Farewell, Sweet Poopdeck.

William Ralph Draper, Sr. 10/8/1943 - 6/22/2022

What if missing your father was the singular burden he left behind for you? What if he was so present, so loving, so engaged, so proud, and so over-the-top supportive that you had nothing—I mean not one single thing—to wish he’d done for you? What if he fully equipped you with confidence and enough self-love for meaningful adult relationships through his exemplary love of your mother, his siblings, his cousins, and countless lifelong friends? And what if you had the chance to personally evolve into a loving, trusting grown up friendship with him? One distinctly different and special from the one you had with him as a child—and unique to you and no one else?

What if he not only told you how much he loved you for your entire life — but showed you through his actions and sacrifices? What if he cherished you and had such high expectations of you that you actually got to reach your full potential professionally and personally—and then be blessed to have him live long enough to bear witness to it? What if he got to know and love your spouse in addition to many of your closest friends—enough for them to have their very own connections, feelings, and memories of him, too? And what if all of this was amplified exponentially by the love, adoration, and influence he poured not only into his own grandchildren but generations of nieces, nephews, cousins, play cousins, and community kids as well? Imagine that.

Then all you’d have to do is miss him. And though missing him is a heavy load, it is a price we gladly pay for the intense, fulfilling, and comprehensive love God blessed us to know in the form of our father. For this, we are more grateful than sad. There is not a single regret left to bear.

Rest in power, sweet daddy. Thank you for leaving it all on the field as a father, a grandfather, a role model, and man. And especially thank you for the gift of showing up in every aspect of our lives—physically, emotionally, financially, collectively, and individually. We will forever speak your name and rejoice in your legacy. Job well done, sir. And just so you know—we were always proud of you, too, Daddy. And we always will be.

I knew that it would be important for me to share this news here since so many of you grew to know and love him through this blog. Though I'm not as active here these days, do know that he loved, loved, loved the way you celebrated his unforgettable Camp Papa summers and so much more. Thanks in advance for your outpouring of love, prayers, and condolences. Know that it is felt even if we don’t respond immediately. We are more glad than sad. And more grateful than anything else that all we have to do is miss him.

One helluva guy.

My dad turned 72 today. The older I get, the more I realize how fortunate I am to have been raised in the safety of this man's arms. I grew up with him looking at me lovingly and having high expectations of me. The smirk on my face tells me that I was pretending to be asleep but what I know for sure was that I was indeed content.

Being raised by this man continues to be an awesome journey. I love him more and more each day.

You know? He's just one helluva guy.

That's all I've got.

***
Happy Thursday.

Papa was not a rolling stone.

I am confident and I know my worth. I believe that my voice is worth sharing and that my eyes are strong enough to stare straight into yours. The man I married gives me love that I know how to receive without running from it, questioning it as a fluke, or ruining it through insecurity.

Why? Because I was raised by a father who loved me with all of his might, who had high expectations of me as a child, and who loved my mother right in front of me. He looked at me lovingly and let his face light up when I entered his presence. 

And he still does. Not just for me. But for my siblings and his grandchildren, too.

Look. I'm not saying that people who aren't raised by their dads aren't amazing--I know many who are. But I am saying that having a dad that you can count on is like taking a test with an answer key. Or better yet, like getting a big ass boost over the giant fence of adulthood. You have a huge advantage and you get to go into more stuff thinking that you'll win.

This morning at the track

Yeah, man.

Dad? If you were not my father? Damn. I'd wish you were. Praise God for entrusting me to to this man who had the courage and selflessness to walk in his purpose as a father--and who still does. I realize how fortunate I am, having a dad who is present, not broken, but who is also willing to love. I am so, so grateful. It's a big deal.

Damn, it is.

 
Happy birthday, Poopdeck. You freaking rule.

***
Happy Poopdeck Day.

This is photographic evidence of the 7.1 miles he trucked today to commemorate his 71st birthday. :)

(And also an "ussie" of him and the seniors he walks with each morning.) Poopdeck--You are supposed to SMILE on the selfie, dude. This is also proof that he is 71 years old. LOL!

Can I get a witness?

First, a few random Easter musings. . .

Happy Easter, good people! It's a spectacular day in Georgia. A sky of the bluest blue, the grass has turned green, and the flowers are blooming in the most beautiful way. And considering how crappy our weather has been for the last several days, it's kind of nice to see that the sunshine got resurrected right along with Jesus.

