One of my student workers here at the college is a very bright, very personable young lady. Also very Christian.

At seventeen and already a rising junior, she is a credit to her parents, who raised her to believe in God and love Jesus and work hard for the betterment of the world. And even more credit goes to her parents for her previous twelve years of education. She was homeschooled.

(A note to all of those parents out there who are homeschooling their children: keep it up. Because many of the top students here never went to public school. Never went to private school, either. Their school was the kitchen table or an upstairs study.)

All that said, college life has had its share of surprises. It’s hard work and long nights and very strange people, many of whom have no use for all things religious. Ironically, the biggest surprise thus far has come by way of her religion classes.

Christian Scripture (New Testament) 102 appeared to be an easy A for her and a class that would require little in the way of studying. She had, after all, spent most of her life reading the Bible and acquainting herself with the doctrines and theology of the Christian faith. I did warn her to be wary of what she was getting herself into. “A college class about the New Testament isn’t going to be what you think it is,” I said.

She listened and nodded and smiled, and then ignored my advice. Much like my children.

In she stormed after the first day of class, throwing her books onto the table by the door and kicking a chair for good measure.

“Problems?” I asked.

“That class sucks,” she said. “S-U-C-K-S.”

Told ya, I thought, but said nothing. I merely nodded sympathetically and sat down beside her instead. Because young people do not want to hear the words “Told ya” by someone older. It makes them feel bad. Still…

“Told ya,” I said.

“If you were going to take a class about the New Testament,” she asked, “what would you expect the professor to cover?”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “The early church, I guess. Paul and the apostles. Jesus—”

“—Yes!” she shouted. “Jesus. You know, CHRIST!”

“I’ve heard of Him,” I offered.

“Well, not to the stupid professor!” she huffed. “Look.”

She handed me her class syllabus. Early church? Check. Paul? Check. Apostles? Check. Jesus?

Jesus?

“I don’t see Jesus,” I said.

“She doesn’t see Jesus, either. Can you believe that? An entire semester about the New Testament, and she’s not going to mention Jesus at all!”

“Did you ask her why?” She shot me a look for an answer. “What’d she say?”

“She said, ‘Jesus wasn’t integral to the New Testament, and I’ve found Him to be a divisive figure in the classroom.’”

“Jesus wasn’t integral to the New Testament?” I asked.

Another look.

“Divisive, huh?”

“Divisive,” she said. “And you know what’s worse? She’s not just a professor. She’s the college chaplain.”

I nodded. That sounded about right.

The worst thing, she said, was that the class was strictly lecture-oriented. No discussion. And the prospect of sitting in that classroom having to keep her mouth shut was more than she could bear. She was dropping the class, she said. But she was adding a class about faith in life, taught by the same professor.

“This one is all discussion,” she beamed. “I don’t have to keep quiet.”

And she hasn’t. Not for the entire semester.

Things reached the boiling point last week, when the professor professed that she hadn’t quite reached the point in her life where she fully accepted the existence of God. She still has many questions, she said.

“So the chaplain of the college isn’t sure if she believes in God or not?” I asked.

“Nope,” my employee said. “And she’s more than the chaplain. She pastors a church in town, too.”

So we have a college chaplain, who also happens to be the pastor of a church, telling her students that Jesus isn’t really important to the overall meaning of the New Testament and that she doesn’t know if God is real or not. Higher education. Can’t beat it.

For a final exam, the class has to make what is called an “ethical will.” Instead of possessions, the students are supposed to write about what traits they would leave behind to friends and loved ones.

I just read my employee’s will. She left her love to her mother, her strength to her father, her hope to her brother, and her kindness to her sister.

And she left her faith to her professor.

She’s a little nervous about what grade she’ll get. I’m not. Because whatever her professor gives her, God gave her an A.

For the last few weeks, various forms of sickness have been playing tag with my family. Last Wednesday, I was It. Before that, it was my daughter.

I spent most of last Monday trying to convince her that if she had to miss school because she was sick, then pinkeye was most definitely the way to go.

She didn’t buy that at first. How could having yucky goop seeping out of one of your eyes be a good thing?

Because, I said, her eye might be sick, but she really wasn’t. No fever or vomiting (thank you, Jesus). No stomach ache or sore throat. Which meant that the usual procedures of staying immobilized on the sofa under a blanket with a cool washcloth didn’t apply.

In other words, she didn’t need to act sick. We could play.

“Even if I called in sick to school?” she asked, which was how she preferred to phrase it. Really?”

