Thank you for your service

Costco Wholesale Warehouse is an absolute gold mine around lunch time. Vendors set up 
tables all over the mammoth store, hawking all sorts of samples ranging from vitamin juice 
shots to mini crab cakes. I used to make sure that I would go there with the kids so that we 
would have at least one day when we didn’t have to meal plan.

    
I don’t shop there all the time because we simply can’t afford to. Not that the prices are bad, 
it’s just that I don’t know when to stop. Instead, I will go every month or so to stock up on bulk 
supplies of juice boxes, salsa, pizza rolls, peanut butter, and whatever items I am convinced 
that my family cannot live without. 

     
Perhaps the biggest, if only, drawback to Costco is that it is always crowded. Every aisle is 
clogged with shoppers pushing oversized carts full of their choice of essential goods and, 
while no one is necessarily rude about the rules of the road, it can get pretty dicey navigating 
tight corners and attempting to cross from the snacks to the pasta section. 

    
Whenever I encounter an aisle that’s a little too congested for my comfort, I will backtrack and 
take an alternative route, as if I have some secret shortcut that no one else knows about. Not 
long ago when I was shopping for the next few week’s worth of supplies, as I wheeled my cart 
filled with a 120-count box of granola bars and enough gummy bears to choke a small elephant, 
I encountered a roadblock that had me quickly throwing it into reverse into a detour down the 
next aisle. It contained socks and men’s off brand running shoes, so it was a much safer 
passage.

     
Rounding the corner that would allow me to bypass this latest obstruction, I paused for a 
moment to take in exactly who it was that had caused this latest inconvenience. There in the 
middle of the adjacent aisle was an older gentleman, possibly in his 80’s, hunched slightly at 
the waist and using his shopping cart as a walker. He was traveling at the speed of slow, which 
for him was just fine because he was in absolutely no hurry at all. 

     
On his head he wore a baseball cap, one of those military hats that veterans of wars and armed 
conflicts wear with obvious pride. The insignia on the front told me that he had served in the 
Korean War. My grandfather operated the radio on a B25 bomber during World War 2 in the 
Pacific theater and I knew all about those islands he flew over and the enemy he fought.

I have read books about Guadalcanal and Bougainville and other exotic sounding places where 
our American GI’s fought tooth and nail against the Japanese for what amount to nothing more 
than isolated plots of land made mostly of coral. On these islands we began to win the war 
against Japan, keeping them from overtaking Australia and the rest of the Pacific region. My 
grandfather never spoke much about his time over there, but I know he must have seen and 
experienced some incredible, and horrific, things.

The war in Korea I admittedly knew very little about. I know that we tried to help South Korea 
hold the communists at bay and eventually were successful in doing so, but that’s really about 
it. Nevertheless, I have a great amount of respect for anyone who has served this country in the 
military and I learned a long time ago that it was a good and right act to thank those servicemen 
face-to-face whenever you saw them. Especially if they were wearing those special kind of hats. 

As this elderly hero made his way down the aisle, I purposefully stood in his way so that I could 
garner his attention. I wasn’t all that concerned that he would run me over with his cart because 
of his lack of momentum, but I was careful all the same to watch out for my toes. Right as he was 
about to bump my cart, he stopped and looked up, staring me straight in the eyes. I quickly 
gathered myself and told him in the strongest voice I could muster, “Thank you for your service.” 

Without missing a beat, he replied, “It was my honor to serve you and my country and, if I had 
the chance, I would storm the border of Korea all over again in order to make sure that you 
stayed safe.” Instantly I felt my eyes start to sweat and any response that I could have made 
was stuck in my throat as if I was choking on a piece of steak.

Mesmerized by his response, I stood frozen in place, unable to reply. Here was this weathered 
and worn veteran who could no longer tie his own shoes, now declaring his desire to re-defend 
this country if that’s what it took. Shaking off my stupor, I was finally able to feebly respond to 
him, thanking him again for his service, words which now seemed pathetically inadequate. This 
genuine hero offered a satisfied smile and began to shuffle on his way towards the peanut 
butter and honey section. I in turn quickly turned my cart in the other direction to head toward 
the ice cream and fruit punch.

As I padded my way, avoiding more carts and the glut of consumers, I could not help but admit 
with a bit of sadness that they simply don’t make men like that anymore.

End of summer drag

Today is the first day of August, which means that there are still a few weeks before school begins and the real monotony of the schedule takes over. Summer is still in full swing and there are plenty more days at the beach and the pool to be had. It is still hot, so steamy hot that eyeglasses fog over once you leave the house and you begin to sweat just thinking about how hot it's going to be once you open the front door. Your legs instantly stick to the car seats and the grass in your yard gave up its fight for growth a long time ago. The humidity gauge reads 70%, but I think that's a lie. It probably succumbed to the heat, too.

There are no school buses to dodge in the afternoons, no homework assignments to complete, and no lunches to pack in the wee hours of the morning. There is still plenty of time to binge watch Netflix shows for the third time and to sleep in after staying up late just because you can. Walmart has aisles of school supplies for sale at rock bottom prices, but you haven't even bothered to shop for them yet. The school year is weeks away, not tomorrow. Many days lay ahead in which to celebrate the glory that is summer vacation.

Yet when I awoke this morning, a feeling of something akin to dread was nibbling at my bones. Summer vacation IS almost over and the sense of impending doom is almost palpable. It's not that I hate school – I don't. As a school teacher, I enjoy my work and my students and the challenge that it is to edu-ma-cate them the best that I can. But summer...summer is sacred, you know? It never lasts long enough and I don't know of anyone who actually accomplishes everything on their summer to-do list. Sure, it's hot and muggy and air conditioning is a gift from the Lord, but come the those bitter winter winds of January, I don't hear anyone complaining about how hot summer was.

So here we are, dreading the end of summer as much as we are the beginning of the school year. My neighborhood is stocked with kids who are bored out of their minds, but not enough to wish that school would start back so soon. They would rather empty the dishwasher and vacuum the den than to sit at a desk all day or ride that cramped bus home. Anything but the end of summer.

But alas, the time is almost upon us. If you haven't yet gone fishing, pulled out the canoe, visited your aunt or uncle in the mountains, gone to see that movie, built a campfire on the beach, or simply sat on your porch listening to the crickets and the katydids, don't fret. You still have time. Don't worry, you will also have your weekends to check those things off of your list, too. And don't forget, college football starts back soon, which is proof that there is indeed a God who loves us.

