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Archive for the category “humor”

Freshly Ground Heaven

COFFEE (n.) liquid that smells like freshly ground heaven.
PROCAFFEINATING (n.) the tendency to not starting anything until you’ve had a cup of coffee.
DEPRESSO (n.) the feeling you get when you run out of coffee.

I like coffee. A lot. Just black and hot. None of that iced coffee or latte stuff for me. Give me a deep, dark roast you can smell through thick walls. No sugar, no milk, just freshly brewed as coffee is supposed to be. (Latte, by the way, is Italian and means, “You paid too much for that coffee.”)

My only real exception to black coffee is Cuban coffee. It’s a liquid shot of dynamite served in tiny cups to keep you from exploding. Gloria Estefan describes Cuban coffee as, “Very powerful, very sweet, and a little dangerous — just like the people who drink it.”

My Grandpa on my Mom’s side was Swedish. My memories of him are few, but I do remember he loved coffee. His son, my Uncle Paul, insists my love of coffee is due to the Swedish blood running thick through my veins. It may be true. I do suffer from “depresso.”

I’ve never really concerned myself with any “how coffee is made” details. I’m just glad that after watching his goats get all excited from eating coffee berries, the 9th century Ethiopian goat-herder decided to smash some up and run hot water through them. The next thing you know, we’re drinking over 500 billion cups of coffee every year, employing over 25 million people, supporting a $100 billion annual industry (Business Insider), and offering PhD’s in coffee studies.

Not only that, but depending upon which scientific study you read, coffee is shown to decrease the risk of Alzheimer’s, dementia, Parkinson’s, anemia and even heart disease. On the other hand, a different study suggests coffee increases the risk of anemia and heart disease. It seems then, depending upon the genes God gave you, coffee can either be your medicine or poison. Guess you’ll have to figure that one out for yourself.

I couldn’t help but once again consider how incredibly amazing, creative, and full of potential God made us. When He created us in His image (Genesis 1:26), it was the most unique, creative, amazing, and loving thing in all of creation. God blesses us with his very own “personal touch,” creating us to resemble Him. That means we can reason and choose and possess unbelievable potential, grace, and love. “Anytime someone invents a machine, writes a book, paints a landscape, enjoys a symphony, calculates a sum, or names a pet, he or she is proclaiming the fact that we are made in God’s image” (gotquestions.org).

Just consider what man has done with the coffee bean. And with that, I’m going to fix another cup. After all, you may only need one cup of coffee to get you going, but just to be safe, I’ll have another.

Award Winning Book

Fun summer reading. “Monkeys In My Coconut Tree” by Ed Thompson, is a compilation of fun, easy-to-read stories of fun, family, and faith. It was a Reader’s Favorite 2016 Silver Medal Winner. So come on, check it out. Read some of the reviews and download your copy by clicking HERE. (Also available at Amazon.com, iTunes and others.)

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Zealots and Trolls

DT at CWS tunner

Sports fans are an interesting breed.

On one hand you have, of course, the “fanatic” or “zealot”, whom The Free Dictionary defines as “a person marked or motivated by an extreme, unreasoning enthusiasm.” The opposite of a fanatic, according to Yahoo! Answers, is the “troll.” A troll or “hater” as they are often referred, is someone who opposes what you think.

Things can get real interesting when a zealot and troll sit next to each other in the stands.

I’ve just returned from Omaha, Nebraska, where I had the thrill of watching my son compete in the 2015 College World Series. David was six-years-old when he first told me he dreamed of playing in Omaha. Seeing his dream (and mine) come true was a beautiful, amazing experience.

As our team took the field, I was talking with another dad who was also experiencing dreams coming true. “There are over 300 Division 1 baseball teams,” he explained quite excited, “which means with 35-man rosters, there are roughly 10,500 student athletes playing baseball.” I nodded my head in agreement giving him the impression I was able to multiply large numbers in my head.

“Eight teams get to Omaha,” he continued, “meaning out of 10,500, less than 300 kids get to experience this.” Once again I nodded confidently in agreement. But then he asked, “Do you know what percentage that is?” He then just looked at me and waited as if my brain was somehow capable of figuring out his complex mathematical equation.

