They call him Sully- his name is James Robert Sullivan- but everyone calls him Sully.
Sully grew up in Boston. Well, South Boston if I need to be specific, and he plans to live there his whole life. He loves everything about Boston, from the rushing and squealing sounds of the T at South Station to the yelling and whining of college students with fake IDs trying to get into the bars near Quincy Market to all the cloying smells of Fenway Park. He firmly believes that nothing in the whole world could compare with Fenway Park. The scent of sausage and peppers mixed with the odor of ancient beer, wet paint and lingering sweat make Sully aware that he's at the home of his favorite team- the Boston Red Sox. Sully loves the Red Sox. He is a season ticket holder, autograph collector and font of statistical knowledge. His wardrobe consists of Red Sox shirts, jackets, sweatshirts and he even has a few Red Sox ties and a worn pair of Red Sox crocs for the beach. His house is full of memorabilia, pictures and a framed copy of the Boston Globe from October 28, 2004.
What isn’t apparent while looking at his life and possessions is that Sully is a deeply religious man. He attends worship at his United Church of Christ congregation every week. He serves as a deacon. He tithes 7.63% of his income and he’s trying to increase it this year. Sully is a person of such deep and abiding faith that the people who know him treat him as something of a prophet. They listen to him when he offers advice. They listen to him when he has a suggestion at church. They listen to him when he speaks about God. People think that Sully has some special bond with the Almighty. He really seems that connected. Sully- when asked about it- shrugs it off – he knows that he and God are tight – but he doesn’t brag about it. Being a reluctant prophet is a tough enough gig without publicity. So- day after day- baseball season after baseball season Sully lived his life with faith and trust in God. Until one day....
Now the word of the Lord came to Sully, son of Patrick saying “Arise go to Yankee Stadium in the great City and cry against it for their wickedness has come before me.” But Sully rose to run away to Los Angeles to see the Dodgers – fleeing from the presence of the Lord. So he went to Logan airport, paid his fare (including the extra $25 for a piece of checked luggage) and got on board a Jet Blue flight heading to LAX. But the Lord hurled mighty mechanical difficulties at the plane. And they sat at the gate for hours. Soon the passengers cast lots – using those little pretzel sticks from the beverage cart- saying “this stinks- let’s cast lots to figure out on whose account this evil has come upon us.” So they did- and the lot came upon Sully so they looked at him, sitting innocently in seat 26B, and said to him,...well, they said to him a lot of things- after all they were from Boston and had been sitting in the plane for a few hours. They were more than a little annoyed... anyhow- the gist of it was – they wanted to know who he was- and mostly what he had done that has so annoyed God that God was causing the flight to be delayed so grievously.
And Sully said, “Me, I’m nobody – usually- just a guy- the kinda guy God talks to on occasion- but here’s the thing- God wants me to go to New York - New York! And there I am supposed to prophesy to the Yankees and then they will change their ways and the Lord’s curse will be listed from them.” Well, as you might imagine- this little bit of information shocked the passengers causing a riot and so then the TSA agents boarded the plane and came upon Sully. They bound him up and dragged him off the plane. Then they threw him into a holding cell in the belly of the airport. Due to a little known clause in the Patriot Act- known as the Whale clause- Sully was in the belly of the airport for three days – and from his cell Sully prayed to the Lord saying,
“I called to the Lord out and he answered me; out of the belly of hell I cried, and you heard my voice. 3You cast me into the deep, into the heart of the forgotten places, and the emptyness surrounded me; all your waves and your billows passed over me. 4Then I said, ‘I really messed up - I am driven away from your sight” 5The wall close in around me; the lonliness surrounded me; I went down to the land whose doors closed upon me forever; yet you brought up my life from the hell, O Lord my God. 7As depression a, As depression was closing in – I remembered the Lord; and my prayer came to you, into your holy temple 8”
And then the Lord spoke to the TSA supervisor and Sully was released.
