Author: Mark Myers

I am a husband of one, father of four daughters, a dreamer, a builder, a believer, and most enjoyably a writer. In 2015, I became a reluctant Childhood Cancer Advocate as we lost our youngest daughter Kylie to the disease. Kylie taught me to steal joy from even the worst of circumstances and I will always be on the lookout for happiness among the thorns of life. Join me for a generous helping of laughter and tears.

An Unholy love of Guacamole

.Reading time 5 minutes.

“It looks like baby poo.”

That was the consensus from my kids many years ago when I tried to introduce them to the wonders of guacamole. They were having none of it. I am an adventurous eater, but my children have ridiculous standards when it comes to trying new things.

The oldest was incredibly picky as a child, but has come around to find that there is more to life than chicken nuggets. I’m waiting for her to say, “you were right” because I tried to tell her when she was little that there was a whole, big, flavorful world she was missing.

The twenty-year-old won’t try anything green and subsists on microwave pizzas. And then there is the dancer who eats incredibly healthy. She has always loved to try new fruits with me, so I would scour the global sections of the markets to find star fruits, dragon fruits, and blood oranges to bring home. Yet she turns her nose up at my avocado delight.

I love it. I love it so much it is a problem. I think it is the cilantro that piques my taste buds. I could eat my weight in chips and guacamole.

And every time my kids are around, I stuff chip after chip in my pie-hole and say, “look, I’m eating baby poo!”

Like my other dad-jokes… it never gets old.

My unholy love of guacamole caused me a little embarrassment recently. I get to do some pretty cool stuff in my job sometimes. This year, I got to go out on the field at Suntrust Park to receive a check from the Atlanta Braves Foundation. It started with a reception for all the beneficiaries. Since we got free tickets, I invited my oldest and her boyfriend who loves the Braves.

But on the trip to meet me, he somehow missed the exit and they got stuck in traffic, making us a little late to the reception. We got there just in time, but had to forego the buffet because the presentation started immediately. I sat there ruefully eyeing a mongo bowl of guacamole the entire time the Brave’s representative spoke and handed out awards. I couldn’t sneak any of it because it was right next to the stage.

When the speaker ended, we immediately had to line up to walk down to the field for the on-field presentation!

Driven by green-eyed guacamole lust and not good manners, I allowed everyone in the room to cut in front of me thereby putting myself right in front of the bowl. Chips in both hands, I wind-milled scoop after scoop full of baby poo. With everyone in front of me and no one watching, I ate like a complete animal.

42168918_10156745445099675_205390472875606016_nFlash forward to when we stepped out onto the field, I looked down to find several hunks of that chunky, green goodness on my shoe and pant leg. I visualized the crowd’s reaction and thought of the viral video of the Braves guy with baby poo all over him. But let’s face it, no one pays attention to pregame ceremonies. So while we crossed the foul line and headed toward home plate, I desperately flicked baby poo off of me and onto the playing surface.

I wonder if it came into play during the game – if a ball rolled through it and caused the left fielder to make a throwing error. That would be funny.

 

 

Later that night, in a contented guacamole slumber, I dreamed of a brilliant product idea: ceramic guacamole bowls formed into the shape of a diaper. Because if you look like baby poo but taste like heaven, I say be proud and own it.

guac

Sit Your Ash Down

.Reading time 6 minutes.

I have a confession… I like fire.

A budding pyromaniac at the age of ten, I purchased a Zippo lighter at Taylor’s Drug Store unbeknownst to my parents. On a windy day, I used it to light some dead grass in the school yard, never considering the entire field was dry tinder. Of course, the situation got out of control and like any boy faced with potential capture, I ran. A neighbor saw the blaze and firemen put it out easily. Unfortunately for me, she had also seen the culprit and a policeman soon came knocking at my door.

It wasn’t my last brush with fire, but I must have been more careful after because I never had to talk to police again… about fire at least.

What is it with boys and fire? What causes the attraction? Maybe it is some primal urge to control the uncontrollable – a desire to harness heat and light that started when we were slaves to the elements living in caves. Maybe fire is irresistible because of its innate danger – it looks manageable but will burn you if you get too close like the redheads momma warned us about. I don’t know what it is, but fire has a strange allure all its own and men must learn to control our urges or be burned.

Men can sit mesmerized by a campfire for hours just staring into the flames. It’s a total guy thing. The cool air cut by its heat, darkness halved by dancing light. We burn things that aren’t supposed to be burned, tell stories that aren’t true, and in the wee hours we put the fire out as only a man can.

And what’s left when the burning is done?image

Ashes.

At the end of the night all we have are ashes and memories. Ashes represent total destruction of something tangible. What was is no more and in its place is black and gray soot. Ashes are dirty and have a particular way of sticking to everything they come into contact with and making that thing filthy too. Ashes are hard to remove – try as you might, they seem to get everywhere and when you think they are gone, some grit always remains.

Lately, I’ve heard tell of redeeming ashes. Charities and ministries have been built around the premise of exchanging beauty for ashes – that one’s life can be consumed by fire yet something beautiful can come of it.

But sometimes, to the one burned by the fire and sitting in its filthy remains, ashes are just ashes.

Whatever those outside the ring of protective rocks see as beauty can be unseen by those scorched. Perhaps after searing loss, the vision of the one burned is too much tainted by smoke and soot to behold what might become of their life’s ashes.

Sometimes ashes are just ashes.

Ashes remind me of the story of Job. When his poorly named friends came to visit, we are told about the dumb things they said; but don’t fail to recognize their initial reaction to his suffering – because it was perfect. 

280375-600

Then they sat down on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights with no one speaking a word to him, for they saw that his pain was very great.

Job 2:11-13

For seven days, they sat silently in the ashes with Job. Seven days without a word – weeping the only sound. Patience. Peace. Endurance. Shared pain. Closeness. Beautiful friendship.

Whether you believe the Bible or not, Job’s friends are a good example for us. Their silence spoke volumes and they only blew it when they opened their mouths to speak.

If you know one who’s life has been burned by loss or heartache and you want to do something, join them quietly in the ashes… Sit your ash down and shut your ash up!

The soot will be hard to remove and the ground will likely be uncomfortable. The loneliness on that charred patch of earth is soul-jarring like no other. But one dealing with great pain needs your presence in the dirt, not your words in clean spaces.

 

*Post is in response to a friend who recently lost his son and has received well-intended “advice” on how to move on.

Feature Image credit Randy Law under CCI