Mmmm hmmm.

Despite a late night yesterday evening with the BHE, we still managed to make it to church in time to get the kids into children's church and still be able to sit in the main sanctuary. Everyone knows that the "CME" folks come out on Resurrection Sunday--that is, those who show up on Christmas, Mother's Day and Easter only. And you know? I'm not judging--I'm just saying, you know? If you want to sit in a chair in the main room at our church on Easter Sunday? You'll need to arrive early.

For reals.

Here's something super funny and random. At our church, they specifically ask us to dress ultra casual on Easter Sunday because they don't want folks to feel compelled to go spend a bunch of money that they don't have on suits, dresses and the like. It's obvi who got the memo and who didn't. So today it was like this dichotomous mish-mash dress code in the sanctuary: A lady in a pastel linen suit complete with ginormous hat right beside a young adult with blue jeans, a t-shirt and some vans. A man in some wingtips next to a girl in flip flops.

Okay, maybe not flip flops, but still. Super casz. The whole thing provided me great amusement, especially the looks on the faces of people when they realized they were terribly overdressed. (I admit, I felt kind of bad for the kids, though.) As for my kids? I assure you, they were EXTRA dusty and extra casual this week. Even dustier and casual-er than the Palm Sunday service last week--which is when these plaid shirt photos were snapped. Just add in one more week worth of hair and extra ashy legs and you'll get the picture.

Yup.

Dang. How sucky must it be to come in your brand spankin' new Easter outfit and get directed to the overflow room to watch a screen? Talk about a buzzkill. I mean. . .not being able to parade your outfit in front of the congregation sort of defeats the purpose, doesn't it?

Jusssssst kidding.

I don't know what it is about being banished to the overflow room that destroys any church service for me. In this day of modern technology, you can watch an entire service on your laptop or iPad from the comfort of your bed. So someone routing me off to another room so that I can do (in church) what I could have been doing in bed puts my me in the wrong mindset. Yeah, yeah, I know the fellowship part is biblical, but I'm just being honest, man. The overflow room waters down my fellowship fuzzies. But that's a NON-ISSUE seeing as I indeed secured one of the last seats.

I was all like:

Umm, let's see? What else? Did I tell y'all about the day that Zachary's teacher told me that for "show and tell" he decided to demonstrate "the happy church dance" to his class? He saw someone at church getting filled with the spirit and dancing--so he took it upon himself to let them see it, too.

Kind of like your regular show and tell, but like a more. . .uhh. . . active version. And kind of like this lady, but like, Zachary doing it instead. And kind of like the congregation you see clapping but a bunch of first graders instead.

I still have no idea how to feel about that little report.

Uhhhh. . .yeah.

What other random things am I thinking of? Oh. Yes. This:

Virtual church is a trip, man. What I'm talking about is how you can watch just about any fairly large church from the web or listen via podcasts with such ease now. Even though my church membership is in one place, thanks to the internet, I totally feel like a member of more than one church. So, like I GO to my church. But I download podcasts and do all my long runs to Andy Stanley's church and follow each series. . . like. . .religiously.  

Mmm hmm.

Yeah. We used to call it "Bedside Baptist" when we missed service on Sunday. In fact, the exchange used to go like this:

"Did you make it to 9:30 service today?"

"Naaah. I went to Bedside Baptist."

"Ooohhh, yeah! I know that church! With Reverend Pillow, right?"

"Yup. And Deacon Sheets."

Heh.

But now with technology, you can be under the covers with headphones and an iPad mini or in your kitchen with a MacBook open watching the entire 9:30 service. There's even a space to take notes and a button to click and give an offering. Crazy, right?

So now I guess that exchange could also go like this:

"Did you make it to 9:30 service to day?"

"Yeah. But I was at the satellite location with Minister MacBook." 

"Oh, okay. I went to 7:15 with Evangelist iPad." 

"You should checkout Pastor Podcast when you get a minute. He's good, too."

Bwaah ha ha. Whew! Dang I'm witty.

Uh oh. 

Is it bad to be letting y'all in on my naughty secrets like this? Probably. But oh well. #dontjudgeme

*Yawn*

Okay. So. . . actually none of that has anything to do with my original purpose for this post. Which I may have forgotten altogether with all that random rambling. . . .

Errrrrr. . . .