Then the word of the Lord came to Sully a second time saying, “Arise – go to Yankee stadium, in the great city, and proclaim to it the message that I will give you.” So- Sully rose and took the Bolt bus to Grand Central Station and then the shuttle train over to the stadium and at the gates of the stadium he cried out -
“Forty Days more and Yankee Stadium Shall be over thrown.” And word got back to Yankee Management and they arose from their thrones and removed their Brooks Brothers suits and covered themselves with sack cloth (or sweat pants from Wal-mart) and the management made an announcement over the Public Address system and by use of the Jumbo-tron – and they said
“Let everyone cry mightily to God. Let everyone turn from their evil ways – like pretending to be hit by a pitch.... or cheating in other ways.... because who knows – God might turn from his anger so we might not perish into the bottom of the standings.”
And when God saw that they repented- God decided not to punish the Yankees. But this really ticked off Sully. So he prayed to God saying:
“Seriously? This – this right here is why I was trying to get to LA. I know you are a gracious God, merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love. But the Yankees? Really the playoffs again?” Then he cried out, “ O Lord, Take my life from me for it would be better for me to die than to live.” And Sully went out into the last row of the bleachers and sat in the sun refusing to move until death.
And the Good Lord appointed a plant to grow down out of the scoreboard and give Sully shade. And Sully was thankful for the shade – but the next morning God caused a rat – one of those gigantic New York City Rats- t to eat at the plant and so, with the plan gone - the sun beat down on Sully and Sully was sad because the plant died. Sully cried. He cried because of the Yankees re-gaining Gods favor but mostly he cried because the plant was gone. Then God said to him,
“You feel badly about the plant- which you didn’t create or make grow- it came and was gone in one day – and yet you are upset because I show mercy to the Yankees and all in the great city. Really, Sully – there’s no crying in baseball.”
So Sully went home to Southie pondering all these things in his heart.
Nessie the Bad Dog
Princess Piglet of Snortington
These are just a few of the many names our Soft Coated Wheaton Terrier, Nessie, is called on a daily basis. Go ahead and judge me as a horrible person who is neglectful of her animal. Fine. Whatever. You don’t have to live with the beast.
Nessie trots to the beat of her own drummer. Unlike other dogs she would rather sleep alone in her crate than be with her people. Several attempts to get her to sleep on the bed with us have ended with frustrated whining in the middle of the night so she could escape the bedroom and return to her crate in an isolated corner of the kitchen.
She loves food and, despite our telling her that she has a significant wheat allergy, she continues to counter surf and apparently defy gravity when no one is watching to reach the packages of bread on the back of the counter. She has gorged on bread, muffins, cupcakes and, her favorite, hot dog rolls, eating entire packages (including a portion of the wrappers.) She has a love of baking mix and greatly enjoys making dark brown sand-art like creations on the floor when ever she can tear into a package of brownie mix.
Beyond her tenacious love of food, Nessie is a deep thinker. I know this because once she knocked over the trash filled with dinner leftovers including a chicken carcass and Nessie withdrew from the dumpster with a single burn-out lightbulb held in her teeth. It was as if she wanted us all to know that she had a grand idea.
The antics of Nessie the Bad Dog are many and I’ll leave the story of her cleaning out my son’s Easter basket between the sunrise service and the 10am service for another day. She peppers my days with moments of frustrated laughter and incredulous joy. I’ve never known a dog like her and as angry as her antics make me I’m actually kind of glad that her life is a part of my story to share.
Lately I find myself dreading Facebook. Not all of Facebook, just the little message that tells me I’ve been tagged in someone’s photo. For the most part- the pictures do not capture my good side, which as you might recall, I accidently left behind in 1988. I avoid cameras at all costs now. Vanity? Hell yeah! If I avoid seeing myself I can pretend I still look like a cute, perky 19 year old instead of that middle-aged exhausted person who stalks me behind darkened windows and mirrors.
In the midst of my photo sulking and refusal to “Click to add these horrible photos of your butt to your timeline” requests from Facebook I got to thinking, what it would be like if Jesus had a Facebook account. Which brings me to the title, WWJT.
Who Would Jesus Tag?
Despite his popularity with the wealthy people of power in the United States, I don’t think Jesus would tag himself in photos in front of the Capitol Building in D.C.. I doubt there would be pictures of him at the President’s Gala Oscar Party in L.A. or in the luxury box at the Super Bowl (no matter how many times they thank him on the field.) No, I think that Jesus’ Facebook photo album would be filled instead with random selfies.