He must have noticed the blood rushing out of my head as I was trying to do math and mercifully volunteered the answer: “Roughly 2.6 percent.” “Yes, that sounds about right,” I said, stomping my foot trying to get the blood flowing back to my brain. “Think about it,” he insisted, less than 3% of all college baseball players ever get here. This is amazingly special.”

Despite my horrible math skills, I’ve thought a lot about that brief conversation. It was indeed “amazingly special” to get to Omaha. And when you consider the winner of the College World Series represents fewer than half of one percent (0.33%) of all division one baseball players (I figured that out all by myself), you realize how truly incredible it is to win this, or any other championship.

Which brings me back to the fanatics and trolls. You see, most are so focused on the win or the loss, they never take into consideration the incredible journey the athlete must take just to get into a position to win or lose. All that matters is for “their” team to finish in that very elusive half of one percent.

My wife and kids have urged me to not look at social media – the playground for zealots and trolls. For the most part, I have complied. But sometimes, I just have to look. And so it was after our team lost I ignored the warning bells and viewed a few social media posts.

And there they were. The zealots and trolls filling page after page with their unbridled vitriol. The fanatics chimed in on all the mistakes made which lost “us” the championship and the trolls basically suggested blind lame dogs would have beaten “our” team.

“It’s okay,” as my son has said to me more than once. “It doesn’t matter what they say or think.” In fact, like most athletes, he seems to have a basic understanding of the zealots and trolls. “They’re just fans,” he says a bit matter-of-fact. “They cheer and they boo. But they don’t understand.”

Then he looked at me and said, “But you understand, Dad.”

Indeed I do. I know all about the countless hours he spends to hone his skills when no one is looking. I know about his terrible disappointment after a poor performance and his heartbreak with a loss. I understand how hard he has worked to fight back from injuries and overcome way too many surgeries and hospital stays. And I certainly know all the sacrifices we have made as a family to help him get where he is today. Yes, I do understand.

So go ahead with your cheers and boos all you zealots and trolls. We understand.

Sheet Trouble

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My wife has the flu. So last night she suggested I may want to sleep in the guest bedroom. “The only thing is,” she explained, “you’ll need to put sheets on the bed.” She then drew me a map as to where to find the sheets in the hall closet, took some NyQuil, and went to sleep.

Soon after I found myself standing beside the guest bed trying to determine how to put the sheet with the curved elastic corners onto the mattress. “I have a college degree,” I said to myself trying to figure out which side of the sheet was the length and which side was the width.

I managed to get one curvy corner over one side of the mattress on the foot of the bed and then stretched the other curvy corner to the top of the bed only to have the bottom side pop off. Undeterred, I put the top side on and then stretched it down to the bottom only to have the top side pop off. “I must be using the wrong side,” I told myself. So using my suspect math skills, I spun the sheet by a quarter and tried again. Same thing.

I stared at the sheet looking for instructions or at least arrows pointing in the direction the sheet is supposed to go. Talk about a manufacturing oversight. I spun that lousy piece of sheet on the bed at least 15 different times trying to find the right configuration but the closest I ever came was to get three corners. That’s when it occurred to me I must be using the wrong sized sheet.

I followed my map back to the closet, pulled out a new sheet with elastic corners and tried again. This time, I managed to get all four corners of the sheet onto the mattress even though the elastic corners were desperately searching for some crevice they could cling to. When I laid down, everything seemed to work when suddenly, all four corners simultaneously popped off and enveloped me like a giant cocoon.

I was laying in my white cocoon considering checking into a nearby hotel, when I realized I didn’t care if the lousy bed sheet was on correctly or not. After all, I spent my entire freshman year of college without bedsheets and was certain I could manage until my wife got over the flu. Besides, the cocoon was perfectly comfortable and even eliminated my need to use the other sheet in the set – the one without the elastic corners.

Engulfed in my soft cocoon, I started thinking that perhaps I had stumbled onto something that would be perfect for the “As Seen On TV” section at Walgreens. “Why pay for two sheets when all you need is one?” would be my slogan. Then, in my very expensive Super Bowl ads, you’d see happy people jumping into their beds in slow motion only to be lusciously swallowed up in fluffy white cocoons of cotton on top of bare mattress pads.

