Yes, I carry a pocketknife. I find it useful for things as varied as cutting open the packing tape on a box; to slicing off the plastic tip on a new tube of theatrical blood before a stage performance; to scraping unidentified sticky residue off my thumbnail. The knife may not be big, but it’s real handy.

In fact, the knife is so small I even boarded a plane with it once, and that’s after security looked at it. Of course, that was years before the 9/11 tragedy in 2001 which drastically changed the policies of allowable carry-on items.

The incident occurred when boarding a flight from Detroit to Chicago. As usual I left late and was in a hurry. I meant to leave my knife in the car before entering the airport, but forgot. When I emptied my pockets to walk through the metal detector, it lay conspicuously in the basket.

I was certain the guard would object. Running too late to return it to my car, the only recourse was to let them confiscate it. I saw one guard pick up the knife and examine it. He showed it to another guard. “Uh oh,” I thought. Then the two of them laughed and put it back in the basket. They waved me on.

I was pleased I didn’t lose it. I had this knife for a few years already and we bonded. Also, it’s the perfect size for my pocket and faithfully satisfies my needs. There’s even a clever feature of a little pin screwed through the top of the blade. This allows flipping open the blade one handed. That’s very convenient since I don’t have to set down any object held in my other hand when I draw out the knife.

The only problem the knife presented involved that little pin. The set screw didn’t hold the pin securely. It unscrewed several times before and fell off. Fortunately I always found the screw and pin tucked into the crease deep in my pocket. One day I pulled out my knife in the machine shop at a company where I worked. I cursed because the pin was gone. I had to set down what I was holding, search for the pin, and then screw it back on.

Russ, the machine shop manager, came over with a bottle of glue. He took the knife from me, applied a drop to the screw, and then screwed on the pin. It’s held all these years ever since. Thanks, Russ!

Sometimes a little glue at the right moment can hold something together for life.

In my profession as a statistician, I won’t make any discoveries offering scientific breakthroughs in technology. Nor, will I discover a cure for cancer. I won’t even build a better mousetrap. Instead, I work with people who may do all these glorious things and more. I assist them in their endeavors by studying patterns in data and uncovering relationships between factors. Armed with this knowledge, their creativity produces tangible results.

I’m a support person. Hence, I live to serve. That is my professional function. Of course, I get paid for doing it, so I don’t offer my service solely as an altruistic gift to humanity. But then, I do try to fully satisfy the needs of my clients. I dig deep to discover if they’re forgetting any unasked questions. As part of my mandate, I point out pros and cons, explaining what their plan to utilize the data will fulfill and where it may be deficient. Then, I suggest alternatives or supplemental methods useful in answering all their questions. In addition, I get feedback that I’m personable and easy to work with. I do get paid, but I like to think I go above and beyond to serve them completely.

In my time away from work, it’s not much different. I provide service to my family. I drive Brandi, my daughter, to appointments, meetings, and recreational activities. We go shopping, buying supplies we need to live, including food. I do the bulk of the cooking, the yard work, and split the cleaning chores. I see to it the vehicles and house are maintained. A lot of these tasks are repetitive and even boring, but playing a part in keeping the lives of loved ones unhindered by avoidable problems is its own blessing.

With my friends, I offer assistance if they need help. Owning a pickup truck means I’m on everyone’s short list to pick up that curio cabinet bought at an antique store or get some sheets of plywood for repairing a subfloor. I’m not too handy with tools, but I can hammer nails, paint, and hang venetian blinds. I even helped a friend install a heater core into her car. Although, after scraping my knuckles and unleashing a torrent of swear words, I think now I’d offer to pay a mechanic instead! Despite the challenges present, providing service satisfies the innate desire of living a purposeful existence.

With family and friends we also enjoy outings and recreational activities together. Though typically not considered a service, per se, recreation certainly does provide balance to life. It introduces excitement and gives us something to look forward to. So, even doing fun things falls on the list of service.

“I live to serve you.” It sounds facetious, but it’s true. We all live to serve one another.

A little praise for a job well done usually elicits a smile of joy. He or she is too young to exhibit hubris and too innocent to seek reward for providing service. So the good feeling the child unabashedly displays is for no reason other than being helpful.

If the child brings the wrong thing and, instead of appreciation, you show annoyance, then what happens? The child becomes confused, unable to comprehend the displeasure shown. Instead of a smile of joy, there’s a bewildering frown, or worse a sense of failure. Either way, the altruistic attempt to please fizzles into defeat.

People love to please others.

