Mateus' Christmas Shoes

Kids' shoes outside the door of our dining hall in the
Melanie Center 2 orphanage in Mozambique. 

Often we make a big deal out of life’s firsts. Initial steps, words, and birthdays. 

Pro baseball players keep the ball from their first hit. We remember our first car and our first house. Most of us can probably give date, time, and location of our first kiss. 

Memorable premieres for me include my first games at both Fenway Park and Wrigley Field. My first plane ride was a high-school trip to Florida. I’m still waiting for the Lions to arrive in their first Super Bowl. 

What I don’t remember is my first pair of shoes. I’ve never been a big shoe hound or sneakerhead. I do like my shoes, mind you, but I’m no Imelda Marcos. I have different shoes for hiking and kickboxing. I have separate pairs for working and for walking the neighborhood with Beautiful Karla. A single pair of shiny black dress shoes have sufficed for two decades. In high school, Top Siders and penny loafers were in. 

A lot of people buy up shoes as if they were rolls of toilet paper in a pandemic. Shoe collecting has its own subculture. It’s a big business. Online retailer StockX sold $1.8 billion in 2020, predominantly in sneakers. Did you know that Dorothy’s original Ruby Reds recently sold for $660,000? Those slippers are nothing but a down payment on the $17 million Passion Diamond Shoe, the world most expensive piece of footwear. Pretty sure you won’t find it on zappos.com. 

Shoes take on a whole new meaning in places like Mozambique. I’ve been helping my church support two orphanages in Mozambique for the past seven years. I’ve gone to Moz (as we call it) three times, visiting the children and seeing my friends who live there. I bet that most people in rural Mozambique have but one pair of shoes, two if they’re lucky. 

Our outposts in Moz are run by the husband-and-wife pastor duo, John and Maria Jone. Recently, John and Maria met a group of five siblings, ages 4 to 14. Their mother had died shortly after the birth of the youngest. The status of their father is unknown. The oldest of the five, Gabriel, became the caretaker of his four siblings. He worked in his community trying to scrape up enough money for food. The social services department got wind of these five and contacted the Jones. John and Maria visited them and instantly agreed to take them in. They were given clothes and shoes. They now sleep in beds and get to go to school, both for the first time. They eat several times a day. They have time to be kids without the worry of the wheres, whens, and whats of every next meal. 

One day, Maria was observing Mateus, who at 8-years-old is the middle child in the quintuplet. He was repeatedly taking off his shoes and putting them back on. She watched him do this over and over for a few hours. Eventually, she asked him why he was doing this, thinking he was going to say that the shoes hurt his feet or that he didn’t want to get them dirty. But his reply was so endearing. 

“I just want to look at them.” 

His very first pair of shoes, were to him, a sight to behold. He was given a gift he couldn’t take his eyes off. 

Our daily lives are filled with gifts, but sometimes we miss them. And if we do notice them, do we, like Mateus, stop to stare? Behold them. Drink them in. 

 The helpfulness of a coworker. 

 The kindness of a stranger. 

 Sunsets. 

 Watching a bird munching seeds from a feeder. 

A well-timed text from a friend. 

Rain. 

More often, I need to stop and stare at all the gifts that make my cushy American life so comfortable. Maybe then I’d find it easier to sit in traffic, stand in long lines at the market, and wear a mask in my classroom. 

Last Friday was the final day of school before winter break. Gifts abounded. It was exciting to give and receive. At recess, hiding in my mailbox, I found an unexpected gift from a colleague. It was so surprising that it made my day. It was just a book, but it might of well have been the Passion Diamond Shoe. The gesture created such joy. Stopping to look at the book, long after it’s been read, will always remind me of that moment. 

Now days later, I think the happiness stemmed from the fact the giver thought highly enough of me to buy a present. 

I wonder if that’s how Mateus felt. Christmas, we know, started with a gift. The birth of Jesus. God’s gift to mankind. The eternal and holy God thought so highly of his creation that he sent his Son to us. 

“For God so loved the world …” as the famous verse begins. 

Typically, we don’t give gifts to strangers or people on our “You really bug me” list. But God did. Not that He has a “You really bug me” list, but he does have a “You don’t know me” list. Jesus was given so that we could know God.

