There’s a beautiful struggle each year in late June.  For me, it approaches with great expectation and gratitude, like the advent of a new college football season or a new book by one of my favorite authors.  For Meridith, the occasion looms like a scheduled colostomy.  It represents more than just a date on the calendar.  Rather, it serves as a fresh reminder that what goes up, must come down.  Well, at least for me.

Recently, Meridith received a letter in the mail.  An invitation, really.  She’d been expecting it for decades but not fully prepared for the harsh reality of tangibility.  Having retrieved the day’s post, Meridith released a guttural sound that reverberated throughout the house.  It was cloaked in disgust and reinforced by exasperation.  A subtle anticipation advanced boorishly into the present and appeared in our mailbox. Meridith had been invited to join AARP.

Few unwelcome moments linger with such existential weight.  Perhaps this is an overstatement, but the moment you’re invited into an association of retirees, the world pivots ever so slightly.  If you know anything about Meridith, you know she can’t be still.  She suffers wonderfully from a severe case of wanderlust.  The secret, she insists, is to keep moving.  We’ve lived in the same house for over nine years.  I still can’t believe it.  Most days, she moves the furniture around just to make our home look like a new and different destination.  Most often, I wear close-toed shoes  just to keep from stumbling over a piece of furniture that was previously stationed elsewhere just a few hours earlier.

While contemplating how to embrace her newfound status as a prospective member of  AARP, I devised a plan to mollify my wife’s foul spirit.  After tossing the day’s junk mail into the trash, I skillfully and warmly embraced my wife.  After holding her for a moment, I whispered, “You know what this means?” I asked.  “We’re growing old together,” answering my own question.  This did not have the desired effect.  I can’t say for sure, but I think using the words “old” and “together” in the same sentence pretty much sealed my fate.

Even so, Meridith’s mood was lifted considerably when she attended a birthday party hosted by close friends who insisted on celebrating her into the next season of life.  As luck would have it, I was invited to this soiree as well.  After surveying the caliber, class and grace of those in attendance, one of Meridith’s college roommates commented, “Girl, you friended up.”  Though I didn’t know “friend” was a verb, I found myself thinking, “Actually, it’s the other way around.  These amazing people have actually friended up by knowing and loving Meridith.”

Meridith likes to exercise her free spirit by celebrating birthdays “on the road.”  Can’t say for sure, but you won’t find her moving furniture or rearranging family pictures this time of year.  Most likely, you’ll find her scaling mountains, forging streams or discovering new lands.  Capturing perfectly her unbounded spirit, a poet once wrote:

An iron cast communion takes hold of twin hearts turning toward one another. Together, they travel toward the season where leaves don’t fall and hearts don’t harden from the frost.

Yep.  That’s where we’re headed.  Me and this beautiful poet that I married.  For each birthday acknowledged, willfully or grudgingly, I’m grateful.  One more year of “together.”  So on the day that’s “just another day,” I extend a warm embrace to the woman who’s more breathtaking than ever.  We share an iron cast communion.  I can’t wait to travel toward the next season with you.

We all have one. Even if we choose to subtly or outright ignore them, they press in on us like a breath of thick, humid air after a mid-summer rain storm.  In fact, certain ones make us sweat and our hair begins to behave in an uncontrollable fashion. Pivotal and common gestures become painfully noticeable and we’re frequently drawn to rooms where we can find sanctuary and relief.  Phone calls interrupt our routine and vaguely unfamiliar voices resonate in our ears. The mailbox bulges with postal greetings while the in-box loads animated characters singing karaoke tunes with scrolling messages. This whole scene is played out annually as a reminder that breath is still in us, life is still before us, friends and family still love us, and another year has passed by us. “Happy birthday,” they all say.  What do we say back?

Today is Meridith’s birthday. I learned long ago never to associate a number with a woman’s birthday. In fact, I’m fasting from all mathematical equations today. I don’t want to even suggest numbers or figures due to the sensitive nature of my current environment. The lady at the check-out line at the grocery store became upset with me because I refused to enter my PIN at the cash register (there are numbers associated with my PIN you see). She glared impatiently while I explained my rationale and signed the receipt.

Numbers aside, I’m grateful for the last 365 days – and even more grateful for the gift of being able to spend those days with my wife. Beauty takes many forms. Meridith embodies and exemplifies each of these forms with greater passion and more grace each year. Yes, she becomes more beautiful to me as time progresses, even though she finds aging a lamentable prospect. We just spent a week in France celebrating a dear friend’s birthday (I won’t disclose the number), and Meridith frolicked like a young girl without a care in the world. Well, she was in France, you might say. True. But there’s a big difference between folly and wonder. Folly grows out of a preoccupation with self-satisfaction. Wonder flows out of a heart that is inspired by the gifts of the One who created beauty. One leads to selfish isolation. The other lives by the lyric, “To love another person is to see the face of God.” That’s where true beauty is found. Meridith not only lives from a heart of wonder, she also inspires people like me to join her as she enjoys the view.

Happy Birthday, Meridith! When you’re standing beside me, I love the passing of time and the breath-taking view. Though there are many others who celebrate this occasion and acknowledge your extraordinary presence in their lives, none are more grateful than me (and Jackson). No temporal gesture can equal the fullness of one’s heart toward another, so thanks for so readily accepting these feeble attempts to articulate and demonstrate what is nearly unspeakable. Love you!

It was one of those moments that sneaks up on you, even though you have twenty-two years to prepare for it. Once the train approaches the station, you draw a mingled breath of bittersweet relief and suffocating pride. As the mortar boards come into view, the guests rise as a gesture of admiration and respect. When the music commences, you blink and ask a surreal question that offers a silent but obvious answer:  Where did the last twenty-two years go? You swallow hard and try to recall that what unfolds before you is not about you. But still, there you are, suffering under the weight of joy and angst.

As you enter the campus of Berry College, you immediately pass through twin brick and mortar gates located on either side of the roadway.  Etched below the words “Berry College” is the phrase “Gate of Opportunity.” The statement underscores the spirit of untested potential rather than an architectural pronouncement, since there is no discernable barrier at this interchange. As you move beyond the Gate of Opportunity, one encounters an actual guardhouse with an active crossing arm. Without the proper credentials, you’re not allowed to enter the campus.  Strangely, there is no crossing arm on the opposite, outbound side of the guardhouse.  The irony is palpable.

Sydney’s college resume is impressive by any standard, even if one discounts the source of this assessment. While completing a double-major in Visual Communications and Theatre, she worked a number of campus jobs and held numerous positions.  Sydney served as News Producer, Arts and Culture Producer, and Executive Director of Viking Fusion, Berry’s student-run media website.  She also compiled a vast production portfolio as director, producer and scriptwriter.  In addition to all this, Sydney also served as Assistant Features Editor for the Campus Carrier, Berry’s student-run newspaper. Perhaps her crowning achievement came when Sydney was awarded the “Ned Peterson Outstanding Communication Student” award, a fitting acknowledgement of her extraordinary leadership while attending Berry College.

Sydney’s graduation reflects a disparate sentiment from her first visit during spring break of her senior year in high school.  After spending the day touring the campus and meeting with a few faculty members, her reaction was tepid at best.  In time, a disinterested heart gave way to outright pride and passion for what she soon referred to as “home.” In many ways, Berry College offered the perfect home for Sydney. She acquired a world-class education, made life-long friends, earned the respect of her professors, and leaned aggressively into every available opportunity.  And all of this while living on the world’s largest college campus.

Sydney now passes through the outbound, unobstructed pathway to life after college. Having mastered the world in which she’s lived the last four years, Sydney’s gate opens to the potential of all that lies before a twenty-two year old college graduate. For her, the gate is open, the road is clear and glistening with unexplored possibilities. The Gate of Opportunity that extended a greeting upon her first visit to Berry in 2009 now offers a warm and memory-filled salute to all that lies ahead. We are all proud to stand in respect of what she’s achieved, but more so in honor of who she’s become.