Oh, and it's gonna stay hot at least through the month of September, so you've got that going for you as well.

Wrong bait? Who cares!

They didn’t catch a thing. In fact, I’m not even so sure they got so much as a nibble on those hooks baited with artificial top water frogs, probably not the best choice for luring bass in this pond. Although there are plenty of manmade retention ponds all around, natural freshwater spots aren’t all that common this close to the coast. Yet these less than ideal circumstances did not - could not - deter my son and his friend, along with my tag along daughter, from attempting to catch “the big one.”

Before we moved to the coast, we had unlimited access to a pond on the edge of our property that was swarming with fish, which included a giant elusive bass that we named Maximus. My brother, visiting from New York, purchased cheap rod and reel combos, effectively introducing fishing to my kids. The typical haul was a glob of algae covered grass or a tree limb on a wayward cast, yet every once in a blue moon one of them would hook a small brim or bass. Maximus, however, would remain unscathed, taunting us from the shallows as he leisurely swam amongst the reeds near the bank.

Last night was no different at this newly discovered fishing hole. Excited voices chattered about the “huge fish” they could see in the crystal clear water, yet dropping their hooks in the immediate vicinity yielded no success. Undaunted, they continued to fish off of the short pier, occasionally moving to the shallow banks, determined to hone their craft and technique even if their choice of bait was made their efforts futile.

I observed these scenes as I sat in a beach chair I had brought along, glancing up from my book every few seconds at the excited voices calling from the dock. Honestly, I did not want to take them out tonight. The temperature during the day had hovered in the mid-90’s and it was humid enough to melt

the chrome off of a bumper. But a slight breeze greeted us as we sat our gear on the bank and the gnarled trees offered enough shade to protect me from the sun’s blazing intentions. Katydids serenaded us from the bushes and thickets as families of geese swam just out of reach. 

Taking all of this in, I was reminded once again of the joys of summer through the mind and eyes of youth. Who wants to stay inside playing video games when you can spend hours trying to drop your hook in hopes of catching the big one? Sure, it’s hot, but it’s not constraining like the classroom will be starting at the end of next month.

Loaded down with gear, we hiked the trail back to the car as the sun was mercifully bidding us farewell behind the trees. The evening’s lack of success could not dampen the mood as they planned their next excursion, debating which baits and rigs would work best. Bottles of ice cold soda from the corner convenience store, well earned rewards after a hard fought evening of angling, tempered the moment and added a little more inspiration to the stories they would continue to tell into the night. Next time, they will catch dinner, they proclaimed. And I believed them because they promised me they would.

Boredom is all in your mind

"I'm bored."

"There's nothing to do."

"Can we go somewhere and do something?"

Growing up, I am certain that I uttered those same phrases at least a million times, especially during the summer months. It didn't seem to matter that I had two older brothers close to my age, a huge backyard to play in, neighborhood pool that never seemed to close, and was surrounded by woods and creeks that never ceased to invite me for an adventure.

Yet even then, I often struggled to find things to do. Since this was the era before computers and cell phone technology, sitting in front of the television was about as lazy as I could get away with until my mom made me go back outside. Most days I was out the door after breakfast and had to be called home (via my mom's vocal chords, not a phone!) for dinner. Boredom wasn't much of an option or a privilege for me and most of the friends I knew.

Now don't get me wrong - I'm not claiming to have lived some idyllic childhood where we churned our own butter and went on Robinson Caruso type adventures. But I do believe that my generation was better equipped to deal with how we would solve the problem of too much time on our hands.

Look around you today and you will see that people in America are as busy as they have ever been yet seemingly more bored than all the other past generations combined. Everywhere that you look, teens and adults are glued to their phones in hopes of finding something - anything - to entertain them for the next few minutes of their lives. Texting, SnapChat, and other forms of social media have replaced real live conversations. And no, FaceTime does not count.

Do I love my phone? Yes, I do. I admit that I have to fight the urge to waste precious minutes and hours on my phone looking at everyone else's pictures and posts and reading up on the news. But I also grew up learning the value of a book, of spending time outside, and being with friends talking and laughing with each other deep into the late hours of the night. Face-to-face, not phone-to-phone. These are the things that I still so greatly value.

Boredom doesn't really exist. What does exist is the fact that we've often forgotten how best to utilize the time that we've been given. Gizmos and gadgets are artificial ways of stealing what precious time we actually do have. They can't truly teach you anything. Rather, they often rob you of what you already have.

Imagine how much sweeter life would be if, instead of grabbing that rectangular device every time we've got a few moments to kill, we would instead choose a book or an adventure in the woods or a conversation on the porch until late in the night. I don't know about you, but that doesn't sound boring at all.

Life in the new hood

This past Saturday night my new neighborhood - Wrightsville Green, aka The Hood - celebrated its annual 4th of July gathering. Before we even moved in, several of our neighbors were quick to tell us how fun and amazing this night was. Our home owner's association sent us emails reminding us of the festivities and we were asked to sign up to bring food at the community mailbox.

Seeing this as an opportune chance to get to know pretty much everyone in all 50+ homes, we agreed to bring cantaloupe (because you can't have a party without melon) and a cucumber/tomato/onion salad (because if they didn't eat it, I would). The days leading up to the shindig were filled with stories of past 4th of July celebrations and how this year's was going to be the best ever.

Finally the big day had arrived. The party officially started at 4:00 but we planned to be fashionably late because it's really awkward when you don't really know many people and you are the first ones to show up. Our posse left the house at 4:30 to make the short walk down to what is known as the common area, which is composed of the back yards of several houses that share Bradley Creek as their border. This creek is a meandering salt water marsh creek that eventually feeds into the Atlantic Ocean and it is an ideal spot for launching a small boat, kayak, or stand-up paddle board, which I haven't done yet but plan on doing soon.

As we rounded the bend of one of the houses, I was immediately struck by the decadent smell of smoked pork. Jamie, whose house lies in the common area and is also the pit master, lifted the lid to a rather large smoker to show me a behemoth of a pig that was almost cooked to perfection - all 140 pounds of it. He let me know that he also had a secret sauce that was willed to him by man whose barbecue sauce was locally famous but who would not give up the recipe until after he had crossed the threshold of heaven. I ain't gonna lie - that was some good sauce! Another neighbor, Steve, was also there and very attentive to the needs of this simmering sow.

