Stick With Humility - Sunday School Lesson - May 24, 2015

Humility is quite a difficult virtue for me. When I look deep enough, I guess my lack of humility actually arises from insecurity; I think I need approval from other people, need to know that what I do is valuable and appreciated. When I feel I am not getting my due attention, I pout or demand that someone notice me or rant about the useless drivel that seems to matter in preference to the quality work I produce. So, rather than being humble, taking my lot as it comes and being happy for others' success, I end up looking quite arrogant and brash - right the opposite of a Christ-like attitude.


Philippians 2: 1 - 15 is the focus for my Sunday School lesson this week, and Paul speaks quite highly of humility in these verses. Definitely a lesson for me to heed.

Let's begin with a look at verses 1 and 2: Paul begins with some conditional statements - if and then statements. If Jesus is all He claims to be - if He is an encouragement to us, a source of love, a sender of the Holy Spirit, and a giver of mercy - if He is all of these things, then we have Jesus as our central focus in the church, and we should all share the same feelings of love and mercy for one another. We should find our comfort and self-worth in Jesus since He is the source of love and encouragement, the giver of Mercy.

So many times, I know I look for my self-worth in other places - in my job, in my appearance, in my children's accomplishments, in my personal achievements. And when I do that, I take my focus off of Jesus. When my self-worth comes from everyday possessions and circumstances that can easily be destroyed, then I am trading in the eternal and the strong for the temporary and the weak. The temporary and the weak make me vulnerable to critics and compliments, again taking my focus away from the most important work of Jesus and drawing my attention to my feelings. Here is where division often starts in the church. I place my feelings on top of any work I do, and then I feed on the compliments and become nauseated with criticism. Then, my work becomes conditional - dependent of whether I feel valued, not whether I am fulfilling the will of God. My defenses rise, and I think I can hurt others by refusing my contribution, or I try to out do someone else because I crave adulation. But what if every worker were to approach the church with a heart and mind and focus only to do God's will? If we get ourselves out of the way, we can focus on the one true goal of the church - to glorify God and serve Him. And only when we get ourselves out of the way can we hear God's will. Our desires and ideas must decrease so that His will may become clear.


Verse 3 gets a little more sticky. Paul tells us to do nothing out of rivalry or conceit. Our motives for serving the Lord must be pure. If we consider how many of our actions come from rivalry or conceit, then we might see why we have disagreements or strife.

Consider these scenarios:

Acting out of rivalry - being in competition with someone else - How many times do we brag about how we commit more of our lives to service of the Lord compared to someone else? How often do we compare churches to prove that one does more for the community or gives more to a cause? How often does our contribution come only after what we see others have contributed (money, time, or effort)? Do we say to ourselves comments such as: "If he gave $5, I will give $8."? Or "she just volunteered to cook, but I always stay to help clean up, too." Or, "We did such a better job with VBS last year." Or "I never see her in the nursery." I know I have been guilty of similar comments, and that proves that my motives for doing the Lord's work were not pure. I wanted to prove my worth to others instead of to show how grateful I am for what Jesus has done for me.

Acting out of conceit - trying to show off my talents to gain compliments for myself, to feed my ego. Now, this one is especially tricky because everyone wants to feel like she is appreciated, and we, followers of Jesus, should try to help others feel appreciated, but self-aggrandizement is dangerous in the church. We cannot have our own self-worth as the basis for our service to the Lord. Think about the times when we sing or act in a play at church because we love it when people brag on us. Think about times we have become angry when no one thanked us for doing our part. All the times we take reactions personally ("No one came to my Bible study; I guess they don't like me."). Think about the times we help with missions because it will build our personal resume or brighten our reputation or give us something to list under the category of community service. If these are our priorities, then we are working for our own recognition and not for the glory of God.

Our consumer culture does not help in our efforts of humility, either. We often seem steeped in our need to ask, "What's in it for me?". Selfishness has no place in the church of Jesus Christ because Jesus Christ knew no selfishness. He willingly sacrificed himself for us.