I must admit it was rather gratifying knowing I could help millions of men who would never get their elastic cornered sheets to stay on without staple guns. With that happy thought, I pulled a pillow into my cocoon, drew a soft blanket over the top, and fell asleep. Solving problems for millions of men, after all, is exhausting.

A Colorblind Life

Most colorblind people cannot see the image above.

Most colorblind people cannot see the image above.

I needed a few things at Office Depot and was looking over the selections when a stranger walked up to me with a pair of headphones in his hand. He politely said, “Excuse me, I hate to bother you, but I’m trying to buy these for my daughter. Could you tell me what color these are?” He lifted them up for me to see as he added, “I’m colorblind.”

What he obviously did not know is that I am also colorblind. So when he lifted the headphones up for my eyes to see, I had absolutely no idea what color they were. The only thing I knew for certain was they weren’t plaid.

Undeterred, however, I leaned over, took a good look and said, “I believe they are blue.” The man smiled, said, “Thank you,” and went on to explain his daughter liked blue but disliked purple. He was turning around to leave when I added, “I suppose I should tell you that I, too, am colorblind.”

There was a special moment as four colorblind eyes met. Through the fog of unknown shades of color, we instantly bonded in a world where, without help, neither one of us can buy ripe bananas.

We just stood there, blinking, reflecting on the countless times we had asked total strangers, “What color is this?”

He finally broke the awkward silence and asked, “Can you see stop lights?” I stood tall and replied with a confident, “Nope.” That’s right; think about that the next time you pull up to a stop light. Especially if I, or my X chromosome deficient friend, is in the car coming the other direction.

My colorblindness was discovered in the first grade. My parents sent me to a private school run by a sweet Lutheran German lady who could bend horseshoes with her bare hands. Corporal punishment was the behavioral modification technique of choice and apparently, I required regular modification. When she said, “Take out the green crayon and color the grass,” she meant it. It wasn’t until my third or fourth behavioral modification session that it began to dawn on the Lutheran that perhaps I wasn’t intentionally coloring the grass red.

Colorblindness is classified as a “mild handicap,” and no matter how much you argue it doesn’t qualify for a handicap sticker. About 8% of the male population is colorblind and, to the relief of the fashion world, it is rare for women to have faulty retinal cones causing colorblindness.

We do, in fact, see colors. Being colorblind means you’re not able to perceive the differences. It’s really no big deal unless you want to be a doctor, pilot, police officer, painter, electrician, fire fighter, or buy ripe fruit.

It’s no surprise then, that I honestly don’t care what color something is. It just doesn’t factor in. My wife could paint our entire house lime-green (which I’m told is not a good house color) and it wouldn’t bother me in the least. In fact, when I first started dating the pretty girl who is now my wife, she was the first one to inform me that the nice pair of khaki pants I bought in college were, in fact, lime green.

Standing in the Office Depot aisle with my new colorblind friend, we shared a few laughs about coping in our color-coordinated world — things like trying to match dress socks or a necktie with a suit. Watching me attempt either of those things is a source of great entertainment for my kids.

About this time an Office Depot clerk came around so my new friend politely asked, “Excuse me, but what color are these?” The clerk took a quick glance, gave us a strange look and said, “bright purple.” I watched as the clerk helped locate a pair of blue headphones and couldn’t help but smile. He was wearing khaki pants, just like the ones I bought in college.

Elliptical Gym Confusion

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My daughter is getting married soon, so I thought it would be a good idea to get in better shape. After all, when the pastor asks, “Who gives this woman to be married to this man,” I don’t want to be doubled over trying to catch my breath after walking her down the aisle.

I joined a little neighborhood gym offering month-to-month memberships which seemed like a good idea. It had been a long time since I had been in a gym with the purpose of actually using it, so I had my doubts about lasting even the first month. The other good thing was that this gym is real close to a Cuban bakery so I would be able to reward myself with a guava pastry after my vigorous workouts.

Like most gyms, there is a row of treadmills the size of Mini Coopers perfectly positioned so if one person falls off to the side, he or she will knock everyone else in the row over like giant dominoes. I stepped up to the NASA built console and began pushing buttons waiting for something to happen. After 15 minutes, my treadmill was still motionless, but I had given my index finger a hearty workout. I wondered if that constituted a sufficient workout deserving of a pastry.

