Summer of Change — The Interim Pastor

Once, in another life, I was part of a new leadership team at a small Baptist church in South Texas. Okay. Honestly, I was not part of the new leadership team. I was the leadership team. 

I can’t say for sure, but the church was probably 50 years old when I got there in 2001. It has always been small, but in the days of the early 2000s, attendance had dropped to less than 10 members on Sunday morning, mostly due to death and apathy.

I had just quit a job as a youth minister at another Baptist church when the deacon (yes, there was only one deacon) came by my house to offer me the job as interim pastor.

I don’t remember what my first thought was. I guess I thought this was God’s way of shining a light on the next step in my life. “This is my perfect will,” was what I wanted God to say to me. But he didn’t. At least I didn’t hear it if he did.

But I was desperate for money and fame, the kind that only comes with being the interim pastor at a small church. I’m not so sure whether it’s fame or infamy, you feel like a celebrity as the pastor of a church. I wonder if Jesus felt like a celebrity? Did he walk around looking at faces in the crowd and thinking to himself, “Yep, they just recognized me.”

Was Jesus an A-lister in Jerusalem? B-lister? Would he been invited to all the coolest parties and new club openings in Galilee? Nobody knows.

But that’s the feeling you get. At least I did.

I started dreaming about standing up in that pulpit week after week and spewing God’s message to the dozen or so people in the audience. I felt like God was going to use me to spread his message of love and hope to the masses. The fact that the God of the Universe could use a lowly, humble servant like me really swelled me head. It was quite the rush.

After much time in my prayer closet (about four hours), I accepted the job. I started out at the standard rate of $250 per week. It paid the grocery bill and provided a few other luxuries like electricity, gas and the occasional dinner out at the Dairy Queen.

The first week, my family of four — me, my wife and two kids, aged 14 and 11 — joined the church and immediately dropped the average age below 65 for the first time in what I can only assume was many years.

I thought nothing but exciting times were ahead. And, it turns out, the times ahead were exciting, but not exciting in the “yee-haw” sort of way, but in the “oh my fucking god” sort of way. I never would have used that type of language back then, but I do now. A lot. Things change.

Some people just don’t appreciate change. I found this out the hard way.

As the new “leader” of the church, I immediately started implementing some positive changes. I wanted to start meeting on Sunday nights and Wednesdays. Before me, the six or eight souls who met each week, only met on Sunday mornings. I wanted to upgrade the sound system. Invite more people to join the church, maybe some younger people. Add a few more deacons to the flock to help with the church work.

All of these things I looked at as a positive in a church that was less than 10 years away from extinction. I figured since I was the leader, people would follow.

I was wrong.

The church members that paid the bills and kept the doors open — barely — before I got there didn’t want any kind of change. They wanted to spread the wealth a little bit, maybe have a few new faces around, maybe have a little more variety at the monthly potluck suppers, but they did not want real change. They liked the way things were. And they let me know it.

When they approached me about it, the first thing out of my mouth was probably not the response they were looking for.

As a sidenote: When I was younger, sometimes my mouth overloaded my brain and I said stupid shit before I really thought about it. It strained more than a few relationships. I would like to hope I’m better but that may just be my mouth spouting off again.

I did not impress the Old Guard with “Doing things the same way got you here,” I said. “I thought you wanted to see this church grow. If we don’t change, it won’t.”

The Old Guard didn’t like it. They didn’t like me. But to be honest, I didn’t like them either. I know that’s not a very Christian attitude, but I did not like them. They were evil. When I say “they,” it was really just one or two people, but in a small group, that is all that matters.

I couldn’t handle the pressure, so I left the church. I didn’t need their $1,000 a month.

I was wrong. I did need their money. I needed it to buy groceries. Not having grocery money causes more stress. I found that out for sure.

But I was wrong there too.

Doing something just for the sake of money will not remove stress. It may — MAY — pay the bills but the other bills will begin to pile up. Sometimes those other bills are in the form of hospital visits because stress causes sickness. Sometimes those other bills will come in the form of paying for an addiction or an escape because you need something other than reality. Sometimes it’s not a monetary bill at all, sometimes you might pay with your mental sanity.

