Gifts for a King

“Oil! What kind of a cheap king hands out oil for a present? You get better presents from the firemen!”

-- Imogene Herdman, The Best Christmas Pageant Ever

Every December, I love to read Barbara Robinson’s The Best Christmas Pageant Ever to my students. The 1970s classic is about a group of six misfit siblings, the Herdmans, taking over the local church’s annual Christmas pageant. The Herdmans are a group of unruly, cigar-smoking, cussing, lunch-money stealing bullies who strike fear in the hearts of teachers and classmates alike.

The mother of the narrator finds herself in charge of the pageant at the last-minute. Unexpectedly, the six Herdmans are cast in the leading roles: Mary, Joseph, the three wise men, and the Angel of the Lord. The only trouble is that the siblings are also Christmas-story newbies. So rehearsals have to start by first telling the Herdmans the story of the Christ child’s birth.

The whole narrative leaves Herdmans flabbergasted. They’re frustrated with Joseph for allowing Jesus to be born in a dirty stable, ticked off at the wise men and their gifts, and ready to storm the palace to string Herod up by his pinky toes. 

The book is a quick, humorous account of how the Herdmans not only transform the Christmas pageant, but also how the story of Jesus’ birth impacts them as well. Even though the dress rehearsal was a mess, they’re able to get through the pageant, albeit with a few minor changes to the story. For example, Claude Herdman replaced the Magi’s myrrh with a ham the family had received in a charity basket.

They didn’t like the trio of gifts, so they gave something more practical and from the heart. 

And this got me thinking. Gold, frankincense, and myrrh. What gives?

Why did the wise men give the gifts they did? And had I arrived on the scene, as a member of a royal party from the east or as a lowly shepherd in the silence of the night, what would I have brought to lay before the baby Jesus.

The Herdmans didn’t see the importance of the gold, frankincense, and myrrh, but I doubt the significance of these gifts was lost on Joseph and Mary. You see, the impact of the gifts rests in their great value—as they were indeed gifts fit for a king.

Ancient civilizations have associated gold with royalty, immortality, and deity. Because of its value, the gold was perhaps very useful in paying for Mary and Joseph’s flight to Egypt to escape Herod. Symbolically, gold was a gift for the king.

Like the gold, frankincense was also a very precious and highly valued commodity. Frankincense is a dried resin that’s been used in perfumes and incense for thousands of years. It was often valued for its aroma and ability to disinfect. Frankincense was a part of Jewish temple worship. Burning incense at the altar was a key part of the sacrificial system prescribed by God for use in the tabernacle and, later, in the temple itself. The book of Exodus calls for a specific recipe of spices mixed with “pure frankincense”. It was to be consecrated as “pure and holy” and was the only incense permitted at the altar. Thus as a symbol of prayer, Frankincense was a gift for the High Priest and mediator between God and man.

Myrrh is also a dried resin that’s been used in perfumes, incense, and medicines for thousands of years. It has been valued for its aroma as well as for its use as an antiseptic, analgesic, and other medicinal qualities. Myrrh was also a burial ointment used in embalming. Thus, myrrh was a gift for the one who would die.

We know what the Magi brought to Jesus, but if you were there in that stable, what would you bring as a gift to the newborn king? Would it be a gift of great value and of even greater symbolism like those of the Magi? Or would you opt for something more on the practical side, like a blanket and a crib as suggested by my stepdaughter? Perhaps you’d reach down into your treasure of talents to find a gift. A song, a poem, a painting, or your best homemade quilt. Maybe a drum solo?

Maybe you’d channel your inner Herdman and bring something to eat. How about some baked goods for the brand new bread of Life? 

Your family’s best tamales? 

A dozen Christmas cannoli? 

Your favorite bottle of wine?

Or would you bring something that’s weighing you down? Perhaps your grief as this is your first Christmas without a loved one. How about your worries over your job situation, the health of your child, an aging parent, or a big decision that’s keeping you up at night. Would you bring your unfulfilled hopes for a spouse, a baby of your own, or a more rewarding career?

Because a good 30 years later, that little baby asked all of us to pay him a visit. “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.  For my yoke is easy and my burden is light” (Matthew 11:28-30).