That’s obvious in even simple things like asking a stranger for directions. The person acts animated, using hand gestures, pointing, giving you a heads-up on landmarks as you approach, and what you’ll see if you pass your destination.

If someone we know does something to please us, then the familiarity we share makes the attempt even more personal. And, if it’s someone we love, the person often glows with a light of purity trying to please. The closer we are to another person, the greater the desire is to please.

What happens when we outright show dissatisfaction at the person’s attempt? Just like with a toddler, the person becomes confused. If we’re fortunate, all we see is a little disappointment. Unlike the toddler, however, the person may go on the offensive and attack us. Really, who could blame the person?

The desire to please is so innate that any perception of threatening the attempt creates ill will. It’s easy to see it in toddlers. They haven’t built up any defense mechanisms to mask their disappointment. In adults, there may be a host of behaviors designed to mask the disappointment. The person may have enough grounding to shrug it off, but disappointment in some form, even if it’s fleeting, still occurs.

The way we respond to someone’s offer to please either reflects a spirit of love or tarnishes the luster of that gift. It doesn’t tarnish the intent of the person offering it, but it damages the bonds of trust between us and the person who attempted to please us.

Trust is fragile. Careless or intentional acts of sabotage douse its intensity like water on the flame of a candle. Of course trust, like candles, can be relit, but it may take a while to recover. It’s easier to keep the flame burning than to relight it.

Our thoughtlessness may not even be intentional. We might just be so self-absorbed in our own thoughts we simply disregard someone’s attempt to please. What a tragedy that is.

We don’t have to constantly be on-guard. It’s simply a matter of awareness. Feeling the intent a person offers stands separate from the physical expression of their intent. Keeping people first helps us avoid spreading disharmony, even if we don’t find value in someone’s offer.

Whether we’re toddlers or old enough to have toddlers as grandchildren, we all love to please others.

“Oh, hi! Great to hear from you. Can you please hold a minute? I have a call on the other line.”

On Easter morning, my daughter, Brandi, and I went to a sunrise service on the shore of the Atlantic Ocean. We’ve done this for several years now. Brandi likes all the ceremony, the readings, and the singing. I enjoy sitting on the beach in the dark, tasting the salty breeze as it blows against my face, and watching the dark transform into day. That fills me with a divine awe more than hearing translated words recited from an ancient text or singing a few verses of psalms set to music. The dawning day renews my faith for everlasting life in ways that far exceed the telling of any stories interpreting the Creator’s intent.

Typically we rise well before dawn, dress warmly in sweat suits and hooded jackets, grab some blankets and chairs, and then head to the beach. Once settled in, I watch as a glimmer of subdued luminescence appears to the east above the water. Gradually that glimmer increases until bright enough to discern shapes along the shoreline. The veil of darkness recedes west until the first peek of orange glory emblazons the horizon. Rays reach upward like fingers. Then the sun’s face rises swiftly from the sea. A sliver, then a quarter, followed by a half, then the entire fiery ball floats atop the ocean. I squint in its brilliance. My face, chilled from the night’s touch, warms in the rising radiance.

Humbled, I recite my morning prayer, “Oh spirit. Thank you for blessing me with the gift of a new day. Another day to learn, to seek opportunity, and to serve.”

These events unfolded this year as usual, with one noticeable exception. Sitting quietly in darkness before the sun rose, I noticed the blue twinkle of smart phone screens interspersed among the gathered throng. It was 5:30 AM. I wondered what urgent information those phones held to help people prepare for worship. Above the lapping roar of surf washing ashore I heard the pecking sound emitted by those little virtual keypads. Whatever it was required interactive attention.

Thankfully, once the service started, those twinkles blinked out until only a few stubborn sparkles remained. Giving them the benefit of the doubt, I assumed perhaps they used their phones like pseudo-flashlights to help read the prayer responses.

As the morning grew brighter and I became entranced by the rising sun, I forgot about smart phones. But, when we stood in line to partake of communion, there were two girls ahead of me thumbing the keys on their phones. What could be so important that they had to respond while waiting in the communion line? What would they have done if they were suddenly face-to-face with the minister handing them the bread and wine before they finished their texting? Would they step aside and motion me to go ahead? Or would they say, “Oh, hold on God, I just have to finish this line and hit send.”

Maybe next time they’re praying, asking why God had forsaken them in their time of need, they might get the following divine message, “LOL. ;o) I was checking my email. Sorry.”

