31 October, 2011

{this moment} 24

A Monday ritual. A single image - no words - capturing a moment from the past. A simple, special moment over which I wish to linger as I savor each treasured aspect. If you are moved by my {this moment} too, please leave a comment below. On Thursday in another ritual called {this memory}, I'll share the story behind this moment.
{this moment}
Copyright © 2011 Thomas G. Brown

{this moment} is a ritual copied and adapted from cath's wonderful blog ~just my thoughts. She, in turn, borrowed it from Pamanner's Blog. Check out their blogs, and if you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your {this moment} in the comments for all to find and see.
TGB   

30 October, 2011

The Irish Funeral

man was leaving a convenience store with his morning coffee when he noticed a most unusual funeral procession approaching the nearby cemetery. A black hearse was followed by a second black hearse about 50 feet behind the first one. Behind the second hearse was a solitary man walking a dog on a leash. Behind him, a short distance back, were about 200 men walking single file.

The man couldn't stand the curiosity. He respectfully approached the man walking the dog and said, "I am so sorry for your loss, and although this may be a bad time to disturb you, I've never seen a funeral like this. Whose funeral is it?"

"My wife's," came the response.

"What happened to her?"

"She yelled at me, and my dog attacked. Killed her."

Then a further inquiry,"But who is in the second hearse?" The man answered, "My mother-in-law. She was trying to help my wife when the dog turned on her."

A very poignant and touching moment of brotherhood and silence passed between the two men.

"Can I borrow the dog?"

The man replied, "Get in line."
Author Unknown  
Discovered by Cathy   




28 October, 2011

Greedy, Grumpy, Happy

So far today, God, I've done all right.
       I haven't gossiped.
       I haven't lost my temper.
       I haven't been greedy, grumpy,
 critical, jealous, or self-absorbed.
I'm really happy about that,
       but in a few moments, God,
             I'm going to need a lot of support
                    to help me live up to your expectations.
This is because
                     ... in just a very few moments ...
                                                                    I'm going to get out of bed!

Prayer's Author is Unknown   
but revised by TGB   

27 October, 2011

{this memory} 23

First, I need to say this is not my photograph. It was taken by Joe Covello who is no longer living, and the copyright was held in 1969 by Studio One - who seems to be in business no longer. I gave up trying to find out where to seek permission to use it.

I bought a copy of the image in 1971 while I was a doctoral student at the University of Maine at Orono. I still have it and can see it as I type just by turning my head to the right. It is obviously special to me.

This image has always been an inspiration to me, and I cannot look at it without beginning to slow my pace. I try not to wonder what the old man was thinking, but that he is clearly doing so is a muse for my own reflection on life. He and I have had many conversations, although rarely aloud. If he spoke aloud to me, well ... those would be hallucinations. I have spoken aloud to him, of course, but I must note that we have never quarreled - although there have been some unnecessarily loud sighs on occasion.

Today I think mostly about all I have experienced in the 40 years since I first met the old man. I resist making time for the memories of the bad because that would be a waste of precious moments, but I do think of all of the good I have seen and experienced. There is truly no shortage of that. I am a fortunate man.
TGB

26 October, 2011

An Un-anniversary

Back in July, I wrote that it had been a year since I started this blog. My first post was on July 1 of 2010.

I also noted that in that year I had posted nearly 300 times. I wrote "The blog has passed the 13,000 page view mark, and those visits have come from 71 countries across all of the continents but Antarctica. This includes all but nine of the 50 US states, six Canadian provinces, and six Australian states and territories."

That was four months ago, and what a difference a few months makes. Those pages views of the nearly 400 posts are now nearly 26,000 and come from 115 countries. In the US, readers from 48 states and the District of Columbia have stopped by. Just where are those readers from Alaska and North Dakota?! I need you. And I've now heard from all eight of the states and territories of Australia and 10 of the 13 provinces and territories of Canada (still looking for Nunavut, Prince Edward Island, and the Yukon).

That 'explosion' of readers is due in no small part to my friends at PBAU. Their support has made a world of difference. Literally.

Beyond the numbers, however, what continues to be most important to me are the fellow bloggers whose friendship and encouragement I have enjoyed immensely. Having become thoroughly discouraged by the writing ability of the average American college student, I remain positively thrilled to be in the company of so many talented authors, especially my two dozen colleagues at Personal Bloggers Are Us. They have been hesitant to call themselves writers or authors, but that's what they are. They should embrace the labels.
TGB  

25 October, 2011

Feeling Passionate

A few months ago Samantha Bangayan asked me a couple of questions and my response follows, some of which she used quite recently in her Yellow Brick Road interview with me.