“God and sinners reconciled,” as the harkening angels sing.

 

Are you heading out tonight? Church service? Special dinner with family or friends? Maybe you’re staying in. In either case, look down. Peek at your shoes. And remember your blessings. And the most beautiful gift of all. 

A baby in a manger. Worshipped by shepherds. Visited by kings. 

 Merry Christmas!

 One of man’s earliest invention is still one of our most useful. The bowl.

The internet claims the oldest bowl on record is 20,000 years old. You probably don’t have the most expensive bowl in the world. Unless you’re the guy who, in 2017, bought a 900-year-old Chinese bowl sold on auction for $38 million. 

 

Typical bowls are much less costly and are also quite convenient. The same bowl can be used to hold both hot soup and cold ice cream. They hold salads, cereals, and spare change. Meals you normally put on a plate can also go in a bowl, but usually not the other way around. You need bowls for mixing and baking and for preventing your pet’s food from spreading all over the floor. I can’t make grandma’s famous meatballs without a bowl. Plunging my hands into the cold, wet, gooey mixture of meat, eggs, bread, cheese, and onions is as satisfying as making mud pies as a child. Only the meatballs are exponentially tastier. It’s a lot harder to mix meatballs on a plate. 

 

As a kid, we had a mammoth plastic Tupperware bowl that held enough popcorn for a double feature. I wish I still had that bowl. I have two porcelain bowls from Kazakhstan containing a collection of seashells gathered from the Caspian Sea. Seated on an adjacent bookcase, is wooden bowl from Mozambique. I like these bowls, but the two bowls I value the most are in the kitchen. They live on a high shelf above the sink. They peer out at me from behind glass cabinet doors. They’re pretty old. Not 20,000 years old, but maybe 75 to 80. And they remind me of my family because they were my grandma’s. They’re cream colored and are adorned with a viny band of orange flowers. A prolific painter, I wonder if my grandma added the decorations herself.  

 

My dad said they came from a bakery in Buffalo, NY back when breads and rolls were delivered to your door. I guess if you ordered enough focaccia and sourdough, the bakery threw in a set of bowls. Life has come full circle now that we can get our groceries and meals dropped off on our doorsteps, like coffeecakes, milk, and ice in the ‘40s. Although, Grubhub and Instacart don’t add in a set of bowls. 

 

I wonder how many pounds of pasta those bowls have held over the years. And at Thanksgiving, how many servings of stuffing and mountains of mashed potatoes did they deliver to the dining room table.

 

Ah Thanksgiving. Our beloved day of voicing our gratitude for our good things, for all times that God has filled the bowls of our hearts. Giving thanks is a righteous and sacred movement of the heart. 

 

When I think of blessings, and the abundance in which they come, I’m reminded of a Bible miracle story that marked the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry. It happened at a wedding in which the host had run out of wine. Nearby there were six bowls (Ok, giant jars or cisterns, but I’m writing about bowls, so work with me). They each held 20 to 30 gallons of water. A standard wine barrel of today holds 60 gallons. So, picture the equivalent of two or three barrels of water. Jesus changed the water into wine, thus saving the reputation of the host. I don’t know the wedding’s head count, but I’m guessing that 120-180 gallons of wine bordered on abundant. And Jesus didn’t produce the cheap stuff. His wine doesn’t come in a box or go on sale at Von’s. His wine earns 97 points, rivals what’s made in Napa, and is served at Michelin-rated restaurants. 

 

Do you equate your blessings with such abundance? I look around and feel as if the bowls of my heart are full of such blessings. It’s a 120-gallons-of-wine time of life. My family members are all healthy. There’s Beautiful Karla, her kids, and her extended family. I have a stable job and a gaggle of encouraging friends. Nearly all parts of my body are in working order, though some are in steady decline.

 

Many times the Bible says to give thanks, but one verse comes with a twist. It exhorts to give thanks … In All Circumstances. It’s hard to skirt around the word “all”. I bet it doesn’t just mean the good, joyous, prosperous times of life. And if that’s the case, “all” must therefore include the difficult, sad, arid, painful times of life.