My father drank buttermilk. I guess he was a better man than I. Then again, he also ate Limburger cheese. That should say something about his character. I remember smelling Limburger when I was a kid. It smelled like maggot infested beef rotting in the sun for days, after a basketball team wrung out their sweat drenched jerseys all over it. The bacteria used in producing Limburger cheese is the same one that creates body odor on human skin. No wonder it stinks so horribly. I don’t think spreading deodorant on it would even help. I’m really not sure how you can get it past your nose to place it your mouth, but dad did. Maybe dad didn’t smell as good as I do.

Buttermilk is nowhere as bad, but I don’t find it palatable to drink. So, opening a container for only a third to a half cup means I have a lot left over. Generally I buy it a quart at a time, but even if I use a full cup, there’s still another three cups leftover. Although, when I buy a quart, I also try to pour a little in sauces or gravies. It lends a richness to those dishes that complements the flavors nicely. Plus, that way I use more while it’s fresh.

I don’t throw out what’s leftover. That would be wasteful. I freeze the rest and use it when I need. When it thaws, it doesn’t have the nice creamy consistency it had when fresh. It separates and would be even nastier to drink, but for the purposes of baking it’s fine.

I freeze it in different quantities. When I bake scones the recipe calls for one-third of a cup. Biscuits require a half cup. Different breads usually call for a cup. So, I generally freeze it in zip-lock bags holding amounts of one-third or half cups.

If I need a full cup, I can easily use three one-third or two half cup bags. If a recipe calls for an “off” amount, like three-quarters of a cup, I’ll just use two one-third cups and a splash of regular milk or water. Or, I might combine a half cup with one-third and just have a little extra liquid in that batch. It’s not rocket science, so an extra pinch of this or a larger dash of that usually works out okay.

So, last week I bought a quart of buttermilk. I made some scones, a loaf of bread, and dribbled some buttermilk into a stew. The rest I froze. I decided to freeze it in one-third cup quantities. I measured them out while making the stew. That way, if I had a little extra left over, then I could just dump it. But, guess what? When measuring that last bag, I had exactly one-third of a cup left in the bottle. Wow! That was amazing!

Things working out exactly as planned happen so rarely in life. When they do, it’s worth savoring the good fortune. Remember these little gifts when the outcome of other events is not as kind.

Benjamin Franklin allegedly said, “Beer is proof that God wants us to be happy.” Michelangelo’s painting clearly shows God was indeed the first comedian and unequivocally wants us to laugh. So, take my God . . . Please! If you still doubt me, just take a peek in the mirror. What you see staring back at you definitely shows God has a sense of humor! It confirms God has no qualms spreading that comedic streak across all of creation.

Laughter is as universal to humankind as is pain and suffering. Something this basic could only come from the Creator. Like all the gifts bestowed upon us by the Almighty, it’s our duty to be fruitful and multiply them. Doing things to cause laughter multiplies that gift.

Making others laugh is admirable, but we also have the ability to laugh at ourselves. It’s important to be serious, especially when performing delicate actions requiring focused concentration, like rocket science and removing slivers from a child’s hand. But, as a society, we probably take ourselves way too serious, especially in solemn vocations, like politics, financial affairs, and religion.

Most religious leaders uphold a severe tradition of piousness. They carry with them a crushing weight of seriousness that literally squeezes the fun right out of them. The higher you go up the hierarchical chain of command in a religion, the more serious it gets. Think about services at local churches. When led by a local prelate, they may even be fun. But, when a visiting bishop or cardinal comes to town, the service is heavy with pomp and circumstance and light on levity.

The only religious leader who really seems to have any grasp on having fun is His Holiness the 14th Dalai Lama. He’s known as quite the jokester and even pokes fun at himself. I bet he’d even laugh if you approached him singing, “Well hellooooo, Dalai!” He has his serious side, no doubt, but also understands God’s fervent desire for us to be happy.

Laughter is not an abomination against God. Laughter is medicine that heals the soul and brings us delight. And laughing at ourselves is healthy. It’s one way to chase away the anger of our silly little problems. How can we be angry when we’re laughing?

When you do something stupid, and we all do, go ahead and laugh at yourself. Okay, you can lick your wounds first and recover from the initial shock. But, don’t let the opportunity pass to poke a little fun at yourself and share a laugh with a loved one. You’ll both feel better and bond even closer. And, we are very fortunate that so many opportunities abound to do stupid things.

Remember, to err is indeed human, but to pull a finger is divine!

“Is Brandi there?” asked a voice I recognized.

“Just a minute,” I offered, and then called to my daughter, “Brandi! It’s Karen.” Within seconds, Brandi took the phone from my hand and entered into an animated dialogue with her friend. Within seconds . . .

I didn’t mean to lie to Karen and I don’t think she was upset, but it hadn’t taken the full minute I claimed it would take.

