The Thanksgiving Story

Thanksgiving means different things to different people.  Sometimes we get caught up in the actual meal itself and therefore the whole day revolves around overindulging our bodies in delicious, but not so healthy foods.  For others, Thanksgiving has become the gateway to the Christmas season.  That’s when the gluttony really begins.  Black Friday may be the jumping off point for the commercial side of Christmas, but after Thanksgiving most Americans spend the next several weeks overspending, overeating and overemphasizing material things.  Let’s take a little stroll back in time and take a look at the first Thanksgiving and how it has progressed.  Sometimes looking back on where we came from can help to shape the best direction on where we need to go.

What I remember being taught most in elementary school regarding Thanksgiving is the harvest celebration between the pilgrims and a few of the Native Americans who helped them once they landed in the new land on the Mayflower.  This first harvest took place around 1621.  The Pilgrims had lost several loved ones in the year or so since they had landed at Plymouth Rock.  The harvest celebration was really meant to show their “thanks” for the fall season they had just enjoyed and to show honor and thankfulness that they were alive and beginning to thrive.  It was a true bipartisan celebration between the natives and the pilgrims.

The leader of the pilgrims sent several of the men out hunting for fowl.  They termed every foul at that time a “turkey.”  The feast and celebration was not repeated the next year, however, within a few years the larger settlements, including Massachusetts, etc. were celebrating every year around the same time.  By 1777, all thirteen colonies were celebrating a day of “Thanksgiving” each year.

In 1863, President Abraham Lincoln proclaimed the fourth Thursday of each November as a national holiday, Thanksgiving Day.  Each President following Lincoln followed suit, until President Roosevelt moved it back one week to allow more of the Christmas shopping season.  A public outcry arose, and therefore it was changed back to the original fourth Thursday and Congress permanently sanctioned it as a national holiday.

The original pilgrims had fled England to escape religious persecution and made a stop in The Netherlands.  They commissioned a London Stock company to finance the sail of the Mayflower voyage that would eventually land at Plymouth Rock.  Arriving originally in December of 1620, the first winter was particularly difficult and there were many deaths.  Once again, this led to the celebration after a profitable fall harvest in 1621.  The Pilgrims who succeeded had formed a relationship with several Native American Indians, and by working together, there was a lot to celebrate.  What a great lesson we could take from this today, if we could just learn to work together and march toward a common goal.

Although we may not all have the same political views or worship at the same churches or denominations, for those of us who serve the same God, we should unite in “giving thanks” and we will then enjoy a magnificent harvest, just like the one in 1621.

I ask each of you my friends, loved ones, and associates, join me in my mission to pray more and serve the Lord at every opportunity possible.  If you haven’t had the opportunity yet, scroll down or look to the right and click on the blog entry, “A Hundred Prayer Journals.”  Let’s unify in our service and worship to the Almighty.  May God bless all of you abundantly as you plant your seeds and wait for the ultimate Harvest.

Brandi The Champion

After a twenty year career in the restaurant, retail and finance industry I have learned a lot about varying work ethics.  In some of my positions I have supervised as many as 350 people indirectly.  I used to be cynical about the “new generation” of American workers.  In my experience the younger generation has been less than impressive in their work ethic.  I often found myself becoming impatient and frustrated with people who felt entitled to more money or less demanding positions.  I blamed it on the lessons they learned at home.  You see, my parents were both cotton mill workers.  They were hard core blue collar.  Everything they earned was achieved with great physical sacrifice.  When I got my first job, both my parents told me they never wanted to hear me complain.  There was no such thing as laying out of work, or trying to come home early.  Once I entered the workforce, I was expected to embrace every task diligently.  Back then, your work record was just as important as your credit.  I have made the comment to many un-ambitious employees that they needed to return home to Mama and Daddy if they wanted coddling and empathy.  Maybe that’s a little harsh???

For the most part society in general needs a swift kick in rear.  Regardless of the socialistic direction our government is in danger of taking, we cannot depend on others to provide for us, we must create our own opportunities and seize them using the talents God has bestowed on us.  After several years of functioning as an anti-youth manager, I have had those stereotypes handed back to me, sliced and diced by one of the most promising leaders of tomorrow I have ever encountered.  This is her story….

Brandi didn’t always know the world was her oyster.  As a child of divorce and therefore changing homes about as often as birds fly south, Brandi endured a lot of self esteem issues as a little girl.  She once told me that there was a time she had no self-worth and no direction.  She felt like she was a burden to both her parents, who constantly passed her back and forth.  Brandi’s parents were not evil people, and certainly they didn’t mean to cause harm to their daughter, but alcoholism, drug abuse, and a revolving door of new mates for her parents just compounded the instability she had to face.  When people have a hard time supporting themselves, and a child, the pressure can lead to situations unbearable for everyone involved.  Brandi became a victim of just about every abuse you can imagine.  Since I have known her and she has confided in me as a mentor, I shudder to think that any young person should or could ever survive such circumstances.  Let me tell you, she did more than survive.