In those times, what you need is change.

That’s what I’m going through right now. Change. I needed it. The summer of 2014 is the Summer of Change for my wife and me.

We figured if we wanted something new, something different, something better in our lives, we needed to do some things differently. We couldn’t expect to do what we’ve always done and get different results.

In football, sometimes you have to take a knee. Accept being down by a touchdown, go into the locker room at the half and regroup. Make some changes. Sometimes those changes might be a dramatic shift in the game plan. Sometimes they might be a slight tinker here and there — a new play, a different defensive front, wrapping up the other team’s running back, or sticking with a block a few minutes longer. Whatever the case, changes must be made. If you are losing the game at halftime, you can’t stick with the same game plan. You must change.

In the case where the game is not going your way, change is good, change is healthy, change is imperative. If nothing changes, you will lose.

But in life, you don’t have to lose. You might not be successful each day, but you can be successful in life for the long term. You might have to take a knee sometimes, but you can win. You can create a life that looks like the one you dream about, one that brings fulfillment, joy and peace. But the game plan might have to change.

The bad news is: It’s some times a lot of work. The good news? It can be done. You can do it. You are in control. You are the coach with the whiteboard in your hand. Change the damn game plan.

Learn to Love Yo'Self

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Next month, one of the most important lists in the history of lists will be unveiled. And that’s really say- ing something, because there has really been some important lists out there.

There’s the 308 a.d. list “Top Ten Most Eligible Roman Emperors So Far.” Septemius Severus barely edged out Commodus to take the top spot on that list. Commodus was credited for bringing hip-hop music to the Roman Empire after hiring Maximillian “D.J. Master Punch a.k.a. Slick Wack” Edwards for his State of the Empire Address after party. A good time was had by all that night.

In 2000, there was a list for everything: Best Song of the Century (“Faithfully” by Journey), Best Invention of the Century (The Slinky), and, my personal favorite, Best Snack Cake of the Century (Twinkie, duh).

But next month is the one everybody has been waiting for all year.

In November, People magazine will announce the winner of the 2011 Sexiest Man Alive competition. I only know this because I did a lit- tle research on The Internet — The Source Of All Truth. I haven’t received a call at this point on when my photo shoot might be scheduled but I can only assume it will be in the next few days.

I finished just out of the running last year when Ryan Reynolds was named the magazine’s 2010 Sexiest Man Alive. The year before that it was Johnny Depp. And in 2008 it was Hugh Jackman. In 1990, Tom Cruise was the sexiest man alive. In 1992 it was Nick Nolte.

What do we all have in common?

First, we are all men. Second, we are all sexy. Third, and maybe the

most startling commonality of all, we are all still alive.

You may ask if Tom Cruise was the sexiest man alive in 1990, why is he not still the sexiest man alive today? If Nick Nolte was the sexiest man alive in 1992, why is ... wait, why was he voted sexiest man alive at any time? What are the criteria of this list? Why haven’t I gotten a call yet?

I guess my point is, there is always somebody who comes along and is sexier. I know, dear reader, that is a hard pill to swallow, especially as you gander at my “mug shot” photo in the center of this column, but it is true. There are people, although only a handful, who are sexier than me. And there might even be a few who are sexier than you.

I tried to teach my kids that at an early age.

When my kids were little they were good at every- thing. I mean everything. They must take after their dad in that aspect.

If there was a writing com- petition, they were always at the top. If it was reading, they were right there. Grades? Yep. Sports? Come on, what do you think? They were just talented, I suppose.

Sometimes they would get discouraged. I tried to help a little by telling them somebody out there is always going to be bigger, stronger, faster, smarter, hit a ball farther, drive better, and, heck, maybe even be better looking (although it was highly unlikely, since they look a lot like their mother). All of that didn’t matter though. The important thing, I told them, was to do the best they could do. Don’t compare yourself to others. It’s a no win situation.

It’s true in sports, Holly- wood and even truer in real life.

Even if you are at the top of your game, you aren’t going to be there forever (I’m looking at you, Tiger Woods).

But I have learned it’s still important that I love me, just for being me. I want to be the best me I can be.

That concept has been around for a while, just like The Golden Rule.