For me, past Christmases have seen my heart heavy with sorrow, concern, and longing. Thankfully, this is not one of those years. The future will undoubtedly see those emotions again. But this year I’m bringing the joy of my first Christmas with my new family. Included will be appreciation for Beautiful Karla’s large and loving extended family. Lastly, I’ll add some gratitude for a healthy dad, two wonderful sisters, and their quartet of talented children. 

I’ll even throw in a batch of ginger snaps in honor of my mom watching from heaven.

What would you bring to the baby Jesus?

May this day be full of joy and rest for your soul.

Merry Christmas!

Baseball Cards and Candlesticks

This past summer I moved to a new residence. The whole process of packing, moving, and

unpacking is a horrendous experience. I think one of the devil’s torture treatments will be commanding the citizens of hell to repeatedly move to a new home. As soon as you get settled, he orders you to move again. It’ll be an eternal game of musical chairs, only without enough U-Haul trucks.

I’ve had a semi-nomadic life over the years with more than 20 different addresses since leaving Butterworth Hospital in Grand Rapids, MI as a newborn. Every move over the last 30 years has involved toting several plastic storage tubs from house to house. From baseball cards to newspapers, I’ve been saving things since my youth. Occasionally, I still buy an LA Times when something monumental happens, like the Cubs winning the World Series. But mostly, the tubs have sat unopened, like buried time capsules, stacked in the back of each new garage. 

I can’t remember the last time I looked at what’s inside the tubs. So when I moved this summer, I decided to crack the lids and peer inside. I felt like an archaeologist opening the lost Ark.

Just call me Indiana Tones.

The items in the tubs brought back fond memories. For example, two boxes of baseball cards instantly had me retracing my steps along the Michigan country roads to the local general store. I remember having to step into the roadside ditch to avoid the hurricane-force winds produced by speeding trucks carrying grain or hay to the nearby dairy farm. 

A stack of college newspapers recalled the semesters of writing in a basement newsroom as a sports writer and editor for the Long Beach State Daily 49er. Additionally, I laughed at the massive volume of newspapers and Sports Illustrated magazines in the tubs. Years before the Internet, I somehow felt the need to preserve every important sports moment from being lost forever. 

I expected to see some of the items in the tubs because, well, I put them there. But others were precious discoveries of objects long forgotten. A fifth-grade autobiography told me that my life as a writer began long before my university days. Pecked out on a typewriter and covered with a piece of wallpaper it correctly predicted that I’d live in California. I missed on the forecast of becoming a professional baseball player however. 

Rediscovering a scrapbook from the 1984 Detroit Tigers Championship season felt like finding the Dead Sea Scrolls. “Bless You Boys” bumper stickers covered a cheap photo album, holding Scotch-taped box scores and summaries from every game of that magical season. 

A carton of High School graduation mementos carried me through the halls of my alma matre. It contained my cap (no gown), a VHS of the ceremony, and a few grad photos highlighting my 80s light-bulb-shaped hairstyle. I discovered a senior class group photo taken on Daytona Beach in the spring of 1986. I was able to share it on our class Facebook page, provoking threads of comments and questions for days.

A trio of baseball gloves chronicled my days fielding grounders and catching fly balls on the rocky Michigan diamonds from T-ball to High School. They whisked me back to the 70s and playing catch with my dad, honing my fastball together after he came home from work. 

 

Family heirlooms of both the Durbin and Gervase variety brought a smile. A photocopied scrapbook that my cousin made for grandma Ruby sat next to a pair of oval paintings that grandma Rose bequeathed to me in 1983. But mixed in with the little league trophies, autographed baseballs, press passes, and media guides, sat an unfamiliar shoebox.

 

“What’s in here?” I wondered to myself.

Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, were the two oldest occupants of my treasure chests: a pair of silver candlesticks. I have no memory of receiving them, but instantly remembered they also came from Grandma Rose. I quickly fired off some texts to my dad. He wasn’t sure how old they were, but he didn’t think they came from the old country. He said they belonged to his grandmother.

“She had nearly two dozen grandchildren, why did I get them?”

“I think she wanted you to have something to remember her by,” he typed back.

Yes, but why me? This is a little funny. I didn’t know my grandma very well. She always lived states away and visits were only once a year, if that.

To me, it was like stumbling upon the Holy Grail. I was holding two items that far outdated my 51 years. Remorseful, I wondered why I had hidden them in the plastic tubs and why hadn’t I opened them sooner. I’m sure they were packed in haste, maybe when I left Michigan. Perhaps all those years ago I figured that I set them up above the fireplace, when I had a mantle of my own. But somehow I’d forgotten them.

