Well, how do you judge?

You can't judge a book by its cover.

That is such an over-used cliche that we often miss the wisdom in it -- telling us to look deeper, give it a chance, question, explore.

Living in our high-gloss, slicked-out, stars and stripes world, we are constantly stereotyping. And probably missing the joy because we are judging by the cover.

I was tempted to do it myself when I saw this boulangerie on the pock-marked Mont Vernon Avenue in St. Martin.

That's a bakery, believe it or not.

Now I love a hole in the wall restaurant. But that establishment. It just looked a little ... well ... scary.

Here's what we found inside.

That's A croissant fresh out of the oven (nothing like the grocery store variety).  A sticky, raisin and cream-filled bun and -- my favorite -- a brioche. The lady behind the counter kept trying to educate me in the correct pronunciation. "Breee-oshe." Wiki defines brioche: a pastry of French origin whose high egg and butter content give it a rich and tender crumb.

Oh yeah. Made me forget all about the outside of the boulangerie.

My Dad once shared a lesson he learned at the old Roseberry Piano House in downtown Hattiesburg. Daddy was a young piano salesman. I bet he was slick and tie-wearing and friendly. An older fellow came in wearing overalls. He wanted a new piano for his daughter. My dad the city slicker began showing him used spinets and talking up the Roseberry "rent to own" plan.

But the sales pitch was all wrong. The customer wanted a gleaming new (and expensive) grand piano. After making his choice, Mr. Overalls reached into his bib pocket and pulled out the cash to pay in full.

Proving once again: You can't judge a customer by his overalls.

------

1 Samuel 16:7  For the Lord sees not as man sees: man looks on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart.”

Dashing through the sand ....

It's so sunny I can't open my eyes out here!

Such an out-of-the-body experience for the week between Christmas and the New Year. Normallly a time for unfolding all your new clothes and putting up the holiday plates and undecorating the dehydrated Christmas tree.

Instead, I am in the middle of three books, listening to the winds through the palms. And the French housekeeper slushing "suois" and "ouis" on her cellphone next door.

Yesterday we walked Friar's Beach, hiked to Happy Bay and glanced at the show -- and oh what a show -- on the nude strip (no pun intended) of Orient Bay.

Over the beach and through the waves.

It's really not better, just different.

And "different" is what I asked for, since I couldn't do "the same" in a place that wasn't yet home.

It will be home.

The Hub City. Downtown. The Oaks. Sixth Avenue and all the variety of people passing through it.  I'm sure it will be home.

As soon as I get screen doors. And a few more parties, gatherings, planning meetings, crying sessions, drop-ins and impromptu friend nights. Oh yeah. And overnight company. It needs to house a law clerk, a displaced family and at least a couple of overseas guests before it's really home. Any volunteers?

Here's to a 2013 that didn't turn out like I thought it would and a 2014 with the promise of more than I could ask or imagine.

I had hummus and pitas at Volta with three precious girls who are big fans of the END-IT movement. This is a cause they adopted thanks to Louie Giglio and his team of Christian speakers and rockers at the Passion Conference.

Basically, END-IT movement works to stop human trafficking. And human trafficking usually involves sex. Think of the movie "Taken" and those squalid brothels (if you can stand it).

For moms of young daughters, this cause is hard to look at. It's too painful. It's horrendously frightening. And if we admit it happens, we might not be able to sleep at night.

But awful things DO happen. And not just in Amsterdam or Guatemala. In my newspaper, on my kitchen counter, there is a picture of a man who got three life sentences for child pornography. It's gross to say, but this man filmed sex acts with children.

I know you don't want to read this here. You'd rather read about the hummus and pitas.

And I'm going back there -- to Volta and the beautiful freshmen girls who love their sorority and plan for formals and take self-paced psychology and go to chemistry labs.

Over hummus, these girls talked about dance practice. They are preparing for a weekend frat event called Derby Day that is always a blast. Yes, lots of people get drunk. But it makes for good memories unless your foot is squished by a bus.

The sun will shine and the dancing will be fun. Hundreds of girls will dress up like candy (that is this year's theme) and booty-shake and shimmy and probably pelvic thrust for the frat guy judges.

