Thursday night football? You betcha. I’m on board.
You get to watch an absolute thriller between Oklahoma State and Texas A&M, take a day to catch your breath, and then its time for OU/Texas. What’s a meal without an appetizer? Thursday games may drive coaches nuts because their weekly routine gets messed up, but its a treat for the fans and the schools can’t argue with the national TV exposure. All eyes were on Stillwater last night.
Those that watched saw something of a schizophrenic OSU squad. Stumbling out of the gates, the Pokes look rattled early. Maybe they were trying to hard to prove something after taking criticism for beating three puffballs. Maybe they were too busy admiring themselves in those black uniforms. Those are solid by the way. Maybe the Aggies were just the looser, more prepared team.
No it wasn’t the prettiest game, but the Cowboys deserve credit. Anytime you win, the glass has to be half-full. Brandon Weeden proved he can face adversity, brush it aside, and play inspired football. Being 26 years old probably helps, but this was a game Weeden needed. When you start the game 6 of 13 with two interceptions, and finish by completing 22 of your last 29 with two touchdowns, you’ve earned the respect of your teammates and hopefully the respect of everyone in orange.
The OSU defense gave up 535 yards of total offense. Improvement is needed, no doubt. But Bill Young’s unit also came up with four interceptions, none bigger than Shaun Lewis’ pick with under a minute to play. As long as the Pokes can keep forcing turnovers, they can hang with the best.
Cardiac Cowboys has become a popular phrase in Stillwater. No question OSU has a flair for the dramatic. But Thursday night, Clutch Cowboys sounds a bit better. How else can you describe coming back from a 14 point halftime deficit, making a game changing play in the closing seconds, and connecting for a game winning 41 yard field goal? Clutch fits…for now.
Dan Bailey's 41 yard field goal lifted OSU to a 38-35 victory over Texas A&M (courtesy Tulsaworld.com)
We’ve seen this before from OSU. Last season the Cowboys started 6-1, then cooled off and dropped three of their last six games. In 2008, the Pokes jumped out to a 7-0 record, only to lose four of their final six contests. The 2006 Cowboys showed promise after starting 3-0, but faltered in three of the next four games. Only time will tell if the optimism generated last night can last for an entire season. The schedule gets much more difficult as OSU will play three of its next four away from Boone Pickens Stadium. But let’s face facts here, the Big 12 South looks ripe for the taking. Oklahoma hasn’t exactly looked dominant, Texas has some serious chinks in its armor, and the Texas Tech offense doesn’t seem nearly as intimidating under Tommy Tuberville as it did under Mike Leach.
Way to early to crown any team, or make any bold prediction, but don’t sleep on these Cowboys just yet.
I’ve always wanted to be part of a flash mob. “Always” meaning since the first time I saw a video of one on the internet.
If you don’t know what I’m talking about, the phrase “flash mob” could sound more than a little intimidating. And in fact, they can be. Here is a video of the mob that first caught my attention (CLICK PHOTO TO VIEW VIDEO):
CLICK PHOTO TO VIEW VIDEO
I saw the video two years ago. And subsequently, for two years (which apparently translates into “always” in my brain) I have wanted to be part of a flash mob.
I had no idea how to go about becoming part of one. I’ve never really sought out the opportunity. “Did anyone do something like that here in Oklahoma?” I wondered. Of course not. My self-talk always hit a brick wall and I’d move on to other more tangible thoughts.
On Wednesday morning of last week I opened the browser on my computer completely unsuspecting…and then it happened. Someone had invited me to be in a flash mob. I clicked the link to the Facebook event not really knowing what to expect. Very few details were on the page. The invitation provided the day and time, and that was all.
Did I want to RSVP? Yes. Could I? Should I? These questions were harder to answer. I didn’t know where to begin. I began to go through “the checklist;” it’s a little bit like momma autopilot – you can’t really even think about committing to anything without going through the checklist first.
Calendar? Clear.
Babysitter? Confirmed.
Would I get arrested? Probably not.
If I get arrested, will the other moms stop talking to me? Maybe.
Well, close enough. I clicked the little button and now I was “attending” as far as Facebook was concerned. I was the seventh person to RSVP and once I did, more details showed up. They wanted 150 people. I couldn’t decide if this was good or not. That’s a LOT of people and a little more than intimidating. I calmed myself by thinking “Well, I’m only number seven. Maybe they won’t get enough to participate.” But by the end of the day they had nearly one hundred people signed up. The flash mob was going to happen.
On Saturday morning I found out where I was going but still didn’t know what I was doing. For someone who is a planner down to the bone, this was getting uncomfortable. I recruited my husband to go with me. Surely he would keep me out of trouble, although the thought entered my mind that if we get arrested together nobody will be around to bail me out. I start to wonder if Kelly would be a good person to call from jail. Maybe I could blame this whole ordeal on the blog.
“I wanted to write you a good story…for The Red Dirt Chronicles,” I would start, and wait to gauge the tension of the pause after my soft start-up.
Maybe blaming this on her wasn’t the best approach. I decided that she would definitely be the one to call from jail, however, and I began making what little plans I could.
