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This past October I got 4 pie-sized pumpkins and wrote the letters, “M, L, F and G” on them for Maggie Lee for Good Day, naturally.  I perched them on our micro-balcony as a fun decoration.

Eventually I took them down and since pumpkins are winter keepers, I put them in our bricked-in planter box in the backyard attached to the garage. Various perrinials spring up throughout the year and I try to have something blooming there at all times.

Eventually the pumpkins broke down, probably assisted by a hungry varmit or two. I paid little attention to the decomposition but watered the boxes along with my flowers in the back which I enjoy immensely. We use the back door exclusively and I am cheered by pretty blooms  whenever  I come or go.

Imagine my happy surprise when I noticed a pumpkin vine trailing the planter box. The gourds had not even fully decomposed but the seeds had found their way to the soil and I had watered. Which reminded me that what we water grows.

My friend, Kandee was less than impressed with my earth-shaking discovery. “Yea, you would have known that was coming if you were in my pre-school class, Jin.” And yet, I was stunned. I watered and it grew.

And so it is. What we water will grow. If we water anxiety and fear the budding problems to come tomorrow we will be blind to the goodness our lives are steeped in today. If we train ourselves to look for blessings to count then they will multiply.

Little is as important as the garden of our minds.

What you water grows. What are you watering today?

“Comedy is defiance. It’s a snort of contempt in the face of fear and anxiety. And it’s the laughter that allows hope to creep back on the inhale.” –Will Durst

I have received several comments about the humorous moments in the book Maggie Lee for Good. While the story is obviously serious, some truly funny things happened to us which brought that creeping inhalant of hope which comic Will Durst so aptly describes.

From page 20:

“There were moments of lightness in this bleak time for us. While staying in the home of a Northminster Baptist member, our friends Gary and Sharon had come to visit to bring consolation and a cooler of Happy Bellies frozen custard, Maggie Lee’s favorite frozen treat. Gary and John took the first vigil, and I took the second; Aunt Jinny picked me up when the nurses changed shifts and visitors were not allowed. John convinced Gary to stay at the house instead of making the four-hour drive back to Shreveport as was his original plan. It was dark outside when I went to the master bedroom where John and I took turns sleeping. Jack was down the hall.

I entered the bedroom quietly so I would not disturb John, brushed my teeth, and faced the dresser to fold the blanket I had used for a shawl. John leaned up from the bed and asked how I was doing with his voice a bit lower than normal. I turned his direction and noticing that something was off, I asked, “Did you get a haircut yesterday?” Then realization dawned on me. Horrified that I was mere feet away from a bed where another woman’s husband had been sleeping, I bolted from the room screaming, “Gary Mazzanti’s in my bed!” and ran down the hall.

The whole house woke up to my shrieks. Everyone was relieved to learn it was a mere misunderstanding. It gave way to roaring laughter-a glorious exercise we needed desperately.”

Laughter is good medicine. I love to be around funny people, particularly those with a stealth undercurrent of humor like my friend, Aprile. She and her daughters visited her son who is studying abroad in Maastricht, Netherlands. She took her MLfG Book and sent hilarious pictures back. My favorite was a statue with the little blue book in his left hand.  I’m not certain who shimmied up the statue to position the book or what by-standers must’ve thought of the action, but the picture made me roll and inhale hope.

Last week, Jack was asked by one of Caddo Middle Magnet School’s counselors, Mrs. Guerrero, to speak at a meeting for parents of prospective students. This event was geared toward private school parents whose children recently tested for CMM.  I asked him what he planned to say about an hour before the event just to make sure he would not quote Hank Hill or something. Ya just neva know.

Seated next to me at home, Jack gathered his thoughts and a serious visage overcame him. He then launched into a speech about how a CMM Teacher is like a triangle (thank you, creative writing teacher, Mrs.Phelps!) He explained how teachers have three sides: 1. Relatable (to students)  2. Academic (they’re smart) and 3. Fun (they involve the 5 senses….Jack struggles to remember all 5 in the video which is the best part.)

Principal Burton said that Jack had a career in either politics or pastoring…you decide.