Woah, I can hear the voices say, "pelvic thrusting"? That sounds a little strong.

Better to just say: "They will do a provocative dance."

But being a journalist and a truth-teller at heart, I can't stand euphemisms. Call it what you will. I'm thinking slutty dancing.

Here's a description I found online, written by a guy, that pretty much describes it:

Got a test that week? Forget about it. You have to practice your ass off to perfect your bootylicious dance routine so old men judges can drool over you and hopefully declare your group the winning ass-shakers.  So, while all of the girls sell their souls to this male dominated absurdity, the men of Sigma Chi sit around, get hammered and enjoy all of the attention. At least it’s for charity, right?

I know I'm not supposed to, but, truthfully, I can deal with slutty dancing. I love the Sweet Potato Queens. I love Dancing with the Stars.  I love slow dancing myself to Percy Sledge's "Let's Get it On."

Here's the part that makes me squeamish. At this fun fraternity event, each sorority provides a girl to compete for the title of Queen for a Day. This is not a Cinderella-Snow White type of queen. NoNoNo. Think Brittany and Madonna on steroids. Think stripper pole and push-up bra and potty mouth in one gorgeous, slightly drunk package.

It is a dubious honor to be chosen for this role. Many girls politely say "no thanks" when selected to represent their sorority sisters. So the sorority moves on to the next wildly sexy candidate until they find one willing to, ahem, perform.

Now I'm not condemning. I'm just being honest here. It is quite a juxtaposition. A clash of values. A conundrum.

Sororities promote values of sisterhood, friendship, campus involvement, philanthropy, teamwork -- and of course dating, shopping, cattiness, elitism, money-wasting and partying.

So there's lots of material here for the essay writers and deep thinkers.

In your honors class, you might be leading an honors discussion on vanishing cultures  or writing a paper comparing and contrasting science fiction with the therapies employed by Sigmund Freud.

But this tying of the events of Derby Day weekend to the END-IT movement. Comparing and contrasting and fleshing it all out. That's a little complicated for me.

That's one for a real Honors College discussion.NOW.

A ring of fire

When I wrote for Gannett a lifetime ago, there was this category in grading an article for competition: Evokes emotion.

Does the story make you fearful? Does it make you laugh or smile? Better yet, does it bring you to tears? Now that is an accomplishment for a writer. Making the reader feel something.

You win Sarah Vowell.

Sarah is a writer and for the radio program This American Life on Public Radio International. Wikipedia calls her a "social observer."

Sarah's radio story about the romance and marriage of Johnny and June Cash will grab your heart. Perhaps you will be cold enough to avoid emotion. I broke into a gasp and found myself crying.

June and Johnny's love was wrong on so many counts. He was married. She was married. And not to each other. They fell in love anyway. It happened. And it turned into something beautiful.

Find some good in that if you will.

Johnny and June Cash don't fall into the category of "good example" or "horrible warning." But their love was oh so touching and oh so inspirational.

As Sarah Vowell tells it, June wrote the song "Ring of Fire" while she was fighting against the love she felt for Johnny. Later, Johnny and his mariachi band trumpets took June's creation and turned it into a song like no other. Johnny's gravel-voiced passion in "Ring of Fire" was frosted with the oohs and ahs and ladylike echoes of the background singers -- June's sainted mother and sister.

Johnny must have been some hunk of burning love.

Johnny credited June with saving his life -- and she probably did. Snatching him from drugs and sharing her faith in God with him.

Even as they contemplated death together, the two were passionate. This beautiful duet predicts the final days of their 35 years together.

See if it doesn't make you shed a silent tear as you listen to June's sweet thin voice:

"If it proves to be His will that I am first to cross,
and somehow I've a feeling it will be.
When it comes your time to travel, likewise don't feel lost.
For I will be the first one that you'll see.

I'll be waiting on the farside banks of Jordan.
I'll be sitting drawing pictures in the sand.
And when I see you coming I will rise up with a shout
and come running through the shallow water, reaching for your hand."