Spring Break offers a final respite from the grind of a long academic calendar. With classes ending just prior to Memorial Day, a week off in early April gives the over-taxed Kindergarten student an opportunity to sleep past 6:30 AM and forgo daily homework assignments. It’s a tough job, but every six year old has to do it. Add to this the exhausting project that Meridith agreed to tackle, a few days away offered the prospects of focused conversation and the hope of unhurried activity. But the question remained, “Where would we go?”

Most people we surveyed proudly reported that they planned to go “to the beach” for spring break. Some of you might ask, “Which beach?” Well, in our small corner of the world, the phrase “the beach” only means one place – the panhandle of Florida. Whether one enjoys the pristine environs of 30-A (a small highway along the Gulf of Mexico) or the adolescent insanity of MTV-frenzied Panama City Beach, the Florida panhandle will accommodate the tastes of most who prefer a few days of sun, sand and seafood. Like few around us, we chose to move in the opposite direction. More like Abraham in Genesis 12, we heard God say, “Leave your country . . . and go to a land that I will show you.”  So we packed a few pairs of clean underwear, several water bottles, hiking boots, a map, and our handy Priceline App.

Contrary to what you might think, there is great clarity when you leave home with no agenda and a vague understanding of where you’re going. Since we didn’t leave until late afternoon, our first stop was in Knoxville. Though we found little to appreciate about our surroundings that first night, we did manage to stumble upon an unheralded gem the following morning. Knoxville is home to the Ijams Nature Center, an urban wildlife habitat and natural area with hiking and biking trails extending throughout the city and along the Tennessee River. After this surprisingly enjoyable diversion, we headed north toward Kentucky, rather than driving east toward North Carolina. We progressed through unfamiliar territory but found a room available in the lodge at Cumberland Falls State Park. Not only did we enjoy the breathtaking scenery at the falls, we also hiked Eagle Falls Trail, rated by several outfitters as Kentucky’s “Best Trail” last year.

After a restless night in the lodge, due mainly to the sounds of live bluegrass music reverberating from the lobby, we headed east and south toward Middlesboro, Kentucky. “What’s in Middlesboro?” you may wonder. Other than the local Dairy Queen which dispenses an unrivaled banana split, Middlesboro is nestled along the northwestern border of Cumberland Gap National Historic Park. We hiked to the top of Tri-State Peak, where one can literally stand at the intersection of three states: Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia. We also transected the historic Cumberland Gap saddle, where countless settlers, including Daniel Boone, traversed the Appalachian Mountains on their way to westward destinations. The following morning, we participated in a Ranger-led hike through Gap Cave and enjoyed watching Jackson earn yet another Junior Ranger badge.

Though our adventure seems less glamorous than a week at the beach, we enjoyed the roar of mountain waterfalls, the peace of the Appalachian Trail (later in Georgia), and the satisfaction of an ascent to elevations where the only sound you hear is the shuffling of your feet along an empty trail . . . unless you count the persistent declarations of thirst and fatigue from the six-year old that follows on your heels. When his Kindergarten teacher asked for a report on his activities during Spring Break, Jackson recalled the unparalleled moments he enjoyed consuming his first banana split. That’s perspective, I guess. Our common experiences are endowed with elevated satisfaction when enjoyed in unfamiliar territory. That’s the essence of faith – of moving toward a land that you’ve never seen and experiencing life from an unknown and uncrowded vista.

Someone once told me that the two most powerful words in the English language are “yes” and “no.”  Perhaps they’re just as powerful in other languages, too. But the simplicity of this aphorism teased my psyche and agitated my spirit for several weeks. Surely there were more cogent and efficacious words we could present as symbols of linguistic pride. As early as 1903, someone suggested that the phrase Cellar Door represented the most phonaesthetic phrase in the English language. The sanctioned beauty of this phrase is often associated with romantic preconceptions rather than its branding potential. Though I wouldn’t be the first, if I ever opened a retail business, I’d call it “The Cellar Door.” But I have no idea what I’d sell.