“Really.”

She thought for a moment. Then, in an awed whisper, she said, “Wow.”

So we played. A game of chess first, which was awkwardly played with Barbie and Ken dolls. Then we made each other a pretend Play-doh snack, then we made each other a real one. And then we colored: Snow White for her, Mater for me (because that’s how I roll).

I was trying to make our day together a good one, the sort of father/daughter experience that she would fondly remember and I could use as leverage when she starts dating in ten years (because I roll that way, too). Yet she was solemn through the whole morning. Even quiet. She didn’t even scream “Gotcha!” when she captured my queen.

“What’s the matter?” I asked over a lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches. “You feeling bad?”

“No,” she said. “Yes. Kinda.”

“You sound like your mother,” I answered. “Say it straight. Does your eye hurt?”

“No.”

“Stomach?”

“No. I don’t hurt. I just feel bad.”

“Why?”

“Because I feel good.”

I squinted my eyes and flashed her the universal sign of male confusion.

“You feel bad because you feel good?”

“If I’m not at school, I should feel sick,” she clarified. “I don’t feel sick, so I should be at school.”

Oh. What?

“You don’t like taking a day off with your old man?” I asked.

“Daddy,” she answered, “I have a responsitility to go to school.”

“I think you mean ‘responsibility,’” I said.

“Yeah. That.”

Oh. That.

“You’re right,” I said. “Absolutely right. Going to school is part of your responsibility to grow up and be a proper lady who can do whatever God asks of her.”

“I don’t think I’m doing that today,” she whispered.

“Oh, I do.”

“You do?”

“No doubt about it. Because there’s another part about growing up and being used by God that doesn’t involve things like school.”

“Really?”

“Sure. And that’s the part we’re working on today. You have the school part down pretty good. You study and get good grades and help the teacher. Those are fine things. Fine. And I hope you always work hard like that. But a lot of people think they have to work all the time. If they’re doing stuff like we’re doing today, just hanging out and playing, they feel guilty.”

“Sort of like I’m feeling?”

“Exactly. But you don’t need to feel bad taking it easy every once in a while. That’s good for you, too. Jesus worked hard, but He still knew how to relax. He’d go for walks and sit by wells and tell stories and stuff.”

She gave me an appreciative nod. “So sometimes it’s okay to call in sick?” she asked.

“Yes. And sometimes it’s okay to call in well.”

“I like calling in well.”

“Me, too.”

We do so much, don’t we? We have jobs and care for our families and support our churches. We work. Always work. And if we were told there was even more of something we needed to do, we’d likely throw our hands up in surrender.

But there is more we need to do, I think. And that can be summed up in one word.

Nothing.

We need to learn how to do more of nothing. How to sit still. God has a hard time using for His purpose those who refuse to stop and listen. Those who think it best to charge ahead rather than stand and wait. We spend so much time planning our lives that we often forget to live them.

Which is why the quality of our lives isn’t defined by how much we can get done, but how much we can let be.

The local Outback Steakhouse is Nirvana to the steak-and-potato sort, of which I am a card carrying member.

It is also a favorite for teenagers on their first date, like the couple who was seated in the booth beside ours last week. Bad for them, maybe, but good for us. It’s not often that regular folks like my wife and I get both a dinner and a movie at the same time.

Sixteenish boy and very nervous, trying in vain to impress his classy date and not doing very well at it:

“Sit me first,” she said.

“Okay,” he answered.

“Do I look nice?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me I look nice.”

“You look nice.”

“Mean it.”

“You look nice.”

“That’ll do,” she says. (He breaths a sigh of relief. This is much harder than he thought it would be.) “Now, I order first, then you. Don’t order for me, though. Some ladies like that. I don’t. Did you bring enough money to pay for my food?”

Silence. Then his confession: “I thought you’d pay for your own.”

“No,” came the exasperated answer. “NO. You pay. Always.”

“Okay.”

“Sit up straight. Don’t fidget. Look me in the eyes. Smile.”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to pray, right?” his date asked.

“Um. I dunno. Should I?”

“You’d better,”

And on it went.

I felt sorry for that young man, I really did. He thought dating would be natural. Take a girl out, have some fun, maybe dinner or a movie, and then drive her home. No fuss, no muss. How hard could it be?

