"When I get to Heaven, will the sea still be green?
Will the sand taste salty, can you hear the seagull beat her wings?
Can the waves still dance while the tide makes a foam?
I might miss the ocean when my soul goes home.
When I get to Heaven will the garden still perfume?
Will the lilies greet me in their velvet white bloom?
Will blossoms go to sleep at night and open for the day?
I might miss the flowers when my soul goes home to stay.
They tell me that it's lovely there, that gates are made of pearl
That all the streets are paved with gold and jasper walls surround the world.
I understand that shadows flee and everywhere there's light
But what about the moon and stars and dreams I dream at night?
I never thought I loved the Earth until I held your hand
I felt you take my heart and you made me understand
That God is love and touching Him was also touching man
So dance in the grass let the Word become flesh and wash the world in sun.
And thank the God of Heaven and Earth until my soul goes home."
When My Soul Goes Home, Cynthia Clawson
I am constantly amazed at how many Christians want to give their lives away. Healthy people who have everything going for them including a family, friends, a home, a church and financial resources want to "go home and be with the Lord." The New Testament and Christian songs suggest that Heaven is a beautiful place of eternal bliss. No more darkness. No more dying. No more pain and sorrow. And maybe it is. Who knows?
A few years ago I was in a situation where I had little choice but to attend a Southern gospel quartet singing. There was a time in my life I enjoyed this kind of music, but that was many years ago. It was an obligation that I tried to make the best of. One of the singers was a young man in his late twenties who, according to his own testimony, wanted above all for Jesus to come back and take him to glory. Many "Amen"s ensued. He was twenty something and only wanted his life on Earth to end for it to continue in a better place.
When I Googled this song to find the lyrics, I was again amazed that many of the comments said that this song is about the beauty of Heaven. How can they hear this and think that? "So dance in the grass, let the Word become flesh" is about Heaven? This song is about the Earth and man, the crown of God's creation. Jesus Himself said that "the kingdom of God is within you." The kingdom of God is now. And here. We don't have to yearn and pine for some other time and place. All of the resources of God's grace and love are available here. The beauty of Heaven is here. If you read the lyrics closely, I think you'll agree that the song even suggests that when we get to Heaven we might want to die and go to Earth.
I think we often fail to notice the incredible beauty all around us. I certainly don't have to board a plane to find beauty. I am surrounded by pristine beauty here in the north Georgia mountains where I live. But in June of 1975 I found myself on a fjord cruise near Oslo, Norway. The beauty was more than I could comprehend. I felt that I had fallen into the pages of a children's book and was somehow looking out at the world through its pages. The snow capped peaks reflected into the blue water creating the illusion that the water was as deep as the surrounding mountains were tall. And Niagara would have had to admire the waterfall that cascaded into the pool of blue and green. Will gates of pearl and streets paved with gold be that much better?
And how can you stand at the rim of the Grand Canyon and ask for any more awe and majesty? I've stood at the rim for hours and never got my fill of it.
My second home growing up was at Laguna Beach on the panhandle of Florida. No matter what else we did on any given day, we ended most days on the beach as the western sun descended into the translucent Gulf of Mexico. The summer sun seemed to take an eternity to complete its course. Our shadows lengthened, but the day stood still. On those splendid afternoons, it never once crossed my mind that I wanted to go to Heaven. Why would I have wanted to be anywhere on Heaven or Earth but there?
Clawson's song says, "That God is love and touching Him was also touching man". Couldn't it just as easily say that 'We can love and touching man is also touching God"? Flesh made Word.
I like the idea of Heaven. How could anyone not want to live forever in the beauty of Heaven and the very presence of God? However, if the new Earth is just like this one less the sickness, hate, death and dying, then I couldn't ask for anything more. But if Heaven really is a place of everlasting light, I sure will miss the sunsets.
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Thursday, May 26, 2016
The Deep, Deep Love of Jesus
"Oh the deep, deep love of Jesus
All I need and trust
Is the deep, deep love of Jesus." Samuel Trevor Francis (1834-1925)
At seventeen years old I graduated from the Enterprise High School, Enterprise, Alabama on Friday May 28th. Beginning that night, I spent the weekend with my family and a friend at the Redmon family beach house at Laguna Beach, Florida. I enjoyed the weekend except for the knot in my stomach. My mother and father were taking me to Nashville, Tennessee on Monday for training with the Southwestern Publishing Company. And from there I'd go with my team to regions unknown to sell Bibles and Bible story books door-to-door all summer.
I was actually recruited to sell books by my older brother, the student manager, who had sold the previous summer. I was to be with his team from Oklahoma Baptist University. When he arrived from Oklahoma and splashed into the gulf water on Saturday afternoon he exclaimed "Guess what!? I'm not selling books; I'm staying here and working for Dad."
Why didn't I decide right then and there that working for Helms Construction another summer wasn't such a bad idea?
Instead Mom, Dad and I ventured to Nashville on Monday. My father didn't tell me until he picked me up the last week of August that he thought he was telling me goodbye for good. He didn't think he would ever see me alive again. But Mom and Dad wished me well, hugged me and left me there to fend for myself. I think we all cried a bit.
It was a grueling and demanding week of sales school. At the end of the week they put me with a team from Texas to spend the summer in Owensboro, Kentucky. Within two weeks the entire eight man team, including the student manager, had quit and gone home. Why didn't I go home too? What was I trying to prove?
At that point the company put me with two other guys from Texas. John and Dave affectionately referred to their school Howard Payne University as "Hard Pain University". We stayed in a boarding house in Owensboro for about three weeks and then moved. John and I moved to Fordsville and Dave went to I don't remember where. At the end of the summer we all hooked up again in Owensboro to deliver our books from there. Both of them completed their summer a week before me. I stayed there alone the next week to deliver mine.
Although Mercy delivered me safe and sound to my parents who drove to Owensboro to get me, I did have a few close calls. Since I had no other means of transportation I hitch-hiked the entire summer. One night hitching from Hartford to Fordsville, about twenty miles, was one such close call. Only a second too late after I closed the door of the car did I realize that the three passengers were all drunk, including the driver. And they were still drinking beer, including the driver. To drunks everything is very, very funny. It was hilarious ! It wasn't at all funny to me. Not only was he driving over 100mph on a county road, but there was a short in the electrical system that caused the headlights to go off and on. I thought that was it. When they finally let me out in Fordsville, I got out and kissed the ground.