It wasn't long before the rest of the neighborhood began to roll in (we weren't as fashionably late as I had hoped) and that's when the party really started hopping. Kids were absolutely everywhere! And the food just kept coming - chips and dips, rice and beans, chicken wings and some green rolled up things, as well as cookies and brownies and lemon squares, which I'm pretty sure Jesus Himself enjoys as a late night snack. When the pig was done and the men had begun to chop her into a million little pieces, the feast officially began.

Our two oldest daughters, who didn't know a soul, played it pretty close to the vest at the beginning, preferring to hang near mom and dad. Not so with our two youngest ones. You would have thought that they shared crib space with all of the neighborhood kids! Meeting new people has never really been a harrowing experience for my wife and I either, and we quickly found ourselves engrossed in conversations with people whom just a few moments before had been perfect strangers.

My wife met another neighbor who is also a professor at UNCW, teaching in the area of creative writing. I may or may not have told her to read my blog to see what she thought. There was sophomore at UNCW who will be living in his parent's newly purchased home (they live in another city) during the school year and who is interested in some of the same areas of ministries in which I have served. Chris is a guy from England who I kept having a conversation with because I enjoy discussing English soccer but mainly because I loved to hear his accent. There were also surfers, entrepreneurs, stay-at-home moms, an MMA trainer, photographer, a couple who helps rescue girls from the sex trade, and many, many others.

The evening culminated in the grand finale for the 'hoods annual celebration - a fireworks display that was not only illegal but incredibly dangerous. The aforementioned Jamie and Steve were also a few of the pyrotechnic experts who had assembled an obscene amount of gun powder fueled entertainment, much of which I am pretty sure would get you locked up in Mexico.

Positioning ourselves a "safe" thirty-some yards away from ground zero, several of us oohed-and-aahed at the amazing display of glittered colors in the sky as the more responsible adults assembled the kids a safer distance away. Even more entertaining than the fireworks were the antics of several grown men as they lighted wicks and danced out of the way before certain disaster happened.

As the evening was about to come to a close, a near catastrophe of cataclysmic proportions happened. A mortar tipped, sending its wayward cargo shooting in all directions, including straight at me and my youngest daughter who decided to join me closer to the action. Instinctively I stuck out my sandaled foot as a shield to block the fiery missile, hoping for a split second act of heroism to save the day. Thankfully, it fizzled out right as it was about to make contact, saving both my lower leg and my Rainbow flip flops. Several of my neighbors reacted with horror at the fact that they had almost killed the new guy, but we were able to nervously laugh it off once we saw that no damage was done.

Indeed, this was a memorable night in our new neighborhood, one that we won't soon forget. We are grateful for the new friendships that were made and can't wait to grow and foster them more in the future. Lying in bed later that night, my wife and I were recounting our day when we both realized that something really cool was occurring in this neighborhood of people that we had just met: They were doing an amazing job of living in community with one another.

Community is what so many of today's churches are seeking after yet are failing to achieve. Relationships are built on more than just shared belief; they thrive on a shared connection, one that is rooted in a genuine interest in not only the well-being of others around you but in also sharing life with them - the good, the bad, and the ugly of it all.

I think we're gonna like it here.

That's not a tear, I just have something in my eye

Yesterday I attended my fourteen-year-old daughter's last dance recital. I say "last" because she is heading to high school next year at the University of North Carolina School of the Arts in Winston-Salem where she will focus on music, specifically the clarinet. She has made it clear to us that she sees her future in music, not dance, and that she is ready to move on to the next chapter in her life.

The next chapter? At age fourteen?

As I watched her dance in her three performances, so much flashed before my eyes. I recalled her first dance classes as a three-year-old. For three solid weeks all she did was stand there stiff as a board, unwilling to participate with the other girls as the teacher was instructing them in all the finer points of dance that a three-year-old can digest. Finally, my wife laid the gauntlet down - either you dance or we're going home for good! Miraculously, from that moment forward dancing was never an issue with her.

Memories of her first recital, with the poofy costumes and the awkward but unbelievably cute dance moves, came to mind. For a moment she was my little girl again, complete with glitter and feather costumes that served as dress-up play clothes for years to come. Then when the littlest girls from the dance school came on stage after my daughter's performances, it was like a flashback to the past and I saw her again as my little girl up on the stage with them. I'm not gonna lie, I may have had a tender moment right then and there.

This is not unique to just my second oldest child - I am living through it with all four of my children as they grow up before my eyes way too quickly. And it's not that our children don't need me and my wife anymore, it's just that they now need us in different ways. "Mommy" and "Daddy" have been replaced by "mom" and "dad" and hand holding has been supplanted by hand outs. When my wife and I started to have children, I remember someone saying to us that we would blink and they would be grown up. I never realized how right that person would be.

As of this past Friday I now have a junior in high school who is bravely going to a new school in Wilmington next year; a freshman in high school who will be four hours away at the UNCSA; a fifth grader who is one step away from middle school; and a fourth grader who is smarter than I could ever hope to be.

I wish I could stop blinking but I find that I have something wet in my eyes that forces me to close them on occasion.

The good old days are alive and well

Yesterday Chris Cornell, an icon from my younger days as a seeker of real music, died. I remember when his band Soundgarden first came out with their heavy, grimy guitar riffs and his unmistakable voice driving their songs all along the spectrum of vocal abilities - it blew my mind! I will admit that my air guitar game was strong in those days. The early 1990's were a time when bands like Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, and Stone Temple Pilots were swooping in to rescue all of us from the nefarious clutches of hair metal and the really bad 1980's electronic stuff that they tried to pass off as music. I'm not too biased, am I?

As I get older I will inevitably experience the loss of those who not only entertained me in my younger years but also those whom I knew personally. Many of my friends have lost one or both parents and all of my grandparents have already passed on. Every once in a while social media lets me know that someone I knew in high school or college has succumbed to cancer or died from some other cause. Every single time that happens I pause and reflect, trying to conjure up memories of these old friends and acquaintances from places in the far corners of my mind.

This is not intended to be a sad or depressing post. Rather, this is celebration of memories if not all out nostalgia. I find my self consistently referring to the experiences of my younger years as I converse with my children (can you feel their eyes rolling through your computer screen?), realizing that I have become "one of those" adults who believes that everything was not only simpler but better back in the day.