Not only did Brandi graduate from high school, join the military, marry and become a mother, but she also built an incredible reputation as a formidable businesswoman.  Did I mention she is only 23?  This intelligent young woman has changed my view about the younger generation and motivated me to recommit myself to developing others as a leader.  She has taught me that those of us who are nearing our 40s and have career experience to share with struggling young people, need to improve our “situational leadership” skills.  The Bible gives us the ultimate advice about not judging others, and I have certainly learned to rethink my approach in making assumptions about where people get their work ethic.  Brandi may not have had the best childhood, but deep inside her is a champion.  She is an example of self-responsibility.  She doesn’t rely on anyone else to create an opportunity for her.  She knows how to make it happen.  In my opinion, Brandi is an exceptional example to her generation.  She is proof that no matter where you come from, or what you have been through, as long as God is your steward, everything is possible.  It takes a special person to focus on where they are going rather than dwell on where they have been.  How can we get this message out to all Americans?  Don’t blame the past on your present situation. 

When we open our hearts and minds and for the Lord to do his work, we grow in every aspect of Christianity.  I like admitting I have been wrong, especially when it makes me a better person.

Old Spice Christmas

Recently a group of my friends from Church and I started an emotional wellness support group.  The goal of the group was to bring to light our individual struggles with various forms of depression.  It was extremely helpful to share stories and motivate each other.  I have personally suffered from Bipolar Disorder most of my life.  I look for every opportunity to understand the illness and conquer the symptoms.

People who suffer from mental illnesses react differently to situations than people who are able to “let stress roll off their back.”  There are significant experiences in my life that trigger manic episodes and as I look back on those experiences, I am able to see the point where I finally pulled out of the depression and I can learn from it.  I advise anyone going through similar problems to use this method to gain more perspective regarding their illness.

One significant situation from my youth is the absence of my biological father.  He chose to leave my mother and I when I was about two years old.  He would reappear every so often with a bucket full of promises for the future that never came to pass.  It really did a number on me emotionally.  There’s an old Dolly Parton song, “Here you come again, and here I go…”  This is a good illustration of how I felt.  I had a strong desire to have a relationship with him, but it just wasn’t meant to be.  My father, most likely had good intentions, and many members of his family have told me he felt guilty for not playing a role in my life. 

I remember the way my father always smelled.  He was a big fan of Old Spice cologne.  This was the mid 1970’s so I guess that wasn’t as odd then as it sounds right now.  It was a significant smell.  When I was about five years old it had been several months since I had seen or heard from my father.  Christmas was approaching and out of the blue I got a call from him.  He told me he was in California, but he was making his way back to Alabama for Christmas and he bought me the brightest and most beautiful fire truck.  I couldn’t wait.  I had missed him so much, even though my Step-Dad was really good to me, it was going to be great to see my “real Dad” as I mistakenly called him back then.  After I talked with him on the phone I begged my mother to let me buy him a Christmas present.  We went to the local TG&Y and of course I picked out Old Spice for him.

Christmas Eve arrived and I sat on the steps of our trailer with the gift wrapped Old Spice on my lap.  Where we lived on the Cove Road, you could hear cars coming a mile away and every time I heard the sound of tires on the asphalt, I would perk up thinking that just might be him in his old blue Chevy Nova.  Needless to say the day expired and he never showed.  It’s hard to understand what an anxiety attack feels like if you have never had one.  It’s one of the worst feelings a person can have, imagine it happening to a five year old.   I threw such a fit that my mother got so angry with me she took the present and through it up in the top of a closet and told me that if I didn’t stop crying, she wouldn’t let me give it to him, even if he came.

The next day was Christmas.  No word from my father.  His sister, who I affectionately called Aunt Wormy came to visit, but she had not heard from him.  She attempted to comfort me and spoiled me with gifts as always.  I found consolation in my relationship with her for his absence.  Late in the day, I was back on the door steps sitting and waiting, standing up at the sound of tires on the asphalt.  This time my mother wouldn’t allow me to sit there with the Old Spice in my lap.  She was infuriated with him and frustrated with me.  I was heartbroken, thus the onset of a major depressive episode.  They didn’t know what to call it back then.  The symptoms however were constant crying, headaches, and stomach aches.  It always resulted in a trip to the doctor, who always declared me as “fine.”  In turn, I would usually get in trouble for this behavior.  It is hard enough for adults to put their emotions into words.  I am such a strong advocate for children who suffer from Bipolar disorder, depression, or ADD/ADHD, because imagine how difficult is for them to explain how they feel. 

In the beginning of this story I promised you that I always tried to learn something from these episodes or experiences.  After days of anger, sadness and frustration, I took a stool from the kitchen, climbed up in the closet and got down the box of Old Spice.  With tears in my eyes I took it to my step-dad.  It was so important for me to give that present to him because I needed to let go of the man who had already let go of me.  He lit up when I gave him the box.  My mother opened her mouth ready to pounce on me for getting the present down, and my Dad held his hand up and stopped her.  He showed genuine enthusiasm as he opened it.  It was just what I needed.  It’s a simple lesson that when God closes one door he opens another.

