Picking on Pigs Has Gone Far Enough

If you ask me, pigs get picked on too much. “Let’s have a Pig Pickin’,” people say when they’re hungry and want to congregate with other people in a social setting. After a pig is picked out, he is laid out for everyone to pick through and pick over. And somebody stuffs an apple in his mouth to humiliate and pick on the poor fella even more. When it’s done he’s been picked to pieces. Other people sell Boston Butts when they want to raise money. And the poor pig is usually the victim in that instance as well. Despite the Butt, the meat doesn’t come from his hind quarters. Says the pig, “If I’m sacrificing my future in this deal, at least get your facts straight.” No respect. We pick on pigs when we utter ridiculous statements like, “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.” True enough, but why not substitute a donkey’s ear or some other barnyard animal. Nope, it’s almost always the pig bearing the brunt of the insults. Humans get mad at other humans sometimes when they think they’re being lied to and they holler out, “Hogwash!” or “Baloney!” Poor pig. It’s bad enough he’s sacrificed for bacon, sausage, ham, etc.- now he’s a replacement curse word as well. Insensitive humans describe other humans they deem as obese or lazy using words that involve hogs while other moronic types refer to our fine officers of the law as pigs, and it’s not a compliment. Pork is a bad word in politics that keeps representatives from getting reelected (or at least it should) and people who take up too much of the street when driving are called Road Hogs. The poor pig has a dreaded disease named after him. Swine flu made a comeback a few years ago and everybody had to get shots again like they did in the 70s. Kids who don’t keep their rooms picked up hear things from their mother like, “You’re worse than a pig” or the dreaded, “This place is a pig sty.” I never knew growing up what a sty was but I suspected it was untidy. I encountered a pig recently at a local high school football game. While heading to my parked car after the game, I glanced to my left and a few feet from a containment fence, amongst several goats, lay an enormous pig. “She’s pregnant,” said one of the teens in our group who attends the school. I stopped and stared at the Mom-to-be and for a few brief moments, our eyes met. And for the first time in my life, I truly felt sorry for a pig. It was bad enough that a pregnant pig mom had to endure the loud and obnoxious sounds of the crowd cheering, the band playing, and the lights glaring- but now most every human exiting the premises would be passing by and hurling an insult or two her direction. “It could be worse,” said one of the baby goats as I stared, “She could be one of us.” Knowing the chap had a valid point considering what we call people who end up on the opposite end of the heroes in games, I whispered to the goat, “Hang in there, kid.”

Dancing and Texting in the Rain

Fortunately for him, my coach friend who was sitting with me at the football game had vacated his seat for a few moments when I broke bad that night. Had he been there at the time, I suspect I would be attending sports contests by my lonesome self in the future. I still feel my behavior during his absence was justified- considering the moment. And as you may know by now, I enjoy living in the moment. The team I was rootin’ for had just scored the game-clinching touchdown and the band had fired up a rendition of Cheeseburger in Paradise- or was it We Didn’t Start the Fire. Either way, my side of the stadium was pumping. I didn’t personally know the lady next to me but I assumed some of my female church friends sitting in front of me did. Turns out they didn’t know her either but I would have never known based on the way they all laughed and carried on together during the game. At one point when it started to drizzle, I poked my head under my neighbor’s umbrella and told her I was coming in. “Either that,” I said, “or I keep letting it drip off the side right onto my head.” She obliged. Just after the clinching touchdown, my neighbor frantically began texting on her cellphone. And when the band cranked up, she continued texting and started dancing. Both things at once. In rhythm. Despite an excellent game, it was the most impressive feat I witnessed that night. Caught up in the moment, I joined in. The fact that my neighbor was black and I am white was irrelevant except that I risked my performance dulling in comparison to hers based on the whole “white men can’t dance” assumption. To increase my odds, I cheated by faking the texting thing with my blackberry and just pushed a bunch of random buttons while I danced. Being the local college baseball coach, the father of three boys, and a deacon in my church, you might think I would have considered my actions carefully and carried myself with more dignity. Not on that night. The moment was too powerful. And I felt I held my own pretty well. My neighbor and her companions seemed to enjoy the company and my church friends were laughing, though it may have been AT me instead of WITH me. I think people ought to dance more, anyway, even if they’re bad at it. Life is to be celebrated, not calculated. And I think people ought to speak to strangers sitting next to them more often, too. Even if their skin colors don’t match. But most of all, I think people deserve to laugh, either at me or with me. When my coach friend returned to his seat a few minutes later, I played off the whole dancing incident and quickly began discussing the game. Relieved to realize he hadn’t witnessed my escapades, I made some remark about us catching the next game if he wasn’t busy. So I’m hoping between now and the next game, nobody fills him in on just how much “in the moment” I became that night. Some people might be embarrassed to have danced while texting in the rain. But this coach/father/deacon is proud. (And would do it again).