Oh! Yes. Okay, y'all. So in the spirit of Easter which, for me, is one of the most spiritual days of the year, I started thinking about some of my religious experiences at Grady Hospital. I always say that Grady feels like a ministry--and in all ministries, some days you are serving, other days you are getting served, or a lot of times, you're just bearing witness to it all. You know? Regardless of what you believe, I think we can all appreciate a spiritual experience. And at Grady, those happen all the time.

There's this word that is used a lot in Christian faith. It's an everyday word that's usually a noun, but when turned into a verb, the meaning changes. That word is "witness." See, to most, a witness is someone who saw something. But when used as a verb, witnessing means telling or showing someone what you've experienced. Some of my most memorable moments at Grady Hospital have come from those times where I've seen someone witnessing.

And nobody witnesses like the Grady elders. Here is the most magical of those times that I've ever experienced. Many of you will remember this story, reposted or rather resurrected from a 2011 post. But today, especially, I hope you'll revisit it.

The Grady chapel

Grady Hospital, November 2011

Working at Grady is like working in another little special country sometimes. There are things that are part of our normal here that in other places would seem odd or unusual. These are the things that make me love working at Grady so much.

On Monday the clinic was pretty busy. We finally wrapped up the last patient for that session, and at about 12:40, I sprinted down the stairwell and trucked through the hall on my way to get some food. I had only twenty minutes before being expected back so my brisk walk turned into a jog.  I waved to passersby and chuckled when a gentleman said in that very Grady way "Don't run nobody over, Doc!"

Purse on my shoulder, white coat on and heels clicking on the linoleum. . . .in quest of the Monday special at Subway and hoping the line wouldn't be horrible when I got there.  Just as I reached the E elevator area which is just before my turn to get out of the door, I heard something that made me slow down.

What is that?

I furrowed my brow, stood still and listened for a moment. That's when I figured it out. It was the voice of an aged male. . . singing at the TOP of his lungs. And weirdly it wasn't at the TOP of his lungs in a mentally ill or obnoxious way, either. It was in this way that seemed reminiscent of what it must have been like for folks picking cotton out in fields or scrubbing their floors on Saturdays. Not a performance type voice either. Just this loud and proud and unashamed voice bellowing out a Negro spiritual. . . .


"I HAD SOME GOOD DAYS 
I HAD SOME HILLS TO CLIMB 
I HAD SOME WEARY DAYS
AND SOME SLEEPLESS NIGHTS...."

I eased toward where the voice was coming from and laid eyes on the singer--an elderly African-American man appearing to be nearing his ninth decade. He was holding a cane and coat over his arm, and had simply decided to close his eyes, throw his head back and break out in song while waiting for the Grady elevator.

There were easily twenty people waiting in the vestibule with him. And you know what? None of them seemed the least bit fazed by this occurrence. Not the least bit.  In fact, several of them offered shouts of praise -- not to him per se, but those shouts that you hear in black churches after the first few stanzas of any gospel song-- meant not for the singer but technically for God.

He kept going in his wobbly voice:

BUT WHEN I LOOK AROUND
A-A-AND I THANK THANGS OVER. . . . .
ALL OF MY GOOD DAYS. . . .
OUTWEIGH MY BAD DAYS. . .
I WON'T COMPLAIN!!!"

I smiled as I watched,  taking it all in.  Then something even GRADY-er happened.  A woman that appeared to be no more than five years older or younger than this man JOINS IN with him. Yes! Joins in singing the same song equally as loud has he!  And they didn't even appear to know each other! She just came up beside him, lifting one hand to the heavens and not even really looking at him. But she was on his page most definitely. . . .her gravelly voice belting out through the corridor in that same unabashed tone. . .still punctuated by shouts of affirmation from others nearby.

And so in unison they continued:

"SOMETIIIIMES THE CLOUDS HANG LOW. . . .
I CAN HARDLY SEE THE ROAD
I ASK THE QUESTION LORD,
'LOOOORRRD. . . WHHHHYYYY??? SO MUCH PAIN???'
BUT HE KNOW WHAT'S BEST FOR ME
ALTHOUGH MY WEARY EYES THEY CAN'T SEE . . .
SO I'LL JUST SAY, 'THANK YOU, LORD.'
I WON'T COMPLAIN!!!"

