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Tim, a good friend of mine, sent me a text message early this Easter morning.  It read, “Happy Easter!  Wonderful service this morning.”  An obvious good natured jab at my previous blog post, Is It Sacrilege, where I considered the idea of not attending church on Easter Sunday, and my reasons for why I might not do so.  My response to Tim was, “Happy Easter!  I’m sure it was.  Also a wonderful time with family.”  Counter jab.

Since deciding to stay home on Easter morning, I’ve had that oft asked and occasionally overused Christian phrase running through my head.  You know the one I’m talking about;  What would Jesus do?  Actually it’s a little known fact that the original phrase used to be;  What would Jesus do if He were in your sandals?  However, WWJDIHWIYS was too long to print on a bracelet, and not as catchy, so someone wisely shortened it to WWJD.

Here’s the thing about that question, sometimes it’s really easy to answer, and sometimes it’s not.  For instance, last fall when I was raking leaves that had fallen off of my neighbors trees into my yard, I toyed with the idea of going to the garage, firing up the blower and sending those leaves back onto the property from whence they came.  But before I did that, I asked myself what Jesus would do, and I got the correct answer right away.  So, instead of grabbing the blower I grabbed a lawn bag and picked up the leaves.  That was an easy one because I just couldn’t envision Jesus getting ticked at his neighbor over a few thousand leaves, after all, they’re pretty light.   But this attending Easter service thing falls into one of those grey areas and to be honest I don’t have any idea what Jesus would do in this case.  Would He be like my friend Tim and attend church, be treated to a few trumpet solos, numerous Halleluiahs and a fine sermon?  Or would He be like me, stay home, enjoy watching my grandson develop his newly found talent of single handedly spearing his breakfast casserole with a plastic spork, then to thunderous applause from his mom, uncle, and grandparents, demonstrate his skill at perfectly guiding his sippy cup into the sippy cup holder on his high chair, and finally, as a family, say a prayer and read Matthew’s account of the resurrection?

Tim chose church and I chose home.  I don’t know if one of those choices was better than the other, and I certainly don’t know which of those choices, if either, Jesus would have made.  Maybe He would have done all of those things simultaneously just because He can, but Tim and I didn’t have that option, so we had to make a decision.  We both did what we felt would honor Him, and I’m hopeful that He approves of both.

What choice did you make this Easter?  Are you happy with that choice?  Did you take a moment to thank Him for the sacrifice He made for you?  If you did, then I think you got it right.  After all, That’s what Jesus would do if He were in your sandals.

I love television.  Some people come home and turn on the radio for company, I turn on the T.V.  What channel the set happens to be tuned to is of no importance, I just enjoy having it on.

My current favorite show is ‘The Following,’ but not because of the great camera work, or the wonderful writing, or even the exciting story line.  The truth is I watch it because I have a long standing man crush on Kevin Bacon.  There, I’ve said it.  Surprisingly, and a little disturbingly I guess, it really wasn’t as difficult to admit that as I thought it would be.  I only share this information with you so you’ll understand that I really am sympathetic to how attached people can get to actors and TV shows. That’s why when I saw an article on the web titled, ‘How I Met Your Mother finale causes fans tears and outrage’ I just had to read it.

Now to be perfectly honest, I’ve never watched the show.  All I know is that it aired for nine years, was immensely popular, and starred the guy who used to play Doogie Howser MD.  An actor who if you’re now keeping score, I do not have a man crush on.

However with my curiosity peaked, I had to know what type of sitcom episode could  possibly bring people to tears and outrage.  What would cause people to take to twitter and tweet things like;     

> The more I think about it, the more annoyed I get. Nine years on the air and you build up to THAT? #HIMYMFinale

> I’m going for a long walk. I need to forget I EVER watched this show or ever liked Ted. I’m so full of rage. #HIMYMFinale

> I completely agree with the angry mob. The #HIMYMFinale was beyond disappointing for so many reasons. #tears

Unfortunately, all I could really get out of the article was that someones mother had died a long time ago.  You might be saying, “Well Dale I can see where that would cause some tears.” and being a sympathetic person I would normally agree with you.  But let me finish, it wasn’t really someones mother, it was just a character on the show!  Do any of you remember when Kristin shot J.R. on Dallas?  It’s kind of like that.  It was pretend.  A pretend mother died, not a real one.  Before I go any further, maybe I should explain pretend to anyone who is outraged or in tears over the final episode of How I Met Your Mother.

