#commonmancommonsense

When instinct trumps choice...

Truthfully no such thing has ever occurred and as long as humans are the subject... it never will. Unity cannot be obtained through man’s negotiations, compromise, or charitable acts. Unity is only real when a singular purpose can be fully agreed upon and pursued by all. One example of true unity is found in Acts 2 verse 41-47.

This unity came from an event that brought some 3000 souls to salvation in Christ. They all believed in Christ and His redemptive work on Calvary. Christ now became their motivation for life at all levels. They embraced the “mission” taught to them by the apostles and pursued it with “ one accord” and in “ singleness of heart”!

Unity was present among all those that believed but still they had much to do... their unity would lead them to preach and teach and disciple in every place they encountered. Some were stoned, some were killed, many were imprisoned but their unified mission was never in doubt.

If we want to see unity in our world we can start by speaking daily of the ONE who provides salvation for all! No one can have a different Saviour... No one can find a greater peace... No life can be saved through faith and repentance except those unified in belief in Christ!

“Then they that gladly received his word were baptized: and the same day there were added unto them about three thousand souls. And they continued stedfastly in the apostles' doctrine and fellowship, and in breaking of bread, and in prayers. And fear came upon every soul: and many wonders and signs were done by the apostles. And all that believed were together, and had all things common; And sold their possessions and goods, and parted them to all men, as every man had need. And they, continuing daily with one accord in the temple, and breaking bread from house to house, did eat their meat with gladness and singleness of heart, Praising God, and having favour with all the people. And the Lord added to the church daily such as should be saved.”

I observed a frog tonight.. he was sitting on a gate just waiting for an insect to come within range .. The reason that frog will never go hungry is because the insects get too close to the frog.. over and over.. The result is always the same. Go where you aren’t supposed be and do what you aren’t supposed to do and the frog will do what frogs do...

And boy howdy, do I have stories.

Let me start with one that didn’t even happen in another state—it happened right in our hometown of Columbia, Mississippi. Now, Papaw, for all his size, had this way of slouching down in his pickup truck like he was trying to sneak up on a nap. So from the outside, you wouldn’t realize you were looking at a man who could arm wrestle a grizzly bear and win by persuasion.

One fine day, he was posted up at the Sonic Drive-In, working on a burger like it owed him money. And, well, Papaw was not what you’d call a “neat” eater. Mustard had colonized on his chin like it had plans for expansion.

A carload of teenage punks rolled up beside him, and one of ‘em… with all the wisdom of a high school sophomore and the survival instincts of a moth in a bug zapper, leaned out and said, “Hey mister, you got mustard on your chin!”

Papaw didn’t say a word.

He just slowly opened the door of his truck, unfolded all six-foot-something of his “don’t-test-me” frame, and ambled over to that car like he had all day and zero tolerance. He leaned in on the open window, looked at the kid dead in the eyes and, in the calmest, most Southern gentleman voice you’ve ever heard, asked:

“Would you like to wipe it off?”

That was it. That’s all he said. And it was game over. Those boys tore outta there like the coney dogs were haunted. Never saw them again. I like to think they still get nervous when they drive past a Sonic.

Papaw had a way of saying things that weren’t all that funny on paper… but when you factored in his size, his delivery, and his zero-tolerance policy for nonsense ..it was comedy gold. Like the time my older brother asked him, “Papaw, what would you do if I hit you in the head with a hammer?”

His answer? “You do, and I ever find out about it, there’s gonna be trouble.”

Classic Papaw. Calm. Collected. Slightly terrifying.

Fast-forward a few years to Murfreesboro, Tennessee. I was about 13, and Papaw and Mamaw had rolled up in their RV to stay for a while. During that season, we did what any Southern family would do for entertainment.. we went to yard sales like it was a sport. Estate sales, rummage sales, flea markets, if it wasn’t nailed down and had a $2 sticker on it, we were there.

At one of those sales, Papaw bought a rusty bicycle. And not just a little rust. This thing looked like it had been through the Civil War and then parked at the bottom of a pond.

But Papaw sat down, flipped that bike upside down, and went to town with a wire brush like he was trying to get it ready for the Tour de France. After days of scrubbing and painting, it looked brand new. I mean showroom-floor, Christmas-morning, cue-the-orchestra music level good.

He proudly put it out in the yard with a $35 price tag on it.. honestly, a steal. But this fella came up, looked at the bike, looked at Papaw (who was reclined against a big oak tree like he was holding court), and said:

“Would you take five dollars for it?”

Without missing a beat, Papaw just looked at him with complete disdain and said:

“I think you should go hide your head somewhere.”