Though some believe Cellar Door is an odd choice for the most euphonic sound combination, few would dispute the power of the word money in today’s culture. Money fuels our imagination, energizes our economy and grips our soul, not all to our benefit of course. But when you consider the range of possibilities when one person offers a “yes” to another, you may begin to sense the power of affirmation. In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus directed his listeners to let a “yes” be “yes,” and a “no” be “no” (Matthew 5:37). This imperative is preceded by a prohibition against swearing; not cursing, but offering an emphatic guarantee that our word or promise is sound. In this passage, the objective of Jesus’ instruction is clearly character-driven.

Even our everyday conversation suffers under the burden of evasive tactics. “Let me check my calendar,” we might say. You’ve heard friends or family members counter with “I’ll think about it,” or perhaps, “I’ll get back with you on that,” or the dreaded, pious-sounding “Let me pray about it.” We slip away from the simplicity of a “yes” or a “no,” thinking we’ve dodged another commitment or prevailed against an uncomfortable possibility.

Consider the gift of being able to say “yes” to your child. Life naturally provides conditions which require us to say “no” to our children. What parent would say “yes” to playing in traffic, swimming in a strong undertow, underage drinking, or academic neglect? Watch your child’s face the next time you say “yes” to their request (assuming you can). Our reluctance to offer a simple yes or no emanates from the tangled obstructions that have seized our hearts. Our evasive excuses offer testimony to the fear that entangles us. We fear losing our status as much as we fear losing control and freedom. To some of us, saying “yes” is tantamount to relinquishing control. So we tap dance around the question and fail to offer direct and simple replies. But this is the moment we become entrapped by our own scheme.

Proverbs 4:23-25 reads, “Keep your heart with all vigilance, for from it flow the springs of life. Put away from you crooked speech, and put devious talk far from you. Let your eyes look directly forward, and your gaze be straight before you.” An uncluttered heart fosters simplicity and transparency. In this condition, I can offer a gracious and straightforward “yes” to my family, my friends, and most importantly, to God. How refreshing and liberating. Speaking of refreshments, my son just asked me for another cookie. I can’t wait to see his face when I say YES!

Sometime last month, Meridith was returning from attending some errands when, from the back seat, Jackson posed the following question: “What time is everybody coming over tonight?”  Thinking that she had forgotten about a social commitment or another holiday gathering, Meridith inquired about the nature of Jackson’s expectation. “Who’s coming over tonight?” she countered. Without hesitation, he furnished a presumptive comeback ringing with no small amount of impatience. “Mom,” he quipped, “It’s Tuesday night. We have Community Group coming over tonight.” When Jackson learned that Community Group had been suspended for the Christmas season, he suddenly burst into a childish lament that rivaled the pitiful display of a featured guest on ABC’s The View.

Now that Community Group has resumed, Jackson has transitioned into a more favorable disposition. He anticipates the company of a room full of friends and the customary serving of sweets and hors d’oeuvres. Perhaps his anticipation mirrors the spirit of those in our Community Group. During our first session earlier this month, each of us offered a written response to the question, “How is your heart right now?” The answers surprised me.

With no hesitation and little variation, each person in our group delivered a sad but honest verdict. Nearly all of us suffer from some form of anxiety, and many in our group struggle with guilt and anger. Though none of us were coaxed into a providing these responses, we all agreed that the best place to discover the root problem and progress toward meaningful health was in the presence and company of those gathered in the room. Few outsiders would deliver an objective assessment of the group that resonated with anything but glowing admiration and respect. These are well-educated, articulate, and inspiring individuals who consistently demonstrate passion, resolve and excellence in every sphere of life. Even so, many in our group carry a burden and function under the weight of a wounded or heavy heart.

Perhaps this is too melodramatic and you’re beginning to nurture a growing skepticism as you read. That’s OK. I get it. But for those willing to engage in transparent conversation and cultivate a trusting posture toward others, the rewards are breathtaking. Like Jackson, I’m likely to ask, “What time is everybody coming over tonight?” Knowing that I’m poised to join the company of trusted friends whose struggles mirror my own produces a warm anticipation that I, too, can be healed and eradicate the enemies of my heart.