It's not that I - nor any of my contemporaries - are going kicking and screaming into the future. I love today's technology and depend upon it just as much as today's generation does. The fact that I haven't had to walk across the room to manually turn the television channel in years has been life-changing for me. My life today has the ability to be so much more efficient than it was when I had to write all of my college and grad school papers on an electric typewriter. Can you imagine trying to type anything today without spell check?

But I have to admit, my fondest memories come from when I was younger and life for me WAS simpler. Sure, I didn't have to carry the weight of a job or family responsibilities (which I love, by the way), but the whole process of experiencing life for the first time was exhilarating. My mind wasn't cluttered with worries and anxieties like it sometimes is today, and relationships were at the forefront of everything that I pursued. That's why when I read of someone from my younger years passing on, it causes me to stop in my tracks to reflect on what, for me, will always be the good old days.

There is no doubt about it, life is short. I recently turned 47 and I can't believe how stinking old I am. Yet instead of living in the past, I relish seeing my own children create their own futures right before my eyes. Other than leading a life that points my children to the truth of Jesus, my highest goal is to live in the moment with them as they experience relationships, heart aches, achievements, and failures. As sad as it can be to see others from my childhood pass on from this earth, it's even more exciting to watch my own children and those around me blaze their own trails into the future.

Oh, one more thing. Today's music can't hold a candle to the songs of the 1990's. Thank you Chris Cornell for the memories and for Eddie Vedder and the other remaining old rockers who are still keeping it real for us today.

Dream shots and hitting the mark

My goal in life has never been to be rich and famous and so far that goal is well within my grasp. Compared to the billions of people on this planet, my world is relatively small, but I still long to make an impact for someone greater than myself. But there was this one time when the world around me stopped to take notice. At least the guys in one of the basketball gyms at Wake Forest University did anyway.

I will be the first one to confess that my skills as a basketball player have never been much to brag about. Pick-up ball games at the church gym with the fellas that I grew up with were pretty much my only experience with the game, and every once in while I would chuck up a deep ball and see it tickle the twine, but that was not the norm. Being a short guy who could only dribble with his left hand, my specialty was playing annoying defense and fouling the opposing players, which I became pretty adept at doing. But my church buddies didn't seem to care all that much - I guess all that teaching on grace had begun to sink in by then and they quickly forgave my erratic performance.

Fast forward to my junior year in college and my game had actually improved quite a bit. I still couldn't do much with my right hand, but I was quick and could knock down a jumper or two, although I preferred (and still do to this day) to dish out a dime to a teammate whom I knew could make the shot. Pick-up games at Wake Forest were usually pretty intense, with the first team to eleven remaining on the court until they were jousted by a more talented  - or less fatigued - group of five, and the cycle would repeat itself.

Waiting to play in a game was almost as bad as trying to find a team to get on that would last more than one round of play, but every once in a blue moon I was able to weasel my way onto a pretty decent team. One spring afternoon in 1991 I believed I had finally hit the jackpot.

The games had just begun that afternoon and my team had a Wake Forest basketball player on it, a guy named David Rasmussen who had just transferred in from another college. He was tall and could shoot from anywhere on the court, which meant that all I would need to do was get him the ball and hang back on defense. I at last might be able to stay on the court for a few sessions before languishing on the sidelines awaiting my next opportunity to play.

As David gathered our team together, I noticed that another team was assembling that made my knees shake just a little. There was Chris King, the starting power forward for Wake Forest who would play several years in the NBA, and he was standing alongside Derrick McQueen, the starting point guard for Wake Forest, putting together a unit of their own. My first thought was that those two could beat the five of us on their own, but at the same time I was excited about being on the court with a few Wake Forest players. When was that ever going to happen again?

We took the court and play began. There was nothing formal about pick-up ball in the gyms at Wake Forest. The action was fast-paced and fouls were rarely called unless someone came up bleeding. I was matched up against Derrick McQueen, who didn't seem too impressed with my lack of physical acumen and thus paid little attention to me when my team was on offense.

Early in the game my teammate David Rasmussen found me on the fast break around the free throw line, and I floated up a jumper that went in. Of course, we could do little to stop the other team from scoring but it felt nice to contribute a little. A few possessions later is when the magic kicked in for me, forging memories that my mind can see just as clearly today as if they happened yesterday. You see, I got the hot hand and nailed a few deep baskets.

The first long shot came after the other team had scored. Chris King could routinely pull up from half court on those side courts and hit shots, and today was no different. After a basket by King, one of my teammates inbounded the ball to me and no sooner had I taken a step or two past half court, I launched a deep three point shot. Swish. The next time that we had the ball I did the exact same thing, launching a three point shot that barely moved the net as it passed through. I would never dare compare myself to an elite basketball player, but in that moment I truly believe I was in what athletes call "the zone," even if it only last for a few minutes.

My teammates were looking at me like, "Who is this short guy with the receding hairline hitting these shots like he's Larry Bird?" David Rasmussen gave me a knowing look and confidently said, "Keep getting open and I'll get you the ball." Seriously. Did they know that I could never hit those shots again in a million years? Besides, McQueen wasn't even playing defense on me, so I was open as I could hope to be each time down the court. All that would soon change.

During the stretch of our game, I noticed as a rather large muscular guy strolled into the gym and stood on the sidelines to watch our game. It didn't take me long to realize that this was super freshman Rodney Rogers, a McDonald's All-American - the first one I believe that Wake had ever signed - who was known as the Durham Bull. Rodney was an absolute beast on the court and we had all watched the Wake games in awe earlier in the year as he took over time and again, scoring with monster dunks and unguardable post moves while making opponents look downright silly. And here was Rodney Rogers, watching the pick-up game in which I was nailing shots against his varsity teammates.

It was after my third basket ripped the nets that I heard those words I will never forget. "Yo Derrick, white boy is showing you up!" shouted Rodney, aiming his words at his point guard teammate who up until now had paid little attention to me. In that moment, something came over Derrick McQueen. He had been called out and there was no way he was going to take that, especially from a teammate who, even though he was everybody's All American, was still the new kid on the block. Now it was on.

As we jogged down the court, the sting of Rogers' comment still ringing in his ears, McQueen looked at me and said, "Man, you need to slow down. You're gonna hurt yourself!" I feebly muttered back something to the effect that this was just a fluke and I'm sure it won't happen again, but I'm pretty sure he didn't listen. All I know is that suddenly Derrick McQueen was paying more attention to me than I could ever desire.