Never before or since the summer of '71 have I felt as strongly that I was being carried. Call this force angels, God, Jesus or Whoever, but I knew I was being protected and cared for. I kept a journal that I called my daily book of miracles. And they were many.
I cared about my sales team of three, but John and I particularly bonded. You get close to people under those circumstances. When they were leaving me in August, John put his hands on my shoulders, looked at me and said, "David, you need to stay close to Jesus. He's the only hope you've got." Truer words were never spoken. And then Dave gave me his own Bible and said, "Here I want you to have it. You read it a lot more than I do."
The summer of 2016 finds me alive and well. I am surrounded by a community of family and friends who are my family. My wife and I are dipping our toes into the Golden Years and finding we like it. We are provided for in every way possible. We feel loved and cared for. Because we are loved and cared for. We feel a deep sense of gratitude for who we are and for what we have together here. But May never becomes June without the summer of '71 finding me. It was a long, difficult, home-sick twelve weeks, but I wouldn't take anything for the love of God and the power of friendship that I found there in Kentucky.
Just how deep is the love of Jesus? As deep as you need for it to be. And for me that's pretty deep.
All I need and trust
Is the deep, deep love of Jesus." Samuel Trevor Francis (1834-1925)
At seventeen years old I graduated from the Enterprise High School, Enterprise, Alabama on Friday May 28th. Beginning that night, I spent the weekend with my family and a friend at the Redmon family beach house at Laguna Beach, Florida. I enjoyed the weekend except for the knot in my stomach. My mother and father were taking me to Nashville, Tennessee on Monday for training with the Southwestern Publishing Company. And from there I'd go with my team to regions unknown to sell Bibles and Bible story books door-to-door all summer.
I was actually recruited to sell books by my older brother, the student manager, who had sold the previous summer. I was to be with his team from Oklahoma Baptist University. When he arrived from Oklahoma and splashed into the gulf water on Saturday afternoon he exclaimed "Guess what!? I'm not selling books; I'm staying here and working for Dad."
Why didn't I decide right then and there that working for Helms Construction another summer wasn't such a bad idea?
Instead Mom, Dad and I ventured to Nashville on Monday. My father didn't tell me until he picked me up the last week of August that he thought he was telling me goodbye for good. He didn't think he would ever see me alive again. But Mom and Dad wished me well, hugged me and left me there to fend for myself. I think we all cried a bit.
It was a grueling and demanding week of sales school. At the end of the week they put me with a team from Texas to spend the summer in Owensboro, Kentucky. Within two weeks the entire eight man team, including the student manager, had quit and gone home. Why didn't I go home too? What was I trying to prove?
At that point the company put me with two other guys from Texas. John and Dave affectionately referred to their school Howard Payne University as "Hard Pain University". We stayed in a boarding house in Owensboro for about three weeks and then moved. John and I moved to Fordsville and Dave went to I don't remember where. At the end of the summer we all hooked up again in Owensboro to deliver our books from there. Both of them completed their summer a week before me. I stayed there alone the next week to deliver mine.
Although Mercy delivered me safe and sound to my parents who drove to Owensboro to get me, I did have a few close calls. Since I had no other means of transportation I hitch-hiked the entire summer. One night hitching from Hartford to Fordsville, about twenty miles, was one such close call. Only a second too late after I closed the door of the car did I realize that the three passengers were all drunk, including the driver. And they were still drinking beer, including the driver. To drunks everything is very, very funny. It was hilarious ! It wasn't at all funny to me. Not only was he driving over 100mph on a county road, but there was a short in the electrical system that caused the headlights to go off and on. I thought that was it. When they finally let me out in Fordsville, I got out and kissed the ground.
Never before or since the summer of '71 have I felt as strongly that I was being carried. Call this force angels, God, Jesus or Whoever, but I knew I was being protected and cared for. I kept a journal that I called my daily book of miracles. And they were many.
I cared about my sales team of three, but John and I particularly bonded. You get close to people under those circumstances. When they were leaving me in August, John put his hands on my shoulders, looked at me and said, "David, you need to stay close to Jesus. He's the only hope you've got." Truer words were never spoken. And then Dave gave me his own Bible and said, "Here I want you to have it. You read it a lot more than I do."
The summer of 2016 finds me alive and well. I am surrounded by a community of family and friends who are my family. My wife and I are dipping our toes into the Golden Years and finding we like it. We are provided for in every way possible. We feel loved and cared for. Because we are loved and cared for. We feel a deep sense of gratitude for who we are and for what we have together here. But May never becomes June without the summer of '71 finding me. It was a long, difficult, home-sick twelve weeks, but I wouldn't take anything for the love of God and the power of friendship that I found there in Kentucky.
Just how deep is the love of Jesus? As deep as you need for it to be. And for me that's pretty deep.
Friday, May 20, 2016
A Sabbath Mood
"Whatever is foreseen in joy
Must be lived out from day to day.
Vision held open in the dark
By our ten thousand days of work.
Harvest will fill the barn; for that
The hand must ache, the face must sweat
And yet no leaf or grain if filled
By work of ours, the field is tilled
And left to grace. That we may reap,
Great work is done while we're asleep.
When we work well, a Sabbath mood
Rests on our day, and finds it good." Wendell Berry
One of the ironies of human nature is that we take a concept meant for our good and twist it into something else that was never meant to be. One of those things is the concept of The Sabbath Day.
Growing up as a Southern Baptist the Sabbath Day, also known as The Lord's Day, was on Sunday. The deeply held belief was that although the Commandment established Saturday, the seventh day, as the Sabbath, the resurrection of Jesus established Sunday as The Lord's Day. Jesus trumped the Ten Commandments. Shouldn't He?
My family and my church espoused a laundry list of things that you could and could not do on Sundays. We could go to church all day, of course. The rest of the day we were not supposed to "work", like mowing the grass or gardening. We were not supposed to shop on Sundays. This requirement fostered the fact that we were not expending energy while shopping and we were not supporting these employees' breach of the Sabbath. We could shoot rifles and shotguns in my grandmother's woods, but we couldn't go golfing or participate in any organized sports. We could play in the creek, but we couldn't swim in the city pool. The convoluted list went on from there.
