What’s Up with Being A Lil Rusty

Articles

By Rusty Stroupe

www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

When I left you last week, I was about to conquer one of my greatest fears. If you remember, I had somehow avoided throwing up after getting light-headed on some of the flipping and twisting rides at Carowinds. But emetophobia (the fear of vomiting), is not the greatest fear I face at an amusement park. I am particularly unfond of heights. (I realize unfond is not a word, but I was due for a made up word so that’s what I’m going with). “Acrophobia,” it’s called.

Other than the throwing up thing, I tend to seek out ways to conquer my fears instead of running from them. Therefore, on each of my seven trips to Carowinds this summer, the first ride the boys and I ran to every single time was the Drop Tower.  We were strapped into our seats, transported upward to a height of 160 feet, and dropped at 56 miles per hour. The boys and I must have ridden the Drop Tower at least fifty times this summer, and it scared me less and less every time.

At one point, on a particularly slow day, I snuck over to the Drop Tower while the boys rode the Hurler over and over (Recall that I avoid rides that make you throw up, so I wasn’t about to ride one named the Hurler).   I rode the Drop Tower three times in a row by myself. Literally. There was nobody else on the entire ride and nobody in line. So the three high school-aged attendants watched as a 46-year-old man ascended and descended over and over just for the heck of it.

At the highest point of the Drop Tower, one is afforded a full view of the granddaddy of all thrill rides, and I shuddered each time I viewed its majesty. The granddaddy of which I speak is something called the “Xtreme Flyer,” the closest thing to bungee jumping you can do without diving off a bridge.  I balked on the first six trips when it came to the Flyer. “Too expensive,” I told my boys. “Mom would get mad if she knew we risked life and limb,” I opined. “You’re just making excuses, Dad,” they said. “You’re chicken.” Fighting words.

We promised Mom just before leaving on our seventh trip to Carowinds that we would stay clear of the Xtreme Flyer. I think she knew we were lying.  A few hours later, as the cable attached to my boys and me lifted us to what seemed like the height of the Sears Tower, I openly questioned the functionality of those brain cells within me whose sole responsibility is to secrete good judgment. And just before we plummeted, the finer parts of my life flashed through my mind.

We yelled, we laughed, and we flew!  It was the most fantabulous ride of my life. I’m still not a fan of heights, but they don’t scare me anymore.  It wasn’t a bungee jump, but I’m crossing it off my “To Do Before I Die List” because it’s my bucket list and I get to make the rules.

If you’re skeptical, go to Youtube and type in “Stroupe Boys Fly at Carowinds.” Though she would never admit it, I think Mrs. Stroupe was impressed. .. at least until I told her what it cost (45 bucks plus $10 for the video).

What’s Up with Being A Lil Rusty

Articles

By Rusty Stroupe

www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

I am a 46-year-old male, and in my mind at least, as macho as the next guy. But, I will admit there are things I fear. Thanatophobia- the fear of death- is not among them. Okay, maybe I’m a little antsy about kicking the bucket and buying the farm, but I am not petrified because my intentions are to be transported due north wearing a white robe of some sort if things go as planned.

I am, however, not immune to fear. I’ll be up front and let you know right away that I’m gonna leave you hanging at the end of this column, but I will address one of my fears this week and trust that you will respect my transparency.

I am afraid of throwing up. Some people stick their fingers down their throat and let ‘er rip every time they get a little queasy, and immediately, they feel better. No big deal. For me, I would rather be miserable for 52 straight hours than vomit. I cannot explain it, but a quick search on the internet let me know I wasn’t alone.  Apparently, I suffer from an extremely mild case of “Emetophobia”. Yes, it’s a real phobia, and I’m not ashamed of it. I have brethren and sistren out there whose cases are a lot worse.

I date it all back to an ugly incident in high school when I threw up in the courtyard outside the cafeteria in front of the entire junior class and a few seniors. I had won the milk drinking contest a few minutes earlier, but had to forfeit the victory when the blowing of chow incident occurred, which was prohibited under the previously determined masculine rules of said contest.  Everybody looked and everybody laughed. And to make it worse, I had chosen to drink chocolate milk. Uggggh!