Here I am, hanging out with the homeless in the park.
Here I am, weeping on the sidewalk in Egypt.
Here I am, sitting with my friend in the jail cell.
Here I am singing with the head start kids at circle time.
This isn’t to say that others would not tag him –
“Here I am with Jesus on my mission trip.”
“Here I am with Jesus at the hospital”
“Here I am with Jesus watching the sunrise”
I’m still not going to post any more photos of myself on Facebook but I’m willing to let myself be tagged in one with Jesus.
I’ve been invited to speak at an event on the topic of Christian humor and hospitality. Which inspired this joke:
How can you tell when you’re in a church kitchen? Every cabinet is locked and the one that isn’t has a sign on it that lets you know you opened it wrong.
I didn’t say it was a funny joke.
Church kitchen joke aside, an important part of Christian hospitality is in letting someone do something in a way we would never do it.
And then keeping our mouths shut.
Years ago, I was thrilled to preach at a different church. (Pulpit supply – so don’t even TRY to figure out which church this was…) I arrived early and was invited into the kitchen where the “Church Ladies” were getting food ready for coffee hour. I offered to help. After an awkward pause, I was given a box of donuts and a linen napkin lined basket. When I arranged the donuts into the basket I discovered I had one left over that didn’t fit. I made some sort of joke about it- who wants to eat it now or used it as a monocle or some such thing- innocuous as far as I could tell. I was given a look by one of the church members so cold that it stopped me mid-sentence. She stiffly brushed past me, removed all of the donuts I had placed in the basket and then refilled the basket with the same donuts in such a way that they all fit. All without saying a word, she transformed my willingness to help into shame. The other people in the kitchen said nothing about her behavior and nothing to me about my attempt to help. I skittered out of the church kitchen as quickly as possible to try to find a place to hide in an unfamiliar church. The frost in the woman’s look and the way the others were complicit in her rudeness made me wish I could leave. If I were visitor instead of the preacher- I would have walked out the door and knocked the dust from my super cute black pumps.
Many, many years later that experience continues to influence my ministry. When the flowers are off-center or the half and half is in the wrong pitcher or the donuts are in two separate baskets instead of one, I am thankful. Yes, it isn’t perfect. Yes, the tablecloth was the wrong one. So what?
Carl Jung had this quote carved over the doorway to his home
VOCATUS ATQUE NON VOCATUS DEUS ADERIT
(Bidden or Unbidden, God is Present)
One donut basket or two, God is present.
Blue tablecloth or red, God is present.
Small pitcher of cream or large, God is present.
Part of hospitality is celebrating those who are willing to be present and are willing to lend a hand as best they are able.
So put out the wrong salt and pepper sets.
Light the candles too early or too late.
And, please, please, use that one remaining donut as a monocle.
I think it’s funny.
I suffered awkwardly through a Viagra commercial last night sitting next to my 14-year-old son. Let me tell ya, nothing screams mother/son moment quiet like erectile dysfunction. I’m not normally a squeamish person. I try to be open and accepting and don’t make a big deal out of human sexuality but something about the Viagra commercial inspired a “I won’t make eye contact if you don’t” moment.
The commercial did motivate me to write this post because I figure if I can listen to someone blather on about erectile dysfunction while watching the ABC Evening News with Diane Sawyer then I figure that you, dear reader, can read about my depression. Granted, clinical depression is not nearly as sexy or titillating as erectile dysfunction (although, now that I think about it, both have the potential to keep a person in bed. -beyond that- not much in common) but it tends to be something we don’t hear about except in commercials for pharmaceuticals.
My experience with depression is not dramatic enough to warrant a tv ad but it is enough to have required outside help. I work everyday to keep my mood in check and to make choices that will help, not hurt, my illness. I don’t share this as a ploy for sympathy or as a blog version of an ABC Afterschool Special (God, I miss those cheesy shows!) I simply share because I can and maybe if I publicly state that I struggle with clinical depression and still maintain a mostly happy, successful, loving life then, maybe someone else will find the courage to share their story and then the stigma around mental illness will start to fall away- just a little.
I could share the entire saga with you- but frankly it is mostly boring and too darn hot right now to complete the six book set that is my story of depression. Just know that if you want detail and/or want to tell me your story- I’m here and willing to listen or talk as the case may be.
