Welcome to Joiner's Corner

A friend of mine turned 70 not long ago. That’s happening more often than it used to, which has caused me to realize a lot of my favorite people are not spring chickens anymore. It’s possible they’re having similar thoughts about me, but I don’t think I’ll ask.

I sent my longtime pal a text for the occasion to say, “It seems like only yesterday you were 69.” That line needs to be retired, but good lines are hard to come by and not as easily summoned as they once were. Sharing that comment with him led me to reflect on some yesterdays of the distant past.

It seems like only yesterday I hitched a ride on the back of Uncle Murray’s truck without telling anyone. I was looking for Daddy and found out he was in Unadilla at Giles & Hodge Farm Center. Uncle Murray was headed there, so I climbed up the back bumper and took a seat atop the bags of seeds stacked higher than the cab. When people along the road tried to flag him down, he gave them a friendly wave back. That’s one of my earliest memories, probably from age three or four.

It seems like only yesterday I followed our boxer, Mug, into the wheat field and got lost. That also could have ended badly but once more a misadventure turned out fine. I’ve never been so glad to hear my mother’s voice. Nor have I ever gotten so much pleasure from cool water being splashed on my face at a backyard faucet. Plus, a good lesson came from that troubling experience. Daddy told me if I ever got lost again that I should look up.

It seems like only yesterday I was climbing aboard a yellow school bus for the first time. Mr. Bartlett, an ancient, gentle-natured man, was our driver. He graciously overlooked most of our mischief, even the spitball fights where wads of chewed paper were launched with rubber bands. Somewhere during those early grades, I lost my taste for paper, but I remember the flavor well.

Pinehurst didn’t have a kindergarten, but thanks to Captain Kangaroo I could sing the alphabet at age five. I still do sometimes, probably because it’s one of the few songs I know all the lyrics to.  

Mrs. Kathryn Roberts was our teacher. Her motherly demeanor and unlimited patience made her perfectly suited for young charges with too much energy to pay attention. I don’t remember any details of our studies, just that I liked Miss Kathryn and knew she liked me. I was too young to understand she loved us but figured that out later and enjoyed her friendship for many years.

Reflecting on my first-grade experience reminds me of a story I heard from Wayne Peavy about ten years ago. His father, Mr. E. B. Peavy, had told it to him decades earlier. It was a local tale about Vienna Elementary School in the 1930s or maybe before.   

There was a shoe repair shop in downtown Vienna owned by a Mr. Hampton, who was called Shoe by his friends and patrons. Mr. Hampton’s young son spent a lot of time at the shop, so someone began calling him Little Shoe, a nickname which stuck like the glue his father used to bond leather.

On Little Shoe’s first day of school, his teacher was conducting an informal assessment, trying to determine what each student might already know. She paused at Little Shoe’s desk and spoke softly, doing her best not to embarrass anyone.

“Little Shoe,” the teacher tenderly inquired, “do you know your ABCs?”

“Hell no!” said Little Shoe with substantial volume. “I ain’t been here but ten minutes!”

I’ll have to hide this week’s newspaper from the matriarch of our family, but that’s too good a story not to preserve the original. Mr. E. B. used to drop by Rooney Bowen Chevrolet when I worked there in the 1970s. He was a delightful gentleman, a retired farmer with a cheerful disposition and infectious laugh. My guess is he’s told St. Peter and several others about Little Shoe Hampton and had no complaints. It’s a humorous reminder that children tend to soak up whatever is spilled.   

It’s nice to revisit old memories, to savor the sweet ones and be thankful for what we’ve learned from the challenges. If you want to give it a try, just find a quiet, private place when you’re not in a hurry. Close your eyes, let your mind wander, and see where it takes you. It seems like only yesterday………    

Wisdom is a gifted thing, not just a function of the brain. Knowledge may be ours to own, but wisdom comes from God alone.

Theologian Reinhold Niebuhr wrote what is known as the “Serenity Prayer” – “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” The last part of that prayer is today’s focus. 

I’ve asked God for wisdom many times but can’t say for sure if I’ve ever heard back. Lately I’ve been wondering if He’s responding to my query with one of His own. That’s a teaching style Jesus often used, and we can say with confidence, “like Father like Son.”

Perhaps God, with a loving twinkle in His eye, is patiently asking, “Neil, why do you want more wisdom when you don’t use what I’ve already given you?” I don’t have a good answer.