 

The times when it feels as if the wine barrels have run dry. When the bowls of your heart hold nothing but dust. Are you currently experiencing a season such as this? Is it hard to give thanks? 

 

I can relate.

 

I find that I’m profoundly talented at giving thanks for hardships … after they’re over. When the storm has passed and the rainbow glows. When the seas have calmed, and my boat has reached the shore. When the tunnel is in the rear-view mirror. When it seems like the spigot of blessings from heaven has reopened and my bowls are filling again.

 

This is usually because there was “blessing in disguise” situation going on. There was a lesson learned, an ah-ha moment. That whole hindsight is 20-20 thing. All things happen for a reason, as the saying goes. But how did I respond amid the hardship? Did I count it all joy or was I worried? Did I trust or get frustrated? Was I compassionate and gentle or angry? Did I doubt God’s goodness?

 

Giving thanks in ALL circumstances doesn’t flow as freely. But I don’t think God’s blessings are a hot and cold, off and on, arrangement. Will the bowls of my heart spring a leak if a hardship arrives tomorrow? Or will I see that nobody moved the 120 gallons of new wine?

 

At the end of his public ministry, a few hours before suffering a torturous death, Jesus took a bowl of water and humbly washed the feet of his friends. He then took some bread, dipped it a bowl of wine …

 

And gave thanks. 

 

A few feet from the cross he was able to give thanks. Once he left that upper room, abandonment, humiliation, extreme pain, and death were waiting. And he gave thanks.

 

That’s pretty much the epitome of an “In All Circumstances” moment.

 

He gave thanks. I see there’s a lot to learn from those three words.

 

I hope your Thanksgiving is blessed. Eat, drink, laugh, and rest. These too are sacred movements. And may the bowls of your heart overflow with gratitude today and in all the days to come.

Grandma's bowls

 

Love in the Time of Covid

“Tell me that the world's been spinning since the beginning,

And everything will be alright”

--P!nk

Their wedding was one of the first in a season of life that saw more rented tuxedos than games in a baseball season. My dear friends, Ed and Teri, threw a very memorable wedding. Not just because I was a groomsman, but also because their ceremony landed on the Saturday of the Final Four. Michigan’s Fab Five was playing Kentucky with hopes of returning to the national championship game. The bridesmaid with which I paired didn’t dance due to denominational restrictions, so I was able to spend much of the reception watching the game in the hotel cantina.

 

Michigan won in time for me to make it back on the dance floor for the garter toss.

 

Last month I met up with Ed and Teri at another wedding, that of their lovely daughter, Jerilyn. The ceremony was outside, on an ocean-view golf course in San Clemente. Upon arrival, Beautiful Karla and I quickly spotted the bride, off to the side, making last-minute gown and makeup adjustments. Heading to our seats, we found Teri, looking as calm and splendid as any mother of the bride could possibly be.

 

But where was Ed? Then the significance of the moment hit me like a five iron to the forehead. He had a job. He was going to be walking the bride down the aisle. He’s the first of my friends to have this honor. I had moved into a new wedding-attendance category. I wasn’t attending as a friend of the bride or groom; I was there as a friend of the … parents.

 

Mid-September will be the 18-month mark since our lives came to a screeching halt thanks to Covid-19. Here in sunny southern California, we’ve been locked down, opened, closed again, and reopened with restrictions. We were even granted a whole month without having to wear a mask indoors.

 

The effect the disease has had on lives around the globe has been profoundly tragic. The loss of life has been monumental. The economic impact has been equally staggering. Meanwhile, riots raged across the country from Seattle’s Capitol Hill to the Capitol Building in Washington, DC. Political tension ruled the land. And fires, floods, hurricanes, and earthquakes didn’t take a hiatus for the pandemic. Sometimes it seems as if the bad news is as consistent as the tides.

 

And yet the Earth kept spinning amid all the tragedy, and good things continued to happen. Beautiful things.

Sunrises and sunsets appeared in painted precision.

Planted seeds sprouted and bore fruit.

Somewhere, not here, a proportionate amount of rain nurtured the land.

Babies were born.

