Page 143: Make That to GO!!!

Guilty, Your Honor. It's true. I get freaky at the drive-thru. But let me explain.

A long, long time ago in a Central Texas town in the hills far, far away, there lived a blond headed boy, I'm talking LOTS of blond hair nicely styled and parted down the middle, who slaved away at the local Burger King. And every cretin in town lined up their beat up clunkers for miles and miles at that drive-thru, grinning like bucked toothed buffoons while waiting to mumble their highly specialized orders through the microphone.  After placing that order, they would always say, "Make that To Go!" Really?  You sure you don't want to eat it on a tray right there in the window?  Yes, I was the blond guy with the head FULL of hair.

"I'll have a Double-Meat Whopper with Cheese with MUSTARD, no mayo, double onions, no lettuce, double tomatoes, and four pickles." I am not making that up: that was the exact order one imbecilic lady placed every week. Every order was a nightmare for us booth attendants, as we pushed buttons and pulled levers and yelled back to the kitchen trying to "get it their way." One thing you did NOT have to specify was the ritual stomping the meat patty was going to get on the floor, which was pretty much Standard Operating Procedure by the kitchen staff to reward highly picky customers. Don't ask what happened if you came in close to closing time. And all this while, our cranky, uber-pouty mouthed manager Tammy would run a stop-watch and bark out orders, as policy dictated that drive-thru customers were to spend no more than 3 minutes through the window.

So please understand, I have a LOT of baggage when it comes to drive-thrus, and that baggage is stuffed to the gills with unpleasant memories and gallons of sympathy for the poor kids manning the register for a nickel above Minimum.

So, thus it is when my dear family -- bless their hearts, and make a Catholic sign of the cross here, even if you're Jewish -- gets to the drive-thru and thinks they are the Belles of the Ball, I DO in fact go a little nuts.

"What do you guys want?" I ask, perhaps a bit tensely as we drive into the parking lot.

"Well, I don't know what they have here..." the family says, their voices trailing off.

"It's a Sonic. They have the EXACT same menu they've had since 1957. Not one thing has changed. What would you like -- sweeties??" I ask, forcing a strained smile on the last word. We arrive at the order station in front of the big menu, and I can suddenly hear the clock ticking like a time bomb -- the time bomb attached to my patience level.

The entire family is gawking at the menu board as if it just landed from another planet -- it's some alien thing they could not possibly fathom. Kathy speaks up. "That Number One burger looks pretty good, but I'm not really in the mood for a burger. Now, what is different on that Number Two? Oooh, is that... cheese? Well. I don't want any cheese. I wonder -- do they have a chicken sandwich here? Ewww, I wonder if it's fried. Sigh. Maybe a salad."

I can feel my second molars slowly being pulverized into tooth-dust by my rising industrial-level jaw tension. "IT...IS...THE...NUMBER SIX… GRILLED CHICKEN… NUMBER SIX… WHAT YOU ALWAYS GET HERE…N.U.M.B.E.R.S.I.X."

"Kirk, I don't know the menu here. Now, don't be a butt and rush us! Kids, do you know what want yet?"

Meanwhile, the driver of the car behind us has decomposed into a skeleton and the Order Taker at the drive-thru has gotten engaged -- twice. And maybe voted for the first time (absentee). I have to reset my watch due to a change in Daylight Savings Time. The stars move from Spring to Autumn positioning.

"Guys -- COME ON! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!?!?"

I close my eyes and go to a Happy Place. In my Happy Place, I have a megaphone mounted on my front bumper, one that starts playing a looped recording the very second you drive into the parking lot. "FIVE NUMBERS ONES WITH DIET COKES!!! FIVE NUMBER ONES WITH DIET COKES!" it booms. The window attendant hears it 30 seconds before we even get to the drive-thru, and the sun is shining and there is a redbird.

Back in the real world, The Family has finished reading and re-reading the menu board, so now it is time for some serious thinking.

"GUYS!!!!!!"

"Dad, you get really stressed out at the drive-thru," the kids inform me. I want to place a full order for a French Fried board and beat their little rear ends crimson.

"Kirk, we are deciding!" Mrs. Kathryn says. "Well. I think I'll just have a Number Six, grilled Chicken Sandwich. Now, I don't want cheese on it."

