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Courage for me is keeping a dentist appointment. My idea of bravery is doing battle with the squirrels in my backyard, as they try to shimmy up my birdfeeder pole to steal seed. That’s how comfortable and secure my blessed life has become in this great land that I live in.

But what is going on in Ukraine has reawakened my understanding and appreciation of the true meaning of courage and bravery. Let me make clear this is not some partisan essay. I do not write this as a conservative or a liberal. I am merely a bystander who sees the fearless people of Ukraine risk everything to fight for their country, while the rest of the freedom-loving world watches, willing to contribute money and equipment, but remaining steadfast that Ukrainians must fight this battle alone.

I don’t begin to understand the complexity of the politics involved. And I don’t want to. I only know that watching the newsreel scenes of their struggle makes me feel sad, scared and inspired, all at the same time. The way they continue to find hope in what seems hopeless. How they persevere against the relentless and the inevitable. I wasn’t alive in the early 1940’s. I wonder if this is what it felt like when Adolph Hitler began expanding his power in western Europe. Were these the kind of emotions that were stirring in the hearts of the American colonists some 250 years ago, as they geared up to end the control and domination of English tyranny.

And forgive me for having doubt, but I wonder about us. Faced with a similar oppressor, would we still fight for our freedom? Would we cast aside our political divisions, our racial biases, our financial and geographic differences, and unite in the rediscovery that we are all one, that we are all free under a great and mighty God, and that no other regime or nation should ever be able to take that away from us? Or have we become so comfortable, so secure, so self absorbed, that we have lost perspective of the commitment and sacrifice necessary to make it possible?

Life is so good here. My biggest problem today will be negotiating the potholes on highway eleven. I don’t have to worry about an artillery shell striking and destroying my house. My hardest decision today will be what to eat for lunch. I don’t have to decide between gathering up my family and fleeing the country, or staying to help fight a war that will likely end my life. There won’t be any grandmothers here fashioning small bombs out of empty bottles to throw at enemy tanks as they roll down main street. There won’t be any young mothers having babies in air raid shelters.

As I watch the war in Ukraine unfold, I find myself with a refreshed awareness of the courage and bravery that is displayed and preserved all around me. I drove a little slower past the military memorial in Civitan Park. I thought about all the names inscribed on it, the bold warriors who fought for me. An American flag flies above the entrance to my subdivision. Normally, I am oblivious as I motor past, lost in my selfish thoughts. Not today. I gave it a little salute. I have been profoundly reminded of what it took for that flag to be up there, flapping proudly in the early spring breeze.

To the people of Ukraine: God be with you. And thank you for so heroically showing us once again that freedom and patriotism are worth fighting for. Even dying for.

As a child, I was taught that each of us has an angel that has been assigned to watch over and protect us. But we grow up and become cynical adults, and the concept of a guardian angel becomes merely the stuff of childhood fairy tales.

Until you meet yours.

Back in the good old days, when highway eleven was actually paved, I was an avid bicycle rider. Biking was more fun than jogging. Jogging is a constant grind. On a bike at least there are times you can lean back and coast downhill. When the weather warms up, the best time to go for a ride is early in the morning, around sunrise, before the commuter traffic hits the streets.

My favorite route was to head from Trussville up Highway Eleven northbound toward Argo. About four miles up the road, the landscape breaks into an open field, with a wooded range of hills sprawling behind it. It would take my breath away watching the sun come up over the ridge, it’s beams reflecting off the morning dew in the field, making the horizon appear as though it is actually glowing. All the while the cool morning breeze floats across your face as you pedal up the road. It was like riding into the middle of a beautiful oil painting.

I would turn left on to Advent Circle, cross over Interstate 59, and pass by a horse farm, which leads to a long remote stretch of road, heavily wooded on both sides. So peaceful. Then a right turn on to Liles Lane, which features an extremely steep hill that can propel you to speeds approaching forty miles per hour. That’s not much when you’re in a car, but I can assure you, it is terrifying on a bicycle. I was on the brakes all the way down. Liles Lane reconnects with Highway Eleven, completing the loop back home. It’s a journey of about fifteen miles.