From the small beads of sweat on his forehead, plenty hard. His date was demanding. She offered little in the way of praise and much in the way of criticism. He was confused, frightened, and unsure of himself. All because of her. Why had he agreed to take her out in the first place? he wondered. And even asked. But she merely smiled and winked and said it was the only way he’d ever be allowed to take anyone else out ever.

He knew she was right, and so did I. She had all the power, you see. She’d had it for about sixteen years now.

Because his date, this unimpressed, hard, stringent lady, was his mother.

I manage to get the backstory when her son excused himself to the bathroom. Presumably to flush himself down the toilet, which also happened to be right where his evening is headed.

He’s a good boy, according to his mother. Always has been. And she wanted to keep him that way, too. But he’d gotten to that age when children began to feel a little too sure of themselves. Their world brightened and grews bigger, and they were under the impression that they were growing brighter and bigger right along with it. It was easy to get muddled and begin thinking they were in charge. That it was all about them.

So, mother and father decided that before they would allow their son to start dating, he would do a trial run with mom. It’s important that he knows how to treat a lady, she said. And it’s important to know how to spot one, too.

“Understand?” she asked.

Yes.

We pass onto our children what we consider to be the necessities of crafting a good life—the attributes of honesty and hard work, the values of education and faith. But too often what’s left out is the most basic necessity of them all: how to behave when mom and dad aren’t around.

Too many of us mourn the fact that today’s younger generation is so over-the-top rude. Too few of us take the time to consider the fact that much of the fault is our own. It was nice to see a parent put forth just as much effort to ensure her child got into the right life than she would to ensure her child got into the right college.

Education can get you far in life. Good manners can get you further.

Still, I couldn’t help but express my empathy for the young man.

“This has to be the longest night of his life,” I said.

“Oh, don’t feel sorry for him,” she smiled. “Feel sorry for his sister. She’s fifteen, and her first date is next year. With her father.”

Thanks, folks, for all your prayers as I slowly recover from a pretty rough Wednesday. I’m still a little woozy, but thankfully I’m no longer seeing the paint melt from the ceiling and tiny leprechauns dancing in front of me. But it wasn’t all bad. Last night, I had something to occupy my time.

Sherri over at Matter of Fact is always good for both laughs and insights, and her post on Wednesday was no different. She’s been leading an adult Sunday School class about the book of Matthew, and a recent class discussion revolved around what they treasured. In her words, “I suggested that the best way to find things out about ourselves is to ask someone closest to us to answer some questions honestly about how we view things, what ‘ticks us off’ and what we treasure.”

Sherri asked her husband.

I’ll let you read her post to fully appreciate what happened next. She did, however, throw down the gauntlet. She challenged the rest of us ( well, “Only the brave and transparent”) to do the same. I thought it might be nice to have a little male perspective on this. So as my wife and I relaxed on a lazy Wednesday night, I asked her those same questions. I also prayed that things would not descend into the sort of downward spiral that Sherri experienced.

Here goes:

What is my favorite comfort food?

What my wife said: ice cream.
What I hoped she’d say: banana pudding, complete with real bananas and Nilla Wafers. It’s an anytime food. I’ve even had it for breakfast (don’t make that face. It has fruit in it). But ice cream was a close second.

If money were no object, where would I like to go on vacation?

What my wife said: Key West, Florida.
What I hoped she’d say: I was leaning toward Yankee Stadium and thought I had my first “A-ha!” moment, but she was right. It’s hard to pass up a place where three quarters of the population stops what they’re doing every evening to walk down to the pier watch the sunset.

How do I feel about housework?

What my wife said: “Are you serious?”
What I hoped she’d say: “Are you serious?”

What is my least favorite household chore?

What my wife said: taking out the trash.
What I hoped she’d say: the same. Just because I always seem to have to do that when it’s dinner time for the neighborhood bears.

What brings me the most joy?

What my wife said: my family.
What I hoped she’d say: her. Guess I have to work on that one, huh?

I have a Saturday night with no commitments. How do I spend it?

What my wife said: Popcorn and a movie.
What I hoped she’d say: Popcorn and an old movie. There’s a difference, and it’s a big one. She really should know that by now.

What is my greatest gift?

What my wife said: writing.
What I hoped she’d say: that I can fall asleep anytime, anywhere. But I was happy with her answer.

What is my greatest talent?

What my wife said: seeing the big picture.
What I hoped she’d say: seeing the details. Lack of communication, anyone?

What do I enjoy the most?

What my wife said: television.
What I hoped she’d say: it doesn’t matter. Because television? Out of all the things I enjoy in life, she thinks television tops the list?

