Beech Tree News Network

For years, I carried a note in my Bible that was written by my youngest daughter, Nikki.  She wrote the note one Sunday morning while I was having a meltdown over not being able to get all of us to church on time.  She was about eight years old at the time.
 It had been a horrendous morning.  I always fixed a big breakfast for my family on Sunday mornings.  Bacon, eggs, homemade biscuits, gravy—the whole spread.  I was an idiot back in the day. 
I had to get the kids and myself dressed and ready to go and in the car in time for Sunday school, which meant I left the kitchen in a mess, which meant I would have to clean up the mess after church before I could fix lunch for everybody. 
    That particular morning, I didn’t get up when the alarm went off, which meant I was even more rushed than usual.  I broke down in tears before we left, blaming myself for hitting the snooze button and landing us all in crisis mode.  While we were sitting in the church pew, Nikki pulled out a little blue envelope from her purse and handed it to me.  I opened it.  Inside was the familiar little girl handwriting on angel fish paper.  The note read: “It wasn’t your fault we were late.  You didn’t have to listen to that alarm clock.”  I will never forget that for as long as I live.  My daughter giving me a pass, telling me it was alright to make a mistake now and then.
    Probably as a result of those crazy mornings, neither of my daughters is ever late for anything.  Both of them arrive at least thirty minutes early for all events.  I, on the other hand, arrive just in the nick of time to most functions.  Nikki says it’s because I think I can put one more straw on the camel’s back before I leave the house.  She’s right of course.  Your kids usually are, which brings me to the reason my husband, Garey is never late for anything.
    When Garey was six years old, he was elected by his class mates to represent the first grade at his school in the Fall Festival pageant.  A little girl in his class, Brenda Jones, was the representative for queen.  The coronation was set for the Friday night of the homecoming game at the high school.  On that Friday night, Garey was dressed in his Sunday best, waiting for his mom and dad to finish getting ready.  He reminded his mom that the event time was fast approaching.
    “That’s not what Ms. Mitchell told me,” his mom said.
    “But that’s the time she told us today before we left school,” Garey said.
    “I think you just got mixed up,” his mom said.
    Garey watched the kitchen clock tick off the minutes as his mom took her time getting dressed.  Sure enough, Garey and his parents arrived just in time to see another first-grade boy, whom the teacher substituted at the last minute, being crowned Fall Festival king. 
    At his fifty-year class reunion, Garey was talking to Brenda Jones—the first-grade queen nominee—when her husband joined them.   “Brenda always refers to you as the first boy who ever stood her up,” her husband laughed. 
    Garey explained how his mother had gotten confused about the time of the event, to which Brenda said, “I had no idea what happened.  I’m so glad you cleared that up for me.”
    I think Garey has been at least thirty minutes early for every event since then, unless I’m with him, of course.  If I’m with him, we slide in just under the wire…after he has broken every speed limit in three counties to get us there on time.