Like most of you, I hate to wait in line. Truthfully, much of my 28 years in the Air Force can be summarized with the military oxymoron, “Hurry up and wait.”
My distaste for waiting is placated only when I hear someone pronounce the word “next.”
“Next” becomes my favorite word when it signals that the line in the auto parts store or at airport security is moving forward. It means I will soon command the undivided attention of the clerk or agent.
Over the years, people have asked me if I dance. I often reply, “No, I’m a Baptist.”
“What does that have to do with your dancing ability?” they’ll ask.
My answer comes from the lyrics—“Guilty feet have got no rhythm”—from George Michael’s 1984 hit song “Careless Whisper.”
Just before the quarantine started, my wife Becky and I sat with a lawyer redoing our estate plan.
“I love that word ‘estate,’” I told the lawyer. “It makes me feel like I own the Ponderosa.”
“Well, you don’t,” Becky said, using her no-nonsense teacher tone.
In 2011, I was at the annual National Guard Chaplain Conference in Washington, D.C., when I was sidetracked into a personal conference with a colleague.
The morning session began with all the usual inspirational speeches from our higher-ups. Just before our lunch break, Chaplain Lawrence Witherspoon of Riverside, Calif., stood to make an announcement.
Fred Rogers, aka Mr. Rogers, often quoted his mother who offered advice during his childhood about scary events on the news.
“Look for the helpers,” she said. “You will always find people who are helping.”
Today, the news couldn’t be scarier because those helpers are in trouble.