To be clear, God has never spoken audibly to me or used a finger to write on a wall as King Belshazzar experienced in the fifth chapter of Daniel. There have been no burning bushes, tongues of fire, or even gentle breezes which I knew with certainty were a sign from above. I can’t profess to anything beyond a still small voice that prods my conscience more often than should be needed. That may be the extent of my experiences because God knows it’s all I’m prepared to receive.

So, I’m not claiming this potential answer to my prayers for wisdom came through extraordinary revelation. What I’m saying is I’ve come to realize God has little reason to give me more of something which I already neglect to take full advantage of. Plus, my motives have often been less than the best.

The first chapter of 2 Chronicles records God telling King Solomon to ask for whatever he wants. Solomon asked God for wisdom and knowledge, two things I would not likely have put at the top of my list. We talked about that scripture in our men’s Sunday School class at Vienna First Baptist a few years ago. I was teaching that morning and posed a discussion question, “Would you rather have great wisdom or tons of money?”

A good friend named Mike, a faithful man with a quiet demeanor, said, “I’d take the money.” We all smiled during a silent pause, expecting he might comment further. “With enough money,” he explained, “I could hire someone with wisdom.” That’s just bonus material to let you know Bible Study doesn’t preclude joviality. If you want to see for yourself, we meet at ten a.m.    

God was pleased with Solomon’s response. “Since this is your heart’s desire and you have not asked for wealth, riches or honor, nor for the death of your enemies, and since you have not asked for a long life but for wisdom and knowledge to govern my people over whom I have made you king, therefore wisdom and knowledge will be given you. And I will also give you wealth, riches and honor, such as no king who was before you ever had and none after you will have.”

Solomon’s request was so pleasing to God that He gave him much more than he asked for. When I’ve prayed for wisdom, my thoughts have frequently been self-centered. My pleas have often had an element of distress as in, “God give me the wisdom to get out of this mess I created.” Maybe acknowledging my shortcoming is a small but necessary step toward improvement.

It’s also important to note that God may grant wisdom yet allow us to ignore it. Solomon is a good example of that with 700 wives and 300 concubines. At times I’ve wondered how the world’s wisest man could act so foolishly. Solomon, though, might suggest I sweep around my own doorsteps rather than attend to his. It’s more tempting to be critical than self-analytical.       

Reflecting on the last part of the “Serenity Prayer” led me to a couple of conclusions. Pleas for wisdom should focus on accomplishing God’s plans for me not my plans for Him. And before I ask for greater wisdom, I need to do a better job of using what I already have.

I asked to be a wiser man. “Not now,” God said, “but ask again. First you need to do your part, for wisdom thrives in humble hearts.”     

Recent columns have noted my hearty agreement with the notion of dogs being man’s best friend. On a side note, I’m not sure whether it’s proper to say “dog is” or “dogs are” nor if it should be “friend” or “friends.”

“Dog is man’s best friend,” is how I originally wrote it, which is a common expression. That sounds right, but when I substituted “cat” for “dog” it gave me an odd sensation. I don’t know if that’s a grammatical issue or evidence of a bias toward canines. We tend to defend what we choose to approve.

Cats hold a solid second place in my personal rankings, but I was baffled as to why some folks place them ahead of dogs. I asked the renowned research department at Joiner’s Corner to investigate why people would elevate felines above canines. In 87 percent of the cases, it was due to the person never owning a dog. Now it makes more sense.    

Regardless of their friendship position, there is ample evidence that dogs and cats hold the top two spots. Thinking about that led me to do a bit of pondering. Who or what is man’s third best friend? I don’t know the answer. These are random thoughts in a quest for truth.

Although I am reluctant to admit it, the bronze medal may go to chickens. I’ve disclosed earlier my childhood traumas of gathering eggs guarded by vicious setting hens. Nightmares of their attacks are infrequent now, but I have no interest in befriending a chicken, not even one that’s house-broken and can carry a tune.

In fairness, however, there are respectable citizens who keep layers in their back yard, give them cute names, and cradle them in their arms like babies. That seems like a recipe for disaster. Surely it must be distasteful when they quit laying and wind up in the dumplings.

I’m not interested in any long-term relationships with chickens. We do, however, buy cage-free eggs. It only costs a little more and I figure everything deserves room enough to square dance to Wildwood Flower. I’d go crazy cooped up in a small pen, which so far has been sufficient incentive to avoid behaviors that could lead to a jail cell.