“You watch too much,” she said.

“I watch educational stuff,” I answered. “The History Channel, Discovery—”

“—baseball,” she interrupted, “football, basketball,—”

“—the Science Channel, National Geographic, —”

“–24, NCIS, The Andy Griffith Show…”

It went that way for a while, but then I cut the conversation short. Partly because I was tired of convincing her I was right. Mostly because it was time for Lost to come on.

What is my greatest fear?

What my wife said: not fulfilling your dreams.
What I hoped she’d say: the same. Because that meant she didn’t remember what my biggest fear really was: clowns.

What is my biggest pet peeve about other people?

What my wife said: arrogance.
What I hoped she’d say: arrogance. Because really, is any other human trait more annoying than that?

What is my favorite book of the Bible?

What my wife said: the Psalms.
What I hoped she’d say: the same.

What do I hate most about my body?

What my wife said: “I don’t know, nothing I guess.”
What I hoped she’d say: “You’re a guy. You people don’t care how you look.”

What do you think is your best feature?

What my wife said: my personality (now I understand how you felt, Sherri).
What I hoped she’d say: anything other than that.

What is my most annoying habit?

What my wife said: nothing, at first. Which was a good sign since I thought that meant she was really trying hard but couldn’t come up with anything. But then I realized she could also be wading through all the options and couldn’t decide on just one. She finally settled on the fact that all the clocks in the house are set five minutes fast.

Really? That’s it? My most annoying habit is the fact that I don’t want to be late for anything? That I’m punctual? I’ll take it.

What I hoped she’d say: You’ll never know.

I am standing in aisle eleven at Wal-Mart next to a fortyish woman who is both smartly dressed and a bit frazzled. Both of us are contemplating the correct choice among the dizzying array of what may well be the most important technological advancement for anyone trying to protect an innocent home from the ravages of children.

Stain remover.

I woke up this morning to find a blotch of spaghetti sauce on the sofa. How’d it get there? No idea. But as the blotch was in the shape of a small handprint, I have two suspects.

Such events are common in the lives of parents. There are messes and spills and catastrophes both large and small. And there are stains. Many, many stains. So many, in fact, that I can’t seem to walk through my own house without glancing behind me to dwell on them all.

So. A trip to Wal-Mart.

I don’t know this lady beside me. I don’t know if her issue is child-related or not. I don’t ask, and she doesn’t tell. We piddle through the bottles and packages and cans of cleaner, pondering to ourselves.

Stain fighting has come a long way. Whereas past generations had to make due with soap and elbow grease, we are fortunate enough to possess the fruits of science. As I scan the shelves I see products that promise to eliminate stains completely, to restore damaged goods to immaculate condition, and to do both with a minimum of effort. After careful thought, I choose the bottle that promises to clean deeper than its competitors and even disinfect while doing so. Excellent.

The lady beside me makes her choice as well, opting for the industrial strength cleaner that promises to eradicate not only stains, but staph, strep, and E. coli as well. I raise an eyebrow and offer an appreciative nod. She must have a bigger family.

She turns to leave and chuckles, partly to herself and partly to me. “Wish they could make a stain remover for your life, too,” she says.

What a wonderful idea! I think to myself. After all, there is even more to clean up in a life than in a house, children or not. There are plenty of messes and spills and catastrophes of varying degree. There are surely more stains. In my own case, a lot more. And like my own house, I can’t seem to walk through my life without glancing back to dwell on them all.

I’m sure I’m not alone here.

It would be nice if we could all just stroll over to aisle eleven at the Wal-Mart, grab a bottle of miracle goop, and rid our stains with one quick spritz and wipe.

But we can’t.

Cleaning up failures and regrets is a lot harder than cleaning up spaghetti sauce. Those stains are deeper and more permanent. That’s okay, though. Because those stains remind us of what happens when we try to go it alone, when we think we can do things our own way, in our own time, and with only our own interests at heart.

Walking through this life is more like walking through the woods than a house. It’s tough and hazardous and it’s easy to get lost if you’re not paying attention. And no matter how carefully we step or how experienced we believe ourselves to be, we all get a little filthy in the process.

But there is a secret to getting through those woods and safely back home. It isn’t to look down in shame at the stains we’ve managed to get on ourselves, it’s to look up to the God who can take those stains away.

The God who put our eyes in front of us so we can see where we’re going, not where we’ve been.