Flash forward thirty years to this summer and I am taking two of my sons to Carowinds theme park for the day. We decided to get season tickets, so it was supposed to be the first of many trips. On the morning of our first visit, I ate a piece of toast and drank water. I took 1.5 Dramamine pills and carried along Ibuprofen and Tums as backup. I was fine on the first few rides, but the one where they insist on flipping and twisting my body got to me. Especially when halfway through, the coaster stopped and did it again backwards, banging my delicate head against the headrest in the process.

I did not toss my cookies, but I felt like a cat that had gone through the tumble cycle in the dryer. And due to my emetophobia and the throbbing between my ears, I sat out the rest of the day as the boys rode the Intimidator thirteen straight times. And to add insult to injury, I hadn’t taken the less drowsy formula Dramamine, so I plopped on a park bench next to somebody’s grandmother and fought sleep, nausea, and embarrassment for three hours.

Undeterred, I would later return to Carowinds; six more times to be exact. How’s that for conquering your fears? Eventually, I would conquer a fear of mine even greater than upchucking. And in doing so, I would cross off another item on my personal “To do before I die” (Bucket List). Fear not, I will fill you in next week.

What’s Up with Being A Lil Rusty

Articles

By Rusty Stroupe

www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

I wish I had a fifty-cent piece for every time in my life when someone told me I reminded them of someone else. Sometimes they say it’s the way I act. Sometimes, it’s the way I talk. But mostly, they say it’s the way I look.

I guess that means I am fairly generic when it comes to my personal appearance, and I’m okay with that. My best friend growing up was the one all the girls looked at and gawked over. Nobody ever accused him of looking like somebody else. He was his own man and was proud of it.

Meanwhile, I was his tag along companion who reminded everybody of their third cousin. So quite often, I became the token “thrown-in friend” when a male was needed to complete the foursome necessary to constitute a double date. It beat staying at home!

In 1980, the movie “Popeye” starring Robin Williams became popular during my sophomore year of high school and people told me I looked like him (minus the muscles).

During my early college years, the television show “Cheers” arrived on the scene. People told me I looked like Woody Harrelson. At first I was okay with that, but when he later starred in “Natural Born Killers” (a truly disgusting movie), I decided I didn’t like being associated with Woody, and he has done little since then to change that perspective.

Whatever the case, I still hear people often tell me that I remind them of such and such or so and so. Not that it should matter, but I usually ask whether or not they like that person.  It’s a fair question. I think sometimes I see people that remind me of somebody else and almost immediately I make my first judgment about them based on the person they remind me of. Of course that’s not fair, but I must admit I have been guilty of that before. I think that is why nobody wears a Hitler moustache this day and age.

Yet, people do make inaccurate judgments about our personalities based on who we look like. Which is why I’m glad no one has ever mentioned me resembling Richard Nixon, Ozzy Osbourne, that Blagojevich guy, the Unabomber, O.J. Simpson, or Rosie O’Donnell.

Recently, I attended a town hall meeting where a member of the U.S. House of Representatives spoke. I waited to meet him afterwards and upon shaking his hand he remarked that he seemed to remember us meeting before. I was pretty sure we hadn’t, but I didn’t want to embarrass him so I kind of nodded and speculated that maybe we had.  Then I mentioned that maybe he had seen my picture in the paper due to the little columns I write each week that appear in a few local newspapers. The look on his face told me that this was not the case.  Embarrassed by my own presumptuousness, I then decided it was probably déjà vu all over again, and I mumbled something about people saying quite often that I remind them of someone else.   I should have known the vast majority of the local citizenry is oblivious to my columns- especially a Congressman. And even if he did stumble upon my column, he certainly wouldn’t bother looking at the picture.

Oh, well, at least he didn’t think I was Woody Harrelson.

What’s Up with Being A Lil Rusty

Articles

By Rusty Stroupe

www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

I will confess to you from the start that I recently remained on a rooftop during a thunderstorm one day and a drenching downpour the next day.  Before you question the area of my brain that secretes good sense, let me explain.  I have been on two in-country mission trips this summer.  Both involved construction work geared toward homes of less fortunate folks who are financially unable to afford necessary repairs.  In both cases, the main workers are middle school and high school aged kids.  They work their buns off in the heat and share their faith with the people they meet in the neighborhoods as often as possible.  Good stuff!

On my first trip, I served as the worship speaker each of the six nights we were there.  I spent most of my time with the summer staff, which basically consisted of college kids.  As the worship leader for the week, my days were spent with the staff traveling around to each group.  Along with encouraging them, we dropped off supplies, treated minor injuries, gave out hugs, took pictures, and forced the kids and their adult chaperones to take well-deserved breaks from the 100+ degree temperatures along the way.