To hear Sarah Vowell's beautiful story of Johnny and June's romance, listen by clicking here: This American Life . The podcast is titled "What is this thing?" The Carters' story, Act 3, is contained in the last 10 minutes ... don't even bother with the first 49 minutes of the show.

Just a few words of Joy

On my birthday, we played a question and answer game.

The guests picked from multiple answers. Which musical group is her favorite? Which magazine? Which dessert would she choose?

Then we got to this question:
Outside of her family, who does the birthday girl admire most?
A. Gloria Steinem
B. Beth Moore
C. Joy Roberts

Everybody knew the answer was C.

Joy is the embodiment of Proverbs 31. And she would hate to hear me say it. She would even laugh and say she never "made linen cloths" for her family like that woman in Proverbs 31. But these few verses from that chapter truly describe her.

"She welcomes the poor and helps the needy ... She is strong and respected by the people. She looks forward to the future with joy. She speaks wise words and teaches others to be kind."

Yep. All that and more.

So, on HER birthday, I'm sharing just a little of the wisdom she has spread around over the years.

A few gems:

* Don't make your children the focus of your life. If you do, they'll get used to being the center of attention. No spouse can live up to that and your children will grow up to be miserable.

* God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of love, power and self control.

* When you don't know what to do, just take the next step.

* Our new nature must be fed daily so we can be strong enough to fight the battles.

* Pride and self pre-occupation are at the bottom of all of our negative emotions.

* One of the barriers to temptation is constant belief in the goodness of God.

I especially love Joy's cure for "Me-itis." It's not original, and she wouldn't want to take credit for it. But she passed it along and it stuck with me.

In order to get rid of "me-itis," you should daily take this medicine:
1. Do something for someone else
2. Do something for yourself.
3. Do something you don't want to do.
4. Exercise your body
5. Exercise your mind.
6. Pray an original prayer to God, beginning with thanking him for your blessings.

Joy is a lady who is rarely casual -- in her dress, in her relationships or in her faith. Good thing, since Billy Graham says: "The casual Christian has little or no influence."

Thank you sweet Joy, for being a blessing, a model and oh, such a huge and profound influence.

Streams in the desert

The locals tell us that it rains here 15 days out of 365. Phoenix. It's the desert. Full of saguaro cacti and prickly pears. Tiny desert wrens. Scampering little brown nut hares. Sandstone boulders and huge shale formations.

We climbed to a Native Amerian cliff dwelling. We ate fabulous guacamole with pomegranates. We watched the Australian Open in our luxury villa. We played a round of Spades with good friends.

We did not play tennis. Not even once.

We pleaded with the pro at the tennis shop. We circled the courts and checked weather.com hourly. We asked for a rain dance in reverse....To no avail.

Complaining is unbecoming. Especially when you get to spend evenings with one of your long lost best friends and days admiring vistas straight out of National Geographic.

So we will just state the facts. It rarely rains in the desert. We went to the desert to play tennis. It rained on our tennis parade.

Really not our best friends!

I was amazed to hear about my friend Ira's dog Piney. Piney, a small rescue bulldog, is more debilitating than OCD or agoraphobia. Piney is possessive. He is offensive. He is expensive.

Ira and Piney

Piney keeps Ira and his wife from having friends over because he bites -- any person who looks him in the eye. Piney must eat special meat. Piney awakens his owners to go outside and then turns on them just as they return to the warmth.

Ira is not really my friend. It just feels that way since I listen to his voice so much on the This American Life podcast.

Ira's dog Piney would certainly not be my friend.

I wonder, though, why we -- like Ira -- tolerate so much when it comes to our animals.

Take Jake. He's the long-haired tomcat we unabashedly call Satan, Lucifer or Beelzebub. Jake will tempt you with his alluring fake sweetness. But if you don't bow to temptation, he will leave you alone.

Sometimes if you do not do his bidding -- getting his food, looking at his food, letting him in and out on cat command -- he will bite you. He definitely bites other cats, visitors and anyone who tries to put him into a cat carrier.

But we continue to pay his vet bills and stitch him up after every fight. We are enablers, I know.