Yesterday, I dragged Jackson to a Christmas party on the other side of town.  Nearly 100 children were invited to attend and early reports suggested that Santa Claus would arrive at some point during the event. Jackson’s reticence was on full display as he sat quietly in the back seat and refused to engage in any conversation with me. His reluctance had little to do with the possibility of seeing Santa Claus or enjoying a wide selection of cookies, cakes, punch and other traditional confectionary. The party, he was told, wasn’t for him.

All of the children attending the party, I explained, lived in a nearby county. Though the affair was held at a local technical school, the event’s organizers arranged to purchase, wrap and provide Christmas gifts for each of the young invitees. Jackson struggled to understand why there would be no gifts for him, and more distressing for a five year old, why he was being forced to attend. Surely his kindergarten social calendar could yield a more satisfying activity on a Saturday morning. Alas, he was bound and coaxed as we navigated across the school’s campus, led by a trail of helium filled balloons.  We entered the building to the sounds of Christmas carols and were immediately met with an impressive display of Christmas gifts placed in orderly fashion around a large Christmas tree.

The party’s invited guests soon began to gather around the gifts anxiously waiting for their respective names to be called. Gifts were distributed in spirited fashion by an enthusiastic and playful geriatric who goes by the name of Claus. Adults snapped pictures while the children were bustled to the opposite side of the room to decorate gingerbread houses. This became Jackson’s sanctuary. With no prospects of receiving a gift, he determined to sample as many decorative candy pieces as possible. While in this objectionable station, Jackson found himself assisting the approaching children with the mechanics of making their gingerbread houses. It was here that Jackson met Jaycee. Though a year older than Jaycee, Jackson made sure that she was fully outfitted with all of the necessary supplies to create the perfect gingerbread house.

An hour later, we gathered around Jaycee and her family to verbalize a prayer for her father. Like all the other children invited to this event, Jaycee’s father is incarcerated. In all likelihood, he will spend the rest of his life in prison. As we prepared to pray, Jaycee withdrew from our circle and gazed at her mother with a look of distress. Jackson seized the moment, reached for her hand and confidently said, “It’s OK, Jaycee. We’re going to pray and I’ll hold your hand.” Without warning, Jaycee’s mother began to cry and we thanked God for his son and his grace. Silently, I thanked God for my son and his grace.

A short time later, we skipped out of the building with Jackson’s gingerbread house in tow – the event’s organizers insisted that he not leave empty-handed. As we crossed the parking lot, Jackson furnished this assessment. “Dad,” he said, “this is a great day.” On the way home, his dad silently treasured these things in his heart.

The postal carrier delivers our mail each day during the middle of the afternoon. This is the time of year when many of us send Christmas cards and pictures to family members, friends and people we hardly know.  Nowadays, we scramble to acquire mailing addresses because most of our regular communication is managed through email, Facebook, Twitter, and other social media outlets.  Whether we like it or not, mailing Christmas cards has become a progressively antiquated practice in recent years. Online shopping and digital greetings have encroached upon our holiday habits like the gentle sound of Jingle Bells reverberating  in the background of our favorite brick and mortar stores.

Without fail, we still receive a few holiday greeting cards each December from people we never see or speak to throughout the year.  Truth be known, I’ve opened a few of these cards and asked out loud, “Do we know these people!?”  “Sure,” Meridith replies, “That’s from your aunt’s uncle’s fifth cousin’s sisters’s brother.”  A wave of guilt washes over me as I try to recall the identity of the faces staring back at me from inside the card.  I feel less guilty about ignoring the greeting cards we receive from local realtors, landscapers, bankers, insurance agents, and exterminators.  These cards usually come with instructions to “Like Us” on Facebook.  I have no words.

We probably didn’t mail you a Christmas card this month, but take heart. We’ve spared you the discomfort of trying to remember who we are and the agony of finding a “Christmas Letter” tucked inside the greeting card.  You know – one of those painfully long letters that simply recap all of last year’s Facebook posts. Let’s be honest. How many of us actually read those letters? If you’re a parent or grandparent, you can’t vote. We already know that you relish every syllable and then pin the letter to the front of your mantle, or display it proudly on the refrigerator.  Fortunately for all of us, some things never change. I think my mother’s refrigerator still displays my 4th grade penmanship award. Ah, those were the glory days!

