I’m taking a minute to catch my breath.
There, I think I’ve caught it — although I need to get back running again. I got up at 3:45 a.m., ran three miles, drove to near Eagle Lake, spoke to the captains of Golding Barge Lines, drove back to Jackson and did my radio show. Now I sit, praying a cartoon idea will seep out of my head. Tomorrow morning, I speak in Tupelo.
I’m a busy man. And that means I’m blessed.
I remember my dad working long hours at his auto repair garage. He’d leave early and come home late. I’d see him at my school when he would drop off a teacher’s car. He’d make my sports games. But I always knew he’d be there when I needed him. Work wasn’t a bad word for him. In fact, it was close to holy. I still can close my eyes and see my dad sleeping in his orange chair after a long day at work. (Now he has a nice looking brown chair.)
Both my parents worked. My mom was a well-respected middle school art teacher. She’d get up before the crack of dawn and cook me breakfast every single morning. Clothes would mysteriously get washed. I’d show up at practices on time. Homework got done. Somehow everything got done. They raised three kids successfully.
That give me hope. Because I’m married to a well-respected art teacher and we have three kids to raise, too. As busy as Amy and I are, I know things will work out OK. I just hope my boys know I’ll be there when they need me.
Because at the end of the day, they (and their mom) are what really matters to me. Yes, I love my career. But it doesn’t define me. (I hope I define it, though). My family does.
As I run around, trying to make a living, I try to remember that that my jobs won’t hold my hand when I’m dying. But my family will.