for sitting together. (I am pretty sure this thought never, ever crossed their minds). I consider myself fortunate to have seen in them how contextual fellowship can come along at any age, bringing with it value and significance. 

It's now clear that I got glimpses of these folks living out their last days, and it was nice to occasionally see quiet little chapters of their stories unfolding on a weekday around 10:30. Every time I drive by that restaurant, they all appear in my mind, and I wonder if Gene, Mrs. Evans, Howard, the preacher and his wife, and my aunt have been replaced by a brand new generation of early bird diners. One day I might just juggle my schedule and drop in at 11:00 to find out. 

Then be not coy, but use your time,
   And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
   You may forever tarry. 
                                                                                                              Robert Herrick      

Delayed Riches

Of all the folks who ever graduated from the University of Tennessee, the trophy for being the most clueless about the future goes to me. Armed with a BS in education and teaching ambivalence, on the day after commencement I impulsively moved to Atlanta. it seemed like a decent enough idea, moving to a big and busy nearby city where I had snagged a Tower Place job and a tiny apartment. Moving momentum had a zingy adult flair, but it wasn't long at all until I was wandering alone in the Buckhead wilderness.

~~~~~

During my UT senior year, I had a little job at what was then the happening athletic club. Work featured a revolving door of Knoxville royalty, including a stratospheric mix of former Vol football players. And one of them happened to be the nicest man in town (and possibly the world). His name is George and, somewhere in our mundane chit chat, I mentioned I had not one worthy idea about post-graduation plans.

Without hesitation, George served up advice: "You need to go be a Delta flight attendant. They work hard, but they have a lot of fun." My worldliness was woefully limited, but even I knew that flight attendant jobs were hard to come by. With nothing to lose, I headed to the Knoxville Delta Ticket Office for an application.

George had more advice: "Where it asks if you know anyone who works for Delta, write in Paco on the ramp in Memphis". I did, and with limited hopes, I mailed it to Atlanta. 

As quickly as my application went to Virginia Avenue, a thanks-but-no-thanks form letter came right back. I remember very clearly standing at the Morrill Hall mailboxes and tossing the letter in the trash can.

~~~~~

I was a sad lost soul in a hot Atlanta summer with exactly two friends. There was Pam, a kind and (I thought) worldly 27-year-old co-worker who graciously took it upon herself to show me the Buckhead ropes, and Richard, my upstairs neighbor, an affable divorced guy who had his son every other weekend and spent the rest of his time drinking.

My work world was populated by a smattering of well-heeled Buckhead, of a brand new language and culture to me. They were a pleasant and fascinating lot, and I loved learning their gentile ways and about how elite professionals move about in life. That particular summer, their busy social and philanthropic lives made me feel even lonelier than I was already. 

When September rolled around, ATL's shiny newness had worn off and I found myself in the depths of loneliness, bewildered about what I could do to fix things. On the Wednesday of an exceptionally despairing week, I arrived home to a ringing phone. On the other end was my mother who had opened a letter from Delta Air Lines forwarded from my UT address: I had a flight attendant interview that Friday at 8:30 a.m. 

My interviewer was a kind, older Southern gentleman who might well have been around since the Deland Dusters and Mr. C. E. Woolman. As he read through my paper application in his hands, he gushed about his affinity for the Tennessee Vols, asking me if I was acquainted with old so-n-so at UT (I can't recall who it was, but I did know him--lucky break). 

Suddenly, something on the pages caught his eye and he stopped: "Say, you know Paco on the ramp in Memphis--well, that is great, just great!" I smiled vaguely and mentioned Paco is a great friend of a great friend as my interviewer opened his desk drawer and pulled out a little slip of paper, the golden ticket downtown for a visit with the Delta pre-employment psychiatrist, the legendary Dr. Janos. 

And so, just like that, in what was a true miracle, I was lifted from the abyss of a seemingly hopeless, lackluster solitary life in Atlanta and headed for Delta--which opened the doors of the world for decidedly un-well traveled me. It was a true miracle. While this is but a small anecdote, I have called upon its message countless times over the years: 

Just when things seem dark and impossible, God can dazzlingly throw down a really great life ring from heaven and rescue the perishing. 

While in many ways I now see I was kind of the unprepared master of my own summer disaster a long time ago, this tale popped back up in my head while considering all the uncertainty facing the Class of 2020. Right now, Facebook is a wonderful kaleidoscope of graduating loved ones, many of whom we have known since their childhoods, and assorted others we have happily collected along the way. 

Tonight at 7:00 p.m. we were supposed to be in Furman University's Paladin Stadium, part of the excited congregation gathered to honor Annabelle, her friends, and classmates as they receive their degrees. (And she was set to be sitting next to 1/3 of her Northside Methodist Preschool Carpool #18, which really really brings things full circle). The weather prediction is sunny but cool, and it's easy to predict how much I would cry. 

Like so many in Classes of 2020 all over the place, instead of commencement festivities today, we will eagerly await the deferred ceremony, and look forward to seeing the glorious array of delayed celebratory pictures from all the ones we love. 

I have every confidence that, even in an uncertain world, God still has a trick or two up His sleeve for these students, all of whom have so very much more going on than I ever did as I left UT. 

I am thankful for all the gifts Furman University has given Annabelle. And I am perpetually thankful for my always-friend George up in Knoxville and the very best advice he ever gave anyone, for old so-n-so at UT, and, of course, for the mysterious Paco on the ramp in Memphis.