"What are you passionate about and how did you discover your passion?" Hmmm. Well, I could write about teaching. I have, after all, been a Professor of Psychology since 1975, and in my 37th year, the enjoyment I feel from sharing what I’ve learned and shaping young minds is still compelling. That particular passion, however, is relatively private. It’s personal, and you would have to spend time with me in order to feel it. There is another though that is far more palpable.

I like lighthouses. Always have. You could even say I have a passion for lighthouses. I would.

I grew up not far from two and visited them often as I grew up, especially the older one, which was open and climbable. It was a good place to find a bit of solitude, and lighthouses quickly became important to me. I have travelled out of my way to see and photograph dozens of them. One wall of my office is covered with framed images of them. I have a shelf filled with miniatures of some of my favorites. Friends mail me postcards of lighthouses they've seen and give me stamps, books, and all manner of knickknack related to lighthouses. I've even given public lectures on lighthouses.

It may not sound like it, but I am selective. Having grown up near the ocean, I have a preference for the large "landfall" lights, especially those of the east coast. And yes, size matters. The earth is curved, and the taller the lighthouse, the further out to sea you can be and still see it - important if you're about to bump into North America (make "landfall") or sail among the dangerous shoals which extend about ten miles into the Atlantic from Cape Hatteras.

The Cape Hatteras Lighthouse is my favorite, and she shines about 200 feet above sea level. At that height the light is easily visible from 25 miles out to sea. The structure is the tallest light in the US and the 23rd tallest in the world, and I watched them move it a half-mile inland just over a decade ago. There is a lot to admire.

But such facts are not what it's all about. It's the symbolism of a lighthouse that I love. There it stands, alone and resolute, as a beacon of help for souls in perilous circumstance. Isn't that what we all want when we're feeling lost or in danger or searching for salvation - something or someone to show us the way, to remind us that there are places and spaces of security waiting for us?

I respect its ability to weather all manner of storm, and I like that its height draws our vision upward into the skies, another reminder to hold our head up in spite of unpleasant times that may try to pull it down.

I like lighthouses, but I positively love the inspiration they offer.

As a teacher, I am a lighthouse – at least for those who need one. Recently an alumnus from 35 years ago wrote: “I am honest when I say that I have a lot of great things to be thankful for in my life … [and] … you are without a doubt one of them. You had a profound impact on me and who I am (probably more than you will ever know). So just multiply that by the number of students you've had and friends you've known over the years since. Even if you only touched 1% of them [as] you did me, that's an AMAZING number of people. That’s an amazing number of very lucky people.”

I remember this student very well. He was intelligent enough to have been self-educating, but he needed a lighthouse. I’m glad I was there.

When I was student, there were a few special professors who were my lighthouses. So when I look around my office at those varied images of lighthouses, I am looking at reminders of who I have always wanted to be as a professor, and I’m passionate about that.
TGB   

24 October, 2011

{this moment} 23

A Monday ritual. A single image - no words - capturing a moment from the past. A simple, special moment in time. A moment over which I wish to linger so that I can savor each treasured aspect. If you are moved by my {this moment} too, please leave a comment below. On Thursday in another ritual called {this memory}, I'll share the story behind this moment.
{this moment}

{this moment} is a ritual copied and adapted from cath's wonderful blog ~just my thoughts. She, in turn, borrowed it from Pamanner's Blog. Check out their blogs, and if you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your {this moment} in the comments for all to find and see.
TGB   

23 October, 2011

Money, Sex, or Alcohol

An old country preacher had a teenager son, and it was getting time the boy should give some thought to choosing a profession. Like many young men his age, the boy didn't really know what he wanted to do, and he didn't seem too concerned about it.

One day, while the boy was away at school, his father decided to try an experiment. He went into the boy's room and placed on his study table four objects: a Bible, a silver dollar, a bottle of whiskey, and a Playboy magazine.

I'll just hide behind the door, the old preacher thought to himself. "When he comes home from school today, I'll see which object he picks up."

"If it's the Bible, he's going to be a preacher like me, and what a blessing that would be! If he picks up the silver dollar, he's going to be a businessman, and that would be okay too. But if he picks up the bottle, he's going to be a no-good drunken bum, and Lord, what a shame that would be. And worst of all, if he picks up that magazine, he's going to be a skirt-chasing womanizer."