When we were kids a lot of us used to “pretend” that we were professional baseball players, or doctors, or ballerinas. (Honest to God that’s just an example.  I never pretended to be a ballerina, and anyone, like my brother for instance, who says I did is a bold faced liar) Anyway, using our imaginations, boys might write stories in their heads about how we hit the winning home run.  Girls might imagine being a famous actress who was suddenly whisked away by a handsome prince only to one day become the Princess of Monaco.  Okay that actually did happen, but not to you.

Let me explain this another way;  For all of you who are allowing your grip on reality to be sucked through the TV screen, I assure you, J.R. on ‘Dallas’ wasn’t really shot, and the mother on ‘How I Met Your Mother’ didn’t really die.  See, there are these people called writers, they come to work everyday and play “pretend.”  They sit around a long table, stick pencils behind their ears, scribble on legal pads and make things up, kind of like we did when we were little.  They say stuff like, “Hey, what if we have these two scientists named Sheldon and Leonard living together in Pasadena California.  They’re nerdy guys but Leonard still manages to date one of the hottest girls on the planet.”  Then another writer says, “That’s stupid, no one will ever believe it!”  Then everyone laughs, they write it down, and it becomes a hit TV show.  See, that’s “pretend.”

So relax everyone, don’t take these shows so seriously.  Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake’s plane didn’t really get shot down over the Sea of Japan except in some warped MASH writers imagination.  To paraphrase the late great Conway Twitty, “It’s all only make believe.”

Although I do have to say, if that psychopath Joe Carrol somehow ends up killing off Kevin Bacon in ‘The Following,’ someones going to hear about it.

 

Going through grade school in the 1960’s was a wonderful time in my life.  I can’t think of much, if anything, I would change during my years at James Giles Elementary School.  The friends I made and teachers I had are burned into my mind.  True, over the past 40 to 50 years some memories have faded and some things have been forgotten entirely.  However, I’m sure we all have certain events from our formative years that stick with us.

I was reminded of one such incident while looking at Facebook today.  Some former classmates were discussing our old school and it jogged a very vivid memory.  It was around 1967 – 68.  I was a  seventh grader with a lot on my mind.  One of the main things that concerned me at the time was trying to act cool.  Figuring out how to do that was almost a full time job for most boys of that age because being naturally cool didn’t come easy.  You had to look for an edge.  I found mine in Cuban heeled shoes and cleats.

Back then the same as today, the start of school was a time for buying clothes, shoes, and supplies.  Somehow (to this day I still can’t believe it) I was able to convince my parents into allowing me to get Cuban heeled shoes that year.  For those of you who don’t know what these are, you should Google them.  To be brief, these shoes were distinguished by the high thick heel associated with them.  After putting them on you appeared about two inches taller and they made every seventh grader who wore them feel like a bad ass.

But sometime during that school year something must have happened which made me feel not so bad assy anymore and I realized that I needed to kick my image up a notch.  In my mind the only way to do that was to add a pair of cleats to my Cuban heels.

Cleats came in two styles, horseshoe, which looked exactly like you would think.  A piece of metal shaped like a horses shoe which got nailed on to the bottom of the heels of your shoe.  The practical purpose was to prevent the heel from being worn down, but the coolness factor of having these was off the chart.  The other cleat was kind of like a crescent shape.  Not as cool but still made a great clicking sound on the sidewalk.  They still made a statement.  “Hey, look at me, I’ve got cleats.  I may not look like it but I’m way cool!”

Mom didn’t want me to get them, thought people would think I was some sort of “Greaser” or something.  (Look that one up also if you have to)  But dad convinced her that with how I went through shoes, it wouldn’t be a bad idea, so off to Thom Mcan we went.  Once there I grabbed the first set of horseshoe cleats I could get my hands on and handed them to my dad.  “No, the crescent ones.” he said.  “But dad!!”  Now my father was a terrific nonverbal communicator.  He had various looks that could speak volumes.  The particular look he gave me this time said, “Son, we’re very close to leaving the store with no cleats at all.”  I understood and grabbed the crescent shaped cleats.

That night dad put my shoes in a vice, pounded the cleats into the heels and the next morning I happily clicked my way to James Giles Elementary.

As the bell rang and I lined up with my classmates to enter the school, I began to get nervous.  Something didn’t seem right. Something kept gnawing at me.  Approximately three steps into the building I realized what it was as my teacher pulled me out of line and said, “Mr. Massaro, please go down to the janitors room and have him take the cleats off of your shoes.  You know the rules, they’ll damage the floors.”  I began to say “But!!”  She just looked at me. Apparently nonverbal communication was quite popular in the 60’s and so I headed down to the janitors room.

I sat sadly as Mr. Merkle, the janitor, put my shoes in his vice and ripped out the cleats along with my heart.

That night I didn’t even try to hide what had happened.  When my dad came home from work I just handed him the cleats and explained the whole story.  “Did you know about this rule?” he asked.  “I think I remember hearing something about it.”  I answered.

Now here’s one of the differences between 1967 and today.  My dad didn’t call the local news station to report the “injustice” done to his poor little boy.  He didn’t even call the school to demand payment of the now mangled and unusable cleats.  What he did was deduct the cost from my allowance.

And mom?  The one who didn’t approve of the cleats in the first place?  Well she just looked at my dad and I and said nothing.  She didn’t have to.

I took my grandson Leland for a walk the other day and saw some kids enjoying themselves in a backyard swimming pool.  The beautiful summer day along with the sound of kids playing, reminded me of the summer of 1963 when my mom signed my brother and I up for once a week swimming lessons at the community park pool.

To us it sounded like a great idea until our first lesson.  Rich and I thought the class was just going to be a bunch of kids splashing and screaming, with maybe a fifteen minute break thrown in for snack time. To discover they were really going to try and teach us how to swim came as a shock, the fact that we were actually going to be expected to learn something during summer vacation made absolutely no sense to us at all.

What happened the next three weeks was like something out of a Leave it to Beaver episode.  Mom would drop us off at the pool where we would happily walk inside, wait about 30 seconds until we were sure mom had pulled away, and then promptly walk back out.  Confident that our plan had gone undetected we would then proceed to walk around the park and look for kids playing baseball to see if we could get into a game.  Always mindful of the time, we would head back to the front of the pool and be waiting when mom arrived to pick us up, but not before first placing our swimming suits in the drinking fountain and splashing water on our towels in order to make it appear we had attended our lesson.

You might say things were going along swimmingly, until the day the pool called mom to ask why she was paying for lessons but not sending her kids to class?

Mom never let on that she had been tipped off to our scheme.  She was sneaky like that.  At dinner on the day mom had received the call, dad nonchalantly asked how swimming was going.  My body stiffened as I stared at my plate and mumbled “Okay I guess.”  “What did you learn today?”  dad said.  My brother, suspecting that I was going to cave in, gave a nervous laugh and answered, “How to swim, whadda ya think?”

That’s when mom decided to spring like a tiger, informing us that, “Your father and I already know you have not been swimming for three weeks!”  She had set a clever trap, and we as stupid kids often do, fell right into it.  Busted!

I can’t exactly remember the rest of the conversation but I know it went something like this.  “But Dad I’m scared of the water.  With the stuff they make us do I’m afraid I’ll drown!”  “Son, if you don’t show up for swimming lessons next week, drowning will be the least of your worries.”

It was a different time.  A time when mom and dad didn’t always try to reason and rationalize with you.  They didn’t talk to you as if they were negotiators trying to get you down off a ledge because you were threatening to jump.  They were the guy in the movie who ran up 14 flights of stairs, leaned out the window, grabbed you by the arm, yanked you inside and said, “Okay, enough of this nonsense!!”  In other words, they talked to you like parents, and you were expected to understand that certain things were non-negotiable.  It was a time when you could expect some form of punishment for not obeying, but few if any rewards for being obedient, because obedience, along with mowing the lawn cleaning your room, and helping with the dishes were the few jobs that you had as a kid, and no one thought it was too much for you to handle or that you needed to be rewarded for pitching in and being part of the family.

We attended the rest of our swimming lessons and never once came close to drowning.  I learned a little about swimming and a little about life that year.  It was a great summer.

Strange to start out telling you who my son is by first telling you who he is not, yet it feels like the logical place to begin.

He is not a mini me.  It would be dis-respectful to say that he was.  Sure, he has some of my physical attributes, along with similar values, morals, and character traits both good and bad.  Many of the things or at least pieces of them that you would expect to find in a father’s son, you find in mine.  But he’s his own man.

He’s the one who I wanted to be best friends with when he was little but couldn’t because parenting came first.  I had to be patient and have confidence that our time would come.  It did.

