Well done, son. Well done.
Measurements of life’s achievements in common terms is something in which I know I will never succeed. I never got the rule book and the right measurement stick. Guess it got lost in the mail.
Self above others alluded me also. Yep, successful people are commonly viewed as the one’s with expense accounts, arsenal of weapons in the basement, frequent flyer miles, new cars in the drive way and a wine of the month club. I have a Ford truck with a cracked windshield and a Ian Tyson disk I bummed from Pops and a determined soul inherited from mom.
I am the one that is the lover of “lost causes” and being nobel. The funny thing about nobility is that is not tangible and sometimes viewed as attention seeking. My causes are never closing a door on the handicapped, never leaving someone stranded on the road and if needed, loosing my shirt. I have gotten pretty successfully at that one.
It is a pretty good gamble that I won’t amount to much by this world’s standards. Just another dreamer that writes a few notes here and there. Certainly no John Grisham.
Nope, none of those. I will someday stroll up to the gates of heaven. Worn out ball cap, worn out jeans, worn out back. I will likely have a Pabst’s Blue Ribbon in one hand and a Marlboro in the other.
My only hope is when I meet Jesus, he puts his arm around my shoulder and says, “Well done, son. Well done.”