I guess I should have known when our wedding cake was knocked over by a flying backdrop what kind of married life awaited me. When I entered the front door of my reception, Bridesmaid Colleen rushed up to me with hands covered in butter creme and with tears in her eyes said, “Jinny (beat, beat, beat…) augghhhh. ” and sprinted off. She did not have the heart to tell me what happened. From eye witness accounts a toddler toddled, the lattice–screen teetered, the crowd gasped and the cake flew.  After the top layers were knocked to the floor, the caterer and family members hastily attempted to reassemble the damaged carcass into its formerly iconic pastry shape.

Never bent on perfection, I had the philosophy that I got the dream guy and that made for the dream wedding.  Yes, our cake pictures featured icing prominently as a background but isn’t it the imperfections that make for fabulous stories after all? We danced the night away. Ok, actually I danced while John feverishly tried to channel Old Time Rock and Roll Tom Cruise (pre Oprah-weirdness).  A glorious day all told, cake or no cake.

Three months into our marriage,  I left our one-bedroom apartment for a run down Hulen Street.  I noticed a vagarant-looking guy on a bus stop bench facing me, clutching his head and moaning. Paper sacks, obviously his, littered the sidewalk all around him. His shorts were 70’s Forrest-Gump length. I averted my gaze for many reasons and stepped up my pace.  I took a left down the side street where Grandfathered fields of Longhorn Cattle grazed next to Ryan’s Steakhouse. I had to wonder sometimes if they knew.

I logged my 30 minutes and as I returned home, lingered on the steps up to our third-floor apartment to do calf-stretches.  I opened the door to find John with a strange look on his normally-relaxed face. “Hey, honey. How was your run?”  He nervously continued. “I met this guy. Kevin. He was down at the bus stop. His girl friend kicked him out and he says he’s suicidal.”  I replied, “Oh yea, I saw that guy.” and wondered as I would many times how John got the back story on this desperate stranger.

He continued, “Is it OK with you if I take him get some help?” Being married brought on the added responsibility of considering somene else before doing something potentially dangerous. ” He’s not armed and he’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs. They can take him at John Peter Smith Hospital. I called to check it out. They can help him but cannot come get him. What do you think about me taking him over there?”

Typically afraid of suicidal vagrants in short-shorts, I felt strangely calm this time. “Ok, but we’re taking the dog and I’m going with you.”

We loaded up Kevin, his earthly belongings and our Australian Shepherd  and set out for the charity hospital. John drove, Kevin rode shotgun and Mollie and I were in back. Out of nowhere Kevin lit a cigarette, John rolled down the window and immediately Kevin fell asleep; dropping the burning butt in the gray shag floorboard of my Mercury Tracer. I scrambled to locate the burning butt and we quietly laughed at the crazy situation we had gotten ourselves into. Once at the hospital, John helped Kevin up to the admission desk and the professionals took it from there. My idealistic seminary student was so eager to live out his faith.

And now? Well, the idealism is gone. But what remains is that my rythym-less groom still sees action as the litmus test of faith in Christ. His phone will ring at night and I hear him coordinating a landscape job for a homeless guy, listening to health updates of those who need a little pastoral assurance or enlisting a speaker to present to our church on Sunday mornings for our missional moment. He is a tireless advocate for people who from a worldly perspective have nothing left to lose and certainly nothing to give. On top of that he is hysterical, strong, witty and wise.

I really wonder how God saw fit to give me this person so opposite from me to be my spouse. He’s Olive-skinned and I’m a card-carrying albino. He examines every angle before making decisions while I use the force to guide me. His dishwasher-loading looks like a Whirlpool Ad and mine looks like aftermath from a twister. He completes me and his humble love has bettered me.

This Tuesday will be our 19th Valentine’s Day together. Our first one was a Singles Square Dance. I told him that I was going with friends and to meet me there which he did, a gutsy move for an introvert like himself. Somewhere between “honor your partner,” and “wrong way promenade home,” I was hooked. We were engaged four months later and suffered a mutilated wedding cake a mere twelve months after that.

For nearly two decades my heart has belonged to John- brave in the face of tragedy, honest to a fault and for more reasons than there are words to say, my one true love.