Any time I get near the ball, McQueen was in my grill. When he had the ball on offense he went straight at me, daring me to stop him. There were times when he actually tried to post me up in the paint, bullying me with his larger frame in an attempt to show me that he would not be taken lightly. All the while the game is continuing to be played by the other players who were shooting and missing and rebounding in spite of this personal battle that was now being waged.

A few minutes later it was all over. My team had lost by a few baskets and I had not so much as sniffed the leather on the ball once Rodney Rogers had uttered those fateful words. But I did outscore Derrick McQueen in that game three baskets to two, a point of satisfaction that still stays with me to this day.

Walking off the court, I thought that surely my MVP performance had been noticed by my teammates and they would present me with some sort of trophy for attempting to slay the monster of playing against Division One college players, but that was not the case. There were no post game handshakes or good game back slaps, just another round of first-team-to-eleven and waiting again for another chance to play.

Nevertheless I was feeling a bit euphoric and couldn't wait to get out on the court again. That's when I noticed that Rodney Rogers was still standing there on the sidelines and that no one was around him. Did this mean that he was available for the next game? Would I actually be able to play on the same team as Rodney Rogers?

Visions of lobbing ally oop passes for slam dunks and post-game fist bumps with the Durham Bull raced through my head. I had to make sure that no one else had approached him to be on their team. This was MY dream day and I was determined to keep on living it.

I sheepishly made my way over to where Rodney was standing, his giant frame casually dribbling a ball between his legs. With a faux wave of confidence, I asked him if he wanted to call next game with me and to my surprise he looked down at me and simply said, "Yeah." I was so overjoyed that you would have thought that he had just accepted an invitation to be my BFF, but I played it cool, not wanting him to know just how much of a homer I was.

The current game was drawing to a close, King and McQueen's team again ruling the court. "Not for long, suckas!" was all I could think as I eagerly awaited my turn to take the court with who at the time had been the most sought after freshman to ever don a Wake Forest basketball jersey. It was game point, and in the next few minutes my road to greatness was going to widen from a two lane back road to a four lane highway.

And just as quickly as my joy was about to reach its pinnacle, it all came crashing down. "Hey guys, coach wants all of you in a team meeting. Now!" I turned to see an assistant basketball coaching peering through the doors of the gym, the messenger for the Wake Forest head basketball coach who unknowingly was crushing my dreams.

Within seconds all of the varsity players were heading toward the door, Rodney Rogers included. "No! This isn't fair! I was about to play a game with Rodney Rogers. You can't have a team meeting now. I'm about to meet my destiny!"  I'm not sure if I actually said those things out loud or just thought them in my head at a maximum decibel level, but at that moment my heart sank as I realized my glory days as a baller were ending just as quickly as they had begun. The dream was over.

Now obviously my life was not ruined just because I never had the chance to play a pick-up basketball game with Rodney Rogers. Besides, hitting those big baskets against the point guard from a Division One school was exciting enough, even if it was a bit of a fluke. But here is one thing that I do know: Had I not thrown those shots up there, then there was zero chance that they would have gone in.

What is true in basketball is also true in life. Sometimes you just gotta throw it up there. I like to joke with my son whenever he plays recreation league basketball that he has never seen a shot he wouldn't take. And while no one likes a ball hog, there are also many times when you are be open yet will be too afraid to pull the trigger. Sometimes you just gotta take the shot!

How many times have you missed opportunities because you doubted your own abilities or you assumed that someone else was more qualified than you? Did you not take on that leadership role in part because you were scared of letting others down if you failed? Or maybe you are driven more by the fear of failure than you are a desire to success and be a change agent in this world?

Whatever the circumstances, God has not placed you here to simply settle for average. Think about the men and women of the Bible who took the big shot despite the odds that were stacked against them:

• Abraham, an obscure guy who didn't even closely follow God, yet went by faith when he was called by God to go to a land where he had never been before so that he could be the beginning of a great nation (Genesis 12:1-5)
• Rahab was a prostitute, yet she gambled her own life to honor God and as a result found herself in the royal bloodline of King Jesus (Joshua 2; Matthew 1:5)
• David was the youngest of several sons and spent his days watching sheep, yet he stepped up to the line to defeat a giant and subsequently lead a great nation (1 Samuel 17; 2 Samuel 5)
• Then there is Paul, a former Jewish leader who placed his faith in Jesus, risking his life to spread the gospel throughout the known world (The Book of Acts)

If you take that big shot are you guaranteed to make it? No, but you will never make it if you do not even try. We are able to dream big dreams because we have a God who is all about big dreams. As an image bearer of the God who knows no limits or boundaries, the ball is in your hands and it is your turn to take the big shot.

Living the other six

Growing up in a Christian home, church on Sundays was not just something that we did. It was something that served to define who we were. I have fond memories of attending Sunday school classes where I learned about Moses crossing the Red Sea, Daniel and the lion's den, and Jesus healing sick people all from the magic of the flannel graph board. The pain of sitting beside my grandfather on those impossibly hard wooden pews was dulled by hearing his rich baritone voice singing those beautiful old hymns. Those were simple, good times, but they served to give me a spiritual foundation that I have never forgotten.

As I grew older and eventually left home, going to church shifted from something I had to do as a child under my parents' authority to something I could choose to do. As a young man who was entering the ministry, continuing to attend church was a no-brainer for me - why would I NOT want to go? Yet at the same time, I began to notice traits within me bubbling to the surface that up until that point I had never really noticed before, particularly the slick ways that I could play the part of good church-going young man on Sundays while living a less-than-holy way during the week. Instead of simply going to church, I had begun "showing" for church.

If you are a follower of Jesus or grew up going to church, this is not a foreign concept to you. We've all heard preachers exhort us to live out our faith on Monday through Saturday, "Because Sunday is coming!" And the term "Sunday Christian" needs no real explanation. Yes, it's easy to live righteously when all eyes are on you - especially the preacher's eyes who see you sitting on the back row!

I am pretty sure that for the early Christians, this idea of struggling to live out their faith in Jesus on the other six days of the week made no sense to them. After all, their lives were in danger every day because of their faith and choosing to follow Jesus was an all-or-none proposition for them. Yet even then not everyone got it.

In Jesus' day, many of the Jewish religious leaders were not too thrilled about His ministry and His claims to be the Son of God. These were the guys on the fringe whose devotion to religious ritual had effectively numbed them to the reality of true faith. So when they saw all that Jesus was doing in the communities around them - healing the sick, bringing hope to the hopeless, and bringing truth to the lost - it drove them nuts.

