I am beginning to move all my old blog posts from my old Blogger account into my current account, so I thought I would start with the Facebook notes that would eventually turn into my blog.

It’s hard to believe it has been nine years since I woke up in a Neuro ICU bed in Shreveport.

 

This post was originally written on April 12, 2012.

Beginning in April of last year, I began writing a series of Facebook notes entitled “What’s Next?” when I was first diagnosed with a brain tumor, and I continued writing until the day of my surgery.

I should’ve been in bed an hour ago.

I’m worn out: tired from my day and still feeling the affects of putting in 21 hours of overtime last week.

But there’s just something peaceful about watching him on the couch.

In the middle of “Rescue Bots,” I heard it: that sweet little snore.

Most snoring is loud and obnoxious, but there is something about his that I never mind.

The baseball game on ESPN emits a soft glow in the living that gently lights up his face. His chubby cheeks pressed against the couch pillow, and his hand still holding onto the Daisy Duck water bottle he requested after dinner.

I watch him, and I find my mind drifting to a distant future. I want him to stay little forever, but my thoughts wander as I ponder on what he will be like as he continues to grow.

He’s stubborn.

He gets that from his momma.

She got it from her daddy.

He’s a natural leader. He takes over situations, and kids just follow along.

He’s funny.

I take that back.

He’s hilarious.

His wit is quick, and his jokes and comments are well-timed. I’d like to think he gets that from me.

Maybe not, but at least he looks like me. I can always hold onto that one.

I turned the TV off, and the living room is illuminated only by the glow of the porch light. His snoring has gotten louder as he falls deeper into his slumber.

You know that whole “Days go slow, but years go fast” thing?

I never understood it until he came along.

He’s been on this Earth for four and half years, and it seems like yesterday I was holding him and watching the snow fall outside the hospital window. He was a day old, and I was in amazement of the miracle I held close to my chest. I sang him “Black,” my favorite Pearl Jam song, and he snored that little snore.

He’s much taller now: all legs and all boy.

He comes home from school with a pocket full of rocks and new bruises on his legs.

He plays hard, and he loves hard.

I hope that’s another thing he got from me.

I tell him each day that I love him, I am proud of him, and I am thankful to be his dad.

I made him a promise as we walked together down the long hospital hallway for the first time. I promised that there would never be a day of his life when he would wonder if I loved him.

I intend to keep that promise.

I intend to love him hard.

It’s been a challenge. He’s been a challenge. Our personalities do not always line up, but I am learning how to see life through his blue eyes.

I know I should carry him to his bed, but tonight I need to hold him.

He’ll learn about September 11, 2001 years from now in history class.

He won’t know of the terror we felt that day.

He won’t know of the sadness that gripped our hearts like a vice as we learned of the fate of so many Americans.

He won’t know of the nightmares I had in my tiny dorm room.

I will never forget.

I guess that is why I am watching and listening to him sleep tonight; his innocence brings me peace.

In a few moments, I will pick him up off the couch.

His bouncing curls will be matted from the pillow, and he will stir.

He will inquisitively mumble, “Daddy?” in a voice filled with sleep. I will respond, “I have got you, Bud.”

I will always have you, Bud.

3:51 AM

The first chords of “Wake Me Up” by Aloe Blanc rudely cut through the morning silence. I reluctantly move my arm from underneath the warm blanket to clumsily reach for my phone to hit the bright orange snooze button. 

4:00 AM

“Feeling my way through the darkness…”

Aloe’s back again; this time there is no snoozing.

I grab my phone and silence the music once again. There is a curly head on the pillow with the Batman pillowcase next to mine. He crawled into my bed around 1AM with his trusty sidekick Chewbacca in tow. I bought him the stuffed Wookiee on a whim one day when he was home sick after I picked his meds in Walgreens. The two fuzzy brown haired friends have been inseparable ever since. We have even bought an extra one just in case something ever happens to the original Chewy. 

Lying next to him is the most beautiful girl in the world. She was up late reading, as she is most nights after I pass out while watching a show on DVR that I swore I was awake enough to finish. She’s one of the strongest people I know, and she’s the glue which holds out little family together. Thanks to her, I get to do a job I love at a place near and dear to my heart. 

This is my story about that place. 

In the fall of 2013, it became clear to me that it was time for a change of scenery on the job front. Through the friend of a friend, I learned of a job opening at Northwestern State University in Natchitoches. After a few months (which felt like an eternity), I was hired as the Director of Marketing and Promotions on January 1, 2014. 

I could immediately tell from the very first moment I stepped on campus that this place was different. The people were genuinely nice, and they went out of their way to make the “Tech guy” feel at home and welcome. For the first few months of the job, I commuted two hours each way. My coworkers and members of the community were so gracious to open up their homes to me with a warm bed and a spot to crash on those long nights with an early morning wake up call. 

On March 14, we officially became residents of the Natchitoches Historic District. Our little spot on Williams Street was a cozy two bedroom originally built in 1927. With a dock overlooking Cane River Lake and Downtown Natchitoches less than a mile away, we fully immersed ourselves in our new town. Life was chaotic, as most lives in college athletics are, but it was good. I finally was at a place where I felt included and going to work each day was a rewarding experience. I had amazing coworkers and two incredible bosses who valued me and utilized my strengths instead of seeing them as faults. 

