Understanding True Blessings

I hear the word "bless" used a lot, to the point where I've become rather annoyed with it. A sneeze is followed by, "God bless you." A common way of saying good-bye is, "Have a blessed day." And we all know that we should count our blessings, and certainly say a blessing before eating a meal.

But when a doctor used the word the other day, it hit me in a totally different way. I was sitting in my hospital room last week when the doc was going over my file from the car accident I was in Feb. 1. I suffered a broken collarbone, a cracked rib, a bruised lung, and a lacerated spleen. All seemed to be going well with my recovery, though, until Feb. 7. A blood clot worked its way through my heart and into my left lung, which became flooded by fluids.

Five days after that episode, the doctor looked at me and said, "You're very blessed that you're not dead." I knew it had been a close call, but the way he said it made it more real. And I found it curious that he didn't use "lucky" or "fortunate" – he said I was "blessed." And that helped me understand exactly what that word means.

Luck and fortune are capricious and impersonal, and I'm not even sure how much of either exists in this world. I don't believe our existence to be a series of random, undirected events. There is a purpose for each of us, and recognizing that helps us to recognize when a blessing comes along. A blessing is a gift, even if it's not what we necessarily want at the time. While not dying was certainly a blessing, I'd say the accident itself was a blessing (in disguise, if I may).

I've had a lot of time to myself these days, and it's helped me refocus on my relationship with God. I'm realizing how much I've been ignoring important things while ripping my hair out over worldly concerns. I keep forgetting He is in control, even when I'm spinning down a highway – especially when I'm spinning out of control, unable to do anything but shout his name and wait for the nightmare to end.

This situation has shown me just how blessed I am. So many people dropped by to visit, gave us food, helped watch and/or chauffeur our children. I was on prayer lists in four continents, and I even had some Lutheran nuns in Arizona praying for me. I could never have imagined so many people caring so much. That is what you call a blessing.

And my faithful wife, Rachel, stayed with me nearly every night in the hospital, tending to my needs and showing me just how committed she is to me.

A true blessing is not merely some random good happening to us; it's a directed action that produces massive spiritual and emotional ramifications. That my body was so damaged was a blessing; that the doctors and nurses were able to preserve my life was a blessing also. Those two blessings are forever intwined, and it's my prayer that they will bear the kind of fruit I never thought possible, fruit that will be a blessing to others. I hope it's as real to them as it has become to me.

Saints in the Super Bowl; or, It's Snowing in Hell (or New Orleans, Same Thing)

So the Saints, the team that used to be the epitome of NFL ineptitude, are going to the Super Bowl, thanks partly to some more Brett Favre "magic" in an NFC championship game. For a kid who spent nine of my formative years in Louisiana – albeit in the north part, a world away from N'awlins – who was quite familiar with the grocery bag-headed shame of Saints fans and the inability of them to win in the playoffs the few times they made it there, this is a stunning development.

This is almost like the Cubs winning the World Series, except that's actually been done before. So this is more like Paris Hilton grasping the Pythagorean theorem, or Uncle Kracker putting out a song that doesn't make me want to rip out my eyeballs, or Mark May making a valid point, or Miley Cyrus winning an Oscar, or Phil Fulmer passing on the buffet, or a Hollywood marriage lasting 50 years. Heck, four years ago the Saints were playing their "home" games in San Antonio and New York. Plus, they're the Saints. When they reached the NFC title game three years ago, that figured to be the zenith of their existence.

This is the team that normally turned in the kind of performance that once caused former coach Jim Mora to go off like this. Losing was in their DNA, and it kind of fit with the city that's long been the rectum of the South (for the record, Jackson, Miss., is the armpit). This was a team the freaks could embrace. They were destined to be losers for life.

Then Sean Payton came to town, and then Drew Brees, and voîla, a real offense. Then they went 8-8 last year, and oh yeah, it's the Saints. Duh. So I sure as heck didn't see this coming, and it still doesn't make sense.

I've been hearing and reading the phrase "WHO DAT!" countless times over the past week, which means the next person that says it will likely receive an envelope full of anthrax from yours truly (just a joke, Mr. FBI agent!). But lots of my Louisiana friends are in a state of euphoria – and probably a state of extreme drunkenness – and I am happy for them. And I'm happy for the Saints, a team that I used to hate for reasons I now can't recall. I'm all about a team from the deep South representin'.

Following the game, Saints running back Reggie Bush said of the celebrating fans, "Hopefully, they won't destroy this place." Hopefully not, but I wouldn't be surprised if a few snowflakes fell in the Crescent City. It'd make about as much sense as the Saints going to the Super Bowl.

Drew metro

Redneck Toys; or, Getting Unstuck

Sometimes we rednecks just want an excuse to play with our toys. Which explains the picture here. My father, seated in his tractor, and David, my Aunt Marie's husband, decided this would be the best way to pull a golf cart (upper left corner of picture)

out of the mud on my grandparents' back 40 yesterday. My daughter and a cousin got that stuck, and as you can see, my dad got stuck trying to get them unstuck. Hilarity ensued.