One guy in particular, a leader in a local synagogue, became the poster child for the religious idiocy. We find his story in Luke 13:10-17 and it goes something like this: Jesus heals a woman on the Sabbath, a day on which the Jewish people believed that no work should be done (the definition of "work" was rather dicey at times). Enter the synagogue leader. He can't believe what he is seeing. No, he's not overwhelmed at the amazing miracle from Jesus that he has just witnessed. Instead, he's ticked off that Jesus chooses the Sabbath of all days to do the work of God. Boiling over with anger, this synagogue leader asks, "Can't you do your amazing works on one of the other six days of the week instead of the Sabbath?" Now I don't know about you, but if I was face-to-face with Jesus I'm pretty sure I could find a better question to ask of Him!

Unbeknownst to him, our synagogue leader friend has flipped the script and turned the tables on US by asking Jesus this ridiculous question. Put in another context for our enjoyment, he might be asking all of us, "I see your devotion on your days of worship. But what are YOU doing the other six days of the week that are pointing others to Jesus and creating a stir in your community?" It was obvious that Jesus taught amazing truths and performed incredible works everyday of the week. His disciples were known to follow suit. Can the same be said about us?

Sundays are a special time for Christians because it is the one day of the week where we can all intentionally gather for corporate worship and celebration of Jesus. We should never overlook these times of assembly and should come expectant to hear from God and give back to Him all of the worth that is due Him. But we should all realize that church on Sunday is not the time that we gather to impress God or each other with our personal notions of holiness and piety. Sunday gatherings (or whenever you gather as a body of Christ followers) are for God to be worshiped, not for us to ring the bell of our own self-proclaimed spiritual awesomeness.

The true call of the follower of Jesus is to live for him daily. It's nice to gather once a week with a bunch of people who think and believe as you do. Yet it's far more urgent that we live this faith in Jesus the other six days of the week so that the world around us can see just how great and worthy our Jesus truly is.

Growing up Griggs

Sarcasm and cynicism is something I come by honest. Perhaps it's because I'm the youngest of three boys, all separated by a mere two and half years, and my place on the food chain was well established from day one. Or maybe it was all the comments that me and my brothers got when mom dressed us up all alike and people would stare for a second and then exclaim, "Oh my! Are they triplets?"

It was at this point that I usually got into trouble. Before my mom could explain our ages, I would step up, hands on my hips, and ask, "Do we look like triplets?" I mean, come on! We were stair stepped in height and, other than a crop of blonde hair on top of our heads, we really didn't look all that much alike. Those early lessons that I learned after the fact about manners should have stuck with me longer than they did.

Growing up in a house full of boys wasn't always easy, but it most certainly was fun. From the beginning the outdoors was our playground. When the summer months hit and school mercifully released its hold on us, darkness was the only boundary for being home that we knew. We had neighborhood boys up the street and one street over, so we never lacked for playmates or friends to dare us to do the next stupid thing that brought out the band-aids at best or grounding at worst. Life seemed so simple and slow then.

My parents were and still are amazing parents. They both worked ridiculous hours at more than one job to feed and clothe us, their work ethic still etched in my soul. I can remember my dad dragging in after a long day's work as a contract draftsman only to change clothes and run off to a church softball game or another sporting event that we were involved in. My middle brother made the high school soccer team as a freshman, an unheard of feat in the 1980's, and he started all four years. To my knowledge my dad only missed one game, home or away.

Mom was that constant presence in our house. Whether it was making sure we had breakfast in our bellies or everything we needed before running to the school bus, she always seemed to save the day just in the nick of time. I can remember one day forgetting to grab the paper bag that my lunch was packed in and having to call home to see if she could run it up to school. This happened to be one of those days when laziness trumped responsibility and all I had packed was a quarter bag of nacho cheese Doritos. When my name was called to come pick up my lunch at the office, I found a bag filled with a sandwich, chips, fruit, and a cookie. She never did fuss at me when I got home either, for I figure she knew I had learned not to slack-pack again.

We were fortunate to all have our separate bedrooms, my brothers and I. That split-level house on Winslow Lane in Winston-Salem, NC, looked kind of like a barn, but in my eyes that place was a castle. On the bottom level joining the garage was a room we called the playroom. It was where all of our gear and toys were stored in bins and shelves and where I would retreat to help G.I. Joe save the day or make a test run of the Millennium Falcon. Sometimes at night we would turn off the lights in that room and play what we called "The Game," which was nothing more than hide-and-seek in the pitch dark. The thrill of waiting for that hand to accidentally tag you was often more than I could stand.

By the time my second year in high school rolled around we were living in another house located in a different school district on the other side of town. Not far away from us was the prestigious neighborhood of Buena Vista, marked not so much by boundary lines as it was the sheer size of the homes and quality of the cars in the driveways. Many of my friends lived there and I cut through there all the time on my way to school and their houses, yet I knew that I wasn't quite up to the social standing that they had been born into. That never really bothered me and no one ever made me feel that way, it was just something I knew and appreciated. I was proud to be in the middle class.

Sophomore year in high school marked a new era for my family. My oldest brother was now a collegian, even though he was living just ten minutes down the road at Wake Forest University. Still, it was odd having one less body in the house and one less role model to lean on. Two years later I was the only bird left in the nest, my next oldest brother having retreated to that state university in Chapel Hill. I thought I would enjoy the freedom of being the only child and of not having to share the car during those years, but the truth is I felt more loneliness than I cared to admit.

You could say that going off to college began the final transition into manhood for me, and you would be right if I had stayed gone, but I didn't. Home was what I knew. Even though my grades and degree predicted a decent future for me, those thoughts were put on hold as I wound up back home for a few years before I was able to finally grow my permanent wings that helped me to leave the nest. I know that I am not alone.

Growing up Griggs wasn't always perfect but it was wonderful for me. It is so tempting to romanticize those days of coming home covered in dirt after catching crawdads in the creek or scoring the winning touchdown in a no-holds-barred game of tackle football in the backyard, but I find that I don't need to embellish a thing. The memories I have are fond and most of those people in my life who helped to form who I am are still doing so today.

Honestly, I don't call my brothers as much as I should and my parents hear from me less that a faithful son should admit. Yet not a day goes by that I am not ridiculously grateful for my family and how they helped to shape me into the husband and father that I am today.