Saturday night I got the info on “the where, when, and what.” We were going to be at the State Fair…all 150 or so of us, and we were going to fall asleep. I felt like a secret agent. Under my shirt I had the “reveal” shirt they had distributed to us. Our instructions were to fall asleep for 5 minutes, wake up, then take off our top shirts revealing that we were all in the same group. Sounded simple.
I got to the fair, grabbed my special t-shirt and jostled around in the porta-potty trying to put it on – taking great precautions not to allow MY shirt OR my purse touch ANYTHING. This is way easier said than done. You’ve been in a porta-potty, right?
Once I exited the stinky, stinky porta-potty, we walked around for a while when it hit me: Falling asleep…how to you stay asleep for 5 minutes on the midway?! What was I going to do? Five minutes started to sound like a long time…but maybe it was worth it. Maybe.
I got to the pre-appointed place and sat on the curb talking to my husband. I looked around trying to figure out who else was going to do it. I knew that once I was asleep I couldn’t watch anything, and since everyone had their own shirt on over their “secret” shirt…everyone looked normal.
I was part of a group, but not part of a group.
I noticed a few people I had seen while I was receiving my shirt from the coordinator. I covertly nodded in their direction…and they nodded back. I was beginning to feel more at ease; at least I wasn’t the only one doing it. Then I started feeling something else. The alarm on my cell phone was buzzing -it was time to sleep.
I leaned over onto my husband’s shoulders and we slept. I dared not peek, but I could hear the reactions of those around me.
“What is going on here?”
“Is she dead?”
“Oh, there’s a HUNDRED OF THEM!”
“Don’t eat the fried twinkies!!!”…
and, “I wonder what would happen if I tazed one.”
Trying not to react I began focusing on my leg, waiting for it to buzz. Waiting. Waiting. A kid walked up to me – I could feel a human being beside us, but I didn’t look. A kid voice said, “Mom, I think she’s sleeping.” And then the second step happened; my alarm went off again. It was time to wake up. I sat up, rubbed my eyes and revealed my blue shirt. I looked around. There were a LOT of blue shirts. I felt like part of something important…and silly. Mostly silly.
Suddenly I was an instant celebrity. Okay, maybe not so much. Lots of people came up to me (read 3 or 4) and asked what happened. One woman said she began to panic until she realized a lot of people were sleeping and then she was just confused.
The cops showed up, the cameras came out, and the people around us laughed a little. That was the end. All this over 5 minutes of confusion and a few funny comments. The whole process was fun, and then it was over.
For now.
If you want to be in a flash mob, email me. I know about one next month. We won’t, however, be sleeping this time.
I know why gifts from the country are always homemade; there are few stores around here that sell gifts. The local co-op has a small selection, but if you are not interested in the John Deere brand, you probably need to look elsewhere. That’s why I have what I like to call a “craft closet.” It is full of discarded material, old jeans, paint, glue and just about anything else one would need to create a homemade, ahem, I mean a hand-crafted gift. All you need to get started is a pair of blue jeans, some time, and a little inspiration.
My blue jean scrap quilt won first place in the fair this year.
Denim Quilt: Old jeans + material sale at Wal-mart = fabulous denim quilt. Mine won first place at the local county fair this year. My 7th grade class made another one for my friend Angela before her husband left to serve our country in Iraq. The students brought in their out-grown jeans to use which made it extra special.
You don't have to be a wine drinker to like this little bag. I think home made jelly and jam will fit in here too.
Red, White & Brew: Well, that was the name of a party we had for Bryan when he joined the Army Reserves, but I stole it to name my wine bag made out of the leg of a pair of jeans. It had a red and white checked lining. This gift is useless if you can’t purchase wine to go in it because you live in a dry county. I guess you could name it Red, White, and Glue and include some Elmer’s. No. Don’t do that. Add a green ribbon and it magically turns into a Christmas-themed Dirty Santa gift.
aCROSS the room: I made cross pillows out of six squares of fabric, usually at least one square, or the back, is made from blue jeans. I’ve created them in three sizes. I put a pocket on the back and put a little note in some of them. They seem to be well-received by the recipients. I have several around my own house.
There's no such thing as "too many pillows!"
Recipe in my Pocket: These are pot holders made out of the pockets of, you guessed it, jeans. The pockets hold little notecards or recipe cards.
Denim Purse: I wish this had a cool name. It’s the top part of a pair of jeans. My husband, Greg, helped me put grommets in the waistband to hold a strap. I also figured out a way to install a snap so it stays closed. I line each one with whatever fabric I can find in the closet. I feel like every work day is “Casual Friday” when I carry it.
The Tag Rag. Another example of "necessity is the mother of invention."
Tag Rag: Several factors went into the creation of the Tag Rag. I was working outside in the garden. Sweat dripped in my eye. My sewing machine had been sitting idle for awhile. I was into gardening and couldn’t get enough of the great gardening quotes out there, so I embroidered one of my favorite quotes on the corner of each one. Voila! The Tag Rag was born. If you have not cut up all of your jeans for crafts, this looks great worn with a pair of them and an old t-shirt.