The old man waited anxiously, and soon heard his son's footsteps as he entered the house whistling and headed for his room. The boy tossed his books on his bed, and as he turned to leave the room he spotted the objects on the table. With curiosity in his eye, he walked over to inspect them. Finally, he picked up the Bible and tucked it under his arm. He picked up the silver dollar and dropped it into his pocket. He uncorked the bottle and took a big swig, while he admired this month's centerfold.

"Lord have mercy," the old preacher disgustedly whispered. "He's gonna run for Congress."
Author Unknown   

20 October, 2011

{this memory} 22

The memory? That's simple. Proud papa.

I am standing with my younger daughter in our front yard. She doesn't always dress like a princess, of course, but this was the evening of her high school Senior Prom in 2001.

She looked stunningly beautiful that evening and still does when she wants to. In addition to the pride I feel when I look at this, I am reminded how quickly the years pass us by. It seems like only yesterday when she was that little girl on my knee at Sesame Place. Now she is a grown woman, successful, and finding her own way in the world.

I am a most fortunate man - as I said last week. It continues to be true, but I just wish those years would slow down.
TGB

17 October, 2011

{this moment} 22

A Monday ritual. A single image - no words - capturing a moment from the past. A simple, special moment in time. A moment over which I wish to linger so that I can savor each treasured aspect. If you are moved by my {this moment} too, please leave a comment below. On Thursday in another ritual called {this memory}, I'll share the story behind this moment.
{this moment}
Copyright © 2011 Thomas G. Brown

{this moment} is a ritual copied and adapted from cath's wonderful blog ~just my thoughts. She, in turn, borrowed it from Pamanner's Blog. Check out their blogs, and if you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your {this moment} in the comments for all to find and see.
TGB   

16 October, 2011

Room 8

A man arrives at the gates of heaven. St. Peter asks, "Religion?"

The man says, "Methodist."

St. Peter looks down his list, and says, "Go to room 24, but be very quiet as you pass room 8."

Another man arrives at the gates of heaven. "Religion?"

"Baptist."

"Go to room 18, but be very quiet as you pass room 8."

A third man arrives at the gates. "Religion?"

"Jewish."

"Go to room 11, but be very quiet as you pass room 8."

The man says, "I can understand there being different rooms for different religions, but why must I be quiet when I pass room 8?"

St. Peter tells him, "Well ... the Catholics are in room 8, and they think they're the only ones here.
Author Unknown

13 October, 2011

{this memory} 21

Oh - those high school musicals. Here we have the 1965 production of Oliver! at Frank W. Cox High School in Virginia Beach. In the upper photo, I'm the guy closest to the top, right corner. In the lower image, I'm the one on the right with the mug looking like he's had a few
too many at the bar.

Not a lot to report here. We had fun. It did help me get into what is today the International Thespian Society - which honors student excellence in the theater arts. Add to this role (actually an extra), a second place in a talent show, a role in the senior play, a writing credit for a senior follies-type show, and assorted other bits earned me just enough points for initiation. I wasn't aware of it at the time - wasn't even on my radar. Evidently the writing credit was what put me over the top.

I remember balking at some point over the writing work and wanting to opt out. A fellow student who was in the Society must of known I was close. She was very insistent that I keep at it - lest I miss out on the unexpected honor. Thank you, Laurie Willet. We didn't know each other well, and you were quite kind to push me that way.

The memory? - simply what a wonderful time I had in high school. Great friends. Incredible opportunities. Superb faculty. I am a most fortunate man.
TGB


12 October, 2011

Thom's Labyrinth

In the spring of 1999, my wife and I flew to San Francisco where I was to attend a conference on issues confronting American higher education. I was uncertain that I would be able to attend the meeting until quite late which meant I was late registering for the conference. It also meant I was late in reserving a hotel room, and by the time I tried, all the rooms at the hotel where the conference was centered were taken.

The Association had made arrangements with another hotel several blocks up California Street. I was frustrated that it was going to complicate my attending various sessions, but at the same time I was kind of tickled because we would be at the Mark Hopkins on top of Nob Hill. I had heard my mother many times say how my father spoke of having a drink at the Top of the Mark, the penthouse lounge of the hotel, as a young naval officer. In fact, that expression, Top of the Mark, was once a reference to high quality, and I was excited at the possibility of doing what my father had once done.

