For the past couple of weeks, I have been home helping our daughter with her two boys while James, our “Fun-in-law”, is away for job training.  Heather is an outstanding mom and Lisa and I could not be more proud of her and James for the way they are raising Conner Jack and Thomas Lea.  Raising two little boys is not for the faint of heart.

This past week has been especially challenging for Heather as Conner Jack, who is three years old, has developed a bit of an attitude and, it would seem, is experiencing those “terrible twos” a little late.  He is still a wonderful little boy and we know the strong will he is displaying will, one day, work to make him a strong young man.

He has struggled to adjust to his new preschool classroom which requires a more structured environment.  Conner would much rather play all day with absolute freedom and to be told to do something is just hard for him to accept.  When Heather was told that Conner had received a number of stars for good behavior, she was ecstatic.  One would have thought he had been named Valedictorian.  We were so proud.  We told everybody about his stars and were convinced the crisis of his bad attitude was over.  The next day – he spit on his teacher.  OK!  This is not going to be easy.

After another long talk with Conner, reminding him what we expected of him, he told me he was a “good boy” and was going “to stay on green” (which is the preschool color coding for being good).  I hugged him and told him we all knew he was a good boy and that we loved him very much.  It is important to tell children those things – often, even when they may disappoint us.  Children need to know what is expected of them and they must also know they are loved and always forgiven.  It is a lesson in life that I did not get until I was an adult.

When I was growing up, my parents insisted that I attend both Sunday School and church every week.  The only exception to that rule would be an occasional Sunday family outing to the only place we ever went when I was growing up, Sturgis, Kentucky, to visit my grandparents.  Sunday School and church was important in my life and it gave shape to my spiritual identity and taught me the basic principles of my Christian faith.  It was a great time in my life.  But, there was a problem.

Each week as I sat with my friends in Sunday School, the teacher would ask each of us some basic questions before starting our lesson.  It was part of the Southern Baptist protocol to keep extensive records.  I never really knew what became of all those records but I imagine they are stored in a Ft. Knox-like vault somewhere in Nashville, Tennessee.

On a little white pad of paper (I can still see it in my mind) was a list of six or seven items that would give each of us a grade for the week.   Things like: Did you read your bible everyday?; Did you read your Sunday School lesson?; Are you attending worship service?; Did you bring your bible?;  and other questions like that.  After we answered those questions, our teacher would say (out loud) what our grade was.  I could never seem to get 100% and I felt terrible about that.  God was not pleased with me.  I was a bad person.  I should be ashamed.

It would go something like this.   After the “opening assembly” the boys and girls would separate into small classrooms where our “lesson” would be taught.  After a few minutes of giggling and jokes, our teacher would get our attention and pick up that little white pad of paper.

“OK, boys! Let’s go through our questions.  Alright, Bobby Proctor – did you bring your bible?”  “Yes”, Bobby would exclaim proudly.  “How about your lesson”, the teacher would ask – “Did you read it?”  “Why, yes I did” Bobby proudly declared.  I slunk deeper into my metal chair knowing my time was coming.  The teacher continued with the questions to Bobby and then announced, “Bobby is perfect today.  Congratulations Bobby!”  The next boy in line would then be asked the same questions.  “Terry Chapman is 90%.  Way to go Terry!” Then he questioned Gary, Billy and Mark.  Outstanding scores everyone.

Finally, it was little Stevie McFarland’s turn.  “Ok, Stevie!  How about you?”  And the questions would begin.  I had not read my Bible that week.  I had not read my lesson.  I forgot my bible as I ran out the door.  I only could say “Yes” to one question.  I was going to attend worship service.  My teacher added up my score.  I sunk even deeper into my chair – wanting to fall through the linoleum floor.  There was a long silence.  My teacher was calculating.  The other boys in the class waited, silently.  The verdict was almost in.  I thought the teacher may need a slide rule to get an accurate score.  I swallowed hard and waited.  Finally – “Stevie, you are 20% today.”  And then he said something even worse.  “You can do better than that.”

I was going to hell.  No doubt about it.  This was it.  God may send me there before I can even get to the worship service.  I could have lied about those things, but, if I lied inside the church I was fairly certain that I would instantly be engulfed in flames.  God loved Terry and Bobby and Gary and Billy and Mark.  But, God hated little Stevie McFarland who, on this particular Sunday morning, was only twenty per cent.

Sure, I could run home after Sunday School to our house just a block away and skip worship service.  But, that would be lying to that little white piece of paper and, probably, an unforgivable sin.  Besides, one day the President of the Sunday School board may arrive at our front door and say they had been conducting an investigation of my Sunday School records and had found that on June 3, 1969, little Stevie McFarland said he was going to attend worship service, but that their records indicated that he did not.  I could imagine my mother trying to explain and the man, probably in a black suit and a red tie asking her, “What do you have to say for yourself, Mrs. McFarland?”  They would then enter my house, ask for church records and then, ceremonially, tear up my baptismal certificate.  I would be doomed.  My 20% was unworthy of God’s love.