If chickens seem a foul choice, perhaps pigs should be ranked as man’s third best friend. Rufus was my childhood buddy. He was a remarkable young barrow, both brilliant and affectionate with impeccable manners. I still have a tinge of guilt when I recall his bewildered look as he walked toward the truck from the sale barn. It wouldn’t have helped to explain so I turned the other way.   

A significant problem with having a pig is they keep growing. The little pot-bellied pigs are a manageable size, but they don’t strike me as the optimal choice for residential living. Pigs are smart and trainable. It seems like a miniature and more mobile version of domesticated swine could be bred for pets. If that’s ever done, dogs and cats may be in for some competition.

Rabbits deserve mentioning, but I’m not sure about their ranking. They’re cute, have gentle dispositions, and don’t awaken you at night with barking or shred your shoelaces with their claws. They’re good listeners, and if you get tired of taking care of them, they taste a lot like chicken.          

Perhaps fish should be considered. When Jane and I were newlyweds living in Tallahassee, we bought an aquarium and several varieties of colorful tropical fish. They were enchanting until our angel fish attacked our neons by taking cheap shots at their eyes. And our catfish, even with a filtration system, couldn’t keep the bottom clean so the water required regular changes.

Turtles, snakes, frogs, hamsters, ducks, and other critters are kept by some as pets. The late Billy Patton, from Pinehurst, had a skunk, a perfect solution for company that stays too long.

I’d love to hear other thoughts regarding man’s third best friend. Our cat, Tabs, nominated gerbils and wants one for a playmate. So far, I’ve refused, because her intentions may not be honorable.

On a temporary basis, I’m awarding the third spot to fish. I don’t think they deserve it, but at least I won’t have to decide between “fish” or” fishes.” Or will I?  

Last week’s column ended on a melancholy note as my friends, Kay and Eugene, said goodbye to a special family member named Lucy. Another kitten, however, soon filled that empty spot. Bo wasn’t invited. He just showed up and turned on the charm. That’s quite often how cats become pets.

Eugene and my neighbor, John Causey, have a world-class take-out restaurant called Good to Go in Vienna. I’m not sure how their watch-cat program began, but well-fed felines guard the back door. Big Orange looks like he could take care of himself and might be hoping for an opportunity. He’s a bit heavy for chasing mice but doesn’t need to except for recreation.  

When a litter of kittens came along, splendid accommodations and excellent menu choices were provided. Curiosity, however, compels cats to explore their options, even those that are dangerous.

Crawling up under a hood sometimes leads to disaster, but Bo’s trip in Eugene’s engine compartment ended well. Whether he’s smart or lucky is hard to say. He may have enjoyed the seven-mile ride or could have just been too scared to get off. Kay heard a soft meow. Eugene hoped it was his wife’s imagination.

They lured the tiny fellow out with food and figured he deserved to stay. Eugene whispered so the kitten couldn’t hear him. “That’s not the one I would have picked,” he said. But it didn’t take Bo long to find the foot of their bed. He sleeps six hours then playfully attacks their toes. We don’t always choose our cats. Sometimes they choose us.

Tabatha McGee Joiner began her journey to our house in a similar way. She came to us after spending her early days in the Mike McGee Home for Abandoned Kittens. It was the second cat we adopted from there, each already spoiled by management’s personal attention.

The first one, Missy, had been rescued from the highway by Mike. She was adorable but loved to ramble in the swampy woods behind our house at night. I guess she got careless or maybe stalked the wrong critter. We searched for days, walking, hoping, and calling her name, but there wasn’t a trace.

Not long after Missy disappeared, Mike’s wife, Brenda, told me they had another rescue who needed a home. Just as before, they’d already taken her to the vet for shots and surgery. And once again, Mike had made the kitten feel so welcome in his lap she thought it was her calling.

Someone may have put Missy and Tabs out to fend for themselves. That’s a callous thing to do but it happens. It’s just as likely, however, that each of them hitched a ride on a vehicle and dropped off when it stopped. It’s a risky way to find a home, but sometimes that’s how cats become pets.

We always had a yard dog when I was growing up but not any cats that I recall. In retrospect, we could have used a few. With cows, hogs, and chickens on the farm, rats were constantly stealing feed. Rather than dining from a trough they’d chew holes in the burlap bags, apparently favoring sack lunches.

