Congratulations, Mom and Dad! Forty years ago today you made promises to each other that I'm ever so grateful you kept! Brigetta and I have just been watching episodes of a mini-series on the Discovery channel called "When We Left Earth." It chronicles the NASA missions, including the Apollo launches which, of course, led to mankind's first steps on the moon. Here's a wild thought: you guys were still newlyweds when that happened! I'd ordinarily steer clear of this sort of thing - you know, couching your marriage in historical terms, making you feel old, etc. - but I couldn't help myself on that one. Besides, you've faced, whether you're comfortable with it or not, a lot of history together. No need to recount man-on-the-moon moments. There's Wikipedia for that.

No, I'd rather share a couple of my impressions from what I can recall of your 40 years together, keeping in mind that I didn't exist for the first quarter or so of that time. Perhaps the simplest, most powerful image I have is really a series of images. They are of the welcome home hugs and kisses you were never shy about giving to each other in front of us. It didn't need to be "welcome home from a long hunting trip." It could just as easily have been "welcome home from going to the store," or "welcome home from work." That Dad and Mom loved each other was abundantly clear. The impact this has had on me is inestimable as Brigetta and I enter our 7th year of marriage. It's a priority woven in to the fabric of my being. My child must see and know that I love her mother. At the danger of becoming cliche, love is the foundation on which we hope to build our family's character. We love God, each other, and those around us. You could have told me those things until you were blue in the face, but I do not believe it would have made the difference it has if I hadn't been able to see it in action.

The second thing that comes to mind is a memory I know I've shared with other people in my life, but I'm wondering as I write this if I've ever shared my version of it with you, Dad. I don't remember much in the way of specifics, but it remains to this day my most vivid memory of you being angry at me. I'm sure there were too many moments like this to count - especially in my teenage years - but on this occasion you chose to show it, and strangely enough, I'm glad that you did. All I remember is that I had said something extremely sarcastic and disrespectful to Mom - I think I might have even yelled it at her. You weren't home at the time. Some time after you did get home, you confronted me in the hallway, right outside my room at the time. The look on your face was as close to murder as I've ever seen it. You held me against the wall there and verbally let me have it for disrespecting Mom. You'd think I'd be able to tell you exactly what you said, but I can't. The impression was enough. You were willing to put up with a little sass yourself, but treating my mother like that was. Not. Happening. It was...well, impressive. I was impressed. I still am. In that moment you modeled for me how to passionately defend my family (even from within). It had nothing to do with chest-beating, macho threats, or violence, and everything to do with not being afraid to tell someone when the line had been crossed. Similarly, Mom, I've heard you tell stories of how ticked off you were when people said something unfair about your husband, especially early in his ministry at MCC. Both of you have had the other's back all this time, which is another incalculable gift and legacy that I am compelled to pass on to my child (or children some day, but don't read that as an announcement).

So thank you! Thank you for leading by example - for backing up your words with actions. Thank you for loving each other, and for teaching us how to love our families. Congratulations on your first 40 years of marriage! May there be many, many more full of love and laughter!

Love,

Andrew


I am a diabetic. Most anyone stopping by this corner of the blogosphere probably already knows that, but even still, it's not something I usually delve in to great detail about, to either family or friends. About a year ago, it became both necessary and prudent for me to begin taking insulin to aid in keeping my blood sugar levels under control. I started with one injection a day - a big adjustment for most type 2 diabetics and a story for a different blog if anyone's interested - but after only a few months, it became apparent that I would need to be more aggressive, going to an insulin regimen more closely associated with the treatment of type 1 diabetes (in which a person's body stops making insulin altogether). All this is to say that, as of 9 or 10 months ago, I started using insulin 3-5 times a day via good old fashioned syringe.


Quoting from the box that these syringes come in: "Today's insulin needle is thinner and more delicate for greater comfort, so needle reuse can damage the tip and cause injury. Use once and destroy."


Each one of these boxes contains 100 syringes, or what usually amounts to just under a month's supply. At first, I resorted to using the empty plastic diaper wipe containers laying around the house, but after filling two of these to near bursting with used syringes (the caps go back on, so it's not exactly as dangerous as it sounds), I started just storing the used syringes in the empty box from the previous month's supply. Fast forward the better part of the year, and it was beginning to get a little silly. I had a large-ish cardboard box, full of boxes, full of old needles, and several more sitting by the sink in our family room (what, you don't have a sink in your family room?). Obviously, these can't just go in the garbage - they're considered a biohazard because they've been under my skin. [insert your own lame attempt at spousal humor here]


So, taking advantage of a day off of work while my girls were out of town to the beach, I decided to face the music (an idiom I've never really understood, but still use) two days ago, and call the Metro South station - the local dump/recycling center. To my pleasant surprise and despite my repeated attempts to impress the kind lady on the phone ("Listen, you might not understand - I have a lot of needles to get rid of."), I was told that I could come right on down and put them in certified containers, pay a $5 deposit for a couple of said containers to take home, and be able to dispose of my sharps there at no cost in the future. What a deal! I traipsed out to the garage to retrieve my box of shame, put my mountain of needles in the van, and headed down to Oregon City.


The "drive-thru" for hazardous waste, I have to say, was a little unnerving. Large black drums containing who knows what kind of freakish sludge were stacked everywhere, men in neck-to-toe hazard suits were banging what looked like spray paint cans on the side of a big cart (something I'm pretty sure the can implicitly states not to do), and bicycles - ??? - yes, bicycles were stacked two or three high in between the barrels of corruption. Figure that one out. Truly a place that makes you want to keep the windows rolled up and hope that nobody in line with you has the urge to smoke. When my turn came, I (somewhat reluctantly) rolled down the window and reiterated my purpose, quantitative caveat and all. After promising, in writing, that this was not commercial waste (probably standard, but I still got a chuckle out of it), I was given three certified containers to transfer my collection in to once I'd parked out of the way of the rest of the line. These containers are kind of like small, rectangular red garbage bins, only with official looking words on the side, like "DANGER," and "BIOHAZARD." Also, they have lids that, for all intents and purposes, lock in place. I tried - and failed - for a good five minutes to get one off and make the transfer easier. As it slowly dawned on me that I was defeating this purpose, I decided to just try dumping one of the boxes of needles in to the much smaller opening on the certified container's lid. Not as successful as I'd hoped for. I had it under control for about 30 seconds before needles started to slip out, skitter across the lid and fall either to the van floor or to the parking lot itself. It was at that point that I noticed a small audience of two men standing at the top of a nearby flight of stairs, just outside the entrance to one of the buildings there and apparently on a smoke break (obviously, they didn't share my misgivings about the via del muerte just below). A study in ambivalence, were these two gentlemen. Completely nonplussed. You'd think people drop needles all over the parking lot on a daily basis for all the care they showed. I eventually filled all three of these red garbage cans to the brim with, as I thought to myself at the time, every needle I'd ever used as a diabetic. Some ten containers/boxes full, amounting to what I estimate at well over a thousand syringes. With a little forethought, I would have taken a picture, but that would have made for a rather macabre first photo on the blog. Next time I accumulate a thousand needles, I'll be sure to let you all see what it looks like.


For Now,


Andrew

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