In Ancient Greece, Isocrates said, “Do not do to others what would anger you if done to you by others.” Confucius once said, “Never impose on others what you would not choose for your- self.”

In the bible, Jesus tells his followers that “So in every- thing, do to others what you would have them do to you, for this sums up the Law and the Prophets.” (Matt. 7:12).

For years I looked at that verse and I saw it has a guide on how we treat others. To- day, I think it should be flipped on its head.

I can’t treat other people well if I don’t like myself. I’m supposed to do to “them” like I would have them do to “me.” How I want to be treated is important. If I don’t feel like I’m worthy to be treated well, then I’m probably not going to feel that other people are worthy being treated with love and respect. If I don’t like myself, I probably won’t like others too much either.

Learning to love me has been a challenge at times. In junior high and high school I didn’t always believe that. Why? Because I always found somebody else who was better at me than something.

For many years I had the belief that I would never be the best at any one thing, so I wasn’t as good as I should be at any one thing. Then I realized that I wouldn’t be worth two cents to anybody unless I knew I was just as good as everybody else.

I am worthy of love. I am worthy of success. I am worthy of respect. I am worthy of abundance.

And so are you.

Now, if I can just get that call from People magazine. What are they waiting on?

To read more of Rodney Hays’ humor, check out his blog at www.rodneyhays.com.Follow him on Twitter and become a friend on Facebook.

Mark Off KISS from the Bucket List

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I finally got to see a KISS concert. Oh, and Ozzy Osbourne too.

Well, let’s be honest here, I didn’t actually see the real KISS and Ozzy in concert — they were tribute bands — but it was almost as good for this old Oklahoma boy.

The tribute bands were called Blizzard of Oz and Destroyer and that played last weekend at the House of Blues in Dallas. I went because I thought it would be a hoot and because I’ve never been to the House of Blues and I heard they served alcohol.

KISS, for those of you who may not know, is a band that started in 1973 by Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley. The two were joined by Peter Criss and Ace Frehley. Criss played the drums, Frehley was the lead guitar, while Stanley played guitar and provided most of the vocals. Simmons was the bass player and by far the weirdest dude in the band and, perhaps, on the planet.

The band did something that very few bands were doing at the time: they wore make-up and crazy costumes — including Simmons’ thigh-high boots that looked like dragons — during all their concerts and live appearances. Their gimmick was make-up, theatrical tricks and some pretty good music.

Simmons was quite a sight to behold back in the 1970s and 1980s. He was known to spit blood, shoot fire from his mouth and look like a nut. While the group Destroyer did a great job matching the make-up and sounds of the original KISS, I couldn’t help thinking about how the fake Gene Simmons joined the band. Was it possibly through an advertisement on Craigslist?

Wanted: Bass player for local tribute band. Must have hair long enough to be tied up in a pony tail on top. Make-up application skills preferable but not required. Must be able to fit into a pair of thigh-high dragon boots, size 12. Must be able to lick whipped cream off your own Adam’s apple. The ability and willingness to hold large amounts of blood in your mouth for several minutes during a live performance. Flexible schedule and Mondays off. Paid holidays and a competitive benefits plan is offered to the right candidate. Some experience required.

Whatever they did, they got the right group of guys together. You could tell they worked pretty hard to look and sound like KISS.

I wasn’t a big KISS fan when I was a kid. I grew up in the 1970s and KISS was on my radar but I didn’t really pay attention. My friend Todd and his brother Randy were KISS aficionados and tried to get me to appreciate the greatness of the band. I couldn’t do it.

Truth be told, I was little afraid of KISS. Rumors were flying that the members of the band worshipped the one who shall remain nameless (Editor’s Note: Satan). The letters in KISS supposedly stood for Knights In Satan’s Service. The logo also looked like the SS letters from Nazi Germany (which would have been weird since Gene Simmons is Jewish). They were a lot of bad vibes given out by this band.

I couldn’t be a part of something like that when I was a kid. Oh yeah, when “I Wanna Rock N Roll All Night” or “Beth” or “I Was Made for Loving You” came on the radio, I sang along just like all my friends. But I tried to deny that it was KISS singing the songs. It was just another cool band from the 1970s like The Bee Gees, or Supertramp or David Gates and Bread.

