I grew up poor. At least, I think I did. But everybody that I knew back then was all in a similar situation. So, I don’t think that I ever realized that we were poor because we always had food to eat, clothes to wear and a roof over our head that didn’t leak unless it was raining.

The food that we often ate was fried, just the way God intended it, and was often accompanied by fried potatoes. We called them “tators” because we didn’t want to use any syllables that weren’t absolutely necessary. People today would tell you a diet like that will cause you to die young. My granddad lived to be 101 so I guess they were right. I can’t imagine how long he would have lived if he had laid off the fried eggs and bacon that he ate every morning.

The clothes we wore were a different thing. Mom was big on “hand me downs” but my sister never was to keen on the idea. The “hand me downs” she would have got were things that I had discarded. She dealt with it better than our younger brother did. He was always bellyaching about having to wear her clothes. It is just hard to please the younger generation.

Since I was the oldest and, by the way, brightest and best looking—and most humble—“hand me downs” were really not an issue. The issue for me is where mom got my clothes to start with.

There was a Wrangler jeans plant in Seminole at the time. That plant had a deal where folks that worked there could buy “seconds” at significantly reduced price. For those of you who might not be familiar with the term “seconds,” I am talking about clothes that were flawed, that had something wrong with them.

The problem was mom didn’t work there. So, she didn’t qualify to buy “seconds” at the highly reduced price. We did, however, have several kinfolks who worked at the plant. And she worked a deal with them to periodically pick up some pants for me and mom would gladly pay them for the britches.

For the most part that worked out pretty good. Most of the flaws were not that bad. For example, it was not unusual to get a pair of pants that had one leg a little longer than the other. But if you leaned just the right amount to the short side most people never noticed there was a flaw. They just thought I was off balance a little bit. By the way, they were probably right.

Then one day mom came home from work carrying a pair of new “seconds” Wrangler jeans for me. Don’t get me wrong. I was grateful. After all, a feller shouldn’t turn down a new pair of pants. As I looked them over, I couldn’t figure out where the flaw was. Mom told me to go in the bedroom and try them on.

I did.

That’s when it happened.

The inseam on the right leg started where all inseams are supposed to start. (If you are not sure where that is, ask your pastor. He should be able to help you.) Anyway, the inseam started where it was supposed to. But by the time it got to my knee, the inseam was now crossing my right knee at a pretty sharp angle. And by the time it got to my foot, the inseam was completely on the outside of my right foot.

Mom said nobody would notice. I said my leg looked like I got injured in a World Wrestling Federation accident and everybody would notice. My sister said she hoped I wore that pair of jeans completely out before mom made her wear them. My little brother wandered off to shave his legs. And I just limped away.

At the end of the day, those jeans didn’t mean much. I have come to believe that it is what’s on the inside that really matters. So, don’t let your appearance or your clothes or your house cause you to think you are a “second.” You aren’t. Instead turn your thoughts on what the Lord says about you. That is malways more than sufficient to get you through.