So my cousin Kelly and I mosey down and promptly remove the golf cart from the mud in a matter of minutes. Several hours later – OK, maybe two hours – and after many failed attempts, we finally free the tractor of its muddy moorings.

As Kelly and I noted, if they'd just called us in the first place, we could've gotten the golf cart out ourselves and saved them the grief of the tractor being stuck. But I'm not really sure Dad and David minded so much. When Dad finally backed it out of the ruts, David let out a "Whoooooo!"

Hey, toys are fun.

Today's Redneck Thought: "What do you call a bunch of tractors sitting outside a McDonald's in Arkansas? Senior prom."

Don't Flaunt It; or, Redneck Fail

There's nothing wrong with being a redneck – in fact, I'm proud to be one – but I don't see the need to always flaunt it. And if you're going to flaunt it, at least do it tastefully, if that's possible.

I was driving up Highway 45 this afternoon when I passed a nice white minivan. And on the trunk were a pair of mudflap girl stickers. You know the ones I'm talking about, the kind usually found on the mud flaps of a big rig. I'm going to assume the guy has kids, because, you know, he was driving a minivan. Epic Parenting Fail.

Speaking of Epic Parenting Fails, here's one. And another one. And then there's that sign in Birmingham for a local "caferteria." And then there are people who hang fake bull testicles from their trailer hitch. And then there are people who paint their cars to look like a stock car. And then there are those Carl Hogan Automotive commercials. And then there's the mullet. And then there's Billy Ray Cyrus. Might as well hang a sign around your neck that says, "Howdy, I'm just a dumb ol' redneck! Shoot!"

So what I'm saying is, rednecks can be dignified. We can have class. We don't have to fulfill all the negative stereotypes. So next time, Mr. Minivan, try one of those "My Child Is An Honor Student" bumper stickers. They're annoying, sure, but at least they doesn't make me want to call social services on you.

Today's Redneck Thought: "Son, don't pistol whip your sister." My wife, to our 5-year-old son

A Tight Spot; or, Just a Little Mud

See this picture here? I captured it in West Point last week on the way home from Starkville. Yes, that is a huge chunk of grass sticking out of the top. I can only imagine what this guy did. I thought about asking him when he pulled into a gas station, but then I chickened out.

So I tried to think what sort of situation he could possibly have gotten into. It looks like he rolled the thing, but I saw no damage to the vehicle. The placement and pattern of the mud splatter baffle me. Maybe a sod truck dropped part of his load as the guy drove past him.

This is one of those "write your own caption" pictures, I guess. And it reminds me how rednecks tend to find themselves in odd predicaments. Like a Charlie Daniels song, or like the time I got married – just kidding, wifey! – or like the time me and three friends slept in the front of a Ford Ranger, instead of our tent, because we thought we heard wild hogs running close by.

I mean, aren't some of the best Southern stories about being in a pickle? Like Jerry Clower and the coon huntin' story. Or Ron White getting literally thrown out of a bar in New York. We just have a knack for getting in a "tight spot," to quote Ulysses Everett McGill.

But as long as you come out the other side with no more than a little mud on you, I guess you're OK.

I Hate Walmart; or, No Smiley Face Here

I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but I hate Walmart. I loathe going there, and of course, I go all the time. It's like they've got a gun to my head. "Oh yeah, where else you gonna shop on your budget? Kroger? Ha! That's for rich people, folks who drive Dodge Magnums."

It might have something to do with the fact that I worked at a Walmart the summer after my senior year of high school. I thoroughly did not enjoy it. Checking out 50 jars of baby food at a time, installing toilet paper dispensers, "zoning" – I hated it, plus it was interfering with my baseball. I finally called in "sick" one day because I knew it was probably going to be my last baseball game, ever. It was – an all-star tournament in Monroe, La. I never went back to work at that joint.

Later on, as I was trying to save money for getting married, I worked about a month at a Sam's Club in St. Louis. That much time in a walk-in freezer messes with a man's brain (and sanity).

Exacerbating my misery was incompetent management, but that's another rant for another day. The only thing I gained from those experiences was a greater appreciation for the college degree I eventually earned. Nothing wrong with working at Walmart, but it ain't for me. I'd rather dig ditches or be a kamikaze pilot.

Is it anti-American of me to hate Walmart? I'm all for capitalism, but there's such a thing as being too ubiquitous (see: Notre Dame football, Ryan Seacrest, Chris Berman). And Walmart just has no personality. I mean, they had to steal the (ubiquitous) smiley face, which they didn't even come up with. It's a dull, depressing place to me. It's where Collin Raye's subject in "Little Rock" went to start over while rehabbing.

This brings me to a Web site I came across earlier today. The only fun thing about going to Walmart is the, um, scenery. Especially late, late at night. The Web site, www.peopleofwalmart.com, is devoted to documenting the odd assortment of folks who darken Walmart's automatic doors. Frightening stuff.

So I'm with my wife. We need a Target here.