Beulah was the first cat Jane and I had, and Sugar lived the longest, staying with us for 18 memorable years. There was Ponch, named after a TV motorcycle cop, and others I can’t readily name.  Pepper was one of our triplets’ favorites, somehow endearing himself more than usual. It was a sad discovery when I saw his lifeless body on Coney Road.

Jane had taken Carrie to a gymnastic meet that Saturday. Erin, Seth, and I had spent the morning with my folks at the farm. We were almost home when I pulled over and asked them to stay in the car. I put Pepper in the trunk and told them I was sorry. I wrapped him in a blanket and buried him in our back yard, then left a loving note to our children on the kitchen table.

An hour or so later, Erin came outside. “Daddy, what you wrote was really sweet and we appreciate it very much, but we don’t know whose cat you buried.” Pepper got some extra attention as we wondered who had been tenderly interred on DeLiesseline Drive. The kids thought it was especially humorous that I had overlooked some anatomical inconsistencies. It’s hard to think clearly in the midst of grief.

Some cats are brought home intentionally while others just show up. Either way, they tend to fill any empty spots in our hearts or make a special place of their own. With gentle purrs and nudges, they subtly become beloved members of our families. And that’s quite often how cats become pets.      

Last week I affirmed my belief that dogs are man’s best friend, while casting a second-place vote for cats. Some would reverse that ranking. It all depends on who finds a path to your heart. A cat named Lucy traveled that road with some friends of mine.

Kay Bowen Cason and I began first grade together at Pinehurst Elementary School. A year or so ago she told me about a special pet in their family. The story began with a helpless kitten.

Mrs. Louise Bowen, Kay’s mother, moved in with Kay and her husband, Eugene, during her later years. Her cats, however, remained on the family farm where they went to feed and pet them each day.

Cats have always been a part of Kay’s life. During childhood she enjoyed watching her father, Mr. Carl, train them. He called their feline pets his boys and would walk them to the field across the road to conduct essential business. Then he rewarded each one with a boll of cotton to take home. Their yard was often decorated with scattered white fibers, adeptly shredded by playful claws. 

One Friday after work, Kay went by the homestead as usual to check on the cats. She saw a tiny kitten all alone. There wasn’t a mama cat around, so where the new addition came from was a mystery. The kitty was small enough to fit in Kay’s palm, but she resisted the urge to cuddle her. Mr. Carl had taught her not to touch an infant kitten, that it could cause the mother to reject it.

With considerable hesitation, she left the kitten where she found her, hoping for the best while fearing the worst. After a miserable night of uncertainty, Kay made a hurried early morning drive back. The weather had suddenly turned cold and the little kitten felt like a block of ice. Kay wrapped her tightly in a towel and held her close to her body, warming her as they headed toward home.

When she walked through the door Eugene was elated. “Please tell me you don’t have another cat!” he said. Maybe his elation wasn’t instantaneous, but he mellowed quickly. Lucy had to be fed with a syringe and he did most of the feeding. Afterward he’d take a warm, damp, paper towel and wipe her off. It was as close as he could get to a mother cat licking her baby clean.

After bath time, Eugene began wadding up a paper towel into a ball and tossing it, teaching Lucy to chase and retrieve. I might have been skeptical about that story had I not seen the video. Cats apparently are more trainable than I realized. Having a good teacher must be the key.

Eugene’s shirt pocket was where Lucy enjoyed spending time. When she could no longer squeeze her way in, she found a new ride. She would put her paws on the bar of Miss Louise’s walker and accompany her around the house, never asking where they were headed or when they’d be back.

With Eugene and Kay both working, Lucy became Miss Louise’s best buddy. They spent hours together in a recliner with Lucy sucking on a bit of blanket as if it were yielding milk. After Miss Louise died, Lucy picked Kay as her favorite. Maybe she remembered who brought her to the dance.

Lucy began sleeping in the bed with Kay and Eugene, continuing to favor the lady of the house. Without offering any explanation, in the middle of 2020 she moved to Eugene’s side. That’s where she stayed until just before Christmas.

Her breathing was labored so they took her to their vet in Cordele. She went home with more medicine than hope. That weekend Lucy eased out of their bed without waking them. Kay found her on the bathroom floor suffering with the kind of pain that begs for merciful relief. The after-hours recording at Cordele Animal Hospital referred them to a Warner Robins clinic for emergencies.