But the other night I couldn’t deny it. That was KISS singing those great tunes (well, not actual KISS, it was Destroyer, but still). Those were KISS songs. And the whole audience was singing along just like Gene and Paul and Peter and Ace were up there singing and playing away.

I have to say that I’ve grown a little bit since I was a youngster. I have a little bit more of an open mind to some stuff.

When I was a kid the concept of KISS scared the heck out of me. If I listened to them too long, surely I would be shuttled off to the hot place where the Devil lives, I thought. I couldn’t take that chance, so I stuck with Chicago, and Neil Sedaka and Frankie Valley and the Four Seasons. These were wholesome acts that every family could be proud of.

In the years since, I have learned that a lot of what bands do are just for show. Strip off all the make-up and the boots and the leather outfits and the long hair and they are just like you and me except they are talented and go home with get paid millions of dollars. Take away all the theatrics and you are left with a band that likes to play music and entertain people. There’s nothing wrong with that.

Sometimes I think things we don’t understand just make us want to write it all off and it doesn’t have to be that way.

Maybe we could all learn from the great philosopher Ozzy Osbourne and his ballad, “Crazy Train”:

“Crazy, but thats how it goes

Millions of people living as foes

Maybe its not to late

To learn how to love

And forget how to hate”

There still a few things that freak me out about KISS. I’m not a huge fan of blood so I could have done without the spitting of water with red food coloring. But if you close your eyes and just listen to the music, you might just enjoy the band. I know I did.

I like KISS and Ozzy — and their tribute bands — just as much as I enjoy George Strait, Conway Twitty and Alan Jackson. They are almost as good as Journey and Foreigner and 38 Special.

But, of course, they will never replace icons like Michael Jackson, Elvis and the Pet Shop Boys.

To read more of Rodney Hays’ humor, check out his blog at www.rodneyhays.com.Follow him on Twitter and become a friend on Facebook.

Get Off That Merry-Go-Round

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As fall approaches, one of the things I look forward to every year is the state fair. To be honest I don’t go to the fair very much — mostly out of fear of being shot or accosted in some way in downtown Dallas — but I went last year and I’m sure I’ll go again this year.

One of my favorite things to do is to walk down the midway, watch the people and eat a funnel cake. I love funnel cakes.

I have to admit, the food of the midway has gotten a little out of hand over the past decade or so. Now, it seems every vendor has to get a little more creative than the next by frying something different. At last year’s fair, I sampled deep-fat fried Snickers bars (it was okay), deep-fat fried Twinkies (this should never happen to America’s favorite treat) and deep-fat fried fat (it was delicious).

I used to love riding all the rides on the midway, but that was when I was much younger, more agile, and didn’t care that it costs $75 to ride one ride.

I say I used to like to ride “every” ride, but I guess that’s not exactly true. Even when I was much younger, I never did like to ride the rides that take you round and round and round.

My first experience on a round-and-round ride was when I was probably 5 or 6 years old. My aunt and uncle came over and we all went to the Oklahoma State Fair in Oklahoma City. We were having a great time, eating hot dogs and fat (that was before anyone thought to deep-fat fry fat). We were stuffed to the rim with food and fun.

It was about that time we all decided to ride The Avalanche.

The Avalanche is one of those rides where two people fit in a car on a small track that goes round-and-round while going up-and-down a hill. There is usually loud music involved of the rock n roll variety. I believe it was 1971, so the music was probably Led Zepplin’s “Stairway to Heaven,” “Aqualung” by Jethro Tull or “Baby I’m-a Want You” by Bread. Now that I think about it, it was probably the Zepplin song, but I could be wrong.

We got on the ride and laughed and joked until the fun commenced. The ride jerked to a start and we all held our hands in the air and laughed an evil laugh.

“Hold your hands up,” I shouted to nobody in particular. “This is probably the most fun I’ve had in my life.”

It probably wasn’t the most fun I’d had up until that point, but what did I know. The ride was probably going for two minutes when it started to slow. Our laughs slowed down as well to a slow giggle. I started reaching for my belt to get out of the car.

Then it happened.