But for those who write, print and mail Christmas letters to people you barely know or remember, let me offer a kind and gentle word of advice. Save your stamp. It’s OK, really. Though it’s hard for us to embrace the possibility that someone won’t read our Christmas letters, consider that Brad Pitt’s most recent movie has only grossed $6.8 million. If nobody’s rushing out to see Brad, it’s fair to say they’ll likely by-pass your Christmas letter too.

Last year, most of my Christmas greetings came to me via text. I may be a curmudgeon, but I found it refreshing. This year, I’m hoping to utilize Twitter to express my Christmas sentiments. It takes work to edit your Christmas letter to a measly 140 characters! If you object and consider this an impersonal strategy, your push-back is valid. A text or tweet doesn’t exactly deliver the message in the most heralded or meaningful way. But maybe that’s where our problem begins.

Christmas isn’t about us and our story – it’s about Jesus and his story. Though I’m sure the content of your letter is titillating, regale us with your story over a cup of coffee, or in our living room where we can enjoy the corresponding gesticulations. The problem with social media is that it’s not very social. But while we’re getting to know each other, feel free to send a tweet. And so you don’t feel cheated, here’s our Christmas letter to you in less than 100 characters:  “For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.” – Luke 2:11.  Now that’s more like it!

P.S. For those who have an insatiable need for a Christmas letter, check back here in a few days. We’re planning to save a stamp and give you another blog to ignore.  All this, while Brad is filming his next movie.  You can thank us later.  Merry Christmas!

A few months ago, I suggested that we might schedule a future trip to a theme park (see “Mountain Magic” post on June 30).  After our adventure at Yellowstone and Grand Teton national parks, the prospects of spending a few days in a theme park seemed anathema.  So, I need to man-up and admit that we did, indeed, plan and execute a 5 day trip to central Florida to visit Mickey and Minnie during Jackson’s fall break.  Though I wouldn’t classify our trip as spectacular, I found it to be far more enjoyable than I anticipated.

For the record, fall break is a welcome reprieve. Though I’m not a fan of year-round school, the shock of starting school in early August gives way to the relief of having a week off in late September. I’m praying that no other school systems discover this secret because most of the desirable destinations are empty this time of year, including the parks at Walt Disney World. The timing of our break was optimum as Meridith had just finished an intense and time-consuming project that required pre-natal vitamins and an epidural. With the stars aligned, we packed up and drove south to enter into the domain of childhood dreams and memories.

Upon sharing the news of our plans with Jackson, we were surprised at his tepid response.  Though he had visited the Magic Kingdom once before as a two-year old, he hardly remembers anything about our descent into the masses just a few days after Christmas in 2009.  Now at age five, we assumed he would demonstrate an excitement worthy of a Disney television commercial.  Alas, we were dumbfounded.  We had to convince Jackson to go by making him watch internet videos of the parks’ attractions.  With a little encouragement, Jackson moved from skepticism to anticipation.  Our relief was palpable because we were uncertain how he might fare at home alone for five days.

We arrived in Orlando after an uneventful drive down I-75, the Florida Turnpike and I-4. After checking into the hotel, we visited Downtown Disney and noticed nothing but tumbleweeds and crickets.  A few families gathered at the Lego store and we logged a prolonged visit there by watching Jackson construct a few cars and buildings.  The next morning we entered the Magic Kingdom just as it opened. Before lunchtime, we had visited most of the high-profile attractions including Space Mountain, Peter Pan, It’s a Small World, and Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. We spent the afternoon at Animal Kingdom before returning to the Magic Kingdom for the Wishes fireworks display at Cinderella’s Castle.  Definitely a highlight.

