Family Photo Albums

My mother loves photo albums. Oh, it’s not just the albums. She loves taking the pictures for them. Growing up I can’t remember an event where she didn’t have a camera in her hands. For years it was the Kodak Instamatic with the little flash-cubes that rotated on the top after each picture. She used to buy those flash-cubes in bulk. It’s obvious by our photo albums that my sisters got preferential treatment.

See, for each of us kids, mom started a photo album. All the pictures she took of each of us went into our individual photo album. One for Pam, my eldest sister, then me, then Rusty, my kid brother and then years later, Michelle, my baby sister. Each photo album chronicled each life. All of the birthdays, vacations, big events and candids went in. Then there were the school pictures.

I hated those things. You know the ones. Your teacher lets you go to the bathroom to check your hair in a mirror. Then you head back to the classroom where you fill out the information card. Once your card is filled out, you get in a line. Next, you walk into the school gymnasium or cafeteria or library or wherever the photographer happened to set up for that year. Then they process you.

“Hand me your card please,” the photographer’s assistant would chirp. Then she would make some sort of comment about each one. “Oh, you’re a cutie.” “How precious.” “Look at this gorgeous doll.” “You must be an angel from heaven.” When my turn came she said, “My, that’s a colorful shirt.” Then you go to “the stool of unnatural positions.”

The photographer would say, “next please” in a voice that was neither friendly nor unfriendly—just kind of bored and flat-toned. He would then grab the stool and deftly raise or lower it to accommodate your particular body size. Then he would position you on the stool and walk around behind his camera. After making adjustments to the height of the camera and very quickly checking his lighting, he would try to get your body into a position that would rival the moves of the world’s best contortionist.

“Ok. We’ll put your knees pointing this direction. Lean forward. Turn your head slightly to the left. Good. Chin down. Tilt the top of your head slightly to the right. Chin down. Good. Look into the camera.” Then he would say the line that almost always cracked me up. “Look natural and SMILE.”

And I always wanted to say, “Buddy, I don’t naturally put myself into this body position, so there’s no way I can look natural while I’m here. Smile, maybe—but it sure won’t look natural.”

Of course, I never said anything, because it would have broken both my pose and his thinly veiled veneer of patience, so I just tried to smile and look as natural as one can in that uncomfortable position. Click. Flash. And your torture was over.

“Next Please.” And you got to watch your buddy behind you squirm on the stool as his body was forced to do unnatural things. They would hand you an information card to take home to your parents, and barring any horrible mishaps requiring retakes, you could rest easy for another year—or at least until the pictures came.

Most years they would hand them out at school and the comparison games would begin. “Let me see yours! Ha! You look like a dork!” “Oh yea? Well let me see yours? Well you look like a contortionist!” Well, that’s not my fault! That photographer made me get in that position.”

You would dutifully take them home and your parents would decide whether they wanted them or not and send the money back in the supplied envelope. Naturally, my mother would always buy them, and naturally they went into my book, which was rapidly becoming the world’s guide to human contortions.

That system changed my seventh-grade year. Actually, we moved to another state, I changed schools, and the new school was trying out a new system. Instead of the teachers having to go through the hassle of trying to get everyone’s money or their pictures back, it was announced that this year everything would be pre-paid, and the photographer would mail them in a special cellophane-panel envelope directly to your home. No money. No pictures. If you didn’t like your pictures for any reason, there would be guaranteed retakes until you were happy.

I decided I would be happy with the first time around, since retakes would bring on the "humorous" remarks from your classmates. Oh, I had heard the comments from the class clowns to those who had to get retakes when their name was called. “What, you broke the camera the first time so they had to come back with a special beefed-up ‘no-break’ camera just for you?” Hahahahaha. Or: “It doesn’t matter how many times they do it, they can’t fix it, because they got nothin’ to work with!” Hahahaha. Or: “Hey, keep your mouth shut this time so the flash doesn’t bounce off your braces and blind the photographer.” Hahahaha.

Not only had I heard the class clowns spewing forth such comments, I had joined in. Ok. Sometimes I started it, thinking I was being clever. So why would anyone who made those comments want to go back for retakes until they were happy? Be happy the first time, because it probably wouldn’t get much better anyway.

Let me digress just enough to tell you that I was not much of a looker in the seventh-grade. As a matter of fact, I didn’t lose my two front teeth until the third grade, and I had already started playing trumpet by then, so in the absence of my two front teeth, my gums became rock hard as I practiced my trumpet. Unbeknownst to me, it didn’t stop my two front teeth from growing, it just didn’t allow them to cut through the now-thick gums. I went almost 10 months without front teeth, all the while they were growing up towards my brain. When I began having severe headaches, we went to the dentist and x-rays revealed my need for help in freeing my front incisors. A few pain injections and a sharp dental tool cutting through my numb gums quickly set them free. My teeth dropped down half an inch in the first hour, and to my horror, I discovered that, not only did I have two front teeth instantly, but they were HUGE! They were way bigger than the rest of the teeth I had in my mouth, and instantly earned me a nickname from my loving, elder sister.