While I was mulling this over, I noticed a lonely elliptical machine which seemed to have a minimal array of buttons and blinking lights. I got off the treadmill, sucked in my belly as I walked past some nicely shaped leotards about half my age, and strolled over to the lonely machine.

I really had no idea what “elliptical” meant and made a mental note to look it up when I got home. Remembering I constantly misplace my mental notes, I used my cellphone and called myself and left a message. “Hello Ed, this is Ed. What’s up? Listen, I’m at the gym and was wondering if you could find out what “elliptical” means when you get home. Thanks. I hope you’re having a good day. Talk to you later.” I also left my cell number so I could call myself back.

I figured out the elliptical machine console and spent the next half hour or so working up a legitimate and healthy sweat. I was so pleased with my workout, in fact, I decided to bypass my well deserved Cuban pastry reward. I made a mental note to have an extra stack of pancakes for breakfast.

When I got home, I checked my messages and was surprised to see I had missed a call from myself. The message was to find out what “elliptical” meant so I could have a better understanding of what I was subjecting my body to during those long, rhythmic, circular, oval shaped motions on that machine.

Dictionary.com explained that elliptical means, “pertaining to or having the form of an ellipse,” which of course was no help at all. A secondary definition says it means, “tending to be ambiguous, cryptic, or obscure” of which I certainly agreed.

Obviously a look at the word, “ellipse” would clear up the matter. Here is the actual definition of “ellipse” from Dictionary.com: “a plane curve such that the sums of the distances of each point in its periphery from two fixed points, the foci, are equal. It is a conic section formed by the intersection of a right circular cone by a plane that cuts the axis and the surface of the cone. Typical equation: (x 2 / a 2 ) + (y 2 / b 2 ) = 1. If a = b the ellipse is a circle.”

After reading the definition, I had to take a nap.

The next day at the gym, I stopped at the front desk as I glanced at the elliptical machine with a wary eye. I was certain the nice young man could help so I asked him if he could verify that “a = b” on that machine or if, at least, the foci were equal.

He looked up at me with a blank stare and pleasant smile and after a long pause said, “Hola, puedo ayudarle?”

I called myself and left a message to learn Spanish.

Making Better People

I have a vivid memory of my oldest son, Matt, walking off his high school football field after his final game. I wrote about it in “Surviving the End of High School Athletics” describing the slow, agonizing walk off the field. Shoulders were slouched giving way to heavy sobs. And Matt wasn’t doing much better, either.iF7D45B52-C766-470B-9882-B5CF871AB46D-1

Another powerful memory was after my dad died. The time had come to clean out his belongings from dressers and closets. I was standing in Dad’s closet overcome with emotion when Matt quietly put his strong arms around me, buried his head in my shoulder, and cried with me.

There was the time he chased a young man down the street who showed up to visit his little sister. Matt was just goofing around, but it was evident the young man didn’t know that by the cloud of dust his legs and feet were leaving as he took off down the street never to return. Guarding, protecting, and loving his little sister has, and always will be, a top priority.

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Dropping Matt off his first year in college in Pennsylvania revealed the inseparable bond he has with David, his six-year-the younger little brother. Saying goodbye was like they were both having an arm pulled off. I first became aware how close they were when one of David’s school assignments was to write about his hero. I was accustomed to being the “hero” and didn’t quite know what to think when David’s assignment revealed it was actually Matt. The two of them still have an awful time saying goodbye to each other.

054 too hard to say goodbye

Of course, I also remember Matt’s failed attempt at “neighborhood pool hopping.” He and two high school buddies decided it would be a lot of fun to video each other hopping fences and jumping into unsuspecting neighbor’s pools. It was a lot of fun until police cars and even a police helicopter showed up with sirens blaring. Apparently it never crossed their minds that some terrified homeowner may have misconstrued three screaming teenagers’ fun for an Al-Qaeda training exercise. Hiding out at a friend’s house until the heat cooled off was just part of their unforgettable summer afternoon.