One early Saturday morning, I headed out to do my usual ride. Rain was in the forecast and skies were already starting to cloud up. So I took off around 5am to try to beat the storm. As luck would have it, when I hit the wooded stretch on Advent Circle, the remotest part of the route, I felt the bike vibrating on the road and the pedaling becoming more labored. Any veteran biker knows that feeling. It’s a flat tire. Normally I carry a spare inner tube in my seat pack, but I had recently used my last one. At this point, I was about six miles from home, with storm clouds intensifying overhead. I heaved out a big sigh, resigned to the fact I would have to walk my bike all the way home, and if I got caught in the downpour, so be it.

I had walked about a quarter mile when I saw….could it be? At 5:30 in the morning? On this country road? Sure enough. It was a young man, riding a bike coming toward me. He was wearing the unmistakable uniform of a veteran cyclist. Tight fitting body jersey with the brand name Trek in big letters. Trek was the brand endorsed by Lance Armstrong before his fall from grace. My bike was a Trek.

He immediately recognized and understood my situation. He stopped, pulled out a spare tube and grabbed my bike to install it within my flat rear tire. I told him I could do it myself, that I was just grateful for the the spare. It takes me about half an hour, but I can do it. He laughed and told me he was an expert on flats, and had it done in about five minutes. I thanked him profusely, and he rode off saying “Have a blessed day”. I pedaled home. I beat the rain by about ten minutes.

I continued to bike that same route for years. I never saw him again, nor had I ever seen him prior to that morning. Was he my guardian angel? Some would say it was just a very fortunate coincidence.

Too much of one, if you ask me.

I have a family that I never spend time with, barely talk to, and know nothing about. I call them my greenway family.

Ever since the onset of the Covid scare, I have been a bit gun shy about going to the gym. Nothing against gyms but, you know, close contact, sweaty bodies, sharing common equipment and all that. So, as a replacement for the exercise, my dachshund Oscar and I embark on a daily walk down Trussville’s greenway. It’s a beautiful stroll along the Cahaba.

I rarely miss a day. Sometimes my wife Sharon will go along, but most often it’s just me and Oscar. Funny thing is, it’s turned out to be much more than exercise. You see, if you want to meet Trussville, I mean really catch a cross section of the people who live in and frequent our city, take a walk on the greenway. You will encounter young and old, black and white, male and female, tall and short, some who are badly out of shape, huffing and puffing, others ripped like Hercules, jogging past as though they are ready for the Olympic trials.

Most will unfailingly greet you with a smile and a hello. Young tots always want to stop and pet Oscar. He loves the attention. Some are deeply absorbed in whatever is playing on their earbuds and will be too distracted to make eye contact, but they are in the minority.

Then there are the regulars. You won’t know who the regulars are unless you are one, like Oscar and me. For example, there are the two sweet ladies pushing a small child in a stroller. They might be sisters. They kind of look alike. They always greet me warmly and make a point of saying hi to Oscar. There is the young couple that walks at a terrific pace, grinning and sharing a greeting as they blow past you. They will lap you several times before you finish. Here comes that older gentleman on a bicycle. He rings his little bell as he comes up from behind to let you know he’s there.

Another couple approaches riding bikes. The man is towing a little enclosed wagon with a dog inside of it. It’s also a dachshund. In fact, he will almost always call out “Dachshunds rule!” as he rides past. One young man passes me saying “Go Pack Go.” I yell back “How ’bout them Cowboys”. That’s all we’ve ever said to each other. We know each other’s favorite teams only because of the fan shirts we have worn during our walks. There is the Park & Rec employee who always takes a break from cutting grass when I go by to tell me about the latest disc golf competition he is entering. The lady with the large, beautiful dog (not sure of the breed) who has trained it to step off the sidewalk and sit quietly when another dog walks by. (Oscar would never do that.) The older fellow who is labored and a bit stooped over. He never speaks, but always flashes you a big smile and a point of the finger.

Of course, Oscar has his own set of familiar, furry faces. At one time or another he has buddied up with breeds and mutts of every size, shape and disposition. He knows who his friends are, and who just want to be left alone.