Verse 4
We should be less concerned with our own interests and take more interest in the needs of others. Think of others as more important than ourselves. What a counter-cultural idea! To consider what others need instead of ourselves is not popular in our world. In fact, putting others before ourselves is often considered having low self-esteem or being weak. Yet, nothing could be further from the truth. Humility cannot be equated with weakness. Weak people seek personal glory and validation because they need approval from others to prove themselves worthy. They think so little of themselves that they need to be told they are worthy.

A humble person, however, knows her worth. She knows that Jesus Christ died for her. Humble people know themselves and understand that all we have belongs to God, and nothing we do is a result of our own doing. We do only because God allows us to do. Nothing is possible without God. Only a self-assured and secure person can sacrifice himself for someone else, and that is exactly what Jesus did. He took the punishment from the very creatures He himself had created. He was able to suffer on the cross because He was certain of his place and his worth with the Father.


Verse 5
And Jesus is our standard. We should adopt the attitude of Christ. And what was Christ's attitude? Humility, self-sacrifice, obedience, and service toward others.


Verses 6 - 11 discuss the Divinity of Christ: how He, being one with God, did not abuse his privileges as the creator of the Universe. He never used his power and position for his own advantage. Any time he tapped into the power of the Holy Spirit, it was for the good of others through healing and forgiveness. I wonder what I would do if I had ultimate power for one day. I have fantasized about making sure people who have hurt me "got what was coming to them." I have wanted to put some people in their places. And I would like to reward those who I feel have been victimized, who have been done wrong in this world. Yet, Jesus did none of that. He could have struck down the Pharisees when they tried to trick him. Instead, he suffered their insults and evil plots against him.

Bobby Brown had a song when I was in high school called, "It's My Prerogative." It was Christ's prerogative to punish sinners, but He chose mercy instead. It was Christ's prerogative to be worshiped, but he chose to wash the feet of his disciples instead. It was Christ's prerogative to sit and rule from above, but he chose to come to earth as a nobody instead, to be abused and ridiculed for all eternity so that I might have a chance to be with him one day.

The whole scene reminds me somewhat of the show, Undercover Boss. Jesus, the Boss of the universe, chose to come to earth undercover to get first-hand knowledge of the cruelty of mankind. Like the boss on the show who gets chewed out by an arrogant and clueless middle manager, Jesus willingly gave up his Divine Privilege to be bullied and ridiculed by arrogant and clueless church leaders. Martin Luther King, Jr. in his famous "Letter from Birmingham Jail" talks about how those in privileged positions won't give up their privileges willingly because who would? If I have an advantage, why would I willingly give it up to help someone else? Yet, Jesus did. How in the world can we act as Jesus did if serving others this way is so contrary to our nature? Only if God works through us can we do it.


Verse 13
"For it is God who is working in you, enabling you both to desire and to work out His good purpose."

The only way we will become willing to relinquish our privileges and our selfish ambitions is to let God work through us. We are inherently selfish creatures who want to be loved and comfortable and praised. The Holy Spirit must take over our hearts and minds; only the Holy Spirit can empower us to obedience. We can't do it alone.


Verse 14 - 15
Do whatever needs to be done in the church without grumbling and complaining. Wow! I can barely brush my teeth in the morning without complaining. When I think back on all the grumbling I have done in the church and all the complaining I have heard in the church, I know that I have failed His will countless times. Consider how we fuss about plans or decorations for VBS or AWANA or a special program or play. Consider the times we have said, "I don't know why we have to do it this way every year...." Or the times I have said, "I always get stuck with arts and crafts. I hate doing arts and crafts because I stink at it."

True, I may have been trained in music and would feel much more productive in the music department, and I could even suggest gently that the music department is where I belong by saying, "I'm not good at arts and crafts, but I love music...." But then again, if I am asked to help in arts and crafts, I might ought to try my best there simply because I don't know why God has put me there. What if God has someone he wants me to meet and talk to in arts and crafts? What if He has an idea He wants me to develop from something I will see in arts and crafts? What if He wants me to discover a new talent there? We just never know why God has placed us in certain places with certain tasks. Let's be open to the possibility of God's will and promises. Let's determine to find God's blessings in every circumstance.