I felt that way all because no one told me that God still loved me.  Maybe they assumed I knew that.  I did not. For years I convinced myself that for God to love me, I would need to be 100%.  I remember singing the words, “Trust and obey, for there’s no other way – to be happy in Jesus but to trust and obey.”  Yet, I was just 20%.  I was failing in trusting, failing in obeying and certainly failing at being happy in Jesus.  Mainly, because I was convinced that Jesus was not happy with me.  How could he be?  I was just 20%

And now the real shocker.  I have been 20% all my life.  I never did get it right – I never did and I never will.  While I witnessed what looked like people with their lives all together, their careers perfect, their conduct without question,  scoring 90% or better at everything they did,  I found myself to be a mess – an unforgiven, cussing, angry, teenage mess.  It would take me years to overcome the thought that I was unworthy to be called a child of God.  But it happened.

Something of a miracle took place in my life in my twenties.  Someone explained to me about God’s grace.  God’s grace, they said, was more than just the prayer we recite before a big family meal.  Grace was much, much more.  In fact, God’s grace is everything.  It is the part of God that loves me for my 20% and forgives me for the 80% I can never achieve. They told me that not only am I a mess before God – so is everyone else.  I could not believe it.  There are others who are 20%, some even ten. I had a friend, one time, who, I am certain was in the negative numbers.  God even loved him.   It was as if I had been on a deserted island all my life, thinking I was all alone, only to find out that all of humanity was with me the whole time.  I was not going to hell after all.  God actually loves me and my 20%.   It changed my life.

When I heard my grandson, Conner Jack, trying to convince me that he was a “good boy”, I immediately hugged him and told him, “Yes! You are a good boy!”,  and that I loved him very much.  In fact, we all do.  Without God’s grace, I’m not sure how parents can survive the terrible twos or threes or thirties that their children will put them through.  Parents must teach, discipline, love and always forgive – daily.  Conner will have good days and bad.  There will be times in his life that he is 90% and other times that he will barely hit ten.

But, in God’s eyes – Conner Jack will always be in the “green”.

Love,

Little 20% Stevie Mac

Longfellow Elementary School once had a classroom with a fireplace.  I know that to be true because I spent most of my first grade in that classroom.
I can still remember my very first day sitting at my desk, “Big Chief” tablet and limb-thick pencils in tow.  I was scared and unsure of myself.  All around the room children were upset and crying.  I wanted to go home. To my left, standing in the classroom doorway was my mom with tears in her eyes.  She worried that day about her child, just as Lisa and I would worry about ours some thirty years later.  Had we prepared them for what they would face in life?  Were they ready?  Only time would tell.

My parents did a good job preparing me for things I would experience.  At all the significant moments in my life, my parents had me prepared.  For some of those events it became necessary for them to take time and actually instruct me, sort of childhood in-service lessons. For example, when I began junior high I was required to wear a jock strap in PE class.  I had never seen one before and had no idea how they were worn.  Had my dad not prepared me for how to properly wear the strange garment, I may have embarrassed myself right out of the seventh grade and into therapy.  Come to think about it, some of my poor classmates may have ended up needing counseling all because they had their jocks on backward.  They were not prepared.

Some of my preparation for life came by those modeling their lives before me.  People, including my parents, friends, and those I admired, became examples for me to emulate.  In some cases, those examples were less than positive – leading me to make bad choices. But, there were many examples in my life of how to live that changed me and turned me toward the man I am. They taught me about being a good husband, a good father, a man of God.  Many of those I found myself imitating, never knew I was even watching.  But, they prepared me for things in my life that no textbook, no Sunday School lesson and no college lecture could ever convey. 

Many of the men and women in my life who took time to prepare me for what I would face have passed away.  And though their physical presence is no longer, I still feel and experience their influence as I continue on this journey.

Now, for a heartfelt confession.  I have faced some things that no one prepared me for.  I suppose we all have.  Almost three decades ago I was faced with the realization that my brother was a homosexual. Today, the issue of homosexuality has become so commonplace and accepted, it seems strange to admit it was once taboo.  After the Aids virus attacked his system and took his life in 1987, I spent the next fifteen years lying about the cause of his death.  My parents never could speak the words.  None of us were prepared for what we had to face.  Things were so much different in the 1980s.  It took me time.  Let me repeat – it took me time.

The world continues to change.  New issues challenge my understanding and acceptance.  The transgender debate is the newest hot topic that is building a dividing line between those who accept and those who do not.  The issue demands our immediate embrace and acceptance and LGBT advocates monitor our accommodation.  Those who do not accept transgenders are labeled bigots.  Those who struggle to understand are closed minded.  Those who resist on moral principles are religious fanatics. 

I was not prepared to deal with my brothers homosexuality and I was not prepared for transgenderism.  Over time I developed a healthy, loving understanding of my brothers sexuality.  It was not easy and it did not happen over night.  The same will be true for whatever new lifestyle choice will demand my acceptance.  It will take me time.

The issue of agreeing or disagreeing with a lifestyle choice is not the purpose of this blog.  I have been determined to always write truthfully and many have thanked me over the years for my open and honest stories.  This is no different.  When my brothers sexuality first became known, I was angry with him – to the point that I felt ashamed and embarrassed. Over time, although I disagreed with that lifestyle, I was able to embrace him in love. Perhaps the real challenge for people, if they are anything like me, is that social issues that arise suddenly seem to always demand sudden acceptance.  That is the difficult part. Though I may not agree with a lifestyle choice, in time, I may (at least) learn to love and understand. I just need some time.  Don’t call me a bigot, don’t call me fascist or closed minded – please.  Just give me some time.  I was not prepared.