People ran errands for their neighbors.

The folks on our street met for church on the curb.

Medical professionals gave full measures of devotion and care for the sick.

I learned how to use Google Classroom.

And couples fell in love.

 

Couples like Kirk and Jerilyn.

 

Dating and relationships are seldom easy outside the scope of a pandemic. I couldn’t imagine what navigating young love was like in 2020. Kirk and Jerilyn met late in 2019 in Colorado. They struggled to find time to be together while juggling full college course loads and part-time jobs. In February 2020, their school sent everybody home. If Jerilyn were to return to California, it would mean their budding relationship would go the long-distance route.

 

Wanting to avoid a setback, they opted for almost the shortest-distance relationship as possible. Kirk moved home with his folks and Jerilyn settled in with Kirk’s sister, who lived two houses away. Then the world shutdown. The young couple, no longer trying to squeeze out a few precious hours to hang out, now had an abundance of time to get to know each other. They cooked, hiked, watched movies, and studied together.

 

Suddenly their relationship was able to grow at a super-sonic speed. All that time together gave them insights into each other that hadn’t been discovered yet. The lockdown also gave them time to rapidly discover their values and priorities. On the flip side, Covid also provided instant access to the sides of themselves that the other hadn’t seen before.

 

They initially planned on dating for three years, but time is short during a global pandemic. Three years became 10 months. Then came the challenge of planning a wedding during Covid. 

Would their venue of choice be available? Would they be able to keep their guest list intact? Ever-changing state regulations and mandates kept them guessing.

 

Thankfully, their wedding occurred as planned. It was gorgeous, joyous, and a real summer treat. Jerilyn, who I love like a niece, was radiant. It was wonderful to meet the ruggedly handsome Kirk. He was strong enough to pummel linebackers and tender enough to care for his bride’s heart. And since it was summer, there wasn’t a conflict with March Madness.

 

Oh, by the way, Cupid struck again in 2020. One of my most esteemed friends, after waiting for decades, found his one true love during Covid. His ceremony is next month. Beautiful Karla and I will be there, back in our places as guests of the groom.

 

Who knows what will be taking place on the Covid timeline in six weeks when his wedding day arrives. We might be reading about the next Greek-lettered variant. I might be teaching from home again. But on that night in October, I’ll be remembering that the earth is still spinning, the sun is still shinning, beautiful things are still happening, and my Father in heaven is still sovereign.

 

And I’ll do my best to not check any baseball scores. 

Teaching My Way Through the Baseball Dictionary

Today wraps up the most arduous school year of my career. I started the year remotely and slogged through the (sled-)dog days of winter until mid-April when the powers that be proclaimed all was safe to meet in person. Two-thirds of my students returned, but there are seven who spent their entire third-grade year at home. One bright spot of the fall and the spring was being able to watch baseball in my upstairs guestroom/classroom while preparing the next day’s lessons. Spring also brings my annual list of terms from the Dickson Baseball Dictionary. So, in honor of teaching and learning, I bring you the A + educational highlights from my beloved reference book. 

 

A is for Answer the Bell – For a relief pitcher to be warmed and ready to pitch when summoned by the manager. Also, an appropriate term for how teachers all over the world responded to the challenges of the pandemic.

 

B is for Book-crazed – Being overly obsessed with baseball statistics. Or a teacher’s favorite kind of student. 

 

D is for Doughnut – A common name for the heavy, round bat weight used for warming up in the on-deck circle. Or another name for the little zeroes I had in my gradebook for missing assignments. 

 

E is for Eraser Rate – A statistic marking a team’s success at catching opposing base stealers. Also, the speed at which a teacher can clean the whiteboard. I once strained my rotator cuff trying to increase my eraser rate.

 

G is for Go the Distance – To pitch a complete game. Or when a teacher can go the whole school year without taking a sick day. It took a global pandemic for me to go a year without taking a day off.

 

H is for Happy Feet – The moving feet of a batter who starts toward first base while contacting the pitch. Also, the tell-tale sign of a student who needs to use the restroom. 

 

I is for Intestinal fortitude – Courage. Not to be confused with gastrointestinal fortitude, which is what all teachers must develop in the early years on the job while learning to limit bathroom breaks to recess and lunch.