So on this occasion, registering late turned out to be a good thing. Our flight arrived late too, and by the time we reached the rental car counter, what we had reserved was no longer available. Oh, dear. Would we accept a free upgrade instead? Of course, and we drove off in our Mustang convertible. By the time we checked in at the hotel, it was late evening, and a standard room, as we had reserved, was no longer available. Oh, dear. Would we accept a free upgrade to a luxury suite instead? Of course, and soon we were safely in our room – our very large rooms – on an upper floor looking out from Nob Hill toward Alcatraz Island with its lighthouse flashing and the Golden Gate Bridge to its west.

Sweet. At this point, I’m beginning to rethink my lifetime habit of always being on time. Or more typically, early. It’s polite, but what began as a problematic day had turned out pretty well. Imagine how less stressful my unfolding day would have been had I known that time wouldn't matter.

We packed a lot into this trip. The conference was interesting. Ahem. Okay, the conference was boring, but our side trips – top down, of course – to Golden Gate Park, to Palo Alto, and to Napa Valley were wonderful. And then there was Grace Cathedral.

If we gazed out our hotel window to the left and down to street level, we looked directly onto the front of Grace Cathedral of the Episcopal Diocese of California, third largest Episcopal church in the country. The original church was constructed in 1849 during the Gold Rush, but this upgrade – even then! - was started in 1928 (the Great Earthquake was in 1906) and completed in 1964. It was, of course, beautiful, but what was most memorable was its labyrinth - actually, labyrinths. There are two.

On the floor of the nave was an 11-circuit labyrinth over 40 feet in diameter and patterned after the one (see image above) installed about 800 years ago in the Cathédral Notre-Dame de Chartres (France). The one in Grace Cathedral was actually a woven wool tapestry rug, a replacement for an earlier one that had been painted on canvas. In 2007 the tapestry was, in turn, replaced with a new stone labyrinth installed into the floor of the nave. There is also a terrazzo stone labyrinth outside the cathedral to the right of the front steps.

If you are unfamiliar with labyrinths, they are not mazes. They are not like the mythical one in which Theseus killed the minotaur but needed a clever trick to find his way back out. They do not branch; there are no choices as you walk from outside to the center and then back out - Purgation (the releasing), Illumination (the receiving), Union (the returning).

They are not linear in the traditional sense - which means you tend to lose yourself in them as you move around & back and in & out but, nevertheless, always getting closer to achieving the center. It creates a sense of timelessness in you and usually leads to a meditative state. It helps ground you in the present. It centers you, and that kind of cyclic, in/out, spiraling motion has become significant in my life.

For a few summers now I've been wanting to install a simpler labyrinth – maybe 7 circuits – in my backyard. Alas, there are a lot of things I've been wanting to do. I was to build a fountain also. I’m determined to try again though, and I do keep a small metal labyrinth on my desk that I can trace with a stylus. I even have one on my iPhone.

How dearly I would love to take such a walk outdoors in the early morning to get my priorities ready for the day. To center me. Or perhaps a walk in the twilight would be just the thing to restore those priorities after a tumultuous world has had its way with them in the unfolding of my day. To ground me.

Of this I am certain; you would enjoy such a walk as well. You can never get lost, and you can never be late. We’d all live longer and in greater harmony.

Go find a labyrinth. Serenity awaits.
TGB 

11 October, 2011

Georgie, Jack, and The Ladybug

I've been thinking about those nursery rhymes we teach our children - the ones we get excited over when they recite them back to us. I know they are not ready for Eliot or Poe or Angelou, but why not A Child's Garden of Verses? Let's look at a few of these rhymes.

      Ladybug! Ladybug! Fly away home.
      Your house is on fire and your children all gone.
      All except one, and that's Ann,
      for she has crept under the frying pan.


Really! Well, ladybugs don't have houses. And what kind of mother is she if she's out traipsing around without knowing where her children are? And, come on, UNDER the frying pan!? That's just suicidal. I really do fear for our future if this is what we're teaching our children.

      Jack be nimble.
      Jack be quick.
      Jack jump over
      The candlestick.


Do tell! What's the big deal here? Are we supposed to be impressed by Jack's athletic prowess? Most candlesticks are small and easily jumped. Of course, if the candles were lit, that's a different matter, but it's still not exactly Jackass: The Movie now is it? I say why tempt them in the first place. They don't need to be encouraged.

      Mary had a little lamb.
      Its fleece was white as snow.
      And everywhere that Mary went,
      the lamb was sure to go.


That's just freaky. Would you like it if some farm animal began following you everywhere? I don't think so. What if Mary has to go to the necessary?

      Little Boy Blue come blow your horn.
      The sheep's in the meadow, the cow's in the corn.