And now I have four kids of my own who are living their own version of Growing up Griggs.

What the 1980's are teaching us about our future

What is going on with all this retro stuff that America is going crazy with? Everywhere you look, someone is trying to kick it old school and go back in time. There is the 1980's-ET-sythesizer-inspired Stranger Things show on Netflix (which is awesome, by the way) that pretty much everyone I know who graduated high school in the 1980's is gaga about. The newer Progressive insurance commercials are all now filmed as retro 1970's spots. Then there are movies - how many remakes of older movies are we gonna see? Hello Ghostbusters and Poltergeist, not to mention War Games, Commando, and Honey, I Shrunk the Kids which are just a few that are in the process of being remade.

And oh my word, there are the clothing and music styles. The 1980's absolutely haunt me at times, not because it was such a bad decade but because my style was so pitiful. I had hair then, amazing blonde hair with a natural wave to it. But I parted that hair down the middle and heavily hair sprayed it, preserving for decades horrific yearbook images that I still can't escape.

And yes, I owned and often wore a pair of acid washed jeans. I even tight rolled them at the bottom as I paired them with my favorite Stan Smith Adidas shoes. And yes, my musical tastes were often driven by synthesizers, although I did buck the trend by dabbling in some punk rock music and what became known as early alternative rock. Sounds and looks a lot like today, huh?

Why do find ourselves coming to roost in the nostalgia of the past so often? When we get all caught up in reminiscing about how amazing the past was, what we are doing is looking negatively at our NOW while believing that we really had it figured out in our PAST. And there is nothing wrong with reveling in the past, as long as you don't convince yourself that nothing in the future could ever be better. If we can't do that, then we are guilty of violating the golden rule of history: Learn from it or you are doomed to repeat it.

Nostalgia should fuel our desire to do greater things, not keep up mired in mediocrity. I sincerely believe that many of us are paralyzed by the shrines of the past that we so readily build. But what if we could take what the past has taught us and use it to propel us to make our future memories better than what history could ever teach us? Can we even do this?

God's word says that we can. Psalm 119:92-93 tells us, "If Your instruction had not been my delight, I would have died in my affliction. I will never forget Your precepts, for You have given me life through them." The guy who wrote this is happily reminded just how much he has learned from the past and how grateful he is that what God had formulated in eternity had changed the course of his life in the future. The past can be awesome, but only if it causes us to go further and deeper and greater into the future. If not, then all we are left with are just some stale memories and an inability to move beyond the equivalent of high school greatness.

Brush the dust off of your letter jacket and put your cassette player away. Stop waiting for MTV to actually play music videos again. What God has in mind for your future could be amazing if you will only let Him have his way.

Better heroes than you will find on TV

My wife and I were sitting on the porch the other day sipping coffee together and reminiscing about how easy life was when we were little kids. We tend to do that from time to time when our schedules get out of whack and it feels as if the calendar is our nemesis rather than sheets of paper held by magnets to our refrigerator. Memories have the ability to allow you to escape like that.

On this particular morning we were talking about our grandparents on our mothers' sides, all of whom have already passed on from this world. I brought up the old show Hee Haw that I watched on so many Saturday evenings in my grandparents living room when my wife lit up and told me about the many times that she too had lounged in her pajamas in her grandmother's living room in Topeka, KS, and watched Roy Clark and Buck Owens lead a cheesy cast of comedic characters across the old tube television set with the wood grained sides. 

My wife never had the pleasure of knowing her grandfather as a child, but her Grandma Becky more than made up for that. She spent countless days with her grandmother as a girl while her mom was at work, helping out at the Mason Lodge and running errands across town for one event of the other. She sighed gently and smiled as she recalled those many hours listening to Grandma Becky's stories and tall tales.

For years Grandma Becky published a family newsletter entitled The Kansas Korn where she would voice her odd mix of conservative and liberal views for the benefit of her family and closest friends. While the rest of the family would silently groan when they saw the thick envelope in the mailbox, my wife would readily pull open the sticker tab and read every word that Grandma Becky put on those pages. Most of what she wrote would be considered political satire, but that woman had a way with words and she wasn't afraid to share them with the world. When age began to overtake her and she passed on several years ago, more than just a comical newsletter was taken out of circulation. My wife lost one her best, and at times only, childhood friends. 

My grandfather on my mother's side was affectionately known as Pop and his wife, my grandmother, we simply called Grandmother. Pop was the only grandfather I ever knew since my dad's dad had passed away before I was even a thought in his mind. He was a WWII veteran who worked for the USPS after the war before opening up a mom-and-pop store with Grandmother called Food Land. Pop was a large man but even if he had been skinny as a pole he would have still been larger than life to me. He was funny and witty in an archaic kind of cool way. Pop never talked about the war - I only learned about the B25 bomber he had flown on in the Pacific theater and saw the amazing pictures of Papua New Guinea after he died in 1990 - but he was quick to share with me stories about everything else in life. 

On Sunday mornings at Antioch Baptist Church I would love to slide in next to Pop on that hard wooden pew because he had a way of entertaining me during the sermon so that I wouldn't fidget my way into too much trouble while at the same time maintaining a laser focus on the pastor as he preached. More than anything I loved to hear Pop sing. I can still hear his deep baritone chime in on the secondary chorus of I Surrender All, a staple invitation song at sermon's end. 

There were many Sunday's when we would take the short drive down Palmer Lane to Grandmother and Pop's house where Grandmother would have a literal feast prepared. You would have thought she had invited the entire neighborhood! Cube steak and gravy, fried chicken, collard greens, corn, green beans, biscuits, banana pudding, and sweet tea were just a few of the options that we would gorge ourselves with before collapsing on the couch to snooze between innings of an Atlanta Braves baseball game. Breakfast at Grandmother's was even better - country ham with red eye gravy, thick sliced Neese's country sausage, grits, chipped beef with gravy, biscuits, and sweet stewed apples - but that's another story for another time. 

Eventually time and age took us to different places in our lives. My wife left Kansas at age 19 and I met her in Clemmons, NC, a year later. We fell in love - and are still falling to this day - got married, had four amazing children, switched careers about half a dozen times, and finally settled on the coast of North Carolina, which I am convinced is a little slice of heaven. We have been unable to figure out how to get our kids to stop growing, so as a result we spend much of our time trying to stay caught up with their lives and activities. My parents and my wife's parents are now our kids' grandparents, and we diligently try to keep them connected from four hours away. FaceTime and texting seems to have taken the place of Saturday evenings in front of the TV watching bluegrass inspired family comedy. 

