“I GET TO SEE MY DADDY”

“Grandchildren.” Got your attention didn’t I. That title has such a soft touch to it. Maybe it’s because if you are a grandparent you know that is exactly what you have become…a soft touch. Words like “time out,” “stop that,” “don’t touch that” and “no” rarely pass through your lips. They just seem inappropriate when you only have temporary custody. Why ruin the time you have with them with strict and strenuous standards. I know this sounds like I border on neglect, but I just find it hard to make my time with “the boys” unfun!

Saturday, June 18th, 2011 was the day before Father’s Day. It was also the day that my wife and I became true empty nesters. The oldest is settled in Colorado, the youngest is now living year round at the University in West Virginia. The middle daughter was the only one left within 15 minutes of our homestead. Now she was fleeing the nation’s capitol for the scorching heat of San Antonio so her husband can complete his residency. One problem…she was taking “the boys” with her, presently our only two grandchildren, Declan (3) and Grady (6 months), better known as “THE DEC MAN” AND “MR. GRADY MC’GRADY”.

We have known this day was coming since early December last year, but it was so far away, it didn’t seem necessary to be concerned about them leaving. We had bigger fish to fry, help get their house ready for sale, prepare for their daddy’s graduation, entertain guests the weekend he walked the stage and do all the fun things they were going to miss when they were gone. There were trips to the zoo, rides over the big big bridge, road trips to our favorite sub shop, walks to the playground, swimming at the pool up the street, cracking Alaskan king crab on the deck, (Dec Man’s favorite) and Smores over the fire pit.

Word came in May they would have to vacate their home early so that the tenants could occupy on May first and Daddy would have to go to Texas two weeks ahead of the rest of the family. My daughter asked “Dad, can we just live with you and mom for 6 weeks?” To which I responded immediately “you betcha,” not a quiver not a waver…that would be perfect. Six weeks of camping out with “the boys.” This was going to be heaven. And it was. Eventually Decman and I became wrestling partners, Stanley cup fans, snack sneakers, TOP CHEFS, mutual lovers of Hot Wheels, and care takers of Mr. Grady Mc’Grady. It was during this time that Grady got his first teeth and started army crawling into our world. He too loved the Stanly cup. They both wanted Bancoovy (Vancouver) to win and eventually they won me over from the Bruins.

The closing of the day became my favorite time. “Hey Pop Pop, can we watch a show?” “Sure” was always my response. Can we watch the “CHICKMUNKS?” Absolutely. “Can we get a snack? I think we still have some ice cream sandwiches with beans (M&M’s) in them.” Yes, yes, and again I say yes!.” I have seen the “CHICKMUNKS CHRISTMAS” more than I care to admit and had way too much ice cream (beans never tasted so good).

The day for them to leave was now here. I always told myself.. ”remember…you raised them to leave…not to cleave. Don’t make this difficult; don’t spoil their departure by stifling their dreams.” Decman and I stood by the window as we stared at the plane that would be flying them deep into the heart of Texas. They were loading the luggage, pumping in fresh air and you could see the pilots in the cockpit. We didn’t say much. He had just asked a few questions when suddenly we heard “we are now boarding parents with small children.” The moment had arrived, we walked to the gate, stooped down by Grady’s car seat as I said what I always say…”Look me straight in the eyes…I love you.” To which I got a gift straight from God. Declan responded, “I love you too Pop Pop, NOW I GET TO SEE MY DADDY.” THEY’LL BE FINE!

“MOLLY”

“To be frivolously minded brings death, but to be morally minded is life and peace.” (Romans 8:6)

She was 40 pounds of playful puppy, and that was when she was but a wee one…a slippery, slimy, slobbery, Saint Bernard. Molly was our pet, the neighborhood bundle of puppy love. There were nine of us kids in the Rhoades clan, all of which thought Molly was the ultimate “man’s best friend.”

We taught her to wrestle, literally. I mean moves and all. She was charming and chubby. Well fed and well bred. She made coming home a whole new adventure.

