Thoughts and Musings on Faith, Music, Family, Life

Yea for crystalline water ice - FINALLY - and for a good Plan B

I remember some pretty decent snows during my growing up years in Raleigh - usually one or two a winter that would enable good sledding, snowmen (and women), snowcream, and most importantly getting us out of school.  There was one that dropped a good foot of the white stuff in the Triangle area of North Carolina and stuck around for nearly a week.  Ah, those were the days.

Seven years ago, when our family moved to the foothills in Mount Airy, we figured we were guaranteeing ourselves some serious snows - the Blue Ridge mountains, after all, were right within view and get tons of snow.  So we're a shoe-in, right?  Not so much.  Other than our first winter here, we have been sorely lacking in the snow department.  Apparently when the storms come from the north down, as most of them do, the mountains act as a buffer for our little town, shielding us and sending the snow elsewhere.  Winston-Salem, just half an hour south, will get pounded; and we'll get nothing.  This has happened over and over and over again.  For the past five years.  Our measuring stick for this snow drought is the fact that our second son, born in 2004, had yet to experience a real snow - and by "real" I mean a snow that's more than a dusting that evaporates mere hours after its arrival.  It's been sad, trying to explain to your kids why they can't build a snowman with 1/8 an inch of the white stuff on the ground.  It's sad, and it's wrong.  No kid should be deprived of at least one winter wonderland in their childhood.

Which is why I am glad to say that, on Friday December 18th at around 2:20pm, they were deprived no longer.

The reports were coming in fast and furious that this was a "major storm" that would "cause significant accumulation" over the weekend.  I had heard it all before, many times.  I had since taught myself not to get excited or overly optimistic.  Despite the fact that all signs pointed to the predictions coming true, despite the fact that the area schools let out at 11am in advance of the storm (usually the kiss of death, as it were), I remained stoic.  I would be the "Doubting Thomas" of Mount Airy snowfall - I would not believe until I got to see.

When the snow did come, and when I saw it almost immediately sticking to the streets, I finally allowed myself to believe.  So did my boys, which was the most fun of it all.   The snow continued to fall late into the afternoon and evening, which was great as usually our snows come and go pretty quick.  That would not be the case today.  The only bummer about this was the fact that the second Mediocre Bad Guys gig with Rolling Stones sax player Bobby Keys had to be canceled, as the roads were a mess.  However, we got a chance to redeem ourselves - more on that later.

Saturday morning came quick, and after a big breakfast the boys and I headed outdoors.  By some freak of nature our streets were plowed at 6:30am, which is quite strange given that we live in a pretty secluded area of town.  It also messed up a good sledding hill around the corner for us, so we had to go on a hunt.  We found a pretty nice place in a friend's yard, and the boys got to hang out with one of their good school friends.  It was priceless seeing the looks on their faces as they sledded in our area's first real snowfall in five years; especially our youngest, for whom sledding had always been a concept he could only fathom in his mind.  This is the stuff memories are made of - not only for the kids, but for their parents too.

 After some time to dry off and defrost we went back out to engage in another wintry tradition - the construction of the family snowman.  Again, keep in mind that the last time we did this - the last time we were even able to do this - was 2004.  This year's snow was perfect for the cause - slightly damp, packed well.  As most snowman construction begins it didn't look too great at first.  But we persisted in our efforts, and thanks to a snowman kit the wife got a hold of we were able to complete our masterpiece in a little over an hour.  The picture to the left shows our creation - kind of hard to tell, but it was pretty tall, measuring almost even with the height of our boys.  Lots of fun.

So - back to that canceled gig the night before.  As soon as the band made the call to cancel we begin looking at other options to play with Bobby before he headed back to Nashville.  We had such a great time playing with him a year before that we didn't want to miss out on another opportunity.  After lots of phone calls, texts and emails, we finally settled on a Saturday night gathering at the band's practice space - in the basement of an off-the-beaten path warehouse in town.  Sure, it wouldn't be a full-fledged show like it would've been the night before, and one of our guitarists wouldn't be able to make the trek from Winston-Salem to join us.  But it would still be a lot of fun.  We invited a handful of our local friends to come hang out and around 30 folks turned up.  We didn't have a set list - we just called songs out as they came to us, pretty much the same songs we would've played anyway.  And while the big show would've been a blast, there was something kinda cool about the intimate feel of Plan B; just us hanging out with a pretty famous and talented dude playing some tunes and enjoying each others company.

Highlight of the evening - presenting Bobby with his birthday present: a framed poster of the original gig flyer with all our signatures, followed by playing the Beatles' "Birthday."  The plan was to give him the poster and play the tune on his actual birthday, which was the previous night, at the original gig.  But he still seemed genuinely touched by the gesture and joined us for some nice sax playing on a song in which you'd never thing sax would fit.  Which, of course, it did.  All of which goes to show that sometimes the Plan Bs can actually work out as good or even better than the original.

It's Sunday morning now and we had to cancel church because the parking lot hasn't been scraped.  Temperatures are heading upwards and the snow is starting to melt.  No one enjoys playing in slush.  It's always kind a bummer when the crystalline water ice transitions to liquid form.  But we've got pictures and memories that'll stick with us for a while.  Five years wait is long enough for a good snow and all the fun it brings.  Here's hoping we don't have to wait that long again.

Still Thankful

This past week, with the Thanksgiving holiday upon us, someone reminded me of a blog post I made a year ago appropriately titled "Thankful".  I went back and took a look at it and noticed how almost all of the things I was thankful for then are things I'm still thankful for now.  I don't know if this is a sign of a guy who is continually blessed, or a guy who lives a pretty mundane life where nothing changes all that much.  Either way, I'm cool with it.