Kay and Eugene took Lucy on a somber ride, not an easy trip even though they knew it was for the best. They were completely surprised to be greeted by their own veterinarian, a lady who knew Lucy well and had attended her earlier in the week. It was a small but welcome blessing on a difficult day.  

My opinion about who man’s best friend is hasn’t changed. But if someone says cats deserve first place, I can’t say for sure they’re wrong. It all depends on who finds a path to your heart. A cat named Lucy traveled that road with some friends of mine.

Dogs have been featured in several columns, so it’s not surprising a few readers noticed cats have been ignored. I’ll try to rectify that to some extent today but should disclose a substantial bias. I believe, without any reservation, dogs are rightfully designated as man’s best friend.

I once read of a simple test to determine whether your wife or dog loves you more. It suggested putting them in the car trunk for a short ride, then letting them out. “Who,” the writer asked, “do you think will be happiest to see you?”

That seemed like a valid exercise, but my truck doesn’t have a trunk. Besides, there’s no room for debate about who would wag their tails and jump into our arms.     

Cats, unlike dogs, are quite unpredictable. The initial hurdle in using that same assessment would be getting a cat into a trunk, unless it’s their idea. A case in point is my wife’s admirable attempt to save our feline friend, Tabs, from a monstrous snake. Based on her description it was either a boa constrictor or Burmese python.

Tabatha McGee Joiner was behaving rather strangely, so Jane took a closer look. Rather than stalking her usual prey of lizards and birds, she had crept within an arm’s length of an oversized foe. Jane feared our cat might be biting off more than she could chew.

Four out of ten men would have blasted the snake into eternity. One would have gently relocated it to a new home. The other five would have wished the cat good luck, even if it was halftime during a lopsided game. Women, however, have a strong protective gene and incomparable courage. That works great taking care of children but not always with cats.

Urgent pleas could not distract Tabs from the fascinating buffet. Although Jane is afraid of gigantic snakes of any persuasion, she made a rescue grab that came with a painful lesson. Our cat doesn’t adhere to the adage, “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

Jane’s hand was sore for two weeks. Thankfully, it didn’t get infected, but twice I found her curled up in a sunny spot making purring sounds. That made me a bit nervous at bedtime, but she keeps her nails cut short and the symptoms diminished as the punctures healed.

Assuming that a man was able to get his spouse and cat into a trunk together, we can’t know what might happen when the lid is popped. The cat may be glad to see him, or it could scamper off and hide for a while. The third outcome might be menacing hisses as it dares him to touch it. Cats make their own rules. They aren’t prone to take orders.  

The thing that bothers me most with cats is that it’s hard to tell what they’re thinking. Dogs have telling facial expressions including disarming smiles. Even when they aren’t grinning their tails wag in appreciation of the tiniest show of kindness. Cats, however, have an aloofness that leaves me wondering if they are up to some mischief, like pouncing on an unsuspecting target.

Feline affection also comes in odd forms. Tabs brings mice, lizards, and birds to our doorsteps. We’d rather she didn’t, but I guess she wants us to know she’s earning her keep. I wish we could train her to leave the birds alone, but I can tell by her yawns she never pays attention to my lectures. 

If you see me running in our side yard at full speed, which is about three miles per hour, I’m chasing rabbits. Tabs has regrettably caught a few that were too slow or naive. Bunnies don’t stand a chance against her sharp claws, so I encourage them to move on. My wife’s flower garden, however, keeps them coming back. Maybe that’s why our precocious pet is partial to her.  

Tabs has some behaviors we’d like to change but also some endearing qualities. When I sit in our garage to put on my work shoes, she faithfully joins me on the bench. She rubs up against me and meows softly, making it impossible not to scratch behind her soft ears. At night I caution her about rambling in the woods where the bobcats and coyotes prowl, but she doesn’t listen and has no idea we worry about her.

The title of man’s best friend belongs to the dogs, but if you’ve never held a purring cat in your lap you might want to give it a try. In a contest for second place, that’s where my vote would go.

Although last week’s column was written shortly after Christmas, I somehow overlooked a seasonal character who is a shining example of imperfection. I left off Rudolph.

Flying reindeer are easy to love, especially one with such an unlikely success story. In the beginning Rudolph’s glowing nose led to scorn from his peers. Later, however, his bright beacon endeared him to everyone. If he had not led St. Nick’s sleigh through dense fog that Christmas Eve, children around the world would have awakened to disappointment, especially those on the nice list.