It was absolutely beautiful.  Beautiful on so many levels, I tell you. Beautiful for me because, yes, I'm a believer, but beautiful beyond that, too. Here were two strangers -- both African-American elders -- who had surely lived through being spit at, called "boy" or "gal" and "nigger" or "nigra" and referred to collectively as "coloreds."  Who, if they were Georgians, had lived through a gubernatorial campaign with the motto "NO, NOT ONE!" for the leading candidate who promised to never let one--NO!Not one!--black child integrate a school in Georgia. (That candidate won by a landslide.)

They knew of a "White Grady" and a "Colored Grady" . . . a world with air conditioning on one side and open windows with flies and sweltering temperatures on the other.  Told that one of them equaled 2/3 a man and for this reason stood in protest with signs pleading with the world what should have been evident -- "I AM A MAN." They sat in the backs of buses and entered through back entrances. Withstood teenage boys with pink twisted snarls speaking to them like they were children just because of some false superiority in their skin color. Forced to say yes'm or no'suh to these same KIDS, despite the fact that they were young enough to be put over a knee. Or worse withstood poisonous words from the mouths of young adults that they themselves had raised.

And yet. Despite all of that, here they stood.  Strangers. Singing. . .still singing from the depths of their guts these simple words:

"I won't complain."

I didn't cry then. At the time it hadn't fully sunk in so I just smiled and then went on my way. But later on as I was driving home I thought about what they were singing and the sincerity in it. I let it sink in. . . the entire scene. . . . .and I did cry. Man, every time I imagined them and what they must have seen and lived through in their lifetimes more tears came. I felt so indebted to them.

Then I cried some more, feeling ashamed for the things I'd complained about that very day.

The Georgia governor who ran (and won) on the platform "No, Not One."

Yeah.

This? This is Grady.

***
Happy Easter. May your good days outweigh your bad days, too.



Now playing on my mental iPod. . . the EXACT rendition of the song they were singing that day. . .



This post is, hands down, one of my father's absolute favorites of all time. I just sat and listened to that song and those words again and relived that experience, hearing it as my father. His life is so different than it was when that post was originally written, but through his smile, his laugh and his love, he continues to witness just like these Grady elders.

Some epic pieces of This American Life.

ep·ic (ˈepik/) : (adj) particularly impressive or remarkable.

Life has been busy. Life has been good. Here are some epic pieces of this little life of mine.

Isaiah was teaching Zachary how to effectively ride his dirt bike uphill. He coached him over and over and over again telling him, "Stand up! Right now! Right now! Pedal hard!"

Zachary kept on toppling over half way to the top of the driveway hill. But they stayed out there and kept at it until finally. . . .

He did it.

Sure, it was an everyday moment captured through the window. But still it was epic.

Can you believe that this photo was taken the very next day after the ones above?

We survived the second round of snowmageddon here in Atlanta. The ice part was terrifying. Especially for those of us who live in areas filled with trees. We had power the whole time, thank goodness. For our neighborhood filled with old homes, that's a miracle. Epic, even.

Hey. And this:

This was on "Go Red for Women" day. The American Heart Association asks the whole world to wear red in honor of women who have been affected by heart disease. I ran three miles that day since 3 was Deanna's favorite number. No music, no pomp, no circumstance. Just me running and thinking of my beautiful sister the whole time. Doing something kind for my heart and missing her terribly the entire time.

I also went red with my friend Frieda that evening. We had a lovely girlfriend dinner to which I wore my favorite red dress. We also drank some red wine which, since we are both medicine nerds, we agreed was appropriately heart-healthy.

Walking through the School of Medicine on Friday, I witnessed this:

This is Wen. She's one of my Small Group Delta advisees and Thursday was her birthday. We didn't have small group that morning, but I was there for a meeting and caught a glimpse of her classmates surprising her with balloons and cupcakes.
 

They all sang Happy Birthday to her and it rang throughout the entire lobby. It was really, really sweet. But she is, so it makes sense.

I'm glad I saw that moment. Because, to me, showing people you care and putting the attention into little details like minicupcakes with candles on top is epic. That is, particularly impressive and remarkable.

Yup.

Speaking of which.

My dear friend the Profesora in Pittsburgh was passing through town recently. We met up for invisible coffee and real conversation. Oh--invisible coffee is when you are sitting outside of Alon's Bakery in their chairs for their patrons but not really eating or drinking coffee. Just sitting and talking and hoping that for all of the times that you have actually had coffee or food there that they'd just cut you some slack. Which they did.

I miss her very much so any time I get to spend with her is epic.

