Reading to LB before bed. This book did not help him fall asleep, but we had a blast.
Benjamin’s Haircut. He did really well. The key, as with everything else, is to keep shoving Cheerios in his mouth.
The other Judas.
I just want to give you a heads up. When you get to heaven, and you’re waiting in line for the all-you-can-eat crab legs, you’re going to introduce yourself to the guy in front of you in line. (Since it’s heaven, and there’s no sin, lines are just an indicator of the most popular dish. And let’s be honest, anything involving cream of mushroom soup will take a back seat to the crab legs.) The guy in line will just be chatting it up, and slip into conversation with you that he is one of the original twelve Apostles.
You are going to be compelled to ask him his name. And unless he is Peter, James, John, Matthew, or Thomas, you are going to need to get your poker face ready to pretend like you remember him being mentioned in the Bible. I’ll default to the fact that my English translation of the scriptures probably spelled their name differently… “Oh, Bartholomew, huh? Yeah, my translation must’ve just called you ‘not Peter’…”
Today I want to warn you of a second problem you might run into. Our crab leg-anticipating friend might turn, look you in the eyes, and say “my name is Judas.”
There’s no reason to panic. You didn’t take a wrong turn on the way to the buffet and somehow end up waiting in line for a side-order of eternal torment. There’s no need to duck if Judas leans in to try and kiss you on the cheek.
There was another Judas in the “top 12.” Talk about getting a bum deal. Every time he is even mentioned in Scripture it says “Judas (not Iscariot).” That’s like introducing myself as Benjamin (not Franklin or Button) each time I talked to someone. Or like a friend of ours whose dad is named “Johnny Cash.” Welcome to the same conversation every time you ever meet someone.
But at least for Johnny its an association with a famous-in-a-good-way person. Having the name Judas in heaven is like wearing a “Hello, my name is Adolph Hitler” sticker at the world’s largest Bar-Mitzvah.
So cut the guy a little slack, and try desperately to think of another conversation you can have with him. He’s tired of pointing people to Luke 6:14-16 and having to highlight that his name shows up right before the more famous Judas.
Oh, and avoid calling him “the other Judas.” After all, I think Iscariot earned exclusive rights to being second in any list of Judases.
Here’s the edited version of Benjamin’s birthday cake experience. I apologize for my use of “yo” at the end of a sentence. I’ll return that phrase to the mid-90s.
Ode to the Changing Table.
Jacq asked me (in her “the answer to this question is ‘yes’” voice) if I would bathe the baby while she did some laundry. The Days Inn bathtub looked easy enough to navigate, and I already knew the answer to the question, so I agreed.
I must not have bathed the baby in a few months. Last time I was in charge of infant cleaning he was a much less mobile child. This time he constantly crawled from one end of the tub to the other. By God’s grace and my right forearm he avoided drowning.
Clean? no. Done bathing due to risk? Yes. I grabbed a towel and draped it over him, but couldn’t get it all the way around because he thought the wiggling game sounded fun. Jacqueline looked up from sorting the laundry and laughed. She didn’t help. She just laughed.
A naked, half-dry, squealing baby in one hand and a full bag of diapers in the other, I waddled toward the bed. I laid him on the ground and frantically tore at the sides of the bag. The guy in charge of packaging over at the Huggies plant must have never tried to get into one of these puppies while his child scampered naked across the hotel carpet.
By the time I flung diapers all over the room opened the bag, LB was 25 feet away, diving head-first into our open luggage. All I needed now was for him to pee in our suitcase. Luckily, I jumped over Jacqueline’s piles of laundry and got to him in time to flop him onto his back and get a diaper at least 3/4 of the way on. Like a calf-roper on steroids, I felt a surge of relief at having avoided serious injury.
I glanced at Jacqueline who was trying unsuccessfully to hide her amusement. I collapsed on the couch and (in my “the answer to this question is ‘ok’” voice) said “He’s all yours.”