On February 23, 2015, my life was forever changed as we welcomed Davis William McDaniel into the world at 4:53 PM in the midst of an icy snow storm falling outside. I don’t scare easily, but I can easily say that I have been truly terrified twice in my lifetime. The first time was when the nurse handed me my minutes-old baby boy and told me that we were going to walk down the hall. The second was looking in my rear view mirror and seeing an three-day-old infant nestled in his car seat and knowing that we had a two hour drive on icy roads in the snow back to our little house on Williams Street. 

So many firsts happened for us during our time as a family of three in Natchitoches and at NSU. I was able to take two full weeks off with no hassle from my bosses. That spoke volumes of their character and their understanding of how family comes before anything else. 

Davis experienced his first basketball game inside of Prather Coliseum.

I held him in my arms for an inning as I did P.A. during his first baseball game at The B-Stro, and he got his first tastes of football inside Turpin Stadium during the 2015 season. 

Life was great for us in Natchitoches.

I absolutely loved my job in athletics, and I felt like I truly belonged somewhere for the first time in three years. The only issue was Amanda still worked in Ruston three days a week, so we would load the car every Monday morning, and she and Davis would be gone until Thursday afternoon. As time passed and developmental milestones started occurring rapidly, my heart would break each Monday morning as I watched that black Escape pull onto Williams Avenue headed for Ruston. I knew that we needed to make a change, but I was ensure what the future might hold. 

It started off with a phone call from an old and dear friend. 

“Hey, there’s a new job posted on our website you might be interested in.”

Communications Coordinator for Undergraduate Recruitment 

A mouthful of a title, but the job at Louisiana Tech, my Alma Mater, was just the sort of thing I was looking for. I had always hoped to leave athletics when Davis started kindergarten. I was so happy in my role at NSU with no complaints whatsoever, but here was an opportunity to not only work at my Alma Mater, but to officially reunite our little family for all seven days of week. I applied for the job, and after several weeks of the process, I was hired. 

Leaving NSU was and is still one of the hardest things I have ever done.

I really feel like we had built something special in the marketing department, and we had some great momentum rolling. But at the end of the day, I had to do what was best for my family. 

On February 12, 2016, life as Bulldog officially began. Two days later, we would move all of our belongings thanks to the assistance of some wonderful friends, family, and a very kind neighbor to our little house on North Pine Street in Choudrant. 

Life was a major adjustment for everyone. We were not used to each other full time, and there were some growing pains. 

But we were together. 

As I adjusted to my new role in a much slower pace environment, I settled into life with a one year old. Thanks to my new schedule, I was able to do pickups from the sitter in the afternoon. During my first adventure with drop-off, I’m still to this day not sure who cried more, me or Davis. 

Fast forward to December 2017…

I felt like I had finally hit my stride in my new role. Our social media numbers and engagement were at an all-time high, and I had a student media team who had the potential to do absolutely great things. 

On December 8, as we were on our way to Arlington to spend a family weekend seeing the Christmas lights at Enchant, I received a call in the Buccee’s parking lot from my new boss asking me if I could swing by her office. She assured me it was no big deal, and that we could talk first thing Monday morning. 

The following Monday at 8:15 AM, I was lead into a conference room where the University legal counsel sat, and I knew immediately something was wrong. I was given a letter a termination and told me services were no longer needed because “the University was undergoing a restructuring process, and it was irresponsible to keep me on board while that process took place.” 

I was absolutely devastated. All I could about was how I left a job I loved dearly, and now exactly two weeks before Christmas, I was unemployed. I took the news hard, but I eventually became a better person because of it. 

Read about my experience here

I was fortunate to begin working part-time for Barnes and Noble in January. Retail life was different from anything o had ever experienced before. Apparently there is a right way and several wrong ways to fold a sweatshirt. Who knew? 

In February, I picked up another part-time job photographing real estate for the Brasher Group. 

In March, I began my third part-time job and began training to become the pit master at Brister’s Smokehouse. 

On my second day at Brister’s, I finished my lunch shift which had started at 6:30 that morning, and I hurriedly drove to Calhoun to photograph a house in the small amount of time before my afternoon shift started at the Bookstore.

My feet hurt, my back hurt, and I was already exhausted.

I said aloud, “Lord, I need Your strength. I’m not sure how I can do this.”

A few minutes later, my phone buzzed with a text that read, “Call me when you can chat.” 

The next few weeks were a whirlwind of prayers, planning, and anticipation. 

One year ago today, on April 2, 2018, I began my new adventure as the Social Media Director at Northwestern State University. 

4:51 AM

“Anthem for the Year 2000” by Silverchair lets me know that I have nine minutes before I need to leave for work.

One day I will get around to writing about that song and its significance in my life, but for now it will continue to serve as my reminder to be great in all that I do. 

My commute starts at 5AM, and it ends about 15 minutes before 7AM.