Wow. That’s just the “givin’” list, and that’s not even all of it. My “gettin’” list is just as great: a gallon of fresh blueberries; my Mustang, Jet; a sackful of Daylillies and numerous other plant cuttings; and let’s not forget my dog Mae, giver unknown, who has truly been the best gift of all.
The next time you are in the giving mood, consider a hand-crafted creation. Just keep at least one pair of your jeans intact to wear on the weekend.
Tradition matters to me. Maybe it’s because I don’t like change, or maybe I just like knowing what to expect. Christmas Eve is a big one. I want the same routine every year. Get dressed for church and sit in the living room by the tree eating cookies we decorated. Listen to music while sipping sparkling cider. Pile into the Suburban, drive around looking at Christmas lights then off to candlelight service at 11. Open presents Christmas morning. From this there must be no deviation or it simply isn’t Christmas.
I’m not sure when it started or how it happened, but yelling “SOONERS” instead of the word “brave” at the end of the national anthem, has become a tradition in Norman. Most OU fans probably didn’t pay much attention to the lyric change until last weekend. With the Air Force Academy coming to Owen Field, Bob Stoops asked the Sooner faithful to not only cheer for the Falcons when they entered the stadium but to break tradition and sing the word “brave” out of respect to the young men serving our country. The previous Saturday, the ninth anniversary of 9/11, the school made the same request to fans, only to hear “SOONERS” drown out any bold enough to say “brave.”
I’ve been in that stadium and trust me, there’s something powerful about hearing “SOONERS” spring from the throats of 85,000 people. I never thought much of it; just a small part of the OU gameday experience. There is way too much political correctness in this country. But there is a time for reflection and sensitivity and I think that time is now Sooner fans.
Is it time to change tradition? (courtesy myxer.com)
No matter where you’re from or what football team you support, I believe you are an American first and a citizen of your state second. College football isn’t just an Oklahoma thing, or a Texas thing, or an Arkansas thing. It’s an American thing. It’s part of our sports identity as Americans.
Now ask yourself, “What allows me to be here on this gorgeous fall Saturday? What allows me to tailgate, wear what I want, scream like an idiot when it goes our way and mope when it doesn’t? What allows me to bring my son or my daughter to this place for the very first time and share with them the magic of a football Saturday? Simply stated, what allows me to be a fan?”
The answer is blood. The same answer for why we enjoy so many spectacular freedoms in this country. Blood shed around the world and here at home, by men and women who sacrificed to make America the great country it is today. “Brave” isn’t just a word that closes out a catchy tune. It means someone left home, left their family, voluntarily went into harms way and paid the ultimate price for you. I’m guilty of going through the motions with the national anthem. Let’s get the game going already. But a little reflection on its words goes a long way toward changing my attitude.
The fans who choose to say “SOONERS” aren’t being intentionally disrespectful. They’re not going out of their way to diminish the anthem or try to make some kind of statement. They’re red-blooded, patriotic Americans, embracing a tradition. However, sometimes tradition needs to be put aside. Can’t you still get chills from tens of thousands yelling “brave” instead of “SOONERS?” I’d hope so. Cutting out the “SOONERS” doesn’t make you less of an OU fan. Come on, nobody is mistaking you for a neutral party when you’re decked in crimson from head to toe and you’re wearing a schooner hat.
There are plenty of traditions already in place in Norman (courtesy replayphotos.com)
Plus, there are plenty of perfectly good traditions already in place. The drum major strutting his way across the field. The giant Oklahoma flag and the way the P.A. announcer says, “It’s footbaaallll tiiime in Okkk-la-homaaaaaa!” There’s the singing of the alma mater, and the video that declares, “There’s only one Oklahoma.” One side of the stadium chanting “Boomer” and the other side screaming “Sooner.” You’ve got Ruf-nex firing shotguns, a pretty girl in a covered wagon, and that moment when you’re team finally takes the field. How much more fired up do you need to get? If you still insist on yelling “SOONERS” why not do it at the end of the Oklahoma state song?
We’re only sayin’, you’re doin’ fine Oklahoma! Oklahoma, O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A, Oklahoma!…SOONERS!.
Sing it in your head. It works – believe me.
Old habits die hard, Sooner fans. This is the right thing to do. After all, new traditions have to start somewhere.
I’ve had a pair of “his and hers” bright canary yellow satin Western shirts in a picture frame on my wall since my mom gave them to me as a housewarming gift in 2006. Odd gift, right? They belonged to my great grandparents.
Ben and Nancy Barr ride their paint horses down Main Street in Minco, Oklahoma during the 1950's.
With the help of a few black and white pictures and a phone call, pieces of the story have slowly come together over the years. My great grandparents participated in a rodeo club around Minco, Oklahoma in the 1950’s. They rode in parades and rodeos in small towns around the state. At some point, they were too old to ride, so the horses were probably sold. It has been said that my great grandmother kept her custom-made saddle carefully hidden under her bed, a reminder of a special time in her life. The saddle was one of her last memories of the horse it belonged to before she finally sold it too.