The Jews of course, those for whom the original Sabbath was established, have a much, much longer list. The Biblical Sabbath of the Jews was enforced by a multitude of interpretations and restrictions. Violations were punishable even by death. For the Orthodox and Ultra-orthodox Jews, the list is as long as ever. Technically, the Sabbath is observed from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday. There is a story in Numbers Chapter 15 about a man who was caught "picking up sticks" on the Sabbath Day. According to the Biblical account, God told Moses to put him to death. They took him outside the camp and "stoned him to death." They didn't just knock him over the head with an ax, but they slowly bludgeoned him with large rocks. Stoning is one of the most horrible and cruel forms of torture devised by man. The idea was (is) to use rocks heavy enough to crack bones and skulls, and eventually kill the offender, but not so big as to cause immediate death. Death was prolonged for as long as possible. Stoning takes "blood and guts" to an unthinkable level. And for what? Picking up sticks on Saturday. And God told Moses to do that?
The Seventh-Day Adventists, as well as other "seventh-day" congregations, combine both ideas. As Christians they certainly celebrate the resurrection of the Lord on Sunday, but they also preach the Biblical Sabbath on Saturday. The belief is that the Commandment established the seventh day as the Sabbath Day and nowhere in the Bible does God issue a different commandment. Good point. Then like the other Christians and Jews there is a laundry list of dos, don'ts including eternal threats related to the Sabbath Day.
One thing these beliefs and practices have in common, whether Saturday or Sunday, is that you spend much of your Sabbath Day in church. At 102 Glenn Street we got up early, got ready for church, went to Sunday School and worship, had our restricted afternoon activities and then went back to church in the late afternoon for Training Union and worship. You rested before and after. As long and boring as church could get to be for a kid, I recall that the after-church formal and informal fellowships were quite enjoyable.
Sabbath for me has become a concept, a "mood". I don't have to wait for Friday or Saturday or Sunday to enjoy the Sabbath rest. It's a time to relax and to enjoy the company of others or the company of myself. This time can be any time of any day of the week. Sabbath can happen over a space of hours or just a space of minutes. Sometimes the mini-Sabbaths are just what the doctor ordered. There is no list of dos and don'ts. There are no commandments or restrictions. There is no punishment for violations. "Sabbath was made for man", Jesus said. "Man was not made for the Sabbath." This way a NICU nurse, or a hospital pharmacist, an airline pilot or a Waffle House employee can find time in the day or at least in the week to take some time for herself. And as the Apostle Paul exclaimed about the fruit of the Spirit, "Against such things there is no law."
The biggest irony of all is that it seems that God has tricked "first-day adventists" into enjoying the Biblical Sabbath. For those that work the traditional Monday to Friday and go to church on Sunday, Saturday, the seventh day, then becomes the only day available for relaxation and doing the things they enjoy. For that matter, this relaxation and recreation begins approximately at sundown on Friday and many times ends approximately at sundown on Saturday. It especially ends that night for those Christians who are at least somewhat dreading all the church activities the next day. And wishing that they had another day exactly like Saturday.
Do you know of God ordering the execution of someone for mowing their grass on Saturday? Doesn't that require more effort than bending over and picking up something off the ground? When did the Commandment change that God would be any less angry than He was over picking up sticks? Except for the signs I read in front of many churches, it appears that God has become a lot more people-friendly over the years. Maybe it's an issue of Biblical writers and not Biblical Deities. You think?
As Berry reminds us, most things on Earth happen with no effort on our part. "We plow the fields and scatter the good seed on the land. But it is fed and watered by God's Almighty hand." (Stephen Schwartz).As we expand that field to include our solar system, our galaxy, and our universe we observe a self-sustaining spectacle that beckons our observation and imagination, but not necessarily our participation. For NASA space may require work days. For the rest of us, it's Sabbath. Honoring the Sabbath, on any day, offers the chance to participate in this dance of light and life.
"And on the seventh day God rested from all His labors." And so should we. Just be wary of picking up sticks.
Must be lived out from day to day.
Vision held open in the dark
By our ten thousand days of work.
Harvest will fill the barn; for that
The hand must ache, the face must sweat
And yet no leaf or grain if filled
By work of ours, the field is tilled
And left to grace. That we may reap,
Great work is done while we're asleep.
When we work well, a Sabbath mood
Rests on our day, and finds it good." Wendell Berry
One of the ironies of human nature is that we take a concept meant for our good and twist it into something else that was never meant to be. One of those things is the concept of The Sabbath Day.
Growing up as a Southern Baptist the Sabbath Day, also known as The Lord's Day, was on Sunday. The deeply held belief was that although the Commandment established Saturday, the seventh day, as the Sabbath, the resurrection of Jesus established Sunday as The Lord's Day. Jesus trumped the Ten Commandments. Shouldn't He?
My family and my church espoused a laundry list of things that you could and could not do on Sundays. We could go to church all day, of course. The rest of the day we were not supposed to "work", like mowing the grass or gardening. We were not supposed to shop on Sundays. This requirement fostered the fact that we were not expending energy while shopping and we were not supporting these employees' breach of the Sabbath. We could shoot rifles and shotguns in my grandmother's woods, but we couldn't go golfing or participate in any organized sports. We could play in the creek, but we couldn't swim in the city pool. The convoluted list went on from there.
The Jews of course, those for whom the original Sabbath was established, have a much, much longer list. The Biblical Sabbath of the Jews was enforced by a multitude of interpretations and restrictions. Violations were punishable even by death. For the Orthodox and Ultra-orthodox Jews, the list is as long as ever. Technically, the Sabbath is observed from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday. There is a story in Numbers Chapter 15 about a man who was caught "picking up sticks" on the Sabbath Day. According to the Biblical account, God told Moses to put him to death. They took him outside the camp and "stoned him to death." They didn't just knock him over the head with an ax, but they slowly bludgeoned him with large rocks. Stoning is one of the most horrible and cruel forms of torture devised by man. The idea was (is) to use rocks heavy enough to crack bones and skulls, and eventually kill the offender, but not so big as to cause immediate death. Death was prolonged for as long as possible. Stoning takes "blood and guts" to an unthinkable level. And for what? Picking up sticks on Saturday. And God told Moses to do that?