“Now we’re gonna go backwards,” the cracked-out carnival worker from behind the glass shouted into the microphone.

“Yeah, let’s go backwards,” Uncle Art shouted.

“No,” I said. “I’m ready to get off. Enough fun already.”

For the next two minutes, the cars went backwards around the track, forcing our heads down and to the left.

“Are you still having fun,” my Uncle Art shouted over Zepplin.

“I’m about to throw up,” I said.

I spent 30 minutes after the ride with my head between my knees, trying not to throw up deep-fried bile. I was mad at my Uncle for wanting the ride to go backwards. My Aunt Jo cheered me up a little when she said, “don’t worry. Your uncle was a little green under the gills too.”

Green under the gills? That was the first time I ever heard that phrase. It was strange, but I understood what it meant. I think.

Sometimes life is like that.

We get up that merry-go-round of life with all the loud calliope music and the plastic, colorful horses made to look like they are at full gallop. It’s enticing to get up there on those horses and ride and try to grab that golden ring each time it comes around.

The problem is the merry-go-round doesn’t go anywhere. The plastic steeds are just that: fake. They don’t gallop. They don’t stretch their legs as they deliver their rider to greener pastures. The golden ring is always just out of reach. The calliope music drowns out any conversation with our self and others.

Rides that go round and round and round tend to only give us motion sickness: It makes us just a little “green under the gills,” as Aunt Jo might say. 

That’s the way I felt a couple of years ago as I tried to get back control of my life and shut the ride off for a little bit. I was on the merry-go-round and it would not stop.

It was all fun and games at first. Then the sparkle of the ride wears off because the scenery never changes and we want off. But it just keeps going round and round.

My life was confined to a small space in a 360-degree circle.

The problem is with this ride, there’s no cracked-out carnival worker to stop this ride. I had to make the decision to stop the merry-go-round and get off. I wanted to explore the other parts of the midway of life. I wanted to meet some other people and experience other riches the world has to offer.

So, I grabbed the reins of that plastic horse, yelled stop, and walked right off that crazy ride.

For a while I had to sit with my head between my knees and contemplate what the next step was, while trying to hold down my lunch. But I did it.

I still get on the ride every now and again. Now, I enjoy it for what it is: a temporary distraction. Then I get off the ride, go explore the world. Eat. Drink. Be Merry.

And every now and again, I look for something deep-fried to eat.

To read more of Rodney Hays’ humor, check out his blog at www.rodneyhays.com.Follow him on Twitter and become a friend on Facebook.

Surfing and the way of the world

What is it about the surfing boy image that draws me in like a teenage girl to "Jersey Shore"? I honestly don't know. It could be the water and our nature as humans to go back to the substance that carried us for nine months in the womb. Maybe it's the battle of man vs. nature as we tackle our fears to mount the biggest and best waves. Or maybe it's just living out of the back of your van down by the beach and not having to go to work every day.

Yeah, the last one is probably it.

Last week, I traveled to California. It was my first time on the golden shores of the west coast. I stayed just north of Los Angeles and spent plenty of time exploring and living life.

The very first day I was there, I headed off to see the beaches of Malibu, just a short 20-minute drive. At first I thought I was in the wrong place. Let me say right here,

"Baywatch" is my point of reference for all California beaches. Instead of the warm sunny beaches I had seen on television, I found a 20-degree temperature in the 12 miles to the beach.  actually had to put on a jacket.

But I suffered the cooler temperatures and watched as people grabbed their boards and headed into the chilly, dark blue waters of the Pacific. The looks on their faces said it all as they got lost in concentration in the search for the perfect wave. They were happy. They were passionate. They were fulfilled. And a few were terrified.

As one happy surfer came out of the water, I listened in to a conversation with a fellow surfer.

"I've been out here for four hours," he said. "It was so fun."

The satisfied surfer must have been 50 years old. He was enjoying his communal time with the water and making the most of the day's waves.

One day, while I was trying to get some work done from my remote office on the west coast, I stumbled across an article in the Los Angeles Times about a international surfing competition. The Nike U.S. Open of Surfing was going on in Huntington Beach, Calif. Huntington Beach is known as "Surf City U.S.A." I had to find a way to get to this competition.

