“The Kid” sat at my kitchen table the other day asserting his New Year’s resolution. “Mis-ter Founnn-tainnn, my New Year’s resolution is I’m not gonna eat pork no more.”
“Really?” I asked, fixing myself a juicy honey ham sandwich on toasted bread with a spread of Miracle Whip. “So, you not gonna eat bacon? Or my rib tips anymore, man?”
I sensed some hesitation in The Kid’s voice as I baited him like the devil.
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“Are rib tips pork?” he asked.
“Yep, so is chitlins,” in which he delighted on the day after Christmas at our house. “So is that Italian sausage you like in our spaghetti.”
“It is?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“I’m making pork chops tomorrow,” my wife chimed in. We know The Kid likes pork chops, barbecue rib tips, and generally anything that’s served up. Except, perhaps flowing with the winds of crash diets and colonics, he too avowed his own resolution. And quitting pork it was.
The Kid sat resolute, even if I know the scent of my ham sandwich was calling his name.
I normally don’t make resolutions. Don’t really believe in them. My gym, these days, is filled with people who do. They litter the treadmills, cycles, the weight machines, seeking to shed holiday pounds with new-found inspiration. God bless, ’em. But most will be gone before spring.
That’s because most lack resolve. And their vows simply were not cast in a moment of truth or clarity where one decides that “change” is the only recourse.
I call these turning points in my life revolutions rather than resolutions. One is a cerebral act. The latter a knee-jerk moment. A revolution — a sudden, complete, or marked change in something.
Most of my personal revolutions occurred without fanfare, without ceremony, and usually in the still quiet of my soul suddenly when I decided: “I can’t live like this any longer. And I don’t have to.”
The decision to go back to college after dropping out. The decision to leave a job. To seize control of my health. And while I don’t believe in making resolutions per se, I do believe we could certainly use a few:
Resolve in Chicago to stop the killing. Resolve to fix the pension crisis as well as the potholes. Resolve to pass a state budget.
Resolve as churches to move beyond the walls. To not build another multi-million-dollar worship center but housing for the poor and create jobs.
Resolve as fathers to be more committed to our children.
Resolve to ditch Jay Cutler and draft a decent quarterback. Resolve for the Cubs to play exactly like they did last season.
Resolve as a nation to be kinder, gentler to our fellow man. To breathe in life everyday, every moment, like it’s our last. To hate less, love more.
And I resolve to embrace sunshine, the breeze, and the sound of music drifting on a memory. To kiss more and curse less. To ride my Harley and smoke a few good cigars in the pleasant camaraderie of good brothers beneath the glow of a summer’s moon.
To waste less time on worries. And to be instead consumed by the moments with those who make my heart sing, my soul delight, and my life complete with the fullness of a golden orange sun, rising above rippling blue waters that crash with the cadence of peace.
Now, if only we could muster the resolve to keep our vows.
Finally, The Kid gave in.
“Mrs. Fountain, can you make me a ham sandwich?”
I laughed. “What happened to your resolution?”
No need to answer. I already knew.
Email: Author@Johnwfountain.com
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