In conclusion, embracing the ever-changing social mores is (for me) like putting on a jock strap for the first time. Initially, it is strange and uncomfortable – an unpleasant experience. Over time I will feel a little more comfortable, but probably never wear one again – nor understand how or why anyone would.

And had someone not shown me how to wear that thing – I may still be trying to figure it out.

Love, Steve

I’m not a patient man.  I get antsy at stoplights and fast food restaurants that take longer than three minutes to hand me a dried up burger. I squirm if a sermon goes too long, or the doctor makes me wait, and wait, and wait. As a retiree I should take things nice and easy – slow down – relax.

Maybe something is wrong with me. Maybe I should see a doctor. I would, but he will probably make me wait and my problem will only worsen.

My Mom always told me to be patient. She said good things come to those who wait. I believe she thought it was scriptural. Maybe it is – probably in the book of Proverbs somewhere. I don’t know and I’m too impatient to find out.  Besides it does not make sense. Nothing has ever come to me by waiting except a sore rear end and higher blood pressure.  That is, until a couple of weeks ago. 

I headed back to the Nashville car auction with our used car dealer/friends, Mark and Charlie Armstrong, following our first failed attempt to buy a car. You may remember in our previous episode, the vehicle we really wanted sold for more than expected and because we had no backup plan, we went home without.

Well, guess what?  As it turned out, the vehicle we thought sold, in fact, did not sell. I could hear my Momma’s voice saying, “See, Steven Mac! I told you – be patient.”  I love you Mom, but, patience had nothing to do with it – it was someones lack of credit or cash.

This time we had three vehicles to choose from – but my heart (and, more importantly, Lisa’s taste in cars) was on the same one.  While I was spending a moment in the restroom, Mark was bidding on the car we wanted – low and behold- he got it.  I guess good things come to those who pee at the right time.

Lisa and I now have a new vehicle (not new-new but new to us). We are grateful to Mark and Charlie. We are grateful to the person who did not buy the vehicle the first time. And, we are grateful to my mom whose voice from decades before spoke to me about being patient.
PS:  We learned a few days ago that another vehicle like the one we purchased sold at the auction a week later with less miles. I knew we should have waited.

Lisa and I learned this past week that our time in Cambridge, Ohio will be extended until the first of September. We have plans to take some time off in the fall before heading out once again. It is feeling more and more like this will be our last stop in Cambridge.  We never anticipated staying two years in one place. But, God may have other plans and is laughing at ours. We love our friends here in Ohio, but look forward to new adventures. Stay tuned.

Our newest grandson, Thomas Lea, is doing great. The little guy came into the world several weeks early but is thriving.  The nurses at the hospital called him a “rock star” with his ability to go home after just a few days. He has amazed everyone.  Thanks for all your prayers.

I am working on a book about the 1967 Owensboro High School football team. The book is called, “A Glory Denied” and tells the story of the only team in Owensboro history to be suspended from post season play. The 1967 team was one of the best in school history with a record of 9-1 and the team outscored their opponents 371-27. I am anticipating the book being available by the fall of 2017 and the team’s 50th anniversary. If anyone reading this has a connection to that team as a player or otherwise, please contact me at mcfarzone@att.net.  I would love to speak to you.

God Bless!
Steve and Lisa

Lisa and I are tight wads – especially when it comes to purchasing automobiles.  Because of our unwillingness to walk onto any car lot and drop thousands and thousands on a shiny, new vehicle – I have been sent home for a few weeks with the singular mission of finding us a car. Lisa is very specific about what she wants and I am very specific about what we spend.  Our current vehicles are very specific about breaking down every few weeks so the search is on.

Some very good friends of ours are used car dealers and they have been gracious enough to help us in our quest.  Mark and Charlie Armstrong own a father and son used car lot and have been friends through our church for years.  Mark was a middle schooler when I arrived at Bellevue Baptist in 1979 and he joined his father’s business not too long after his graduation from high school. Charlie has been in the business for decades and anyone who has lived anytime in Owensboro would know Charlie.  Spend any time with Charlie and you will be rolling with laughter at the stories he can tell.  Mark is following his dad’s footsteps as both a used car salesman and story teller. The two are dedicated to selling you a car.  But, they are equally dedicated to their families, their friends and their church.  Together they are quite a team and to call them “characters” doesn’t even come close to describe their personalities. When God needed someone to sell cars – He made these two.

This past week I, along with my father-in-law (Vernon), accompanied Mark and Charlie to an auto auction in Nashville, Tenn. I offered to drive our “blue beast” truck and pay for breakfast if they would let me tag along.  They were more than willing.  With a couple of vehicles picked out from a list on the auction website, we left early Wednesday morning with sleep in our eyes and hope in our heart that a vehicle could be found.  After all, they were auctioning 2,800 cars that day and if Lisa and I can’t find a vehicle with those numbers – well, we may never.