Most folks think I am crazy, but I actually enjoy the drive.

Each morning I get to see the sun rise and prepare for my day; afternoons allow me to decompress and be a better husband and father when I walk into the door at home. 

28,399.5 miles

That’s what my trip odometer read this morning as I began my drive; I cleared it one year ago.

Not a single one of those miles has ever felt like a burden.

Each day I get to wake up and go to work at a place that values me and all that I do. I remember what it felt like to wake up unemployed, and now every day I get to do a job I truly love at a place near and dear to my heart.

I love NSU.

I love its students, and I cherish the relationships I have developed with all of the students I work with.

I love my coworkers and our administration.

They truly have taught me what a University family is and how it should feel.

This University is special, and I am blessed and thrilled to be a small part of the amazing things which transpire on our campus on a daily basis. 

That’s my NSU story.

I love this place, and I am grateful to all it has given me. 

Fork ‘em, Demons!

 

“I’ve been there; that’s why I’m here.”

– Kenny Chesney

 

Hey there, gym goer. 

It’s me.

I’m not hard to miss.

I’m the fat guy you’ve never seen in here before. 

I’m sorry for disturbing your routine. 

I know it is frustrating for you seeing all these new people in your gym after the start of the year. Feel free to post on Facebook how much you despise going to the gym and how glad you will be once we all stop coming after the fad of resolutions wears off. 

I’m truly am sorry for the inconvenience, but I will be here for a while. 

I don’t really have much of a choice. 

I’m dying. 

My sedentary lifestyle is killing me more quickly than I would like. 

And I’m not ready to die.

I have way too much to live for. 

This morning when I left to come here, I left a beautiful, strong woman who is compassionate and attacks life with a zeal and gusto I could never match. 

I left a little boy with big brown curls and sparkly blue eyes which beam with life when he gets excited. 

My son needs a dad who can play for 15 minutes without needing a break. 

My wife needs a version of me she hasn’t known in 15 years. 

I’m sorry for taking up so much time on your machines. It has been quite some time since I have worked out. I’m just a little rusty. 

It’s OK if you want to laugh and tell all your fit friends about me. I’m sure it is comical watching me. But before you judge too hard, you should know my story. 

I have been an athlete my entire life. My life revolved around the three seasons of baseball, football, and basketball. Scarred up legs and hands will show you that I played hard,  but I suffered from a lack of knowledge. 

No matter how much I worked out, no matter how much I ran, I could not ever lose weight. 

You see I came from a generation who had no idea you couldn’t work off bad food choices. 

Our coaches used phrases like “turn that fat into muscle,” and we ate copious amounts of spaghetti just a few hours before playing football games. 

No one ever told me that leg pressing 1000 pounds will never compensate for a 5000 calorie diet of fast food, candy bars, Little Debbie cakes, and Mountain Dew. 

When I got to college, I tried drinking shakes to replace meals, and I stayed active. I rode the scale rollercoaster and yo-yo dieted for nearly three years. It was during my junior year of college when I finally began learning the science of food and exercise. 

I know I look out of place in your world of pre-workout and supplements, but I literally have a degree in exercise science. 

I know, I know. 

I should be ashamed of how I have let myself and my knowledge go to waste. 

Believe me, I used to be embarrassed. 

Now, I don’t care. 

I can’t care. 

This is my last resort. 

The last ten years of my life have been one failed diet after another, and I have not dared enter a public gym. I was not ready for the gawking and the laughter behind my back, but here I am now. 

You would think a heart attack scare a few years back would have put me on the right track, but that’s not why I’m here. 

I’ve struggled to breathe since October. 

My doctor says I have a paralyzed diaphragm on my right side. I’m not getting near my full lung capacity, and the weight I’m carrying around my abdomen is making it worse. 

But that’s not why I’m here. 

I’m here because of one single conversation I had with my son. 

We were discussing heaven, and we were talking about how Jesus would take us all there one day. 

My three-year-old son looked at me with full sincerity and said, “When Jesus comes back to fly us to heaven, you’re not going to get to go because you’re too heavy. Jesus can’t carry you. He might drop you.” 

I laughed at the time, but inside, it crushed me. 

My little boy really thinks we won’t one day be in heaven together because I’m too fat. 

So here I am. 

I’m not asking for your sympathy or your acceptance; I’m just letting you know that’s why I’m here. 

And that’s why I’ll be back tomorrow.

And the next day. 

And the next. 

I have written this story once.

It seems almost silly to tell it again.

I have a notebook full of drafts; stories I have began to write but could not quite finish.

I should go back to one of those.

Maybe pick up where I left off.

Maybe I should turn one of the one-liners on my ideas page into an actual story you have never heard before.

But for now this is my story.

This is her story.

This our story.

She stood maybe five foot five inches.

But she was a giant: built like an oak.

You have probably heard the phrase “big boned” a countless number of times, but Rubie Lee Jackson’s bones were solid. Even at her most frail, I struggled to lift her frame.

Her wit was sharp and quick, and so was her temper. I knew I was straying over the line with just a look from her dark eyes, and I knew I had crossed it when she said, “Go pick me out a switch.”