You know what would be damn delicious? FIVE NUMBER ONE'S WITH DIET COKE. Thank you, I'll pull right around. "Make that to GO!!!"

Page 142: "I'll Take Loved Ones for Priceless, Alex"

The soldier was quietly sobbing, and I felt powerless to help him.

I had seen him with his wife and little baby in the line beside me at the airport gate. The little girl looked to be no more than a couple weeks old. He was rocking her car carrier, a giant smile on his face as he stared down at her sweet face and raven dark hair. Going to see family for Thanksgiving, I thought.

About an hour later, I was sitting at the bar working on my laptop when the same soldier sat down next to me. I glanced up at him and he looked pale, his hands a bit shaky. He ordered a shot of tequila. "I ordinarily don't drink like this," he explained, "just have to settle my nerves. Hi, I'm Drew."

"Drew, I'm not your mama. Nice to meet you. Do what you have to do."

"Thank you, sir," he replied. I intended to pay for his drink - these people put their lives on the line for us, and buying their lunch or even tequila shot seems like the least we civilians can do. But I was too distracted and he was too fast. "Have a good day, sir," he said as he hastily left. I wanted to tell him that "sir is my father" but thought better of it. He looked like a kid, maybe a day past 21 if that.

Taking my seat on the plane, I was surprised to see the same soldier headed to the seat beside me. He sat down quietly, and I realized he was crying. No, more than crying, he was quietly sobbing, shaking from head to foot. Oh, his family wasn't traveling with him -- they had been there to tell him goodbye.

After a few minutes, I spoke up. "You okay, buddy? Saw your little baby with you; she is beautiful."

He looked up at me, his eyes red and his face grief-stricken. "I only got to see her for 4 days. She is 17 days old, and I couldn't leave to see her be born. I'm about to be deployed to Afghanistan for a year, and I couldn't leave my training. I just love that little baby and my wife so much… but I've got to do my duty and my job to provide for them. " He put his head down and his entire body was shaking. "I'm sorry, sir…"

I patted him on the shoulder. "It's okay, son. There's nothing to be embarrassed about. You're about to make me cry."

I wanted to do something to help him, but nothing seemed to be the right answer. I quietly looked out the window and thought about how I missed my kids. I hadn't seen them in 3 days. The irony was profound.

After a few minutes, he looked up and recognized me, hastily wiping his eyes. "We meet again, sir."

For the next 3 hours, I did the one thing it seemed Drew needed -- listen. He had been in the army for almost a year. He knew that Afghanistan was a dangerous place and he made sure he saw and said goodbye to all his family back in Georgia, "just in case." He was okay with all of that, he said. And his wife had a strong support network, he told me. But his baby girl. "I...I am just not handling that very well. I started to go to pieces back there and I sure didn't want them to see that. I thought that shot of tequila might steady my nerves but it didn't work."

He went on to tell me why getting to Afghanistan was so important. A lot more money. $1100 more a month in "hazard duty." And, $175 more a month because he was away from his family.

$175. So. That is what your family is worth. Oh, I understand, the country is strapped for money already. We need to cut expenses, not increase them, across the board. We are in no position to pay these brave soldiers what their families are really worth: priceless.

I had the distinct impression that Drew was a young man who had grown up in a hurry. After landing in Dallas, he became quiet, and he quickly exited the plane without a word or a handshake. It seemed clear; he had said all the goodbyes he could for the day.

Us, thankful? You better believe it. For so many things. And thank you, Private Drew. We are the luckiest people in the history of the world. On this day of thinking about thanking, we should hug our loved ones with gusto and mean it like we never have before.

Page 141: Chili Pill!

A cold wind blew in from the north, and Mrs. Kathryn had an excellent idea -- a chili cook-off with a small group at the house. "This is a contest,” she emailed. “Let's get some trash-talkin' going on!"

I was all too happy to Reply All and oblige. "Losers, let's skip the B.S. and just hand me the prize NOW. We can throw your lil' stewpots out back for the feral pigs to root around in... if they'll touch the nasty crap. My Bambi chili will RULE!" I had researched award-winning venison chili recipes to the hilt, discovering the winning secret. Shhhh. Don't tell, but here it is. You start with thick slab bacon, so fresh it's practically oinking, then throw in scraps of Bambi AND his mother. Deelish!