So, I got out my trusty map and figured out where Huntington Beach was. It didn't look too far on the map, so I set out on what I figured was probably a 45-minute trip.

I soon realized that a 45-minute trip doesn't exist in Los Angeles. Three blocks in certain areas can take 45 minutes. Three miles could take hours. Thirty miles could take decades or longer. I spoke to one Los Angeleno who had been stuck in traffic since 1969.

"I just want to get off The 405, man," he said to me from the side of the road where his car was sitting, out of gas. "I swear The 405 is going to be the death of me. I just want to see Hendrix."

I didn't have the heart.

I did finally arrive in Huntington Beach with plenty of time to take in the sights and sounds of my first surfing competition. There were surfers from all over the world at this event.
The beach was loaded with kids of all ages. Some kids were just hanging out on the beach waiting for the concert featuring "Putrid Vengeance" and "Surf the Sand" were the main acts set to take the stage that evening. Other older kids, old surfers, were there to cheer the contestants and encourage them by saying things like: "You've got to take this one" and
"Do something" and "Make this one count."

It didn't take me long to figure out I didn't understand the surfing lingo. As I sat and watched the competition, I listened to the announcers trying to figure out if they were speaking English or not.

They were, but their words were not registering on this country boy from Oklahoma's mind.

"That next wave is kind of having a motorboat ripple effect at the base," the expert surfer dude informed the crowd. I also think that "Motorboat Ripple" was the name of one of the bands. "Whoa. There's a quick slash to the inside. He really opened up that section," the announcer continued.

I had no idea what he was talking about. I couldn't even swear there were actual surfers in the water.

Then I saw them and everything else dropped away. It was interesting too, because I have very little perspective as to what makes a good surfer. Then I went to the other side of the pier.

The professional surfers were taking on waves on the south side of the Huntington Beach pier. But on the north side, the rookies, the non-professionals, the kids trying to find certain death, were tackling the same ocean.

On the south side, the professionals were slashing and taming "motorboat ripple effects."
On the north side, the rookies were trying not to run into the pier and each other. Watching the pros go up and down and wave and make it submit to their board inspired me to learn to surf. Watching the rookies try to ride a wave only to make a sudden and ugly dismount made me want to give up my dream and stick to boating.

At the competition a 39-year-old man from Florida, Kelly Slater, took the competition on the men's side. And a 20-year-old Australian named Sally Fitzgibbons outlasted her competition to claim the women's prize.

One of the things I noticed was how the announcers kept mentioning how a hurricane was situated about 1,500 miles away and should make a huge difference in the size of the waves by the weekend. While people in Mexico were battening down the hatches in preparation for Hurricane Eugene, the surfers of California were waxing the boards for the waves
Eugene would bring to California's coasts.

That's another crazy thing about surfers: The biggest thrills they get on the water are in the waves brought on by the worst weather.  "The hurricane swells have arrived," a surfer said to no one in particular on the beach, taking a break from the waves. The hurricane brings misery to some and thrills and excitement to others.

It kind of had me thinking about surfing through this life. The world has enough negative stuff to get in the way. Instead, I want to find thrills and excitement. It's all about the focus.
People are always talking about the worst of our world: the economy, debt, war, famine, drought. But what if I take my focus off those things and put all of my energy in how I am suppose to tackle today? Could I find a way to happiness and joy and fulfillment?

I don't know, maybe. I really don't have time to think about all of that. I'm already late for the "Motorboat Ripple" concert.

Take Some Time To Smell the Sun Block

When my kids were little we use to go on some pretty fun road trips. We still do, but the ones when they were smaller were sometimes more memorable (probably because we didn’t drink adult beverages so we were able to remember it all).

There’s one trip in particular that my kids and my wife won’t let live me down. It went something like this.

We were hankering for the beach, so we loaded up the van and took off for sunny Galveston, Texas.
Unfortunately, on the day we were there, “sunny” Galveston gave way to “cloudy and overcast with a slight chance of rain” Galveston. We decided to not let a little cloudy weather get in the way of a good time on the beach, so we put on our Speedos and headed for the sandy Gulf shore.