Hmmm. What else?

Oh, yes. This.

Has anybody here seen my old friend Martin?

 

We initially started out with "Martin-in-the-preacher-robe" but my eight year old son decided that he "felt more comfortable" being "Martin-in-a-suit." 

Which was fine with me. 

Because you know that I'm the first to admit that when you look good (and how you want to look) you feel good. And in turn, you do good. Or rather, well. You get the picture.

And how dare I leave out Zachary as James Weldon Johnson--the man who wrote the epic (sorry to beat the word to death) song "Lift Every Voice and Sing?" Zack settled on a purple velvet bow tie for his presentation. He found a few pictures of James Weldon Johnson rocking bow ties and was sold once Harry pulled out this velvet number from his personal collection.

Oh yeah, baby. Kind of retro-chic, yes?

 

So what was all of this about? On Saturday, the boys participated in a "Living Black History Museum" for our Jack and Jill Chapter's Black History Celebration. It was kind of like a science fair but instead of telling about your science experiment, you told them all about your life as a famous African American. 

Yep.

This was a lot of work. But the very moment I witnessed them presenting to the first people to visit their project boards, I knew that it was worth every single second that we'd put into getting it together.

I can't say enough about those boys. They got it. They did. And they honored those American heroes and did their mama proud. 

Very, very proud.

It was epic.

Oh. And please tell me if it gets more epic than this:

 

So, check it.

I really wanted to run the Atlanta Publix Half Marathon in March. But I will be out of town that weekend so can't do it. Bummer, right? Well. I set my sights on another nearby half to keep myself training. (Which I've learned is very necessary for me.) My good friend and soror, Crystal H., suggested that I look into the Mercedes Benz Half Marathon in Birmingham, Alabama. She said it was a good race and thought I should check it out. And so I did. 

I saw that it was on February 16, 2014. Which is my mother's birthday. And since we generally gather in the evening for her birthday, I kicked the thought around a bit. But mostly didn't think I'd do it. There was the whole driving there and driving back in time for mom's dinner. It was all going to be too much. Right?

Well. Check out this hair-brained scheme:

Poopdeck (my dad) is from Birmingham, Alabama. Did I mention that my dad and JoLai were coming to town that weekend already for my mom's birthday? Okay, well they were. 

So a few weeks ago I'm talking to Poopdeck on the phone. I tell him about sort of wanting to run the race. Next he, okay we, come up with this crazy, epic plan to have him DRIVE me to Birmingham that morning, drop me off at the start line, visit with his brother during the race, and then pick me up from the finish and drive back to Atlanta. All in time for us to make Mom's birthday dinner. And if you knew my dad like I know my dad, you'd know that this crazy, epic plan isn't as far-fetched as it sounds. And so. He not only agreed to do it--he said he was excited about it, too.

Yes.

And, if you think this can't get better, it does. I asked my best friend to join me. My best friend who runs, yes, but who had never run a half marathon. We'd just run a 15K together at the end of January and I asked if she'd be willing to train for this and do it with me. 

She said yes. 

And if you still think it can't get even BETTER, then keep reading. 

Fold into that equation not just two sleepy runners being picked up by Poopdeck at 4:30 a.m. but some rambunctious little boys, too.

Oh. Did I mention that it wasn't just two of them? There were three of them. Yes. Poopdeck managed Isaiah, Zachary and my three year-old godson, Jackson, too. Packed them all right up with us and rolled us into his hometown. And he loved every second of it--as did they. Sort of like a mini version of Camp Papa.

Sure did.

Lisa and I had a blast. The weather yesterday was perfect and the energy in Birmingham was amazing. I kind of think we were in an awesome mood just being together and knowing our kids were in for some fun, too.

One of my favorite sorors, Tamika, was kind enough to pick up both of our race packets the day before at the expo in Birmingham. Without her, this plan would have been an epic fail. And what's sweeter is that she pledged at my chapter, Gamma Tau, which makes her even more special to me.

Yep. 

My legs felt good and my heart felt strong. I did my mile dedications like always and they really, really helped this time. I literally study the list before I start and then imagine each person running beside me or helping me for that whole mile. I'm not even kidding. So here's my list for this one:

1. Me
2. Harry
3. Deanna
4. Francoise and Juliette (Fran, my sister-in-law, Jules, her baby sister who is in heaven.)
5. My Grady patients
6. Will
7. Zachary, age 7
8. Isaiah, age 8
9. Delta Sigma Theta and all of my sorors
10. JoLai
11. C.J.
12. Mommy and Daddy (Happy birthday, Tounces!)
13. Deanna!