Paul ends this section by comparing Christians to shining stars. He says that if we do what needs to be done without grumbling and complaining, then we will be blameless and pure. If we have a sacrificial attitude, we will make a difference in our world. People are not moved toward Jesus through arrogance and selfishness; if they are moved at all, they are moved away from Jesus by such attitudes. Yet, humility is unique; it inspires admiration. We see the work of God in someone's life when they willingly submit to some unpleasant task. We say, "that must be the Holy Spirit at work because why else would he volunteer to sweep the floor or keep the toddler class or travel to a war-torn country to feed the poor...?". Why else would he act in a way that is contrary to our human nature except that the Holy Spirit gives him power and desire to do good?

Paul calls his generation "crooked and perverted." Our generation in 2015 is no different. And the world watches the church and how it reacts, behaves, handles controversy. When Christians act as normal humans do, out of selfishness or with grumbling, they call us hypocrites. They say we are just like everyone else, that we try to tell others how to live when we don't even live that way ourselves.

Yet, the world is moved by self-sacrifice. What made Mother Teresa or Billy Graham or Lottie Moon such heroes of the faith? They sacrificed themselves and performed tasks most of us would not be willing to do.

These great heroes of the faith became shining stars in a world of darkness by offering themselves as sacrifices to the Holy Spirit, which served to light the way, to offer hope in a seemingly hopeless universe.

True / False Quiz

I know my third grade teacher, Mrs. Fine, didn't like me.
She moved me to the back of the room
And told my mom that she had to
Because I talked too much
And she got tired of seeing the back of my head,
Always turned around,
looking to see if Wendy had finished, yet.

I don't think she ever noticed
how I eyed Kelly's paper every morning,
longing for the day when
Kelly would need two lines to write our daily opening sentence,
but her letters always fit neatly on the top line,
even on Wednesdays in September.

I don't think she ever noticed
how I would watch Chip erase his mistakes,
blowing eraser crumbs and pencil smudges off his page.
Or how I watched Jodi draw Snoopy sketches
with sure, strong lines.
Certainly, she saw me write my name on one of those sketches
and take home to show my mom.

She must have known
that I was lying when I told Missy that I had horses, too,
just like she must have sensed that I entered the relay races
just because Missy had always won them.

No, Mrs. Fine didn't like me
or my Valentine mailbox,
the one my mom helped me create -
my shoebox covered in white tissue paper,
decorated in pink lace doilies and shiny red heart stickers,
that didn't win the class contest.

(written by Kristie Camp - not to be published anywhere else without my personal, written permission)

The Messy Room

And her room was always the messiest
Here she could store everything
the vacuum cleaner, the hair dryer, the wireless printer
Things no one needed to see
Necessary things that must be kept hidden
Even though everybody knows you have to have these things
somewhere

And the dirty clothes
Piles of dirty clothes
work clothes, church clothes, play clothes
jackets and sweat shirts and jeans that can be worn again
before washing time
a basket of clean socks not yet matched
clothes not washed because there is no time, too much to do
Pile them in her room, shut the door, and keep going

The living room needed to be kept spotless, of course
That would be the first room others would see
Would even be visible from the street
if the blinds were open

And the kitchen needed scrubbing every time she cooked a meal
dishes moved from the sink to the washing machine to the cabinets
in a perpetual loop
The toilet was scrubbed and bathroom sink wiped down regularly
Everyone used those rooms

But in her room, she stashed the ironing board
the pencils and markers and note pads
empty laundry baskets and old check books and extra blankets
old greeting cards and sweet notes, mortgage papers and passports
in the firesafe box
She kept her door shut most of the time
Always when guests arrived

(written by Kristie Camp - not to be published anywhere else without my written permission)

The Florida Trip - At the Daycare

As the bus pulled into the condo complex, our tour guide resumed his position on the mic.

"We would like for the adults to be able to examine our properties at their leisure, so we have provided child care for all our of visitors under the age of 12. They will stay here at the complex's daycare center while we tour the facilities. Rest assured, they will be in good hands..." he continued.

"Momma! I will be 12 in September. Do I have to go? Those are little kids there. I have never stayed in a day care. Please don't make me go!" I begged my mom as I pointed to the toddlers and preschoolers running around the playground.

"Misty has to go, and I need you to watch her. Everyone else is going -Johnny and Julie and Kim. Now, go on. It won't be too long. You'll be all right," she explained, but I was quite sure she just wanted a moment's peace herself.