I see these random folks almost every day. Don’t know their names, don’t know anything about them, other than what I observe as they come by. Yet, somehow, they have become a kind of family. My greenway family. I can’t explain it, but they give me a sort of irrational stability, continuity. All is okay in the world. I miss them when I don’t see them. I’d like to think they miss me too on the rare occasions I’m not out.

Maybe some of them will read this and recognize that I am writing about them. Then maybe next time we pass on the path they might stop and chat a bit. I might even learn their name. But I wonder….would that ruin it? Is the charm of just passing and greeting and smiling, without having to put any effort into a conversation, precisely what makes the experience so appealing? Uh. This is getting way too deep. Overthinking is not allowed.

Suffice it to say, some day the Covid threat will be over. It will be time for me to go back to the gym. But I’m pretty sure I will find the time to continue my walks. I will need to know my family is still there.

And Oscar has made it clear he requires the extra attention.

In the movie The Sixth Sense, young actor Haley Joel Osment utters the iconic line “I see dead people.” Well, I think I may have a sixth sense.

I hear buildings talking to me.

Okay, I see you edging a little further away from me on the sofa. I know it’s all in my imagination. But I can’t help feeling there’s something sad about a huge, ornate building that formerly housed a popular, thriving business, now standing empty and abandoned. The Trussville area has its fair share of these.

Take, for example, the edifice on Trussville Crossings Boulevard. The one next to Zaxby’s. It used to be a Costa’s restaurant. We ate there several times. But it has stood empty now for several years, falling apart and getting overgrown with weeds. Every time I drive past it, a melancholy feeling comes over me. I feel like I can hear it calling out to anyone who will listen, saying “Hey, I used to be pretty and popular. I used to be loved. Now I’m forgotten and alone. Nobody cares. Won’t somebody please buy me and fix me up? I want another chance!”

I get the same vibe from the former Moe’s Southwest building across the street. Or the former Wendy’s/gas station structure on Highway Eleven. Or the store that housed The Straw Hat at the corner of Main and Chalkville Road, which has also been a pizza shop and a soda fountain/pharmacy.

Others just seem injured and in waiting for medical care, like the fire-damaged Kemp’s restaurant by the railroad tracks. And don’t kid yourself. They are very jealous of the shiny new structures going up all around them, like the new school administration building, the Rodney Scott barbecue place and the Hero donut shop. “Sure,” I hear them saying. “It’s easy to attract attention when your paint is fresh and your landscaping is manicured, when you’re the hot, new business in town. But will they still love you when you’re old and your novelty has worn off?”

The emanations I get are not always downers. Take the former K-Mart building off Chalkville Road. I clearly remember the early nineties when Trussville was considerably under-retailed. K-Mart was really the first major chain of its kind to come to town. We were all so happy that our sleepy little burg was getting some shopping! But as the flood of other stores poured into the city, K-Mart began to fade, and when it finally shut the doors for good, the huge, vacated building seemed to heave out a sigh that I felt with every passing journey.

Small wonder then that when these buildings do get a second life, they are overjoyed. That Former K-Mart is being revived with not one, but three different tenants. Ollie’s, Tractor Supply and a pet store are bringing life back to the old brick and mortar, and it gives me a good feeling. I can almost see the smile on the walls when I pull up into the parking lot. I can hear the Chinese buffet and Mexican restaurants next door shouting “Welcome to the neighborhood. Thanks for the new foot traffic!”

I felt like I was picking up on joyful sounds from the old Food World, when Fresh Market moved in, and eventually got an exciting new neighbor as Ace Hardware took up residence to rescue the Tuesday Morning space. I swear I hear giggling when I pass the old Zoe’s restaurant, as Five Guys prepares to take over.

Sometimes I think I feel impatience, almost like a foot tapping or fingers twiddling. When Edgar’s Bakery opened, that stately white companion building next door was all dressed up, but with no one to embrace. “C’mon,” it would call to me. “Look how pretty I am. Surely someone wants to dance with me.” And finally, it was “spotted” by Eyes On Main (pun intended).