Five years would go by before I saw my “real dad” again.  Things were never the same.  I was cold to him and he saw what time and distance had done to us as father and son.  I would only see him three more times in 15 years.  He passed away when I was 25.  To this day I don’t understand men who don’t have relationships with their children.  You just never know what damage you might do. 

Despite a history full of manic depressive episodes I continue to fight and I continue to write.  The only way to conquer an enemy is to build an army against it.  I am thankful God has given me the personal resolve to speak about my battle and the friends to encourage and motivate me.  There is no sad ending to this story, there is victory and accomplishment, by the grace of God, the battle is always won.

From Hiding In The Dark, Rob Goodwin

Green Station Wagon

Last week my friends Estee, LuAnne and I were at a benefit concert called “Christmas for Kids.”  Our minister’s outreach program, G&P Ministries sponsors this every year.  I was seated between these two beautiful and sweet sisters that I attend Church with and also knew from high school.  One of the acts, Steve Campbell was on stage performing some of Larry Gatlin’s great tunes from the late 70’s and 80’s.  The music really took me back to when I was a kid.  I leaned over to Estee and said this reminds me of riding in my Dad’s station wagon…the music just took me back.  She nodded and told me I should write a blog about it, so here goes…thanks for the inspiration Steve…and Estee.

My first memory of the 1972 Green Gran Torino Station Wagon was shortly after my third birthday.  I know it’s hard for people to imagine someone remembering an event when they were three years old, but this was a significant memory….I got married that day.  Okay, now that you have stopped laughing, gasping or shaking your head, read on…I really did get married that day. 

My biological father left my mother and I a year and a half earlier.  They had been married for eight years when I was born and things went downhill after I came along.  My father had been very vocal about not wanting to have children.  He was a “free spirit” and really wanted to travel and see the world.  My mother on the other hand, only wanted to have a child and she would be happy.  Basically, my parents parted ways.  I won’t get into all the drama at this point, but the divorce left my mother and I desolate and without the help of her family we might have starved.  She worked night and day in a rundown cotton mill in west Anniston called Samson’s Cortage.  The working conditions were horrible for a man, much less a woman.  Finally, she met the man who I would come to know as my Dad.  His name was Floyd Ray Goodwin, and he had a son of his own from his first marriage.  The two began dating and before long the chemistry was clear and the decision was made to become a family.

We had not heard from my biological father in quite some time, so I grew very close to Floyd Ray.  On June 20, 1975 my Mom and Floyd Ray loaded me up in his station wagon and we headed to the Cleburne County Justice of The Peace.  We had a flat tire on the way and I remember watching my soon to be stepdad changing it on the side of the road.  The station wagon had wood colored panels down each side.  I thought it was big and ugly…but in the coming years, many memories would be made in this vehicle.

 At the office of the Justice of The Peace, at the close of the marriage ceremony, the gentleman asked my parents to close their eyes and he led a prayer prior to pronouncing them Man and Wife.  I spoke up and said, “wait, let me close my eyes too!”  Everyone laughed at my comment and for years I would tell people my Mom and I got married to Floyd Ray Goodwin on that day, because I closed my eyes too.

Through the years I remember wonderful family trips in that mean green station wagon.  Back in those days little kids were not required to wear seatbelts.  I would stand in the seat between my Mom and Dad.  One of them would always keep their arm across me to make sure I didn’t go flying through the windshield.  I also remember, when my Mom wanted to sit in the middle next to my Dad, I would ride shotgun sitting on the door handle.  Back then, my tiny behind would fit on the handle and I could see the world passing by as we drove.  The station wagon also had a ‘third row seat” that folded up and faced the rear direction.  As I got older, I loved to sit back there and watch the road behind us.  Many times we pulled a pop up camper behind that station wagon.  We were poor, so there were no Disney World trips.  Our family vacations were going to the local lake, or maybe an annual trip to Six Flags.  My Mom tells people that while the rest of the family would be out fishing on a lake, I would be sitting in the very back of that station wagon with a notebook writing stories.  Some things never change. I would love to get back all the inspiration to write I had back then.

It was heart breaking for me when my Dad finally sold that old station wagon.  It didn’t even run anymore, but he had someone come and tow it out of our yard, after it had sat on blocks for months.  In 2004, my Dad was fighting an aggressive form of stomach cancer.  We took turns flying with him back and forth to Zion, Illinois for treatment at the Cancer Center of America.  In the late fall that year, he and I were there alone.  I took him out for a drive in the rental car and we crossed over into Osh Kosh, Wisconsin along Lake Michigan.  We parked and went for a walk.  We saw an old Gran Torino station wagon like the one he had during the 1970s.  We had a nice long conversation about it and I treasure that memory so much.  He lasted a few more months and died just two days into 2005.  The last thing he said to me was “Son, I need you take over.”  He never treated me like a step-son.  He treated me like his middle child.  He had my brother, Tony from his first marriage and then he and my Mom had my sister Becky together.  I belonged to him just like they did.  “Son, I need you to take over.”  I will never forget those words.  I leaned down to him and said “I know Dad, and remember, I closed my eyes too.” 

Family means everything.  I am so glad I got the chance to experience the old station wagon days.