Now, young folks probably do not understand the art of switch picking.

Never, ever go for the thin, pliable bushes.

I learned this lesson the hard way. A weeping willow branch will wrap around your bare legs, and it will sting to high heaven.

Never go thin.

Get you a branch.

Heck, pull up a tree trunk if you can.

It may hurt, but it will not sting nearly as bad.

She gave me my share of whippings, and I most likely deserved them all.

But she never held a grudge, and she loved me.

She loved me hard.

When my first pet died (a Beta fish named Deon), she loved me hard.

When my paternal grandmother died suddenly a few months before her 61st birthday, Rubie, despite my screaming and crying, loved me hard.

When I was at my lowest point during basketball season of my senior year in high school, she loved me hard.

We had an incredibly special bond that is hard to put into words.

She once told me, “I don’t like your spiky hair, and I don’t like when you color it. I don’t like your pants with holes in them. And I especially don’t like your earrings. But I love you, and this is my house. If you ever need a place to go, you’re always welcome here no matter what you look like.”

She loved me hard.

When I first started to school at Louisiana Tech in 2001, I could not find a job, so I decided that I would give plasma each week in order to make ends meet. Rubie got wind of my scheme, and she was appalled. She asked me, “How much will you make selling your blood each week?” Back then, the going rate was $40 per week. She said, “If I give you $40 a week, will you promise me that you will never sell your blood?”

I lived on $40 a week for a year, and I still have not sold my blood.

I never will.

She loved me hard.

She was the daughter of a sharecropper. My great-grandfather never had a son, and he treated Rubie like a mule. From all accounts I have been given, he was mean, and he was a drunk. Rubie stood up to him on behalf of her younger sister, and she often bore the brunt of his rage.

She married young, and she had three children with a man named Albert Henry. Albert, too, liked the bottle, and a divorce came soon after the third baby.

I often think about her strength.

How strong must she have been to divorce a man in the 50s while she had three young children?

On August 2, 1953, she married a man who once told me, “I knew from the moment I saw your Maw-Maw, I had to marry her. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.”

Mitchell and Rubie would have three kids together.

Their youngest would bring a baby boy into the world on July 13, 1981, and that is when I guess I officially met my best friend.

I do not remember much about the early years, but I do remember the smell of bacon, the taste of scrambled eggs with a slice of Kraft cheese melted ever so slightly, the feel of a soft quilt on my skin in front of a roaring fire, the sound of a country record on a Saturday morning as she cleaned, and the smell of PineSol after she was done.

Growing up, I never really spent the night at my friends’ house, I spent the night with Maw-Maw and Paw-Paw.

Their house was a safe haven where PBS shows helped mold my mind, and Little Debbie zebra cakes helped ruin my dinner.

Rubie loved her family, and she loved sports.

My cousins would often ask if they could watch TV, and she would tell them no regularly.

I learned how to play the system at a early age.

“Maw-Maw, can we watch the ballgame?”

Never once was I denied.

Football in the fall. She loved Warren Moon and his Oilers. I was a Broncos fan, and she hated John Elway or “El-Ray” as she called him.

Winter was basketball season. We both loved the Celtics and Larry Bird. Larry was considered a member of the family. If she talked about Larry, you just knew who she was referring to.

My parents bought her tickets to see Bird and the Celtics play in Houston in the early 90s. By then Larry’s back was bad, and Rubie’s first bout with cancer had taken a toll on her body, and she could not travel.

She would beat the cancer.

And then it came back again.

She beat it again.

I told you.

She was a strong woman.

The strongest I have ever known.

She worked and raised six kids while Uncle Sam sent my Paw-Paw to Germany and the to fight in Korea and then two tours of duty in the jungles of Vietnam. She helped raise grandkids, and she never lost her fighting spirit or that twinkle in her eye.

It was that twinkle I will never forget as I kissed her goodbye on her forehead on June 12, 2005.

She had beaten the cancer, but her body was not ready for the strokes. Her brain was betraying her, but I could see her mind was still there. I told her I loved her, and she mouthed, “I love you, too.”

Two days later, my mom called.

My Rubie Lee, my Maw-Maw, was gone.

I think about her often.

Every time I see flowers come to life in the spring, I think of her.

Some people were born with a green thumb; Rubie was born with green hands. Her flower beds were magnificent, and her lawn was meticulously mowed and shaped. She grew azaleas along the sidewalk, and roses just to the left before you got to the front porch steps. There were so many gorgeous bushes around the yard, and trees I would guess that are older than our country standing watch over it all.

It was paradise which she took great pride in.

I used to play football by myself on the sidewalk. I made up my own sports league, and each of the flowers and bushes were my fans. Their leafy green adoring hands reaching out to give a high five to their hero, the awkward kid in the Rec Specs with the big imagination.

I practiced my Pete Rose head-first slides in that yard.

Years before, I made mud pies and used sticks for guns.

Spring and summer were special times down Leon Stracener Road.

Those seasons brought baseball on the TV, and crops in the field.