So the next time you are driving through town, and you pass a building that is empty, or newly occupied, or brand new, don’t be surprised if feelings come over you. Feelings that seem to talk to you. It doesn’t make you weird. It just makes you like me.

Well, I guess that does make you a little weird.

This may take awhile. I’m typing this blog entry with one hand. My left hand. Which is problematic, because I am right-handed. I mean severely right-handed. My left hand has always been pretty useless.

Why this condition you ask? Wish I knew. I have somehow managed to injure the tendon, or ligament, or muscle, or whatever it is that connects your thumb to your wrist and arm. As a result, whenever I try to move my thumb, it sends a shockwave up through my arm that resembles what I can only imagine is what electrocution must feel like. There’s not much you can do for it except to keep it stable and let it heal on its own. Hence, I am currently one handed.

This is nothing new for me. I have spent a lifetime pulling, spraining, straining and dislocating various parts of my body. But here’s the thing. In the past my infirmities have always been the result of some sort of stressful activity or exercise, be it jogging, biking, playing tennis, swinging a golf club, or just bending over all day bagging leaves. Want to know what challenging activity resulted in my wounded thumb this time?

I reached out on my bathroom counter to grab my toothpaste tube.

That’s it. That’s all I did. Just reached out and suddenly pop! I felt something snap, like a rubber band breaking.

Life without the use of your thumb pretty much means life without the use of your hand. I never realized how critical the thumb is to everything you do with the other fingers. With my pathetic left hand, I couldn’t do simple things. I couldn’t twist the top off a bottle of water. I couldn’t strap on my watch. I couldn’t pull my dresser drawers open. Brushing my teeth left-handed is awkward. Flossing is out of the question. Eating is tricky. Cutting meat is almost impossible, and I keep missing my mouth with my fork.

Can’t do my beloved daily crossword puzzle. Tried to fill in the blanks writing left-handed, but the letters look more like ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. I couldn’t open the wrapper of a protein bar. I had to resort to my childhood habit of putting the wrapper in my mouth and ripping it with my incisor teeth. I managed to put a tear into it, but then what? My opposite-hand fingers weren’t sufficiently coordinated to split the wrapper open wide enough to get the bar out.

Takes about fifteen minutes to put on socks. Tying my shoes? No way. Heck, just pulling my pants up left-handed is an effort (too much information?).

Is this what it’s come to? Is this what life in my senior years will be like? Popping and snapping various body parts just by trying to exist?

Okay, by now I am sensing that you are getting tired of reading my whining. I get it. I want to make it clear that I am profoundly aware of how blessed I am. Something like this truly makes you appreciate the stuff in life you take for granted, especially when it comes to your health. There are so many others dealing every day with far worse things. They do so bravely and without complaint. I so admire their courage and patience. I want to give all of them a big thumbs up.

If I could.

I will never forget the Christmas of 1985. I will explain why, but a little backstory is necessary.

My wife Sharon and I were married in 1975. We were both so broke at the time, we couldn’t afford to go on a honeymoon. Our dream was to save up enough money to one day travel to Hawaii. The islands always seemed like a magical place to us.

After about eight years of working and relocating for better jobs, we grew tired of the grind, and longed to settle down and raise a family. Our son Brett was born in 1984. At the time, I was the sports director/anchor at channel 13 in Birmingham. As you might expect, my busiest time was in the fall when I was busy covering Alabama and Auburn home and away football games every weekend. Fortunately, most of the road games were within same day driving distance, so I could get back to maximize the time with my wife and little boy.

In the spring of 1985 we found out, much to our delight, that we were expecting again. Child number two was due around the first of the new year. By late fall, the Alabama football team was winding down the end of their season with a win over arch rival Auburn, finishing with a record of 8-2-1. Shortly afterward, the school announced it had accepted an invitation to play in….. of all places ….. Hawaii in the Aloha Bowl. The game was to be played on December 28. The team would be there for the entire week of Christmas.

It would be expected, of course, that each TV station in town would send its sports director to cover the team. A week in Hawaii. Expenses paid by the station. My first reaction was complete joy! My dream trip. Our dream trip. It was a no-brainer. I would just pay the extra expenses for Sharon to come along and we would finally get our honeymoon, ten years overdue.