August 2nd is Matt’s birthday. It’s hard to believe someone as young as I am has a 27-year-old-son, but it’s true. He married one of Miami’s most wonderful and beautiful girls and a career move has taken them to California. We text and phone and Skype quite a bit, but I still miss them terribly.

One of the things I told Matt when he got to the age — when a girlfriend could turn into fiancé — was to make certain she brought out the best in him and he brought out the best in her. “Do you make each other better?” I often asked. When he met Laura, I didn’t need to ask. It was obvious for all to see and their wedding was one of the great days in my life, too.

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God has blessed me with a wonderful family. We’re so far from perfect that even the hint of such a thing is laughable. But at the end of the day, the one thing that has bound us together is right from God’s Word. 1 Peter 4:8 says, “Most important of all, continue to show deep love for each other, for love covers a multitude of sins.”

Thinking back over Matt’s 27 years swells my heart with pride and joy. It is a very rewarding and beautiful thing to realize your child makes you a better person. Thanks, Matty.  I love you, son!

Happy birthday.

Pops

Enjoying Life

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Our dog, Bentley, has fallen deeply in love with my wife, Jenn. He has also become rather protective of her. I found this out the hard way when I leaned over to give Jenn a kiss while Bentley was lying beside her. Instead of the nice soft embrace of my wife’s lips, I got a face full of Bentley, who with amazing quickness and agility, sprang between my face and hers and pushed me away with his long, wet nose.

I jumped back with a start and stared at this crazy dog who was now suffocating my laughing wife under his protective paws. Not one to easily give up when it comes to getting a kiss from my wife, I leaned over once again searching for her lips. This time, Bentley started barking and positioned his long body completely over Jenn’s head.

By this time, Jenn was laughing hysterically and Bentley-the-Protector was barking madly to keep me away. The battle was on. Man versus beast. Passion versus protection. Crazy dog versus desperate husband wanting a kiss.

I cautiously circled the sofa. Bentley stared at me with his big, black eyes with Jenn safely secured under his paws. Tail wagging, he watched my every move. When the moment was just right, I jumped in, scooped Bentley up in my arms, ran the yapping dog into the other room with the tile floor. I put the frantic dog on the tile floor, held him back from running, and took off for the sofa to retrieve my kiss. As I ran toward Jenn, I could here the clatter of Bentley’s toenails flailing wildly on the tile floor desperately trying to get traction so he could beat me to the couch. His spinning legs gave me just enough time to race back to Jenn and win my kiss.

Man had won over beast once again.

Oh, the simple pleasures of life. Playing with a dog. Working hard for a kiss. Laughter. The list of ways to enjoy life is truly endless.

I am amazed by the entire concept of joy. It’s interesting, for example, that “joy” is both a noun and a verb. My dictionary defines joy—the noun—as, “intense and especially ecstatic or exultant happiness.” Joy—the verb—is defined as, “to take great pleasure; rejoice” as well as, “to fill with ecstatic happiness, pleasure, or satisfaction.”

I recently heard a wonderful message on creation. I was enthralled when the pastor suggested that God may have “sung” the world into existence. Of course, we have no idea if this is the case, but I love that imagery. Just imagine the beauty and joy of God’s voice singing as he creates stars, galaxies, and you and me…into existence.

Like love, joy is a part of God’s very essence. “God is love” as much as “God is joy.” The two are inseparable. The Tyndale Illustrated Bible Dictionary explains that joy is a “quality, and not simply an emotion, grounded upon God himself and indeed derived from Him.” Perhaps that is why famed author and professor, C.S. Lewis, described his conversion and ultimate belief in Christ, by simply saying, “joy.”

I have a friend who is battling cancer. Through emails, he keeps me up-to-date on what is going on through the various stages of treatment. He has endured many surgeries, medications with terrible side effects, long hospital stays, difficult setbacks, and endless doctor visits. Watching him fight this terrible disease is a reminder that none of us are immune from trials, sorrows, disappointments, and frustrations. “What a blessing,” he says, “that I have a basis for which I can experience God’s love, joy, and peace regardless of my situation.”

The famous preacher, Charles H. Spurgeon once said, “When you speak of heaven, let your face light up with heavenly gleam. Let your eyes shine with reflected glory. And when you speak of hell—well, then your usual face will do.”