After a pleasant two and half hour drive south, Mark directed me off the interstate and down a couple of two lane roads until we arrived at our destination. There was little doubt in my mind where the auction was being held.  In what looked like a scene from a parking lot at Disney World, row after row of vehicles stretched across a huge  area to our left and Mark directed me into the entrance.  Under high security, the four of us walked into the enormous foyer and made our way to the cafeteria for breakfast (yes, this place had a cafeteria). The auction would begin about an hour after we arrived, allowing us time to eat and check out the vehicles.

After breakfast, I followed Mark out to the vast parking lot of cars and, after a few minutes, located the vehicle Lisa and I were most interested in. Mark looked it over and found things about the car only a dealer would notice. The rear bumper had been repainted, scratches here and there, things about the engine, things about the tires – Mark spotted them all. I discovered that the radio worked.

He then said, “Let’s take it for a spin.”  I asked, “Can we do that?” He said it would be fine since the auction had not started yet.  With all the security around, I was not sure we wouldn’t get shot – but realized this was not Mark’s first auction and it must be allowed.  Mark drove the vehicle up and down the aisles, checking it’s acceleration, the brakes, other things that only a dealer would look for.  I worked the radio.

After the test drive and a look under the hood, we both decided this was the one.  If the price stayed low enough, this car would be perfect. Let’s buy a car!

The actual auction took place inside a long building where twenty lanes of cars passed through. Each lane had an auctioneer booth with monitors everywhere to see the bids as the vehicles slowly moved past.  I estimate it took one hundred drivers or more to move the vehicles through the auction line. In a matter of three hours, all 2,800 vehicles would either be sold or returned to their car lots.  I have stood on the floor of the Chicago board of trade and found this experience similar to the chaos there.  I could not make out a single thing being said as the twenty auctioneer voices seemed to blend one with the other.

My car would be up for sale in about forty-five minutes and Mark told me to chill out while he perused other vehicles.  My fear was he would lose track of time and bidding would be left up to me.  I could see me trying that in the midst of all this chaos and not only bidding a hundred grand but doing so on the wrong car.  I paced around keeping one eye on our car and the other looking for Mark.

Finally, the time arrived.  Mark returned in plenty of time (whew!) and positioned himself across from the auctioneer.  Here we go!

We had thought the bidding would begin at around the 16k mark.  Opening bid was 20k.  In just seconds, the bidding climbed to near 21k and Mark looked at me and shook his head.  Not today.  I was disappointed and so was Lisa who I had sent pictures to.  Mark could not believe the price the car brought and determined a new car dealer had made the purchase, probably for a customer willing to pay too much.  I suppose you win some – you lose some.

Vernon and I waited for a couple of hours as Mark and Charlie looked at other cars.  Mark made a purchase for their lot and he and Charlie drove their car back to Owensboro.  Vernon and I loaded back into the “beast” and headed home.

So – I’m still in Owensboro trying to find a car and Lisa is still in Ohio.  Mark and Charlie extended me another invitation to this week’s auction and, I suppose, we will try again.  They are really good people and they eat a lot of breakfast.  If I can find us a car- it will be worth it.

New places and new experiences are daunting things.  The familiar is safe, the unfamiliar – scary.  The same feeling I had walking into my first PE class at Southern Junior High School as a twelve year old, seventh grader, happens to me still. Perhaps not the same intensity – but a similar fear.  It was good to have friends in the seventh grade and good to have friends now.  The car business is tough.  I admire the Armstrongs for going toe to toe with bigger dealers and, trust me, they can hold their own.

Now that I know what to expect, my next trip to the auction will seem old hat.  I’m walking in there this week like a boss – like someone who has been there before.

Just watch me handle those radios.

“What”ll you bid?”

I had an idea.  Why not take my three year old grandson, Conner Jack, to Cambridge, Ohio for a few days while his mommy and daddy are preparing for the arrival of his little brother, Thomas Lea?  Heather, our warrior daughter, was enduring a lengthy hospital stay after her water broke some eight weeks prematurely and I had gone home to provide whatever support I could.  Lisa, remained in Cambridge and was planning to arrive home after Thomas showed up. Everyone agreed that Mimi would be more helpful after Thomas arrived than before.  So, in the meantime, I decided that I could go home to support our daughter.  While I was able to take Heather donuts, lunch, supper and lose to her at “Skip-Bo”, I decided I could be more helpful taking care of their three year old, Conner Jack.  Out of the darkest recesses of my brain, generated from the same synapse as sticking the screwdriver in the light socket, a thought popped up. Why not take Conner to Cambridge, Ohio?  We could spend time with Mimi, hang-out at the campground and give Heather and James a much needed break.  That was my idea.

Heather and James agreed to send Conner and I north on the six hour drive.  Alright!  Let’s do this!  Perfect planning would result in perfect results, at least, that is what I recalled from one of those “You can fix everything in your life” seminars I was forced to attend years ago.  Perfect planning began with figuring out how I could keep a three year old entertained for six hours in a cramped car seat. First stop, ‘Best Buy’, and a portable DVD player.  Perfect planning – perfect results.  I got this!

With the DVD player strategically installed in a direct line to the car seat and level with Conner’s retinas, all that was left was getting he and I packed.  Brilliant ideas seemed to be flooding in as I made final preparations, the last one being he would spend the night with me and we could get a really early Sunday morning start.  Conner would be sleeping most of the way and if he did wake up – in would go the first DVD.  Damn, I’m a genius!

