This is Goliath.  See how tall he is?  The guys next to him with swords and bandanas are his henchmen.  They are not so tall.  But very fierce.  They are fierce in a get-over-here-you-lily-livered-son-of-a-one-eyed-prarie-dog-and-ima-take-you-down-punk sort of way.

This is the narrator.  And David.  And David’s helper.  They are fierce too, but in a different sort of way. They are fierce in a put-up-your-dukes-cuz-God’s-got-this-one-in-the-bag sort of way.

No one thought David should fight Goliath.  Even King Saul tried to talk him out of it.  When that didn’t work, he made David try on his armor.  It was too heavy.  Besides, David knew he only needed five smooth stones and a sling.  And God.  He needed God.

After some serious trash talking powered by the total confidence that comes from being on the side of Father, David slew that giant.  Right between the eyes.  Bam!  Dead.

Then the whole cast sang a few hymns, prayed their favorite attributes of Father, declared home church to be over and headed out for an afternoon of tubing and skiing behind the snowmobile. That’s par for the course when you’re spending the weekend with friends so dear you only pack clean undies and lots of food.  Friends so dear you spend two days in your long johns and no one even blinks.  Friends so dear you want the weekend to last forever (only with extra clean undies and maybe a lettuce restock) and when it doesn’t and you have to clean up and go home, you do that in your long johns too and you laugh while you vacuum because even that is fun with dear friends.

And if you don’t believe me, ask her.  She was there.  Hot tubbing and tubing in powder snow that covers you so completely that you have to cover every square inch of your skin with goggles and helmet and balaclavas so that you don’t freeze to death. And when you think you’ll surely die if you don’t get inside and warm up, there will be two mamas in long johns waiting for you with steaming mugs of hot cocoa and a little bowl of snow to cool it down with. Because we have discovered that the perfect way to pass a weekend is to do it with lots of snow and with chipotle salad and long johns and dear friends.  
Actually, you could probably do it without everything but the dear friends.  You definitely need them.

This is me being real.  Wondering what a perfect winter weekend looks like to you.  Wondering too, if there is anything sweeter than eavesdropping on seven small children scheming how best to tell a big big story?  I’m thinking not.

2 Replies to “retelling.”

  1. my perfect weekend is anywhere you and the rest of my family is. I'm writing this from Mexico, staying in a multi-million dollar home, looking out at a sky blue pink sunrise, and anticipating another breathtakingly beautiful day. It's almost perfect…if you and the others were here it would be.

    love you deep


  2. Well hello there traveler. We miss you and we agree that your trip would be perfect-er if we were there. Next year I'll remind you of that. I promise.
    I love you and am glad you're having fun. Hurry home.


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