Like my baseball cards, I wonder what stories those candlesticks hold. Stories of Sunday pasta dinners and of my grandma baking cookies and folding ravioli in the kitchen. What memories did those candlesticks evoke in her? And what did she see in me to find me worthy of such a gift?

I don’t put many things in the tubs anymore. Memories are now saved in photos on my phone or on social media sites. I guess my inner Marie Kondo is more focused on decluttering. 

In my new house, the candlesticks have finally emerged from their garage-style exile and have taken up residence on a living room side table. I think they represent all the good things that this house holds: the love of a beautiful wife and the harmony we share together.

Blessings of peace. 

Gifts of joy. 

Treasures of hope.

They remind me that both my nomadic life and years of living alone are over. They tell me that God’s grace is quite amazing and that a new life and new beginnings are possible. I’ll never find out what those candlesticks meant to my grandmother, but I think she’d be happy to know how much they now mean to me. 

Walking on Sunshine

“Because you’re mine, I walk the line”.

Johnny Cash

 “Do you like to hike?”

Those five words combine to make one of my favorite phrases in the English language. It’s right up there with:

“Play ball”,

“It is finished”, and 

“Free pizza”.

Hiking or walking is a beloved hobby. I stopped playing basketball and softball long ago. So I enjoy hiking for the physical exercise. Hiking also provides the chance to experience the beauty of nature that my kickboxing gym can’t duplicate. I love to opt outside to quiet and revive my soul along the beach, amongst the redwoods, or up a steep mountain trail. 

Walking is perhaps an individual’s first great achievement. “Is he or she walking yet?” we ask people upon meeting their infant. A child’s first steps are recorded, chronicled, and immortalized in photos and phone calls to grandma. From then on, everything we learn usually requires baby steps. Sometimes what we attempt isn’t always a walk in the park. But usually, and especially as toddlers, we have to learn how to walk before we can run. 

In all walks of life, there are good days and bad days. Particularly at work. Some days are a cakewalk and others feel like we were forced to walk the plank. Occasionally we have to walk on eggshells around grumpy coworkers and walk the tightrope to balance both a career and a family. Hopefully, the boss doesn’t say you’re walking on thin ice. It’s much better if he or she thinks you walk on water. I just wish my class would walk in single file. 

In baseball, we have walk-off homers. And a base-on-balls, or a “walk” is a good thing (for the batter, not the pitcher), but in basketball walking is against Dr. Naismith’s rules. 

Musically, The Bangles taught us how to Walk Like an Egyptian and The Police went Walking on the Moon. Aerosmith told us which way to walk (this way) and Nancy Sinatra had special boots made just for walking. And of course, Johnny Cash made sure he Walked the Line.

Some walks are shorter than others. A walk down memory lane can be quite brief. But it helps to walk a mile in someone’s shoes to really get the whole story. A bad friend can walk all over you. Integrity mandates that we walk tall and walk our talk.  

My first date with Beautiful Karla was a walk on the beach. It followed a few days after she texted, “Do you like to hike?” We’ve been walking together ever since. And today we get to walk down the aisle together. It will be a short walk, upon the soft, emerald lawn of a golf course in Seaside, CA. Harkening back to our first walk, the ocean will be in view. And the majestic eucalyptus trees that spend their lives guarding fairways will join our family and friends to bear witness to our vows and raise sturdy branches in praise to God for bringing us together. 

I know wholeheartedly that without Him, we wouldn’t be taking these steps today. Karla’s humble walk with God was one of the first things that drew me to her. I also know that marriage, though wonderfully joyous, is also extremely hard. So we both will look to him for guidance and help. Marriage must also consist of sacrifice. It’s a life of trying to out-serve the other. My pastor labels this a “race to the bottom.” 

I’m up for this race, but I feel like Karla has already lapped me. It’s a daily race that, like walking, has to be practiced, done step-by-step, and performed faithfully. It’s walking by faith as II Corinthians 5:7 describes. It’s a walk that God will give us the grace and strength to do as we amble hand in hand, down the aisle, along the beach, and up the mountain trails for the rest of our lives together. 

A Season of All-Star Love and Definitions

I LOVE the All-Star Game. And I’m so looking forward to tonight’s showdown from Cleveland. The last All-Star game that I missed was the 1968 midsummer classic from Houston, which occurred the day before my birth. The game was a 1-0 snoozer so I’m somewhat glad that I missed it. 