The pictures are black and white, but I can see the beautiful patterns on the paint horses my great grandparents rode. I envision the horses to be black and white, and I can only imagine how spectacular they both looked in those canary yellow shirts trotting down Main Street. The smell is there too. That’s right. Tobacco from a pipe smoked my great grandfather, Ben Barr.
I have been told that I am a lot like her. We both love all animals, and I am just discovering my love for gardening. However, there is one way we are different. The treasures she left for me are not hidden under the bed. They are displayed prominently in random places around my house where I can use them or enjoy them daily. The reminders are not painful. They are happy. A history.
My history.
The shirts came out of the frame last night, and we rode into the Boots And Spurs Ball like we were on those paints. I am not sure I will ever have the opportunity to ride in a parade or carry a flag in the opening ceremony of a rodeo, but I can wear a canary yellow shirt. My husband can wear one too.
And we did.
Julie and Greg Allgyer sport her great grandparents' Western shirts at the Boots and Spurs Ball, a benefit for Special Trails.
You know that Kobe Bryant jersey you got for Christmas? Try selling it a garage sale. The Carmelo Anthony bobblehead on your nightstand? Let’s find a shoebox for ‘Melo. Lebron James may be taking his talents to South Beach, but why don’t you take that poster of his to the trash can.
I’ve got a new role model for you and his name is Kevin Durant. He is the man you should be imitating. He is worthy of your admiration. He won’t disappoint you on or off the court. Let me tell you why you should be plastering your walls with images of Durant. We’ll start with Kevin Durant the basketball player.
You may not have heard this since its football season and your dad has a death grip on the remote, but just last week Durant led Team USA to its first World Championship in 16 years. Kobe wasn’t there. Neither was Dwyane Wade. At 21 years old, Durant was the clear-cut leader of the American squad. In the semifinals Durant dropped 33 points on the Lithuanians. Against Turkey in the championship, Durant drained seven 3-pointers on his way to 28 points and tournament MVP honors. Durant didn’t have to be there in Turkey, half a world away representing his country. He could have stayed home, rested, or taken a long vacation away from the game of basketball. After all, NBA training camps start in just two weeks. Most guys might want more of an offseason. Durant just wants to play ball.
Durant leads Team USA to gold at World Championships (photo from kevindurant35.com) Click photo to travel to KD's website.
If there’s a way to defend Durant, NBA coaches haven’t figured it out. Last season, Durant became the youngest player to ever lead the league in scoring with 30.1 points per game. Consistency? Durant has it. He recorded a streak of 29 straight games with 25 points or more, the second longest streak of its kind in NBA history. Durant never missed a game, and rarely missed a free throw. He shot a blistering 47% from the field and finished his third season as a pro with 25 double doubles. Each year, Durant’s numbers have gone up for points, rebounds, and assists. All this while facing the best defender on every team he faces. Most impressively, Durant propelled a young Thunder team to the playoffs and pushed the Lakers to six games in the first round. Watch closely kids and you won’t see Durant whining to referees or demanding more shots. He keeps his head down and his mouth shut. You see kids, it’s a style we simply don’t see out of our idols too often. It’s a style that may not earn you maximum fame. What it will get you is maximum respect.
Lebron James may have had a TV special dedicated to “the decision.” James may have had millions of people hanging on his every word, but his shameless self-promotion turned him into a laughing-stock. Trust me kids, trying to boost your own ego only makes you look petty, immature, and incredibly lame. Durant signed a contract extension with Oklahoma City right around the same time as the Lebron spectacle. Why didn’t you hear more about Durant’s signing you ask? Because Durant is the anti-Lebron. He announced his extension on Twitter. No press conference, no media, no gimmicks, just 140 characters. Truth is, Durant could have asked to opt out of his current deal in the fifth season. You might have a hard time believing someone with Durant’s skills and star power would want to stay in Oklahoma for years to come. It’s the truth. Durant wanted a deal done quickly and easily because as he puts it, “This is where I’m committed, this is where I want to be. I’m a loyal person.” Remember that word kids…loyalty. It’s becoming a thing of the past.
More than any accolade or accomplishment on the court, Durant understands the responsibility that comes with being a professional athlete. In January, Durant wasted no time in donating $100,000 to aid the victims of the earthquake in Haiti. Thanks to Durant, a run down rec center in his home state of Maryland got a renovation and the kids in the neighborhood now have a safe place to play. Durant recently partnered with a record label to build a new music studio for high school students in the Washington D.C. area. Here in Oklahoma, Durant took a needy family on a grocery shopping spree to help a woman responsible for caring for her six nieces and nephews. He is heavily involved with the March of Dimes organization and is becoming known for giving out free pairs of shoes to his fans on Facebook and Twitter.
Durant lends a helping hand in OKC (photo from kevindurant35.com). Click photo to visit his website.