Negotiations were over. Forever.

Then there was the time we lived in Texas. One day, Mom asked Papaw to run to Kirbyville and pick up a 20-piece chicken meal from Church’s Chicken. She had coupons, because of course she did—this was the South and we respect the hustle.

Papaw said, “Sure,” and my brother and I rode along with him.

But when we got there, Papaw handed me enough money for two 20-piece boxes. I said, “Papaw, are you sure? Mom said just one.”

He looked at me and said, with dead seriousness:

“The one for your mom is for you guys to eat. The other one is mine.”

And y’all… I don’t remember if ate every piece of the extra box alone but he certainly scared it to death..

The rest of the family split the other one like it was our first meal in years

Papaw was many things: a giant of a man, a hard worker, a quiet force, and absolutely not the one to mess with.. But he also had a big ol’ heart he loved his family and he loved Jesus! , and every one of these stories makes me smile, laugh, and miss him more.

He went home to be with the Lord not long after that chicken incident in Texas. Mamaw’s joined him since then. I can’t wait to see them again one day.

Being an aspiring cowboy on a budget, I couldn’t afford a well-trained steed. So, like any wise teenager, I made the financially responsible decision to buy an untrained young filly. With the help of some books (which I mostly skimmed) and some older church members (who mostly laughed at me), I set out to become a horse trainer. Miraculously, my filly turned out gentle, probably because she had been spoiled rotten by the previous owners. She took to the saddle with no resistance, and suddenly, I was convinced I was the next great American cowboy.

Fast forward a bit, and I had fully immersed myself in horse culture. I made cowboy friends, went on trail rides, and even worked on a horse farm. Life was good. Then, my brother’s friend called with an offer we couldn’t refuse: an old, well-trained horse from his grandfather’s farm. This horse had plowed gardens, carried kids, and probably led a prayer meeting or two. He needed a good home, and we were just the suckers… uh, I mean, loving family to take him.

So, my father drove an ancient Ford F-150 all the way from Mississippi to Texas, hauling what we believed was a noble steed. What actually arrived, however, was a very short, very old Welsh pony. We named him Apache, because, well, why not? He was gentle, loved grazing, and spent his days being pestered by our young filly and a young stud colt. He was basically the old man at a retirement home who just wants to eat his pudding in peace.

One fateful day, my brother and I decided to take Apache for a ride. No saddle, just a blanket, because we were young, dumb, and had yet to experience real consequences. We set off down an old logging road, taking turns riding the pony, feeling like kings of the Texas wilderness. Then, out of absolutely nowhere, I fell off. Just… fell. No bucking, no sudden stops, no dramatic cowboy moment… one second I was on the horse, the next second I was experiencing gravity in its fullest force.

The pain was immediate and excruciating. I was convinced I was dying. I dramatically informed my brother of this tragic development, to which he responded with the concern and care only a younger brother can provide: he took the pony and walked home, leaving me sprawled in the dirt like yesterday’s laundry.

I begged him to go get our parents. He claims he did, but to this day, there is no evidence to support that claim. I suspect he got home, saw a snack on the counter, got distracted, and completely forgot about his dying older brother.

Meanwhile, I embarked on what felt like the most heroic, pain-filled journey of all time… crawling, gasping, and dramatically pausing for effect as I inched my way home. In reality, I probably covered about 30 feet every 10 minutes, but in my mind, I was trekking across the Sahara.

Just when I had accepted my fate and was prepared to leave my cowboy hat as a monument to my memory, I heard a vehicle approaching. It was my dad. He pulled up, took one look at me, and, unlike my brother… actually seemed concerned. He and my mom agreed that a trip to the ER was necessary.

After what felt like every test known to medical science, the doctors informed me that I was not, in fact, dying, but I had managed to bruise my kidney. Turns out, falling off a pony can really mess up your insides. They kept me overnight, and I had plenty of time to reflect on my life choices, including trusting my brother with my well-being.

Later, I confronted him about why exactly he left me for dead in the middle of a dirt road. His excuse? I had faked injuries in the past to get him to do things for me. Now, I have no recollection of such a thing ever happening. (Of course, he claims otherwise, but I maintain my innocence.)

The moral of the story? If you do cry wolf, your little brother may one day leave you to die in the middle of the woods. But since I never did that (allegedly), the real lesson is this: When you actually need help, make sure you have a trustworthy person around… and not a sibling who prioritizes snack time over your survival

So, we had to get creative. And when I say creative, I mean desperate. We ran through sprinklers, took turns sitting in number 10 wash tubs (which was more like marinating than swimming), and even tried to cool off in 55-gallon drums like a bunch of overgrown pickles in a brine bath. None of it was satisfying, so we were always on the lookout for the next great innovation in backyard water sports.