The concrete path to our garage became known as the driveway of doom. The jingle of her dog tags was a friendly reminder to take cover or get run over. If I was up for it (or not), she would attack, usually at my feet. Down I would go and then it was off for a five minute grappling session with “Beethoven.” Slobber went everywhere. There was licking and grabbing, pushing and pulling. When I was totally exhausted, she still wanted more. She was as playful as she was powerful. The way to end it all was to escape into the house for a good bath.

But, Molly had a problem. You see, she just wouldn’t grow up. We paid for training. We brought in friends that were experts in the field of obedience, but she just never seemed to catch on. At first (as with most of the dogs in our suburban section of town), we let her roam free with her friends (a couple of German shepherds and a beagle) . They were buds. But problems loomed “large” on the horizon. As she grew older, the damage increased. It went from a few flowerbeds crushed under the weight of a man-sized scratcher, to several garbage cans torn hither and yon. The neighbors were in a dither, and our dog would have to go “on the leash.”

We started with a corkscrew-type restraint that twisted into the ground. It didn’t last long. The next day, when I pulled into the driveway arriving home from church, Molly came running. The chain and corkscrew were dangling from her neck like a 70’s peace sign. Up she went, and down I dropped. It was no time to play. I was left with spit and muddy paw prints on my Sunday best.

Dad began to suggest that we get rid of Molly. Perish the thought! She was a Rhoades, and we would see this thing through. All she needed was a new set of boundaries. We bought her a bigger doghouse, ran a huge eye hook through the frame and hooked it to her leather necklace. Our monster, “Molly,” was now safe. Or so we thought.

One crisp fall morning in my junior year of high school, I had to ride the cheese bus (my 68 Pontiac was in for repairs). As we were leaving my stop, the kids started craning through the crowd to look out the windows. With my eyes still straining to free themselves from sleepers, I looked, too. Here came Molly, dragging a 120 pound dog house down Rural Route Number Two. It was hilarious. The bus driver was laughing so hard she had to stop old “Cheeser.” Molly was going to school with a backpack the size of Rhode Island.

My bus driver gave me a reprieve. I drug our charming chubby friend and her domicile back into our yard and hoped she would understand. I told her to stay, and she did--long enough for me to get around the corner and our bus driver to wipe the tears of laughter from her eyes.

Within a few days, as I arrived home from soccer practice, I extricated myself from my ugly tan Pontiac, prepared myself for a pounding, and headed for the big oak tree that was now Molly’s margin maker. It seemed like we just had to keep going to something bigger and stronger to keep her from blowing it.

I didn’t hear any jingling. I couldn’t see those big dirty paws prepared to seal my doom to dirtdom. I was sure she had run off again. I walked into the house, only to be met by the tearful eyes of my younger siblings. Mom said sorrowfully, “Molly’s gone. She broke her chain and met her fate at the hands of the garbage truck. Dad had to take her to be ‘put to sleep.’” I sat down and cried, and went through the list of “if only’s,” trying to diminish the disappointment.

You see, Molly had the same problem many people have. They seem charming enough. They mean no harm, and surely, if given the chance, they would show you their playful side. If we could only keep them from drinking, or get them to stay off drugs. Convince them to keep their paws out of someone else’s stuff. Sometimes they make us laugh, like the day the big brown and white slobber machine pulled her townhouse down the highway. But eventually, they always seem to make us cry.

We try bigger and stronger boundaries, anything to keep them safe. Unfortunately, boundary breakers are sure they can handle it. Life becomes a spiraling spin into the world of “living on the ragged edge.” Eventually, they take a trip to where the garbage lies, and we get the bad news: “they have reached the end of their rope.”

If you find yourself, like Molly, stretching the limits all in the name of harmless hoopla, you may be headed for a tragedy. It will leave Mom, Dad, and the whole family sitting in tears. The fate of Molly awaits those who won’t exercise restraint. For the sake of us all, stop straying. We love it when you leave mud on our Sunday best

“FOR EVERY BLESSING THERE IS A BOUNDARY”

“The body is not meant for sexual immorality, but for the Lord.... . .Flee sexual immorality.” I Corinthians 6:13 & 18.

“How did I get started?” That was my first encounter with a curious five-year-old wondering just how he made his way into this world. Panic riddled my body and brain as I sprayed off the last bit of soap from the mini van and his big wheel. I was being hit with the big question. Parenting had just taken a turn for the worst.

My brain searched frantically for an appropriate response to a toddler’s inquiring mind. I mentally clicked on files and retrieved what Dr. Richard Dobbins said in his book entitled, “Venturing Into A Child’s World:” “When your children become curious, appease their curiosity, don’t arouse it.” Looking down at the blonde-haired, blue-eyed questioner, I responded: “You get started when you’re small.” He looked at me and said, “Oh.” That was it. It was all he needed, and all I could come up with. He quietly mounted his yellow three wheeler and silently rode away into the sunset. My work was ended for that day, but rest for the weary is short-lived.

Several years later he came back to me and said, “Hey Dad, you remember when you told me I got started when I was small? Well, how did I get small?” A simple answer was not going to satisfy his wide-eyed query. We had what would become the first of several father-son chats about the Biblical perspective of “Christian Married Love.”

The apostle Paul makes it abundantly clear when it comes to a proper sexual relationships: “For every blessing, there is a boundary.”

In most modern cultures where sexual mores have blatantly moved towards pagan standards, the doctrine of the sanctity of the body needs to be heard anew within the church. Sexual immorality is still sin, even though it has been justified under every conceivable rationalization.
The question is, “How do I avoid immoral behavior?”

There are two steps that will help for building fences around the most cherished of relationships. The word “flee,” comes from the Greek word, “Fyoo-go,” which has two avenues in it’s definition: the primary root, “to run away,” and the analysis, “to shun.” Two battle plans for managing morality.

WHEN AT RISK, RUN (Genesis 39:1-15): We find our example from the life of Joseph. Joseph was at risk. He was in a country and culture he didn’t know, surrounded by a language he didn’t understand, and thrust into a position of great trust. He had found success and in the process come face to face with it’s seduction.

Thomas Carlyle once wrote, “Adversity is sometimes hard upon a man, but for one man who can stand prosperity, there are a hundred that will stand adversity.”
Potiphar’s wife took the direct approach. But Joseph didn’t flinch, even for a moment. Without hesitation and being absolutely secure in himself and his God, he responded with equal boldness. There are two distinct reasons why he didn’t yield to moral failure:
First, his loyalty to his master. He said to the woman, “My master trusts me. He has given me responsibility for everything he owns. The only thing that is not mine is you—his wife. I could never betray his trust.”

Second was Joseph’s loyalty to God. “How could I do this great evil and sin against God?”
Potiphar’s wife refused to take no for an answer. She wasn’t about to be ignored, so she pressed Joseph day after day. All his talk about noble reasons for resisting only intensified her determination. Joseph refused to budge. And he is a good example to us all.
Joseph ended up dashing out into the street. What a clear image! What a practical spotlight on truth from Joseph’s life. What strong Biblical counsel. Whenever the New Testament lingers on the subject of sensual temptation, it gives one command: “RUN!!!!!” The Bible does not tell us to reason with it. It does not tell us to think about it and claim verses. It tells us to FLEE!! The command of God is to run! And that is exactly what Joseph did. In the end he suffered for it. But he did the right thing. The lesson of Joseph teaches us when at risk, RUN!
The second avenue for exercising moral muscles is:

WHEN SHAKEN, SHUN (Judges 16:15-16): Psalm 1:1 states in modern language, “In order to stay out of trouble, it is best to avoid it.”

Matthew Henry states: “Samson had been more than once brought into mischief and danger by the love of a woman, yet he would not take warning, but is again taken in the same snare, and this third time is fatal. Lack of moral restraints is one of the things that takes away the heart. This is a deep pit into which many have fallen; but from which few escape, and those by a miracle of mercy, and the loss of reputation and usefulness, and almost all, except their souls. The anguish of the suffering is ten thousand times greater than all the pleasures of the sin.”
Take warning from Samson’s fall. Delilah was trouble, but he just couldn’t muster up the courage to “shun her.” This time it cost him his life. A little shun here and a little shun there and this magnet of immorality could have been resisted.

My encounter with my little boy on his big wheel made way for the moral message, “for every blessing there is a boundary.” Any three wheelers coming your way? Being prepared purges panic. To shun and run is good advice.

“THE MAN IN THE TRENCH COAT”

I Corinthians 13:13: “But the greatest of these is love!”

Have you ever seen a man in a trench coat with six legs? A nurse at a VA hospital did.

It all started as a young man. He was a carpenter at heart, but a laborer by trade. His job? Grinding brake linings in an auto parts manufacturing plant. Not exactly his passion, but it brought in the bread and fed the babies. While his hands were grinding asbestos lined parts, his mind was envisioning finely-crafted cabinets of cherry, oak, ash and maple. He was a hardwood connoisseur. Pine was for construction; hardwoods were for custom cabinets, his passion.

Years later he lived his dream: he built kitchens. Not just any kitchens, custom kitchens. Why, one kitchen was so nice a photo of it made it into a national magazine. He was good! Real good. Don’t check the archives, you won’t find him there. He wasn’t famous, just a man with a knack for wood and a fondness for fine furnishings.

For years he was just like you and me. Got up early, read the paper and his Bible. Dressed in those blue work pants and shirt that he bought at Sears, then filled his thermos full of black coffee and out the door he went. Until one day he got the flu. Nothing unusual, we all get the flu. He coughed, sometimes heavy and hurtful. But it was just the flu.

He kept working. That’s what people from his generation did. Sickness on a grand scale was never in his thinking. He tried hot tea, hot soup, expectorants and all the normal things that we fellow sufferers have downed in our times of influenza. One day it had gone on long enough. Time to see a doctor, this cold just wasn’t taking flight. “Breath in, breath out,” the doctor said. “Your lungs are a little congested. We’ll take an X-ray.” Within days a cough became cancer--asbestosis. Asbestos from grinding brake linings had found it’s way to his lungs, and now he had a fatal disease.

Not much changed for a while. The cough hung on and became gradually worse, yet many a kitchen was still touched by the hands of this master carpenter. Sadly, there was no cure. Eventually, this dread disease would slowly but surely take his life. The concluding scene was on the third floor of the Veteran’s Hospital. A ward, not a room.

It was in the final days that the man in the trench coat stopped to see the finest craftsman he had ever known. The clerk at the desk stopped him and said: “Where are you going?” “To the third floor to visit,” came the response. “No children!” came the curt reply. The visitor smiled, leaned over and whispered, “It’s their grandpa. He’s real sick. I mean real sick (he didn’t want to use the die word). What do ya’ think? Can we get ‘em in?”

“If you can get them there without anyone seeing them, have at it,” the clerk responded.

Their daddy looked down at the two pre-schoolers and said: “You guys each grab a leg. Every time I step, you step.” He then wrapped the coat around them and headed for the elevator. A man in a trench coat with six legs. They boarded what they hoped would be an express to the third floor. The little ones were giggling and fidgeting and making far too much noise, but they were all alone. It was O.K.. To the dismay of the father, at the second floor the elevator stopped, the door opened slowly, and in came the meanest looking nurse in all of nursedom. She looked at the twenty-something man (whose heart began to pound like a low-rider), gazed down at his legs and said, “Never seen a man with six legs before. Must be real hard keeping them all going in the same direction.” Then she smiled. “Where you going, sir?” she asked. “Third floor,” the nervous father responded. “That’s where I’m going,” came her response. Just then a girlish giggle came from under the coat. The nurse just smiled and asked, “Who you going to see?” “Ah, Ed, ah, Ed Lobley,” the father chortled. “I’ll take you right to him,” the now-not-so-mean looking nurse replied.

Off they went, past nurses stations and custodians, who were all snickering at the young father with six legs. Into the ward they shuffled. The over coat was opened and out popped a blonde boy and a brunette girl. “Hi Grandpa!” they giggled.

“How did you guys get in here?” He asked through gasps for air. “Children aren’t allowed on this floor.” They told him the whole story, and then said something that made his thin face flinch to hold back tears. “We snuck up under Dad’s coat because we love you, and we wanted to see you!”

A few days later, my father-in-law, one of the finest finish men the carpenter’s world has ever known succumbed to cancer. That six-legged journey was the last time my children got to be tickled and teased by Grandpa. All because they loved him.

What journey do you need to make to show your love? It might just be a trip down the hall to a child’s bedroom to kiss a sleeping cheek. Or maybe a stroll to the lady loading the dishwasher to share a hug and a thank you. It might cost you a plane ticket, a bus ticket, three hours in a car, or it may only necessitate a little sneak to the third floor.

By the way, if you see a man in a trench coat with six legs, don’t be concerned. It’s just some dad with his kid’s going to the third floor to visit Grandpa!

“SURVIVING THE FAMILY CALAMITY”

Genesis 7:6 “Noah was six hundred years old when the flood waters came on the earth. Noah and his sons and his wife and his sons’ wives entered the ark to escape the waters of the flood.”

Sometimes I ought to just leave those leadership journals sitting on the shelf! One day after reading one, I came home from my office and told my wife that the latest copy of “Preacher Today” said that every dad that was worth his salt should take his family on a camping trip. Of course my mind went immediately to that lot down the highway that rented motor homes with all the amenities. A veritable house on wheels. But the author of the article said “this family adventure” needs to be one where our creature comforts meet the rustic road. Tents, firewood, S’mores and sleeping bags. This had to be the real thing. I conceded (which was a real switch, since I always said, “my idea of camping was a Holiday Inn without an indoor pool”)..

Our children were seven and five. I made the announcement, and they got pumped. Dad in a tent. Bugs, snakes, chipmunks and sleeping on the ground. A family of four in a three man tent. I didn’t even own my own sleeping bag (still don’t). I went to the basement, pulled out Brandon and Erin’s tent (a three man tent we had purchased with green stamps), gathered up blankets, fresh fire wood, cut coat hangers to cook hot dogs and marshmallows over the fire, then stuffed a cooler full of camping food. We were ready. After we had all our gear packed in the “second car” (a 1988 Pontiac T1000 compact, two doors and four seats), off to “Red Rock Mountain, Pennsylvania” we went. The kids singing songs and me asking questions. How do you set up a tent so it doesn’t blow away? Are you really allowed to have a fire outside? What if I can’t sleep? What if we don’t fit? It must have been an interesting scene, me smiling at the kids in the rear view, all the while my city slicker’s soul squirming inside my head.

How come I didn’t come home and say, “Hey, let’s set the tent up in the family room, eat popcorn from the microwave, make milkshakes and watch the ‘Brady Bunch’ on T.V.?” They would have went for it, and I would have met the standards of full-fledged fatherhood.

I am convinced to this day that although my wife was gung-ho on this whole idea on the outside, she was laughing herself to tears on the inside. “Stephen sleeping in a tent? This should be good.”

We arrived at Red Rock, paid the customary fine (I mean fee), found our site, and unpacked. The children were already feeding the live animals peanuts when it hit me, “What if it rains?” Perish the thought. God would never subject me to a punishment like that.

After four hours of stories, S’mores, snacks and a stroll through the woods, it was time to settle in.

I know they were watching. Who? You may ask. Who was watching? You know, Eddie Bauer and Mr. Coleman. The guys on the sites next to us. Grown men with families, camping in 35-foot houses on wheels. I could just hear them saying: “Honey, look. Remember when we used to do that? Boy, am I glad those days are over!” They had to be watching. A family of four sleeping in a green-stamp tent. Well, at least we were good entertainment.

Off to bed we went. Four little people, tucked in a little red tent, wrapped up in a pile of blankets that would remind you of Joseph’s coat of many colors.