In other words, Durant doesn’t just play for Oklahoma City, he has a presence in Oklahoma City. A kid from Maryland, who went to school at Texas, now makes his home in Oklahoma. One of the brightest stars in the league plays in one of the smallest markets. But you see kids, it’s not about the size of the city. It’s not about the money, the recognition, or even about what anyone else might think. It’s about playing a game with passion, and being the same person on the court and off. What you see is what you get with Kevin Durant. I hope you see what I see. I see a whole lot of heart, I see a man worthy of your admiration, a man who deserves that space on your wall.
Down through the centuries, theologians and mystics have spoken of divine experiences in human time as kairos moments. By definition, a kairos moment is an event used by God to impact one’s life. It involves an intersection of sorts between the horizontal and vertical, the humdrum and holy, where, for a fleeting moment, one experiences God’s nearness in his life and God’s hereness in his world.
Kairos moments have happened infrequently in my life. But none was more pivotal and life changing than the karios moment on an obscure battlefield at Gettysburg.
The months leading up to this event had been colored by deep darkness. It had been almost two years since my wife and I first visited the fertility clinic. Now the “I” word was not some distant and remote diagnosis. It was a sobering reality. By this time, my prayer life had been reduced to a whimper of faith. The silence of despair grew firm within my chest. On the brink of a spiritual breakdown, I prayed as a desperate man for a break through. Little did I know how God would answer my prayer.
Culp's Hill
While attending a leadership conference at Gettysburg, one night I was approached by Marty, a conference leader. He asked me if I wanted a personal tour of Culp’s Hill, a famous battle during the Gettysburg campaign. I grabbed my Mountain Gear fleece; I was definitely up for it.
After snaking our way up through hills exploding with green April foliage, we stopped at a tiny knot of cedars surrounded by large boulders and scattered tree logs. “This was the Union army’s extreme right position,” Marty exclaimed as he pointed to a breastwork of cobbled stone covered in moss and dirt. “It was here that the fate of the Union army largely hung in the balance.”
As Marty began to lead me around the markers that jutted up around the hill, the whole scene suddenly transformed before my eyes into a dramatic amphitheatre of war.
The main battle commenced at dusk on July 2, 1864.
As darkness moved in amongst the thick trees at Culp’s Hill, the NY 137th disbanded in a thin line from the saddle down to the lower hill. Below the hill, gathering in a swale, and quickly filling up many trenches was a Confederate brigade led by General Steuart.
About that time, General Meade of the Union Army sent orders to Colonel David Ireland, the twenty-five-year-old commander of the NY 137th. General Meade’s orders were short and exacting.
“Colonel Ireland, hold the line at all costs.”
Soon Steuart’s men moved into position behind the low stonewall in rear of the 137th.
They quickly unleashed a staccato of gunfire. Before they knew it, the 137th was taking heat from front, right flank, and rear. Their position, as Marty described it, was “like a finger, surrounded on three sides.”
At about that time the 71st Pennsylvania regiment showed up. They were backups sent by General Hancock to assist the 137th. But seeing Ireland’s men taking heavy musket fire from all directions, the 71st fired off a volley or two at Steuart’s men and quickly withdrew from the line. Their position was untenable.
Union fortifications built to ward off the Confederates.
With half his infantry dead, resources depleted, and reinforcements in retreat, Ireland decided to order one final defensive tactic: commanding his regiment to stack up granite rocks to form a stone wall. There, entrenched on the saddle back between the hills, Ireland waited with his men.
As Marty showed me where Ireland had burrowed in with his men, I tried to put myself in the young colonel’s shoes. I got down on my knees behind the stonewall and peered out into the thick darkness with only the silhouette of the overhanging limbs visible. I wondered how Ireland held his men together as trees splintered from canon fire, bullets pinged off granite rocks, and hot metal tore through sinewy flesh. I suddenly felt like I could hear the shrieks of young men as they breathed their last breath and their souls slid out of their bodies.
Effects of Union shot and shell on Culp's Hill - photo by William H. Tipton.
Somehow through the long and unrelenting night, Ireland and his men found the strength and fortitude to stymie every Confederate charge up the hill.
At around three a.m., Steuart’s men suspended their attack due to complete lack of visibility and thus an inability to determine who was who. They feared they were shooting and killing their own men. As their attack subsided, the 137th found renewed strength and hope as the 14th Brooklyn and the 6th Wisconsin showed up with reinforcements.
Had the Confederates known the 137th was the end of the line, they could have advanced toward the Baltimore Pike and overrun the Union army, changing the outcome of the battle at Gettysburg, probably turning the tide of the whole Civil War.
But the line never broke.
After Marty finished telling the story, I stood in complete silence, as I suddenly felt like Culp’s Hill was becoming holy ground. I didn’t see a burning bush or hear an audible voice. But as the wind rustled through the Pennsylvania birch trees and I stood against the cobbled traverse, I sensed somehow that God was near.
A scripture came to mind, one that I had memorized early in my life.
Let him who walks in the dark,
who has no light,
trust in the name of the Lord
and rely on his God.