Our hearts are warmed when Rudolph’s peculiarity propels him to heroic status. It’s sobering, however, to consider that if those night skies had been crystal clear, Rudolph might have remained an outcast. He may have never been invited to join in any reindeer games.

The Ugly Duckling also had a tough start due to his appearance. He looked drastically different than the little ducks he considered family. In callous fashion they let him know he was too odd a bird to hang around with them. They ran him off without a care of where he went or how he fared.

Life seemed foreboding as the disheartened little fellow searched for acceptance. Then a hint is given to the reader of what’s to come when some lovely swans fly by. He wistfully admired their splendid beauty while having no idea he too was a swan. It wasn’t until he saw his reflection in the water that he rejoiced in what would have seemed impossible.

Hans Christian Anderson didn’t tell us if the young swan returned to visit the ducks who had made fun of him. Surely it must have been tempting to do some graceful flyovers and listen to their disbelieving quacks. I prefer to think he took the high road and forgave them, but I don’t know much about swans.   

I’m not sure what inspired the story of The Ugly Duckling. Maybe it was nothing more than the product of a writer’s imagination. Rudolph, on the other hand, was created by Robert L. May in 1939 as an assignment from Montgomery-Ward and was reportedly influenced by his own childhood experiences.

May said he had been treated somewhat like Rudolph when he was a kid. What those details are, I don’t know, but it seems his early bout with misery helped bring to life a much-beloved character.

Real life stories don’t always have happy endings like Rudolph or The Ugly Duckling. Quite often, however, things turn out better than expected if we don’t give up. Or if we’re blessed by a helping hand along the way. Such a story belongs to one of my favorite writers, Sean Dietrich.

At a family Christmas gathering a few years ago, a relative suggested I might enjoy reading a daily blog titled Sean of the South. I haven’t missed a day since. I only know Sean through his writing but have gained immense admiration for his talent, humor, and insightful musings.

It’s a struggle for me to come up with a weekly column of questionable value. How someone can write seven days a week and keep it consistently interesting and worthwhile I don’t understand. It must be a God thing.

Sean’s childhood was marred by family tragedy and challenges which he didn’t always handle well. Yet through those troubles and times of insecurity, he became a writer whose enormous compassion is a source of encouragement to thousands.

He gives his wife, Jamie, much of the credit for his success. She believed in him and believed in them. She saw a man whose kind heart was so big it had to be shared.    

In the story of The Ugly Duckling, beauty was discovered without assistance, but he sure could have used some help early on. Rudolph, thankfully, got a break when Santa put him at the front of the sleigh. And Sean’s blessing came when a young lady saw potential, then nurtured it with love.

We all know someone who could use a helping hand or maybe just needs a friend. The best way to go about that may require some pondering and praying. A good place to start is by focusing on the positives. And by knowing that sometimes that means looking for the advantages of imperfection.      

Last week’s column was about the futility of seeking perfection with too much intensity. This week we’re going in the opposite direction and exploring some advantageous aspects of imperfection. I’m not suggesting we celebrate our shortcomings, but there are lessons to be learned when circumstances are not what we consider ideal.

Sometimes I wonder if God created male pattern baldness to help keep men humble. I’m not sure there’s any part of the aging process that’s bothered me more than hair loss. It’s hard to believe I once needed a blow dryer to get the dampness out of my ample brown locks. A hand towel can now readily address the sparse gray hairs. If towels needed water to survive, mine would perish.

Early in the process of thinning hair, my favorite barber-wife combination reluctantly agreed to give me a buzz cut. A few days afterward, a hair-stylist friend I hadn’t seen in several years stopped by the bank. When BJ told me I was looking good, I made a light-hearted mention of my eroding scalp coverage.

“You don’t need it,” she said with conviction and a warm smile. I knew she was lying, and I knew that she knew she was lying, but it was funny and uplifting and struck me as a perfect response to my flirtation with chagrin. Later reflections on her kind, clever line helped me realize she was right.

BJ was referring mostly to my looks, I believe, but I eventually began to think about what she said in a broader sense. Hair doesn’t define us unless we let it. It doesn’t change who we are or affect what’s in our hearts. It doesn’t impact faith, family, health, or anything that really matters. 

So, that’s why every now and then, when I’m tempted to mourn the loss of my hair, I look in the mirror and address the skeptic who is looking back. “Remember,” I say to him, “you don’t need it.”