Imagine the horror when I discovered Aylin was also planning on some Doe a Deer Chili herself, and had already procured the meat from one of our hairy, mountain manly neighbors, who probably killed the poor creature with his bare hands, or possibly a tire iron. Rats. I was forced to choose something else.

I poured through the International Chili Cookoff Recipes and studied the Texas Terligua Pride award ingredients. The secret of winning became clear. You start with thick slab bacon, so fresh it's practically oinking, then you throw in other meats (and scraps of their mother, if possible). Deelish!

And thus is was that I concocted Fab Five Chili, with five different meat ingredients, along with a half a cup of Jim Beam, just to get the kidney beans tipsy. Oh ENOUGH of the "Texas chili DOES/DOES NOT have beans" brawls; as an eighth generation Texan and a real self-appointed Texas Colonel, if I say it can have some damn beans, matter settled. Plus, it's patently obvious that kidney beans are good for your kidneys; even a blind man could see that.

The Bad Gene acted up for a moment and I considered the novel idea of finding and adding some Viagra to my recipe to REALLY make it stand up against the competition, but decided not to… didn’t want to make the competition too hard for the judges. My friend Paul also pointed out that nobody wants to eat chili that can take 4 hours to go down.

Never underestimate Bob as a serious competitor. He one-upped the email trash talking early Saturday morning. "Five meats? Hey, just heard Chance has gone missing. Hmmm…" Chance is Rich & Christie's dog next door and our beloved Goddog (that's her laying next to the Batdesk when I was dogsitting one day)… she was clearly fine, but the evil dirty trick was done, planting the subliminal suggestion that my ingredients might not be kosher.

But the final insult came during the presentation & serving, when this sign "mysteriously" showed up attached to my pot.

So amazingly, Bob's "Jived Turkey Chili" won by a single vote, edging out my Fab Five Chili by barely a dog's nose. Rich & Christie’s Green Gobblin' Chili recipe came in third.

After the rigged voting, we retired to the Batcave to watch a horror movie of grand proportions called "2010 VH1 Divas," hosted by a terrifying, plastic-skinned monster character named Paula Abdul, who prissed around the stage doing the scariest lip synching the world has ever seen. Then there were stocky women prancing about -- as a stocky person myself, as a policy I never wear anything more than 3 sizes too small – but these ladies looked like they had been poured into their dresses, “and somebody forgot to say 'when.'" The scariest part was when a hideous corpse came to life halfway through the show – they called it The Liza Minnelli – and screeched like a vulture and staggered around the stage with a giant pink zombie sash. We guys screamed like schoolgirls, and the ladies averted their eyes and just prayed. Horrid! Hey VH1, if you are going to trot out that kind of terror, at least put a warning label on the show. We finally had to turn it off when the ghost of Cindy Lauper appeared dressed like a black refrigerator, and assumed a VERY unlady-like position directly in front of the HD camera. Hey, Cindy's Ghost – nice lady ghouls sit side saddle, not all bustin’ out with their legs flung apart like Hoss Cartwright on a mule. It almost stressed us out. Almost.


You stressed? On Overload? Two words for you: CHILI PILL!!!

SECOND/JILTED PLACE
"FAB FIVE CHILI" by krs

4 slices thick slab bacon
1 pound ground beef (90%-95% lean)
1 pound COURSE ground beef (ask at the butcher counter)
1 pound ground Pork
1 pound ground Buffalo (optional but deelishush)
Sea salt & black peper
1 white onion
1 tablespoon butter
1 cup beef broth; 1/2 cup chicken broth
2 - 28 oz cans of crushed tomatoes
1 - 28 oz Rotel tomatos w/ green chili's -- Rotel is a TEXAS TRADITION!
1 - 6 oz. can tomato paste
1 tablespoon Paprika
3 tablespoons Chili Powder
1 tablespoon Ancho chili powder
2 tablespoons garlic
1/2 tablespoon ground cayenne
1/2 tablespoon cilantro
1/2 tablespoon ground comino
2 - 28 oz can kidney beans, drained
1 tablespoon chopped jalepenos (remove seeds)
1/2 cup Shiner Bock Beer
1/2 cup Jim Beam Whiskey
1 tablespoon molasses

Cook the bacon over medium heat until the oil is extracted. Remove bacon and set aside.
Add all the remaining meats into the bacon drippings along with 2 tablespoons of chili powder, 1 tablespoon of garlic, and a light dusting of sea salt and black pepper. Dice the bacon and add to meat mix as it cooks. Brown all meat thoroughly, then drain but do NOT rinse under water.