So off the bus we filed and into a small stucco building surrounded by a chain-link fence which kept secluded a yard with dirt but no grass and a metal swing set.

When we walked in, a woman greeted us at the front door with "Where are you guys coming from?"

"We were on the bus, and they told us that everyone under 12 had to stay here until they got through," I answered when no one else in my group found their voices.

"Great," she said, but her eyes rolled heavenward. "We are finishing a movie. Come in here," she announced as she walked us into a playroom of sorts. Children, probably 40 or so all under the age of 8, sat cross-legged and in neat rows, watching a cartoon. We filed in behind them, much larger and older than anyone else there.

"I don't want to watch this," Julie said.

"I don't, either. This is crazy. I am too old for this," I agreed.

"I want to go to the beach," Misty complained.

"I know, but we can't now, so just shut up until we can," Johnny, always the practical one, responded.

We watched as a little boy jumped from his perch to ask the daycare ladies question after question, and the daycare ladies returning him time after time to his spot in the rows. As soon as one little girl pronounced that she had to "go tinkle," two more followed quickly after her, and the daycare ladies walked them each, one after another, out of the room. After each episode, I would look at one of my companions, and we would each make a face - raise our eyebrows and look surprised, or nod our heads toward some kid making noises and smirk, or cover our mouths and look ready to explode with forbidden laughter. The last thing we wanted to do was sit and watch baby cartoons with strangers, so we were so relieved when the daycare ladies announced it was time for lunch.

The daycare ladies put us into lines and walked us outside to the fenced-in dirt yard.

"Have a seat at one of the picnic tables, and we will bring you your lunch," one of them announced.

The five of us took up the majority of one picnic table ourselves, and since we were the strangers, none of the other kids joined us. Fine with us.

First on the menu was Kool-Aid, grape flavored and made softer with extra water, served in Dixie Cups found in any home's bathroom dispenser in 1983. Then, paper plates holding a hot dog wiener in a bun plopped in front of each child. Finally, a daycare lady came around and shook plain potato chip crumbs beside each of our hot dogs.

"I don't eat hot dogs without mayonnaise," exclaimed Julie.

"Ma'am, do you have any mayonnaise?" my sister asked, but no one was listening.

"Hush, y'all," I exclaimed. "Don't embarrass me. Who eats mayonnaise on a hot dog? I can understand ketchup or mustard, but mayonnaise? Don't be gross!"

"They could give us some ketchup," Johnny agreed.

"I wonder if they have any chili," Kim chimed in.

"Chili? If they don't have ketchup, then I bet they don't have chili," I retorted.

"Are these potato chips?" Misty asked as she picked up potato dust from her paper plate and tried to taste the tiny crumbles, an action which propelled us all into that same nervous laughter and earned us the glower of a daycare lady.

"I need some more Kool-Aid," Julie cried, and we all did. Our Dixie Cups were drained empty, and we still had nearly an entire hot dog left to swallow. We were told that there was a water fountain where we could get some water on our way in.

"I wish I could swing," Kim said, but all the swings were occupied by the "regular" kids who knew the routine. They had claimed the prized playground equipment from the moment we were set free in the dirt yard.

So, we sat at the picnic table, trying to swallow dry hot dogs as we watched diligently for someone to abandon a swing. When our bus finally arrived, we couldn't wait to tell our stories of how horrible our afternoon had been and how they should have never allowed us to stay with those horrible daycare ladies, but as we boarded the bus, the solemn looks on everyone's faces (everyone belonging to us, that is) and the fact that my grandma was still not sitting with my grandpa, let us know to hold our complaints until we were alone. They must not have had a pleasant afternoon, either.

The Florida Trip

The summer before I turned 12 in September was the summer of the Florida trip. It was the last summer I lived on High Drive before my parents sold the little house where I had lived my entire life across the street from my grandma. It was the last summer where I played with my cousins in Grandma's yard, and so I really guess it was the last summer of my childhood.

Somehow, and I honestly can't remember how, my Grandma and Papa Silvey contrived a "free" vacation to Florida in return for visiting newly built condos, the sales presentation of which left all of us kids in a daycare for several hours of kiddie hell.