Cancer Victim Wasn't Resentful of Her Plight

It’s not fair. I’ve heard that said over and over during my lifetime. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to figure out fair and unfair. Why and why not. Such is the case with the recent passing of my dear little friend Carey Heavner. She was eleven and spent the last year or so of her life fighting the cancer that ultimately robbed us of her presence. I visited Carey at her home last fall with some of my baseball players from Gardner-Webb. We played Wii bowling and Wii Golf. Carey was shy due to all the older boy attention but eventually she giggled a few times and agreed to some pictures during our visit. Carey and I texted each other occasionally. She asked me about the team and I asked her how she was doing. She always had the rosiest attitude. I mustered the courage to tell her I loved her in one text and she replied with the same sentiment. Carey said to her mom recently, “I guess God is taking me to be with him because he needs another angel.” I’m jealous. Jealous because the citizens of Heaven are enjoying their newest addition and we here on earth are not. Jealous because a small child walked and talked with Jesus in her dreams the last few nights she was alive and my dreams dull in comparison. I read Carey’s update on the Caring Bridge website almost every day. It seemed she was handling this whole thing a lot better than I was. She was eager to see her Jesus. She wasn’t bitter or resentful. She didn’t care about fair or unfair, why or why not. She was at peace. And so I decided that I would be, too. This child’s courage in the face of death vaulted her to the top of my list of heroes in my life. God critics say it’s not fair that God gets the glory when good things happen and when bad things happen. He wins either way. Triumph or disaster, praise God. Success or failure, praise God. Life or death, praise God. No matter what happens, praise God. It’s a win-win for God and it defies human logic. In the same way, it defies human logic that I have messed up too many times to count in my life and I’ve been allowed to hang around for forty-six years and this precious little angel suffered the pain of cancer and died at age eleven. I don’t have all the answers but I know this much. You can’t count on logic or human views on fairness or justice when it comes to God. He’s much bigger than that. And faith is illogical because it trusts God to provide ultimate justice that only He can understand. So that’s the point I’m at now. I trust that God knew exactly what He was doing when He called Carey home. And though I don’t understand it, that’s good enough for me. I’ve chosen not to let my heart be broken because Carey’s heart wasn’t broken. She hosted a blessed and joyous heart that inspired us for a short time then moved on to its eternal reward. I can imagine the scene now. Carey has met up with her Jesus and they are enjoying carnival rides together. And He’s reminding her to stop pinching herself because she’s not dreaming anymore. It’s for real and her joy ride will never end.