But would Mary's lamb come? That remains to be seen, but it is an empirical question. Maybe that would be a way for the teacher to get the livestock out of the classroom. On second thought, that's no good because Blue Boy there is "under a haystack fast asleep." If Blue's late to the scene, I think he should have to clean up anything the sheep leave behind.

      Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep
      And doesn't know where to find them.
      Leave them alone, and they'll come home,
      Bringing their tails behind them.


I suppose they might but maybe not. Or, maybe she should just find Mary. There seems to be a positive correlation between her and the presence of the most ovine among us, and we already know Blue's no help. I have to say I am more than a little concerned about this focus on farm animals. It's just not natural - not in today's world.

      Georgie Porgie pudding and pie,
      Kissed the girls and made them cry.


I say bully for him. At least he's not molesting the sheep.

      Little Jack Horner sat in the corner
      Eating his Christmas pie.
      He put in his thumb, pulled out a plum,
      And said, "What a good boy am I!"


Oh, dear. Pie again. You know, if he's old enough to feed himself, he's old enough to use utensils. I suppose, however, I should be happy it's just his thumb. In the 1999 film American Pie it wasn't Christmas, and it wasn't a thumb.

So, dear readers, I fear for our children, and they are our future. We simply have to do better.
TGB  

10 October, 2011

{this moment} 21

A Monday ritual. A single image - no words - capturing a moment from the past. A simple, special moment in time. A moment over which I wish to linger so that I can savor each treasured aspect. If you are moved by my {this moment} too, please leave a comment below. On Thursday in another ritual called {this memory}, I'll share the story behind this moment.
{this moment}


{this moment} is a ritual copied and adapted from cath's wonderful blog ~just my thoughts. She, in turn, borrowed it from Pamanner's Blog. Check out their blogs, and if you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your {this moment} in the comments for all to find and see.
TGB   

09 October, 2011

Sweet Mrs. Jones

oward the end of church service, the Minister asked his congregation, "How many of you have forgiven your enemies?

All held up their hands except one small elderly lady.

"Mrs. Jones? Are you not willing to forgive your enemies?"

"I don't have any," she replied, smiling sweetly.

"Mrs. Jones, that is very unusual. How
old are you?"

"One hundred," she replied.

"Oh, Mrs. Jones, would you please come down in front and tell us all how a person can live one hundred years and not have a single enemy in the world?"

The little sweetheart of a lady tottered down the aisle, faced the congregation, and said: "I outlived every one of the bitches."
Author Unknown   

06 October, 2011

{this memory} 20

Wow! What an attractive American family - two loving parents with two beautiful young daughters and on the road in 1989.

Does it look hot? It ought to look hot. It was hot! We are in the gardens behind the Royal Palace of Caserta, about 20 miles north of Naples, Italy. Trust me - that Mediterranean sun in late July is, well, hot.

Did I say it was hot? The sun just beat you into submission that day.

Did I say gardens? More like a park. Almost 300 acres and two miles in length. Although similar, it is widely believed to be superior in beauty to the park at Versailles. One of the things I remember vividly is that it was so hot, my girls weren't really up for the excursion. The younger one insisted on being carried everywhere. Sure - that cooled us down. If the truth be told though, I would jump at the chance to carry her around again. Tempus fugit.

Inspired by the Versailles, Charles VII of Naples began construction of this palace in 1752. Never heard of him or it you say? Maybe not, but you've probably seen it. The Palace was used as the location for Queen Amidala's Royal Palace on Naboo in the 1999 film Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace and in the 2002 film Star Wars Episode II: Attack of the Clones as Queen Jamilla's palace. The same room was also used in Mission: Impossible III as Vatican City, and the main staircase is used in Angels & Demons as the Vatican's staircase.

My other memory of this day was what happened at the train station. We were traveling by chartered buses as a large group of American and Italian students. After our tour of the palace, we had all returned to the buses where many sacked out. Even the Italians were worn out by the heat! One of the Italian parents rounded up a small group of us and said lets go over to the train station where there was place we could get something to drink. I jumped at the opportunity while my three ladies were resting.

I had just finished one of those wonderful Italian concoctions and was standing on the train platform waiting for the others. I looked up and saw the station sign "CASERTA," and it hit me. My wife is Italian. Her father was born in Italy. Her mother's parents were also born in Italy, and they immigrated from very near Caserta. Surely I was standing on the platform where her maternal grandparents said there last good-byes to the area they called home.