Turns out, it wasn’t quite that uncomplicated. First, there was our two year old son. Take him along? He was way too active to stay under control during nine or ten hours on an airplane. Plus, Sharon would have to entertain him by herself in a hotel room while I was working. Not exactly our idea of a honeymoon type experience. There were no grandparents within 800 miles of us. And we were too new in the community to have any close enough friends we could ask to take him for a week.

Then, there was Sharon herself, now nine months pregnant. The prospect of hiking around the Hawaiian Islands with all that extra baggage she was carrying was not appealing. And what if the baby decided to come? She did not want to have a child thousands of miles from home. No, it was clear that my wife and son would not be making this trip.

All of which left me with the biggest Christmas decision of my life. Do I focus on my job, make the journey to Hawaii and take part in one of the most enjoyable work assignments of my career, while leaving my pregnant wife at home by herself for Christmas, with a two year old? Or do I give the assignment to one of my more-than-willing co-workers, any of whom would drool at the opportunity, and stay home to support my family? After much thought and consultation, I did what any thoughtful, considerate, loving husband would do.

I went on the trip.

From the start, it was clear karma was against me. On the plane ride there, I started to feel feverish and ill. By the time my videographer Greg and I arrived, I was full blown sick. We checked into the hotel room where I promptly upchucked everything inside of me. I then crawled into bed where I basically stayed for about three days, void of energy. Greg had to cover all the team events and practices by himself. I also missed the various fun activities planned for the covering media. I finally felt well enough to cover the actual game, which Alabama won. I staggered back on to the plane and stayed close to the bathroom all the way home. I saw virtually nothing of Hawaii except the hotel and the stadium.

As it turned out, our daughter Brittany wasn’t born until January. But I’ve always regretted not staying home for that Christmas. Family should always come first.

P.S. Sharon and I made it to Hawaii for our thirtieth wedding anniversary. I stayed healthy for the whole trip.

(Ken Lass is a former Birmingham news and sports anchor, and a resident of Trussville since 1989.)

Take hold of a tennis ball, or any small object. Hold it up and out, over the front of your body. Now ask yourself, when I release this object, which direction will it travel? Will it go up or down, left or right?

Silly, you say. Of course, it will drop straight down.

Really? How can you be so sure? Because of gravity, you say. Gravity will pull it down to the floor.

Gravity? What is gravity? Well, you say, it’s this force that pulls objects together. It’s what makes everything want to go down. It’s what keeps the Earth revolving around the sun.

Okay. That’s what gravity does. But what exactly is it? What does it look like? What color is it? Is it solid, liquid or gas? Animal, mineral or vegetable? Is it thick and pliable, or sheer and transparent? Can I smell it?

I don’t know, you reply. It’s just a……um…..it’s a force.

A force? What is a force?

Well…er…a force is…….Oh, just forget it! you respond in frustration. Why all these weird questions?

Just trying to make a point. If you have trouble trying to describe what gravity is, you’re not alone. Even the greatest scientific minds in the world have pondered that question for centuries. They can tell you what gravity does, but they can’t tell you exactly what it is.

Yet all of us have absolutely no difficulty accepting and believing implicitly that gravity is real, that it exists, and that it is always there. We have complete trust in this because we see numerous times each day what it does.

In fact, there are many things we accept and believe without being able to see, hear, feel or touch them. God is one of those. Or at least, He should be.

What is God? A spirit? A ghost? An alien? A cloud of light? A superhero in human form? Is He tall or short? What color are His eyes? His hair? The Bible tells us we are made in His image. But we can’t be sure if that means human form. We are told He is all powerful, all knowing and eternal. That He loves us and will never abandon us. How can this be? How can we trust that it’s true?

The same way we trust in gravity. Though we can’t accurately describe precisely what God is, we can trust He exists based on what He does. Look around you. The birth of an infant. The perfect order of the universe. The irrational concept of unconditional love. The beginning of all things. The beginning of life. Denying that these are functions of God is about as logical as denying the existence of gravity.