 

J is for Juiced Era – Synonym of Steroid Era. Or the name of the current period in my school district since we started serving all students breakfast in the classroom. 

 

K is for Kickball – A variation of baseball, popular during elementary school recess. Also played by adults, including yours truly. There’s not a school day rough enough that a lively game of kickball can’t cure. 

 

L is for Laminate – To hit the ball extremely hard. Also, the process of turning a piece of paper into a reusable, plastic-wrapped poster, that will survive into eternity. 

 

M is for M is for Mental Error – A mistake when a player (or a student) is preoccupied, forgetful, or distracted. Many a mental error has caused every teacher to pull their hair out while grading papers. 

 

N is for No Trade Clause – A clause in a player’s contract that permits him to be traded only with his consent. Not to be confused with dependent clauses, independent clauses, and never start your sentence with becauses. 

 

O is for On Paper – Said of a team that should perform well without injuries or slumps, judging by the names listed on the roster. Thanks to Google Classroom and a recent pandemic, “on paper” is no longer the preferred technique of writing an essay. 

 

P is for Pythagorean Method – A formula for predicting the expected winning percentage for a team in a given season. Third-grade math is getting so hard under common core that for some students it feels like Euclidean geometry.

 

Q is for Question Mark – A player whose immediate future is uncertain because of injury, illness, or any of several other problems. Also, the outlook for how this fall is going to look regarding masks in the classroom.  

 

R is for Run On – To attempt to stretch a hit into extra bases. Also, the name for a response from a student to a simple question that develops into a story about their breakfast, their dog, their grandma, unicorns, mermaids, and their favorite YouTuber. 

 

S is for Strike Zone – The imaginary box over home plate that defines a called strike. Also, the area of pavement in front of my school where I walked the picket lines in the 2019 labor dispute.

 

U is for Union hours – Nine innings. “I only work union hours,” said no teacher ever. To quote a meme I saw recently: “teachers work before work, so we have work to do at work. Then because there’s not enough time at work to do all our work, we have work after work to catch up on all the work we didn’t do while at work.” 

 

V is for Veteran – an experienced professional baseball player. Teaching is so complex and ever-changing that by the time you finally feel like a veteran, it’s time to retire. 

 

W is for Wheeze Kids – Nickname for the 1983 Philadelphia Phillies, who won the National League pennant with a roster that included several older players. Also, children with asthma whom teachers must monitor closely during PE. 

 

Y is for Yakkers – Mean, sharp-breaking curveballs. Also, those lovely children that constantly talk and chatter all … day … l … o … n … g. 

This tough year did have some silver linings. For me they were learning how to bring more technology into the pedagogical process and collaborating with colleagues to help each other survive, learn, and stay sane together. It was a year of isolation, but with the support and connectedness of friends old and new, I survived. I just hope we never have to answer the Covid-19 bell ever again. 

Take Me Out to the Ballgame

The author social distancing
as a kid in Tiger Stadium.

 Say good-bye to Opening Day in July. 

Opening Day is back where it belongs, and I couldn’t be more thrilled. Following 2020’s shortened season, a full schedule of baseball starts today. No more cardboard cutouts. No more piped-in sound effects. Covid robbed us of in-person baseball viewing like Mike Trout steals homers. Last year was the first season since second grade that I didn’t attend at least one game. 

 

Baseball is back and I can’t wait to get to the ballpark.

 

Nearly all 30 teams are welcoming some, if not all, fans this year. Numbers range from only 1,000 fans in Detroit to a full-capacity stadium in Texas. The local Dodgers and Angels are opening at 20 percent capacity. Imagine a game with only 8,500 fans. Having my own row with nobody sitting behind me or in front of me sounds heavenly. 

 

I much prefer baseball on TV but getting to a game in person is still special and it’s something I like to do at least once a year. It’s an annual pilgrimage. It’s a real-time flashback to one’s youth. It’s paying homage to sitting in the stands with your dad or your best high school friend. It’s a few hours of uninterrupted conversational catching up with a buddy. 

 

It’s an annual invitation to become a kid again.