Dice onion; melt 1 tablespoon of butter in a skillet and brown onion with a small twist of sea salt.

In a large pot, add beef stock & chicken stock with onions & all tomato cans over medium heat. Add 1 tablespoon chili powder and 1 tablespoon garlic along with remaining spices (cayenne, cilantro, comino). Add beans, then add meat, and when chili comes to a boil, reduce heat to medium low and stir in Shiner Bock, Jim Beam, and molasses. Cook 3-4 hours covered, stirring occasionally, over low heat to keep at low simmering boil. Serves 8-10+.

FIRST PLACE
"JIVED TURKEY CHILI" by the Corbins

* 3 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
* 1 medium yellow onion, chopped
* 5 cloves garlic, chopped
* 1 tablespoon kosher salt
* 2 teaspoons chili powder
* 1 teaspoon dried oregano
* 1 tablespoon tomato paste
* 1 chipotle chile en adobo, coarsely chopped, with 1 tablespoon sauce
* 1 pound ground turkey
* 1 (12-ounce) Mexican lager-style beer
* 1 (14 1/2-ounce) can whole peeled tomatoes, with their juice
* 1 (15 1/2-ounce) can kidney beans, rinsed and drained
* Sliced scallions, cilantro sprigs, avocado, sour cream, grated Monterey jack cheese, and/or tortilla chips, for garnish, optional

Directions

Heat the olive oil in a large, heavy skillet over medium-high heat. Add the onion, garlic, salt, chili powder, and oregano and cook, stirring, until fragrant, about 3 minutes. Stir in the tomato paste and the chipotle chile and sauce; cook 1 minute more. Add the turkey, breaking it up with a wooden spoon, and cook until the meat loses its raw color, about 3 minutes. Add the beer and simmer until reduced by about half, about 8 minutes. Add the tomatoes--crushing them through your fingers into the skillet--along with their juices and the beans; bring to a boil. Cook, uncovered, stirring occasionally, until thick, about 10 minutes.

Ladle the chili into bowls and serve with the garnishes of your choice.

Cook's Note: A skillet's larger surface area reduces sauces faster than simmering in a saucepan.


BRONZE MEDAL
GREEN GOBBLIN' CHILI by the Griffs
Serves 4

4 medium–size tomatilloes
2 tablespoons olive oil
1½ pounds chicken, boneless, skinless and cut into 1 inch chunks
(dark meat gives a richer flavor)
1 cup chopped onion
6 cloves garlic, minced
1 teaspoon cumin
1 teaspoon dried oregano
1 14 ounce can low sodium chicken broth
1 19 ounce can white beans (cannelloni), drained and rinsed
1 fresh jalapeño chili pepper, seeded and diced
1 cup whole green chili peppers (about 4), charred and chopped (if using canned, drain liquid)
1½ teaspoons sea salt
2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
Freshly grated black pepper

1. Preheat oven to 425°F. Place tomatilloes on baking pan lined with foil. Roast 10 minutes or until lightly brown and let cool. When cool, purée or mash. Set aside.
2. In a 6–quart saucepan, sauté onions and garlic over medium heat until soft. Remove from pan and set aside.
3. Add chicken to saucepan and sauté over medium–high heat until sides are lightly browned. Add cumin, oregano, onions, and garlic and stir for one minute.
4. Add chicken broth, white beans, jalapeño and green chili peppers, and roasted tomatilloes. Bring to boil and then simmer partially covered for 1 hour. Chili should have the consistency of a thick stew.
5. Stir in salt and cilantro and season to taste. Serve warm with cornbread.

This recipe can be doubled.

Page 140: Dear Old Mrs. Tucker

Bob sent me this peach of a picture... straight from a Wal*Mart in Texas...

