Funday Sunday

Let me tell you how good the Lord is.

You see, if Danny and I had met in high school we probably would not be married today.

"But why?" you ask. "You're perfect for each other."

Because Danny was a cowboy in high school. And, somewhere in my little high school diary I vowed never to date a cowboy. I was going to have nothing to do with a hat-totin', Levi jeans-wearing, huge belt buckle-sportin, boot stompin' cowboy. You see, I was born in Texas, but my parents are from the North - so the whole concept of "cowboy" was totally lost on me.

And, in high school, Danny looked something like this:

So, even though he was so stinkin' cute in this picture, I wouldn't have glanced twice. But the Lord, in His sovereign ways, knew what He was doing by keeping us apart until later.

Well, you can take the boy out of Texas, but you can't take Texas out of the boy.

Last weekend, at Funday Sunday (a huge carnival put on by Shandon Baptist as an outreach event) Danny showed everyone he has what it takes . . . to ride the bull.

My husband, Mr. I-only-buy-the-cheapest-clothes-they-have-at-Walmart-when-my-old-ones-are-completely-thread-bare, even planned his outfit for this event. He mulled over which pearl-snap shirt he should wear - can you believe there's even more than one of those in MY CLOSET!?

And then he challenged the other newlywed guys to a bull-riding competition.

They waited patiently in line . . . with all the little kids.

And Danny stayed on for a very long time - way over eight seconds. I took quite a few pictures, but they pretty much all look like this:

And off he went. He just stopped trying to stay on, or so he says.
After Danny fell off the inflatible bull-ride looked like this:
And all the kids started crying.

Well, they didn't start crying, but they weren't giving Danny very nice looks.

Danny didn't just ride that bull - he killed it.