We were long since settled when it hit. The thing we feared had come upon us. First the sound of a few little splattering drops hitting the side of our shelter from the storm. Within minutes, the whole sky cut loose. I held Susan close, and she said, “Don’t worry, Honey. Everything will be all right.” After about 35 minutes of torrential downpour we felt it. The family camper had sprung a leak. No, not just a leak, our green stamp shelter had become a sponge. We did all we could to fend off Mother Nature, but there was no way out. The old “tentster” just wasn’t going to cut it. We were swamped, the blankets now weighed 35 pounds a piece, and I was facing the question that every seasoned woodsman has asked himself, “What do we do now?”

At that point in my life there was only one thing that I hated more than camping and that was “giving up.” I looked over at Susan, and gathered up my two offspring. I flipped down the rear seat of the Pontiac, grabbed the dry clothes we had left in the car, made a bed in the back and told her we would sleep in the reclining buckets. This storm wasn’t going to beat us. I was determined--no motel was going to suck up our family fun.

I’m sure we looked a bit odd. Can you picture it? Bauer and Coleman next door in their Winnabago’s watching the ball game and eating marshmallow cookies, when out of the corner of their eye they see “tentman” and his family of four sleeping in a compact.

Embarrassing? Yes. Me, quit? Never. A good challenge doesn’t destroy a true woodsman.

Are you facing a family calamity? If not, don’t worry, you will. Noah did. It is obvious that his story wasn’t all that funny, but he did survive! Why? Because he was prepared and determined!

WHAT DO THESE STONES MEAN?”

Joshua 4:7 “These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.”

Don’t ever start the Star Spangled Banner in the wrong key! Francis Scott Key would have held his ears the last time I did. On July 27^th, 1990 (the hottest day of the year), I was asked to sing the great song that honors our flag. At the end of a parade commemorating Armistice day, a crowd of several hundred gathered in the driveway of the local VFW hall where speeches were made, and I was called upon to sing the national anthem.

As the first “Oh say” passed through my lips, I knew that I was heading to notes that were an octave out of my range. By the time I arrived at “the rockets red glare,” the veins in my head were “bursting in air.” I was literally screaming to try and reach the high notes. My version sounded a lot like Alfalfa in The Little Rascals. You can only imagine how horrible I sounded and how terrible I felt. After I finished the final line I was glad to be “free” and not quite sure if I was “brave” enough to ever sing our nation’s song in public again.

I tried hard to slip into the crowd unnoticed, hoping to get to my car without crossing paths with a veteran. I just wanted to go home. What happened next renewed my hope that there were better times ahead.

As I hastily made my way to the car, an older man, well into his sixties, laid his hand on my shoulder, stopping me in my tracks. As I sheepishly looked up at the tall, gray-haired fellow, he had huge tears in his eyes. He looked down at me and said, “Reverend, I want you to know that was the best I have ever heard anyone sing the national anthem.” What could I say? He was either lying or deaf. In my ears that was the worst I had ever heard anyone sing that powerful song. He said one more thing that remains etched in the granite of my soul. “I fought in the Korean War, and saw many of my fellow soldiers die. Every time I hear those words and see that flag, I cry like a child. You warmed my heart today. Thanks for taking your time and coming to our parade. You sure are a great singer.”

I thanked him, knowing full well that his exposure to great singers was severely limited. As I rode home, I made a pact that I would turn down any future opportunity to do acappella projects. I kept that promise for several years.

It wasn’t until the winter of 1993 that I sang the national anthem again in public. I was standing in the middle of a wrestling mat preparing to officiate a high school wrestling match. The athletic director asked the crowd to rise and honor our country. He pressed the button to play a Whitney Houston C.D., and it just wouldn’t play. He pressed it again and still nothing. You could hear the ripple of nervous laughter roll through the crowd as he said, “Well, I’m not going to sing it. I guess we’ll just have to go without it tonight.”

I had a flashback to that driveway and the encounter with a my tone-deaf friend. My heart said, “You sing it.” Without hesitation I looked at the school official and said, “May I have the microphone? I’ll sing it.” He looked at me and said, “Have at it.” I let it rip. Right key. Right place. Right time. I don’t know whether it was for my reffing or my singing, but from that night on I officiated at least one home match at that school every season.