I even promise to make eye contact. – just don’t mention Viagra and we are good.
After the bombing on Monday I tried to sooth myself with my good friend chocolate - but when I returned home from work on Tuesday, Nessie the bad dog had eaten the entire package of whoopee pies.
Good dog, Nessie, good dog.
Thank you for caring about my nutritional needs.
I know, truly I know, that there is no outside thing- food or drink- that will make the sadness of the week’s events feel any less miserable. We struggle to make sense of the senseless- and to purge our brains of the gruesome images we witnessed. But you can’t do that- there is no brain bleach or “emotion away cleaner” that will make this any better.
On Friday, the violence struck close to home when my husband Rob (who was not able to go into work in Cambridge because the City was on lock down ) was saddened because, he recognized the baby face of the MIT police officer as someone he passed on his commute. We clung to the television- watching the same scenes over and over again. Feeling the anxiety and despair. Glued to my Twitter and Facebook feeds- I tried to offer words of hope, humor and comfort over the internet. And finally late Friday night- breathing again. Turning off the TV and breathing… Anyone else feel like you forgot to take a deep breath the entire time between Monday’s bombing and Fridays arrest?
It was a week… it was a week… and it was and is a time to wrap ourselves in God’s love and God’s promise of comfort. And , aren’t we blessed that the lectionary this week is the 23rd psalm. The Lord is my Shepard. Words that are comforting and familiar.
First off, we have the illustrations of peace and rest. He makes me lie down in green pastures – he leads me beside still waters. I don’t know about you – but sleep has not come easily to me this week. On Monday night – I stayed up late watching the news coverage of the bombing and then – surprise- when I tried to sleep I couldn’t turn off or down- the thoughts running through my mind. Tuesday was much of the same and then…you know how it goes- once you fall behind on sleep… And then Friday night….eeesh. But anyway- my point is that this metaphor of resting in a green and quiet spot was exceptionally appealing this week.
And then, of course, there is the part in the psalm about walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Put a big ol’ check mark next to that one this week. It seems as if the entire week has been cast in the shadow of death and flavored with evil. But then comes the next line. Your rod and your staff they comfort me. There’s an image for the week, Jesus the Good Shepherd using the rod and staff to keep the sheep on the right path and to thump the heads of any lions, or wolves or terrorist, whatever or whoever that threatens the flock.
Let’s not ignore, however, our doubts, our questions, our angst… Where was that rod , where was that staff - when the bombs went off? Where was the Shepherd who is supposed to keep the sheep from harm?
I don’t have an answer to why there is evil in the world…and believe me- if I did, it would make it so much easier to be preaching this morning. But we are not a church of easy answers. We are a church that struggles together to make sense of the pain and the hurt in the world and we are a church that clings to the belief that God was there- when the bombs went off- when the shots were fired. God was there weeping at the bedside of the injured. God was there encouraging the spirits of the first responders and the investigators and the leaders of the community and the land. God continues to be there and here.
The psalm ends with the beloved phrase, Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever. This is the promise of God. That we are pursued by God’s goodness and mercy and pursued relentlessly. Followed by Goodness and Mercy always and then, when the days of our lives end - we will dwell with God forever.
That is a promise for the future and we are still grieving and healing and trying to get through the day, and please God, a better week.
I’ve heard violence defined as one person forcing their will on someone else. We’ve seen that this week; the will for discomfort, for destruction and death inflicted on people who simply willed a nice day out with family and friends to watch a marathon. Here is my challenge to us- because our will- our will for a feeling of safety and peace was violated this week and still the gospel calls us to respond with our own “will” a different kind of “will.”
I will not answer violence with violence.
I will not scapegoat an entire religion for the actions of a few.
I will pray for the taken, the injured and the ones who cause the chaos.
I will love.
I will laugh.
I will hope.
I will keep faith.
I will be strong.
I will rejoice in this day and the next day and the days to come.
Because Goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.
And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.