Tonight, once again, it’s the best of the American League vs. the best of the National League. 

Trout and Yelich,

Mookie and Max,

Cole and Kershaw.

Harper and …. Oh wait, Bryce and his $330 mega-millions didn’t make it this year. 

In a strange turn of events that can only be described as divine intervention, I got up in the middle of last year’s game and went to make a delivery to a new essential-oil customer. A little over a year later, next Friday, I will be marrying her, the one and only -- Beautiful Karla. The last year has been a new season of love for me, and with our wedding just 10 days away, I thought it was time to dust off the Dickson Baseball Dictionary for my annual collection of baseball terms. What’s the theme? Nothing but LOVE, of course. 

A is for Appreciation Day – A celebration dedicated to a particular player, held in conjunction with a baseball game. Since our first date on August 5^th, everyday has been BK Appreciation Day. 

B is for Baseball Bride – The wife of a baseball player. Karla might feel like a baseball bride given how often she gets to watch Angel games and the MLB Network with me. 

C is for Cheese (a synonym for a fastball) and Cake (something done easily; e.g. a pitcher who says retiring the side will be a “piece of cake”).  BK isn’t a fan of frosting, so instead of three-tiered confectionary tower, our reception will feature a cookie bar with a slice of cheese-cake.

C is also for Cutie – A pitcher who specializes in throwing curveballs and slow stuff on the corners. My step-daughter-to-be, Alyse, is so adorable that if she decides to play Little League baseball the opposing hitters won’t have a chance with her off-speed pitches.

D is for Diamond Artist -- A term used in the 1930 for a ballplayer. Pierre from Marquis Jewelry, who made our rings, is the best diamond artist I know. 

D is also for Dodge the Bullet – To get out of a threatening situation; esp. appropriate to pitchers. It’s also appropriate for a certain left-handed teacher who was facing terminal singlehood.

F is for Fight Off – To be a persistent batter who fouls off pitches until getting the pitch wanted or drawing a walk. Also what Karla and I will repeatedly have to do to prospective suitors when Alyse hits high school. 

G is for Give Oneself Up – To hit the ball behind a teammate on base in an effort to bring him home or advance him to scoring position. Also the sacrificial posture of a successful marriage or when the husband relinquishes the control of the TV remote. 

H is for Hitch – A hesitation a batter makes with the bat before starting his swing. I felt no uncertainty in my decision to ask BK to get hitched. 

K is for Kiss – To hit a ball exceptionally hard or a wedding officient’s final ceremonial command. 

K is also for Knock Out – To cause a pitcher to be removed from the game or one of my favorite monikers for Karla.

L is for Leading lady – The first batter up in an inning. Or a term for Karla when I fall behind on a long hike.

Off the Schneid – Said of a player or a team coming out of a slump or a winless streak. Or yours truly after nine years of singleness. 

R is for Ring Up – To strike out a batter or what confident boyfriends do on bended knee at proposal time. It’s also the job of Eli, my step-son-to-be and our ring-bearer, during the ceremony.

S is for Sweetheart – A star player, esp. a pitcher, who rises to the occasion. Sometimes Karla thinks Mike Trout is my favorite sweetheart, but it’s not true. He’s a distant second. 

T is for Take the Blankets Off – To use a player in a game. Or what couples do in the summer when the air conditioner goes out.

Y is for Youth Movement – The process of trading or releasing old players and bringing up highly promising rookies from the minor leagues. While not exactly robbing the cradle, Karla is eight years the younger, so my youth movement should provide a dedicated caregiver in my old age. 

That 1968 All-Star Game was the first ever to be played at night, indoors, and on artificial turf. It was also loaded with future Hall of Famers. Four consecutive NL Future Hall of Famers took the mound alone: Drysdale, Marichal, Carlton, and Seaver. So it’s no wonder the AL didn’t score.

  

Time will tell how many future Hall of Famers are playing tonight. But the game will feature a youth movement, as there are 19 All-Stars who are 25-years-old or younger. The game is also the first I get to watch with my leading lady and Hall of Fame fianceé. We’ll both be rooting for Trout to pick up his unprecedented third All-Star MVP award. Just don’t tell him he’s no longer my No. 1 sweetheart. 