At the risk of being redundant I thought I'd revisit last year's post.  Any instances that required updating are duly noted in red.  And don't worry, I won't do this every year.  In 2010 I'll treat you to an entirely new and original Thankful post.

Happy Thanksgiving day, folks.  Here's hoping you have much to be thankful for - and, more importantly, that you take time with the ones you love to celebrate those things.

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I am thankful for coffee.  I'm drinking some right now, actually.  I wish to personally thank the individual who thought grinding up some brown beans and pouring hot water over them would taste good.  They were right.

At the moment I'm thankful for Ryan Adams.  Every time I listen to his music I hear something different I didn't pick up before, and I really like that sensation.  I like it because it stands in stark contrast to the sensation I get when I suffer through the repetitiveness of top-40 radio.  Which is something akin to eating those funnel cakes at the fair - it may taste good on the surface, but you know it's just not good for you.  Ryan Adams is kind of like the homemade ice cream - unique and worth the time and money invested.  That's also why I like Wilco, U2, Death Cab for Cutie, Nickel Creek, Radiohead, and others you don't always hear that much and who rarely get the deserved notoriety.  Which is exactly the point.

Last year it was Ryan Adams, this year it's The Avett Brothers. And Sufjan Stevens, especially his Christmas album.

I'm thankful for my boys.  I wish they could somehow know how much I love them, but I don't guess that's possible.  I'm not even sure I know how much.  Every time I look in their eyes I see my past, present and future all rolled into one, along with theirs.  It's a humbling, exhilarating feeling.

Likewise, I'm thankful for my wife.  I remember in my single days hearing folks describe their spouses as their "best friends."  I didn't get it - shouldn't you want your husband or wife to be something more than your "best friend?"  Now, having been married for just over nine years, I get it.  And I'm so glad that I happen to be married to my best friend.

Ten years.

I'm thankful for my parents, my brother, and extended family.  My life has taken all kinds of twists and turns in my 40 years, and it's humbling to know they've been there with me through it all.

Umm........41.

I'm thankful for the church I serve.  Unfortunately, this realization sometimes comes when I'm in conversation with clergy friends and hear their nightmarish situations.  And then I see that I really have it good.  It's a church that wants to go where the spirit leads; a church that genuinely cares for each other, and a church that puts up with (and even supports) my music and teaching ventures.  Most of all, it's a church that lets me be a real person, and that perhaps is the greatest gift they could ever give.

As if I needed any more reasons, my thankfulness for the church has increased ten-fold with their approval of a sabbatical for me next summer.  More on the sabbatical to come...

I'm thankful for the guys I've had the pleasure of making music with - Ken, Jerry, Les, Gary, David and others.  Acoustic Blend is entering its ninth year of existence, and Ken and I never tire of it.  And I'm more than content with being a so-so Mediocre Bad Guy, playing with some of the finest musicians Mount Airy has to offer.

I'm thankful for modern-day prophets like Shane Claiborne, Jim Wallis with Sojourners, Brian McLaren, David Beckmann with Bread for the World, Marcus Borg and many others who hit dummies like me over the head with the agonizingly simple message of the gospel.

I'm thankful for blogging.  I'd been trying for years to find a journaling outlet, but I never could bring myself to don a spiral-ring notebook and pen.  I'm too much of a keyboard guy.  Then I stumbled upon blogging, and that's pretty much been it (oh, and I'm thankful to you for reading it!)

I'm not blogging as much as I used to - it comes and goes in waves. That's okay, I still get a lot out of it.  And still thankful to you for reading!

I'm thankful for things like Facebook and Twitter.  Call me a geek, but they really are wonderful ways to stay connected with folks all over the place.  Where else can I catch up with that girl who lived down the block from me as a kid, and the friend who happens to be moderator of the denomination I serve in, and my old college professor?  The world really isn't as big as we make it out to be sometimes.

I'm thankful for wireless internet.  Free wireless internet specifically.

I'm thankful for the students in my college classes.  For actually showing up, for one thing, at 8:00 in the morning.  And then listening to me lecture for a solid hour.  They ask questions that keep me on my toes, which is exactly what I need.  And they're a lot of fun to be around too.

I'm still thankful for my students, but unfortunately it's no longer in a traditional classroom setting, as all my classes have been moved online. Not my preferred method of teaching, but we make it work.

I'm thankful for our next president.  I know I wanted Jesus, but I'm happy to settle for Obama.  I really do think he's going to bring the change our country so desperately needs.

I still think that.

I'm thankful for a good workout.  These days my goal is three miles jogging and one mile swimming, 2-3 times a week.  It wipes me out, and it's not taking as much off the waistline as it used to, but it still leaves me with a good feeling afterwards.

Something new I'm doing these days - treading water for 30-45 minutes, with weights.  I know it doesn't sound exciting, but it's one heckuva workout.  I've shed some pounds.

I'm thankful that God has never let me stand in the pulpit on Sunday morning with nothing to say.  This is the stuff of nightmares for us ministers, my friends.  I'm not kidding.

I'm thankful for football.  I live vicariously through the guys I watch on TV or read about in the newspaper or Sports Illustrated.  There's something fascinating about the orchestration that goes on between eleven players, all aimed at moving a piece of pigskin down the field; and another eleven orchestrated to stop them.

I'm thankful for that feeling when I drop the Eldest off in the car line at school in the mornings. The teacher opens the door, and I watch him gather his bookbag and any other stuff he's got.  We give each other a high-five.  Every time I tell him I love him and that I'm proud of him.  And I never, ever tire of watching him step out and walk through the school doors and into his big wide world in there.

So we're not doing the car line this year.  Our youngest is in the Pre-K program at the school and we're required to personally take him to his class.  Which means I actually get to take both boys to their classes.  I love this more than the car line. I get to hug 'em as they walk into their room and begin a day in their never-ending, lightning-fast quest that is growing up. 

I thought long and hard about something I could say to them every day, some words of wisdom to impart.  I guess I remember my mom telling me about what her father, a high school principal, used to always say to her and her two sisters: "Apply yourself."  It took a few weeks, but I finally found mine: "Learn stuff."  I like it.  More importantly, they do too.

"Gone from my sight...."

It has been a tough month or so - meaning, our church and community have had a lot of deaths lately.  Just in our own church: five funerals in as many weeks, four of which I've officiated.  Some were expected, some not; all were difficult.  As a pastor I've never been one to lament my role in these affairs; I always consider it an honor to walk with others on their "sacred ground" (along with baptisms and marriages).  Besides, any hardship I experience pales in comparison to what the family is going through.  But even I must admit - this recent wave has been hard on me.  Compounding that is the fact that, three weeks ago, our family said goodbye to our beloved Sam, the family dog of fourteen years.  Sam was actually my wife's dog and was in the picture long before I was.  She was her baby; I knew my place.

Ugh.

Instances like these are always roller-coaster affairs; the emotional back-and-forth of celebrating a life and having to say goodbye at the same time.  It's times like these when we cling to those thin silver linings; those glimmers of hope and promise that we find amidst all the sorrow and pain.  There was some special music shared at funeral #4 which touched a deep, deep chord in every person in attendance; there was a heartfelt eulogy given at another that was both lighthearted and serious at the same time. 

And in two of the services a poem was read.  It was the same poem; read first by a minister colleague of mine in a service we shared together.  It was read again today at a funeral our staff attended on behalf of a work colleague whose mother had died.  It's about a ship, but it's about much more than that.  I love the fact that the man who wrote it, Henry Van Dyke, was a staunch Presbyterian and English professor in his time.

I don't know the story behind his poem Gone From My Sight, but it is comprised of some beautiful words that have meant a lot to the people who've heard them over the past few weeks.  If you're lucky enough to not have someone close to you dying right now, tuck these words away in a place you'll remember and pull them out later when you need them.  In the meantime, celebrate life every waking moment of your day, and don't let a day go by without telling someone you love them.

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GONE FROM MY SIGHT

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship, at my side,
spreads her white sails to the moving breeze and starts
for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength.
I stand and watch her until, at length, she hangs like a speck
of white cloud just where the sea and sky come to mingle with each other.

Then, someone at my side says, "There, she is gone"

Gone where?

Gone from my sight. That is all. She is just as large in mast,
hull and spar as she was when she left my side.
And, she is just as able to bear her load of living freight to her destined port.

Her diminished size is in me -- not in her.
And, just at the moment when someone says, "There, she is gone,"
there are other eyes watching her coming, and other voices
ready to take up the glad shout, "Here she comes!"

And that is dying...

How the Wild Things Were

So this morning after getting the kids off to school, I asked the wife if she wanted to catch the 11am showing of the new movie Where The Wild Things Are.  She scrunched up her face a bit and made some comment about how the kids would be majorly bummed if they missed out.  Oh, yeah..... Turns out the wife got called to sub anyway.

Later that afternoon, the four of us made our way to the local cinema for a matinee showing.  The boys were excited - and to be honest, so was Dad.  Like them I associate this book with a large part of my childhood.  The storyline never quite made sense, at least in a logical, linear, adult-kind of way.  But the creatures looked great and the wild rumpus seemed like a lot of fun.  And in the end, as we all know, his supper was still hot.  All's well that ends well.

But like many people I was skeptical.  Ten sentences - that's all that makes up this children's classic.  How, pray tell, can anyone hope to fashion a major motion picture around this that a) refrains from taking ridiculous liberties that don't fit or b) sticks too strictly to the book and bores you to tears?  Enter director Spike Jonze, who brought his quirky visual sense to the table and forewarned in at least one interview that this would be different: “I didn’t set out to make a children’s film – I set out to make a film about childhood.”

Score.

I thought the movie was great.  I was pleased with how it expanded the story without changing the underlying theme of the book.  Without giving too much away, the movie hits hard on relationships in turmoil - both in the real world and extending into the "wild world."  Some might charge the movie with overreaching, but I'd disagree.  Remember, there was a reason Max was sent to his room without any supper, just as there was a reason that his room began transforming into a forest (which they didn't try to duplicate on the silver screen, one of my very few gripes with the movie).  Sendak never explained it, but it's classic escapism: of getting away from something and then coming to find, in the end, that the journey was fun while it lasted but it's time to go home.

The movie did an outstanding job of using the wild world as a showcase for Max's internal struggle, the primary subtext in the book (and part of the brilliance of Sendak's writing - again, ten sentences!) The main tool Jonze used to accomplish this was the movie's excellent dialogue, especially between Max and the wild things.  It didn't always flow in logical fashion and make total sense, leaving you to sometimes feel as if you missed out on the front end of a conversation.  But that's the whole point: this fantasy land is Max's psyche working out the angst and unease raging inside a twelve-year old boy. There isn't always going to be a "logical flow."  Throughout the movie there's this constant tug-of-war between the natural repulsion that exists in human relationships and our strong innate desire to just be with one another.  It happens in Max's relationships with the wild things, between the wild things themselves - and again, all of this sets the stage for Max's final trip back home through the turbulent oceans.

The kid who plays Max, ironically named Max himself (Max Records), nails the character dead-on.  You feel his struggle and sense his big heart at the same time.  The wonders of modern movie-making lend to some very believable wild things, seamlessly blending six-foot muppet-like costumes with CGI computer animation that bring their faces and facial expression to life.  Not bad voiceovers either (James Gandolfini of The Sopranos, Paul Dano, Forest Whitaker, among others).  Soundtrack-wise, Karen-O of Yeah Yeah Yeahs fame assembles a wonderfully-eclectic assortment of indie tunes that captures Max's emotional spectrum - and in the process has become one of the very few movie soundtracks I've ever bothered to purchase.

As we sat in the movie theater I was concerned that most of this was going over my boys' heads; too deep for them to comprehend, lying outside their emotional spectrum.  But I was pleasantly surprised when they sat through most of the movie in rapt attention, moreso than a lot of standard kid flicks.  They may not have grasped the specifics of Max's problems at home, but they understood that even people who love each other have hard times and can work to make amends.  Near the end, when Max says his emotional goodbye to the wild things as he boards his boat, I looked over and saw my eldest wiping tears from his face. Umm, yeah, I think they got it.  More and more I'm learning that kids are much more perceptive than we give them credit for.

In short I think Spike Jonze, like my two boys, "got it."  He was able to retell the famous tale using a story line that certainly embellished the original but didn't feel forced or "over the top."  In fact, I imagine it fleshed out some of what was originally going through Sendak's mind when he put paper to pen nearly 50 years ago.  You and your family should check it out, too.  "Bambi" this is not, but its beauty is found in its depth.  Definitely a movie experience worth your hard-earned cash.

 

The Other Side of One

Ten years ago - October 2, 1999 - it was a gorgeous autumn Saturday.  People were mowing their lawns, watching college football games.  I was donning a tux and sharing some pretty important vows with a special young lady.  Ten years ago we had very little idea of all that would lie ahead of us - two awesome boys, a move up Highway 52 to Mayberry, and all the joys and struggles that come with the territory. But we made a promise to go it together, and that we have done.

Fast forward to now.  It was 6am this morning when the phone rang.  I answered it - as suspected, it was the elementary school, calling to see if my wife of ten years would substitute teach for the day.  Of course she would, she told them. We had planned a lunch at our favorite Thai restaurant in town, but that could wait - I realize, once again, how much my wife enjoys teaching and hopes to begin her degree in the fall.  She's doing what she loves, which makes her happy, which makes me happy.

We quickly exchanged gifts as we got ready for the day, and we had a good laugh when we realized we had given each other the exact same anniversary card.  Great minds (and hearts) think alike. It was a hurried celebration of our milestone, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

For a guy who prides himself on being able to find the right words for most occasions - be it a sermon or a class lecture or (we hope) a blog post - I've never been able to adequately express the depth of this relationship.  Except one time, right before we were married, when I put pen to paper and somehow managed to dig down deep to come up with lyrics for a song.  It's called The Other Side of One because, prior to getting married, I had lived the bachelor life for a good ten years.  And while I still hold strong and fast to the individuality that exists within any married couple, there is a "oneness" there that is mystifying and baffling, sometimes frustrating and even moreso joyful.  The song is my best attempt at trying to capture that:

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THE OTHER SIDE OF ONE

I'm sitting here at this canvas, and it rests at the edge of my soul
I'm inspired to create it and summon the spirit of old
But the rhymes outweigh the reasons when the lines of battle are drawn
And the image that forms is nothing that I've ever known
So help me learn to express what's inside
And keep me from running away to hide

They say beauty is in the beholder - what is held there I'm not so sure
They say life's for the taking, but no one can give anymore
In this place I have painted my feelings and still nothing has ever come forth
Cause you search for your answers and find that the questions are more
Won't you teach me the ways I can love myself
So I'll know how to love someone else

And if you read my mind I'll sing to you, If you love me, I'll be strong
If you hold me close when the picture's all said and done
I will blossom here in your glory, I will breathe life all day long
I will walk with you down the road I once walked alone to the other side of one

I have lived here awhile on my island where the loneliness fills up my soul
I'm resigned to believe that I'm stranded here until I grow old
But there's a ship sailing o'er the horizon, unexpectedly in through the night
Could it be my salvation depends on the way I shine my light
You know you told me that love would arrive someday
And I want to believe that it's here to stay

And if you read my mind I'll sing to you, If you love me, I'll be strong
If you hold me close when the picture's all said and done
I will blossom here in your glory, I will breathe life all day long
I will walk with you down the road I once walked alone to the other side of one

Hover mouse & click "play" to hear song

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So - on this tenth anniversary of ours as life comes screaming at us with errands, swim lessons, meals to fix, jobs, houses to clean, lawns to mow, school progress reports, and even a 6am phone call, I'm reminded that the celebration of it all takes place in the midst of the rush.  That's the beauty of the past ten years, with hopefully many more hectic, beautiful moments to come.  I'll soak up every one of 'em.

The Lure of the Waves

Believe me when I say that I love my life.  Every bit of it - my job, my family, the church I serve, playing music, teaching.  Love it all and wouldn't trade it for a thing. But there's a part of me that wouldn't mind a bit if I spent the remaining moments of my life among the waves.

A few days ago my family returned from a wonderful vacation week at the beach.  It was much, much needed.  Just to break out of the routine for a short time and hunker down with family among the sun, sand and surf is worth every minute of the drive down and back (which, incidentally, was aided tremendously by the DVD car player we bought a few years ago for moments like these.  Hands-down one of the best investments we've made as parents).

Our mornings were relaxed and slow-paced and involved a leisure breakfast, grinding/brewing coffee (which I'm convinced is a form of meditation), watching a little bit of the Tour de France on TV, and then lathering up the sunscreen.  We hit the beach mid-morning; and one of the first things we did was grab the bogey-board and head off into the water to ride some waves.

I must say there is something utterly thrilling, down to my bones, about those few seconds riding a wave - better yet, bodysurfing.  I learned how to surf sans board years ago from my father on the shores of Daytona Beach, where my family vacationed every summer.  I wish I could recall the exact words he used to indoctrinate my brother and I. Perhaps we learned simply by watching him do it, imitating as any son strives to do with his father. 

So I found myself getting in touch with something deep within me, something from my past, as I maneuvered the waves of Myrtle Beach last week.  I felt an odd sense of peace out there in the water, letting the waves carry me up and down until the right one came along.  It is an art form; how one positions themselves at just the right spot in the wave.  Too far back and it simply passes you by, leaving you to lament what could have been.  Too far in front and the full force of the wave crashes down on you, hurling your body to the ocean's bottom with brute force. 

You catch the wave best at its peak, right as the crest appears.  You extend your arms forward, close your eyes and let the wave do the rest.  If it's strong enough you can lift your head up and open your eyes, like the dude in the pic above (which, incidentally, is not me).  There's nothing quite like the sensation of your body slicing through the water.  It only lasts a few seconds and then you're ready to do it again. 

The thing is, things have changed somewhat over the years.  Not the waves, of course (they keep coming).  No, the thing that has changed is me - specifically, my role in this.  Because now I have two boys, one who appears to share the same passion for the surf that I do.  So I can't just run in and out of the waves on my own.  I've got a kid to help now, to keep an eye on.  To teach.  I did a lot more helping him than getting my own surf fix.  But there's a beauty to that as well; a father passing something along to his son, just as my father did to my brother and I.  It's a different kind of thrill - but a thrill nonetheless.

I love moments like this, when my past collides with my present - it's kind of like a wave, really.  The older I get, the more I have these kind of moments.  I don't know if that's a good thing or not, but I'll take it for what it's worth, and enjoy the ride while it lasts.

What Matters Most

I knew there was a reason we had our porch painted and re-screened last month - for moments just like this.  Saturday afternoon, everyone else taking naps or feigning sleep (end result - a strange and rare quiet); the sound of an afternoon summer shower falling on the trees that surround our backyard.  Aaaahhh.  I needed this, I really did.  It's been a week of ups and downs, and frankly, more downs than ups.

I turned a year older this past week.  If you care to know how much, check out this blog post I made a year ago and do the math.  There was something unique about last year's milestone and I wore it proudly, like a badge of honor.  Kind of like when you hit 18 and achieve "adulthood."  Of course, twelve months later the novelty wears off and you're just another year older.  So sure, I could've come at it in some positive light - blessed with another year and all that. And the family certainly helped with gifts, homemade cards and an incredible strawberry cake.  But honestly, the week I had made it difficult to fully embrace the joy of it all. 

Which leads to my next "downer,"  and it happened around noon on Monday, driving down Main Street in town, at around 35 mph.  Thankfully, no one was injured.  Even the guy's car that I hit showed very little damage.  The same could not be said, though, for my car.  Especially frustrating since the same thing happened two years ago.  And in both instances, the age of the car made repairing it not an option.

There is a powerful bond between a man, his automobile and the privilege of driving.  I've seen it in older men when their declining health makes sitting behind the wheel no longer an option, and the family has to take away the keys.  You can see it in their eyes; that a part of their independence and pride and dignity has been denied.  To some degree that's how I felt those first 48 hours sans car.  And perhaps that was a good thing; a healthy slice of humble pie, repulsive as its taste may have been.

Things continued to go down from there.  Note to self: don't bother walking to work early one morning in the hopes that no one will see you and realize, as you jaunt down Main Street in your office clothes and business bag, that you have no car.  It won't work (although I am grateful to Ben for giving me a lift the rest of the way). Even my birthday had its unsettling moment, as I was (and this is a true story) pulled over by the police because the tags on my rental car had expired.  The rental car!  The overwhelming relief I felt when I realized I wouldn't be held responsible still didn't make up for the sick feeling in my stomach the moment those blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror. 

Sometimes it's easy to get so overwhelmed by the all the muckiness around you that it gets a good grip on your spirit.  And that's when you need a perspective check - and for me, it was Friday.  The wounds from the week's mess were still tender as the family headed off on a hiking excursion - just the four of us.  It was exactly what the doctor ordered - just being with the wife and boys, seeing some cool waterfalls, marveling at the wonders of nature together.  Later that evening I was playing some tunes in Madison, NC for an Acoustic Blend gig. The place was packed and folks stayed until closing time at 10pm to hear our very last song.  That's when you know a gig is going well.

On the drive home I reflected on my lousy week and how humble pie, while sometimes necessary, often comes in portions too large for one's appetite.  I don't like feeling like I've let people down, and I don't like others being negatively affected by my actions.  At the same time I had a moment of clarity that I hope will stick with me long after this week is over.

And that is this: when you get right down to it, when you cut through all the muck that can get in the way, what matters most - to me at least - is my family and friends, my faith, and my music.  Those three, and the people and places and experiences that make them up, are what define me as a human being meandering around this planet.  They are what connect me to something outside myself.  Everything else is dressing - important dressing, sometimes expensive dressing (as my auto insurance agent reminded me this past week), but dressing nonetheless.  Family, friends, faith, music.  That pretty much sums it up.

I'm glad I've have some time to reflect on this as I'm sitting on the back porch listening to the rain make its journey from the heavens down to the earth.  Actually, the rain's starting to die down a bit, and the sun's peeking through.  Thank goodness the same can be said about this past week.  Time to soak up the sunshine and be thankful for the light and warmth of it all.

Apparently I'm "Dad" now

It happened in the car the other day when I was driving the elder home from swim team practice.  It was around 6:47pm EST.  Mark the time.  It is the moment when my son, from the back seat of the car over my right shoulder, asked me what we were having for dinner that night.  But it wasn't what he asked me but how he asked me that caught me unprepared:

Hey Dad, do you know what's for dinner?

I was getting ready to tell him that Mom was fixing her wonderful spaghetti until time as I experienced it came to a screeching halt:

Dad.

Dad??  What was that?  DAD??

I mumbled the answer to his query but my mind was barely on topic.  It was hopelessly stuck in that moment 15 seconds prior and the noticeable change in nomenclature.

Dad.  Not Daddy, but Dad.

There come many moments in parenthood when you realize that your children are growing up.  When they first really smile at you as an infant and you know it's not the gas.  When they take their first step, say their first word (or something close to one).  When they walk through those school doors for the first time.  For the most part, though, you are semi-prepared for these shifts; so you learn to receive them with grace and thankfulness.

But no one told me about the day I wouldn't be "Daddy" anymore.

It's not like I thought I'd be one forever, of course.  Never pictured my high school graduate giving me a big hug and saying "Thanks Daddy."  Never envisioned his mother and I paying a visit to the family in their new house, our grandkids running around, and him saying "Welcome to our home, Daddy."  I knew the switch was inevitable - just not this soon.  Nowhere near this soon.

I mean, I've been "Daddy" ever since this little fella came into our lives six and a half years ago. Even before he could say a real word he was blabbering it's close derivative: Dada.  That's been my primary identity all these years - but apparently no longer.

And don't try to tell me the two are the same, cause they're not.  "Daddy" is the stuff of skinned knees from falling off the swingset, playing pretend rock band with a broom and pots and wooden spoons, and reading "Guess How Much I Love You" at bedtime.  "Dad" is something else entirely.  "Dad" is all about car keys and allowance and grown-up privileges.  Dad is how you're introduced to your child's significant other when they enter the picture.

Ugh.  When exactly did this happen?  What event precipitated this transformation?  I was chewing on this furiously as the car made its way home.  Maybe it came from school and being there with other kids, most of whom are a few years older than he - maybe he picked it up there?  Maybe from some TV show, perhaps?

And then it occurred to me that the truth of it all is that the kid is growing up.  He'll be seven in September - hard to believe.  We'd been to the dentist earlier that afternoon and he's got four loose teeth.  They were telling me not to freak out when the permanent ones come in and they look huge; adult teeth situated inside the head of a small but fast-growing boy.  He's playing t-ball and is signed up for the swim team.  He's talking about having sleepovers with his best buddy.  He's telling me what songs he wants on his ipod when he gets one (which is not anytime soon, I can assure you).  He's talking about Jesus and God being the same person and the difference is that Jesus "is kind of like a Transformer" - pretty astute theological thinking for a kindergartner, I thought.

My boy is growing up.  And I love it; I really do.  I love how our relationship changes and grows with age, and how we talk about different things now, more in-depth.  I love how we can have a real conversation about death and dying after watching Marley and Me; how he actually offers legitimate gift ideas for Mother's Day, how we can go from simply memorizing the names of the four dudes in U2 to which songs are off which albums and what instruments are played.  I'm not one of those parents who mourns every corner turned as their child moves forward on the path of life.  I'm a sentimental guy, but I'm also a realist; and I feel it's better to celebrate the changes rather than get all bent out of shape over them.

Still, there's something about suddenly being "Dad" that's just freaky.  Could he not have given me a heads-up, perhaps?  Hey, just wanted to let you know - from now on you'll be "Dad" and not "Daddy."  Would that have helped?  Probably not.

I guess there are worse things I could be called.  Never been a fan of "Pops," and "Old Man" is even worse.  There will probably be a time or two in the heat of the moment when I get called some unrepeatable name, so I better be thankful it's not that.

But still: Dad. Sheesh. The boy's growing up on me. They weren't kidding when they said not to blink.

The Mountains in my Heart

My grandfather gave his life for you
And if you go, what a way to depart
To spread your wings and forever stay
In the mountains in your heart

This lyric comes from the last verse of a song I wrote called Mountains In My Heart (you can watch a YouTube clip of Acoustic Blend playing it live here if you want). It scratches the surface of a family story that's been part of me for almost all my life; one I got to experience up close and personal for the first time this weekend.

Granddad (my father's father) was an avid hiker and instilled a love for the mountains in my Dad, who in turn passed it on to my brother and me.  In 1971, while hiking Mount LeConte near Gatlinburg TN with a group of friends, Granddad slipped off a rocky slope and fell hundreds of feet to his death.  Yeah, I know - it's kind of surreal in that I've always known this and have simply accepted it as part of our family's story.  I keep on forgetting how horrifying it is and am always surprised by the look on people's faces, which I imagine is similar to the look on your face as you were just reading it.

I was just three at the time and remember nothing about it, or him.  I only know the man through the stories and pictures my parents have shared with me over the years. The cool thing, though, is that our family has embraced this tragedy, to the point where hiking in general - and LeConte specifically - has become a celebration of his life and the love our family shares together.  It's just that I'd never actually hiked the trail like the rest of my family - bits and pieces as a kid; but never the whole thing to the very top. 

So for my Dad's 65th birthday (which was back in early April), my brother and I decided to forego the usual card and tie for a special present: a weekend hiking trip with his two sons to Mount LeConte.  Not only would this be a great way to engage my granddad's spirit in a way I never had before, but this would be the first time that the "Lindsley men" had ever done a trip together like this.   So here's the play-by-play of a weekend I'll remember for quite some time.

FRIDAY

I met my brother and father at Panera Bread in Winston-Salem around 10 in the morning to begin our trip together (they were coming from Raleigh).  We hit I-40 with our eyes set on Asheville, where my Mom and Dad are from.  It's also the home of three of my cousins, one of whom has recently opened Rocky's Hot Chicken Shack.  We timed it to be there right around lunchtime.  Perfect.

Rocky and I are both the same age but haven't seen each other this century.  My memories of Rocky are as a kid, when I would go to visit him and admire his drumset and assortment of KISS collectibles. Not sure if he still has the collectibles, but Rocky still plays drums in a band - so we share the musical bond.  It was great seeing Rocky and my other cousins Angie and Beth.  The chicken, by the way, was excellent.

From Asheville we took the road less traveled and chose the Blue Ridge Parkway over the interstate and highways.  This added a good hour to our trek to Gatlinburg but man - what scenery!  As if divinely ordained, the sun poked out for the next three hours and we were treated to some unbelievable scenes.  Along the way we took a trip down memory lane and listened to Fleetwood Mac's Rumours and the Doobie Brothers' Toulouse Street.  These albums were among the standard listening material on Lindsley family trips back when my brother and I were kids.  Suffice to say we weren't crazy about it at the time, but nowadays its different.  Sometimes appreciation does indeed come with age.

We got to our hotel room about 5:30 and went searching for a cool beverage before enjoying some broiled rainbow trout beside a mountain stream.  First day of our little excursion could not have gone any better.  The next day would be when the real work began.

SATURDAY

The backpack to the right was my granddad's when he fell off LeConte.  It was in shambles when they found it, but Dad had it repaired.  As he has on every hiking trip since, Dad wore it on our trek up the mountain.

We got an early start to the day by grabbing a big breakfast at a restaurant in Gatlinburg appropriately called Flapjacks - read "carbs!"  Something we would surely be needing.  We drove to the trail head and hit Alum Cave trail around 9:30.

If you don't know the specifics of Mount LeConte, here's the skinny: it's the fourth highest peak east of the Mississippi, some 6596 feet above sea level according to my Dad (who has a knack for remembering these things). There are a number of trails that lead to the summit, but the one we took - Alum Cave - is a little over five miles long.  It's also the one where Granddad fell, so for the Lindsley family it's the only real LeConte trail.

The first mile or so was a pretty easy hike and the weather cooperated wonderfully.  That all changed, though, when the expected rains finally came. It wasn't a downpour, but it was steady and made hiking somewhat difficult - not only with wet clothes, but with trails that soon turned into little flowing creek beds.  We thought a couple of times about turning around, but nevertheless pressed on. I'm glad we did.

Not too far from the top - maybe a half-mile away or so - we came to the spot where, as best Dad can figure, Granddad fell 38 years ago.  It's tough to know for sure because landscape around the trail changes over the years - trees come and go, underbrush grows, etc.  The place where he fell was, at the time, a slick rock slope that went straight down.  That being said, Dad was pretty certain the spot pictured to the left is where it happened.

Photos, as we know, rarely do justice to what's actually there.  That was certainly the case with this scene. It's probably hard to tell, but the drop-off here was frighteningly steep (you can see a little better in the picture below, where my Dad is standing beside it - see how it falls off suddenly?)  Add to that the fact that it once was a slick rock face and an icy January, and you can see why my Granddad didn't survive the fall. 

The three of us stood there for a few minutes or so, got some pictures, talked a bit.  My brother and Dad had hiked this trail before and seen this spot, but for me it was the first time that I had actually been able to put a scene with a story I had heard all my life.  It kind of brought about a sense of closure for me; a good kind of closure. I felt his spirit; I had the song in my head the whole time.

The next few hundred yards were the toughest of the trek - steep inclines, driving rain, and wind gusts that we figured were in the 30-35 mph range.  Nevertheless, we reached the peak around 1pm and headed straight to the rustic LeConte Lodge to dive into our lunches (trust me, a turkey and swiss sandwich never tastes better than after hiking five miles in the rain).  I even caught a nifty little video of the occasion with my new camera:

After drying off and resting our legs, we began our trek back down around 2. Two thing about going down the mountain after you've made the hike up: first, it's harder on your legs than you think it'll be (especially on the knees).  Second, it takes much longer than you feel it should.  Going down is easy, right?  Not really.  Going down the mountain did treat us to some beautiful scenery, as the rain came to an end for the most part and the sky opened up a bit.  Granted, it would've been unbelievable on a clear blue-sky kinda day (like the previous weekend!), but even so it was still pretty awesome.  Case in point:

 

See what I mean?  And that's in the rain, folks.

We got to our car right at 5pm, changed shoes and some clothes, and drove the two hours to Asheville to spend the night.  Showered and had Mexican and a few cold beverages before crashing.

SUNDAY

Surprisingly, I woke up the next morning not at all sore.  Small blessings.  We found a great little place to have brunch in downtown Asheville called the GreenSage Coffeehouse & Cafe.  Not only was the food and coffee amazing, but everything was fair trade/organic; and they even had a self-busing system that allowed you to recycle/compost your scraps.  A model for other restaurants to follow, I'd say.

After brunch Dad took us on a trip down memory lane and drove us all around town, showing us the house he grew up in, his grade school, the drugstore where he used to work.  He went on and on with it and was having a ball.  I can't imagine how much of a treat this must've been for him to take his two grown sons on such a nostalgic journey, pointing out every memory he could muster.  My brother and I had no connection to these places, of course; but our father did and that's what made it special for us. After that we visited with one of my brother's friends for about an hour and then headed east to home.

****************

In short, this trip was everything I had hoped it would be.  It was an incredible occasion to spend some much-needed and much-appreciated time with my brother and father; to reconnect with them on a very fundamental level.  Whether we were talking music, reminiscing on Dad's memories of Asheville, or struggling to make it in the cold rain up the side of a mountain, every moment I spent with these guys was time well spent.

The trip also enabled me to revisit the life of my Granddad and to feel his presence in a way I had never felt before.  Like I said, the guy died when I was three.  I have no memories of my own of him, and I hate that.  But if hiking this trail and mountain he loved - and seeing the spot where he died doing what he enjoyed the most - is all I can have, I'll gladly take it.  And I seriously doubt this will be the last time LeConte and I get to hang out together.  You can bet your Alum Cave on that.

 

The Ties That Bind (and keep coming back)

My family and I got to experience something neat this past weekend.  I was asked to officiate the wedding of a young lady from my previous church.  She's 24 now, but I've known her and her family since she was twelve years old.  During my six years there I got to know her, her twin brother, older sister, and Mom and Dad pretty well.  Theirs was the kind of family we clergy-types really appreciate - great church members who are able to see you not just as a pastor, but as a human being too.  I shared many a fine dinner with these folks, exchanged Christmas presents (underneath the Christmas tree with the crazy-blinking lights - another story).  The door to their home was always open for me.  And when my girlfriend and I started getting serious, I was almost as nervous introducing her to this family as I was to my own.  They approved, by the way, and I wound up marrying her.  She thinks the world of them too.

It was a beautiful outdoor wedding - sunny blue skies, temperatures in the high 60's.  It was at a bed & breakfast sort of place off the beaten path, south of Greensboro - a cool farm house in the distance where the couple took their first pictures as husband and wife.  The bride wore her mother's wedding gown; there was a harp playing music.  By all accounts it would've been a wonderful wedding anyway.  But what made it all the more special was the connection I had with the bride and her family, forged through years of a friendship that began when she and her twin brother were in sixth grade.

I find that I'm encountering more and more of these trips down nostalgia lane.  And typically they revolve around one of two areas in my life: church and competitive swimming.  Last fall I officiated the wedding of another girl from this church, also Class of '03.  Next month I'll do the honors for a young lady who is not only a member of my current church, but who swam on the year-round swim team I coached waaaaay back in the early 90's.  The wildest connection of them all, though, occurred this past weekend as I was talking casually with the girlfriend of the bride's twin brother.  She made the comment that her father was also a Presbyterian minister and mentioned his name - I recognized it.  I told her that it sounded an awful lot like a guy who used to bring his two daughters to my swim team practices, back when I was doing that thing full-time, right before seminary.  Her eyes grew big - she was one of his daughters.  She's now 24 and in grad school.  She was six at the time. 

Stating the obvious, this sort of thing does make you feel old, as if I needed any help with that.  Marrying former swimmers and middle school youth is a blast, but it does remind you, in a rather unforgiving way, of all the years that have transpired since.  At the same time, it also makes me very thankful for all the people I've had the pleasure of getting to know, and how they can pop back into my life in the strangest of ways.  And it doesn't have to be about the same geographic region, either.  Those of you affiliated with the Presbyterian Church (USA) know how we "Presbies" keep bumping into each other; whether it's at a conference, presbytery meeting, summer camp, wherever.  Back in 1990 I spent four month in Hiroshima, Japan, teaching English and leading Bible studies with a missionary group.  On Sunday evenings I attended an English-speaking church in town - it was more like a fellowship group than an actual church.  It was comprised of a lot of "transplants" - non-Japanese folks who found themselves in a strange and foreign land and sought camraderie with those who spoke the same tongue (amazing the bond you can feel with people just because they speak English).

There was an English teacher from Boston, a family from Detroit whose husband worked for Ford, a nun from Iowa.  There was an exchange student from somewhere in England and a middle-aged man who was recently divorced and simply wanted to start anew in another country.  There was another lady in that group, an African-American woman about my age.  From the moment we met both of us had this sensation that we knew each other, but couldn't figure out from where.  It took almost the full four months, but eventually we figured it out - roughly fifteen years prior, we had been in the same small group at a Montreat Youth Conference.  Out of 1600 high school kids, we'd been in the same group of 25, gathered in the back room of Anderson Auditorium.  And now here we were, together once again, in this tiny fellowship hall along with a dozen other random folks, on the other side of the world.

It's kind of fun, actually - seeing the crazy ways that life brings folks back together every now and then.  It never ceases to amaze me, and I'll keep hoping it never does.  Even if it makes me feel very, very old.