If we focus too much on imperfections, it distracts from what we can accomplish. Bob Dylan is a good example. My guess is that no one predicted a guy with such a lackluster voice and peculiar demeanor would become a major influence in the music industry.

His guidance counselor probably tried to steer Bob away from what surely would have seemed a disastrous career path. Yet he’s written songs that are known around the world, sold millions of records, and doubtlessly inspired others who don’t fit the traditional mold of entertainers.

Willie Nelson has to be mentioned in the annals of unlikely successes. The first time I came to really appreciate Willie was when I heard, “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.” Until then his nasal tone had struck me as too much even for a country singer. And he didn’t have the movie star looks of an Elvis or the commanding presence of a Johnny Cash.

But when I heard Willie singing that tender song, which he also wrote, I instantly became a fan. “When someday we meet up yonder, we’ll stroll hand in hand again, in a land that knows no parting, blue eyes crying in the rain.”

How he packed such a moving story into so few lines I don’t understand, but every time I hear that soulful tune I’m amazed. And sometimes I think back to his early struggles, a slow road to success because his voice wasn’t smooth as silk and his looks were less than spectacular. Yet somehow, Willie became sort of a national treasure.

It shouldn’t be surprising there are advantages of imperfection. The Apostle Paul addressed that topic from a very personal standpoint. We can only speculate as to what the thorn in his flesh was. (2 Corinthians 12: 7-10) Perhaps it’s left to our imaginations so that we won’t embrace too narrow of an interpretation.

Paul asked God three times to take the thorn away, but God didn’t oblige. He told Paul, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Paul not only accepted God’s decision but came to heartily embrace it. “For when I am weak,” he said, “then I am strong.”

I don’t know what thorns my readers may be dealing with nor how serious they may be. But I know that despite our imperfections, and sometimes because of them, God can use us in His kingdom’s work. As this new year begins, it’s a good time to search for the advantages of imperfection.

And if you feel the urge, you might want to look in the mirror and tell the one who is looking back, “You don’t need it.”

Not long before Christmas, a close friend sent me a column by Patricia Holbrook. Although I wasn’t familiar with the author, the topic caught my attention and her fine writing kept it. She described herself as a recovering perfectionist, a label my pal understands quite well.

In the sixth grade he wrote “Strive for Perfection” on an index card and placed it on his mirror. That short phrase was a guiding principle during childhood and has remained so in the decades since. As he nears the three score and ten mark his accomplishments are many. Countless lives have been enriched through his efforts and he’s still going strong.

Like Ms. Holbrook, however, and the example she used of John Quincy Adams, he has increasingly realized that attaining perfection is unrealistic. While doing our best is a wonderful quality, seeking perfection can be frustrating. Even if our bus stops in Nirvana, as in the poem by Charles Bukowski, our lovely visit in the comforting diner will assuredly be brief. Before we have a second cup of coffee, the driver is likely to announce it’s time to leave.

I’m not sure what prompted my friend to send me the article. Perhaps he thought it would provide inspiration for a column. That’s been a struggle for a while now and troubles me more than it should. During the first four years of writing Joiner’s Corner, I stayed ten columns ahead and had a long list of potential topics. As I approach the five-year mark, however, I’m down to a single spare musing and unsure what lies ahead.  

Depleted inventory is a bit unsettling for someone behind on a plan he once thought essential. So maybe that’s why I received the column and appreciated the lady’s godly perspective. My friend knows that others, including myself, sometimes become frenzied in our quests for perfection.

It might be helpful to remind ourselves there’s only been one perfect man, unless we give credence to some unproven claims. One such story I recall hearing is about a preacher who posed a rhetorical question to his congregation. He asked, “Have any of you ever known a perfect man?”

As people smiled and nodded their heads sidewards, an older fellow in the back stood up. “I have,” said the gray-haired gentleman with conviction. “My wife’s first husband.”

A second claim to perfection is courtesy of a Mac Davis song. The late Stan Gambrell, Vienna’s City Manager, made almost daily trips to Bank of Dooly where I worked. We’d often chat briefly, sometimes on business matters but mostly just exchanging friendly banter as was once common in rural banks. He walked into my office one day singing a tune I’d never heard and thought he had composed.

“Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble, when you’re perfect in every way. I can’t wait to look in the mirror because I get better looking each day. To know me is to love me. I must be a hell of a man. Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble, but I’m doing the best that I can.”