The Jesus I Know

Will I dance for you Jesus or in awe of you be still?
-- MercyMe

I watched the movie “I Can Only Imagine” last night. Through the story of MercyMe’s lead singer Bart Millard, the movie presented the history of the most famous song in modern Christian music and how it launched the band’s rise from obscurity to the big time. 

It’s also a great movie about forgiveness and redemption. The once overplayed-to death-song is now just a bright star in the constellation of pop/country/Christian music. For most, it’s probably a fond memory of songs gone by, unless you played it at a loved one’s funeral. Which I did at my mom’s memorial service in early 2004 when the song was still residing on the BillboardHot 100 list. 

Watching Millard debut the song at the end of the movie was a powerful moment, transporting me back to the day in Monterey when my mom was memorialized with tributes, slide shows, and I Can Only Imagine. Fifteen years later, the song is still being used at funerals.

I’ve been to too many funerals lately. I feel like I’ve entered a new season in the circle-of-life department. It’s like the post-college season when there was a wedding every other month. Instead of watching friends tie the knot, I’m now consoling them when they lose a parent, or in some cases their spouse. This time of life should be called Four Funerals and a Wedding. 

And often, I Can Only Imaginestreams through the speakers as the slideshows roll on. 

And yet this weekend, as we remember Christ’s death and subsequent resurrection, I can’t help but think that the one man who conquered death didn’t receive a funeral. I don’t know how funerals went in ancient Israel. Maybe they had a weeklong period of mourning, complete with potato casseroles, sackcloth, and ashes. Maybe the deceased, like Jesus, was buried right away. We know from John 11 that Lazarus was in his tomb for four days before being raised to life. But how many days after his death did the burial occur? Jesus died just before the start of the Sabbath and he was hastily laid to rest. The resurrection account in Luke 24 says that the women were on their way to prepare Jesus’ body. So maybe a more formal and proper funeral was forthcoming. Good thing Jesus didn’t die on a Tuesday and he came back to life three days later in the middle of his funeral. I can only imaginewhat that would have been like.

Yesterday morning, I had a brief conversation with my checker at Trader Joes. It was crowded at an early hour and our chat led to Easter. He said he was thinking of asking his customers what significance Easter has for them. I asked how it was going. He said I was the first. 

So I told him Easter is the day I celebrate the resurrected life of the one who purchased my forgiveness and conquered death.

He liked my response.

But I must ask you now. Who is Jesus to you? 

Is his just the first name you utter when you’re upset or frustrated? Are you a fan, but there’s no way in H-E-L-L you’d ever darken the door of a church? Did you grow up in the faith, still believe, but have no space or time for organized religion? Is Easter only for family gatherings, with egg hunts for the kids and a ham the size of a Honda? 

If so, I’d like you think about getting to know Jesus the way I do. Lord knows I’ve made my share of mistakes … of all shapes and sizes, so I’m not trying to judge. I throw a lot of things, baseballs, parties, ideas; but certainly not any rocks. 

But the Jesus I know asks you to forgive those who hurt you and then gives you the ability to do so.

The Jesus I know redeems the pain of bad decisions (yours and others) and gives you second chances that are more amazing that you could have ever hoped or imagined. 

The Jesus I know holds your head above water when you feel like you’re drowning.

He brings help when the walls you have to climb are too high and the river you have to cross is too wide.

He accepts you the way you are.

He doesn’t require you go to a specific church, change your political worldview, or stop hanging out with your best friends. 

But he does ask for everything you have: your fears, worries, cares, burdens, hopes, hurts, and dreams … basically your life. Then he wastes nothing in working it all for good.

He climbs mountains, kicks in doors, and swims oceans to get to you when you need him most. He digs you out from under the weight of guilt and shame.

The Jesus I know loves you like a really good parent loves a son or a daughter. Tenderly, compassionately, and patiently.

The Jesus I know came back to life, conquered death, rolled away the stone, and exited the tomb so that YOU could have life, not just a future eternal life in heaven … which is a pretty darn good thing … but a life of peace and hope in both the joyful and the painful times here on earth NOW. 

The Jesus I know is hanging out with my mom in heaven. I am confident of this because I know that before she died, she knew him like I do.

Easter was her favorite holiday. She used to dress us up, take us to church, and cook a wonderful meal.

I can only imagine what it’s like for her in heaven. Because of the Jesus I know, someday I’ll find out. 