I could hold my own in the watermelon field, but when it came to picking peas, I was an absolute failure.

My one and only time to pick peas came when I was 14. I had just finished eighth grade, and I was in pretty good shape to venture into the pea patch (or so I thought). I was the absolute slowest and worst pea picker to ever grace a South Louisiana field. Maw-Maw stood at the end of my row watching my struggles, and when everyone else had finished picking ALL OF THE OTHER ROWS IN THE FIELD, she quietly came to my rescue. I watched her frail, but knowing hands, shred the pea plants. I knew she grew up picking cotton, and apparently she picked a few peas in her day. When she finished picking my row and filling my bucket, she said, “Now you can get paid.”

I have never felt so unworthy of $4 in my life.

When I was in high school, we had lunch every Sunday at her house. She was often too weak to eat much more than Golden Flake cheesy poofs, but the quality time we had together is something I will forever treasure. It was through these years that she became my confidant, my listening ears, my best friend.

All throughout college, I tried to make it home as many weekends as I could. One of these college visits would give me the best memory I have of my Maw-Maw, and ultimately the reason I wrote my first story of Rubie Jackson back in 2012.

I popped in to her house announced, and I found her lying down in her back bedroom. We visited for a while, and I took my hat off because that is what you did in Maw-Maw’s house. After several minutes, I told her I was going to get a drink, and I would be right back. Before I had a chance to make my way back, I was greeted by the sight of a tiny frail woman and her walker.

She was wearing my Yankees hat and a huge grin.

I was overcome with laughter, and I told her, “Maw-Maw, I could have gotten it later.” To which she replied, “It’s alright. I like the Yankees.”

A month or so later, I graduated from Tech.

She smiled when she saw my diploma, but it was nothing like the grin on the moment shared by just the two of us.

I had the privilege of giving her eulogy at her funeral, and I did so with a brand new Yankees hat on the podium, New Era 5950, size 7 1/4, just like the one she wore that day. Before her casket was closed, I managed to sneak her new Yankees hat inside.

So now if you see me on Sunday, I will be wearing my Yankees hat.

Sundays were our days, so my hat is a small tribute to a woman who wore it better than I ever could. It’s no longer the original 7 1/4. Steroids and my brain tumor pushed my head up two hat sizes, and I’m now in a 7 1/2. It’s dirty, and it shows some stains from the years we have spent together.

I will inevitably catch flack from someone for being a band wagoner or for supporting the Evil Empire, but I am used to the jeers and jabs at this point.

I welcome the question, “Why are you wearing a Yankees hat?!” because I get to share my story of a lady who liked the Yankees and loved her grandson.

She loved him hard.

“I spent one year away trying to change a day, but the past cannot be chosen.” 

–  Shaded Red, “One Year”

Seven years ago, Four Six 3 started as a blog so I could share my life experiences after an MRI showed a tumor on my right auditory nerve at the base of my brain stem. As life went on, I continued to write stories about life, love, and my family.

In 2016, I discovered my love of photography, so in October of that year, I created a Four Six 3 Facebook page and an Instagram account as a means to share my personal photo projects. I never really posted as often as I could have or should have because I was constantly concerned about whether or not my photos were good enough.

A few months later, I began playing around with some print designs.

After receiving a ton of encouragement from my friends and family, I came up with the crazy idea to turn my laundry room into a print shop. Several in-depth conversations with my wife followed; she sees and thinks big picture. We developed a business plan, calculated our expenses, and poured our resources into launching.

On July 14, 2017, Four Six 3 officially opened for business.

The support we received was both amazing and humbling; folks were buying designs that I poured my heart and soul into, and they were hanging them in their homes and offices!

October came, and we were overwhelmed by all the love we received at our Ruston Maker’s Fair Booth.

Then less than two months later, I was laid off from my full-time job, and Four Six 3 became both a blessing and a burden. We had a record number of sales in December, but as a husband and a father, I felt the pressure to sell even more to help provide for my family. Designing was no longer about creativity and fun; it became a chore. I constantly stressed over sales reports, the lack of sales, and what I could design next to boost sales. Four Six 3 was no longer the creative outlet I intended it to be; it was the monster who kept me awake at night.

I did not want to design. I did not want to take photos. I feel into a tremendous rut.

On April 2, I started a new job, and I began to slowly dig myself out of a hole.

I found a new excitement in capturing photos.

I turned one of my favorite prints into a T-shirt.

I still just did not have the creative passion for running Four Six 3 that I had last year.

Then two distinct things happened recently to refresh my thinking.

I watched an interview with photographer Ralph Gibson in which he talked about finding a specific point of departure in your photography. In other words, do not wander aimlessly through life trying to decide what you can take pictures of; have a specific project in mind. The concept had never crossed my mind, but it made so much sense!

The second event was a late night conversation my wife and I had with my three-year-old son. We asked him numerous questions, and when he was asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?,” the answer he gave was strikingly simple and profound at the same moment.

He replied, “Nuffin. I just wanna be me.”

I was stunned.

It was so innocent and so beautiful.

