It was a strange lineup, to be certain, but who was I to complain. REK in a venue close to home, with my boys opening up was was certain to be an evening to remember. So after puttin’ on my show-going clothes, I arrive on the scene… just me and thousands of my closest friends (!!). Since I was close personal friends with the opening act, I had an all access pass to the back stage while the bands jammed on. I don’t remember any of the conjuntadores (or something), but I distinctly recall hearing REK belt out the opening refrain of “Merry Christmas From the Family“.

“Jason,” you may find yourself asking, “why exactly do you so clearly remember “‘Merry Christmas From the Family’?” It’s a perfectly legitimate question, all things considered…

Because at that exact moment, I found myself standing directly next to Paul Newman**. You can imagine my excitement, and let me just tell you… he’s a regular Joe, he posed for phone pics and all.

Nearly giddy with the aforementioned goodness (REK, my buddy and the band, AND Paul Newman? C’mon!), I caught up with Nat and she succeeded in dragging me off the crowded streets into the lobby of the hotel we were passing to check out the ice sculpture ***, where we (of course) ran into Rachel Ray. Natalie was nearly speechless. Me… not in the least. She’s smaller than I would have imagined, and she has braces which I was more than surprised to discover, but after a little charm and a good bit of cajoling, I persuaded her to sing a few bars of “Memories” from the timeless Broadway classic, Cats.

Unfortunately for us, Rach (I call her Rach) had to dash. The kids were restless (it had been a busy day), so Nat took the kiddo’s and put them down (not that kind of ‘put them down.’ Good Grief.) and I was left to stroll the neighborhood streets and ponder the significance surrounding such a celebrity smorgasbord that morning. I was jerked from my navel gazing haze by the sound of rumbling motor thunder from behind, the kind that rolls out from a needlessly oversized Ford Powerstroke Diesel engines that little people in the suburbs always drive, and people on farms and ranches rarely do.  I was really perturbed to find my silence stirred, but when I looked through the window as the truck pulled to a halt next to me…

Kinky Friedman, how the heck are ya? He got out, we chatted, he rented some walkie-talkie radios from the City Hall so he and I could keep in touch around the ‘hood. He was surprisingly soft spoken, and not-surprisingly thoughtful despite his unfortunately severe tendency to lean left. Conversation hit an impasse somewhere between border security and the relative superiority of Dominican cigars to Honduran.

When it was certainly certain that Kinky was once and for all time out of radio range, it was time for this well-heeled country socialite to roll out of bed, step on the scale, and ready myself for another action packed day.

Who knows what the future holds!

* The incidents portrayed in this post seemed real enough at the moment… which probably occurred between 3 and 4:15 in the morning.

** Cool Hand Luke, Paul Newman, not PN in his current… state.

*** Elephants.

Work fills my days with moments I enjoy, it gives me reason to hope that the string of tedious moments is coming together as a very small part of a very large whole.

But there aren’t nearly enough truly special moments, moments just like this, in life. I’m sitting on the couch, Nat’s legs draped over mine. My favorite twins curled up with smiles… Caitlin in her Snuggie, Megan in her jammies. Jackson on the floor, fully geared in his Spiderman costume, taking in a Meryl Streep & Alec Baldwin flick.

This is a synergy moment. The whole is greater than the sum of it’s parts. Each is a necessary component in this, one of those very special nights that when the specifics and details fade in a few weeks but the sense of… right… lingers as a gentle reminder that this was a good old day, and we enjoyed it. Together.

The cricket chirps of the lavish, creative, goodness of God. Up early, the cricket worship already in progress, is a chirping reminder that I am fashioned to worship with my own unique song. The song placed in my heart is reflected in my being. I cannot chirp like the bug, nor can I whistle like the sparrow. God knows I can’t sing like the missus. But He has give me a brain, so I can seek and comprehend truth. He has given me words, so I can tell of His goodness, love, character, and nature. These are MY instruments of worship.

My little friend’s tireless song makes no sense to me, and until I started writing, he was little more than an extreme distraction and most of my thoughts revolved around how best to locate and squash him. Even still, every time my fingers stop pecking, all I hear is the tireless, chirping, noise. Like I said, I don’t get it, but it’s not mine to get. He’s not singing to me or for me. The bug must worship. I’m glad he didn’t quit singing this morning. If he had, I probably would have pressed right into my own plans, made my own way through what I wanted to do, finished, and moved on. Instead, the symphony beyond my door reminded me that Jesus was serious when He said the very stones would worship Father if the people didn’t.

Today I’m left wondering whether I will worship half as well as that cricket.

**tear**

My wife, for instance.

Natalie is pregnant again (WOO HOO!). Natalie has a well documented history of horribly horrible (really) pregnancies. From sun-up until, well, sun-up, she’s sick and tired. The two children, unaware of the physiological implications of a hormone-sucking fetus upon an expectant mother, have ratcheted up their shrieking/screaming/fighting/tattling/mess making routine. They are in rare form.

Believe it or not, I am not 100% sure that I always understand what it’s like to be pregnant. To make it a twofer of shocking bits of information, I can also, from time to time, and on occasion,  tend toward selfishness.

So the Missus, in all her pregnant glory, sickness wracking her days and stretching her nights, comes home to two kids and a husband, and not a single one of us has the slightest inclination what she’s dealing with.

So when an occasional moment of selfless remembrance strikes me, I try to take a second and let it blossom. A few nights ago, my precious wife, after trudging through a day making the most of her life as it is, took it upon herself to prepare an unbelievably delectable meal. She didn’t have to, she didn’t gloat or make like a martyr, she just did it, and did it wonderfully.

I’m a lucky guy, grateful for the lot that I’ve been given. There are more things for me to be thankful for than I could ever put into words. So I won’t labor long attempting to do it, I’ll just say thank you, beautiful missus. You make my life better in every way imaginable.

The Food Making Missus - pride of my life