~Isaiah 50:10a
For two years I had endured what St. John of the Cross called the oscura noche, the dark night of the soul. During that time, I felt like Job—confused, doubtful, and befuddled by God’s seeming absence and deafening silence. My prayers were punctuated by sighs and groans. I came closest to God in my questions. I wondered not whether God existed but if God knew I existed. Did he know my pain? Did he see my suffering? Would he respond to my cry?
As I walked the hallowed grounds at Culp’s Hill, I began to pray. Specifically, I echoed Peter’s prayer: ‘I do believe, Jesus, help me overcome my unbelief!’ (Mark 9:24). I confessed to him that I felt like I was living within a precarious space between two parenthetical opposites: one being faith, the other being doubt. The bitterest pill I felt I had been forced to swallow involved watching Amy suffer and hurt and not knowing how to palliate her pain in any way.
In that moment, though, as the moon rose high into the starless sky and the leaves turned silver, I felt that God was near. For so long, God had seemed distant and remote, like a satellite. Sensing God’s closeness now, I cupped my ear and leaned into the silence. What I heard filled me with a renewed trust that the night would give way to the day. And somehow, in some way, against all odds, pressed in on all sides, he would hold the line. Like Col. Ireland and the NY 137th, Amy and I would see the first gleam of dawn burst through the darkness. We would feel the sun on our faces again. We would hear a new word heralded through the clouds: a new day had arrived!
~~Note: Josh and his wife Amy documented their journey, struggles and resolution to travel to Africa and adopt a child in their book, “From Ashes to Africa.” This post is a revised piece from that book. For more information visit http://fromashestoafrica.com/
For the past two weekends, it’s the question I’ve heard over and over again. What’s the score? I gaze out over our “home field” pondering the answer.
"Today, I gave the dog a bath and my husband did just about everything else."
It’s fall and college football has begun. Points are a big deal on the football field, but in a household, score keeping can cause all kinds of interference. The days are long gone of me listing all of the jobs I completed on any given day. Today, I gave the dog a bath, and my husband did just about everything else. Luckily for me, he is not keeping score. I think I would be behind.
Joe Namath said, “Football is a team game. So is life.” Whether you are a husband and wife living in the country or four girls sharing a rental home, living together takes teamwork. We have just got to remember that we are all playing for the same team.
There is a certain spin that living in the country puts on hobbies. We have to work with what’s available to us or travel to a nearby city to get it. A Teddy Roosevelt quote sums it up best: “Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.” I have dirt, and I have decided to do what I can.
I showed up to my first Master Gardener meeting with a green paper folder with a few sheets of paper inside. (Green, you know, for plants? ) There was a total of four participants in the meeting and we all had to stand and tell our names and what we hoped to get out of the program. The lady across from me just wanted to grow some grass in front of her house. The boy behind me was with his mother. He was going to include this as part of his home schooling science curriculum. Ahh, sweet. Then the scene changed.
I was handed a commitment page to sign for 40 hours of community service. I turned around to ask the boy to borrow his pen; he glared at me clearly annoyed that I had forgotten mine. I turned back around to find that a four-inch binder with twenty separate tabs had been placed in front of me. Neatly tucked inside was my first take-home test, ironically, on dirt, known in this extension office, as “soil.” The boy quickly threw his hand in the air and started asking about due dates then weaseled his way into a conversation about eagles with the lady who just wanted to grow grass in her front yard. This young boy had just established himself as a weed trying to take over my flower bed.
This boy has been planted in my Master Gardener class for a reason. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I know what I’m going to get…exactly what I put into it. You don’t have to be a former president to hand out words to live by. Julie Allgyer, future Master Gardener, sums it up best: “Bloom where you are planted.”
It’s a Saturday. The nine-to-fivers are reveling in the covers that hide the dawn’s glare this A.M.
Purple Martins found a home out here at the ranch just one week after it was built.
But not us. My husband and I begin our weekdays before some people go to bed, and the weekend is no different. Like every household, we have things to do. OUR problem is that usually we have each created our own lists (hidden in our own minds) and have divided the chores out between us without telling the other about the plans. It could be a problem if we let it. We don’t.
I stopped picking the last of the tomatoes to watch Greg lower the Purple Martin house to get it ready for the winter and ultimately next spring. He joined me in the melon patch to check on our first watermelons. We are both amazed at how much fruit our only two melon plants have produced. I made a mental note to put the tomato cages up for next season. He set up the sprinklers to water the yard. I fed the kittens. He fed the cats. I carried my coffee across the pasture to give the horses some carrots. They knew it was not my usual time with them, and they seemed grateful.
Turning the corner on fence painting.
There is always so much to do out here, but neither of us seem to mind. We have stopped to sit on the backporch to have some coffee. Greg remembered that the front gate doesn’t latch. We have got to fix that. It’s added to the list. Before noon we will have added as many chores as we have completed this morning. Maybe he’s right next to me; maybe he is across the pasture. Either way, we are content to divide and conquer our chores for today, so we can spend the evening……together.
I am a white-skinned father with a black-skinned son.
A little over a year ago, my wife, Amy, and I adopted our son, Silas, from Ethiopia.
Silas turned two in December.