“Beaver, beaver…you are a beaver,” she exclaimed as she saw them for the first time. “You know,” she continued, “I read that if beavers don’t gnaw on something, their teeth will grow into their brain and they will die. Do you want something to chew on?”

School the next day was no better. In fact, it was worse. My teeth became a hot boredom-busting topic. You got nothing else to talk about? How about MY TEETH?

Fast-forward back to the seventh-grade. The only thing that had changed was that I had lost all of my baby teeth, so my other teeth were now a bit larger, but still no match for my “killer fangs”, as one of my new classmates had dubbed them. Only he had such great wit as to warp my last name into the mix as well when he called them “Keele-r Fangs”, trying to put a fake Hispanic accent on my name to make it sound like he was saying “killer fangs.” As in, “You got some real Keele-r Fangs, Senor!” Bahahahahaha.

“Did your mother have any kids that lived?” I retorted. To which he only gave me a confused look and said, “What do you mean?”

“Never mind,” I replied, “it’s obvious she didn’t.” He was unfazed.

“Do you have any venom in those Keele-r Fangs?” Bahahahaha. “Don’t bite me, if you do, Senor!” Bahahahaha.

Back to the story. Picture day in seventh-grade. New photographer. New protocol. Pay in advance. Retakes until you’re happy. Yeah, right.

“Next please.” Some things never change. There was the stool of torture. He deftly adjusted it for my body. He quickly positioned me on the stool and then walked around behind his camera. After making adjustments to the height of his camera and very quickly checking his lighting, it was contortionist time. Only this guy was like a hyperactive squirrel on caffeine. Everything came in rapid-fire, machine gun cadence.

“Ok. We’ll put your knees pointing this direction. Lean forward. Turn your head slightly to the left. Good. Chin down. Tilt the top of your head slightly to the right. Chin down. Good. Look into the camera. Look natural and SMILE. WAIT!”

What? Wait? Wait for what?

“Your lips look a little dry, son. Why don’t you lick your lips?” he said as his trigger finger toyed with the button on his wired remote. “Go ahead, quickly now,” he continued. “We have lots of other children to photograph.”

I was halfway through licking my lips…that is, I had wet my top lip and big teeth with my tongue, and was using the back of my big teeth to wet my bottom lip, when his twitching trigger finger got the better of him. Click. Flash. “Next please.”

“Um, wait. Could we do that over? I was like this,” I said as I put my protruding incisors out in front of my lower lip.

“We’ll do it over on retake day if you aren’t happy with it. Next please,” he said all in one breath.

“No, you don’t understand,” I pleaded. “That picture will make me look like a beaver or killer fangs or something that I don’t want to look like. Can’t you just take another one now?”

“On retake day…not a moment sooner. Move along. Next please.”

The laughter of my classmates faded into the distance as my world closed in around me. All I could think about was a special cellophane-paneled envelope showing up in our mailbox. All of the postal workers would have a good laugh. I could hear them now. Probably even with New York mobster accents.

“Hey Chah-lie! Get a load of ‘dis kid! Looks like a beav-ah or somethun.”

“Is ‘dat right? Lemme see…whoa…poor kid. Looks like he needs to gnaw on somethun. Ya know, I read somewhere dat if beavers don’t gnaw on somethun, ‘deir teeth will grow right up into ‘deir brain and kill ‘em.”

“No kiddin’? Wow, maybe we should have Mavis put a note on ‘dis one when she delivers it to warn his mo-thuh. She could at leas’ stock some celery or somethun’.”

I shook my head and cleared the images of my imagination. Then a thought more horrifying hit me. What if Pam found them first? I’d never hear the end of it. I determined to be the first one to the mailbox everyday until they came.

Two weeks later, I opened the mailbox to see three cellophane-paneled envelopes staring back at me. The top one was my brother. Third-grade. Lively. Energetic. And the photographer’s assistant always said, “Oh, aren’t you a cutie!”

Next, was my sister’s. Eighth grade. Long-hair. Sophisticated, and secretly, though I would never admit it out loud to her, I thought she was beautiful.

On the bottom, probably out of pity for “that poor beaver-kid”, lay mine. It was as bad as I had expected. Two giant pearly whites shining forth like beacons in the night. I rapidly developed a plan. I took the mail inside and removed my envelope from the pile.

Quickly running downstairs, I lifted up my mattress and slid them under. No need to open the envelope and stare at 36 more identical pictures. If you don’t like the 8x10, you definitely won’t like the 5x7’s, the 3x5’s and the 20 wallets “for trading with your friends.”