 

Televised baseball is great, but it doesn’t give you the ballpark experience. The smell of the hotdogs and the popcorn. The beauty of the manicured grass so green you’d think you were Ireland. I like watching the grounds crew prep the field and the players warm up. I like to rise when the home team takes the field and remain at attention for the national anthem. Sitting under the lights or in the sun watching nine defenders move in synchronized movement is wondrous. 

 

It takes multiple TV replays to see everything that happens after one pitch. The crack of the bat is like a shot from a starter’s pistol. It signals the simultaneous movement of nearly a dozen participants. The ball skips into the corner, and when it does, my behind lifts off the seat. I begin to track the action unfolding gloriously before me. The batter become a sprinter, rounding first with pin-point precision. The right fielder retrieves the ball, turns, and throws. A runner from first rounds second and chugs for third. The third base coach windmills him toward home. The cutoff man catches and whirls in one fantastically fluid movement. The pitcher backs up home. The catcher readies to receive the ball and then tries to make a sweep tag. I leap to my feet when the gloved fingers of the runner slide smoothly across the plate. It lasts a few seconds, but it’s as beautiful as a ballet. And it’s worth the price of admission.

 

Especially if you’re talking 1980s prices. Which is when my journeys to the ballpark increased in earnest. Dad ushered me into a lifetime of live baseball, but in the 80s I was old enough to go on my own. I lived in Detroit and the Tigers were competitive. A group of friends would drive Motown’s sunken Lodge Freeway to downtown Detroit. Tiger Stadium didn’t have a parking lot. We’d park on a nearby side street to avoid paying massive city-lot prices. Within seconds a neighborhood boy would arrive on his banana-seated bike, offering to watch our car for a buck. We’d buy peanuts for another buck from a vendor before crossing the footbridge that spanned the freeway. Then we’d feel the heat of the summer sun radiating off the white-washed walls of my once beloved stadium.

 

Ticket prices to sit in the bleachers were cheaper than a movie. Once inside, the bowels of Tiger Stadium were dank and gloomy. We’d walk up a concrete ramp to the upper deck. We’d step in the footprints of decades of Detroiters who watched the Tigers battle American League stars from Lou Gehrig to Cal Ripken, Jr. But then we’d emerge from the darkness, into the kingdom of light that the bleachers provided. Sometimes we could spread out. At others, we’d sit shoulder to shoulder. At some point, the sun would set, and the lights would spark to life. We’d watch Tiger heroes Kirk Gibson, Alan Trammell, Lou Whitaker, and Jack Morris. We’d hope for a Tigers’ win and see opponents do the unforgettable. I remember Angels’ rookie Wally Joyner hit homer off the facing above the rightfield upper deck. Then there’s a Jose Conseco blast that nearly struck the 125-foot flagpole (Flagpole History) that stood before the bleachers like a ship’s mast. 

 

The flagpole was actually in play.

Those summer nights slipped past like a pennant waving in the breeze. Back then, none of us knew what our lives held in store. No did we know that we were creating memories, as the line from Field of Dreams goes, “So thick that they’ll have to brush them away from their faces.” 

 

I’ve sat in cheap seats and box seats in stadiums all over the country. Like Tiger Stadium, some of them are gone. I’d like to visit the few ballparks I’ve missed. But I’d rather have the opportunity to watch one more game with my best high-school friend in Motown. Or to catch one more game with my dad. In the meantime, I’ll go to a game in Anaheim with my dearest local buddy. After the pains of 2020, it might be a memory of a lifetime. 

A great day for a ballgame.

 

Maybe you’ve got a ticket to a game today. Go ahead and play hooky. Or stay home and cook some hotdogs on the grill. Set the DVR and pop your favorite beverage. Make it a great day. Create some memories. Because today, baseball is back. 

 

Tiger Stadium.

Lessons on the Road to Love

 The journey to find love is a bewildering and complex endeavor. Some people are lucky enough to meet the love of their life at an early age. While others may never do so. There are those who have many loves over the course of a lifetime while others spend a lifetime loving just one person. For ages, lyricists have been trying to capture the mystery of love. Their most pertinent questions include: What is Love? What’s Love Got to Do with It? And How Deep is Your Love?