I only remember vague images of the rest of the trip. I can't remember how we drove down, who was in which car, or even exactly which adults accompanied us except for my mom and my grandparents. I remember my cousin Johnny watching a woman's boobs hang loose from her purple blouse as she leaned over to put her kids in their car seat when we stopped for a pee break one time. I remember us playing gymnastics on the two double beds in the motel room, trying to jump off one, flip in the air, and land on the other one. I remember having to drink water for breakfast at a Waffle House-type restaurant one morning because they were out of every drink we asked for - chocolate milk, Coke, orange or apple juice, sweet tea - all gone except for coffee for the truckers who regularly frequented the dive. And I remember visiting Thomas Edison's house of which I remember a huge, ancient tree with knotty roots filling the yard and a green indoor pool. Yet, the day care I remember quite well.

We were asked to visit the beautiful new condominium complex with all the other prospective buyers, and for this presentation, we would need to take a short trip on a chartered bus to the building site. So, my cousins and I sat near the back of the bus with my mom and grandma, while my grandpa decided to sit near the front. As we drove along, our tour guide / sales specialist enticed the audience with detailed descriptions of the amenities the condos would provide as he spoke over the hand-held, CB-like microphone. He also told sweet stories of the area and tried to engage the crowd into light-hearted banter to disguise the tension of sitting with a bus load of strangers all wrangled into a high-pressure sales pitch.

Upon finishing his speech, our guide made his first mistake.

"Can I answer any questions for you all?" he asked.

"Yes," my grandpa replied.

"Edward!" I heard my grandma's admonishing tone, but Papa didn't. Or he didn't appear to hear it.

"What type of person does it take to afford these homes? A doctor, lawyer, or Indian chief?"

My cousins and I erupted into raucous laughter, but the rest of the passengers seemed merely to shuffle in their seats and murmur in uncomfortable amusement.

"Why our homes are quite affordable, sir," the guide began his practiced reply. "May I ask where your wife is?"

"She is sitting back there. She doesn't want to sit with me," he answered. Our giggles erupted again, but I saw my grandma raise her hand quickly and then duck back into oblivion with my mom.

A few moments of polite comments and surface-level discussion of the area, then my grandpa raised his hand again.

"Do you have any flea markets in the area?" Stunned silence from the front of the bus while the back of the bus filled with scattered laughter racing up and down the tonal scales.

"I don't think I understand what you mean, Sir," came the reply from our sales associate.

Their conversation lost our interest soon when my grandpa finally took my grandma's warnings to heart and quit asking questions, so that left us kids with the task of entertaining ourselves for the rest of the ride.

"I know; let's sing songs, " I suggested, and so we began our show of trying to remember the lyrics to any pop song currently on the radio.

"Billie Jean is not my lover. She's just a girl who says that I am the one," we wailed in something close to unison until at least two of us could no longer remember the words, and then we went on to the next song begun by whomever shouted out, "I've got one. What about...?".

"Keep feeling fascinaaaaation-un. Passion burning, moving on...." Most of the time we had no real idea of whether we were singing the correct lyrics or not, but that didn't stop us. Only when there was one lone vocal left did we look for another song.

"OK. I got one. I love this song," I began. "Ebony and ivory / live together in perfect harmony / side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord, why don't we?" I sang out loud and true, but something wasn't right. My sister and I were the only ones still singing. I looked around. Julie and Kim were giggling beyond their control as Johnny pointed frantically to toward a couple of seats in front of us. His hand covered his mouth, and his eyes had grown as round as his cheeks.

I followed his pointing finger until my eyes rested on a young couple parked just two seats in front of me - a quiet. pale blonde woman holding hands with her husband, who just happened to be African-American.

I gasped, hit my sister to get her attention, and we all laughed hysterically, drawing even more attention our way than our singing had. My mother tried to hush us, but every time we looked into each other's gleaming faces, straining to hold back the laughter, the giggles erupted again.

I am quite sure everyone on that bus was quite anxious to dump us at the daycare, where we certainly received the punishment we deserved for our inconsiderate behavior on the ride over.

To be continued at the daycare from Hell....

The day the front porch fell in, but didn't kill any dogs.