We spent an entire day at Epcot and enjoyed a preview of the Food and Wine Festival.  Jackson found Nemo, piloted a space craft to Mars and hang-glided over California, while Meridith discovered grapefruit beer in Germany’s exhibition at the World Showcase.  We dodged a brief but intense rain shower by ducking into an English Pub and emerged to the thrill of a beautiful sunset and the Illuminations fireworks show. We began our final day at Magic Kingdom and quickly transitioned to Disney’s Hollywood Studios.  Neither Jackson nor Meridith had ever visited Animal Kingdom or Hollywood Studios, so much of our trip allowed them to enjoy new experiences. And though Hollywood Studios was more crowded than the other parks, we found that the entire trip exceeded our expectations.  Jackson has already informed us that he would like to return to Disney World . . . next October.

It’s hard to compare this trip with other adventures we’ve been able to experience. Jackson had a great time and we loved watching him absorb the myriad sensory experiences offered in Walt’s world.  Of course, the therapeutic value of our time together was priceless, which nearly approximates the staggering cost of a Disney vacation. But with smaller crowds and cheaper hotel rates, the timing was providential and just what we needed for a fall break-away. Though my constitution can no longer endure the more intense roller coaster rides, I know that there will be no shortage of friends and family members willing to accompany Jackson on the Rockin’ Roller Coaster and Expedition Everest on future trips to Orlando. Enjoy. You’ll find me at Epcot enjoying another cold beverage with my beautiful wife.

Have you noticed those decorative license plates people attach to the front of their cars? In some U.S. states, registered license plates must be displayed on the front and back of your vehicle, like Montana and New York.  Other states issue only one vehicle registration plate.  As most of you know, Georgia is one of 19 states that requires only one registered plate, thus allowing drivers to display a personalized message on their front bumper.

Some tags are impossible to read, primarily because I’m getting older.  I’ve noticed a lot of tags that read “Blessed.”  These are usually attached to the front of a Mercedes, BMW, Cadillac, or other ultra expensive vehicle.  I’ve often wondered why I’ve never seen a “Blessed” tag on the front of a 15 year old Ford F150 with an 8-track player, beaded seat covers and a rusted bed. Apparently, those drivers are not allowed to be blessed.  It probably has something to do with the gun rack fastened to the back windshield.

Then there are the customized license plates that declare the occupants’ household to be divided. What’s up with that?! I didn’t grow up in Alabama so I don’t fully appreciate the Auburn-Alabama rivalry. But is it really necessary to announce the dysfunction in your home on the front of your car? You wouldn’t have a tag that read “OCD” or “Co-Dependent” would you? Most of us would never place a tag on the front of our car that read “Unfaithful Boyfriend” or “Compulsive Gambler.” I guess if you really want strangers to know about your unfortunate condition, you can always relocate to a state that allows you to broadcast your affliction on the front of your car.  I’ve heard West Virginia is nice this time of year.

For the record, I refuse to purchase one of those house divided tags.  As you may know, I’m a fan of a college team that enjoys an annual rivalry game with Meridith’s alma mater.  She’s a graduate of her beloved institution.  I’m a fan of mine.  She has every right to endorse her team at the top of her lungs – which is a frequent occurence.  She wears the colors, flies the flag, sings the song, and wears the pin.  My alma mater hasn’t fielded a football team in decades, so I adopted one. But I have little right to speak of my adopted team as my own, and certainly no right to declare our home divided over such a suspect affiliation. A fan is not the same as a graduate. That’s why we have the NFL. The games on Sunday seem to have great appeal to fans who didn’t finish college or grew up in Pittsburgh.

Just so you know, we’re not a divided household.  We just sit in separate rooms (or Zip Codes) one Saturday a year. Jackson sings the fight song of Meridith’s team and hardly knows the mascot for mine.  He wears orange and blue and isn’t allowed to wear red and black.  His college fund is ear-marked for Meridith’s alma mater and, to him, Athens only exists in Greece. Ironically, both teams share a similar tune for their respective rally song. But as Meridith often points out, my adopted team must force an extra note into the song in order for the lyrics to match the meter of the tune. I’m speechless . . . and very glad we live in a red house and own a black car.  War Eagle, baby!