Yet not a day goes by that we aren't grateful for grandparents who in a big way served as larger than life heroes. By the time high school and college rolled around, we didn't think that an evening in their house watching TV with only three channels was such a fun idea, but as an adult there is no doubt that those were some of the best and most meaningful times in our lives. Which is why when we go home to visit, we sometimes hide in the background as our kids lounge on couches with their grandparents watching Discovery Channel shows or root around in their kitchens looking for a snack that they can help bake or help pick weeds around the flower beds out in the yard. With all of the negative options that my children have in this world, I am so grateful for grandparents who can serve as heroes just as our grandparents did for us.  

Summer Memories: The pool

I didn't sleep in much during the summers when I was a kid, not when there was so much to do each day. From the moment I finished my bowl of Froot Loops in the morning until the sun went down and I knew to come home when I heard my mom hollering for me, summers were made for playing outside. My neighborhood was filled with other kids close to my age, so there was never a shortage on things to do and places to explore.

But without a doubt my fondest summer memories involved the Sandihill Swimming Pool that we joined when I was in kindergarten. Sandihill was unlike any other swimming pool on the planet. It wasn't Olympic size or some luxurious, gated private club. Instead, it was a pool tucked away in a neighborhood next to ours that felt like the best kept secret.

What made that pool so special was the people and the memories that were made there. It was there that I learned to swim, not because I took lessons but rather because I jumped into the shallow end one day and figured it out. Every fifty minutes the lifeguards would blow their whistles and shout, "Kids out!" which was the open invitation to our parents to take over the pool. All of us kids would sit on the edge of the pool counting down those eternity-long ten minutes until the lifeguards would blow their whistles again and we would crash the party while the adults would frantically swim for the ladders to avoid the onslaught of bodies.

The snack bar at Sandihill was always stocked with the unhealthiest of options that parents today would never dream of feeding their children. Frozen burgers and pizza slices were heated up in a dial-operated microwave, to be topped off with Big Otis ice cream sandwiches, Boston Baked Bean candies, and Lemon Heads which in turn were all washed down with Sunkist soda from the drink machine. Somewhere in the corner a radio would be playing an endless loop of classic rock music where the cooler older teenagers would be hanging out around the picnic tables.  

If my brothers and I didn't have a ride to the pool, we would pony up on our light blue ten speed bikes and pedal the short - but dangerous - distance on Bolton Street, avoiding oncoming traffic and trying to maneuver properly with goggles around our necks and towels trailing in the wind. There was no bike rack at Sandihill, just a mesh of bikes strewn all over the front lawn, abandoned in a hurry to be the first one in the water. If you were late, you might miss the first game of sharks and minnows in the deep end.

Thursday's the pool was reserved for swim meets. I wasn't allowed to join the team because I had a heart condition, but that didn't keep me from being a lane judge or raiding the cooler that mom would pack for my brothers and eating all their snacks while they were swimming their races. The best part were the pool parties that would take place the nights of those meets where we would cook out, fight for greased watermelons, and dive for 50 cent pieces in the 14-foot diving area while our ear drums rebelled against the water pressure. 

Nighttime was my favorite time to swim because I would usually have the place to myself. Sometimes after dinner, mom and dad would pack up the leftovers in Tupperware containers and take them to the lifeguards, who in turn gave me and my brothers free rein of the pool while they chowed down on meatloaf and mashed potatoes. A full belly often made up for their frustration of having the work the evening shift while all their friends were out on the town. When the lights in the pool came on, we would dive for quarters and nickels at the bottom of the deep end, imagining we were Jaques Cousteau finding treasure on the ocean floor.

35 years later, life doesn't seem as simple as it did when I was kid swimming at the pool almost every day. Yet there are those moments when I see that same glimmer in the eyes of my own children as they splash around our little neighborhood pool with their friends and play hide-and-seek in the neighborhood long after the sun has gone down. And there are still those moments when I find that I can't resist the urge to play sharks and minnows or dive for coins that might be enough to buy a Coke in the machine, yet to the imagination of a little one is the next best thing to buried treasure.

The day after the day after

Memories are an amazing thing. Those moments that you have experienced in your life - the laughter, adventures, times you have felt most alive and daring - are things that no one can take away from you. Memories are God's ways of allowing us to hold on to the best of times so that we never have to let them go.

Of course memories can serve a different purpose than just allowing us to revel in the past. When I was a kid, I can remember times when I wish I had made different decisions. Throwing a rock and hitting the neighborhood bully was one of those memories I wish I could forget. Yeah, he may have deserved it and if it wasn't me then it probably would have been someone else throwing that rock, but what sticks with me more is the vivid recollection of the whooping I got with my dad's leather belt when he got home from work later that day. That memory still stings! But I can also tell you that I never threw rocks at that kid or any other kid again and somewhere along the way I actually learned to be civil with that neighborhood bully.

Two days ago my little community of Southport, NC, lost one of its own, Lily Beatini, a high school senior who was set to join her fellow seniors for graduation practice today. There will be an empty chair where she should have been, and for many students and teachers there is still an empty place in their hearts reserved for a friend that they desperately miss. Pain, anger, frustration, and hurt are in a constant battle to fill that spot, and for many of them the feeling of despair is almost too real and overwhelming. It's been a hard couple of days and the day after the day after will be another challenging one. My heart aches for her family and these students and this school who are struggling to carry on.

Yet there are some pretty amazing memories out there as well, aren't there? Memories of a short fire plug of a girl who was just as quick to share her opinion as she was her smile. Memories of a friend who drove a larger-than-life Suburban that made her look like the queen of the highway. Memories of a someone who made everyone smile when they saw her in the halls. These are just some of the memories that have been shared with me these past few days, and I have seen many find comfort in the laughter amidst the tears. It's been so easy for Lily's friends to share funny stories and meaningful times that they enjoyed with her because those sweet memories far outweigh any of the bad.

And that's the way it's supposed to be.

No one can take the memories of the good times away from you. When the tears start to come again and you find yourself starting to recede back into a dark place, allow those memories to flood your soul. Let them propel you to remember the best of times, because those times are what God has given to you as a gift. Eighteen years may not seem like enough time on this earth, but it's more than enough time to live an amazing life and leave friends and family with incredible memories that can never be taken away. Lily, thanks for the memories.