Recently there were two more Jake incidents. The tennis party incident, where a forewarned friend tried to be a cat whisperer. Jake does not put up with that stuff. Yes, he bit her. Yes, she was bleeding profusely. Yes, she had to seek medical attention.

Then on Christmas Eve, when all were caught up in the glow, Jake chose this moment to get in a cat fight and come inside and bleed all over the floor. Once again, we did Satan's bidding, calling the harried vet out on Christmas Eve to stitch up Jake's neck. Jake would live to fight again.

We would never dream of allowing such misbehavior from our children. There would be punishment, lessons learned, attitudes adjusted.

But with Jake, we are at a loss. We can only use him as an object lesson, pointing out that he is a deceiver, the father of lies and, like Satan, he prowls the earth, seeking whom he may devour.

Be afraid.

Have a cup of tea with the doc and you'll understand

What is it about this rude British man called Doc Martin that keeps us coming back for more?

Every night we find ourselves tuning in to another episode of this BBC series set in beautiful Portwenn (which we know from Google is really Port Isaac), located on a gorgeous, sun-drenched harbor in the south of Britain.

Wikipedia tells me that five Doc Martin series have aired between 2007 and 2011. So we arrived late to the Doc Martin party.

My daughters are hooked on "The Walking Dead" (too scary) and my friend Karen swears by "Parenthood" (hits too close to home). But we fixate on this odd man who is awkward and rude, unfriendly and blunt.

The actors are exceptionally British in look and manner and fashion choices. Even the lovely star Luisa (or Lou-EEE-zer if you're really British) wears white babydoll shoes with her blue jeans in winter. They live in houses with low ceilings and tiny refrigerators. They wear neck collars or suspenders or sensible shoes or horrendous platform heels with orange, lace-trimmed socks.

Maybe it's the contrast of lifestyles that draws us in. Maybe we've just become friendly Anglophiles thanks to our Canasta-playing British friends, Helen and Nick.

Whatever ...  it's a nice quick trip from our reality to theirs.

Doc Martin and his lovely and goofy receptionist, Pauline

Don't worry, be happy

We had a voicemail from Nanaw last Sunday:
"I've called the cell phones, the house phone and the office. I can't find you anywhere!" She didn't say so, but the sheriff and the FBI were next on the call list.

Never mind that we drive safely, live in a gated neighborhood and don't associate with criminals. We could have been kidnapped or shipwrecked or stricken with diptheria. You never know.

Did I mention that it was Sunday morning and we had just gone out for a 30-minute walk?

Headed to Passion

Moms can be prone to irrational behavior, also known as worry.

So when baby daughter left for Atlanta in a rainstorm this morning, I wasn't irrationally worried, but I was concerned. Her vehicle was safe. I love her friends. But there was the rain. And big-city driving can be scary.

Through the magic of modern technology (this is a cliche, but it really is magic), I saw Rachel and friends on Instagram by mid-morning. The caption said "headed to Passion." Passion is the name of the annual Christian conference at the Georgia dome, lest you think I really DID have something to worry about.

By mid-afternoon, I was wondering if she had made it to Atlanta, so I logged onto iCloud. There I tracked storm Rachel and her iPhone. I discovered that she had stopped for gasoline on the outskirts of Atlanta. When I checked an hour later, the green dot that was Rachel showed her safely at the Marriott in downtown Atlanta.

Later in the evening, she sent a text picture of the concert, spotlights beaming.

Amazing. In the 19 short years since she was born, we have come to this.

Rach would have a hard time fathoming that, on the day of her birth, I did not own a cell phone. I could not text the news to my friends or put her wrinkled baby face on Facebook. I could not Skype with the out-of-town relatives or send an iPhone video of her crying in the nursery. I couldn't even read an electronic book while recovering or choose an iTunes playlist to accompany the occasion. The times they have a-changed.

Now, if we could just teach Nanaw to text, use Instagram and visit the iCloud. Until then, Sheriff Hodge, you might expect a call.

The Passion Conference and Praise Fest in Atlanta

To eavesdrop on the conference and hear speakers like Beth Moore and Louie Giglio,
and singers like Matt Redmon and Chris Tomlin, click the link below:

Passion 2013