As we were making our rounds one day, someone made note of the fact that I was twice as old as anyone in the truck.  Gee, thanks!  But, it didn’t seem to bother anyone, especially me.  At one point, the four of us sang along with the radio at the top of our lungs when Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” was playing.  Forty-six years old, and I can still hang with the kids.

An even more significant moment occurred a few songs later when the station was changed and “Amazing Grace: My Chains Are Gone” came on.  Again, we all sang every word of Chris Tomlin’s awesome rendition.  Bound by the Holy Spirit, we were.  And during those moments, there was no generation gap.  I hardly knew these kids, but we experienced a holy moment together.

On my next mission trip, once again I was the oldest in our group. Our job was to re-roof a house, and our leader was a 21-year-old college girl named Kati.  She was a pretty girl with pink streaks flowing through her blonde hair. Make no mistake; Kati knew how to roof a house!  At one point on the first day, a thunderstorm hit us while most of the roof was uncovered.  Unphased, Kati began tacking plastic to the roof to protect it, oblivious to the pounding rain drenching her.  The kids were ordered to the bus, but the adults stayed and basically watched the college girl on the roof complete her task.

When the exact same scenario occurred again the next day, Kati was rock solid once again.  When the rain stopped, she was thoroughly soaked and the wet pink streaks in her hair were more pronounced than ever.  It was then I proclaimed her to be “Kati Beast”, a complimentary title normally reserved for courageous male macho feats of strength.

These kids amaze me!  Yes, they can be immature at times.  Yes, many things are easier for them than they were for my generation.  But don’t tell me they’re all spoiled and disrespectful.  I met plenty this summer who weren’t.  And as usual, they have inspired me beyond words.

What’s Up with Being A Lil Rusty

Articles

By Rusty Stroupe

www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

Recently, a baseball scout relative of mine and I were discussing what the perfectly pitched baseball game would be. A pitcher gets credit for pitching a perfect game if nobody on the opposing team reaches base. But we took it a step further.

We agreed that it would be 27 pitches where every batter hit the first pitch, and as a result, an out was recorded. He wanted 27 fly balls, but as a former infielder, I preferred 27 groundballs. Either way, the goal of a perfect 27 pitch game is unattainable. At some point, batters will begin to let pitches go by and not swing. Yet, twenty pitchers in Major League history have been credited with hurling perfect games. The word “perfect” in this case is a statistic, not an adjective. An absolute perfect game is unattainable, and a perfect pitcher or person does not exist on this planet.

I am curious to know how many people remember the name Armando Gallaraga. He is the young big league pitcher who, on June 2, barely missed becoming the twenty-first pitcher in history to toss a perfect game.  And, it would have been a “perfect” game if veteran umpire, Jim Joyce, had made the proper out call at first base on what would have been the last out of the game. But, Joyce blew it, and after watching the replay after the game, he knew it.

Instead of running for cover by claiming he’s human or saying something about how he did the best he could, the man admitted his mistake. He was devastated and apologetic. He didn’t blame his seventh grade gym teacher. He didn’t blame the liberal media or the military industrial complex. He didn’t blame sugar-sweetened cereals or fast food. He took it like a man; an imperfect man, and Gallaraga was just as impressive. He grinned when the call was made. He brought the pre-game lineup card out to Joyce at home plate the next day to demonstrate his respect.

Umpires and referees- imperfect human beings- miss calls and make mistakes. And I gotta believe most of the time they don’t blow calls on purpose. Yet people throw stuff at them, call their mothers bad names, and make jokes about how there won’t be any baseball games in Heaven because no umpires will be there to officiate. But alas, there is hope. The aforementioned near-perfect game incident occurred in Detroit, the same city that inexplicably nearly burned itself to the ground while “celebrating” after its baseball team won the World Series in 1984.

Perhaps these thoughts were going through Jim Joyce’s mind as he walked out to home plate to umpire the day after his infamous blown call. With trembling hands and tears in his eyes, Joyce accepted the lineup card from Gallaraga. And when Joyce’s name was announced, the crowd cheered. Yes, cheered, not jeered. They cheered because a man was humble enough to admit his mistake. They cheered because they respected his heartfelt apology. And they cheered because their young pitching star provided them a positive example of how people should treat others who confess their mistakes and sincerely ask for forgiveness.