I later told my wife where I went, and of course, we both wished she had been with me. Had I known the café was going to be in that train station, I would certainly have suggested it to her. I know it would have been a most special experience for her.
TGB

05 October, 2011

It's Touching

Recently I gave my body to science. Well, that's not quite right. It would be better to say I gave my body to education. No, wait. I still have it - so let's just say I loaned my body to education. Yeah, that's it; that's what I did.

Two weeks ago I presented my body to students in three different lab sections in our graduate Occupational Therapy program. Specifically, they examined and worked with my left arm and hand. I did this last year as well so I'm a veteran and quite at ease with being interviewed, manipulated, stroked, poked, and assessed in all sorts of ways.

If you're not familiar with my "Neglected Left," you can read about it in any number of my posts, but these five pretty much tell the story.

          Minority Report
          Missing Extremities
          There Are More Hands Than Heads, Usually
          Snap Out Of It!
          undifference

Some of these students are former students of mine, so I do what I can to encourage them to relax. First, I tell them that it's just a body, and it is, after all. Feel free to touch. I try to assure them they are not going to hurt me. Without sensation in that arm, I'm not going to feel whatever they're doing anyway.

Of course, that's also a curse because I won't know if they actually are hurting me (i.e., causing damage). I don't worry about that, however, because the instructor is quite protective and simply won't let it happen. Johnny on the spot, so to speak. It doesn't really matter since the students are generally nervous and, therefore, most unlikely to do anything really unusual.

The goal is to let them see (and do) an arm and hand that have no muscle tone rather than just read about it. As they take turns with me, I usually try to amplify my comments about touch. I may be the exception in this, but I don't think so: as a patient or client, I want to be touched. I am not in the least disquieted about such touch, and it is, in fact, a good thing.

It tells me I am worth touching. It tells me they are not afraid of me or of my condition. It tells me whether I will like them (by how I react to their touch). I even can tell whether I will ultimately trust a physician or therapist by the way that they touch, and that bond is instantaneous when it’s right.

A recent column in the New York Times commented on the benefits of touching the patient, benefits that cannot be measured quantitatively.

"The doctor-patient relationship is fundamentally different from, say, the accountant-client relationship. The laying on of hands sets medical practitioners apart from their counterparts in the business world. Despite the inroads of evidence-based medicine, M.R.I.s, angiograms, and PET scanners, there is clearly something special, perhaps even healing, about touch.

"There is a warmth of connection that supersedes anything intellectual, and that connection goes both ways in the doctor-patient relationship. ... Touch is inherently humanizing, and for a doctor-patient relationship to have meaning beyond that of a business interaction, there needs to be trust — on both ends. As has been proved in newborn nurseries and intuited by most doctors, nurses, and patients, one of the most basic ways to establish trust is to touch."

So, my future practitioners, learn to be comfortable with touching. It's an essential skill, and your hands are windows that allow me to see or sense what I might normally not. (See: There's Something About Hands).
TGB

03 October, 2011

{this moment} 20

A Monday ritual. A single image - no words - capturing a moment from the past. A simple, special moment in time. A moment over which I wish to linger so that I can savor each treasured aspect. If you are moved by my {this moment} too, please leave a comment below. On Thursday in another ritual called {this memory}, I'll share the story behind this moment.
{this moment}
Copyright © 2011 Thomas G. Brown

{this moment} is a ritual copied and adapted from cath's wonderful blog ~just my thoughts. She, in turn, borrowed it from Pamanner's Blog. Check out their blogs, and if you're inspired to do the same, leave a link to your {this moment} in the comments for all to find and see.
TGB   

02 October, 2011

An Atheist

young woman teacher with obvious liberal tendencies explained to her class of small children that she was an atheist. She asked her class if they were atheists too. Not really knowing what atheism was but wanting to be like their teacher, their hands exploded into the air like fleshy fireworks.

There was, however, one exception. A beautiful girl named Lucy had not gone along with the crowd, and the teacher asked her why she has decided to be different.

"Because I'm not an atheist."

Then, asked the teacher, "What are you?"

"I'm a Christian."

The teacher was a little perturbed now, her face slightly red. She asked Lucy why she was a Christian.

"Well, I was brought up knowing and loving Jesus. My mom is a Christian, and my dad is a Christian, so I am a Christian."

The teacher was now angry. "That's no reason," she said loudly. "What if your mom was a moron, and your dad was a moron. What would you be then?"

She paused and smiled before saying "Then, I'd be an atheist."

Author Unknown