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Because we bought it, that’s why

Due to our work schedules, Honey picks up the weekly groceries on his way home every Thursday and usually cooks if there’s supper to be had (not tonight) or he has to wait until 8pm minimum for me to get off work at 6:30, drive the 1/2 hour, and get it on the table an hour later.  Every Thursday the emails start about noon and relay until around 4:30.  Subject line is “grocery list.”

“We’re out of horseradish sauce.  Don’t get that wimpy stuff.”

He didn’t get that wimpy stuff.

Hah … hah ….. CHOOO !  Whoa!  Man! That’ll cure anything!  Yikes! Give me a kleenex! (snort)-CHOO! I’m sweatin’!  No sinus headaches tonight–no sinuses left.  No pneumonia or roof of my mouth or eyeballs either.

You know, it wouldn’t break the bank if we tossed the horseradish from hades and replaced it with something not quite so nuclear.  But, since we paid good money for it, we’re going to suffer through it.  Good stewardship.

You okay?  Yeah.  You? Yeah.

That’s good horseradish.  Num.

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SNOW!!

Monday afternoon flakes flew in significant numbers for more than an hour straight.  In Tennessee this sends cubers in droves to their email boxes to inundate managers with authorization requests to go home.  But we all know they’ll head first for the Wal Mart for toilet paper, cigarettes, and milk.  The lactose intolerant and/or non-smokers will head straight for the paper products.  Let the hair pulling begin!

I was ready for the cube crowds to storm the exits and push the doors off the hinges in the new Black Friday tradition but it didn’t happen — this time.  Wait until Thursday.  The forecast is ugly to uglier starting at 1:00am.  I’ll bet instead that shooting a cannon through the place at 8:30am won’t hit very many people.  We’ll see. If the same lady who last year said she saw white on the road ahead and slammed on the brake with both feet is on the road again this week, she may take a few coworkers with her down the embankment.  I may have to ask her her route and send out a mass email warning others not to leave their houses until an hour after her start time.

I always laughed at the jokes about the grocery runs until once I was coincidentally picking up a few things and saw that the milk section had one lonesome carton left and that one didn’t last more than a minute after I saw it.  Unbelievable.

I’ll have you know that this week I’m prepared.  There are two, count them, two packages of toilet paper in the house.  I am lactose intolerant and stared only briefly at the cigarettes.

Bring it on.

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The daughter had just completed her first gruelling year of college.  Having breezed through high school, she had to buckle down and study the hard stuff.  After long hours and sacrifice, she achieved a final A- average and was very proud.  So was daddy when she came home and proudly announced her accomplishments.

Along with the excellent grades, the daughter reported to daddy that she had joined the ACLU. She believed it was the responsibility of every good citizen to help lift up the helpless and downtrodden.

At dinner, daddy asked about her best friend who attended the same college.  The daughter reported that her girlfriend got off to a good start but was more and more attracted to the party circuit, started missing classes, turning in poor quality work and ended up with a failing grade point average.  She promised to do better when questioned and intends to return and pursue her degree.

Daddy waited for a while and finally suggested that in order to assure that the girlfriend was enrolled the next year and receive all the help the responsible students could give her, he suggested that his daughter should determine the difference between her grade points and her girlfriend’s points and average them.

“You can sacrifice for your fellow student, can’t you?  She needs your help.”

The daughter’s eyes widened and her face turned red. “Are you kidding me? I worked hard for my grades! I stayed up late, I was exhausted! I didn’t miss one class and all my work was mine with no help from anyone.  All she did was party, party, party.  What did she do to ………..”

“How about this?  Find some time to sit with your friend.  Help her learn study skills, fill up some of her party time in the library or a coffee shop.  Kind of a reformation process,” suggested Daddy.

“I can see that.  Then she can earn her own grades without taking mine. That can work.”

Daddy smiled, put down his napkin, and gently said, “Welcome to the core conservative movement.”

James Brown! IN Church!!

I’ll bet you didn’t hear “I Feel Good, ne ne ne ne ne ne ne, I knew that I would now, ne ne ne ne ne ne ne,” during the sermon this Sunday or any recent Sunday unless you were at our church today. It was an excellent emphasis to what the preacher was trying to get across which was maintaining an attitude of celebration, admitting we are emotional creatures created by an emotional God. I don’t know if this man’s focus was to preach to particular types and traditionalists within Christianity so I will give you my persective:

He spoke to particular types and traditionalists within Christianity.

To the old line conservatives: Hands-in-the-lap quiet is not the only mode of relating to God and man–have some natural fun already. In church is okay. Do what makes you comfortable but don’t insist everyone else see it that way.

To the Baptists: You can dump God. Really. Once saved, always saved is not scriptural unless it is He who is holding onto your hand. In that case, He will not let go of you. However, He will not wink at your intentional, unrepented constant rebellion and let you into Heaven anyway. That’s called voluntary backsliding.  There are rules. Check the Handbook.

The James Brown thing entered into the picture during a description of a groom kissing his bride at an all-out week long party celebration that those in Jesus’ day called a “wedding.” As the music played, the preacher jigged.

What I’m getting at has nothing to do with the free spirit of the preacher or the Baptists. It has to do with whoever that young girl was behind me and what she said.

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