Two men shaking hands and making their peace with each other. An entire city willing to forgive. A sport rooted in tradition and respect. For those few moments at least, perfection.

What’s Up with Being A Lil Rusty

By Rusty Stroupe

www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

“I don’t have to go looking for stuff to write about,” I told my neighbors one recent afternoon while standing in my driveway. “All I have to do is keep my eyes open.” Having just witnessed what happened a few moments earlier, they laughed and agreed.

It all started with a phone call from my ten-year-old son. “Dad,” he calmly said, “Mom wants you to come home as soon as possible because Flash (our dog) has a fish hook stuck in his nose.”

Upon arriving home, I noticed the dog was in good spirits, but she  did indeed have a large fish hook stuck through one of her nostrils. The tip of the hook was visible on the outside of her nose, thus letting me know the thing was stuck good (or bad depending on your perspective).

When I tell you that we decided to take some pictures of Flash, please understand that my family meant no disrespect or harm to the creature and that she was not in pain at the time.  I texted a few pics to my oldest two sons who were out of town and some other folks who I thought would be interested.

But the scene became less than humorous when my neighbor and I attempted surgery to remove the offensive hook. Let me next say that we have no idea how the fish hook worked its way into the dog’s snout, though my neighbor’s wife did discover a fishing bobber in the yard that looked like it had been chewed up by dog teeth.

My wife’s job was to help my neighbor and I contain the poor canine while I performed surgery with wire cutters and needle nose pliers. My neighbor tried to cover Flash’s eyes with a bandana but this proved unsuccessful.

At one point during the operation, a subdued Flash did what any red-blooded American dog would do. She relieved herself. At first it was number one. But it soon evolved into number two. And we were too far into the surgery to bail out due to the smell. We forged onward despite my neighbors’ wife and my youngest son bailing out and relocating to parts unknown.

I’ll spare you further details of the “relieving” incident but I will tell you there was clear evidence to indicate that Flash had recently eaten a screw.

Anyway, I was able to slice the hook into two pieces but I wasn’t able to push it all the way out. Of course we knew better than to try to pull it out, knowing that the hook’s barb would do even more damage on the way out. Eventually my neighbor, who had an angle better than me, pushed the hook the rest of the way out of the poor dog’s nose via the pliers.

Hooray! After thirty seconds of subdued pouting, Flash jumped up and ran into the neighbor’s yard to play with her doggy friend.

I gained a whole new respect for Flash that day. She’s tougher than I thought. And in her defense, I think under the circumstances I probably would have soiled the driveway, too.

Of course, I am appreciative to Flash for providing material for yet another semi-entertaining column. And I will continue to keep my eyes open and my driveway hosed off.

To see a picture of Flash sporting her fish hook nose ring and to read a special message from her, visit www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

What’s Up with Being A Lil Rusty

By Rusty Stroupe

www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

We rode through town in with our heads out the windows while our parents honked their horns on the way to the ice cream shop that hot summer day.  Folks along the way waved at the caravan containing us little leaguers who had just won the championship.

Five years later, our newly crowned state champion high school baseball team triumphantly pulled into town around five o’clock in the morning.  Our coach couldn’t resist leading a parade of vans and cars through the streets blowing the horns and celebrating.  Most everybody understood except for a few local grumpies who quickly got over it.

We won two more titles when I was in high school and each time we celebrated a little differently. One time my teammates and I stayed up late and jumped the hill near my house in our cars for hours, injuring our suspensions and shock absorbers along the way.  Another time, we met at the stadium and gave speeches over the loudspeaker to our loyal fans.

When the college team I played on won the championship in 1984, we jumped in the duck pond when we got back to campus.  And when the college team I coached in 1994 won the game that put us in the World Series, everybody ended up in the swimming pool with their uniforms on.  For the record, I was thrown in.

I share all this to make a simple point.  At no point in any of our championship celebrations did anybody destroy anything in our town.  Aside from some new shocks for our automobiles, the costs were minimal.  For the life of me I don’t understand why people destroy cars with sledge hammers, set fire to trash cans, smash store windows, and hurl bottles and rocks at policemen whenever their team wins a championship.