I am going to skip ahead a few years since some topic of conversation brought up this story the other night, and it is definitely worth repeating. Some time around my 9th grade year, my mom finally decided to call it quits with my dad (the crazy, tragic stories surrounding that year will have to wait), and eventually, she moved in with Paul, who would become my step-dad one April afternoon during my sophomore year. Now, when my mom left my dad, she was in her early 30s and had never held a job outside of our home. She had always been a superb homemaker, keeping the house clean, the clothes washed, the house stylishly decorated, and she participated in all the homemaker/mom required activities. She volunteered in the health room at my elementary school, James H. Hendrix Elementary, she was assistant leader for my Girl Scout troop, she kept score for my softball team, and she was a Sunday School teacher for the 5 and 6 year olds at our church (which promptly dumped her when they found out she was getting a divorce). So, when she left my dad and our house (Paul promised her they wouldn't need and didn't want anything my dad had given us), she had to find a job for the first time in her life. Paul had worked since he was 17 at Arkwright Mills with his father, so of course, he didn't make much money, and since she was new to the working world, my mom had to take whatever job she could find - usually textile and manufacturing work through various temp agencies. The agencies would send her to a plant or factory where she would work the maximum number of weeks allowed before the company had to fully employ her and give her benefits, and then they would say her job had ended, and she would be back looking for work. Needless to say, we were pressed for money. The minute I turned 15, I started applying for jobs and started waiting tables at The Tugboat Fish Camp on Highway 9 so I could have some money.

Lack of money and credit record (my mom's credit had all been in my dad's name, and Paul's ex-wife had demolished his credit record), my mom and Paul had to settle on renting a mobile home from the brother of her sister's husband (redneck connections, to say the least). Now, we are not talking about a modular home with all the amenities one might find in a resort trailer park such as Ocean Lakes in Myrtle Beach. We are talking about an old single-wide trailer with two rooms built on to the side. The original trailer had two bedrooms and one bath. Huey, the redneck connection, had built on a living room and another bedroom, so in fact, we had 3 bedrooms, 2 living spaces, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Outside of the extension was a redwood deck straight out of Sammy Kershaw's double-wide trailer queen's dreams. The trailer sat at the end of Burmaster Street, bordered only by other trailers (one which the owners had tried to build around and make it look like a real house) and woods. Years of cars turning around in the front yard had left a circular dirt driveway for our one car until I saved up $700 in tips to buy that '78 Oldsmobile Starfire, of which I was unbelievably proud.

One spring afternoon (which must have been on the weekend because Momma and Paul were both home, and my cousin Julie was there hanging out with my younger sister) we lived out one of Jeff Foxworthy's definitions of redneck. I can't remember exactly what we were doing, but Misty and Julie had left the house out the front door, across the deck, and into the front yard. I must have been in my room, but I remember them calling me.

"Kristie! Come out here. You have to see this! Come quick!" I heard them calling.

I walked through the living room, opened the screen door, and walked across the deck. Then, I felt it. The deck had moved. I felt it shift somehow, sinking a little.

"What is going on?" I managed after gasping in surprise. "What did y'all do?"

"We didn't do anything!" They replied through peals of laughter. "You better get off of it, though!"

So, I shuffled quickly off the deck, down the steps, and stood with my sister and cousin.

"We have to tell Paul," I said. So, we called him to come see, too, just as they had done to me.

"What are y'all doin'?" he asked as he looked through the screen door. "Your momma's takin' a nap. You better not wake her up."

"Paul, come out here. You have to see this." We echoed. We at least told him, "Something is wrong with the deck."

"What do you mean something is wrong with the deck?" he asked as he took his first step across the metal railing of the screen door.

As soon as he managed his full weight onto the redwood deck, the legs finally collapsed. The entire deck sunk to the ground with the sound of cracking wood, and Paul tumbled with the debris.

"Damn!" he cried as he lay amid the rotting wood.

The crash awakened my mom. She ran to the screen door, opened it, and we all exclaimed, "Don't walk out, Momma!"

"What in the world....?" she shouted, screen door open to the rubble, with Paul standing in the middle of it all.

"I guess we better call Huey," Paul answered. "Damn!"

If Jeff Foxworthy ever reads this, then he can get the story straight. No dead dogs, and it wasn't a double-wide trailer, but a single-wide with 2 rooms built on.