After a 12 hour work day, too physically tired and emotionally drained to move, and sure that I couldn’t be dragged off of the couch if you used a crane, he’s the one who could rejuvenate my body and soul with just five words.  “Dad, can we play catch?”

He’s the one who even though I had attended dozens of professional baseball games in my life, made me feel like I was seeing one for the very first time on the day I took him to see his first.  And he’s the one who has never held a grudge against me for getting mildly upset when at that same game he covered himself in so much blue cotton candy that he resembled a smurf.

He’s my golfing partner.  The only one, who after I have hit the shot of my life, putting the ball two feet from the pin on a par 3 184 yard hole that has always owned me, has me hoping that when he takes his shot, it will land one foot closer to the hole than mine did.

When times are bad and my spirit is down the thought of him lifts me up.

He’s the one who is the recipient of apologies that don’t pridefully stick in my throat.  The one who receives the “I’m sorry.” because I truly mean it, not because I think I’m obligated to act like I do.

When I begin feeling sorry for myself, wondering what I have accomplished over the 58 years I have been on earth, I can be confident that  because of him I will have contributed to making this a better place to live.

He’s the man I go to when I need help, advise, or an honest opinion, because our words never have to be measured, their foundation is one built on trust and love.

He reminds me to pray.

You might be thinking, “Oh baby Jesus huh?”

No, he’s just my son with whom I am well pleased.

Happy birthday son.  I love you.

These are the times we need to trust.

There were people killed by explosions that went off at the Boston Marathon today.  As I write this, one of them was reportedly an 8 year old child.  As Christians, our immediate response is to look to God.  We mourn and pray for those who are affected.  We rush to social media in order to express our grief and outrage.  We write blogs.  We brace ourselves and get ready to defend our God against those who will surely lay the blame at His feet.  A defense that will be difficult for the average Christian like myself to mount because in reality this truly does fall at His feet doesn’t it?  Before you get angry with that statement and stop reading, please let me explain.

These are the times we need to trust.

As a believer and follower of Jesus Christ I believe that God alone has the power to prevent these tragedies from occurring.  However, with that belief I am left with only two scenarios.  The first is that God caused this to happen.  The second is that He allowed it to happen.  If we are believers it has to be one or the other doesn’t it?  Does my saying that bother you?  If so I understand.  But I’ve tried to come up with another option and can’t.  Thinking that He might have just screwed up does not fit my faith.  If you would like to argue the point and say that these things happen because we have been given free will, you won’t be able to argue it with me because I agree.  However that fact does not preclude God from altering events if He so chooses.

These are the times we need to trust.

Easy for me to say, it happened about 1,000 miles from my front door.  I don’t know that 8 year old.  I don’t know his family.  I can grieve for them but I can’t feel their grief.  If they were to ask me why a loving God is making them suffer I would not be able to give a sufficient answer to ease their pain.

These are the times we need to trust.

It’s impossible for me to understand, explain, or defend God when things like this happen.  It makes no sense to me.  I have no idea how this all fits into His complex plan.  I just believe that it does.

For many people that’s not good enough and I understand perfectly.  But these are the times we need to trust.

I woke up this morning to the pitter patter of raindrops above my head.  Knowing we had just had the roof replaced it made me smile, the family would now stay safe and dry.  It put me in a surprisingly good mood.

I hopped into the shower and when I got out, wrapped a towel around my waist.  What’s this?  It fit!  It wrapped all the way around!  For the first time in months I didn’t look like a masculine Polynesian girl in a sarong with one hairy leg hanging out of the slit.  It appeared that watching what I’ve been eating was finally beginning to pay off.

Fighting the urge of wanting to walk around in a towel all day long I went to my closet and put on a pair of jeans.  They buttoned!  I didn’t even have to do the “Stretchy Pants Dance.”  Some of you must know the routine I’m talking about.  The one where you pull the jeans above your navel, stick your stomach out as far as it will go in order to make the waist band stretch, sit down like that in order to stretch the jeans a little further, then stand up and see if they feel better when you reposition them where they should be.  I didn’t have to do that this morning!  In fact they almost felt loose, so I grabbed a belt and lo and behold fastened it into the second hole rather than the first.  I was on cloud nine!

I went to the kitchen for my morning cup of coffee, turned on my computer and when I opened my email found that three companies had sent me a message wanting to set up an interview.  I don’t think I could have had a bigger grin on my face if I had tried.