Stan had a gift for coming up with memorable phrases and he wrote several songs that could have been hits. The chorus he was singing that day, while sporting a familiar sly smile, sounded exactly like something he would have penned.

Assuming we discount those two claims of perfection, that leaves only one example for guidance toward a perfect life. Jesus made it clear that effort is important. The Parable of the Talents in Matthew 25: 14-30 conveys a great lesson on doing the best with what we have, regardless of how big or small our resources may be.

The same holds true for every aspect of life. The Widow’s Mite, Luke 21: 1-4, is where Jesus points to a lady who had nothing to spare yet gave all she had. When we give only what we won’t miss, we fall short of the mark.

Perfection, however, is an elusive goal, whether it pertains to work, family, hobbies, or spiritual matters. It’s good to remember what Jesus said in John 10: 10 – “I have come that they might have life and that they might have it more abundantly.” Sometimes when I focus too much on my shortcomings, I like to picture Jesus saying that just to me. Faith, despite our imperfections, offers us the abundant life. It’s not a life without challenges, but when it’s over we’ll no longer be in search of perfection. Those who have claimed it, will by the grace of God have found it.

Don’t be alarmed by the title. Joe Louis’ storyline isn’t expected to last 15 rounds. This is probably my final musing on the great boxer, but I wasn’t quite finished with, “You can run but you can’t hide.” I also found a few other quotes he reportedly made which pack some potent punches. One I especially like is, “Everyone has a plan until they’ve been hit.”

Whether the latter quote should be credited to Louis is debatable. A similar statement was documented as early as 1871 and attributed to Helmuth von Moltke the Elder, a Prussian military strategist. Other notable figures, including Ike Eisenhower, have expressed that same line of thought.

Former heavyweight champion Mike Tyson made a parallel quote in 1987 which was widely reported and often repeated. When asked about an opponent’s strategy that might prove troublesome, Tyson said, “Everybody has a plan until they get punched in the mouth.” People who earn their living between the ropes seem to have a penchant for catchy phrases. Mohammed Ali comes to mind and every professional wrestler who has slammed an opponent with a folding chair.

All of that introductory material is to let you know I have no idea who first expressed something that captured the essence of the quotes we’re perusing today. Their origins may go all the way back to the Garden of Eden.

After the first couple disobeyed God, they tried to hide among the trees He had made for their enjoyment. “Where are you?” God asked, although He already knew. Satan had convinced Adam and Eve that eating the one forbidden fruit would make them like the One who had created it. The plan seemed simple enough and had great appeal. Until they got hit.

Another example is found in the next generation. The apple apparently didn’t fall far from the tree. Cain was jealous of his brother, Able, and killed him, thinking his sin would not be discovered. When God asked Cain where Able was, he said, “I don’t know. Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain thought he could hide. Until he got hit.

In Noah’s day the people were so corrupt God decided to destroy the whole earth and give mankind a fresh start. Noah, however, was a righteous man, so he and his family were spared by following God’s instructions. Building an enormous ark on dry land surely must have subjected him to taunts and ceaseless ridicule. I’ve often wondered how he fared within his own family.

“Seriously, Noah,” his wife may have asked, “do you really need to spend all your time building a monstrosity of a boat with no water in sight?” 

The people went about living however they wanted. They thought everything was fine. Then rain began falling like never before and there were no hills left to climb. They followed a plan of their own choosing, which seemed to be working well. Until they got hit.   

Jonah took a boat toward Tarsus instead of going to Nineveh as God directed. He didn’t like God’s plan, so he came up with his own, then ended up in the belly of a fish for three days and nights. Jonah tried to hide by running away. His plan seemed rather clever. Until he got hit.

I’ll close by mentioning Goliath, a giant Philistine warrior who seemed unstoppable. Yet a boy named David met him in battle and slung a rock which struck him between the eyes. Goliath wasn’t hiding from anyone, but maybe he should have been. He had a plan that looked solid. Until he got hit.

Some things never change, I suppose. Countless people, including myself, tend to make our plans and tailor them to suit our preferences. When life is going well, it’s especially easy to neglect seeking direction from above. It’s tempting to focus more on the here rather than the hereafter.

Christmas is barely over, its joyous celebration of that Bethlehem night still warming our hearts. But Easter is not far away, a time to reflect less on how Jesus came to earth than why. Even among Christians, our ideas about life and faith are quite varied. There are two things, however, perhaps we can all agree on.

You can run but you can’t hide. Everyone has a plan until they get hit.