Not Giving in to My Phobias

I am a 46-year-old male and, in my mind at least, as macho as the next guy. But I’ll admit there are things I fear. Thanatophobia- the fear of death- is not among them. Okay, maybe I’m a little antsy about kicking the bucket and buying the farm but I’m not petrified because my intentions are to be transported due north wearing a white robe of some sort if things go as planned. I am, however, not immune to fear. I’ll be up front and let you know right away that I’m gonna leave you hanging at the end of this column. But I will address one of my fears this week and trust that you’ll respect my transparency. I’m afraid of throwing up. Some people stick their fingers down their throat and let ‘er rip every time they get a little queasy and immediately they feel better. No big deal. For me, I’d rather be miserable for 52 straight hours than vomit. I can’t explain it but a quick search on the internet let me know I wasn’t alone. Apparently I suffer from an extremely mild case of emetophobia. Yes, it’s a real phobia and I’m not ashamed of it. I have brethren and sistren out there whose cases are a lot worse. I date it all back to an ugly incident in high school when I threw up in the courtyard outside the cafeteria in front of the entire junior class and a few seniors. I had won the milk drinking contest a few minutes earlier but had to forfeit the victory when the blowing of chow incident occurred, which was prohibited under the previously determined masculine rules of said contest. Everybody looked and everybody laughed. And to make it worse, I had chosen to drink chocolate milk. Uggggh. Flash forward thirty years to this summer and I’m taking two of my sons to Carowinds theme park for the day. We decided to get season tickets so it was supposed to be the first of many trips. On the morning of our first visit, I ate a piece of toast and drank water. I took 1.5 Dramamine pills and carried along Ibuprofen and Tums as backup. I was fine on the first few rides but the one where they insist on flipping and twisting my body got to me. Especially when halfway through, the coaster stopped and did it again backwards, banging my delicate head against the headrest in the process. I did not toss my cookies, but I felt like a cat who had gone through the tumble cycle in the dryer. And due to my emetophobia and the throbbing between my ears, I sat out the rest of the day as the boys rode the Intimidator thirteen straight times. And to add insult to injury, I hadn’t taken the less drowsy formula Dramamine so I plopped on a park bench next to somebody’s grandmother and fought sleep, nausea, and embarrassment for three hours. Undeterred, I would later return to Carowinds. Six more times to be exact. How’s that for conquering your fears. Eventually I would conquer a fear of mine even greater than upchucking. And in doing so, I would cross off another item on my personal “To do before I die” (Bucket List). Fear not, I’ll fill you in next week. (Skip to next week)--------------------------------------------------------------- When I left you last week, I was about to conquer one of my greatest fears. If you remember, I had somehow avoided throwing up after getting light-headed on some of the flipping and twisting rides at Carowinds. But emetophobia (the fear of vomiting) is not the greatest fear I face at an amusement park. I am particularly unfond of heights. (I realize unfond is not a word but I was due for a made up word so that’s what I’m going with). Acrophobia, it’s called. But other than the throwing up thing, I tend to seek out ways to conquer my fears instead of running from them. Therefore, on each of my seven trips to Carowinds this summer, the first ride the boys and I ran to every single time was the Drop Tower. Strapped into a seat, transported upward to a height of 160 feet, and dropped at 56 miles per hour. The boys and I must have ridden the Drop Tower at least fifty times this summer. And it scared me less and less every time. At one point, on a particularly uncrowded day, I snuck over to the Drop Tower while the boys rode the Hurler over and over. (Recall that I avoid rides that make you throw up so I wasn’t about to ride one named the Hurler). I rode the Drop Tower three times in a row by myself. Literally. There was nobody else on the entire ride and nobody in line. So the three high school-aged attendants watched as a 46-year-old man ascended and descended over and over just for the heck of it. At the highest point of the Drop Tower, one is afforded a full view of the granddaddy of all thrill rides. And I shuddered each time I viewed its majesty. The granddaddy of which I speak is something called the Xtreme Flyer, the closest thing to bungee jumping you can do without diving off a bridge. I balked on the first six trips when it came to the Flyer. “Too expensive,” I told my boys. “Mom would get mad if she knew we risked life and limb,” I opined. “You’re just making excuses, Dad,” they said. “You’re chicken.” Fighting words. We promised Mom just before leaving on our seventh trip to Carowinds that we would stay clear of the Xtreme Flyer. I think she knew we were lying. A few hours later, as the cable attached to my boys and me lifted us to what seemed like the height of the Sears Tower, I openly questioned the functionality of those brain cells within me whose sole responsibility is to secrete good judgment. And just before we plummeted, the finer parts of my life flashed through my mind. We yelled, we laughed, we flew. It was the most fantabulous ride of my life. I’m still not a fan of heights, but they don’t scare me anymore. It wasn’t a bungee jump, but I’m crossing it off my “To Do Before I Die List” because it’s my bucket list and I get to make the rules. If you’re skeptical, go to Youtube and type in “Stroupe Boys Fly at Carowinds.” Though she would never admit it, I think Mrs. Stroupe was impressed. At least until I told her what it cost. (45 bucks plus $10 for the video.)