So, here’s hoping more and more faces “light up with a heavenly gleam.” After all, there are far too many walking around with their “usual face.”

Life of an Athlete’s Parent

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The late George Carlin had a wonderful routine about the differences between football and baseball. “The objectives of the two games are totally different,” he explained. “In football,” Carlin said in a tough military voice, “the object is for the quarterback, otherwise known as the field general, to be on target with his aerial assault riddling the defense by hitting his receivers with deadly accuracy in spite of the blitz even if he has to use the shotgun.” Carlin then switched to a much softer, kinder voice and said, “In baseball, the object is to go home and to be safe. I hope I’ll be safe at home.”

At a recent University of Miami game, I was talking to a few other parents of athletes about what it’s like to watch our kids perform “on the public collegiate stage.” We sit in the stands amongst emotional fans and can’t help but overhear both praise and disparagement spewing from strangers’ lips. At any particular moment, your child is either great or terrible. “There doesn’t seem to be much middle ground” was an agreed upon statement. Sometimes, we wish we could just grab up our kids and like Carlin said, “go home and be safe.”

Of course, our young athletes would have nothing to do with that. They are competitors and something deep inside them drives them. They are always their own biggest critic; demanding more of themselves than any unreasonable fan. No one is more disappointed with a poor performance than the competitor his or her self. And while we parents sometimes wish we could whisk our children home to safety, the truth is, we’ll stand in the fire with them. We fully understand that all too often, the only encouragement they hear, is from mom and dad.

As I watched the Olympics this year, I felt a new kinship with the parents of those amazing athletes. I could appreciate the tremendous sacrifice both in time and money that was invested to help their child get to this incredible pinnacle. I could better understand their sleepless nights as they worried, consoled, and encouraged. And when one of the olympians would falter after all those years of training and sacrifice and their dreams slipped away in an instant, I could imagine the tearful meeting with a mom and dad whose hearts were equally broken. I wondered how many said the same words I have repeated more than once knowing full well their answer, “You only have two choices: quit or persevere.”

The other side of that coin is equally emotional. I truly understand the expression of being so proud “your buttons might pop off.” Few things are more exhilarating or fill us with more pride than the achievements of our kids. In those moments we know it’s been worth every sacrifice and every struggle and we’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. Lou Holtz added some excellent insight when he said, “You’re never as good as everyone tells you when you win, and you’re never as bad as they say you are when you lose.”

So we parents sit in the stands running the gamut of emotions right along with our children. We disregard critics who callously offer opinions with little understanding of what is really taking place, how hard they are working, and how badly they want to succeed. Rather, we welcome the caring eyes and embraces from those who truly understand the struggle. We watch the body language of our kids, read their faces, and pray for wisdom as to how best to respond whether they succeed or fail. Then we pray some more.

It’s not easy being the parent of an athlete. But we wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Thompson Family Christmas Letter 2013

Jenn and I will be spending this Christmas somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. I’ll admit that as a hobby, I like to study quantum physics because like you, I think discrete, indivisible units of energy are just fun. But I still can’t figure out how we leave from Los Angeles on December 24th and arrive in Fiji on the 26th…since the flight is only 12 hours long. While I try to figure it out, here’s a quick family update:

ABBY: The reason we’re missing Christmas this year is because of Abby. She graduated from FSU, moved back home, looked around…and quickly signed up as an au pair and moved to Australia. She is the nanny for two cute little Aussies and appears to be having the time of her life. Unfortunately, she has completely disregarded my orders: “Do not speak to or even look at any Australian men.” Which reminds me, if you have any good mafia connections Down Under, please let me know. I may need to make a phone call.

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Fortunately, her work visa mandates she return to her daddy before a full year has passed. I have already heard rumors, however, that she may want to return to the land of cricket and rugby matches, which reminds me; if you have any good mafia connections here in the U.S., let me know. I may need to make a phone call.

Abby has always wanted to see the world and she is certainly doing just that. We will be expanding her world a bit more with a quick trip to the Great Barrier Reef while there. I have always hoped, you see, to come face-to-face with a hungry Great White Shark while snorkeling.

We can’t help but wonder what the Lord has in store for Abby. And while the A&E Network may not like it, we really do want God’s clear guidance and to Seek His will in all you do, and He will show you which path to take (Proverbs 3:5,6).