I am including many of the Facebook posts from where I posted "Mrs. Tucker" there; that's what we named her as it seems appropriate.

"This woman is out shopping…in public…with no shirt on. She has her boobs tucked into her pants. INTO HER PANTS!!! I understand that gravity was hard on her but SERIOUSLY!!!"

OH MY SIDES...

Cheryl: one word... YUK!!

Brad: That's funny on steroids!

Jennifer: Was Bob in Canton, Ohio, shopping? That is normal attire at the Walmart in Canton...lol.

Robin: and she's drooling over chicken breasts!

Christy: I can't wait for my boobs to drop like that so I don't have to worry about finding a shirt that matches my pants.

Jeannie: hahahahaha I am laughing sooooo hard. I can't stand it. This is hilarious. I keep picturing what will happen if she bends forward and reaches for a package of "breasts"...

Jonathan: Kirk, your friends had me rollling in the floor. This might start a new fashion trend--the new mini-snuggie. You can actually wear it to the store. It's convenient; you'll never have to buy underwear again.

Mike: STOP talking about my woman!!!!!!

JoLynne: Good grief! is this what i have to look forward to?!

Richard: My eyes are burning!

David Jennings: Please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys... please don't drop your keys...

Todd: I'd hit that.

Eric: I think I have seen this lady at the Brownwood Wal*Mart.

Lynette: LMAO!

krs: This delightful lady finally has a name: "Mrs. Tucker!!!!" Well, in her defense... it may look funny, but it suuure do keep "Perky" and "Dimples" warm...

Page 139, in which, Mrs. Kathryn Explodes

Let's be honest, shouldn't we be? Some people were born to sing, and some were born to sit. When people get confused about which they are, there's gonna be trouble.

The young lady was in trouble, there was no doubt about that. Standing up on the pulpit, her shaky vibrato had just gone flat, and it was time for the high notes. "My… FAAATHER'S EYESSSSSSS!" she warbled. "My… FAAATHER'S EYES!!!" and with that her eyes rolled up in the back of her head as she moved up and down trying to find the right pitch. That is all is took; back in the audience, our pew started shaking violently, and Kathy put her head down with her hand over her mouth. No dice. A volcano of explosive laughter was heading to the surface, leaving my poor Mrs. Kathryn scadoodling out of the pew and out the back of the church to burst into peals of laughter in the sanctity of the parking lot, yet once again.

We were recently recounting stories at dinner of "Mom/Kathy Explosions," about the millions and millions of times she has cracked up in really inappropriate venues, frequently at church or when musical performances go sour. Don't misunderstand. It' s not that she's maybe laughing at you. She is definitely laughing at you. But in a sweet, innocent way, and she in no way wants to hurt your feelings. See?

Mrs. Three Names (let's just call her "Cindy") had been a Pageant Queen. Miss California. And Miss Universe. And a cheerleader for a professional sports team. And. And. You knew all this because she would tell you the second she met you. That is, if she could get a word in edgewise to interrupt herself talking about her gallbladder. Never in the history of gallbladderdom has anyone talked more about theirs. It was Enlarged. It was Aggravated. It was Cranky. It was Better. No, Surly again and much, much Worse! And lucky as we were to sit in a Sunday School class every week with her, she would monopolize the first fifteen minutes of every class talking about Her Gallbladder, even AFTER it was removed. Those of us with poor character (and possibly missing the point of church altogether) described this part of Sunday School as "exasperating." So it was near Easter Sunday, and time to fill out the Easter Lilly dedication form during the Sunday Service. I handed mine to Mrs. Kathryn for her to inspect as the service got quiet. "In Loving Memory of Mrs. Three Names' Gallbladder" I had written. Kathy looked at me with wide eyes, and then I mashed my leg onto hers to seal the deal. Hand over mouth. Head down, as if she was praying. A horrible suppressed gurgle noise. And suddenly, a forceful exit from the pew and Mrs. Kathryn fleeing down the aisle making a beeline for the back door, tears screaming down her face. SCORE! (I can't help it. I have "The Bad Gene.")

