11/15/2025
“Honey Buns for Pastor” (Dad’s Point of View)
I like my pastor.
I don’t always like his sermons… but I like him.
He knows it, too.
We’ve got an understanding: he preaches, I listen, and if I don’t like it, I tell him.
I’ve told him more than once,
“Pastor… that one was kinda rough.”
But I also sing my heart out in church, loud and proud, and that halfway makes up for my big mouth.
The other half?
Honey buns.
Me and Pastor—we share that. We both love honey buns.
So when my wife said we were going to the grocery store, I knew exactly what I was doing.
I wasn’t just shopping.
I was on a mission from the Lord:
Operation: Honey Buns for Pastor.
We’re walking down the aisle and I see them—
big, beautiful boxes of honey buns.
I grab one and toss it in the cart.
“These are for Pastor,” I say. “He loves honey buns.”
In my mind, I can already see it:
Sunday morning, good singing, maybe a so-so sermon, and me handing him a box of honey buns to make it right.
We check out, go to the car, and she’s busy loading all the bags into the trunk.
I grab that honey bun box and set it right beside me in the front seat.
You don’t throw holy offerings in the trunk with the canned beans.
We get home.
She’s hauling in groceries, moving fast like she always does.
I’m tired, so I do something that makes perfect sense to me:
I take the honey buns to my chair—my throne—and I put them in a safe place beside it.
Can’t risk anyone “reorganizing” Pastor’s honey buns, right?
Later, I sit down, open the box, and think,
“Well, Pastor won’t miss just one.”
Then maybe another.
Time gets funny after that.
In my head, the box keeps resetting:
every time I see it, it looks like a fresh blessing from the Lord.
If they’re there, they must be for me.
Next thing I know, my wife is in the other room tearing things apart.
“I know I bought those honey buns…” she mutters.
She sounds stressed. I feel bad for her, but I honestly don’t know what she’s hunting for. She voight the honey buns for me!??
I’m just sitting in my chair, minding my own business… and my honey buns.
She goes out to the trunk, back in the kitchen, back out again.
Cabinets opening, drawers closing.
Then she walks past the living room and stops.
Her eyes go straight to the side of my chair—
to the box of honey buns.
Then to my hand—
to the open pack I’m eating.
She gives me that look.
I hold my honey bun a little closer and say,
“What? These are mine. I just got them.”
She sighs and appears to be frustrated at the same time.
“Yeah, you sure did, honey,” she says. “You sure did.”
Now, between you and me, if she comes at me sideways about these honey buns,
I’ve got a secret weapon.
There’s a little nursing home button on my cell phone,
and if she keeps it up, I’m calling it on her.
I may have dementia, but I ain’t dealing with that woman when she’s on a roll.
She’ll be the one getting evaluated, not me.
Sunday comes.
I stand there after church, shake Pastor’s hand, and slip him a single pack of honey buns from what’s left.
He smiles like I just gave him gold.
He loves honey buns. I love honey buns.
He preaches long, I complain, I sing loud,
and when I “misbehave,” I bring him honey buns to make peace.
⸻
Caregiver Lens 👀
From my side (Dad’s side), the story is simple:
• I remember wanting to bless my pastor with something we both love.
• I don’t remember how many I’ve eaten or how fast.
• Every time I see that box by my chair, it feels new and meant for me.
From her side (the caregiver):
• She planned the gift.
• She watched me plow through a 24-pack in a week.
• Then she thought she was losing her mind when she couldn’t find the box.
Same story, two different brains living it.
Love you mom and dad, it’s the thought that matters. Xoxo