It’s not just the great mysteries of the cosmos. If you focus on it, and if you are honest with yourself, you can see Him all over the path of your own life. The experiences you’ve had, the adversity you’ve endured, the joys you have been granted, the incredible coincidences and serendipity of your journey that have led you to where you are today, even to reading this blog post.

He’s there. Always there. You may not be able to describe Him, but you don’t have to. He’s still there.

Now drop that tennis ball. See? Your instincts and trust were right all along.

Want to know whether you are still hip? Here are two things that I have learned. First of all, when I tell my kids that I am still hip, they tell me “Dad, we know you’re not hip because you still use the word ‘hip’.

So, if you find yourself still using the word “hip”, rest assured that you are not.

The other thing is, you know you are no longer……in, groovy, with it….whatever, if you cannot accurately answer the question: What are the hottest Christmas toys this season?

So, in my continuing effort to be down with it, bad, way cool and rad to the max, I make it a point to peruse the internet every December to ascertain what’s hot and what’s not in the world of Christmas toys for kids. And what I have discovered is that we have come a long way from G.I. Joe’s and Etch-A-Sketches.

Apparently, the item in highest demand for girls is Gabby’s Dollhouse. Gabby is a cat and its abode is promoted as “the purrfect dollhouse”. With a price tag of $102.99, it better be purrfect enough for me to sleep in it in a pinch.

What do little boys love more than miniature race cars and dinosaurs? Nothing of course. So why not combine the two into one super awesome toy? Allow me to introduce you to the Hot Wheels Robo T-Rex Ultimate Garage. It’s a series of tracks winding around and down a couple of parking towers. As the mini race cars speed around the course, a toothy dinosaur slides down the center trying to gobble them up. My grandkids actually have this toy. Sadly, they are often disappointed, as the action requires a fairly complex series of coordinated movements, which seldom come off correctly. At $99.00, I want my T-Rex dropping and eating cars, not getting stuck to its platform.

For $298.00, your child/grandchild can be the proud owner of a GoTrax Electric Scooter. The ad says it will go up to 15.5 miles per hour, which means you can go faster than the traffic on highway eleven. The Snackin’ Sam Animatronic Brontosaurus will eat plastic popsicles for $49.99. Remember when kids used Legos to build houses and cars? It’s a little more sophisticated now. For $169.92, you can surprise your little one with a Legos Avengers Helicarrier. If you’re lucky, you might figure out how to assemble it by next Christmas. And once you do, you may ponder exactly what it is. It may be a ship, or a highway transport vehicle, or a fast food restaurant. I’m not sure. Just put a helicopter on it and don’t ask questions.

But by far, the toy that most intrigues me, is the Ms. Monopoly board game. I quote from the promotional ad:

“In this version of Monopoly, women actually get a higher payout at the start of the game and more money for passing go (taking the gender pay gap into an alternate reality where men actually make less). And, what’s even cooler, is that instead of buying properties, players will buy innovative inventions by women. So, you’re not buying Boardwalk and Park Place, you’re buying Chocolate Chip Cookies and Stem-Cell Isolation!”

Now there’s a gift you can give to your young ones this Christmas that will truly make you look hip.

Oops. Sorry.

Scripture – Matthew 1:21

She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because He will save His people from their sins.

I woke up one recent, beautiful, late autumn morning, cleaned up, and trudged into my closet, looking for something to wear. My personal calendar hangs down from my closet shelf. I hang it there so that it stares me right in the face first thing. Can’t miss it. That way, if I’ve got something important to do that day, I’m sure to see it.

At first glance on this particular morning, I noticed it happened to be December First. Ah, the Christmas season. Joy to the world, and all that stuff. But after I selected one of my many pairs of well-worn blue jeans and headed out to face the world, one thing became abundantly clear.

Christmas, at least my concept of it, was missing. I couldn’t see it. Couldn’t feel it.

Where could it be? I looked for it on television, but all I saw were commercials for toys and tools and clothes and food and……..lawyers. I looked for it in front yards, but all I found were Santas and reindeer and penguins and toy soldiers and all manner of bright and colorful lights.