The Seventh-Day Adventists, as well as other "seventh-day" congregations, combine both ideas. As Christians they certainly celebrate the resurrection of the Lord on Sunday, but they also preach the Biblical Sabbath on Saturday. The belief is that the Commandment established the seventh day as the Sabbath Day and nowhere in the Bible does God issue a different commandment. Good point. Then like the other Christians and Jews there is a laundry list of dos, don'ts including eternal threats related to the Sabbath Day.
One thing these beliefs and practices have in common, whether Saturday or Sunday, is that you spend much of your Sabbath Day in church. At 102 Glenn Street we got up early, got ready for church, went to Sunday School and worship, had our restricted afternoon activities and then went back to church in the late afternoon for Training Union and worship. You rested before and after. As long and boring as church could get to be for a kid, I recall that the after-church formal and informal fellowships were quite enjoyable.
Sabbath for me has become a concept, a "mood". I don't have to wait for Friday or Saturday or Sunday to enjoy the Sabbath rest. It's a time to relax and to enjoy the company of others or the company of myself. This time can be any time of any day of the week. Sabbath can happen over a space of hours or just a space of minutes. Sometimes the mini-Sabbaths are just what the doctor ordered. There is no list of dos and don'ts. There are no commandments or restrictions. There is no punishment for violations. "Sabbath was made for man", Jesus said. "Man was not made for the Sabbath." This way a NICU nurse, or a hospital pharmacist, an airline pilot or a Waffle House employee can find time in the day or at least in the week to take some time for herself. And as the Apostle Paul exclaimed about the fruit of the Spirit, "Against such things there is no law."
The biggest irony of all is that it seems that God has tricked "first-day adventists" into enjoying the Biblical Sabbath. For those that work the traditional Monday to Friday and go to church on Sunday, Saturday, the seventh day, then becomes the only day available for relaxation and doing the things they enjoy. For that matter, this relaxation and recreation begins approximately at sundown on Friday and many times ends approximately at sundown on Saturday. It especially ends that night for those Christians who are at least somewhat dreading all the church activities the next day. And wishing that they had another day exactly like Saturday.
Do you know of God ordering the execution of someone for mowing their grass on Saturday? Doesn't that require more effort than bending over and picking up something off the ground? When did the Commandment change that God would be any less angry than He was over picking up sticks? Except for the signs I read in front of many churches, it appears that God has become a lot more people-friendly over the years. Maybe it's an issue of Biblical writers and not Biblical Deities. You think?
As Berry reminds us, most things on Earth happen with no effort on our part. "We plow the fields and scatter the good seed on the land. But it is fed and watered by God's Almighty hand." (Stephen Schwartz).As we expand that field to include our solar system, our galaxy, and our universe we observe a self-sustaining spectacle that beckons our observation and imagination, but not necessarily our participation. For NASA space may require work days. For the rest of us, it's Sabbath. Honoring the Sabbath, on any day, offers the chance to participate in this dance of light and life.
"And on the seventh day God rested from all His labors." And so should we. Just be wary of picking up sticks.
Wednesday, May 18, 2016
Steele Away Home (Part 2)
"Oh the boll weevil is a little black bug come from Mexico they say. Come all the way from Texas just a lookin' for a place to stay. Just a lookin' for a home. Just a lookin' for a home."
Are all of the stories I tell true? They are 100% true. Are all of my stories completely accurate? None of my stories are completely accurate. They are only as accurate as my memory and I do not have a perfect memory.
Last Monday my wife and I stopped at a travel center at exit 174 on I-59 at Steele, Alabama. We never travel this direction without chuckling about what happened to us one night many years ago. The story is not all that remarkable, but for us it is memorable. It was just one of those moments that a couple shares that becomes a part of the rich fabric of their lives. I guess you had to be there.
Although this story is a significant one to my wife and to me, we are both very fuzzy on the details. Our collective memory of the events of our lives is usually pretty good. In this case the only thing we know for sure is that late one night at exit 174 off I-59 at Steele, Alabama we ate breakfast at a truck stop.
Here are some of the things we don't remember. We don't remember exactly when this happened. It happened some time between 1979 and 1981 because we moved to Georgia in 1979 and there was no baby on board. We don't remember why we were on I-59 that late at night. For years we have said, "We were traveling back to Louisville, Kentucky from Enterprise, Alabama after Christmas." On Monday it occurred to me that we wouldn't have been on I-59 north on a trip to Louisville, but on I-65 north. That means that instead of Louisville, we were on our way to Rossville, Georgia from Enterprise more than likely after Christmas.
This is what we do remember for sure. It was late at night and we were still two hours from home. Our tank and our stomachs were running on fumes. We found a truck stop open at exit 174 and thankfully their restaurant was still open too. We used our Visa to fill up the tank and then eagerly went inside to eat. Before we ordered we learned that the diner didn't take our credit card. We took a quick inventory of our financial situation and came up with about five dollars between us. We seldom traveled with much money because we didn't have any, but we usually had a little more than that. Looking over the menu we found a breakfast for $4.95 that included eggs, bacon, toast and coffee. We shared the breakfast. The food was manna from Heaven, But what happened was much more than the good, greasy food. We were two hungry and homesick souls who had just left home on our way to where we lived. There's a big difference between where you live and home. For that little while, we hung our hearts in Steele, Alabama and it was as good a home as any. We must have scraped up some change to pay the tax and leave a small tip. I hope we did anyway. We got back in our car and headed north toward Georgia. That happened about thirty seven years ago.
Last Monday I wish we had driven across the interstate to the truck stop, but the modern travel center seemed like the quicker and better option. And we weren't hungry. Between us we had four major credit cards and about $45.00. I learned online that Steele's Country Cooking is still in full swing. You can get a meat and three with a drink for $8.25. The homemade desserts will cost you another $2.00.
Every time we go that direction we talk about stopping at exit 174 to eat at the diner. But we never do. Although our memories aren't perfect, the experience was perfect and we have always just left it at that.
Monday, May 16, 2016
Steele Away Home (Part 1)
Sometimes it is difficult for me to say for sure where my "home" is. The first song I memorized was "Home Is Where I Hang My Heart" when I was two years old. So does that mean that home is where I hang my heart? Or does it mean that the place where I hang my heart is the place that becomes home?