Today our conversations tend to revolve around our favorite snacks – yogurt and lemon pound cake at Starbucks – and favorite TV characters and movies – Elmo and Ratatouille. We also squabble very little these days. Sometimes Silas will take a swing at me when I take away the Wii joystick. And other times he’ll treat the cheese sandwich I made him for dinner like a Frisbee.
One day, though, Silas will want to talk about other things. Like the color of his skin. And my skin. And his mother’s skin. And pictures and events and people and dates he finds in his history textbook.
There are some historical dates I don’t want to broach with Silas then. August 12th, 1955, for example. That’s the day Emmett Till, a 14 year old boy, was brutally lynched in Mississippi by white, southern, “Christian” men.
Then there is September 15th, 1963. That’s the day when four little girls were killed by a white supremacist bomb at 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham, Alabama.
Or April 4th, 1968. That’s the fateful day Dr. King had his hope-filled voice silenced by a sniper’s gun.
But then there are days in America’s history I can’t wait to explain to Silas.
Days like December 1st, 1955, for example. The day when Rosa Parks refused to give up her bus seat to a white man. That small, defiant “no” reverberated out into a large, defiant “no more.”
There are other days, too. Like August 28th, 1963. The day Dr. King delivered his famous message, “I Have a Dream.” It was a day unlike any other day. It was a day of dreaming of another kind of America.
And then there was November 4th, 2008. Obama’s presidential victory. And then there was January 20th, 2009. Obama’s inauguration.
These are dates I look forward to telling Silas about – not as a student of history, but as a participator in making history.
Baby Silas
And I will tell Silas this: whether one voted for Obama or not, one could not argue that it was a significant symbolic moment. And a storied moment with deep biblical resonances. From hundreds of years wandering in the wilderness of prejudice and oppression. To now the new days of exploring the “milk and honey” land of equality and opportunity.
Undoubtedly, MLK glimpsed the Promised Land from a distance. Like Moses. Like a dream just beyond his grasp. But Silas, you, and others of your skin color will experience this land as a blessed reality. Like Joshua. And the nation of Israel.
I can only pray that this new land for you will shimmer with the topsoil of fresh possibility, and contain in its seedbed the promise of renewed dignity. But, Silas, there are still weeds trying to choke out these verdant seeds. For though the “color line” W.B. Dubois spoke of has been broken in America’s political establishment, it still exists in America’s religious establishment. 95% of the evangelical church, for example, still remains divided along the color line. Unfortunately, Martin Luther King Jr.’s truism stills rings true today: 11 am on Sunday morning is still the most segregated hour in America. Perhaps, though, Silas, by the time you come of age, that small, subversive 5% of the American church will have grown and spread through the body of Christ like a lush vine.
Voting though won’t bring this change.
Only Spirit-led repentance will.
I can only pray that you discover these seeds pods of repentance bursting within my heart. And your mom’s heart. And your grandparents’ hearts. And in the hearts of all of those who you know that call themselves Christ followers.
I am reminded of observing MLK Day last year. You, your mom, and I celebrated Dr. King’s legacy with our adoption community at the Queen of Sheba, a local Ethiopian restaurant. On that special day, our dear friends, Eric and Tara, received their referral picture from Ethiopia of their soon-to-be-adopted baby boy, Malak. That night we laughed and cried over Malak’s picture, ooing and awing at his large black eyes and his luminous smile.
Later that night as I lay awake in bed and reflected on that festive evening, I couldn’t help but wonder if in fact Dr. King were alive today, would he approve of couples like us and the Silvestres adopting black children. I also thought about how far we have come, from an age of colonialism, where Africans were our slaves, to this new post colonial age, where Africans are now our sons. And I wondered if Dr. King could have even dreamed of such a day when such transformation was possible. Who knows really? But it makes me wonder if at the Queen of Sheba, if just for a fleeting moment, with our bellies full of freshly baked bread, and sweet Ethiopian wine on our tongues, and with you in our arms, and Malak’s picture in front of our faces, if we did not glimpse even if for a moment, the future community of God, the eschatological days when the old age of hatred and racial division will be truly over, and a new age of love and racial harmony will have begun.
As I closed my eyes to sleep, I suddenly recalled Dr. King’s words spoken days before he was assassinated.
“The end is reconciliation;
the end is redemption;
the end is the creation of the beloved community.”
And remembering these words, Silas, I thought to myself, Perhaps the end has already begun.
-Josh Bottomly
Editor’s Note – this article is reprinted from Relevant,an online magazine. It was published as a Martin Luther King Day feature dated Monday, January 19, 2009. Josh is the Director of College Counseling at Casady High School in Oklahoma City. He coaches basketball, is a husband and now a father of TWO children from Ethiopia.Silas has a little sister. She joined the family in June of this year.
There is something special about girls from Oklahoma. We are…different.
I realized this after browsing through a real estate magazine at a local restaurant and noticing a photo of a girl who went to my high school back in the late 70’s. She was currently a local real estate agent living about thirty miles from me. We had not been good friends in high school and didn’t have a junior high slumber party memory to share, but somehow I knew that when I called her, she would remember me. She did.