I was about six years old when my father looked at me during an episode of Wild Kingdom and said, “For the love of all that is holy and good, please shut up!”

Not that I was a talkative child. I wasn’t. And still am not. But I was in the midst of something amazing, and it had no choice but to leak out. Before, my universe in its entirety had been comprised of my home, my neighborhood, my church, and the grocery store. Everything else was fuzzy and gray and didn’t really matter. And I was happy.

But then things changed. At some point I sat in the backyard grass one night, gazed up at the stars, and began thinking about what they were and how they hung in the sky. And one day I looked at the mountains outside my front door and thought about who lived there a hundred years ago and what happened to them. And then I looked into the mirror and wondered, in my own childlike way, who I was and how I was possible. My world was creeping outward. Expanding. Suddenly, everything went from fuzzy and gray to bright and sparkling. And I was happier.

I had stumbled upon wonder. And it was expressed in my new favorite word:

Why.

As in, “Why do the clouds look like rabbits and spaghetti, but not clouds?”

Or, “Why does God live up in heaven when all of us are so far down here?”

Or, “Why do some people go to church and some people don’t?”

And on. And on.

This was at first an encouraging sign as far as my parents were concerned. I was waking up to the world and taking an interest in things, which was good. But as the days and weeks wore on and my questions not only kept coming but became more difficult to answer, they came to believe that perhaps my wakefulness and interest weren’t so good. Weren’t so good at all.

They’ve confessed as much to me, so now I understand the whys and for-whats of the day I watched Wild Kingdom with my father.

The episode was about creatures of the deep sea, and along with the requisite slugs and shrimp, they had shown several pictures of angler fish.

I had wondered aloud why there were a lot more fish in the sea than there were animals on land. And I had also wondered aloud why we had to send submarines to the bottom of the ocean instead of people in suits.

Then I asked this: “Why did God make that fish so ugly?”

“For the love of all that is holy and good, please shut up!” Dad said. Which was about the funniest thing I had ever heard. I laughed so hard that I fell off the sofa.

<><

Tonight I sat with my own son on our own sofa, eating crackers and watching a recorded episode of Planet Earth. After five years of living, his world is beginning to expand just as mine did. And like me, his favorite word is now “Why?”

Sigourney Weaver had just transitioned from sharks and whales to the creatures of the deep sea. Several bioluminescent fish lit the screen, tiny shrimp scurried along the sea floor, and then an angler fish crept into the scene.

My son said through his crackers, “Why did God make that fish so ugly?”

That’s when I remembered that story of Dad and me. And as I had spent the last twenty minutes answering my son’s questions with varying degrees of success, a part of me wanted to tell him the exact thing my father told me. But when I looked down and saw the grimace on his face and the tiny pile of cracker dust on his pajamas, I didn’t see my son. I saw me. And then I doubled over with laughter and fell off the sofa.

Much the same way I did thirty years ago.

My son peered down over the edge and gave me a what’s-so-funny? look.

“Atta boy,” I said, looking up to him.

Because I pray the wonder he has at this world and his place in it never wanes. It’s the sort of wonder that has cured diseases and explored our solar system and invented wondrous technology. And it’s also the sort of wonder that God bids us to have in abundance.

Number one on His top ten list of things He wants to hear is “I love you.”

Number two is “Why?”

My friend Jennifer Lee keeps a folder on her desk that’s full of questions she wants to ask God one day, things she’s struggled to answer but cannot. I think that’s a good idea. Not just to keep them, but to add to them.

Because if we want our faith strengthened, it must be tested. And if it’s truth we seek in this life, we must begin with doubt. The Christian faith is unique in that it centers itself upon a God Who revels in both the faith that lives in our hearts and the questions that live in our minds. He challenges us to ask the tough questions and seek their answers, even if some are unsearchable. He knows the great secret: the more we try to prove Him false now, the more we’ll prove Him true in the end.

God cannot be proven in a laboratory, but He can in us. We can know He’s there, that He’s paying attention, and that despite what we think or hear or see, He has something wonderful waiting for us on the horizon. And all He asks in return are three things:

That we hang on.

That we believe.

And that we wonder.

You remember Johnny Carson, right? Great guy. And funny. Millions of people couldn’t go to bed at night until after Carson. He was just that good.

But every once in a while Johnny would need a little break from the show. He had some things to take care of and new horizons to explore. So he’d call Jay Leno to come and do a show. Now everyone knew that Jay Leno was no Johnny Carson, but they put up with him, maybe even liked him, because they knew Johnny would be back the next day.

