"Called Again: A story of love and triumph": A Book Review

 Jennifer Pharr Davis eats mountaintops for breakfast—and lunch, dinner, and evening snack. Up and over those rocky crags she goes. Across gassy balds. Through shaded path and traversing boulder fields. When the shine shines and gentle breezes blow, and when the sleet drives sideways and the gales threaten to topple her off the peak, JPD climbs ever higher. She knows each one by name and they know her.

Yes, Jen is a mountain conqueror. But the presence of a mountaintop always requires a valley, often deep. Sometimes the valley is lush and green, a respite from the loftier peaks. But mostly, the valley is merely a prelude before the next peak calls out again; a sirens call to those who choose to rise and meet he to those who are truly called again.

“Called Again: A Story of Love and Triumph” is the true tale of a young woman’s love affair with the Appalachian Trail (AT). But it is equally a story of the love affair with her husband. And it is those two loves that keep her feet to the ground in her quest for the overall speed record on the AT.  

To say Jennifer is a seasoned hiker would be an understatement of gigantic proportions. While most her age are content to assume nine-to-five responsibilities after negotiating the demands and guilty pleasures of college life, Jen logged thousands of miles on long, demanding trails. Twice before, she treaded upon every inch of the Appalachian Trail; a trail that snakes its way between Springer Mountain, Georgia and the rocky summit of Mt. Katahdin in Maine. Once, a heavy backpack rested on her shoulders as she trekked northward. The second time, she set off from Maine to travel south. Two weeks prior to that adventure she said “I do” to her man as well as her trail. In doing so, the woman’s speed record became her own fifty-seven days later.

But in “Called Again,” JPD recalls her forty-six days in 2011 on the same trail. This time, when she touched the plaque marking the southern terminus amidst a crowd of family and friends, she became the fasted person EVER to complete the journey. Every word, paragraph, and chapter of her newest book reveals the most memorable moments of the journey. But even more so, every word, paragraph, and chapter peels back the mind, the psyche, of this extraordinary athlete and adventurer. The reader peers directly into the soul that had enough courage to hike into the abyss of pain and misery, relentless miles, and countless difficulties—and back out again in triumph.

JPD’s writing is both clear and descriptive. Her creative style and use of appropriate analogies makes “Called Again” the kind of book that causes the reader angst to have to put it down before turning the last page. It is so much more than a trail travelogue. There is none of the standard, uninspired “I did this and then I did that” kind of writing. Rather, the reader is pulled inside the very mind of JPD. You begin to understand the essence of the endeavor, the gigantic, herculean effort it took to survive. The reader will have nothing but profound respect for Jen, Brew (husband and crew chief), and their accomplishments.

However, with that being said, the reader must understand there is a danger in reading the book. It will become all too clear that Jennifer is an extraordinary individual who has accomplished extraordinary things. In contrast, the reader may become all too aware of his or her own failures. “How many times have I quit?” you might ask. “How could I possibly complain about a blister when there is nary a mention or complaint about the decimation of her own feet over those forty-six days?” If the standard reader is anything like me, there is a chance of feeling inadequate (and maybe even incapable) of succeeding at much of anything.

Nevertheless, regardless of transient feelings of failure by comparison, the greater message is one of hope and perseverance, purpose and commitment. Jennifer is a hiker by God’s design. So hike she must. The rest of us may not be called to hike long-distance trails but we all have God-given purpose. “Called Again” guides the reader in finding purpose and setting a course. The inevitable result will be sleepless nights of profound introspection and thought-filled days, searching for love and triumph as we seek to  execute God’s purpose for us.

"Called Again" is set for release in June 2013 (Beaufort Books)

Roof-be-gone

Envision the last trailer you saw for an action movie. Cars careen through narrow streets, bullets fly, people jump out of the way, things go flying, and in the final, slow-mo scene, a vehicle goes airborne, flipping through the air for what seems to be way too long. The clip then morphs back into real-time speed as the hunk of steel smashes into the ground, exploding into a million pieces.

Save the chase and the bullets, I felt like I was the stunt driver in that scene just a few hours ago.

"Before"

Gary and I had driven to North Carolina to pick up his latest EBay purchase: a 1990 one-owner Ford four-wheel drive truck. But it wasn't just a truck. It came equipped with a big 'ol snow plow and a dump trailer complete with electric brakes. Obviously, those two complementary bits of equipment will be quite useful to Gary. However, I was more excited about what sat in the bed of the truck: a pop-up camper that sleeps four, complete with refrigerator, stove, sink, heater, AC unit, and water and propane tanks for easy overnighting. I had often mentioned to Gary how I would enjoy such a thing. Imagine my excitement that one came with this truck. He was happy. I was

"Before" and in camping mode

happy.

We chatted effortlessly with the lovely couple who sold us this strange yet wonderful combination of stuff. They were moving to the beach and had little use for all of this. They were good honest people, both life-long educators. "It seems to leak a little so you"ll probably want to seal up the roof."

"Okay" we said, looking inside the door. Everything looked fine. "We'll check it out."

Money and titles were exchanged and hands were shaken before we started back on the two-hour drive. Everything seemed to be in order until we made the turn heading north onto RT 29. Suddenly, something flew off from the roof of the camper, barely missing my car that followed behind. "Hum, I wonder what that was?" But I didn't have to wonder for long.

Open door, open roof policy

I noticed the roof of the camper begin to ripple like water on the lake when a sudden wind comes up. For a second or two, it undulated in the 60 mph driving wind. "Slow down. Slow down," I silently screamed to Gary. He didn't hear me. In the next instant, the roof settled briefly before rearing up on the back hinges in one grand motion, creating a twelve-foot high wind block. The inevitable was about to happen.

I watched the rear hinges break away. Now, the entire  7' x 12" roof was headed toward my windshield flipping end over end. I no longer heard the radio or thought anymore about the beautiful blue sky overhead. I felt like I really was in a slow-motion movie. Still, I remember marveling at how high a camper roof can fly when becoming unhitched at such speed and angle. "Wow. Look at that."

Then reality set in. Not panic. Just reality. Time had picked up speed again, just like in the movies. If I didn't perform a few defensive driving tricks real soon, that roof was coming through my windshield. I doubted the result would be pleasant. I braked, swerved, and watched it crash inches from my car, sending glass and camper-shell shrapnel everywhere. I pulled to the side of the road, looking up in time to see Gary's truck pulling over a third of a mile up the road. "Good thing no one was coming down the ramp," I thought when I noticed this took place at the bottom of an on-ramp.That was fortunate. Otherwise, I would have had no where to go except into the guard rail.

I turned off the key but realized I was now in overdrive. The shattered roof had landed in the slow lane of the highway. It had to be moved- and fast! I ran to it and reached under the crumpled rim. It was heavy. Still, I heaved and ho'ed, dragging the wreckage from the path of an oncoming semi. A gentleman who was traveling behind me ran over to help once he pulled to the side. As he reached down to grab a corner he exclaimed, "Man, I can't believe how it didn't hit you. I watched the whole thing. I thought you were gone!"

Left front corner buckled then ripped away

After thanking him for stopping, I ran down the road (literally) to Gary, who was now standing inside the roofless camper. It looked a little strange. "Shoot. Just when I thought I was getting the camper I wanted," I mused enroute. Just then a state trooper came alongside me with his window rolled down.

"You okay? What's wrong? Why are you running down the road?" I almost laughed at our predicament. Almost.

"See that truck and camper?", still two hundred yards down the road. "We bought it about forty-five minutes ago and the roof just blew off. It's a revolting development."

Rotten wood: floor and camper sides

With what I considered understated concern, he simply said, "Okay" and drove away, stopping momentarily to ask Gary if he needed anything.There really wasn't anything to do but pick up the pieces and continue home with the newly air-conditioned camper and one very large sun roof.

Inspecting the remains, it became obvious that the hidden wood rot destroyed the structural integrity of the camper. The left front corner had crumpled, the latch detached, and the rest is history. Who could have predicted this?

There really isn't much to the rest of the story. The drive home was uneventful. But now in the aftermath, I'm beginning to understand how busy my angels must have been today. I wonder how many it took to keep that thing in the air just a tad longer or a smidgeon higher, allowing me to escape. Did they clear any traffic from the ramp? Did they take the wheel of my car, giving it the right degree of swerve and mixture of brake and accelerator? Interesting thoughts.

Just prior to the incident, my radio was tuned into a christian station. I recall Chuck Swindoll talking about conducting funerals for more and more younger people. "And in most cases, their deaths were unexpected. . . We are never guaranteed another day. Another hour." (Paraphrased)

He's right. We never know. And because we never know, perhaps we should consider more carefully how we live.

Thank you, Lord, for your gracious protection. Thank you for the chance to live another day for you.

Far-reaching "Best Season Yet"

Okay. I have to admit it. I am now in the habit of checking Amazon for the latest reviews on my books. I was blown away by a review from a reader who is a music conductor. Apparently, he is seeing application far beyond the athletic field! Read his review below and see if you don't agree.

Paul Daniels writes: "Best Season Yet" is targeted toward athletic coaches. Coach Rebekah Trittipoe, the author, may have underestimated the appeal and usefulness of her book to all who find themselves entrusted with leadership, especially Christian leadership.

I'm a music teacher by profession. I conduct five performing groups. Early in my career, however, I also coached middle school and high school track and field. At that time, I was surprised by the similarity between the challenges I encountered as a conductor and as a coach.

Coach Trittipoe addresses these challenges in her book. Committing oneself to the team and the team's mission, submitting to the authority of the coach, motivating oneself to achieve personal and team goals, battling performance anxiety, dealing with injuries and illnesses, persevering when quitting seems like an attractive option, reacting positively to failure, using ones talents to serve others, working together as a team, pursuing excellence, maintaining balance and perspective on ones endeavors, and finishing "like a pro" are issues I deal with every day.

Just substitute "choir" for "team" and "conductor" for "coach," and it's "welcome to my life."

Trittipoe, a gifted athlete and coach, happens to use athletics to explain and apply timeless Christian principles to guiding a team through a season of practices and contests. The principles, however, transcend athletics and even the performing arts.

Any person entrusted with leading a group of people who must work with others toward a common goal could benefit from reading "Best Season Yet." Principles that benefit teams and performing groups can also benefit people in businesses, community organizations, and--dare I say it--churches.

The book is extremely well organized for its stated purpose. Each of the twelve weeks of a typical athletic season is devoted to one of the issues listed above. Each week begins with a suggested activity designed to focus the team's attention on the issue and stimulate thought and discussion. For each day of the week, then, there is a brief, extremely engaging reading in which Trittipoe moves seamlessly from 21st Century events to Biblical events in order to illustrate various aspects of the Christian principles that apply to the issue. There is a quotation from Scripture, a provocative question, and space provided in which each athlete can write his or her response to the question.

The reading for each day and the followup question can be accomplished in five-to-ten minutes at the beginning, during the middle, or near the end of a practice. Coach Trittipoe is well aware of the preciousness of practice time, and so she has created "Best Season Yet" with that practical factor in mind.

As a former coach and current conductor, I highly recommend "Best Season Yet" to any person who needs to motivate and inspire a group of people to work together toward a common goal.

Goin' home: A new perspective

Goodness gracious. How could it be that a month has passed since I last blogged. That almost puts me into the blogger wanna-be category. It's not that I don't want to write. It's simply that life gets complicated and filled to overflowing. There simply does not seem to be extra hours once all the "have-to" lists have been completed. Heavy sigh. But I'm pretty sure everyone out there has the same feeling.

So, let's see. What has happened as of late? My running quantity and consistency is going downhill. This has led to an increase in a few pounds, which makes me feel even more puny when I do run. Teaching continues to be rewarding yet time-consuming in preparation. Coaching is demanding but I feel more well-equipped from having sat through a USATF certification course. My book has been released and seems to be well-received. And yet, there is much to do in terms of getting out the word.

And then there was my trip north to spend a few days with my mom. Talk about putting things in perspective! Mother will be 85 this month, as hard as that is to believe. She has always been a go-getter, an endless reservoir of energy and determination. She raised four kids, cooked, sewed, kept house, gardened, was music director at church for decades, played tennis, and learned the intricacies of finance when my father died twenty-six years ago. After moving into the independent living retirement community six years ago, she continued well-doing. She wrote and published a book, writes encouragements to countless missionaries, opens her home to guests, and laboriously leads the cancer support group she established years ago after being diagnosed with breast cancer.

But something was different this time when I walked through the door. My wonderful mother looked tired, worn, her frame shrunken from further compression of her spine. She tried to put on a happy face but I could tell she was worried. She was having a hard time catching her breath, her energy waning. She even contemplated a trip to the hospital since she was fearing another round of severe anemia. With a home test kit for hemoglobin, we were able to ally that fear. Still, I could tell she was not well.

Over the course of my three-day stay, Mother bounced back a little, though she still had to stop and catch her breath when walking to the car or down the long hallways. She also worried about having to take so much Tylenol to help with her arthritis pain. So I was glad to help her with the once-every-three-month shopping trip to Wal-Mart, a chore she found nearly impossible by herself. With a bad shoulder and arthritis, it is difficult to lift and load heavy items like laundry detergent. And dragging all the purchases in her rolling shopping cart up the incline leading into her building is exhausting. I was delighted to lighten her load.

It's hard to see my mom decline in health. She said, "I don't know how to get old." Who does? It's a learn-as-you-go kind of event. There's no school that teaches the subject. Even at 56, I get frustrated at my own decreasing abilities. I can't imagine what an additional 29 years will do to me.

But my gracious, kind, compassionate, Spirit-filled Mother bravely continues on. She doesn't understand the other residents who seem to have time to play bridge and put together jigsaw puzzles. She has planning to do, correspondence to write, phone calls to make to hundreds of cancer patients, and hours of praying time while sitting atop her exercise bike or at the study table in the sun-room. She reads multiple books at a time, taking notes in the margins. Her time in the Word is much more than a cursory reading of a few verses. She drives herself (and two other seniors) to church whenever the doors are open. She organizes and records nearly everything she does, three-ring notebooks filling her office. Mother will rest after lunch for thirty minutes and then relentlessly pursue her passions, even when she doesn't feel like it. Even on one of her bad days, she makes me feel like a weenie.


On the last night of my visit, we sat down to watch a concert performance of David Phelps. To say this tenor is an amazing artist would be an understatement. Over hot cups of tea and a little snack, we were overwhelmed by the melodies, lofting, swelling, and penetrating the soul. But on the last song, I looked over at Mother. Her wiggling nose gave away the tears that followed. The orchestra began to play the haunting tune and Mr. Phelps sang these words of an old negro spiritual: (Video link)

"Goin' home, goin' home, I am goin' home

Quiet-like, some still day, I'll be going home

It's not far, just close by, through an open door

Work all done, care laid by, goin' to fear no more

Mother's there expecting me, father's waiting too

Lots of folks gathered there, all the friends I knew

Nothing lost, all's gain

No more fret nor pain

No more stumbing on the way

No more longing for the day

Goin' to roam no more.

Morning star lights the way, rewtless dreams all done

Shadows gone, break of day, real life just begun

There's no break, there's no end, I'll be living on

Wide awake, with a smile goin' on and on

Goin' home, goin' home, I'm just going home

It's not far, just close by, through an open door

I'll be goin' home

I'll be goin' home

I'm goin' home

I'm goin' home

Lord, I'm goin' home.

By the time it was over, tears obscured my vision, my mother's as well. But through those clouded eyes I saw for the first time how tired she was, how ready she was to join my father, my grandmother, my grandfather, her brother, her two little babies that died before they were born. Though I don't want her to rush off (Lord, no!), I began to understand. I saw heaven in a whole new way. My perspective has changed.

I love you, Mother.

Now available!

NOW AVAILABLE!

Take advantage of the introductory pricing of these two books. Order copies for yourself, your friends, or and your team. Print and e-book versions are available!

Click here to order. 

I would appreciate any reviews you could give on these Amazon offerings. It only takes a minute and sure would mean a lot to me.  Thanks!

Win a free copy of "Best Season Yet: 12 Weeks to Train"

Win a copy of "Best Season Yet: 12 Weeks to Train, Athlete's Edition.

Just click this link and enter to win your very own copy!

If you want a description of the book, visit this link.

One cent for one sent

 Pennies. One cent each. They are truly money but I feel bad for the little copper-colored coins. Often abandoned, they lay destitute in city streets, seen but ignored by passersby. Most cars hide some of them in cracks and crevices, between seats and consoles, and under mats. They are never searched for. Rather, they are simply left alone to live out the remainder of their miserable lives in the dank, depressing darkness along with the equally snubbed tire iron.

Pennies are thrown haphazardly onto dresser tops and into jars, never to be touched again. They are even tossed in the trash along with moldy Fruit-Loops and cracker crumbs found while searching the sofa cushions for more meaningful monetary finds. Poor, wretched, and disrespected, this coinage must surely question why they were ever minted. There is no tax-exempt “Save the pennies” foundation; baby whales do much better. And sometimes, just when hope flickers in anticipation of being used, the puny penny feels the final insult as a freight train squashes it into oblivion. No amount of “ohs and ahs” at the flattened coin can take away the hurt, the pain, the agony of never, ever being counted and handed to a store clerk as a useful, valuable unit of exchange.

Ever feel like that penny? I have. Small and meaningless. Virtually good for nothing. A mere speck in the mass of humanity. And then I looked closely at a penny and learned a lesson.

“One cent.” That’s what it says. It does have value. Its value is recognized even if not highly esteemed. But when many pennies get together, guess what they make. Change. That’s right. They make change. Their value becomes more apparent, especially when you start stacking all those pennies in the coin sleeves before taking them to the bank. What appeared to be a pile of nearly worthless metal morphs into a dollar amount much greater than anticipated.

“One sent.” That’s what the Bible says. I do have value because God chose me as His own. He chose me to be sent out as a unit of exchange for His glory. I can be used. I will be used. But just think about what happens when all the other “one sents” get together. Change happens. It has to. The unit of exchange is compounded by the numbers. We can go further, impact more. We are handed to God’s clerk and distributed for various purposes. For a period of time, we may rest in the safety of the register’s drawer. But then, as His hand reaches in, cradling us for a moment, he releases us for the task. Out we go and where we end up, God only knows.

Search out another “one sent” and see if you don’t make change.

Just one more day: Jouney to Hellgate and beyond

I crossed Hellgate's finish line with a time of 16:14. Certainly not my worst time but not my best. Nevertheless, I had to be content. It was my ninth finish and an hour twenty faster than last year. But let's back-peddle those 66.6 miles and then some. That's where the story really begins.

2012 has been a year fraught with highs and lows, good and bad, goals set and dreams shattered. On New Year's Day I decided to run at least a mile everyday. Why? I don't know. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. Lots of friends had checked off 365-straight runs, I had read about others with streaks marked by decades instead of days, and I figured it would be easy to find at least ten minutes every day to get down the road and back. It actually wasn't too bad for the first seven months. Sure, there were late night jaunts before the clock struck the bewitching hour. But still, single mile days were rare and I didn't miss the total rest days as much as anticipated.

Then came summer and the Tour de Virginia, a 568-mile, 14-day quest on the Appalachian Trail. Well, make that 200 miles and five days. That's all I managed to do before bailing unceremoniously. I failed. Heavy sigh. But that's an entirely different story. Though I was up on my swollen and bruised feet giving aid to the runners still following that narrow ribbon of trail northward, I registered no miles of my own for two days. Still, I was back on track after that short hiatus, determining not to miss any more. 364 out of 366 (a Leap year) was still going to be pretty cool.

And then a job happened. I said yes to full-time teaching in addition to three-sports-a-year coaching. That's when it got really hard. Behind my desk by 5:45 a.m., teaching straight through the day with only one short break, conducting practices after school for several hours, and then home to cook, bath, work more on school, and fall into bed. The weekends didn't help much. Nearly every one was taken up by a cross country meet, sometimes requiring a dozen or more hours of commitment on a Saturday.

Call me a weanie but the last few months have taken a toll. Mental and physical exhaustion rule. Sometimes life got so frantic and my time with family so cheated, that even the idea of a ten-minute run seemed to throw my world off axis. So now, on this last day of the year, I have thirteen run-nut'n days for 2013. And no, at this point, I really don't care in these post-Hellgate, post-Christmas days. I've run out of steam.

But what about Hellgate? This was my tenth start in the ten year history of the race. I finished all but one year. (Yes, I risk breathlessness with yet another heavy sigh.) Last year was a thrash, finishing with just twenty-five minutes to spare. With my weekdays filled with teaching and weekends piled high with coaching obligations, I had but one fifty-mile race in November and one quasi-long run between that race and Hellgate.  My only hope was the daily running I do with my team and some heavy inspiration from a friend.

It came in the form of a simple text. "I hope the race this weekend goes well. Run valiantly! I just prayed for you."

Hum. Run valiantly? I like that word. Old Testament writers used it a dozen times, always characterizing brave soldiers. I especially like the phrase "accompanied by valiant men whose hearts God had touched" (1 Sam. 10:26). The idea of being courageous, cunning, and fully committed after an up-close-and personal with God appeals to me. There is purpose and hope thrown into the mix. I love that.

My goal for Hellgate then became to remember those words in the dark of night, when the going got tough, when I was feeling sleepy, and when I became impatient for the journey to be over. Over and over again I questioned myself. "Self, are you being valiant?" Sometimes the answer was yes. Sometimes no.

When it was "no," I asked another question. "Self, what are you going to change to become valiant?" The answer varied. At times it was simple. Run more, walk less. Other times it was more complicated. There were mental decisions to be made: smile, focus, don't pout, quit whining, don't think too far ahead, get only to the next aid station, be smarter about eating and drinking, try to encourage someone else, look around, enjoy the day, embrace the trail, accept the challenge. I found out that being valiant takes a lot of energy, mental and physical..

The race was hard; let there be no question about that. But the race wasn't as bad as it could have been. I didn't fall asleep as much as some years. Until the very end nothing really hurt, not even my feet. (Thank you, Hokas.) It looked like I was going to run a better time than last year and that was a major surprise. Yes, there were all the relentless in and outs, up and downs, the expected forever sections, and more leaves and rocks than should be allowed in the woods. My stomach only turned south toward the end but never prevented me from eating. Even the last three-mile climb to the Parkway crossing went better than anticipated.

But then, Self needed a talking-to. All of a sudden, the thought of a three mile decent to the finish was not at all appealing. The quads started protesting about being further punished one hundred yards into the downhill run. Self really wanted to walk it in. And then Self thought about being valiant. Shoot. Being valiant meant sucking it up. Being valiant meant running when it hurt. Being valiant meant a commitment not to walk even if no one was around to witness it. Being valiant meant attempting to catch the runner in front and keep from being passed from behind. Being valiant meant doing my best in the moment. Being valiant meant finishing in 16:14. Not a personal best but far from a personal worst. Being valiant meant being able to be content.

It's been three weeks since the race. Physical recovery has been better than expected. What wasn't expected was a lethargy about running. Too many other tasks, responsibilities, and activities stole my attention. I had four straight days right around Christmas where I didn't run a step. There was no time or energy. My soldier-self came up on the short-side of restocking valiance.

As I look back on the year and my goal to run 366 days straight, I failed. I failed to run a baker's dozen of days. Am I crying about it? Not really. Sometimes, making good, mature decisions is knowing when the cost is greater than the reward. When that happens, it's time to pull the plug. So I did. I pulled the plug thirteen times because the cost to my family, my health, or my sanity wasn't worth it.

Will I try to streak again? Doubtful. Will I get up in the morning and run in the mountains with my friends? Yes. The reward is greater than the cost.

Happy New Year! Who knows what 2013 will bring?

Top Ten Clues That Your Impending Nuptials are in Trouble

We have this thing at our church. Whenever a young woman heads to the alter, the ladies of the church shower her with gifts and solid advice. Last night we gathered again. Several of the married lady offered Lindsay, the blushing bride-to-be, wonderful, biblical advise. By the time it got to me, there wasn't a lot more I could add. So I didn't. I took a little different approach. I decided to give a light-hearted "what not to do" list. So, here goes. . .

Top Ten Clues That Your Impending Nuptials are in Trouble

10. Your favorite song has always been, is now, and will forever be, “Let’s Talk About Me.”

9. You think the perfect recessional song for your wedding is the old, favorite hymn, “Sound the Battle Cry.”

8. In honor of your Great Granny’s favorite church song, your first dance will be to the tune of “The Fight is On.”

7. Your new favorite book on your night stand, written by Ms. Alwa Say Neva, is entitled, “1000 Ways to Say No.”

6. You plan on offering many burnt sacrifices for dinner to shame your man into taking you out.

 

5. You start a file for all the wedding gift receipts so that returning the goods for cash is easier if this marriage thing doesn’t work out.

4. You feel a sudden urge to sign up for a macramé class to convince yourself tying a knot is a good thing to do.

3. As soon as he says “I do,” you plan on asking him to change more than his dirty underwear.

2. When asked, you decline picking up a broom, stating that you wouldn't want steal his mother’s sweet ride.

1. You are convinced that the better in “for better or worse” is another name for you. The “worse?” Well, isn’t that obvious?