Instantly, to avoid my siblings, I set about doing my chores. I said nothing about the mail, and they didn’t seem to think of it, so it lay in a pile on the kitchen counter until mom and dad came home with my younger sister.

“Oh, look,” mom exclaimed. “Your pictures came! At least Pam and Rusty’s are here..”

Pam ran to grab her package from mom’s hands while proceeding to do what every eighth-grade female does when they get their pictures, but before they actually see them. “Oh, mother, those are horrid. Don’t let anyone see.”

“No they’re not, dear. It’s a beautiful likeness of you. Don’t you think so, hon?” she asked, showing them to dad.

“Oh, yes,” dad said, pulling the picture from inside the cellophane envelope and studying it. “You’ve become a very lovely young lady.”

Pam snatched them away from dad and then proceeded to do what every eighth-grade female does after they see their pictures. “Oh, look at these…they’re horrid. Look. No. Don’t look. What do you think? I think they’re simply awful. Look. No. Don’t look. Aren’t they terrible?” Inwardly you knew she liked them, but she wouldn’t be caught dead admitting it.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Rusty said looking over her shoulder. “You do look like a real dork.”

“You hush your mouth! I wasn’t asking you anyway.”

Mom was working on opening Rusty’s package. “Oh, these are precious! You’re so cute! I know that Grandma will like these!”

Where are yours, Donnie?” my dad suddenly asked.

“Oh, they must not have come yet.” I lied, trying to sound convincing.

My younger brother was quick to rat me out. “Um, no. They came. Um. ‘Cause I, um, saw him putting them under his mattress in his room.”

“You little ratfink!” I started, but was cut short by my dad.

“Go get them, son,” he commanded.

“Ah, well, they’re really not very good.” I began.

“That’s what your sister said,” my mom responded, “and hers are absolutely beautiful. Now go get yours.”

“Well, see,” I was grasping for anything to save me, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming. Then out of nowhere, “Um…I think I will need to have retakes, cause I wasn’t ready when he took it and the picture came out looking really dumb.”

“Well, considering what they had to work with,” my sister started.

Dad cut off the rest of her remark as well as my quickly formulating comeback. “Well, you let us be the judge of that. Go get your pictures—NOW!”

“Yes sir.” I knew it was best not to try and argue the point. I went downstairs to my room and got them. I would have to try a new tactic.

“You have to promise not to laugh.” I started as I came back upstairs clutching the cellophane window to my chest.

“We would never laugh at you,” my mom countered. “You’re our son and we love you very much. A little picture won’t change that.”

“Maybe not, but I know you're gonna laugh, and I don't want to you laugh.” I shot back. “Promise me you won’t laugh.”

“Ok,” said mom. “We promise not to laugh. Now give them here.”

I handed her the cellophane-paneled envelope upside down. She turned it over and with one look at the picture, her hand went over her mouth to stifle a laugh.

“It’s cute,” she chortled. “I think we should keep it. I’ll put it in your album.”

“NO! Don’t EVER put it in my album!” I shouted.

“Calm down, son,” my dad said. Then to my mom, “Let me see it.”

He took one look and a big grin came across his face followed by a suppressed chuckle. Next it was my sister’s turn. “Beaver, beaver…you are a beaver!” Then she imitated what she thought a beaver would sound like by rapidly smacking her lips. Chupchupchupchupchup.

I was getting angry now. “I told you it was an awful picture and you promised not to laugh—and now you’ve broken your promise.” I shouted.

“We’re not laughing at you,” my sister began. “We’re laughing with you!”

“Yeah, only I’m not laughing,” I shot back angrily. “So that means you’re laughing at me and I don’t like it at all.”

Fortunately mom did concede not to send my school picture to all the relatives that year. But no matter how I pleaded, it still went into the album. And every time I would steal the picture from the album, another would mysteriously appear to take its place. And, why not? She had paid for the whole package.

I’m grown now, with young adult children of my own. We still get together for holidays and birthdays, and sometimes when we are together, out come the old albums. I always know whenever someone is looking at my album and they turn to the page containing my seventh-grade picture. It still brings a laugh and a comment. And I’ve learned to laugh at it as well. I did kind of look like a beaver.

Dad died almost 15 years ago and mom lives alone now. Sometimes, she tells me, on a Friday night, she’ll pull out all of the albums and go through them. She’ll relive the good times and recall stories of our growing-up years. She’ll remember how we were at every stage, and yes, she still laughs at that stupid seventh-grade picture. But most of all, she looks forward to the day when we will all be reunited as a family; her, dad, all of us kids and now, grandkids. Actually, she doesn’t just look forward to that day, she longs for it. But as much as she longs for it, God the Father, longs for it more.

Point : God keeps a family album, and my picture is in it.