My address has been Ringgold, Georgia since 1986. Yet we don't really live in Ringgold. We live in Catoosa County several miles outside of the city of Ringgold. But when asked I say that I live in Ringgold, Georgia.
When asked where I'm from, while out of town, until recent years I have said "I grew up in Enterprise, Alabama, but I live in Ringgold, Georgia". Several years ago I dropped the Enterprise story and just said I was from Ringgold. But that's not exactly accurate either. Since most people have never heard of Ringgold, Georgia, most of the time I have said, "I'm from Ringgold, Georgia just across the state line from Chattanooga." That usually satisfies people for where I'm from (but what do I do about those first nineteen years in Enterprise? You know, "home". Better left unsaid).
The most homesick I have ever been in my life was when I sold books door-to-door in Kentucky the summer out of high school. For the first time in my life I understood the "sick" part of homesick. The summer of '71 "You've Got a Friend", "So Far Away", and "How Do You Mend a Broken Heart" were all popular. None of the songs cured my sickness, but sources of comfort for a devout Southern Baptist teenager were very limited.
I shared the next most homesick experience with my bride when we moved in 1977 from our home of Jasper, Alabama to Louisville, Kentucky for me to continue my music education. We went to a movie our first weekend in Louisville. After the movie we got in our car. I asked her if she was ready to go home. We both cried.
We spent this past weekend in Birmingham, Alabama visiting lifetime friends. Although we lived there three years, I can't say that it was ever home for either one of us. And when I say "we" lived there, this was before we were married. We weren't even dating most of that time. She lived in her dorm at Samford University and I lived down the hill in mine. She was in pharmacy school and I was in music school. I saw her in our choir and we shared a ride to Jasper on weekends. I was on the staff of a church and she lived and worked there. This commuting arrangement worked well for both of us.
After residing on weekends at the M&M Motel for several months, my church moved a mobile home from Forrestdale and anchored it in a trailer park in Jasper. Since home is where you hang your heart, that trailer in Jasper, Alabama was where I lived. Although I spent twice as much time in Birmingham, I considered Jasper to be my home.
Yesterday my wife and I walked around the Samford campus for quite a while. Neither of us realized until my she did the math that we were celebrating the 40th anniversary of our graduation together there in May of 1976. We visited the pharmacy school, the music school, the chapel where our choir performed three times a week and for other special occasions. We strolled through the student center. Then we walked up the hill to her dorm. We couldn't visit my dorm. My dorm is not a dorm any more. About twenty years ago it was glorified by the university into the school of religion complete with a massive dome. My room, which I saw several years ago, is now a small classroom in the religion building. Who knows, maybe as much good sleep goes on now in that room as did back then.
While we were visiting with our friends in their home in Birmingham, I noticed some very familiar books on the bookshelf in front of me. These books published by the Southwestern Publishing Company, Nashville, Tennessee were among the books I sold the summer of 1971. Since I carried only samples in my case that summer, I had never read the actual books. The only time I had seen these books was the week I delivered them and I was too busy and exhausted to read anything. I pulled one of them off the shelf and read some of it. It was more entertaining than informative. I wonder how many of those people in Kentucky have actually read any of them? If so, I hope that they were at least as entertained as I was.
So is home where we hang our hearts or does where we hang our hearts become our home? I guess everybody has to decide that for themselves. I will say that this afternoon heading north on I-59 there was no doubt about it. Not only was Birmingham in my rear view mirror, but I was distancing myself from Enterprise and Jasper as well. I was not homesick at all. I have hung my heart in Ringgold, Georgia. Well, close enough to Ringgold anyway. I was headed home.
My address has been Ringgold, Georgia since 1986. Yet we don't really live in Ringgold. We live in Catoosa County several miles outside of the city of Ringgold. But when asked I say that I live in Ringgold, Georgia.
When asked where I'm from, while out of town, until recent years I have said "I grew up in Enterprise, Alabama, but I live in Ringgold, Georgia". Several years ago I dropped the Enterprise story and just said I was from Ringgold. But that's not exactly accurate either. Since most people have never heard of Ringgold, Georgia, most of the time I have said, "I'm from Ringgold, Georgia just across the state line from Chattanooga." That usually satisfies people for where I'm from (but what do I do about those first nineteen years in Enterprise? You know, "home". Better left unsaid).
The most homesick I have ever been in my life was when I sold books door-to-door in Kentucky the summer out of high school. For the first time in my life I understood the "sick" part of homesick. The summer of '71 "You've Got a Friend", "So Far Away", and "How Do You Mend a Broken Heart" were all popular. None of the songs cured my sickness, but sources of comfort for a devout Southern Baptist teenager were very limited.
I shared the next most homesick experience with my bride when we moved in 1977 from our home of Jasper, Alabama to Louisville, Kentucky for me to continue my music education. We went to a movie our first weekend in Louisville. After the movie we got in our car. I asked her if she was ready to go home. We both cried.
We spent this past weekend in Birmingham, Alabama visiting lifetime friends. Although we lived there three years, I can't say that it was ever home for either one of us. And when I say "we" lived there, this was before we were married. We weren't even dating most of that time. She lived in her dorm at Samford University and I lived down the hill in mine. She was in pharmacy school and I was in music school. I saw her in our choir and we shared a ride to Jasper on weekends. I was on the staff of a church and she lived and worked there. This commuting arrangement worked well for both of us.
After residing on weekends at the M&M Motel for several months, my church moved a mobile home from Forrestdale and anchored it in a trailer park in Jasper. Since home is where you hang your heart, that trailer in Jasper, Alabama was where I lived. Although I spent twice as much time in Birmingham, I considered Jasper to be my home.
Yesterday my wife and I walked around the Samford campus for quite a while. Neither of us realized until my she did the math that we were celebrating the 40th anniversary of our graduation together there in May of 1976. We visited the pharmacy school, the music school, the chapel where our choir performed three times a week and for other special occasions. We strolled through the student center. Then we walked up the hill to her dorm. We couldn't visit my dorm. My dorm is not a dorm any more. About twenty years ago it was glorified by the university into the school of religion complete with a massive dome. My room, which I saw several years ago, is now a small classroom in the religion building. Who knows, maybe as much good sleep goes on now in that room as did back then.