The sincere words of a tall, gray-haired veteran helped me realize that notes weren’t the only thing that moves a heart. It’s the memories. I gained a new appreciation for those who served this nation, especially the ones who gave their lives. I am forever grateful for the tenderhearted soldier who took his time to mend my mistake and give patriotism a seat in my soul. He helped me understand the statement of the ancients that said, “Tell the next generation what these stones mean.”

“POOLING PENNIES FOR PERFUME”

Proverbs 31:8 “Her children arise and call her blessed….”

Affordability and diversity. They were the determining factors in Mother’s Day gifts. However, the range in both categories were “slim and two.” In a family of nine children the weekly allowance consisted of three squares and a roof over our heads. Outlays of cash were few and far between!

When Mother’s Day arrived, the common procedure was a pooling of pennies and a request for Mom to drop us off at the local shopping center. For the next few hours we walked the sidewalks hoping to outdo last year’s purchase. After treks through jewelry stores, Penny’s, and Sears, inevitably, we wound up at Old Faithful--Woolworth’s.

The whole brood would wander the aisles hoping to stumble upon a treasure for less than five bucks, but each year the consensus would steer us back to the front counter for another gaze at our old standby. Our wallet and the front counter had two things in common, Prince Machiavelli or Evening In Paris. The toughest decision on those warm Saturdays was which incredible fragrance we would bless our mother with tomorrow.

We made our purchase right before Mom picked us up at the back entrance to Sears. As we hid our prize all the way home, we’d play twenty questions to see if she could guess what we had come up with. Although I think she knew all along that it was one of the two affordable fragrances we gave her every year, she never once said either of their names. She kept the surprise alive.

When we arrived home, we scurried to find wrapping paper (sometimes it was yesterday’s newspaper), wrapped it as best we could, then hid the purple bottle somewhere that Mom would never look.

The next morning before church, out came the gift and up went Mother’s praise. She splashed a little on, and out the door we flew. The whole way there we could smell Mom’s new fragrance and feel the joy of giving from a poor man’s wallet.

I don’t think they make those fragrances any longer, but I’m sure if they did, I would recognize them. That aroma would bring back warm visions of Mom’s loving acts. Homemade spaghetti and meatballs, chicken pot pie, warm hugs and encouraging words. You may not believe this, but the thought of Evening In Paris still makes me think of how much Mom loved me and the ways she proved it.

At 72 pounds in seventh grade, I probably wasn’t much of a threat to the competition. But in my mother’s eyes, I was an athlete. I didn’t look like one. My wrestling uniform was three sizes too big. The straps were gathered at my shoulders and held tight with athletic tape. We couldn’t afford real wrestling shoes, so my P.F. Flyers were secured tightly to my feet with more athletic tape. How I looked didn’t matter to Mom. She was my biggest fan. And she never missed.

It didn’t snow often in my hometown, but the day of my first official wrestling match we got whacked with several inches. There was some question as to whether our meet would be canceled, but the coaches and officials decided to stay on schedule. I knew Mom wouldn’t be able to attend because we only had one car, and Dad was out of town.

Adorned in my mummified uniform, I joined the team in the locker room to prepare for the pre-match rituals just before it was time to run out around the mat to warm up. Every ounce of adrenaline that could be produced by a 72-pound weakling was pumping through my veins. I was the first one out the door. Running full speed, I spied Mom out of the corner of my eye sitting in the second row of the bleachers. I remember seeing her rubber see-through boots (with the little elastic eye hook that held them tight to keep out the snow) still on her feet. Mom was here! As I peered her direction to make sure she could see me, suddenly, my feet hit the curled-up edge of a wrestling mat that had been in storage all winter. I went flying, which caused the rest of the team to cascade into a helpless heap. I was so embarrassed. That was the last day I went out of the locker room first.

My first match wasn’t exactly an Olympic performance. I lost 17-2 and got turned every which way but loose. But it didn’t seem to matter to Mom. She just wiggled through three periods of me fighting off my back, and walked back home smiling proudly.

I learned something valuable that day: “Whether I won or lost, it had no effect on how much my mother loved me!”

It wasn’t a stretch for me to give all I had for a purple bottle of perfume. A snow-soaked mother made it all worthwhile.