Will you be joining me?

HAPPY EASTER

From the Bottom of My Heart

"Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction."

Antoine de Saint-Exupery

Today we celebrate the heart and all the love within it. With flowers and candy and romantic dinners we pay our respects to Saint Valentine, the third-century priest who was martyred on this day in 269 AD. Our hearts are amazing inventions. They miraculously keep us alive by sending blood through our bodies every second, every day.

But that’s not all they do.

Our hearts can both skip and leap with Olympic ability. They can melt too. Our hearts can be steadfast. They can break and sink. Hearts can be lost and left behind, even if they were in the right place all along. 

Our hearts feel. They see. In return, they can be touched. Out of the depths of them we speak. Something is memorized when we know it, not by mind, but by heart. We make promises by crossing our hearts. 

Hearts are like snowflakes, as no two are alike. There’s big hearts, golden hearts, and warm hearts. Some are youthful, even though they’ve lived for many years. Sadly, some are hardened and some are stone. Others are as cold as a polar vortex.

Like a telegraph, our hearts transmit information, often to console or encourage. Our hearts go out to others. They bleed for others. We share, bare, and pour out our hearts. We have heart-to-heart talks. Direct words come straight from the heart and it’s where we keep our best interests. We send heartfelt greetings and condolences. 

Hearts are paradoxes. There are heavy ones and light ones. In fear, our hearts knock and grow faint. But they also can be brave. In discouragement, they are sick. But a joyful heart is good medicine. If we lack effort, we didn’t have the heart. When we’ve worked hard, we used our whole heart. Our hearts can be set on something, but to get it, you might have to follow your heart. We mockingly tell others to eat their hearts out, but all women know that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. 

Without matters of the heart, there might be fewer songs on the radio. Juice Newton was playing with the Queen of Hearts and Elvis visited the Heartbreak Hotel. Bruce had a Hungry Heart. Bonnie Tyler’s heart was totally eclipsed. Singers are always telling us what to do with our hearts. Tom and Stevie commanded to stop dragging their hearts and Elton directed to don’t go breaking his heart. 

For a long time, I felt like I was, as the band Yes sang in the 80s, the owner of a lonely heart. But things changed last summer when I met someone who captured my heart. A mutual friend introduced us. A month later, the same friend hosted an essential oil class that I was teaching. Beautiful Karla attended. As the story goes, she purchased some oils so she’d be able to see me again. When I delivered the oils we sat and talked for an hour and a half. Besides having legs for days, I noticed her infectious laugh and a smile that would make Julia Roberts jealous. 

Then I went off to Mozambique. After I returned, she texted me:

“Do you like to hike?”

I thought maybe she was joking? Perhaps she’d stalked my Facebook page and noticed my hiking trips through Utah and Washington. I liked her approach.

“It’s only my favorite hobby,” I replied.

We opted for a walk on the beach and we’ve walking together ever since. We’ve walked in Santa Barbara and San Francisco. There have been trips to Paso Robles, Monterey, and Mammoth. And yes, we’ve hiked – from Palos Verdes, to the Palisades, to Pinnacles National Park. 

As much as I enjoy the trips and vacations, the walks around her neighborhood are just as special. It’s in those quiet strolls that our hearts connect. She says that I have a big heart. I don’t know about that, but she said she wants to take care of it. She realized that I needed security and stability. She saw in me passion and inspiration. We approach life differently, yet live in incredibly similar ways. She “thinks through her feelings, while I feel through my thoughts,” as another wise friend summarized. But somehow we arrive at the same destination. Perhaps because we have a parallel outward outlook on life.

All I know is we make a really good team. We don’t ever have a problem getting to the heart of the matter. She’s stolen my heart and I’ve vowed to risk a purple heart in order to protect hers.

Her heart is a fountain of virtues. She is calm, caring, poised, patience, and really smart. She’s elegant, diligent, noble, wise, and hardworking. She’s an amazing mom to a pair of wonderful kids. Her speech is pure. She thinks before she speaks and she’s super generous. She fears the Lord. She is faithful. And she’s weathered the storms of life.

“She is clothed with strength and dignity,

She can laugh at the days to come.”

She is beautiful. Inside and out. 

Lou Gehrig didn’t have a clue about luck. Because I feel like I’m the luckiest man alive. She makes me happy and I love her with all my heart. 

BK, Happy Valentine’s Day