I listened for it on the radio, but all I heard were songs about rockin’ around the Christmas tree, chestnuts roasting on an open fire, partridges in pear trees and grandmas who got run over by a reindeer. I looked for it on social media, but folks seemed too busy posting about politics and enquiring as to whether anybody knew of a plumber who would work cheap. I looked for it in my mailbox, but all I found were pamphlets from Joe Namath and Jimmie Walker and William Shatner trying to sell me a Medicare Advantage plan.

I looked for it on the internet, but instead I got emails from a nice fellow who wrote that he just inherited six million dollars and is willing to split it with me, if I will just send him a few thousand for legal expenses. I looked for it in the movie theater, but there were only films about super heroes, crazed serial killers and animated animals.

Yes, Christmas was missing. It had been hijacked by the marketers. But then, one day, I went to church and I heard the preacher tell me where to find it. He said it’s right there in the Bible. Always has been. It’s not missing at all. It’s just that we got too distracted to remember where it was. Where it’s always been.

Sure enough. It’s right there. In the Gospel of John it says “The Word became flesh and made His dwelling among us. We have seen His glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.”

Ah, now that sounds more like it to me. Welcome back, Christmas. I will try never to lose track of you again.

(For the Trussville Tribune)

I have always thought that Thanksgiving does not get the respect it deserves. Most of us don’t even really know much about the event upon which it is based. We know Christmas is the birth of Jesus. Easter is His resurrection. Memorial Day honors our brave soldiers. The Fourth of July is America’s birthday. Heck, even Labor Day has its distinction, as the sort of unofficial transition from summer to fall.

But Thanksgiving? All we have is some fuzzy recollection of Pilgrims and Native Americans agreeing to a shaky truce and nervously carbo loading on turkey, maize, dressing (or is it stuffing?) and beer. Halloween, which isn’t even a holiday, has passed up Thanksgiving in popularity. People love to engage by decorating their houses and property with ghosts and bats and witches and skeletons and giant spider webs.

Once Halloween has passed, do you see folks putting out large inflatables of Squanto and Myles Standish? Nope. Do they hold off on the Nativity scene and, instead, put up a small recreation of the Mayflower, complete with seasick Quakers onboard? Not a chance. A Plymouth Rock that lights up in the dark and spells out “There’s No Place Like Home” with hidden speakers blaring I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy? Yeah, don’t hold your breath.

No, instead everyone will be in a hurry to put out their Santas and reindeer and penguins and toy soldiers and assorted characters from “Frozen”. Radio stations will start playing full time Christmas music. Burl Ives, Perry Como and Bing Crosby never sang timeless songs about Puritans showing the Native Americans how to make Big Macs and waffle cut french fries.

Oh sure, we’ll be happy to take a few days off, watch football on TV, and attack the stores on Black Friday. But will we take the time to be truly thankful for our blessings? Family, friends and good health of course. But how about some appreciation for things less obvious? I’m thankful that God made weeds green, so when I mow my lawn they look the same as real grass. I’m thankful for left turn arrows on stoplights. I’m thankful I happen to live on the side of the Trussville railroad tracks that is NOT affected when the trains park and sit for hours. I’m thankful for Facebook users who resist the temptation to post pictures of their elaborate lunches, so I can feel better about the Lean Cuisine I’m about to slide into the microwave.

I’m thankful for thoughtful drivers who stop and allow me to actually turn out of my subdivision on to Highway 11. I’m thankful for drivers who won’t stop to let anybody else in after me, because this could take all day and I’m in a hurry. I’m thankful I can watch college football for an entire Saturday morning, afternoon and evening, instead of spending my time doing yardwork, home repair….or acknowledging my family. I’m thankful Nick Saban chooses to continue to coach football instead of acting in TV commercials. I’m thankful to whomever came up with baby pacifiers and swings that rock themselves with the push of a button. No doubt they were invented by a weary grandparent.

So this year, maybe try to hold off on the snow globe with the strobe light, and take a moment to focus on Thanksgiving. After all, the only ones that should not be excited about this holiday are the turkeys.