Dead Frog

Picture a dead frog (go ahead, do it), and imagine the poor thing motivating unbiased, generous philanthrophy.  An inspiring image, I know. Let me explain.

Years ago our young pastor, a single guy who often showed up in my bakery’s lunchroom to enjoy complimentary chicken salad sandwiches and homemade soup, commented that he almost felt like one of our kids. “And I have to say, you’re a great mom!” he told me.  He was lonely, and appreciated caring gestures offered with a mother’s touch.

One day he embellished that thought. “But it’s not about me, per se.  If a dead frog showed up in front of you, you’d rush to take care of it.  It’s just your nature. You’re hardwired that way.”   I didn’t know quite what to think of this, being a lake person who had seen plenty of innocent frogs smashed into disgusting pancakes on the road behind our cottage.  Anyway, his frog comment remained alive and well, and occasionally still comes back up in conversation.

So that’s all backstory.  Now I’ll get to the point.

I have a way of pampering my husband, bless his soul, and often serve him dinner on a TV tray in front of some old Turner classic movie or sports broadcast.  Last night as I was retrieving his dirty dishes after such a meal, he pulled me into the recliner with him, nuzzled my neck affectionately, and whispered in my ear, “So…am I a dead frog?”  I erupted in laughter and couldn’t stop, the goof.