A few nights ago, Brandi and I went out for dinner. We finished our meal and the waitress brought our check. She laid it on the table and said, “I’ll be back to pick it up when you’re ready.” With a smile she walked away, tending to other tables.

I placed my credit card on the table and waited. Several minutes later she came back to retrieve it. She didn’t come back when I was ready, as I was ready as soon as I laid my card down. She came back when she was ready.

I didn’t know where a friend lived who I planned to visit one day. I called and he gave me directions. The last direction he gave was, “Turn left onto Village Road. I’m right around the corner.”

When I turned left onto Village Road, there was a gas station, an optometrist’s office, and what looked like it used to be a miniature golf course, but there was no house. Thinking maybe my friend said right, instead of left, I pulled over and turned around. The other corner had a drug store, a Laundromat, and a florist, but again no houses.

I turned around once more and headed back the original way on Village Road. I slowly drove about a mile before spotting a house. Getting closer I saw my friend’s address and last name posted on the mailbox. Well, he did live around the corner, just up about another mile.

“Just a minute” translates into “a pretty short time.” It may be a few seconds or perhaps a few minutes, but it’s probably shorter than the time it took to paint the Sistine Chapel. “When you’re ready” means “when I’m ready.” I hope you’re not standing on your tiptoes, unsteadily holding a fragile stained glass window in place, when your friend suddenly dashes off in a hurry and yells, “I’ll be back to help when you’re ready.” “Around the corner” means “somewhere past the corner you’ll find it.” By that definition I suppose I could say Alaska is right around the corner from Hawaii.

We are very loose in the expressions we use, but expect everyone understands exactly what we mean. What’s worse is we often get angry when we’re misunderstood. A simple misunderstanding over an already vague statement can cause family members to stop speaking to each other for decades. If a simple misunderstanding can create such disharmony, think of how heinous an intentional lie is.

It’s easy to bandy around expressions. Usually the meanings are pretty clear. But, assuming everyone understands everything we utter is dangerous. When misunderstandings occur, practicing tolerance goes a long way to restore harmony. It only takes just a minute.

Brandi, my daughter, and I went out for our usual dinner of enchiladas after yoga. While munching fresh warm tortilla chips dipped in fiery hot salsa, I glanced at a tent-card on the table advertising a drink called Ola Verde, with its English translation listed as “Green Wave.” I knew “verde” meant “green,” so I surmised “ola” meant “wave.” After consulting with Alexia, our Spanish linguistic expert who also doubled as our waitress, she indeed verified “ola” meant “wave.”

I queried further, “Doesn’t the word ‘hola’ mean ‘hello’ in Spanish? And it’s pronounced the same as ‘ola,’ but spelled differently?”

“Si, senor,” Alexia affirmed, “It does mean ‘hello’ and is pronounced like ‘ola,’ but it’s spelled with an ‘h’ at the beginning.”

Eureka! Like in English, Spanish also has homophones — words pronounced the same, but with different spellings and meanings. Of course it makes sense other languages have homophones. I just never considered the possibility before.

How many unconsidered possibilities lie beyond our reach simply because we’re not aware of them? An infinite amount, I bet. Paying attention to what’s going on right now is exciting. The wonder of life abounds in every moment!

I’m now imagining Jeff, my surfer-dude buddy, chanting “Hola, ola!” as a mantra every time he sees a killer wave approach!

Some homophones in English are the words “pare,” “pear,” and “pair.” The pronunciation of each is the same, but the spellings are obviously different and their meanings differ. On a pair of pears I can pare off the peel while my friend peals off the line at a red light. Then revel in the throes of joy as he throws the peels out a window, hitting a queen leaning against a lamppost like a quean. After discarding the waste, I can expand my waist by eating the two pears, too. Then again, my friend may wish that with a whish I toss him a slice. I can share my cache, bought with spare cash. And then sing him a hymn of praise, while he also prays. We may then stop for a few ales, which are certainly good for whatever ails you.

If there’s any pear leftover, we can place it in a bowl and then rent a lane to go bowl. Words spelled the same that sound alike but have different meanings are homographs. So after bowling we can commune in a commune, leap a yard at time as we flee from the yard, stalk animals through a field of corn stalks, quail over a quail that startles us, snake past a snake in the grass, compress a compress over the wound if it bites us, bear the fright of running into a bear, bow to a king sailing in the bow of a ship, subject his subjects to our arguments as we contest the outcome of a contest, offer the king a rose after he rose from a royal nap, and listen to him object if he’s pricked by the object.

Homophones and homographs are members of the same family called homonyms. It’s a lot like we are with the Mexican staff at the restaurant — all members of the human family.