Sometimes I worry over the dumbest things. Today’s anxiety is about my current drug of choice, the okdol bibimbap from a local restaurant. It arrives in a viciously hot stone bowl so when the food is places in front of you- it is still cooking. The sizzle and crack of the veggies and rice make the lunch a full sensory experience. This winter, the okdol bibimbap became my ultimate comfort food. I partook of the hot delight almost weekly. On some cold and depressing days I would consider ordering a second bowl just because the sizzling had quieted down in the first one.
Now that the weather is getting warmer I am concerned about my beloved hot stone bowl. Should I abandon it for another dish? Would it be strange to warm my hands over a steaming bowl of lunch during a heat wave?
Comfort food is a big part of my faith tradition. From the pancake and bacon supper on Shrove Tuesday to the many pot-luck suppers and even the coffee hour after worship – filled with donuts and cookies – we include food as a part of our ritual. Jesus eating fish with the disciples on the beach is one of my favorite post-resurrection stories. Gathered around the sizzling fire, Jesus enjoyed a meal. Maybe he even threw another fish on the grill once the sizzling sound stopped. Now that I think about it- I’m going to keep my comfort food tradition. Who wants to join me next week?
Her husband’s death was unexpected. Because nobody ever expects someone to die in their 30’s when they are in perfectly good health. She guessed that’s why they call them accidents. And she did call it an accident – despite the well-meaning friends who mumbled something about it being God’s will…. Despite the trite card she got saying something about God needing an angel…. It was an accident. Plain and simple. She held onto that notion because the very idea of it being God’s will made her sick. What kind of a vicious God would take away her husband, her best friend – to make her hurt like this on purpose? No, she clung to the belief – that it was just a random, horrible accident.
The days following the crash were a painful blur to her. She wandered through the hours –supported by family, crying with friends, and making a hundred little decisions that needed to be made but had no meaning. Buried or cremated? Picking out a tie for him for the viewing. Meeting with the pastor and choosing hymns that she supposed had words of hope – but for her rang shallow. The funeral was no better. She listened to people speak words of love and hope and comfort – but they were only words and her beloved was still dead and gone. The cemetery, she recalled was colder than she expected for mid-April. And then – as suddenly as a car crash – the decisions, the planning and the services were done and she was once again home. People filled the house with conversation and food. The acidic, slightly burnt smell of coffee drifted in from the kitchen to the couch where she had been attempting to shrink into the cushions, making her empty and fragile stomach clench painfully. He always made the coffee. Not today. Not tomorrow.
People drifted in and out of her space. Some settled next to her for a while asking if she wanted anything to eat or drink. Some made painful eye contact from across the room attempting to share their sadness with a glance. She knew them all – some better than others. Her friends, His friends, her co-workers and family- his co-workers and family and a few outliers. Random people who’s lives he had touched and she didn’t know how… but they were here. Dinking coffee and eating sandwiches.
Her pastor had said that the grief might come in waves and true enough she was finding that in one moment she would be fine- well, almost fine – and then in the next the pain would crash down on her and steal her breath. Sometimes she even thought she could feel it building up inside her, rushing toward the shore of her soul- threatening to slam it apart with the force of the crashing tide. And in that moment- sitting on that couch – while the voices and even the muted laughter rang out from the kitchen she knew- the next wave was coming and it was going to break her.
As the sofa shifted, she looked up to see her elderly neighbor settle on the adjoining cushion. This was the neighbor her husband had adored. He was the one to shovel her drive after her own husband, ravaged by dementia for years finally passed last December. It was that thought that brought the grief crashing down – the image of him bundled up with a stupid red hat on his head and a shovel in his hand heading next door to clear a path for a neighbor. As the sob left her body she noticed dry and wrinkled hands reach out to pull her, with surprising strength, into a tight embrace. It was awkward, for sure. The way she had been sitting didn’t make for a comfortable hug this way- but there was a strength, a tightness of the hold that seemed to make it better- it made it more real- more bearable.
Since the accident she had received many, many hugs but this one- this one put all the rest of them to shame – because this hug was brutal. It was a hug so strong that it held her together when anything less would have allowed her to shatter apart. It was a touch so real
that it made the heartache – the grief – seem like an illusion. And in that moment- when death was so close – the two women held one another and rocked on that couch- as if the embrace alone was the only thing that made the sun rise and set. The cost of that hug in arthritis pain would never be mentioned. And it was a costly hug indeed-
But - years later- it might be recalled as the most painfully comforting touch ever or it might be blended in as another moment in a series of life moments – but then – right then – it mattered. John 12: 1-Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. 2There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. 3Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them* with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. 4But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, 5‘Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii* and the money given to the poor?’ 6(He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) 7Jesus said, ‘Leave her alone. She bought it* so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. 8You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.’