The last 0.1 was for ME. I highly recommend the mile dedications. That makes every race feel more personal. But be warned--you may be subject to crying on certain miles.

Lisa and I separated around mile 4. But that was cool because we agreed that each of us would "run our own race." Man--for her first half? Wow, she did AWESOME. So, so very awesome. I was so proud of her.

The hardest miles for me were the Francoise and Juliette mile (4), the Isaiah mile (8) and the JoLai mile (10.) The CJ mile was tough, too, but he loaned me his angel wings, which helped me float for a bit. I think I chanted "come on, CJ" for the whole mile and before I knew it, it was over.

When I was on the JoLai mile (10), something awesome happened. My legs were screaming and I felt so tired. I kept picturing my sweet baby sister and then imagined me, her and Deanna together. It gave me a second wind for a few seconds but I still wanted to just stop and walk the rest of the way. Then-- I kid you not--blaring on a giant speaker system I heard some music. It was one of Deanna's absolute favorite songs of all time: Fighter by Christina Aguilera.

Makes me that much stronger
Makes me work a little bit harder
It makes me that much wiser
So thanks for making me a fighter!
Made me learn a little bit faster
Made my skin a little bit thicker
Makes me that much smarter
So thanks for making me a fighter!

And that? That did it. I sang and ran and ran and sang. And man! I felt like a fighter. I did.

I also really, really felt like I was with both of my original Ruths holding me on my right and left arms as I ran. Kind of like we were all running together to that song which, to me, felt kind of like a religious experience, man. Might sound corny, but it's true.

Yeah.

So anyways. On the way back, Poopdeck was driving and mostly everyone was asleep. And we were just talking and I told him that the reason I love these races is because they make me feel strong. Physically and emotionally. Kind of like I can do anything if I just work really hard in little increments and build myself up. And something about knowing that the only way to run a long distance is to strengthen your stamina until you can run a long distance makes me feel very proud. Especially since, by nature, I am a crammer and a procrastinator.

But. There is no cramming for a half marathon. Nope.

Which feels like such a solid metaphor for other things in life that require time over time and can't be crammed in. Like strengthening relationships with the people you love or having a parent that also feels like a friend. Or keeping a best friend for more than twenty years and still enjoying each other enough to act like you're still first year medical students no matter how much time passes. That happens with little increments being stacked over a lengthy period of time.

This race was a personal record for me. Or rather "PR" as the runny babbit people say. 2 hours and 23 minutes. Five minutes faster than my first half. (Pardon while I take a bow.) Yeah. So that made me feel kind of proud. You know? I'm mostly proud to just finish. That's the truth--but still. . . . the perpetual "gunner" medical student in me always wants to at least aim for a slightly better end result than the last time.

2:20 next time, maybe? Maybe so. Maybe no. We'll see.

Oh yeah. In B'ham my "big" cousin Shari Lynn met us near the finish line and took Lisa and me to breakfast. Hadn't seen her in over a year. And she's smart and awesome and funny and inspiring. So that part was really good.

Her dad is my Uncle Skeeter--whose God given name is Hiawatha. His God given name being Hiawatha has nothing to do with anything, but the fact that this is his real, true, on-his-birth-certificate name is kind of epic so I couldn't not say that.

Anyways. Dad and the kids visited with him while we ran and had breakfast. When it was time to leave, my uncle asked me to grab his mail for him. And I looked at him like he was going senile because it was a Sunday. "It's Sunday, Uncle Skeeter." And he said, "I haven't checked it in a few days. Go on out there and grab it, hear?"

And what are you supposed to say to that? To your seventy-seven year old uncle? So I go out to the mailbox on a Sunday and open it to grab his three-day-old mail. And here's what was in there:

Yaaaaaah!!! Of course I screamed when I saw it.

And this is Uncle Skeeter laughing at his witty little prank. Sigh. Did I mention that he's seventy- seven? I did, didn't I?

Uh, yeah.

Turns out that I made his week by startling when I opened that door, though. He'd just ordered Isaiah out to check the mailbox an hour earlier and what a disappointment Uncle Skeeter had when his great-nephew came strolling back in looking very confused. "There's no mail in there," Isaiah said with a shrug of his shoulders. "Just some rubber snake or something. But no mail."