Whistling all of the way, I stepped out into the rain drops to retrieve my morning paper.  The paper was wrapped in plastic and also placed inside the newspaper box!!  It was in tact and dry!  Inside the plastic was also a Christmas card with a candy cane attached.  The card read, “To one of my favorite customers.  Happy Holidays!  Your Carrier.

Could the day get any better?  This was all too good to be true it seemed like a dream.

Then I opened the paper and read the headline, Cubs Win World Series!  Oh no, two things immediately came to mind, First was that they don’t play baseball in December.  Second, it was the Cubs.

I tried hard not to wake up but to no avail.  Suddenly my eyes popped open and I realized there was no pitter patter of rain on the roof.  So these were the kind of dreams I could expect to have after eating a bowl of Mackinac Island Fudge Ice Cream with caramel fudge topping right before bed?

I got up and dragged myself into the bathroom to take a shower, trying not to catch a glimpse of myself as I walked past the full length mirror.  I stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my waist…… it fit!  I pinched myself.  Was I still dreaming?  No, this time I was sure that I was wide awake.  Yes!!!!  It fits!!!

Then I heard my wife’s voice from outside the bathroom door.  “How do you like the new towels I just bought?”

Actually, I like them!

 

 

Catch more stupid stuff on twitter @dalemassaro

It started so innocently, as these things often do.  Me minding my own business at the kitchen counter cutting up some green peppers and onions for a dinner recipe.  My wife and daughter at the kitchen table having a pleasant conversation.  My grandson Leland belting out an occasional blood curdling scream from the comfort of his bouncy seat.  For a few minutes, all seemed good.  Then I heard my daughter say, “I don’t want to argue about this mom!”  Obviously I hadn’t been paying attention to their conversation.  Where had this argument statement come from?  Where ever this was headed I already knew it wasn’t going to end well for me.  My fears were not alleviated when I heard my wife answer. “We’re not arguing, we’re discussing.”  Past experience tells me that when my wife says we’re having a discussion, an argument is imminent.  Kind of like when the National Anthem is played before a sporting event.  The real action is soon to follow.

I began to go into defense mode, squeezing myself further into the corner of the kitchen as the “discussion” continued.  At this point some of you may be wondering why I am so concerned.  After all, the disagreement, whatever it is, is between my wife and daughter.  It has nothing to do with me, right?  Well, wait for it.

I’m chopping away,  trying to listen while acting like I’m not listening, hoping that avoiding eye contact with either one of them will keep me out of the “discussion.”  It sounds like something about my daughters school work.  But missing the beginning of their conversation, coupled with the fact that I’m now chopping away so furiously I can’ hear myself think, makes it difficult for me to piece things together.  However, one thing does come through loud and clear.  I hear my wife say, “Your father and I have already discussed this.”

This is not good.  Obviously the battle has escalated and with my name now being dragged into it, the bombs are dropping closer to my boarder.  I feel like my wife and daughter are the United States and the Soviet Union in the 1960’s and I’m just wimpy France trying to stay neutral and not get involved.  To prevent being dragged into the fracas any further, I consider a diversionary tactic, like taking off the tip of a finger with my vegetable knife.  An injury during a family “discussion” can usually at the very least, delay the inevitable argument.  I know that may seem extreme to some of you, but believe me, a bit of physical discomfort is preferable to being dragged into one of my wife and daughter’s “discussions.”  Thankfully things have not yet reached DEFCON 1 status.

The next thing I hear changes all of that.  Up until now, the “discussion” has not been clear to me.  It’s been kind of like someone scanning through radio stations.  The whole thing has been a little out of tune.  Now it’s like the dial stopped on a clear channel station when I hear my wife say to me, “Dale, didn’t we just talk about this the other day?!”

Everybody get down!  Incoming!  We’re under attack!  DEFCON 1!!!  My brain starts to race through all of my possible responses.  If I say “Yes, we talked about it.” I have now willingly entered the battle.  That’s a bad choice.  If I say “No, we didn’t talk about it.”  That will start a whole new “discussion” in which I now become the focal point.  That choice is worse.  The truth is, since I’m not even sure what she’s talking about, I really don’t know if we discussed it or not.

I’m trapped behind enemy lines with no way to escape.  I’m about to surrender when all of a sudden I hear someone, that would be me, shout “DAMMIT, I CUT MYSELF!!!!”

Ahhh, Divine Intervention.