It’s true! God keeps a family album and my picture is in it. And so is yours. As a matter of fact, He has a family album for each one of us, and He longs for the day when we’ll all be home, together for eternity.

But aside from eternity, the Bible says that God loves me and has a plan for my life right now. And He has a plan for your life as well. And He wants to complete His purpose in us so that He can take us home and be reunited with Him for all eternity.

The Lord will fulfill His purpose for me. Lord, Your love is eternal. Complete the work that You have begun. Psalms 38:8 TEV


So that it is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me. This life that I live now, I live by faith in the Son of God who loved me and gave His life for me. Galatians 2:20 NIV

Though God longs for the day He can take you and me home, He also longs for the day that you and I will learn to live our lives according to His purpose and through His strength. As He turns the pages of His family album, He relives those days that we lived with Him and it makes Him long all the more for the day when He will reunite His family for eternity.

Grandma's House

My grandma’s house hasn’t changed in 50 years. Well, ok, there was the addition of vinyl siding and central heat and air, but besides that, it still looks the same. My grandfather built the house back in the 1950’s when they moved to Collegedale, TN for my dad to go to college. But ever since I was born, I’ve only known that house as “grandma’s house.” To be sure, granddaddy lived there too, and sometimes we’d say that we were headed to “grandma and granddaddy’s” house. But to keep things short and simple, it was “grandma’s house.”

I loved to go to grandma’s house. It had the best brick wall on the side of the carport that went halfway up to the roofline, and from there, two sets of fan-shaped poles bolted to the top of the wall held the roof up.

Early on, my cousins and I would have to stretch to reach the bottom of the poles on the top of the wall, and we would strain to pull ourselves up, while our bare feet wind-milled their way up the red brick. Once on top of the wall, we could go back and forth along it for what seemed to be hours without getting bored. We would swing around the poles and balance along the wall until all of a sudden, something more exciting would capture the attention of one of us on the wall, and off they would go. Once one person had jumped down to run off, the others were sure to follow if the new pursuit was indeed more exciting than the wall.

There were lots of exciting things to do at grandma’s house. The tree swing. The tree house. Running through the sprinkler on a hot day. Games of Simon Says and Mother, May I and of course, the favorite on the large front lawn was Red Light, Green Light.

We also each had to take our turn helping granddaddy plant the garden, water the garden, fertilize the garden, weed the garden, or pick the garden as well. “The Garden” was actually 2 and a half acres of plowed ground on either side of the house from which corn, popcorn, watermelons, cantaloupes, okra, squashes of all kinds, beans of more kinds, peppers, radishes, lettuce and all sorts of other great things grew. We knew it was hard work, because we all had to help and our small hands and backs would grow very tired until finally we were released from the hard labor. Then we would head back up to the house, and with our last ounce of strength, pull ourselves back up to the top of the wall, where we would sit and brag about who did the most work in the garden.

But what was, and still remains, my favorite thing of all at grandma’s house, is what happens when I first get there. As a kid, I was usually one of the first out of the car and into the house, so I could hear it. The Greeting. It usually went something like this.

“Hey kid, C’mon in. Sit down and rest your feet. Can I get you something to eat?” (I loved that last part) If grandma was busy she’d just say, “look in the refrigerator and see what you want. I’m just saving”…and she would list what we couldn’t touch in the fridge. Everything else was fair game.

I still love going to grandma’s house. It’s not because of the wall, though my kids enjoyed it growing up. It’s not the tree swing or the tree house because they are both long gone. I no longer get jazzed about running through the sprinkler on a hot summer day, though my cousin’s youngest has just discovered it. Simon Says and Red Light-Green Light are rarely played there anymore. Even the garden is gone, because a few years back, my grandfather died and my grandma can barely make it around the house.

No. I love going to grandma’s house because of grandma. And the greeting. No matter how old I get she still calls me kid. I walked in a few weeks ago and there it was. “Hey kid, C’mon in. Sit down and rest your feet. There’s some cake on the counter if you want something.”

Through the good times and the bad of my life, no matter how much life changed around me, I’ve always known that I could go back to grandma’s house and my acceptance there was always automatic and unconditional. That never changed.

Grandma is now in her 90’s, and I know that at some point in time I will get a call letting me know that grandma’s house has changed forever. I don’t look forward to that day, because there are so few things in this life that you can always count on. As a matter of fact, I’ve only discovered one.

Here's the Point: Jesus Christ is the One who never changes in a universe that always does.

The bible says “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.” Heb. 13:8 NIV

As to His divine Holiness, He was shown with great power to be the Son of God by being raised from death. Romans 1:4 TEV

This is My Son, whom I love. Listen to Him! Mark 9:7 NIV

Wouldn’t it be nice to know that you have a place to go that never changes? A place where you know that you are safe and loved. May I suggest Jesus? He never changes. Your acceptance with Him is always automatic and unconditional. That will never change.