But the worst time, I can barely speak of -- and have changed a couple details to protect the truly innocent. One of my college jobs was Music Minister (oh, STOP laughing yourself) and one church near the University of North Texas had a VERY sweet lady with The Biggest Forehead In the Universe (BFITU). And she loved to sing, exactly one song, and that only a capella, and not so much in key. "He Could Have Called… TEN THOUSAND ANGEEEEELLLLS," she would sing. I didn't care if it wasn't good. She was a sweetheart and everybody loved her. Right after we got married back in the 1800's, I had told Mrs. Kathryn about her. Some time later, we had the occasion to visit this church. Seated in the pew during the somber service, I looked down at the bulletin to see who was doing the "Special Music." Oh. No. I tapped Mrs. Kathryn and pointed trying to warn her, but she didn't understand. For the next 20 minutes, I sat in horror waiting. Finally BFITU took the stage. "He could have called…. TEN THOUSAND ANGELS!" she crooned, a capella, and about 1/4 step flat and getting flatter. Kathy turned her head in astonishment, wild eyed, looking at me as recognition registered. No, no, no, no, I thought. If she got up to leave or Lost It, it would be the embarrassment of the century. I have blocked what happened next, but I remember the pew shaking like a '67 Plymouth, and someone, perhaps me, BEGGING Providence to please, please, give the 10,000 angels holding Kathy's mouth shut the strength of Samson. If memory serves, the prayer worked, except for muffled snorting noises, a used-up box of Kleenex, and bewildered stares as people seemed sure she was having a meltdown or in-pew epileptic seizure.

So many other stories could be told. They say laughter is the best medicine -- so that makes my Mrs. Kathryn a world class physician. So if you're up on stage and you see Kathy out in the audience with her head down and pew shaking, remember, it's only medicinal and she's a professional.

Page 138: Hell Hath No FURY Like A Sister...

...Scorned. Especially a Twin Sister.

I found the handwritten letter on Pappy's old desk. Apparently, there had been "drama" around the old Scott place the night before. "Keaton, I take it Kristin was trying to mess with your hair last night?"

He nodded, exasperated. "Uh huh."

"Let me guess -- she wanted to make it look ridiculous, then laugh herself silly at you?"

"Uh huh."

My wish for each of you is that you have a set of Twins, at least one of which is "high spirited." Well, "then again, I wish for alot of things."



"Lord, hear our prayer."

Page 137: Miracles in the Mirror

I try to keep blogs short, under 800 words. I apologize that I have struggled to write this for 2 years and cannot get it under 800 words. Hopefully the heartfelt sincerity of this story will atone for its lack of brevity.

The Age of Miracles is Over.

So says conventional wisdom. But that January in 2008, the Reverend Steve Bolen had a different perspective.

"My goal… my dream, is that each one of you will experience a miracle in 2008," he said, his voice steady and resolute. I sat in the pew, listening. Steve Bolen is no sideshow charlatan; he is the über-discerning overseer of a large flock of thoughtful people. What? Miracles? I listened and tried to tune into his frequency. He said many things, but the way it came home for me was this: to accomplish a miracle, you must allow -- more than allow, truly enable -- a thing to happen that you think is literally impossible.

Immediately, I knew what Kathy's "Miracle" was. To be reconciled with her father, with whom she has not spoken or seen since she was 11 years old.

Thirty five years is a long time without your father. There was a bitter divorce. A mother who remarried and moved her far away from her life in Kentucky down south to Texas. A heart-stricken father who felt that his youngest was slipping away forever. Terrible words were exchanged -- "you will never see me again." Difficult for a child, but also impossibly difficult for a father in pain. When I first met her as student in Denton many years ago she was 22 and had spent half of her life without her father. She is one of the strongest people you will ever meet, but the hole in her heart over her father was palpable. After being married some years, she sought counseling to "get over it. "I’m going to have to let him go, without regrets," she said. Any notion of a reconciliation became a dim memory of lost hope.

But Steve Bolen's inspiration suddenly opened the possibilities wide. Reconciling with her father? Impossible, wasn't it? When we got back home I asked her what she thought of Steve's sermon.

"I thought it was intriguing," she replied.