Then one day, genius struck. Somebody… probably one of us who had just overheated and started hallucinating, realized that if a canoe was designed to keep water out, then logically, it should be able to keep water in. A little dragging, a lot of splashing, and boom we had ourselves a homemade redneck swimming pool.

For several days, we basked in the glory of our innovation. That canoe was the hottest (or, I guess, coolest) thing in town. Then my cousin came over, and things took a turn for the extremely stupid. Four teenage boys in a canoe sized pool? It wasn’t long before “cooling off” turned into a full-blown, testosterone-fueled Olympic event.

It started with simple challenges…”How long can you hold your breath?” “Can you touch both ends of the canoe underwater without coming up?” but naturally, the stakes kept escalating. Then came the grand finale: the ultimate test of bravery and bone structure.

The challenge? Start in the middle of the canoe, go under the seats, and emerge triumphantly in the tiny 14-inch space between the last seat and the nose of the boat.

My older brother, our fearless leader in all things reckless… did it with ease. He emerged grinning like he’d just won a gold medal, then immediately dared the rest of us to do it. And, of course, my cousin, who was already over 6’5” and still growing, was not about to be shown up. There may or may not have been a bet involved (memory gets fuzzy when oxygen is low), but what I do remember is that a 6’5” teenager does not bend like a 6’ one.

Once he wedged himself under there, he was stuck. And I don’t mean “tight squeeze” stuck….. I mean “full-blown, flailing, panicked, canoe-trashing, about-to-drown-in-14-inches-of-water” stuck.

Now, you’d think the smart thing to do would have been to simply flip the canoe over and free him. But what did we do instead? We just stood there in absolute horror, watching our cousin thrash around like a cat in a bathtub.

By the sheer grace of God (and possibly because he momentarily transformed into a contortionist), he somehow wiggled free. He surfaced gasping for air, covered in scratches, with a heart rate somewhere in the hummingbird range. I like to think he emerged a wiser man, but honestly, I doubt it, because not long after, my older brother started chasing him through the woods with a hammer. (Don’t ask. We were raised in Mississippi, and that’s just how we handled disputes.)

Back when we were farming, we temporarily moved some of our cattle to my younger brother’s place. Everything seemed fine until my other brother got a game camera picture from a neighbor.

The picture showed what appeared to be my bull, standing knee deep in lush, green ryegrass, living his absolute best life. The problem? That wasn’t my ryegrass. That was somebody’s carefully planted deer plot.

Now, I wasn’t about to accuse my bull of trespassing without proof, so I jumped on the side-by-side and sped down to my pasture. And there he was… my bull, right where he should have been, munching away like he’d never even heard of knee deep ryegrass.

I was confused, but since the picture didn’t show his ear tag, I figured there had to be a mistake. Maybe it was a long lost twin. Maybe there was a secret underground network of identical bulls. Or maybe, just maybe, my bull had developed teleportation skills.

But then, the pictures kept coming.

Every few days, another game camera shot. Every few days, I’d race down to my pasture, and every single time, there stood my bull, acting innocent. And every single time, the pictures only showed one side of him… never the ear tag, never the brand.

This went on for weeks. I started questioning reality. Was I being gaslit by my own livestock?

Finally, I decided to get permission and investigate the neighbor’s property myself. I found tracks.. a lot of tracks. Clearly, some four-legged bandit had been helping himself to a fine dining experience on a regular basis.

So I backtracked the hoof prints, and wouldn’t you know it? They led straight back to my pasture.

I was starting to get the picture. My bull wasn’t confused. I was.

Then, the next time a picture came in, I did something different. Instead of hopping on the side-by-side, I walked to the pasture. And guess what?

No bull.

That sneaky rascal had been waiting until he heard my side-by-side coming, then sprinting back just in time to stand there, looking innocent, pretending he’d been a good boy all along.

I had been played by a bovine.

A little fence mending put an end to his joyrides, but the whole situation got me thinking… don’t we do the exact same thing with God?

We “jump the fence” and wander into places we have no business being. We involve ourselves in things we shouldn’t. We indulge in what looks good at the time, but we know we don’t belong there. And then, when we think someone’s watching… we rush back to where we’re supposed to be, acting like we never left.

But here’s the thing….God isn’t fooled.

Unlike me, who got outsmarted by an overgrown hamburger, God already knows where we’ve been. He sees the heart. He knows our struggles, our desires, and our secret wanderings.

The good news? He’s not looking to “catch us”He’s calling us to stay close to Him.