This is exactly what happened recently when the Los Angeles Lakers won their second straight NBA championship.  Locals- albeit a small portion of them- took to the streets and tore their city apart. The point they were trying to make evades me.  It makes me wonder whether or not they deserve a championship.  It’s not like the players were homegrown anyway.  All they are really celebrating is the fact that they have an owner who is willing to pay lots of money to players from all over the world and they happen to be playing in their city.  At least our modest championships were made up of local players, and we didn’t smash windows or hurl various items in the direction of upstanding law enforcement officers.

In 2007, when Gardner-Webb pulled off the miracle basketball win over Kentucky, students and staff alike gathered in the arena and danced on the Bulldog picture at center court. Nobody broke anything, which leads me to the recent College World Series victory by my friends and fellow competitors at the University of South Carolina.  As far as I can tell, the entire Gamecock nation was deservedly ecstatic, but nobody destroyed the campus or the city of Columbia in their jubilation.

So if you are fortunate enough to be involved with a team that wins a championship, celebrate all you wish.  Throw a cooler full of Gatorade on the coach.  Dance the Macarena. But for goodness sake, leave the sledge hammers in the tool rack.

What’s Up with Being A ‘Lil Rusty

By Rusty Stroupe
www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

You may recall a few years ago when I penned a column about Rick Monday. He is the big league baseball player who sprinted across the outfield and saved an American flag just before two protestors were about to burn it in centerfield. Monday will forever be known for saving the flag that day in 1976, a badge of honor he wears proudly. Many would call him a hero, though he prefers to reserve that title for those who have risked their lives in defense of the country.

Though not to be confused with a religious symbol, many veterans will tell you that the flag they served under is as close to a sacred symbol as it gets. So much so that when I was in grade school, we were taught to never let the flag touch the ground. We were also taught that the United States of America has always stood for freedom, democracy and the rights of the individual- though I will concede that our country at times has been imperfect in our implementation of policies consistent with those values.

But, my point is not to argue policies here. There are plenty of arguments and controversy enough to go around. I don’t think the flag should be blamed for any of the shortcomings of its leaders and citizens. I submit to you that in the course of writing these columns, I have been labeled as overly patriotic by some. Regardless, I unashamedly love the Stars and Stripes.

Never before in my life have I witnessed what I did while watching the news recently. Five California high school students were sent home because their t-shirts had pictures of a flag on them. The American flag! In California, this is one of the United States. There are too many details about this incident to discuss in this column, and certainly there are two sides of this argument, but the basic fact is this: the same flag that soldiers fought and died beneath to protect and defend democracy has been deemed as offensive by some legitimate authority figures within our country.

In many respects, I understand the logic of the administrators who were trying to prevent altercations, but I can’t say I agree with it. I agree more with one of the parents of the kids who stated, “It’s a sad, sad day in America.”

I have friends in foreign countries that I love and appreciate. And, I have a couple of flags from some of those countries that I treat with respect. In no way do I feel superior to my foreign friends when I gaze upon my country’s flag and sing the national anthem, and I hope my friends will always be free to display their flags proudly. I also hope for the same freedom to display our flag in my country as well. Our own court system has protected American citizens’ rights to burning the American flag in public. The most recent “flag on the t-shirt” controversy likely won’t make it to the Supreme Court, but if it did, I’d be curious to see where they would stand.

Regardless of how it all shakes out, it is a sad state of affairs when Old Glory is offensive within our own country. Perhaps Rick Monday would agree.

What’s Up with Being A ‘Lil Rusty

By Rusty Stroupe

www.rustystroupe.blogspot.com

Recently, college basketball analyst, Dick Vitale, was struck in the abdomen by a foul ball at a Tampa Bay Rays baseball game.  Fortunately, Vitale was fine and had a sense of humor about the situation when interviewed on camera a few minutes later.

It seems there has been an unusual amount of foul ball incidents lately in baseball games. It started during spring training when Hideki Matsui, a member of the Los Angeles Angels, stroked a foul ball that sailed into the parking lot and struck the team owner’s car, smashing the windshield.  What are the odds?

Foul balls have always fascinated me. When I was eleven years old, I had the opportunity to experience the thrill of a foul ball headed right towards me at a Pirates-Braves game in Atlanta. The ball was hit by one of my favorite players, Manny Sanguillen, and I would have given my entire baseball card collection at the time to have that ball. I would love to tell you that someone jumped in front of me and caught it, but that would be a major embellishment.  The truth is that I bailed out and ducked for cover, thus wasting a perfectly magnificent opportunity to achieve sports immortality- in my own mind at least.