The Broken Window

I used to love when my cousins would come over to see my grandma because that meant I had built-in playmates. My cousin Johnny and I would always gang up against my sister Misty, my cousin Kim, and Johnny's sister, Julie. Two against three may not sound like much of a ganging up, but since Johnny and I were the oldest, smartest, and most athletic, we always won despite the numbers. Now, those three might argue who was smartest, but since they never caught on to our scheme or they never bothered to protest our scheme, then I would say that we earned the intelligence battle. And those three certainly weren't anywhere near athletic. The most movement their bodies ever saw was much later in the 80s when they spent all afternoon teasing their hair and banging their heads to the music of hair bands such as Guns-N-Roses and Metallica. (I remember our epic verbal battles as teens over which genre was better and cooler - my preference was alternative bands such as U2 and REM, but they loved that heavy metal.)

On one random Sunday afternoon, after having finished our after-church meal of KFC chicken with macaroni and cheese, rolls, and green beans with banana pudding for dessert (standard fare for Sunday afternoons in South Carolina), we decided to play baseball in the front yard of Grandma's house. We had to play in the front yard because the back was too cluttered with Grandpa's junk and random plum trees or pine trees or grape vines. Plus, the front yard had built-in bases. The black kettle hanging from a curved metal pipe and which sometimes held a real flower, sometimes a plastic one, served as home plate. The front porch stairs were first base, a tree truck was second, and the white light pole was third. Either Johnny or I would pitch while the others played defense. We would even give them three outs to our two just to make the odds even more fair. Still, they agreed to the terms every time, and they lost the game every time, too.

On this particular afternoon, Johnny was pitching, and I was on defense. I can't remember who was at bat - Julie, Kim, or Misty - but whoever hit the ball, hit it toward me. Johnny quickly ran to the front porch steps and prepared to catch my toss to first for an easy out. "Over here, quick," he urged me on. I fielded the ball cleanly, but I fell victim to the adrenaline, and hurled the ball to first. Johnny's eyes followed the ball straight into the center of a 3-paned picture window that fronted the living room of my grandma's house. Bodies jumped from their reclining position in the living room, and I knew our game was over.

As cliché as this may seem, time really did seem to stop for a second. Everyone in the yard froze when the ball shattered the glass in the picture window, and we all looked at each other in horror, our eyes wide and our jaws hanging. In that frozen moment, our shared glances spoke of commiseration, collectively feeling the dread of the coming punishment. Or maybe that was what was going on in my mind; my cousins were probably thinking about how they could prove that I threw the ball and therefore was solely responsible for the damage.

Grandma would be ok. She would be upset, but understanding and calm. Grandpa, though, was the one we all feared. He was the one who shouted at us for coming in and out of his house. "Y'all ain't the ones paying the light bill around here. You need to go outside and play and stay outside and quit letting all the air conditioning out," he would bellow. Grandpa was also the one who counted the number of Coca-Cola cans in the refrigerator and fussed every time one of the grandchildren got a cold Coke out of the refrigerator: "Y'all know I only like the cold ones. You can get one of the hot ones and add ice. And you better drink the whole thing, too. I don't buy them for you to let it go flat. You need to drink more water anyway." And Grandpa was the one who dominated the television with his "Hee Haw" and 6 o'clock news broadcasts and dared us to make noise so that he couldn't hear. Yes, Grandpa was the one who fussed and the one who would hurt our feelings and the one who would let us know exactly how much a new picture window would cost.

As soon as our telepathic moment passed, we scattered like bugs suddenly exposed when a rock is overturned. We ran in 5 different paths, all out of the front yard, headed away from Grandpa and our moms, who were sure to follow Papa immediately as he descended into the carport to begin the interrogations. I don't exactly remember where we thought we would hide or how Papa ended up rounding us all together again, but I do remember his eerily serious tone when he discussed how much the window would cost to get fixed and how they would have to tape up the hole right now because they couldn't get a glass repairman out until Monday. And I remember being worried about how Grandma was going to be able to afford a new window, and I still wonder to this day if my mom or my grandma paid for the window to be fixed, but somehow they managed to get it done.

I never denied throwing the ball, but I did try to lay the blame on Johnny. "Johnny was supposed to catch it!" I explained.

"Well, I'm not Kareem Abdul Jabar," he offered.