Think fast!

     In the parking lot of Michael's yesterday, a young girl carrying a book approached me. I stopped to see what she had to say. Smiling real big, she said she'd like to invite me to church Sunday. I responded by telling her I'd be attending my own church on Sunday. She asked me which one, and I told her. I asked which church she belonged to, and she pulled back her lapel to show a badge with the words, Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, which indicated our beliefs differ. We exchanged a few more niceties and then went our separate ways.

    Last night I thought back to that encounter and kicked myself in the behind, because I always think of what I should have said long after the opportunity has gone by. I am just like Meg Ryan's character, Kathleen Kelly, in one of my favorite old movies, You've Got Mail. Kathleen could never think of the words she needed to say to her bookstore rival and suitor, Joe Foxx, until the conversation had ended, and it was too late. I suffer from the same malfunction.

    I wish I had invited the Bible-toting girl to my church on Sunday, but I did not think to do so. I wish I could think fast on my feet like some other people I know. Once in a while I can, but in this instance, I totally dropped the ball.

    If we had continued talking, she might have come to my church .. we might have become friends ...

Oh, the perils of parking lots

        One of the hindrances of growing older is not being able to find your car in the parking lot. One day when I noticed an older woman clearly searching for her vehicle in a crowded lot, I kindly offered to help. She responded by telling me she could find her car on her own. 

A more uplifting story about losing one's car comes from a couple of my older friends who sometimes drive an old beat-up blue Impala, and at other times, a slightly newer and spiffier red Caddy. On one of their weekday shopping excursions, they decided to drive their Sunday car, the Caddy, instead of the beat-up relic. 

Short in stature; tall in brilliance

    Mrs. Loggins taught English at a high school in rural North Carolina where I grew up. If she had stood on her tiptoes, she might have barely stretched past the five-feet mark on a door jamb. She was pleasingly plump and wore her dark hair in a cute pixie cut. As one of the younger teachers, she connected well with 16-year-olds. I had the luck and privilege of being one of her tenth-grade students.