I realized I was trying so hard to do things which pleased other people that I forfeited the thing which made Four Six 3 special in the first place: me.

The next day, I created a print with simple grey lettering which reads, “JUST BE YOU.”

This print will forever serve as my reminder to just be me and to create things I find beautiful.

Throughout the last year of learning and struggling with Four Six 3, I realized why I love photos, prints, and T-shirts so much; I am helping others share their stories through my work.

If you wear one of our Exit 84 or Natty shirts, you are telling the world of your town.

When you hang one of our prints on your wall, you’re telling the world of your allegiances.

So from the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your incredible support over the last year. Thank you for allowing a piece of me to live in your homes with you. My family and I are forever grateful to you. I have some new ideas for future prints and T-shirts that I hope you will like, and I have started a new photo project I have finally given the name, “Everywhere, A Sign.”

I am excited to once again share with my work with you.

Here’s to one year of Four Six 3 (the print shop), and to seven years of this blog. 

3:51 AM

It is a time when most are still sleeping comfortably in their beds.

Sensible folks with families have been in bed since 10, and they will not wake for at least another hour or so.

Even the late night rousers have called it quits after a night of revelry and Waffle House.

But here I am, awakened to the insistent vibration of my trusty iPhone 6 plus among the faint strums of guitar as Aloe Blacc’s “Wake Me Up” plays.

“Wake me up indeed” I think to myself.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes, and I fumble to turn on the flashlight app on my phone to its lowest setting as not to disturb my wife and my son, who at some point during the night, made his way to the middle of my bed with his trusty companion Chewbacca in tow.

I stumble through the garage and into our laundry room where our “guest” bathroom is housed.

Other than myself, I am not sure any of my family has ever showered inside the bright avocado green tile room, and we certainly do not allow guests to venture outside. Which I often think is a shame because no one but me gets to ever experience and admire the spectacular and colorful Sgt. Pepper’s themed shower curtain I chose for the room.

My day then officially begins as I open up Tweetbot to check any mentions or replies I may have missed in my six hours of slumber. After the twitter machine, it is on to Instagram.

Did we gain any followers overnight?

How many total likes is that most recent photo at now?

Why did someone like a photo from a week ago?

From Instagram I navigate to Facebook to check messages and notifications. At this point, I feel confident the realm of social media can wait for another hour or so as I open my Bible app. Some mornings, I just read wherever I left off, some mornings I read a devotion plan and the attached scriptures, and I read the verse of the day. It never ceases to amaze me how God can use a “randomly” chosen verse each day to speak directly to my heart and my life’s situation.

4:30 AM

My phone begins to once again buzz.

Time to put the phone down and get in the shower.

I am terrible at keeping track of time so early in the morning, so I use alarms to keep myself on track. I got the idea from one of those parent blogs. The suggested it for getting your kids to do things like brush their teeth, comb their hair, eat their breakfast, and so on in a timely fashion. I often wonder if it actually works for parents, but it has proven to be quite effective in keeping this big kid on track.

4:50 AM

There is no way that alarm should be going off.

I could not have really been in the shower for that long.

Do I have to get out?

This water is really warm.

I begrudgingly dry off and get my clothes from the dryer which is conveniently located five feet from my bathroom. On good mornings, I dress in the laundry room. On not-as-good mornings when my balance is suspect, I gather my clothes, once again turn on my flashlight app, and make my way into my son’s room to put on my day’s attire.

After I dress, I carefully choose Davis’ clothes and shoes for the day. I take them to the bathroom where in several hours, he will unwillingly put them on. A last minute check in the mirror ensures my shirt isn’t too wrinkled, and a quick application of beard balm ensures my beard is not too Grizzly Adams-esque throughout the day.

Now, it is on to lunch and breakfast.

Oh, and snacks.

I dare not forget the snacks.

Once a lunch is boxed up, a breakfast is prepped, a milk cup and a juice are filled, and a snack bag is replenished, my work here is complete.

I gather my necessities of the day.

Koozie in back left pocket, check.

Handkerchief in back right pocket, check.

Keys, wallet, and pocket knife in left front pocket, check.

Phone in right front pocket, check.

5:21 AM

The sounds of Silverchair’s “Anthem for the Year 2000” begin to play as my pocket vibrates.

It is time to go to work.

As a grab my trusty backpack and my favorite NSU baseball hat, I shuffle off to the bedroom to whisper, “Bye, Amanda. I love you.”

Sometimes my sentiment is met with, “I love you, too. Have a good day. I’ll see you this afternoon.”

Other times it is met with a startled breath or a mumble.

I make my way to the car, unload my gear for the day, plug my phone into the charger, and begin my one hour and 41 minute trek to my office.

I have learned to appreciate Audible and iBooks more so than I ever have before.

This time before dawn is my time to engage and my time to learn. It was an audiobook which actually inspired me to type out these thoughts. I feel as if I may have gotten off course a bit with the description of my morning routine, but alas, here we are now at the crux of this writing.

6:15 AM

The sun is beginning to break over the horizon, and I am listening to John Eldredge narrate the book he also penned entitled “Fathered by God.”