There he was, the guest of honor at the “thanks for raising Lazarus from the dead” dinner party. And the sister of Lazarus takes the most precious thing she has – still readily accessible since she had just used it to anoint the body of her until recently deceased brother. She takes this ointment and touches Jesus’ feet with it. A radical thing to do – to use the expensive nard- to touch the feet of a non-related man – to wipe them with her hair- which was unbound in front of men- another big no-no. And Judas gets twitchy about it-
But Jesus tells him to knock it off- to leave her alone. She is anointing him for burial.
I imagine that the touch of her hands was comforting. I imagine that story played out again and again all over the world as the hands that hold a grieving person together when they are about to shatter apart.
I imagine that, in that moment- when death for Jesus was so close – the touch of hands on his feet might have felt like the only thing that made the sunrise and set.
Days later- on the hill at Golgotha, it might be recalled as the most painfully comforting touch or it might be blended in as another moment in a series of life moments – but then – right then – it mattered.
Those two women – from different times and different stories- they could have held back- they could have saved their strength or saved their costly ointment. But they poured out what they had without thought to the cost. And their touch made a difference.
May we be so inspired that we do not hold back but rather reach out, pour out, give out our best to the world which starves for a healing touch. Because you never know what things your hands might hold that will keep the world from shattering apart.
Ash Wednesday was not a part of my faith story growing up. I never received ashes and never gave anything up for Lent. My entire knowledge of the Lenten season came from watching my neighbor, Kelly O’Brien come home with a dirty forehead marked with ash and a desire to eat at my house for dinner- because it wasn’t fish. Kelly also had to give something up for lent. Usually it was a kid friendly sacrifice – candy or soda. I would marvel at her devotion as I popped open my can of Coke and ripped into a bag of M & Ms.
Time has carried me forward into strange lands and tonight I will look into the eyes of my parishioners in my United Church of Christ Congregation and mark their heads with ashes.
What I once looked as a “dirty forehead” has become for me a remarkable symbol of death and rebirth. As a child I couldn’t have understood the words, “You are dust.” As an adult with the bitter experience of losing loved ones to death, I find the words oddly comforting.
Tonight I’ll encourage the remembrance that human life is short and, no matter who you are, it will end. So I seek the message of encouragement is tucked away in the ash. From death to life, from change to change, from dry wilderness to verdant oasis, God is present in fire and ash, in hope and dread, in Coke and M & Ms. Amen.
A people pleaser – that’s what the self-help books called me. I’d avoid conflict by smiling and nodding. I’d agree with you even when my inner voice was telling me you were wrong. My greatest fear was that you wouldn’t like me anymore. It was like living an entire life as a kid in a middle school cafeteria.
I spent almost forty years of life trying to get everyone to like me by saying the right things at the right time and failing spectacularly. This failure would leave me an emotional puddle of goo. How can people be so mean?
Now I get it. It doesn’t matter why you don’t like me. You just don’t like me. You really, really don’t like me. And look at that, I’m still alive.
This has given me the power to state my truth, make jokes about what I see as ridiculous and yes, paint myself with a target for your dislike. This isn’t to say it doesn’t sting because it does. What happens now is that instead of turning into an emotional puddle of goo – I shake it off.
You see, I’ve discovered that I’m not perfect and you aren’t perfect. We will crash into each other, hurt each other, avoid each other and sometimes even love each other. The individual mess we create within this chaotic life is both isolated and intimately mixed, like a group finger-painting project. The swirls of my green and the streaks of your blue might meet in a tangle of muddy brown and come out again an altered, deeper shade to continue the picture.
I realize that not everyone is going to like me. Heck, there are times when I don’t like me. But I’m not going to try to fix it anymore. I’m gonna walk up to the “cool kids” cafeteria table and grab a seat at last. And if you don’t like it…what can I do to make it better?....