Yes. It’s true.
Part III of the TALE of All the Bananas has been released! So, without further ado, I offer to you all the full TALE of All the Bananas:
- Part I – the TALE of All the Bananas
- Part II – the TALE of All the Bananas
- Part III – the TALE of All the Bananas
Enjoy. Only if you have way too much time on your hands.
Over the past three days, I threw little plastic pieces all over my floor, spent hours stacking them up into useless structures, produced nothing of lasting value, and someday will tear them all down again. No, I haven’t lost my mind…
Reverting to my younger years, I decided to see if my old Lego-building spunk lived still. Currently, I’m building a castle. As you can see, quite a bit of work still remains. The third level of the royal family’s quarters is dangerously unsafe due to a lack of handrails. An attacking army could level the place if they tried hard enough–an entire section of one of the walls in missing (but with the help of some aborigines my youngest sister’s friend added last night, I think the premises are safe enough).
Why waste my time on such a menial project when there are yards to mow, places to see, people to meet? Simple. One day I’m going to be a dad (Deo Volente) and I’m going to have to know how to play. Play, as in doing nothing useful but having fun with my kids. As if having fun with my kids is not useful.
Sometimes I think that adults take life so seriously that they miss lots of important things. Maybe we didn’t watch enough of Mary Poppins when we were young. Or maybe we don’t remember all the times when we were the kid and our parents didn’t have time to play with us.
Guys (and gals), don’t throw away your Legos. You can get them out again when your children are old enough. More importantly, don’t throw away your ability to play.
I have nothing against the above phrase. I just prefer that it not be used in conjunction with my name. Here’s why:
When I was young(er) we had a book about a kid named Farmer Boy, or something like that. Whatever the case, the name of the book and picture on the front cover (a boy with a mildly bored expression leaning on two joyous calfs) seemed derogatory.
Over the years, I suppose the image of Farmer Boy has ruined any prospect I have of appreciating the term Preacher Boy. I, for example, do not chew on long pieces of straw. Never have.
Regardless of my likes and dislikes, I was blessed with the opportunity to preach last Sunday. The congregation was very kind; from their comments, one would never have known that I was green, as in inexperienced, young, and a little shaky behind the pulpit. I need to grab any chance I get to preach, though. Before too long, I’ll be the owner of the pulpit and be expected to know how to use it (Deo Volente).