Eldredge is one my favorite authors, and his audiobooks are my companions of choice nearly every morning as my black 2010 Ford Escape and I roll down Highway 167.

In this book, he ventures into the stages of which all men go through in life. It’s an excellent read (or listen), and I would highly recommend it to anyone who is a man or wants to better understand men.

In the particular chapter which struck me, the author describes his beautiful places: the places which are glorious and touch his soul.

As he wistfully described mountains with beautiful meadows, canyons with a multitude of rock colors, and other outdoor creations, my eyes began to water, and tears started streaming down my face. I said, “Lord, I am not an outdoors person. I will never climb a mountain. There is no joy in that experience for me. Will I ever find my beautiful place?”

Immediately I felt as if Jesus was riding shotgun with me, and I heard him say, “You know that feeling you got the first time you walked up the ramp at the Astrodome and saw the diamond for the first time? You still get that feeling every time you see a baseball field, don’t you?”

I was stunned.

He continued on, “You know the smell of an old gym? The sound of a bouncing ball? How do those make you feel?”

I now began to see where He was going with this.

“How about when you pass by the football field where you grew up? How does being back there make you feel? These are your beautiful places. You don’t have to be like anyone else. I am there.”

Wow.

My tears of sadness quickly turned to tears of joy.

It was in that moment I realized how Jesus truly does meet me where I am. He has no interest in me being someone other than myself, and He wants me to tell my own story, sing my own song, and claim my own beautiful places.

2:56 AM

That is what time I woke up today after a series of dreams involving my beautiful places. I wanted to go back to sleep, but I felt Jesus’ calling. “Write your story down. Share your heart. Help others discover their own beautiful places.”

4:27 AM

So here we are, and I guess I am supposed to ask you, my dear reader, what are your beautiful places?

Where are those places where you feel and see God all around?

You might be surprised as you look into your heart.

I know I was when Jesus revealed mine to me.

Once you’ve discovered them, go there, be there, get away, and let God wash over you and refresh you in every way possible.

Just be still, and experience Him and His beauty.

I will never again take for granted the stirring in my soul I feel when I see a baseball diamond shining brightly in the sunlight, because Jesus confirmed to me what I already knew…

There is something about the outside of a ballpark that is good for the inside of a man’s soul.

In June of 2017, my grandfather, James McDaniel, passed away, and I had the distinct honor and privilege of speaking at his funeral.

 

“They don’t make them like they used to,’ you always used to say. That’s why everything you’ve ever built is still standing here today.”

These are the first words of a song entitled “They Don’t Make Em Like They Used To.” by singer/songwriter Will Hoge. The first time I heard those words, I immediately thought of James Howard McDaniel. Jesus called Big Jim home last Wednesday. Paw–Paw, of course, screened the call and made Jesus leave a message on the answering machine before he picked up. 

My Paw–Paw was truly one of a kind; his routines and his unique quirks set him apart from everyone else on this planet: the way he talked when he said, “Hey!” to anyone… the way his eyes sparkled every time he laughed… the way he watched multiple televisions with the volume turned down so low you couldn’t really hear anything… 

A few weeks ago, I made toast for my son Davis one morning, and not wanting to get the counter dirty, I laid a paper towel down on the counter for the toast. After I packed Davis’ toast in his bag, I looked back at the counter, and I had to stop and laugh as I realized how I have picked up on more of Paw–Paw‘s quirks than I may care to admit. 

“Leather skin, tough as nails, promises never failed, solid as the gospel truth… They don’t make ’em like they used to.”

Big Jim was loved by his family, his friends, his coworkers, and his community, and I believe that’s due in part to the fact that he was one of the most genuine people I have ever known. If he didn’t like something you did, he pulled no punches, and he told you exactly how he felt. I believe the only filter Paw–Paw ever used was on his coffee pot, because everyone knows the man just said exactly what he was thinking. Sometimes I would internally cringe, but looking back now, I just smile because that’s who he was. He was the same man on Sunday morning and Saturday night. 

“Story after story of all your faded glory is all I ever hope to live up to. Know as I get older, I’m standing on your shoulders trying to be just like you. But they don’t make ’em like they used to”

This past May, Paw–Paw turned 84 years old. I knew that our time with him was quickly fading, and the only regret I had in my relationship with him is that I had never told Paw–Paw exactly how I felt about him. The morning of his birthday, I sat down and wrote a letter to him. It was the absolute hardest thing I have ever written. I wasn’t sure how I could ever summarize 36 years into a few paragraphs, but I did my best, and I would like to share that letter with you today. 

A blog post from two years ago came across my Facebook memories three days ago, and as I reread the words I had written, I said, “Lord, we’ve seen so much hurt: so much loss. I hope these words aren’t poignant again for a long time.” But I know that my God is sovereign, and He has a plan I will never understand. Today, my community has once again lost one of its own, so I offer these words up once more. I know there is no magical power in them, but this is my heart poured out into words.

“Home” (February 4, 2016)

I usually start my blog posts with a lyrical quote, but today, a song escapes me. 

My hometown is hurting.

My heart is heavy. 