I think it’s because olives were such a special treat for me as a child. My mother, having grown up in the Great Depression, was normally frugal. Olives were a luxury, reserved for holidays. So, opening a can of them was rare and I savored every last one, though unfortunately I had to share them with everyone else.

I remember when I was very young the olives contained pits. Worried I might choke, my mother cut the olives off the pits and gave me the pieces. I’m sure it wasn’t a task she relished, but she fiercely guarded the safety of all her children.

After a time, the olives came with the pits already removed. I’m not sure if pitting olives was a technology perfected during my youth or if my mom just got tired of cutting them for me. Maybe by then my parents advanced another rung on the prosperity ladder and could now just afford them. It’s interesting how people measure their wealth.

I discovered a clever way to eat pitted olives which garnered me some small status of celebrity. I placed an olive on the end of each finger and ate them from my fingertips. My family routinely requested I entertain them with this performance. I quickly realized I liked performing. My family then quickly discerned which behaviors of mine to encourage and which to ignore.

Perhaps all small children who like olives discover this trick. But, I was the youngest. If my siblings did that trick, I didn’t know about it. Regardless, it was now my turn to shine. Old tricks are still creative when discovered for the first time by a new generation.

Another treat I loved during holidays was gravy made with jarred mushrooms. Gravy is good by itself, but the mushrooms elevate it to a delight. It’s a tradition I carry on today.

Once when talking with a friend about cooking, mushrooms entered into our discussion. She emphatically stated, “Fresh mushrooms are so delicious! Why would anyone use jarred?”

That made me think. I love fresh mushrooms and use them for just about everything else I cook, but in gravy I use jarred. That’s the way mamma made it and it’s the way I continue to make it.

The next time I made gravy I intentionally used fresh mushrooms. They added a nice flavor and the texture was pleasing, but it felt wrong. Something was missing. Then I realized what it was. It wasn’t the flavor or the texture, the gravy was missing nostalgia.

Jarred mushrooms in my gravy provide a link connecting me with the warmth of my mother’s love. The love is always present and all I have to do to tap into it is remember. But, the mushrooms act as ritualistic tools which trigger subconscious feelings; the same way incense burned during religious ceremonies triggers deep rooted beliefs.

I went to the pantry and opened a can of olives.

In ten minutes I can wash and dry my coffee pot, play a game of solitaire, drive up to the store for a candy bar, dance Chopin’s Minute Waltz ten times, rack up about forty dollars of a lawyer’s time, do half a session of aerobic exercise, or make an omelet. In other words, I can’t really do anything of real consequence.

I can’t build a skyscraper, father a child, earn a university degree, write a novel, grow sunflowers, rebuild an engine, climb Mt. Everest, send an astronaut to the moon, broker a peace treaty in the Middle East, or end world hunger. Those things take longer — much longer.

There’s not really a lot I can do in ten minutes. Or is there?

In ten minutes I can meet someone new, setting into motion the wheels of love which eventually turn into marriage and begin a family with our first child. Family life could provide the setting to share in activities, like working the backyard soil into a garden. We could grow sunflowers, azalea bushes, and perhaps even vegetables. As a hobby, I could buy a classic car to restore and rebuild its engine. I might even take up the challenge of mountain climbing and attempt to scale Mt. Everest. All these experiences provide material for writing a novel.

I can practice a calculus problem in ten minutes, thereby increasing my mastery of mathematics on the road to earning a university degree. Plugging away at my studies can strengthen my ability to calculate trajectories, velocities, gravitational pull, and other parameters necessary to send astronauts into space. I could also apply mathematical principles toward determining angles, stress points, weight ratios, and other factors needed to build skyscrapers.

Instead of pursuing a technical degree, my interests may lie more in public service. By studying history, political science, and other disciplines related more toward working with people, perhaps I’ll become an ambassador sent to trouble spots as a mediator. The problems facing the Middle East can certainly use someone to help settle differences. If humanitarian endeavors or more to my liking, then a career helping to bring food into needy areas and attacking world hunger is a possibility.

In ten minutes time I can open the door for someone who has arms full of groceries, pick up a small child after the tot tumbles to the ground, hold an elevator for someone in a wheel chair, and smile at a senior citizen sitting alone on a park bench. Any of those people may pay forward that simple kindness to others, who in turn pay it forward until kindness surges across the world like a wave.

Life proceeds in moments, not in grand events. It’s the small actions which carry us through each minute and interact with the next. We determine what kind of interaction it will be.

I’m ten minutes older than I was ten minutes before. You are, too.