Before we were allowed to leave the hotel room, the kids had to goop on a pretty thick coat of 900 SPF sun block. After the block made them good and white to keep them from getting good and red, my wife turned to me and asked if I wanted to put on some sun block.

“No,” I said. “I think it’s cloudy enough that I won’t need any sun block.”

You see, in my belief system, the sun had to actually be shining to cause any kind of sunburn issues. My wife shook her head at me and my belief system and we headed out.

The day was gorgeous. The clouds kept the temperatures bearable but the sand and surf warmed our toes. We were having so much fun that time just sort of slipped away like it will do when your favorite song is on the radio or you forgot to study for a math test. Before long it was getting dark and we were getting hungry.

Once we got back to the room it was time to wash up and get ready.

“Honey,” I said.

“Yes,” she replied.

“Do you think I might have gotten a little sun?” I asked, as I lifted up my shirt.

The next noise I heard was what I can only describe as a collective gasp from my whole family.

“You are the same color as your Speedo,” my wife said.

Now folks, I’m going to give you three guesses on what color of Speedo I was wearing and the first two don’t count.
That was the day my belief system changed on the whole power of the sun thing. Just in case you don’t know, you can still get a sunburn on a cloudy day. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I guess I really wasn’t as red as I was milky white from the giant blister that went from right above my Speedo to just below my hairline along my back side. I was one giant, walking second-degree burn.

My wife turned me over and lathered me up pretty good with that green stuff that comes in the bottle and that’s colder than a can of beer. Each time she would put a big dollop on my back, I almost passed out from the shock of the cold temperature.

I was lucky that day, my friends. I didn’t die, but there were times that night I wished I would have. There was not enough adult beverages in the city of Galveston to help me forget the pain of that burn.
My kids and my wife — especially my wife — won’t let me forget it.

But that’s not where the memories stop.

Sam Houston

On the way back up I-45, I promised the kids they would get to see the giant statue of Sam Houston that sits right on the Interstate in Huntsville, Texas. They were excited because they had just recently learned how Sam Houston led the Texas army during the Texas fight for independence and his valiant efforts against Santa Anna at the Battle of San Jacinto. He later became the president of the Republic of Texas and today has a city named in his honor (Samville, pop. 3,853).

They were all excited to see the giant white statue of Houston, standing with his cane — probably the same one he beat up a U.S. Congressman with in 1832. As we got closer, I told my wife to get the camera ready.

Then we did it.

“Kids there’s Sam Houston,” I said, as I drove by at 85 mph.

“I thought we were gonna stop?” my wife asked.

“No,” I replied. “I just wanted you guys to see it.”

We still have that blurry photo of a giant white “thing” in front of a bunch of blurry green “things” to remember our trip.

I will never live it down.

But it was those times that we remember most. We had a blast. In time, I recovered from my second-degree burns and my son actually let his wife stop and take a picture of old Sam Houston (my daughter still hasn’t seen the statue).

I’ve been talking in recent columns about how I found my life again after years of wondering in disappointment. One of the things I learned during that transformation was to take time out and live in the moment.

That weekend we spent in Galveston was living in the moment. I wasn’t worried about what happened the day before or what would happen the day after — obviously or I would have put on some sun block.

There were times when it was really easy for me to focus on the past or to worry about the future so much that I missed out on the stuff that was happening right then. People call it taking time to stop and smell the roses.

There were bad things that  happened in my past but that didn’t mean it should affect my todays. Those decisions are gone. Nothing I could do about them.

And tomorrow? I believe it was Jesus who said, “Don’t worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself.”

I found it’s always good to pause and see what is going on around me. I need to slow down and enjoy this moment, right now. I don’t want to miss anything. Those are the moments that life is made of.

As the philosopher and theologian Travis Tritt once said, “It’s a great day to be alive / I know the sun’s still shinin’ when I close my eyes / There’s some hard times in the neighborhood / But why can’t every day be just this good?”

Yes, sir, that is the truth.

It’s a great day to be alive. But whether the sun is shinin’ or not when you close your eyes, I would still put on some sun block.

To read more of Rodney Hays’ humor, follow him on Twitter and become a friend on Facebook.