God called another Trojan home. 

I was fortunate enough to grow up in small, close-knit area where everyone knew your name, they knew your parents, and they still recall stories from when you played ball back in high school. It is the kind of place where the faces change, but the last names never do.

It is home. 

It will always be home. 

It is more than a dot on map. It is more than a caution light and a couple of gas stations. It is a community that loves without questioning and gives without expectations. 

My community is hurting. 

Their hearts are heavy. 

God called another Trojan home. 

My small town has seen way too many of her sons and daughters called home at an early age. We have suffered loss. We have grieved, but we press on. We hold each other, we cry, and we give each other the strength to carry on. 

I know God has a plan, and His plan is perfect. We may not understand, but we trust in Him. We cling to His hope, we cling to His promises, we cling to the old rugged cross. 

We are hurting. 

Our hearts are heavy. 

God called another Trojan home. 

I am extremely proud to be a small town kid. Those roots run deep down in my soul. Throughout my life, I have often been given grief about my love and spirit for my high school alma mater. I usually just shrug it off because the naysayers do not understand. Truth be told, the lack of understanding is completely fair. It is fair because even I have a difficult time explaining how truly special of a place East Beauregard and its community really are. 

It is a spirit. It is a love. It is a bond. 

I am proud to be a Trojan. Columbia blue and red links generations together in a manner that cannot be broken. 

My Trojan family is hurting. 

Trojan hearts are hurting. 

God called another Trojan home. 

“You were at the altar: preacher’s hand upon my head. You were in the water when I came up clean instead. You’re still in my story when my tears fall on the dirt. You’re there in the morning wrapping grace around what hurts.”

I believe it is in our DNA.

We want to feel as if we are worth something to other people. We push ourselves to be better, and we hope someone notices our trouble along the way. And when we hear we are not good enough, our world crumbles.

On Monday, December 11, my world crumbled. I guess that is not a fair assessment of the situation; it was far less of a crumble, and more so that of a fiery crash.

I was laid off from a job I truly loved at a place which I truly considered to be my home.

Terminated without cause was the verbiage used on the letter I was given. There it was literally in black and white, a future I once thought was bright, snuffed out with a single piece of paper.

I was stunned… shocked… blindsided…

So many thoughts ran through my head. I needed answers, but none were given. I wanted to be angry, but the disbelief in my mind clouded any rage that might come to the surface. I wanted to cry, but no tears formed.

I was told that the University needed to do some restructuring, and that it was irresponsible to pay me to do my job while they figured out what the restructuring would look like.

So, after nearly two years, that was it.

With Amanda’s help, I cleaned out my office and turned my keys in before noon. Both of our cars loaded with memories, with souvenirs of better times, we drove away. As I pulled out of the Wyly Tower parking lot for the last time, I wanted to feel something. I wanted to feel anything. But when I reached down, there was nothing: just a void, an emptiness.

For the next several days, I was reeling.

I felt lost.

I had invested so much of my life into my job.

It was my identity.

It was who I was.

It was part of me.

And then it was completely ripped away from me without any warning.

I was broken.

At the most literal sense, I was broken.

And I had no idea how to go about picking up the pieces.

The timing of my termination did not help matters…

I was let go exactly two weeks before Christmas Day.

I struggled to find a balance of dealing with my emotions, all while being the husband and dad my family deserved and needed.

I wish I could I could say I pulled it off flawlessly, but I did not.

I was cranky. I was irritable. I was angry.

I wanted to believe everything would be OK. I knew that it would. I tried to stand on those promises, but doubt and feelings of worthlessness continued to knock on my heart’s door. I prayed, “Lord, I believe. Please help me with my disbelief.” I knew that God is sovereign, but I just needed to hear from Him. I just needed to hear that I wasn’t worthless. I needed to know that I was treasured. I needed to see my value.

On Christmas Eve, we opened our family presents, and the joy in my little boy’s eyes were a welcome distraction the war raging inside my head and heart. We attended our regular church service that morning, and I just so desperately wanted to hear from God. I just needed to know that He was there.

Through a Christmas song, God spoke to me…

“Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices

For yonder breaks a new glorious morn”

I have listened to “O Holy Night” a countless number of times, but for the first time in my life I heard those three lines like I had never heard them before.

His appearance…

His life…

His death…

That is where my worth comes from.

I am His, and no one can take that away from me. My identification is not found in a job title. It is found in the blood of Jesus Christ.

My weary soul has a hope, and each day is a new day to glorify Him no matter my situation in life.

I can face tomorrow because He lives.

I honestly do not know what the future holds for me and my family. I have sent my résumé and application in to several different job opportunities, and I completely trust that God has the perfect place for me somewhere: a place where I will be valued, a place where my strengths will be utilized, a place where family is a tangible ideal.

I will miss my job in communications. I loved telling the story of my Alma Mater to the world, and I treasure the memories I made while sharing that story. My greatest hope is that I had an impact on at least one student. At the end of the day, that is all that matters; that is how true success will be defined.

Emerson said it best, “What is success? To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate the beauty; to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch Or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded!”