 

Personally, I think Love is a Many Splendored Thing. It can be Modern, and it can be Endless. There’s No Ordinary Love. There’s a Higher Love, a Look of Love, and if you can find it, a Love Shack (It’s down the Atlanta Highway, I believe). Love is blind and there’s Blinding Love. I’ve been lucky enough to love and to be loved. And sadly, yes, I’ve been unlucky in love. 

 

When it comes down to it, finding love is an educational process. You have to learn That You Can’t Hurry Love. But when it finally happens, it’s quite magical. Even if it may have just been puppy love. Like many, my initial love was in high school. I officially felt the Power of Love. It was intoxicating and innocent. At this stage, young lovebirds are crazy in love and Addicted to Love. That is until they suddenly aren’t. Enter lesson No. 2: Love Bites and Love Stinks. Your first love may have also dished out your first helping of heartbreak with a side of Tainted Love. Raise your hand if you’ve encountered someone who Gives Love a Bad Name. 

 

That’s when you learn that Love is a Battlefield, but Pat Benatar didn’t coin the phrase all’s fair in love and war. That axiom goes as far back as 1578 and English poet John Lyly's romantic novel, "Euphues: The Anatomy of Wit." I think Mr. Lyly was more of a lover than a fighter because the working title of his tome was, If You Love Someone Set Them Free. I don’t know if Lyly was lovesick or not, but heartbreak can mess with a lovestruck mind. You’ll do anything to get her back, you’ll ask anyone to Send Her My Love, and you’ll end every unreturned email and text with I Will Always Love You.

 

The next lesson to grasp is that time does bring healing. After you recover from romantic setbacks, the search to find Somebody to Love resumes. The quest may seem unending. Thoughts of I’d Do Anything for Love consume your mind. When you’re single you suddenly forget what love is like. You find yourself yearning and telling your friends that you Want to Know What Love Is. But When Loves Comes to Town your world is again radiant. The air is cleaner, the sun is brighter, and the birds are happier. Because When you Love a Woman (or a man) everything is better. You’ve realized that All You Need is Love. You’ve found your True Fine Love; you’re riding the Love Train through the Tunnel of Love where all you hear are Silly Love Songs. When you’re apart, you FaceTime and say, I Just Called to Say I Love You. Then you whisper schmoopie things into the phone like I Just Can’t Stop Loving You and Love Will Keep Us Together.

 

Personally, the course of true love never did run smoothly, and my journey to discovering love wound through more deserts than the river Nile. I marveled at my friends who got married right out of college. I wondered when my time would come. I felt like I had a lot of love to give, I just had to find somebody who would let My Love Open the Door. Thankfully, my heart hit paydirt when I met Beautiful Karla.

 

Her love Makes the World go ‘Round. It may not have been love at first sight, but it was pretty close to it. Possibly fourth or fifth sight. I love her to pieces, and I love her to death. The greatest thing is that she loves me just as I am; moods, issues, and love handles included. I relish her tender love and care. 

 

She loves so well. She’s memorized the love handbook and runs its plays with Tom Brady like precision. Her love is patient and kind. 

It protects, trusts, hopes, and perseveres. 

It never fails or boasts. 

It isn’t easily angered or self-seeking. 

She keeps no record of wrongs. 

She’s an eternal optimist who always looks for the best.

 

I’ve never bragged about being the quickest study. Like the lawyer who failed the bar exam or the doctor to had to repeat the boards it seems like I had to learn these lessons more than a few times over. But with Beautiful Karla I finally aced the test. Finding her makes all the years of love-detention worth it. Because being loved by the right person can make any love-school dropout feel like a Supreme Court Justice or the Surgeon General. 

 

Love is a verb and love is a choice. It certainly takes work. But don’t give up and don’t Stop (in the Name of Love). And that’s the final lesson. If you’re on your 25th year of marriage or still searching for the one that captures your heart, keep working and keep looking. Because the real deal is worth all the platinum albums in the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. 

 

Have a wonderful Valentine’s Day as you celebrate your Crazy Little Thing Called Love.