I have seen fans catch line drives bare handed, while overpaid players on the field wearing gloves miss line drives often.  I saw at man at the College World Series in Omaha in 2004 catch a line drive with his jacket.

I’ve witnessed fans clapping and cheering wildly at high school games when they heard a foul ball smash a car outside of the stadium.  For the life of me I cannot figure out why that deserves an ovation, but it happens all the time.  And not to be outdone, the sound effects people in the press box press buttons when foul balls leave the park to make it sound like the ball is smashing a windshield.  People even clap for that too!

I am not the first person to ask this question, but why do folks holler “Heads up!” when a foul ball is headed in someone’s direction?  It would seem more appropriate to duck instead of raising up, thus exposing the dome within which your brain resides.

My youngest son is not a huge baseball fan, but he loves to go to his older brother’s games lately.  He has caught the fever for catching- or more appropriately retrieving- foul balls.  At major league games you keep the ball.  At youth league games there is an even better deal- take it to the concession stand and trade it for a drink or candy.  My son hauls in five balls a game on a good night, adequate to supply him with enough Coke and Sour Patch Kids candy to keep him awake until 3 a.m.

I’ve retrieved plenty of foul balls at various sorts of games before but I have never caught one in the air to the best of my recollection.  It has now become a goal of mine; and since I don’t carry a glove around on my person, I will be forced to accomplish the feat barehanded.  I look forward to hearing the crowd cheer when I make a highlight reel catch.  I just hope I don’t bail out again!

What’s Up with Being A ‘Lil Rusty

By Rusty Stroupe

www.RustyStroupe.blogspot.com

Lately it seems that more and more folks are showing up at my front door wanting to talk religion.

Most of the time I am in agreement with the door-to-door witnesses, and I thank them for being bold in their faith. But regardless of the circumstance, I try to be respectful, cordial, and brief.

Recently, a gentleman confronted me with an interesting question. He simply asked, “Are you a Christian?” I answered in the affirmative then proceeded to share with him about my church and my position as a deacon.

He reminded me that being a deacon doesn’t make one a Christian- a statement I quickly expressed my agreement with.

His observation got me to thinking. If you could be a deacon and not be a Christian, perhaps you could be a lot of other things without being a Christian.

So I have compiled a list of things people say and do that make them look and feel like Christians, but don’t by themselves guarantee a spot on a page in the Book of Life.

Being nice to old dogs, stray cats and pet hamsters doesn’t make one a Christian. Neither does treating the elderly with respect or being courteous to telemarketers when they call you at suppertime.

If I keep my yard mowed, my truck clean and my room picked up, that doesn’t make me a Christian even though there is some merit to the saying “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.” (If that’s the case I stand on shaky ground.)

Reading Billy Graham’s column in the paper and forwarding all those inspirational emails without deleting them doesn’t make one a Christian anymore than gluing wings on a frog makes him a bird.

Just because I don’t covet my neighbor’s wife, his lawn mower, his fishing boat and his power tools doesn’t mean I’m a Christian- though it might be evidence that I’m a fairly decent neighbor.

Even though it’s a real good thing to do, giving money to the Red Cross, the Salvation Army bell ringers, the church and the homeless person on the street doesn’t guarantee anything. Neither does knowing all the words to the National Anthem, the Battle Hymn of the Republic, most Christmas carols, and the latest song by Steven Curtis Chapman. (He’s got some great stuff, by the way.)

Maybe we’ve come to believe that obeying the speed limit, tipping waitresses, and crying at sad movies, religious songs, and high school graduations makes us Christians. Sorry, no dice. But what if I’m honest on my tax returns and tell the truth about my kid’s ages when I’m in line at McDonalds or the movie theater? Doesn’t that count for something? Yes, but it still doesn’t mean I’m a Christian.

These thoughts were racing through my mind as my witness friend continued to ask me how I knew I was a Christian. When it came my time to speak, all the Christmas carols, telemarketers, tax returns, and the deacon stuff all vanished from my mind and simplicity reigned.

“It’s all about the cross,” I said, “And the amazing grace that I’ve been blessed with because of it.” There was more- but having heard what he wanted to hear- my traveling friend smiled and said, “Blessings to you Brother, I’ll be moving on now.”