At three-thirty in the morning I began loading the truck and, finally, a sleeping, Conner Jack. I managed to get him into his car seat without taking off one of his arms or one of my fingers (Who designs these diabolical things?) and Operation “Cambridge” was off to a perfect start

Things went great for the first three and half hours. We stopped and peed, we watched movies (he watched – I listened), we talked about going to “Hio”, we were having a great time.  And then…,

Just outside Cincinnatti, Conner indicated it was time for breakfast. No problem – I spotted the golden arches and noticed it had a play area inside. This was perfect. He could eat, play, move his little body, hug my neck for being such a good planner and we would be back on the road in no time.  People would be asking me to write a book on how to travel with a three year old.  After, again, struggling to free him from his car seat, we walked up to the door and I noticed a line of people stretching from the counter to the doorway.  I then spotted the bus.  Could I have not seen this before we got out of the truck?  Conner insisted on playing and did so on an empty stomach.  I finally convinced him to leave the play area and tried to explain why Mac would not give him food.  “Too many people here, buddy.”  His reply, “huh?” Next stop – next McDonalds, one without a tour bus full of people.

You would think the more times I put Conner in and took him out of his car seat, the easier it would be.  Nope.  This time, I managed to tear a chunk out of my finger nail (and finger) while snapping the “Jaws of Life” buckles. I believe this car seat could not only withstand a car wreck (God forbid), it may be able to survive the apocolypse.  This thing is indestructible.

Just outside Wilmington, Ohio, another McDonalds appeared on the horizon.  After another tussle with the car seat, (this time using only nine of my fingers), we were soon eating breakfast.

With breakfast finally out of the way and just under three more hours to go, things were looking pretty good.  One final battle with the car seat and we would be on our way.  That is, if the truck would start.  The truck would not start.  “Dear God, make the truck start.” God said, “No!”  And when God says, “No”, He means it.

“Okay”, I am saying to myself, “Keep calm”. We have AAA and the main thing I need to do is not get Conner upset.  I take him back out of his car seat while explaining our truck is “broken” and we would need to wait inside the McDonalds for someone to come and fix it.  Conner seemed completely fine with this change in plans.  Mac was not.

Conner played and talked to every breakfast customer that came in and out while we waited for the tow truck.  Hopefully, this was just a dead battery issue.  But, in the back of my mind, something told me the problem was much worse.  We had purchased two new batteries for the truck just last year along with practically every other truck part imaginable. I have chronicled our struggles with vehicle repairs in other “trippin” stories and this would be another in a long line of expenses.  But maybe, just maybe, it is only the battery.

Finally, a tow truck turned into the parking lot and Conner and I went out to meet him.  He hooked up a charger and told me to give it a try.  Nothing.  We waited and tried again. Nothing.  It wasn’t the battery.  It was the starter.  It would need to be towed for repair.

At that moment, if someone had asked me if I would donate a truck for a good (or even bad) cause, I would have tossed them the keys and bolted in the other direction.  I called Lisa and she began making her way to pick us up.  The truck would be towed to a Ford dealership in Wilmington.  That shouldn’t cost much.  So now comes the hard part.  Getting everything out of the truck and into McDonalds alone with a three year old.

It was about that time that I finally realized what a terrible idea my brilliant idea really was.  We were fine back in Owensboro.  Lisa was doing fine in Cambridge.  The truck was fine. Conner was fine being at day care.  Somebody kick me!

With the truck in the middle of the McDonalds parking lot, I tried to figure out how to move all our belongings into the restaurant with Conner by my side.  I could not leave him alone inside and finally decided he needed to stay inside the truck while I worked.  As fast as I could move, I loaded armfuls of bags and jogged the items to the sidewalk while keeping as much attention as possible on the three year old – praying he did not decide to dart across the parking lot. Last to go would be the car seat.  The #! $&%$& car seat.  I almost had to chew through one of the straps to free it and beads of sweat started pouring onto the cushion as I contorted myself inside the back seat trying to reach one of the binding hooks.  This truck could roll into the Grand Canyon (something I’ve actually dreamed about) and this car seat would be unscratched.  Finally, it came came loose and was stacked along with all our other bags.  With Conner now safely in my arms, the tow trucker took my info and even entertained Conner for a moment while I did one final check inside the vehicle before it headed out of the parking lot. We waved good-bye.

The next challenge was trying to move all our belongings from the sidewalk into the restaurant without losing site of Conner.  A really nice couple agreed to entertain him while I began hauling our things inside.  Finally, in what looked like a homeless family seeking shelter, our things were piled into a corner of the restaurant and I collapsed in one of the booths.  The wait began. Two happy meals and three hours later, Lisa arrived.

It is amazing how much easier things are with two people when it comes to taking care of children.  In the aftermath of this ordeal, I have a greater appreciation for single parents.  They endure a hardship most of us could not even imagine.  Simple things become enormous struggles and having help – the greatest blessing in life. God bless the single parents in the world!

My week with Conner Jack was a challenge – but a wonderful challenge.  He is a terrific little guy who loves everybody and everything.  He was just as happy in a mud puddle as he would have been riding “Dumbo” at Disney World.  We bonded – Mac and Jack.  We made it back home safely, with no breakdowns, no tears, no problems.  The stupid truck was repaired (don’t ask) and everything worked out fine.