Shortly after contacting her, my husband and I were invited to her home for a Sunday lunch. We had a fabulous time and I have since seen her on several other occasions. I even stayed overnight at her house (not exactly a slumber party, but it will do) when a two-day workshop took me to her city. We had dinner and talked about growing up in Chickasha, Oklahoma.
There are many other Oklahoma women who continue to touch my world: an OSU sorority sister bumped into me in the middle of Reading Station in Philadelphia, a classmate stopped by to have a quick dinner while traveling I-40 to a new chapter in her life, a lady at the convenience store wearing an Eskimo Joe’s T-shirt held my place in line, and my former principal, who is hoping to find her way back to Oklahoma, molded me into the writing teacher I am today. My former principal is also expecting her fifth grandchild, a girl named Preslee, who no doubt will reap the benefits of being raised as an “Okie.”
So here’s to Preslee, who has no idea how lucky she is about to get, and all the other women who qualify. You know who you are.
An Oklahoma Girl From Head to Toe
Sun-bleached or shiny black locks like a horse’s mane
Lake-blue eyes, or as dark as night on a rural road
When it comes to character, Oklahoma girls reign
With inner and outer strength, they will always carry their load
Lips that whisper a song just when you think you’ve forgotten the tune
Shoulders that can bear the weight of her worries and yours
Beads of sweat on her back from the Oklahoma heat in June
A loving heart beating strong and fast like an eagle soars
Legs that can carry her to her destiny, however long
Feet barefoot or not, walking toward a horizon of blue
Are you looking in the mirror? Do you see someone beautiful and strong?
By birth or at heart, you may be an Oklahoma Girl too
Yesterday, I couldn’t wait to get home. But as eager as I was to see my own home on a Friday afternoon, I was looking forward to an evening away from home on Saturday night…with someone who really knows how to appreciate coming home.
I met Bryan Hayes about five years ago. I had just started teaching at the school where he worked as PE coach. He did not appear to fit into the coach role. He had long hair and looked like he really hadn’t done a push up in awhile.
As a couple of school years came and went, however, I learned more and more about my friend. He could play the guitar and willingly brought it along with his mellow voice and beautiful wife to many late night functions.
He didn’t just play the guitar. He had a BAND: Bryan Hayes and the Retrievers… not so odd of a name when you know that Bryan is an animal advocate. He has a home full of rescued Labs of all shapes and sizes.
One day Bryan came to school without the rest of his hair. I thought that maybe he had gotten into trouble somehow, but nothing could have been further from the truth. Bryan had joined the Army National Guard. This spring while most of us were living somewhat normal lives, Bryan was in Iraq. This son, husband, uncle, friend, singer, and teacher was busy making sure we had a safe place to call home.
Tonight Bryan and his band stood on a stage and humbly entertained friends and family. Wait. No. He entertained family. Bryan Hayes, our brother, is home.
(Click the picture to watch Bryan and the Retrievers play “Lonesome Soldier.”)
Bryan and the Retrievers playing "Lonesome Soldier"
My husband Greg and I are celebrating our 6th successful year in the country. The success is measured simply by the fact that we are still both alive and still married.
After two years of sharing a trailer with his father-in-law and four years getting our log cabin just the way we want it, I decided I didn’t have enough to do this summer. Hence, our garden was born.
It is still unclear to me why a gal whose first salads consisted of only lettuce and French dressing would want to start a vegetable garden. I even have a story of how, at an early age, I successfully hid Brussels sprouts in an air conditioner vent to avoid eating them.
The bottom line is that I didn’t do it for the food. I did because I had two key elements: time and space.
A fabulous garden was designed by yours truly that would not only be productive, but would also look like a work of art to any small plane traveling over our area. (See graph below)
I filled the soil with all the goat and horse poop I could get my hands on, harvested directly out of our pasture. I planned, researched, and studied the Farmers’ Almanac, but nothing was happening. (Meaning, the plants were just sitting there. So GROW, already!)
One Saturday morning I walked outside to find my beautiful plots of lettuce, peppers, and peas redesigned into rows! My husband Greg had been busy.
Note: I do NOT have a graph to show the modified version of my garden.
Before I knew it, however, I had a crop. As the summer progressed, we consumed all of the lettuce that survived. Next, I gently added one cantaloupe, one watermelon, and cucumber plant.
Why only one of each, you ask? Well, my pepper plants are filled with enough peppers to rival any Christmas tree look alike contest. I can only make so many bacon-wrapped, filled with cream cheese poppers, and the tomato plants are speckled with green balls ready to ripen at any minute.
Selling some of my veggies seemed to be the next logical step. I made a sign, put it out by the road, and waited. As it turns out, however, the older clientele can’t really eat peppers. Trust me. I heard all about it.
Shortly after returning home from my “farmer’s market” trial excursion, it was back to the internet to explore another adventure: canning.
As it turns out, canning really isn’t all that difficult if you’ve got two major elements: time and space.
Showcasing Red Dirt culture ~ authored and managed by contributors with connections to the great state of Oklahoma.