DAVID: If I had to do college over again, I’d be a Division 1 athlete like David. The nice people at the University of Miami sign him up for classes, get him his books, and even pay for his education. It’s really nice. All he has to do is get good grades and hit a few home runs. How easy is that?

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Of course, Dave has complicated a few things. His first day of college as a freshman was spent in the hospital getting labrum surgery on his throwing shoulder. He enjoyed that experience so much that as soon as baseball season ended, he had a second surgery to “clean things up.” So, for the second straight year, he was not able to play football. The jury is still out regarding his future as a Hurricane quarterback.

On the baseball field, however, he managed to lead his team in RBI, home runs, and a few other categories. His hard work resulted in being named a 2013 Freshman All-American, Louisville Regional All-Tournament Team, and UM’s Rookie of the Year. The new baseball season starts in mid-February and our third baseman tells us his shoulder (finally) feels, “fantastico.” We’re praying for a healthy season.

A 2013 highlight for David was traveling to Cuba on a LOGOI mission trip in December. He loves sharing his testimony, providing much needed gifts of baseball equipment, and seeing the hope and joy only Jesus can bring. He’s been invited to travel back in July and possibly play in a baseball tournament with a Cuban team. Now that would be fun!

MATT & LAURA: Life in Silicon Valley is amazingly scenic, active, and much better looking since Matt and Laura are making their home in San Jose. The only issue is, they are not living next door to me in Miami which I thought was part of the dowry. While I know they miss family and friends in their hometown, they have made close friends, are part of a great church, and seem to have a constant flow of out-of-town visitors.

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They also get offered new job opportunities every other week. As I write this letter, Matt is a very creative marketing executive with a well respected marketing firm working with some big name-brands and clients. Laura is with a large corporate travel agency. By the time you receive this, however, all that may have changed. It must be nice to be young, talented, and good looking. And despite living on the left-coast, they are somehow surviving both global-warming and Obamacare. They have good Republican roots.

We were able to spend a wonderful Thanksgiving week with them, meet some of their good friends, and check out their new rental house. We also were able to experience life with their large German Short-Hair Pointer who likes to eat rocks and thinks he’s a lap dog.

Business meetings, weddings, holidays, and hopefully a few UM baseball games will keep bringing us together for short visits. They always remind us of how much we love being together. We’re very proud of how they are making their own way in this big world and how much they want their lives to honor Christ. Big things are always just around the corner for them making life exciting and keeping them (and us) on our knees.

ED & JENN: To help us avoid the quiet empty-nester feeling most couples experience when their children move out, Abby left her dog Bentley with us as she galavants around Australia. So, Bentley, who happens to be the world’s largest miniature Dachshund, barks at anything that moves, breathes, or stands still. We have to attend a Miami Marlin’s baseball game to get some peace and quiet.

ImageJenn completed an unheard of re-building project at Westminster Christian: demolishing and then erecting a brand new, state-of-the-art elementary school in one-year. The new facility is beautiful and we all marvel at Jenn’s talent and ability. A few UM football and baseball players have also been able to experience some of her culinary skills. And while we wonder if cookies and cakes violate some NCAA rule, we love getting to know these Hurricanes. It gives us great encouragement about the next generation.

With the exception of game days, you’ll find me busy at LOGOI. In 2014 we’ll be talking a lot about our Five Dollar National Missionaries scattered all over the Spanish world. We have some 7,500 of them at this point but, Lord willing, have room for many thousands more. And yes, it really does cost just $5 per month to support one of our national missionaries. I just may ask you to help spread the word, so…cuidado. And by the way, a fun way to stay connected is right here on BlogEd, so come on, just click that little “follow” button.

There is a short video on the homepage of our LOGOI website called, “The Christmas Scale.” I’ve heard it’s been around for a while, but it was new to me. The caption reads, “It’s hard to believe that the greatest message the world will ever hear is contained in one simple scale.” If you haven’t seen it, it’s worth taking a couple minutes and checking it out. It beautifully says exactly what all us Thompson’s want to say: Joy to the World, the Lord has come!

Merry Christmas,

The Thompsons

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