Thankfully Boring

“We think you’re holding back about your family,” she said.

And with that, the tears started flowing. I’m not sure why I had a little breakdown in the Roswell Starbucks, but the shock of what had just happened was a little too much for a rainy Tuesday night.

This started when I joined a new church for their small groups and was throroughly briefed that I was supposed to share my experiences openly with them.

So, I did. On week three we were supposed to talk about our families. So, I did.

I told them about my dad—a middle-aged who drinks non-alcoholic beer at middle-aged biker bars in the middle of Huntsville, AL, with other middle-aged wanna-be bikers.

I told them about my momma—a P.E. teacher who has been at the same school for 26 years now. She’s practically a legend, something I can attest to as people saying “Your mom gave me a check back in ‘92” followed me all through college.

I told them about my grandmother—the strongest, most amazing woman I’ve ever known. I don’t just say that because she’s my grandmother. I’ve met other grandmothers. They fail by comparison.

I told them about my grandfather—a white version of George Jefferson who I share a tremendous amount in common with (cough, red-headed temper, cough).

I told them about my boy cousins and the phenomenon that any boy cousin can talk you into doing anything. To this day, I think any one of them could talk me into climbing something or jumping into something. Like I said, it’s a phenomenon. Still, I know whole-heartedly that I can call them and have a flock of Alabama boys here in three hours (two if I’m in real trouble).

There’s more. I went through the whole gang: great-great uncles I’m not a huge fan of but who are still good people, the great aunt who made fun of my jawline when I was a kid, and the fact that my dad just got his first tattoo.

I’m not holding back. I’ll write about any of them on here because, well, they’re good people. We don’t get in fights. We don’t argue over money, probably because none of us really have it. There are no random babies, parolees, or addictions.

We’re not that great, we’re kind of just boring.

Anyways, my church group didn’t believe that a family could have those dynamics.

They didn’t believe that blessings could flow that freely in the family area. They do. I can prove it.

Because they didn’t believe that, they thought I was lying to cover up deep dark secrets. I wasn’t.

Looking back, I wouldn’t have cried in that Starbucks. I would have pulled a full-blown Julia Sugarbaker on her and walked out.

Hindsight is 20/20, I suppose.

More than anything—aside from one heck of a story about my church having an intervention for me stemming from things they assumed were lies—I learned that one of my biggest blessings in life is that boring little family. I love that I can call them anytime and know they’re not busy. I love that they can call me and know that I can pause to talk to them without worrying about other people, jealousy, greed, envy, or anger.

My grandmother has Alzheimer’s and it’s killing me. But I know everything will be OK because of my precious, terribly boring little family.

And for that, I’m thankful.