In elementary school, telling stories got me into a lot of trouble and now, oddly enough, story telling is part of my job in a sense. Sometimes people ask me if the stories I tell and write are true and my standard response is, “Every single word is true…and some of it even happened.” I’ve always been a storyteller and I’ve always loved a good story. While I was waiting to be born -- mama was in labor for over 24 hours -- I said two things to the doctor. The first one was a question, “I'm starving, is there anywhere around here that has good biscuits and gravy?” The second one was a funny story, “Hey Doc, I just made up a joke about the birth of a child….but I’m working on the delivery.”
For me, one of the most revered and coveted Southern skills and traditions — rivaled only by the ability to make perfect sweet tea and cornbread that doesn’t stick — is the telling of a good tale. When it’s done right it seems equal parts effortless and enchanting, but when it goes wrong you realize how truly difficult it is to tell a good story. Being an only child helped develop my storytelling muscles because I had to make up ways to entertain myself, so I wrote stories.
Very early, with both of my boys, I began the bedtime tradition of reading them, or just as often, telling them, a story. The stories were loud and ridiculous, mostly following the same basic plot line and incorporating whatever characters they were interested in at the time, be it Darth Vader or Woody from Toy Story. The payoff for me was seeing the sparkle of joy in their eyes and hearing the laughter in their voice when they begged me, “Can I have one more?” Most nights I feigned reluctance, though secretly I was happy to oblige. Many sunsets have passed since I last had the opportunity to sit on the edge of their beds and tell them a story, but I'm keeping my skills sharp, 'cause, you know, grandchildren 
Speaking of sunsets, when we moved to the great state of Alabama, some 56 days ago, I made a pact with myself that I would make it a point to watch more sunsets. That is a promise I have kept, unlike the one where I said I was going to walk down to the river and back everyday.
Statistically speaking, I should get to see around 26,645 sunsets in my lifetime, and If I’m lucky, or at least average, I ought to get to see another 10,000 or so. That sounds like a lot until you consider that, at present, I have burned through about 16,000 of them already. Kind of like the toilet paper we ran through, you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone. Maybe if I switch from cornbread to kale salad I could tack on about 1,500 more sunsets, but even then I'm still on the "back nine" of life. Point being, there is more sand at the bottom of my hourglass than there is at the top, so if I’m going to get to watching more sunsets I can’t put it off.
Aiding in my endeavor is the fact that our house faces west, and I also managed to secure the prime real estate in the living room enabling me to strategically place my easy chair in such a way that I have an unrestricted front row seat to the big star’s grand departure from the sky each evening. To further encourage my evening escape, I planted an Adirondack chair — thoughtfully purchased for me by my own personal ray of sunshine, Jade — in the yard facing West. Sunsets are just like the days they bring to a close — some are good, some are bad, and some are unforgettable. Most sunsets I observe from my recliner in the living room, but for the really special ones, I make it a point to go out in the sunset chair so I can have an unencumbered view of the day disappearing in spectacular fashion.
The ingredients for a memorable sunset are pretty simple — you need clean air, light cloud cover, a sinking sun, and a few minutes to spare. Only one of those four things are within your control, but I’ll give you a few tips I’ve picked up along the way that can help you enjoy every sunset to the fullest. 1) Stop whatever else you are doing -- i.e. put down the phone/book/etc. 2) Be quiet. 3) Be in the moment because it won’t last long. While the lazy days of Summer seem to drag on endlessly, once the helios hits the horizon you realize the day is draining away as fast as the sand in an hourglass.
For me, one of the most magical parts of the sunset is the few brief moments when there is only a hint of light left on the horizon and the darkness marches across the skies. If you are lucky enough to be out in the country where there isn’t a lot of background noise, you will notice that for a few fleeting moments everything in nature goes silent, as if creation itself holds its breath, knowing this could be the last sunset it witnesses too, and then, just as quickly, the sounds of the night arrive -- birds, owls, frogs, crickets -- and crank up the volume.
Jesus once told a hillside full of people during His most famous sermon that they should “Consider the Lillies and the birds” so I can’t help but imagine that the Lord was the type of man who stopped for sunsets too. Maybe He even thought to Himself, “I made that” with the same sense of joy that I had when I would watch my sons faces light up with each twist and turn in the story I was telling. These days my sunsets pretty much all end the same. After several minutes of sitting in silence, once the day has dipped below the horizon, with a grin on my face so wide the corners of my mouth meet at the back of my head, I quietly ask the Lord, “Can I have one more?”
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