It is amazing how in moments of crisis, the world seems to implode around us.  I tend to make things seem much worse than they actually are.  And yet, while sitting in that McDonalds, wringing my hands in worry, I remember looking over at Conner Jack and seeing him playing with his “Captain America” figure – and smiling.  Jesus words, “Unless you come to me as a child”, made sense to me in that moment.  We are helpless and absolutely reliant on His strength and His mercy.  He, and only He, will see us through.

Thomas Lea will arrive next week. Lisa will be home. The truck will, probably, need more repair. Conner will smile at an action figure and God is good!

Now, as for that car seat…,

My grandmother loved playing Bingo.  While spending time with her in Sturgis, Kentucky, we played games and worked puzzles to pass the time in that small town that offered little else.  We loved playing Caroms, the game where one flicks plastic rings into netted corner cups – a poor man’s billiards, if you will.  We played Monopoly, Parcheesi and Chinese Checkers.  But, her favorite game of all was Bingo. Bingo was always on the game playing agenda and I remember the cardboard box that contained all the Bingo supplies including the little red squares that my brother and I would tear apart for use in covering the called numbers.  There was no spinning cylinder or round, wooden balls with numbers.  All we had were little round cardboard discs with the Bingo numbers that we would shake from a plastic cup.  We never played for prizes or money (none of us, including my grandmother, had any) and we only played two games: straight lines (including diagonal) and cover-all.   Those were the days.

They play Bingo here in Cambridge, Ohio.  They also play Bingo over in Senecaville, both at the Senior Center and at the Fire Station.  They play Bingo in Coshocton, Marrieta, Lore City, Chillicothe, Athens, Niles, Ironton, Hubbard, Campbell, Canfield, Cortland, Belpre, Wellston, St. Clairsville and Newton Falls.  In fact, people play Bingo as far south as Meigs County in Pomeroy, not to mention Ashtbula, Hocking, Gallia and Scioto and those are just some of the places here in southeast Ohio.  To put it in layman terms, these are the Bingo playingest bunch of Buckeyes Lisa and I ever knew existed.

And so, when in Rome do as the Roman do.  Or, I should say, when in Ohio do what every living, breathing, denture wearing, walker pushing, blue haired, no haired, one-armed, two armed, one-legged, two-legged, no legged, dobber toting human being in Ohio is doing – play Bingo.  Lisa started going to a Bingo game with a friend here in our campground and has made the rounds to several others in the area.  Years ago, she would take her beloved grandmother to Bingo when she was still alive in Owensboro and has a soft place in her soul for Bingo and the Bingo players, who in all honesty, are really the salt of the earth. Many remind her of her grandmother and their kindness to “out of towners” like her and myself is welcomed.  Yes!  I have been hooked into playing Bingo as well, making me an official “Bingo playing, backsliding Baptist Deacon” fully expecting to be stripped of all the benefits of being a Baptist deacon including giving up my preferred parking pass and all the grape juice and stale crackers a man can consume.  Oh well! It has been a good ride.

Bingo here in Ohio ain’t nothing like your grandmother’s Bingo. Trust me!  I go to a Bingo game with Lisa in what is an old elementary school just up the road from our campground here in Cambridge.  The gymnasium has been permanently transformed into a high-tech Bingo palace complete with overhead monitors, electronic scoreboard, credit card capabilities and a full service concession stand.  This Bingo is no joke!  This was so beyond me that Lisa, who had been attending for a few weeks, had to help me purchase my packet of score sheets. I was told to tell the lady taking money that I wanted “two packs and a pig”.

“Did you say, a pig?”, I asked my sweet wife.

“Yes!”, she replied.  And so I turned and said to the lady, “I need two pigs in a poke.”

“No!” Lisa shouted. “You want two packs and a pig.”

Got it!  “I want two packs and pig.  What’s a pig?”

“It is a funny, fat animal that provides us with bacon and sausage.”  Some smart ass behind me replied.

Lisa, completely exasperated, told me to just take my pack and pig and go sit down.  A “pig” in Ohio Bingo parlance is actually a little sheet of paper that allows you to win extra money if you Bingo on certain numbers, which neither of us have ever done but, we keep buying them.  I think it really is a “pig in a poke” but, I’m not about to say that out loud.  I learned that some of the people at Bingo get very sensitive about things when it comes to Bingo.  Lisa informed me that I needed to sit in a certain seat so as not to steal a seat from someone.  One little old lady she encountered previously had threatened to kick another little, old lady’s ass because she stole the seat of one of her little old lady friends.  Geez! I was not only about to lose my ass – I was about to get it kicked as well.

Lisa got all my packets in order and finally after about an hour of preliminary pull tab Bingo (separate purchases of business card sized cards that go for a buck each) the official Bingo game began.  A ball appeared in the monitor overhead and I started scanning the twelve Bingo games on the sheets in front of me.  I managed to “dab” through the first three when I heard the next number called.  Frantically, I dabbed the second number thinking I would catch up and finish the first before number three was called.  Wrong!  Now I’m two numbers behind and my arms pits are sweating.  Lisa sees I’m in trouble and reaches across the table to assist.  Other numbers are being called from other voices and my panic level increases.  I started dabbing the wrong numbers before I realize that these are pull tab numbers being called and I don’t have any pull tabs.  I look around and realize I am one of the youngest people in the room and I can’t keep up.  I spot a lady across the room who looks like she is about one hundred and six dabbing with both hands while eating a hot dog and now I’m not only feeling stressed out but, also, a little depressed.

