This time of year, I’m reminded, actually flooded, with memories of my growing-up-years-Christmases. Daddy would always set up the mammoth-sized video camera (one big enough to hold an entire VHS tape inside of it) upon its rightful place on a tripod in the corner of the living room, turn it on to record mode, and just let that thing take in whatever came across its path. Oh, the stories that thing could tell. Oh, the America’s funniest home videos competitions those VHS tapes could win. Oh, the embarrassing-etched-forever-in-time-moments that thing has recorded. (Will, am I right? “Getty up, getty up, getty up, let’s gooooo.”) While Dad was setting up the video camera, Mom was always busy baking the southern staples of Christmas “breakfast,” aka cinnamon rolls and probably pigs-in-a-blanket. Somehow, in the midst of all that, one of my parents corralled all five of us kids and convinced us to eat breakfast and watch a parade on tv or something before all the...
a hodge-podge of silliness, sass, and spiritual lessons from my heart to yours