My mom was diligently working in the kitchen when I marched into her space with a chip the size of Texas on my teenage shoulder. A mom has a way of “knowing” things. Before I could speak a word, her right hand shot up and out. Her flat palm projected toward me with that universal sign - STOP! And, of course, I did! It was either comply or die at our house. Then she delivered the best advice I would ever learn. She said, “you need some fresh air”!

She spun on her heels like Clint Eastwood in the movie Pale Rider. Her inquisitive eyes scanned the classroom and then landed on me. I was as dumbfounded as she and couldn’t believe what had happened!

There she stood amidst the piles of charred wood and broken brick. Thin lines of ascending smoke whispered again, a reminder of the desolation that a fire can bring to a household. Her innocent six-year-old eyes puddled with un-spilled tears as the camera came in for a close-up. “What will you and your family do now that you have no home?” the news reporter asked. “Oh, we have a home.” She said. “We just don’t have a house to put it in.”

Their actions spoke loud and clear that they were in love. They each wore a matching oversized sweatshirt that read in extra bold letters, “Engaged AF”. Without thinking I naively said, “Oh you’re engaged and in the Air Force! How cool is that?” From the response of hilarious laughter that came from the younger group around me, I knew once again that I’d fallen headlong into a cultural communication gap. In this case it was more like a chasm.

My grandfather, Andrew Jackson Briggs, was very fond of three things; his grandchildren, his railroad pocket watch, and his hat. As funny as it may seem, there were times when the lines between the three were a little blurred.

Papaw's life with his hat displayed multiple lessons of human posture to me. His hat was his trademark. Just as sure as his belly was pudgy, his khakis creased, and his head bald, his hat was with him at all times. He would tip his hat to ladies. He held his hat in his hand at the bank or church.

Surprise! Nowhere on the package did it read, “From God to Humanity.” Actually, the writings for the tiny bundle preceded it by hundreds of years. It read, “unto us.” Meaning, unto humanity, a child is born. A son is given. Yet, in so many ways, this messianic gift arrived unmarked!