While we were visiting with our friends in their home in Birmingham, I noticed some very familiar books on the bookshelf in front of me. These books published by the Southwestern Publishing Company, Nashville, Tennessee were among the books I sold the summer of 1971. Since I carried only samples in my case that summer, I had never read the actual books. The only time I had seen these books was the week I delivered them and I was too busy and exhausted to read anything. I pulled one of them off the shelf and read some of it. It was more entertaining than informative. I wonder how many of those people in Kentucky have actually read any of them? If so, I hope that they were at least as entertained as I was.
So is home where we hang our hearts or does where we hang our hearts become our home? I guess everybody has to decide that for themselves. I will say that this afternoon heading north on I-59 there was no doubt about it. Not only was Birmingham in my rear view mirror, but I was distancing myself from Enterprise and Jasper as well. I was not homesick at all. I have hung my heart in Ringgold, Georgia. Well, close enough to Ringgold anyway. I was headed home.
Thursday, May 12, 2016
A Beautiful City
"We can build a beautiful city. Yes, we can. Yes, we can. We may not reach the ending, but we can start. Slowly but truly mending. Brick by brick, heart by heart." from A Beautiful City, Godspell, Stephen Schwartz and John-Michael Tebelak
We all know someone from history or who is currently living that we consider to be a genius. This person's talent and ability far exceeds anything we consider to be ordinary. Very few people would argue against the fact that Albert Einstein was a genius. Very few people who argue that Wolfgang Mozart was not a genius. But what do you call it when the geniuses collide? Did you know that Einstein toyed with the idea of being a professional musician? He was good enough on the violin that he played every week with a string quartet. The other three players were members of the Berlin Symphony. They almost exclusively played Mozart. Einstein said "Mozart's music is the way the universe works". A genius playing a genius.
I consider Leonard Bernstein to be a musical genius. I also consider Stephen Schwartz to be a musical genius. You know Bernstein from a multitude of works and you know Stephen Schwartz as the composer of Godspell. He is also an Academy Award winner, grammy winner and has received many other prestigious awards.
Even if you are familiar with the works of both of these outstanding musicians, you probably don't know what I've only recently learned that their lives collided in a life-changing and career-changing way for both of them in 1971, Jacqueline Kennedy had commissioned Bernstein to compose a major work to dedicate the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, D.C. Bernstein, in what would become very controversial, decided to write a Catholic Mass. Bernstein, a Jew, wrote this to honor his Roman Catholic friend Jack Kennedy. But this was no ordinary mass (a little pun if you're familiar with the mass). This mass was on an unthinkable scale involving stage performers, a boy's choir, a main choir, street singers, an orchestra and a stage band. The work included elements of the traditional mass, but also included, electric guitars, surround sound speakers, 60s protest music and so much more.
In the spring of 1971 with the performance looming in September, Bernstein was completely stuck. He got lost in his own composition. In May Bernstein attended the off Broadway performance of Godspell in New York City. Not only was his creativity reignited, but he asked Schwartz to help him complete the text and composition. The collaboration was explosive. Mass was performed on September 8, 1971 to a mostly warm reception. In spite of the early critics and naysayers, Mass has been performed internationally several times a year over the past 45 years.
So why does this matter to me? It matters a whole lot. In the spring of 1975 I watched Godspell in Birmingham, Alabama. Besides the musical enjoyment, I experienced a quantum shift in my personal beliefs and theology, especially concerning the death of Jesus Christ. Four years later in the spring of 1979, with no idea of this intertwining history, I discovered Bernstein's Mass. I was in the music library of my graduate school and pulled the album randomly off the shelf. The person who walked out of that library two hours later was different than the person who walked in. What sort of shift is more dramatic than a quantum shift? An extremely more huge quantum shift?
Earlier this week I asked Spotify to find Godspell. What it found was the updated version of Godspell that I didn't know existed. I got excited too when I learned that it is playing on Broadway. I was mentally preparing for the trip to NYC when I noticed the article was from 2011. The next article said that it had closed after a successful nine month run. Oh well. But I have so enjoyed listening to Godspell this week including new music composed for the new show.
For inspiration for this writing I have been listening to selections from both Godspell and Mass. I find the last two movements of Mass to be a well-spring of help and healing. I drink from that spring both when I'm well and when I'm not. It concluded just now as it always concludes with "The mass is ended. Go in peace." Going in peace is just something I can never get enough of.
To have wandered into Godspell in 1975 and then into Mass in 1979 is extraordinary. For both of them to meet in 2016 is Divine.
We all know someone from history or who is currently living that we consider to be a genius. This person's talent and ability far exceeds anything we consider to be ordinary. Very few people would argue against the fact that Albert Einstein was a genius. Very few people who argue that Wolfgang Mozart was not a genius. But what do you call it when the geniuses collide? Did you know that Einstein toyed with the idea of being a professional musician? He was good enough on the violin that he played every week with a string quartet. The other three players were members of the Berlin Symphony. They almost exclusively played Mozart. Einstein said "Mozart's music is the way the universe works". A genius playing a genius.
I consider Leonard Bernstein to be a musical genius. I also consider Stephen Schwartz to be a musical genius. You know Bernstein from a multitude of works and you know Stephen Schwartz as the composer of Godspell. He is also an Academy Award winner, grammy winner and has received many other prestigious awards.
Even if you are familiar with the works of both of these outstanding musicians, you probably don't know what I've only recently learned that their lives collided in a life-changing and career-changing way for both of them in 1971, Jacqueline Kennedy had commissioned Bernstein to compose a major work to dedicate the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in Washington, D.C. Bernstein, in what would become very controversial, decided to write a Catholic Mass. Bernstein, a Jew, wrote this to honor his Roman Catholic friend Jack Kennedy. But this was no ordinary mass (a little pun if you're familiar with the mass). This mass was on an unthinkable scale involving stage performers, a boy's choir, a main choir, street singers, an orchestra and a stage band. The work included elements of the traditional mass, but also included, electric guitars, surround sound speakers, 60s protest music and so much more.
In the spring of 1971 with the performance looming in September, Bernstein was completely stuck. He got lost in his own composition. In May Bernstein attended the off Broadway performance of Godspell in New York City. Not only was his creativity reignited, but he asked Schwartz to help him complete the text and composition. The collaboration was explosive. Mass was performed on September 8, 1971 to a mostly warm reception. In spite of the early critics and naysayers, Mass has been performed internationally several times a year over the past 45 years.
So why does this matter to me? It matters a whole lot. In the spring of 1975 I watched Godspell in Birmingham, Alabama. Besides the musical enjoyment, I experienced a quantum shift in my personal beliefs and theology, especially concerning the death of Jesus Christ. Four years later in the spring of 1979, with no idea of this intertwining history, I discovered Bernstein's Mass. I was in the music library of my graduate school and pulled the album randomly off the shelf. The person who walked out of that library two hours later was different than the person who walked in. What sort of shift is more dramatic than a quantum shift? An extremely more huge quantum shift?
Earlier this week I asked Spotify to find Godspell. What it found was the updated version of Godspell that I didn't know existed. I got excited too when I learned that it is playing on Broadway. I was mentally preparing for the trip to NYC when I noticed the article was from 2011. The next article said that it had closed after a successful nine month run. Oh well. But I have so enjoyed listening to Godspell this week including new music composed for the new show.
For inspiration for this writing I have been listening to selections from both Godspell and Mass. I find the last two movements of Mass to be a well-spring of help and healing. I drink from that spring both when I'm well and when I'm not. It concluded just now as it always concludes with "The mass is ended. Go in peace." Going in peace is just something I can never get enough of.
To have wandered into Godspell in 1975 and then into Mass in 1979 is extraordinary. For both of them to meet in 2016 is Divine.
Monday, May 9, 2016
Life Happens
I had dinner with a very good friend of mine last week. I needed to talk about some things and he was willing to listen. After he heard me out and we had talked back and forth for a while, he said something to me that I had heard many times but had never understood. There was something though in the context of our conversation that the three words hit me point blank. It was like I had never heard them before or at least like I had never listened before. At a critical point in the exchange, he looked right at me and said, "David, life happens."
"Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans" is usually quoted from John Lennon's song Beautiful Boy released in 1980. However, he was probably quoting a Reader's Digest article by Allen Saunders from 1957. Then was Saunders the first to say this? It is entirely possible that Eve said this to Adam as they locked the garden gate behind them. Or maybe God said it to both of them as He was positioning those angels with the flaming swords.
Whoever came up with "Everything happens for a reason" meant well, I'm sure. People say this when they don't know what else to say. But it's just not true. Your life will become exponentially simpler and more meaningful when you change "everything happens for a reason" to just "everything happens."
On October 29, 2012 I was driving in the right lane of I-75 south near Dalton, Georgia. I had my cruise control set on the speed limit of 70 mph. I was on my way to a Chamber of Commerce meeting in Calhoun. Those were my plans. I glanced up in my mirror a piece of a second before a SUV plowed into my bumper. Although I was traveling at 70 mph, the impact was great enough to total my car. I was able to steer the car to the shoulder of the interstate. I was in shock, but except for severe whiplash I was very much alive. Remarkably, the car hit me square on the bumper. If he had clipped either side of my bumper, then I probably wouldn't be sitting here typing this. I'm quite sure that I wouldn't have driven away.
Did that accident happen for a reason? Did God spare my life for something special? The state of Georgia has a digital display across I-75 that counts the number of traffic fatalities in the state day by day. This display is less than a mile from the site of my collision. The last count I saw last week was 484 deaths. If I say that God spared my life that morning near Dalton, then why did He let 484 more people die on the same highways this year? Am I somehow more special to God than any or all of them? If God is making those decisions, then surely he could have spared two or three of them. Just two or three represent husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, friends, neighbors, co-workers, fishing and golfing buddies. The list goes into the hundreds of people. All 484 deaths affect tens of thousands. And God spared me?
After the x-ray tech at Hamilton Medical Center completed the x-rays of my spine, he said "You are very lucky the impact didn't break your neck." He said I was "very lucky". He didn't say that I was "very fortunate" or "very blessed.." He didn't say that my life had been spared for some good reason. He said "You're very lucky." Looking back, even the way my trunk caved in and absorbed the impact saved my neck. I'm lucky the sheet metal wasn't any more rigid than it was.
This dinner last week was not the first time this particular friend has come to my rescue. In June of 1983, during one of the worst crises of my life, he called me and offered his help. On that occasion I wasn't looking for him, he was looking for me. That call has made all the difference. It altered the course of my family's life.
To be completely fair to the person who came up with "everything happens for a reason", three of the synonyms for lucky are "fortunate, blessed and favored." If you are more comfortable with these words, then by all means use them. But just don't try to convince me that "everything happens for a reason". I have enough difficulty coping with "everything happens" without trying to figure out a reason.
"Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans" is usually quoted from John Lennon's song Beautiful Boy released in 1980. However, he was probably quoting a Reader's Digest article by Allen Saunders from 1957. Then was Saunders the first to say this? It is entirely possible that Eve said this to Adam as they locked the garden gate behind them. Or maybe God said it to both of them as He was positioning those angels with the flaming swords.
Whoever came up with "Everything happens for a reason" meant well, I'm sure. People say this when they don't know what else to say. But it's just not true. Your life will become exponentially simpler and more meaningful when you change "everything happens for a reason" to just "everything happens."
On October 29, 2012 I was driving in the right lane of I-75 south near Dalton, Georgia. I had my cruise control set on the speed limit of 70 mph. I was on my way to a Chamber of Commerce meeting in Calhoun. Those were my plans. I glanced up in my mirror a piece of a second before a SUV plowed into my bumper. Although I was traveling at 70 mph, the impact was great enough to total my car. I was able to steer the car to the shoulder of the interstate. I was in shock, but except for severe whiplash I was very much alive. Remarkably, the car hit me square on the bumper. If he had clipped either side of my bumper, then I probably wouldn't be sitting here typing this. I'm quite sure that I wouldn't have driven away.
Did that accident happen for a reason? Did God spare my life for something special? The state of Georgia has a digital display across I-75 that counts the number of traffic fatalities in the state day by day. This display is less than a mile from the site of my collision. The last count I saw last week was 484 deaths. If I say that God spared my life that morning near Dalton, then why did He let 484 more people die on the same highways this year? Am I somehow more special to God than any or all of them? If God is making those decisions, then surely he could have spared two or three of them. Just two or three represent husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers, friends, neighbors, co-workers, fishing and golfing buddies. The list goes into the hundreds of people. All 484 deaths affect tens of thousands. And God spared me?
After the x-ray tech at Hamilton Medical Center completed the x-rays of my spine, he said "You are very lucky the impact didn't break your neck." He said I was "very lucky". He didn't say that I was "very fortunate" or "very blessed.." He didn't say that my life had been spared for some good reason. He said "You're very lucky." Looking back, even the way my trunk caved in and absorbed the impact saved my neck. I'm lucky the sheet metal wasn't any more rigid than it was.
This dinner last week was not the first time this particular friend has come to my rescue. In June of 1983, during one of the worst crises of my life, he called me and offered his help. On that occasion I wasn't looking for him, he was looking for me. That call has made all the difference. It altered the course of my family's life.
To be completely fair to the person who came up with "everything happens for a reason", three of the synonyms for lucky are "fortunate, blessed and favored." If you are more comfortable with these words, then by all means use them. But just don't try to convince me that "everything happens for a reason". I have enough difficulty coping with "everything happens" without trying to figure out a reason.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
NICU
cud.dle "Hold close in one's arms as a way of showing love or affection"
I am finding the neonatal intensive care to be a holy place, a sanctuary. The combined noise of the life-sustaining machines, the chatter of the staff and the crying of the babies all combine and become for me a celestial music. I know a little about music and I can tell you that this is beautiful music. From the time I open the door to the NICU until the time I leave, I feel that I have been in a place of solitude, a place of remarkable love and deep emotion.
I learned about "the Cuddler program" in the NICU of a local hospital nearly three months ago. I immediately completed the online application for volunteers. The process has taken all this time. Hospitals are very careful about who has access to their newborn babies. As it should be.
After this long application and orientation process I have finally cuddled babies two different times. I have no idea what I'm doing for these babies, but I know what these babies are doing for me. The nurses and attendants seem to think the time is worthwhile for the babies as well. "She's been fussy all afternoon, but I haven't heard a peep since you've been holding her." And another stopped by to say, "I think she loves you. She's going to think you're her grandfather."
The reason hospitals employ the volunteer services of cuddlers is because for a number of reasons the parents are not available for all the newborns. And also there are not enough nurses to go around to afford them the luxury of holding babies for hours at a time. As a cuddler, I have nothing better to do. I literally have nothing better to do.
I had imagined the experience to be extraordinary and I have not been disappointed. It's an awesome thing for me to hold a tiny stranger in my arms. And to think that in a few days this child will go on to her family or into foster care and I will probably never see him again. But for these few minutes this baby's entire being is in my arms. In my care. For these few minutes I'm his mother, his father, his grandmother, his grandfather. I'm all he's got. Or so he thinks. So I rock and I whisper and I hum and I love.
Although the hospital does not have strict expectations for the cuddlers, they do hope that we will show up at least once a week. In my case they may have trouble keeping me away. Once I've been in the NICU, the NICU is in me. I can feel it and hear it now. Those babies are there now. When I wake up in the middle of the night, those babies are still there. And some of them just need to be held and rocked and fed.
I knew that I would enjoy holding the babies. I enjoyed rocking my own baby and then his daughter some years later. I've rocked many babies over the years. What I didn't predict is how quickly I would become attached to these newborns. When my cuddle time is over I'm not ready to put them down. When I leave the hospital, for a while all I can think about is that baby. I asked my supervisor how she deals with the phenomenon of wanting to adopt them all. She said, "It's a problem for all of us. We all deal with it in different ways. You'll get used to it. Just keep cuddling. And pray a lot."
All those years my mother kept "the bed babies" in the nursery, I thought it was her gift to the church, I realize now it was those babies' gift to her. She never "kept" those babies. Those babies kept her.
I am finding the neonatal intensive care to be a holy place, a sanctuary. The combined noise of the life-sustaining machines, the chatter of the staff and the crying of the babies all combine and become for me a celestial music. I know a little about music and I can tell you that this is beautiful music. From the time I open the door to the NICU until the time I leave, I feel that I have been in a place of solitude, a place of remarkable love and deep emotion.
I learned about "the Cuddler program" in the NICU of a local hospital nearly three months ago. I immediately completed the online application for volunteers. The process has taken all this time. Hospitals are very careful about who has access to their newborn babies. As it should be.
After this long application and orientation process I have finally cuddled babies two different times. I have no idea what I'm doing for these babies, but I know what these babies are doing for me. The nurses and attendants seem to think the time is worthwhile for the babies as well. "She's been fussy all afternoon, but I haven't heard a peep since you've been holding her." And another stopped by to say, "I think she loves you. She's going to think you're her grandfather."
The reason hospitals employ the volunteer services of cuddlers is because for a number of reasons the parents are not available for all the newborns. And also there are not enough nurses to go around to afford them the luxury of holding babies for hours at a time. As a cuddler, I have nothing better to do. I literally have nothing better to do.
I had imagined the experience to be extraordinary and I have not been disappointed. It's an awesome thing for me to hold a tiny stranger in my arms. And to think that in a few days this child will go on to her family or into foster care and I will probably never see him again. But for these few minutes this baby's entire being is in my arms. In my care. For these few minutes I'm his mother, his father, his grandmother, his grandfather. I'm all he's got. Or so he thinks. So I rock and I whisper and I hum and I love.
Although the hospital does not have strict expectations for the cuddlers, they do hope that we will show up at least once a week. In my case they may have trouble keeping me away. Once I've been in the NICU, the NICU is in me. I can feel it and hear it now. Those babies are there now. When I wake up in the middle of the night, those babies are still there. And some of them just need to be held and rocked and fed.
I knew that I would enjoy holding the babies. I enjoyed rocking my own baby and then his daughter some years later. I've rocked many babies over the years. What I didn't predict is how quickly I would become attached to these newborns. When my cuddle time is over I'm not ready to put them down. When I leave the hospital, for a while all I can think about is that baby. I asked my supervisor how she deals with the phenomenon of wanting to adopt them all. She said, "It's a problem for all of us. We all deal with it in different ways. You'll get used to it. Just keep cuddling. And pray a lot."
All those years my mother kept "the bed babies" in the nursery, I thought it was her gift to the church, I realize now it was those babies' gift to her. She never "kept" those babies. Those babies kept her.
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