I hear someone finally declare “Bingo” and am relieved I can take a little break before the next game.  Now I know what to listen for and the games start getting a little easier to play.  Understanding the games took a little longer and learning what a “Kite”, “Postage Stamp”, “Big Diamond”, “Wild Ball”, and all the other strange games meant made me wish I was back in Sturgis.  As I said, Bingo here in Ohio is no joke!

The truth be told we have had fun playing Bingo here during this long, dreary winter and the no smoking policy in public buildings here in Ohio is one that we absolutely love.  Besides, we have made some really good friends and hanging out with good people is worth every penny in our estimation.

Even if I still don’t understand what a “pig” is.

BINGO!  Love, Steve and Lisa

It took a leaky transmission to prove this point in my life: I tend to judge people by first appearance.  This all happened, ironically, the week we celebrate the life and work of Martin Luther King.  I have tried to use this blog to share honest reflections of life.  This is one I am not particularly proud of. But, and let me emphasize that, I am still learning and trying to change.

So – here is the story.  Our 2002 Chevy Trailblazer is being held together with stop leak fluids, duct tape and prayer.  The transmission has been leaking of late and yesterday I went to a local auto parts store to get advice on a temporary repair. My heart and bank account could not accept the installing of a new transmission so I was in search of the next alternative.  Cambridge, like most towns across America where Lisa and I have lived, has a plethora of auto parts stores and I pulled into the first one I saw to buy a can of “cheap transmission fix”.  It is important to this story to say that I have a preconceived idea of what a good auto mechanic looks like.  In my mind it is a middle aged, white male with a two day old beard, greasy fingers and a general look of grime.  The stains on his skin would serve as a living archive of every vehicle he had ever worked on, dating back to that 1975 Pontiac he bought when he turned sixteen. Now that is a man who knows his stuff.  Upon walking into the auto parts store I was looking for that mechanic.  That is not who welcomed me to their store.  Instead, I was greeted by a young, African American female – the last person (complete honest disclosure here) I would imagine could answer questions about my car. I had two choices: 1) turn around and walk out and try the next auto parts store, or 2) take my chances.  I was too embarrassed to turn and walk out and so I chose to give this young lady a chance – not expecting much.

It took about two minutes into our conversation for me to realize it really is not about color of skin but content of character. This young lady knew her stuff.  Not only did she give me info about our car, but, she verbally overhauled our truck by explaining every problem with the 6.0 Ford diesels.  I felt like I was in a scene from the movie, “My Cousin Vinny” listening to Mona Lisa Vito explaining basic auto mechanics.  I only hope she did not read from my face the thoughts in my mind as I walked through her door.

I came away relieved to have good information about our car but a little depressed.  How could I be so judgemental? Have I not learned in my fifty-six years on earth that it is about character and not gender or race? I was convicted.  Throughout my life I have taken pride in my self-proclaimed acceptance of all people.  I worked for twenty years in a public school with a large population of minorities and have proudly spouted off that work record as if it qualified me for some sort of humanitarian award.  During my college days I worked in a local Boys Club whose membership was predominantly African American.  I loved those kids and felt loved in return.  And yet, here I was judging people by their appearance –  not even comfortable with a simple encounter in an auto parts store.  It is moments like these that I feel the pain in the apostle Paul’s words, “Oh, wretched man that I am.”  All I can do is ask forgiveness, learn from my mistakes and try again.

So here is to MLK and the young lady behind that auto parts store counter and to content of character. 

Peace! Steve

This morning I began the process of loading our vehicle for a welcomed trip home for Christmas. We say good-bye to our friends here in Cambridge, Ohio and head south this afternoon for a week and a half stay in Kentucky. For that, we are excited.

One of the most overlooked and, I am convinced, hated aspects of Christmas is all the packing up and unpacking that comes with it.  We pack up our shopping carts, pack up our cars, move to other locations and unpack. We repeat this crazy ritual over and over until we are completely exhausted.  I hate packing.

Unfortunately, Lisa and I do a lot of that. Moving things between our home – to our vehicle – to our RV in Ohio and back again – is, for us, the worst part of traveling.  But here is the worst part of all – Lisa packs everything.  Let me try to write that more accurately – LISA PACKS EVERYTHING!  She had so many clothes in our RV closet that the bar holding her entire wardrobe collapsed during one of our trips.  I love her – but enough stuff is enough.

Last night she began collecting items to take home and, finally, announced things were ready to be loaded. My knees buckled at the sight of the mountain of clothes on top of our bed.  I started hauling out armfuls of clothes, shoes, cosmetics, bags, boxes, wrapped and unwrapped packages, decorations, a Christmas tree, and finally her suitcase.  After about an hour, I decided to pack my things up and managed to squeeze my little Wal-Mart bag of clothes into a tiny space that, somehow, her things did not need.  I just hope the springs on our car will handle the weight.

Lisa called this morning to remind me to pick up a pumpkin cheesecake before we leave out this afternoon.  Sorry, there is no room left for a cheesecake, I informed her.  She laughed and then said what she always says, ” You have no spatial sense. I could pack that car and have plenty of room left over.”  Ok! Einstein, have at it.  I understand the whole spatial relations thing.  But, THERE IS NO MORE SPACE LEFT.  No matter how many different ways this car is packed – eventually you will run out of space.

Anyway – we look forward to bringing ourselves and this car load of sh.., stuff home with us.  And I will stop by Reisbecks grocery and pick up one of their delicious pumpkin cheesecakes.  I’m just not sure where to stick it.  No, no, not there (That was not what I was thinking – I promise. Besides, I would eat it first).

I’ll just have to tie it to the top of the car. 

Merry Packing Christmas!
Steve and Lisa.

I had two teeth pulled last week. I now have about six and a half remaining and am waiting on two bridges, an implant and a partridge in a pear tree in January.  Four thousand dollars later and I’ll be chewing with the best of them.

In the meantime, I have experienced my first dry socket and the blessing of knowing heaven is just another sin away.  I have yelled out so many expletives in the last two days, I have been excommunicated from not only the church, but all of Guernsey County, Ohio.  I just went off on a little, old lady at the grocery for blocking my path to the “Oragel”.

Speaking of “Oragel” – please be advised that when you purchase this God blessed tooth pain relief, you better have a sharp knife to cut the tube or you may be screwed.  After knocking down the dear little blue haired lady blocking my path to the check out, I threw a twenty down for the pimple faced teen at the check out – told him to keep the change – cussed Santa Claus at the Salvation Army kettle – and rushed to my car.  Relief was only seconds away.

But no!  Or make that – Hell No!  The tube required a sharp knife to cut away the tip.  Who carries a sharp knife these days?  Not this loser with the dry socket.  I have about twelve really sharp knives at home six hours from here – but I needed the thing NOW!

My only choice was to start gnawing away at the end with two of my remaining good teeth.  I twisted and turned and pulled so hard on the tube that, apparently, I busted out a large opening and the sweet tooth nectar came pouring into the side of my mouth. The only problem was that it was the wrong side of my mouth and now I was still in pain and had half of my mouth drooping like I had just had a stroke.  I worked the goo from one side of my pie hole to the other and, finally, felt the pain subside.  By this time, I had Oragel all over the front of my shirt and had even managed to get some up my nose.  Oragel ain’t no joke.

I was going to stop and eat a Big Mac since my mouth was completely numb, but my face is paralyzed and I am fairly sure the pimple faced kid behind the counter at McDonalds will never understand my order.

Screw it.  I’m going home.

Wuv oo, Teve!

I am honored to have my son, Justin McFarland, share this letter he wrote to his infant son, Lincoln James McFarland.  Lincoln passed away on November 27, 2015 having been born premature.  I appreciate the tenderness and love that flow from his words and am amazed at the wisdom he displays.  Our hearts go out to Justin and Lori and any parent who has had the heartbreak of losing a child.

Dear Lincoln,

Hey Bud! It’s me, Dad.  I just wanted to see how things were going and check in on my little man.  I’m sorry I can’t be there to say this in person, but, I just wanted to tell you some things I wasn’t able to say while you were here.

My parents always told me how proud they were of me, even when they probably should not have been.  So, I want to tell you that I am proud of you.  I’m proud of the man I know you would have grown up to be.  I know I would have been proud and honored to call you my son.  I would have bragged on you until you were embarrassed, and then bragged some more. I know you would have been a good looking  kid. With your mother’s eyes and my chiseled features (insert sarcasm here) you would have had the ladies swooning.  On the flip side of that, I think you got your grandpa’s wide feet and I am sincerely sorry for that.  But, we love those feet as they are all your mom can talk about.

When you raise a son, there are certain things that you imagine as your child grows up and I really wish I could have been there to experience them.  Teaching your son to throw a baseball is something that I have envisioned doing with my son.  Unfortunately, I won’t be able to do that.  But, there is a man up there that would be happy to teach you.  His name is Roberto Clemente and I was told from an early age that he was the greatest baseball player to ever live.  So, I know you are in good hands. 

I also wish I could have been able to teach you the finer points of playing football just like my dad did for me.  I’ll have to miss that too.  But, I have great news, Lincoln.  There is a guy up there named Walter Payton and he was one of the greatest to play the game.  Walter will teach you everything you need to know until I get there.

There are times that I think about you and wonder how you may have turned out.  I think about the good times and the bad times that, I am sure, we would have had together.  I hope, like my father, I would have been exactly what you needed during those bad times and the first person you told when the good times rolled.

I’m not sure if I would have been the best dad, but, I had a great dad that taught me what it means to be a good one.  So, hopefully, I picked up on a few things.  I am thankful, however, that you got to see your heavenly Father and I know He wrapped you up in a warm embrace when you got there.  If I could choose someone to fill in for me – it would be Him.

Well, Bud, I’ve got to go.  I just want you to know your mother and I love you very much.  Get your mitt ready because we are definitely having a catch when I see you again.

Love, Your dad.