Bwah ha ha.

After we'd returned to Atlanta and dad was preparing to go back to my mom's house, I thanked him for the twelve thousandth time. Then I told him how very, very, very fortunate and blessed I feel to have him not just as my father but as my children's grandfather. And then I just dropped my head and wept on his shoulder. And muffled into his neck I told him how much I deeply appreciate him--and I said that because it's just so true. Thinking about what he'd just done for me that day was something to cry about. But really? I was crying mostly because yesterday really wasn't any different than all of the other countless things he has done for me for over my entire lifetime. Things involving sacrifice and energy and. . . time over time.

I've said it before and I will say it again: This is not something to take lightly, having a father like the one I have. It isn't and I don't. And some days? Some days I just cannot get my mind wrapped around how much favor God had upon me when he entrusted me and my siblings to that man. And please know that this takes NOTHING from my amazing and matchless mother. I guess my point is that I think having a really great father is like. . . I don't know. . . like taking a hard ass test and getting chance to see the answer key in giant print beforehand. Sure. Without it, it's possible to pass and even do fairly well if you're lucky. But don't you think you'd have a hell of an easier way to go and a much greater chance of knocking it out of the park with that advantage? I certainly do.

So that man? My father? HE is epic. Particularly impressive and remarkable, he is.

Uggh. This is supposed to be a light post. My eyes are getting leaky.

*fans face and pats eyes*

Okay. Composure regained. Just in time to share some snaps from our family's favorite holiday--my mom's birthday! Loving Grandma Shugsie aka Tounces aka Mommy is the thing everyone can agree upon. So any gathering in her honor is always, always well attended. This year we were at Rivals on Five--the sports pub my brother owns.

Here's Shug with my nephew and her first grandchild, David. Officially a head taller than his grandmother. And below with all of the grandchildren plus one of the many Mom has adopted.

Of course no birthday is complete without being photobombed by a grandkid.  This one courtesy of Isaiah. Ha.

 JoLai and Daddy in from Los Angeles. Woo hoo!

So yeah. This year's birthday was totally awesome. Epic, even. But getting together for my mom's birthday is always epic since it reminds us of the one we had when she turned sixty five. That was the last one that included Deanna. But more than that, it was just a perfect celebration of family and love. And ever since, I think we all sort of see her birthday that way. Like this day that should always ground us and remind us that family is everything.

Here's the post from that day. Most of you have read it before, but for those who haven't or who want to revisit it, this is an opportunity. Those who remember that know how epic it was--and why Mom's birthday will always be a love day for us.

Always.

Lastly, I'll leave you with this:

Zachary also did a presentation to his class on James Weldon Johnson just the week before the snowmageddon. (Which is what inspired him choosing the same for the "Living Black History Museum.") And while he was preparing it, he decided that it would be better if he actually let the class hear the song since most first graders wouldn't know it.

That morphed into him deciding to learn and SING the first stanza of "Lift Every Voice and Sing." And when he sang it to his grandpa over Skype, my dad told him that the song was special and that in encouraged people during very tough times. And I talked to him about his grandpa growing up in Birmingham, Alabama in the fifties and how that was a part of the "dark past" that taught us so much faith, as the song says.

Yep.

So he decided to wear a tie and treat the whole thing with some amount of seriousness. He sure did. His "night before" dress rehearsal (in which he insisted that he wear a shirt and tie) will always be one of my favorite clips ever.

Uggh. For whatever reason, Blogger won't let me upload it. I'll get that up once I figure it out-- along with one of Isaiah as MLK.

That way you can answer "yes" the next time anyone asks you if you've seen their old friend Martin.

Heh.

That's all I got. Thanks for reading all that. Night night, y'all. Epic dreams.

***
 Happy Monday.

Now playing on my mental iPod. . . . .

Miss Christina Aguilera singing "Fighter". So gonna add this to my run play list. Right up there with "Get up offa that thang." For reals.



And also THIS amazing sermon from Andy Stanley about "Time Over Time." I don't attend his church, but thanks to podcasts I never miss any of his messages. (Love technology for that!) Okay, so this? This is a good word no matter what you believe. Very applicable to any life of any person who is trying to make wise decisions with their time. Some things just can't be crammed in or squared up in a lump sum. Our job is to figure out which things must involve time over time to work. Check it out.