That’s sort of what I’m doing today. I’m Jay Leno, and katdish, over at Hey look, a chicken! is Johnny Carson.

My post is over there today, and I’d like you to come on over and see what I learned last week about God Work. Make sure you leave a comment so I’ll know you didn’t get lost along the way, and feel free to roam around katdish’s site. If you ever need a laugh, some social commentary, and a little random madness, she’s the lady to see.

And I’ll see you back here tomorrow.

Saturday afternoon found me in the back pew of a church, along with a nervous wife, a rather large duffel bag full of camera lenses, and Jimmy.

My wife was once an accomplished photographer. Weddings, reunions, senior pictures, and whatnot. And though she continues to snap a few pictures (see both my profile and header shots), two children, one semi-adolescent husband, and a teaching career now take up most of her time. But when a friend called and wanted to know if my wife would be willing to shoot her wedding, she said yes. Absolutely.

I usually accompany my wife on this sort of adventure. She says she needed me there for support and guidance, but in reality all I was good for was watching over her camera bag and putting whatever film she tossed me into my pocket for safe keeping.

Not that I minded. I was glad she thought she needed me there, even if she didn’t. Because weddings were nice. Lots of joy and love. Lots of promise and hope. Just the sort of things this world needed more of these days.

I was sitting in the back pew just before the service began when an elderly man in a navy blue suit sidled up and stuck out a hand.

“How ya doin’, buddy?” he asked.

“Just fine, sir. You?”

“Well, I’ll be better once I get outta this monkey suit an’ into a can of Copenhagen. You don’t have any Copenhagen on ya, son?”

“Sorry,” I smiled. “Left it in the truck.”

“Ah,” he waved, “don’t need the stuff anyways. Least that’s what my wife says. Name’s Jimmy.”

“Nice to meet you, Jimmy. I’m Billy.”

“Likewise.”

He sat down beside me and fidgeted with his tie. “Never could get used to these things,” he said. “Always felt like I was hangin’ myself. You here for the groom or the bride?”

“Neither,” I said. “I’m here for the photographer. You?”

“Either/or, I reckon. Knowed ‘em all my life. They’re good kids, the both of ‘em.”

“They sure are. Love each other, too.”

“Yep,” Jimmy said. “No doubt about that. That’s why they’re here, huh?”

“I’d imagine so,” I agreed.

“Seen a lotta fellas and their gals get married in this church. They all loved each other, every one. Course, lot of ‘em aren’t married anymore.”

I nodded. “Happens a lot these days, doesn’t it?”

“Too much, son. Too much. Know why?”

“Tell me.”

“’Cause they think what they felt on their wedding day is what they’d always feel. That love conquers all.”

“Love doesn’t conquer all?” I asked.

Jimmy shook his head and smiled. “Nah. It covers a multitude of sins, the Book says. And it’s sure enough greater than faith an’ hope put together. But since I’ve seen plenty of things that conquered love, I can’t say love conquers all.”

“What’d you see conquer love?”

“Well,” he sighed. “Time, for one. And selfishness. Sin. Anger.”

“Guess you’re right,” I said.

“Wish I weren’t, son.”

“So how do some people stay together and other people drift apart?”

Jimmy thought a bit then said, “Yesterday I was out mowin’ the yard and I saw that my wife’s lilies had bloomed. She loves her lilies, you know. So I bent down and snapped a few off, put ‘em in a mason jar, and sat the whole thing on the kitchen table for her. Got a peck on the cheek for my trouble, too.”

I smiled.

“But this morning when we got up, those flowers were already starting to wilt. Know why?”

“Why?”

“No root. They had water and sunshine, but they couldn’t live long without their roots. Something to dig deep into and hang on against the wind and the rain. Those people who walked outta here man and wife but ain’t no longer? They had sunshine and water, too. But they didn’t have any roots. And when the winds and rains came, they just wilted and died.”

“Roots, huh?”

“Roots. Two people can love each other, but that ain’t enough. Not in this world. But two people who love each other and love God? Son, that’s enough and then some. You both dig deep into Him and the storms might shake you, but they can never kill you. Understand?”

“Understood.”

Jimmy looked at his watch and smiled. “Well, looks like things are ‘bout ready to start. Nice to meet you, Billy. You seem like a good guy.”

“And you seem to know what you’re talking about, Jimmy.”

He rose and laughed. “I’d better,” he said. “I’m the one marryin’ ‘em.”