"I know what your 'Miracle' is," I said quietly. "We are going to Kentucky in September for your grandfather's 95th birthday. Your dad will only be a few hours away. Let’s -- just show up at his door. This is your business and it's up to you, but I have to tell you, it seems like the right thing to do. Well, if we are going to believe in a Miracle."

She stared at me, speechless. The conversation was short. I didn’t bring it up again, but she did about a month before we left for Kentucky. "I think we should do it," she said. She spoke to her sister, who had maintained a relationship with their father, and who agreed. What we didn’t know was that there would be an angel in the middle of this exercise to help bring this Miracle to life -- her father's girlfriend, Karen, a delightful soul who would be let in on this secret and help set the stage.

It’s a great idea to surprise him, she conveyed through Kathy’s sister, putting us all more at ease. She cooked up a feast beforehand and even had the piano tuned so that the Scott kids could show off just a little. And as Karma would have it, the weekend we planned to arrive, her dad’s siblings were visiting, a sort of mini-family reunion setting the table for a much more dramatic one.

It was a long drive there, and when we rolled up the hilly driveway to Ken's house that day, I felt somewhat sick. I can only imagine how Kathy felt. Thirty five years of absence and hurt sets the stage for grand drama and a real case of butterflies. I will never forget walking up to the door and knocking, or the look on Ken's face when he saw the daughter he had not seen in so many years.

Kathy had always said of her father, "we loved each other so much. He was so funny and full of life." The man I met that day, the father-in-law I had never met, was a delight. Keenly intelligent. Funny as hell. And, most importantly, immediately accepting of a long lost daughter and her family. Whatever had caused years of hurt and pain melted away like the cold ice of winter into the green leaves of spring. It was a moment bright with love and redemption, and it was an utter miracle -- for neither Kathy, nor me, nor anyone in her family, probably including Ken -- thought it even remotely possible. Thank you, Steve Bolen. I write with moist eyes to tell you that from your words sprang the realization of an impossible dream. Had we not been there to hear your words that day, this amazing Life Moment would never have happened.


Kathy and her father have stayed in close touch since. There is no dwelling on the past, for as the jazz musician Babatunde Olatunji said, “Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, and today? Today is a gift. That's why we call it the ‘present.’” The joy of living in the midst of a Miracle is that it evaporates old painful memories, leaving the old nostalgic ones in their place as a backdrop to the happiness of a new Today.

"The sun never says to the earth,
'You owe me.'
Look what happens with a love like that.
It lights up the whole sky."
-- the Sufi mystic Hafiz

And even I would not be shortchanged in this year of Miracles. That January day “my” impossible miracle popped into my head, but I quickly dismissed it. My brother Dan, lost to me so many years, far over a decade. Not literally a brother, but more literally a brother than most brothers. We had lost touch, both moved around the country, and I couldn’t find him. I am good at finding people -- I spent years tracking down my Ohio family -- but I could not find Dan despite many, many hours of trying. Finding him seemed impossible, although listening to Steve that day, I thought "I'll find him, eventually." Somewhere in some distant place there was a "click," because sometimes The Universe -- God by any other name -- has surprises in store for us.

About a month later, I received a message on my Batcave site. "Guess who?" it said. No idea. An email came in the next day... “Que Pasa?” from sender “Dan Endres.” I sat staring at the screen. In the midst of my impossibility, it seems that Dan had been looking for me for quite some time. When I started Blogging some years ago, leaving a crumb-trail to be found was definitely one of my reasons why. And as it turned out, this was a critical piece of making it happen. Seeing him and his daughter Alie in Austin that summer was my highlight of the year.

What should you make of all this, Gentle Browser? Perhaps it means that whether you are a hymn-singing Baptist, a loyal Catholic, a mystical possibilities-oriented Unity practitioner, or a confirmed Agnostic, there is a Principle which can affect and change your life. “I tell you the truth, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there' and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you,” Jesus said. Part of such Faith is the very active act of putting-your-actions-where-your-thoughts are. The Buddha echoes this sentiment: “However many holy words you read, however many you speak, what good will they do you if you do not act on upon them?"

Miracles come to those who Believe. And even more so to those who make it so. Blessings.

With much love and gratitude for my friend Rev. Steve Bolen, a true and sincere light illuminating the path...


Steve on a recent local Fox News 7 segment: