Hats and Tourists
I was texting back and forth with my son—mundane chatter dressed in love. The kind of everyday talk that keeps a soul tethered when the world tries to unravel you. I was about to head out and wrestle some errands when I wandered into the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, hat in the other.
Not just any hat.
The Hat.
Last year’s vacation hat—the one that saw more sunrises than sleep and more memories than I knew how to carry. I slipped it on and stared into the mirror. Typed the words:
“Do I look like a tourist?”
His reply came back sharp as a teenager’s wit: “Yes.”
We laughed, the way people laugh when life is still soft and the world hasn’t yet drawn its blade. I told him later, during one of those heavy St. Jude hospital days—when pain clung to the air like humidity—“I make this hat look good.”
Will Smith said that in some movie, somewhere. But I said it like I meant it. (But I didn’t.)
And suddenly… that hat—man, it hit different.
Because that hat? It reminded me of Faun.
She once stood before the church like a holy storm wrapped in Sunday skin. No pulpit. Just purpose. And a pile of props.
“I wear many hats,” she said.
And then she showed us.
One hat: Mom.
Another: Yaya. Grandma. Keeper of grandbabies and cookies.
Friend.
Wife.
Daughter.
Children’s Church teacher.
Greeter.
Each role, another hat. By the end, she was a walking totem of exhaustion, ten hats stacked high like the burdens we all pretend we can balance.
Then she stopped. Looked up. Not with her head—nah, the hats would’ve crashed to the floor—but with her eyes.
And with a weary joy that could crack stone, she said:
“Here, Lord… this belongs to You.”
One by one, she took off every title. Every burden. Every “should” and “must.” She laid it at His feet without fanfare or apology.
And just like that… she was free.
Not empty. Free.
She did that sermonette twice. Maybe more. But it wasn’t the frequency that mattered. It was the fire. It burned itself into my bones.
I haven’t seen her do it in years, but her message still walks beside me. Every time I pick up a “hat” I wasn’t built to carry. Every time I whisper, “Lord… help.”
That sermon? That moment?
It wasn’t a performance. It was a blueprint.
Here is Faun with her Granddaughter Ash:
