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.

"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...

We walk because they walk!

It was a cold, soggy, raw kind of day that greeted the third annual CROP Hunger Walk of Mount Airy yesterday.  Not the kind of weather we were hoping for, but you take what you get, right?  If anything it made the CROP motto (also this blog's title) all the more meaningful.  Every day millions of people around the world - in our little community, in this country and in places far away - have to walk miles just to get a little food or some clean drinking water.  And they do this no matter what the elements are.  So surely we could suck it up for a hour or so.

We had our first walk back in the spring of 2007, along with the help of two other fellow clergy, Roger Gilbert of First Baptist and Wayne Hager of Calvary Baptist.  In so doing we joined thousands of communities across the country who host these annual events.  Just in case you don't know, CROP Hunger Walks are joint ventures between local communities and an organization called Church World Service.  The noble and attainable goal of these walks is to eliminate extreme hunger and poverty in the world.  And, as has been noted before on this blog, we now have the technology and the resources to actually do it.

In a CROP Hunger Walk (which, incidentally, stands for "Communities Responding to Overcome Poverty), a portion of the money stays local, going to whatever agency the local planning team designates; while the rest goes to national and international relief agencies.  This is one of the reasons I'm so fond of these walks - they address the problem with a "both-and" approach, the only real way to achieve meaningful results. This is sometimes hard for people to understand, but it's true.  It does no good if we keep all of our money locally, as there are innumerable communities all around the world who have no means to host their own walks and support themselves.  Likewise, if we direct 100% of our efforts overseas, we are turning a blind eye to the needs right in front of us.  CROP Hunger Walks are a very practical way of doing both.

Folks started gathering at Veteran's Park around 2pm Sunday afternoon, trying to keep warm while listening to the sounds of the Youth Moravian Church Praise Band. At around 3:30, emcee Kelly Epperson of WPAQ radio sent us on our way!  The 3.2 mile walk took us down the Emily Taylor Greenway and then back through town to finish at the park.  Most folks finished the walk in just over an hour, unless your name was "Lindsley," in which case you were bringing up the rear.  Here are some pics for you:

 

  In previous years we had CROP Hunger Walk t-shirts for everyone, paid for by local business sponsors.  With the economy being the way  it is we decided to go without the fancy t-shirts and instead got the kids to make their own walk shirts with plain white tees and fabric markers.  It was such a hit that I imagine we'll do it again in future years, even if we bring the traditional walk shirt back.

One of the things we've tried to do with this walk is make it not just a fundraising experience, but an educational one.  So along the walk we posted signs that had some pretty sobering statistics about hunger and poverty in our world.  Here's a smattering of 'em:

 

This one gets me every time.  The sign reads, "A child dies of hunger-related causes every six seconds."  The man standing beside it is holding a bell that he chimes - you guessed it - every six seconds.  So you're walking along and you hear this ringing and you're wondering what it is.  Then you see this sign, and you know.  And as you walk up the hill and hang a left on Pine St. you still hear it ringing, and you remember long after the ringing stops.

Our walker numbers and dollar totals were down from previous years, but we're figuring the weather had something to do with that.  Any way you cut it, though, less people will go hungry because of our efforts.

I wish I were more regularly cognizant of the hungry in our world.  I just scarfed down a delicious lunch at 308 Bistro as I was typing this and hardly paid attention as the food made its way from the plate to my stomach.  Often on those nights our family sits down for a meal together, the obligatory family blessing is treated more like an obstacle to be hurried through quickly rather than a true pause of reflection and thanks.  For me hunger is nothing more than that nagging feeling I get in the middle of the afternoon at work when lunch is just a few hours in the past - and even then, all I have to do is reach in the drawer desk to grab a handful of almonds.  Like many people I've done a pretty good job of hiding in my ignorance and shielding myself from what's really there.

That's why these walks are a good way of reminding me of two things: one, that I need to be a whole lot more grateful for the food on my plate every day; and two, that I need to do a much better job of seeing that people all around the world get more on theirs. 

When tragedy strikes close to home

(picture taken from http://www.wxii.com)

Churches are often viewed as sanctuaries in the truest sense of the word; a place where one can momentarily leave behind the world's problems. Sometimes this is true, but other times we come face-to-face with the realization that our houses of worship, like our very lives, can never be totally distanced from tragedy.

A sad thing happened just down the block from our church this past week.  Tuesday afternoon around 4pm, a middle-school aged girl was accidentally shot by another family member.  The shooting took place five houses down the street from our church.  In the picture above you can see the road blocked off with yellow police tape and an officer in black.  Our church is the granite building in the foreground on the right.  To my knowledge the girl is still in the hospital in critical condition.  The alleged shooter was taken into custody.  Our prayers are with both of them.

I was not at the church when it happened but got a text about it from our secretary.  When I got back about 15 minutes later I found the scene relatively calm with a lot of stunned onlookers.  Many of them I know personally.  Our church organist lives in a house two down the road on the right.  He was in the middle of a voice lesson with another church member when the alleged shooter banged on his door, screaming for help.  Two houses further down, almost directly across the street from where it happened, our local Young Life leader and his 8-month pregnant wife were also greeted by bangs on the door and cries for help. 

Our town is a small one, barely 10,000 people.  We have one middle school and one high school.  So even those who don't know the girl personally (like myself) certainly know someone who does.  There are a few youth in our church who know her, although they don't necessarily "hang out" with her.  Still, they are understandably in shock.  It's quite a jolt to the system when one day you see her sitting a few seats in front of you on the bus, and the next day you don't, and you know why.

Sadly, things like this are a part of life.  Violence, poverty, injustices exist.  It's just that for many of us we are somewhat removed from them; separated by proximity or economic strata.  We see it on the news, read about it in the papers.  Our ministers preach about it from the pulpits and our politicians discuss it in their agendas.  But there is always a "distance" implied; a sense of separation between where we are and where "it" is.  For the most part we are removed from it and hardly give it a second thought.  And then it happens just a few houses down the street from us, and we can't let it go.  It stays with us.

This tragedy down the street from the church has left me thinking about many things.  It's reminded me that the church is not a place to escape from the world's troubles, but a place to engage them and enter into them; into the transforming presence of God that can bring about true healing and wholeness in a broken world.  We in the church tend to forget the practical implication of that message and focus more on the "upkeep of the institution."  We too easily forget that Jesus himself didn't stay holed up in a fancy building somewhere.  He went out in the world and confronted life's tragedies head-on.  We should do the same; and our church is currently talking with some people to try and find out what, if anything, we can do for this family.

It has also reminded me that we shouldn't need something like this to happen in order to mourn, to feel, to become sad or angry or hope for something better.  We fall into this trap all too often, living our lives apart from the lives of others.  It's so easy when we sit down at our kitchen tables for a meal, with a full spread in front of us, to forget that there are hundreds of thousands who won't have anything to eat for days; and that every six seconds in this world a child dies of hunger-related causes.  Closer to home it's easy to forget that, just playing the odds out, at least one of the kids sitting next to my son in his first-grade class - and probably both - start every day off on an empty stomach; the last decent meal being the school free lunch they had the day before.

It's so easy when I face that instant decision - throw the plastic bottle I have in my hand in the trash can in front of me or keep it with me to put in the recycling bin at work or at home - to forget that at that very moment there is a trash pile floating somewhere in the Pacific Ocean that is twice the size of Texas (the state, not the restaurant chain).  It's true - read about it here and here.  We don't realize it's there because it's not right down the street from us.  It's somewhere that is not "here" - so it is out of our sight and out of mind.  Even the term it's been unofficially christened with - the "Great Pacific Garbage Patch" - seems to minimize its size and impact.  A "patch??"  Perhaps the word "continent" would be more suitable.

The internet, of course, has been a godsend in helping make our big world a little smaller and changing the extent to which we understand who our neighbor is.  Of course, our neighbor can still be the old-fashioned variety, such as the people down the street from the church who I never knew about until this past week.  Even then, though, it's easy to forget that close to 1000 people in our country annually suffer the same fate as that 12-year old girl (and that number is more than likely a lot higher)

That is, until it happens a hundred yards from the front door of the church where you worship, work and serve every day.  And then it's not so easy to forget.  And you know what?  That's probably a good thing.

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:

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

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

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

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.

What makes a town "Mayberry?" (guest blog)

One of the things I love about social media is how you can so easily connect with neat people.  Scott Dickson, the writer of this guest blog, is one of those folks.  His bio is at the end so I won't repeat.  But suffice to say our initial meeting at the Good Life Cafe for a cup of jo and conversation a few weeks ago won't be our last.  Enjoy his thoughts and check out his links.  Thanks Scott!

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

Does the name “Arlos Smith” mean anything to you? It didn’t mean anything to me either until I went searching for the person who wrote the song “I Miss Mayberry” for the country music band, Rascal Flatts. Smith eloquently penned the tune that speaks to everyone who loves The Andy Griffith Show and what Mayberry conveys.  Mayberry is much more than a fictional small town in North Carolina. It’s a state of mind and its core belief is the fact that the strain from a fast-paced life is something that only happens in a big city like Raleigh or Charlotte.

Small town living means picnics, church softball games, walks in the park, high school football, Christmas parades, walking to the local coffee shop, doing business downtown and shopping local. In Mayberry you could walk to the bank, the barber shop, the diner, the hotel, the town hall, the drugstore, the sheriff’s office and the grocery store…and each proprietor knew your name and made sure you had a good experience.

The small town way of life is a growing culture and families are gravitating to these communities because of their slow-paced, close-knit lifestyles and the importance of personally knowing their neighbors, their postmaster, the owner of their favorite restaurant and even their elected officials. In small towns across North Carolina, residents are dedicated to their “Mayberry” by keeping their towns clean, visually appealing and friendly. They also ban together to create historical preservation societies and economic development commissions that promote building restorations and local business ownership. Within the actual downtown districts you’ll be hard-pressed to find a national chain, such as a Starbucks or an Olive Garden. 

These days I am hearing more and more that people want a simpler lifestyle. They want to feel safe with letting their kids play in the front yard. They want a front porch with a chair swing and some rocking chairs. They like the fact that they can walk down Main Street and get stopped 12 times by friends and people they care about. My goal has always been to educate Mayberry-seekers on the charm and benevolence these towns have to offer…and the fact that there’s probably one of them fairly close to where they currently live.

These are just a few things that make a town a Mayberry, sitting on the front porch, drinking ice-cold cherry Coke…where everything is black and white. Picking on a six-string, where people pass by and you call them by their first name…watching the clouds roll by.

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Scott Dickson lives in Pfafftown, NC. He is the author of “In Search of Mayberry” and consults with local civic and government organizations regarding historical preservation, tourism and economic development. He is also an internet consultant and creator of Mayberry Town Hall, a social network for Andy Griffith Show fans and Tarheel Trains, a blog about trains in NC. Scott plays the drums in the praise band at Old Town Baptist Church in Winston-Salem, NC and enjoys college sports, trains, reading and spending time with his wife and two children.

To learn more about “In Search of Mayberry”, visit www.insearchofmayberry.com.
Follow “In Search of Mayberry” on Twitter at www.twitter.com/mayberrync.
Join Mayberry Town Hall by visiting www.mayberrytownhall.com.
Tarheel Trains – www.tarheeltrains.com

Inspiration....

This week I've spent my days at a church member's mountain cabin doing some sermon prep.  I started doing my "sermon retreat" three or four years ago - twice a year I pack up the car with a bunch of books and such and make myself at home in some "other" place for a week.  I do a lot of reading, studying, thinking, and outlining six months worth of sermons (scripture, title and some general reflections for later).  That way I'm a step ahead of the game when Monday rolls around and I've got just a few days before I step into the pulpit again. 

The place I worked out of this week is one of my favorites.  It's a 20-minute trip from my driveway, straight up the mountains right off the Blue Ridge Parkway just over the Virginia border. The close proximity allows me to go home every evening and faithfully fulfill my fatherly/husband duties. 

It's also got quite a view, which I must say comes in handy.  Say I'm sitting on the porch, doing my sermon planning thing, and suddenly get stumped - no ideas!  No need to panic.  All I do is back away from the laptop, close my eyes for a few seconds and then open them to see this:

So far, the sermonic well has yet to run dry.

What you're looking at, by the way, is a panoramic view of Surry County, NC.  Pilot Mountain is visible (you can see it better in the pic below), and my town of Mount Airy is in view as well (although harder to pick out).  Pictures, as well all know, rarely do the real thing justice - although this comes pretty darn close.

Here's another one:

(You can click on either of these for larger views, by the way.  I'd highly recommend this).

The organizational nut in me loves to come away from these weeks with six months worth of sermon outlines.  But I'd be lying if I didn't say that views like this were part of the lure as well.

Gotta go folks - time for more sermonic inspiration  ;-)

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.

MLK, White Flour, and Hope

This past Saturday evening I was honored to be asked to participate in a special program honoring Martin Luther King Jr. at the Mount Airy Museum of Regional History.  As part of the service I sang one of my favorite songs about hopeful faith that is still searching for completion: U2's I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For.  I've worked up a nifty little acoustic version over the years (and dropped the key considerably, as Bono hits notes I cannot). 

I also read a poem that was penned by a friend of mine, David Lamotte, who recently hung up his guitar after some eighteen years of singing/songwriting and is now working with an organization he founded called PEG.  The poem is David's take on a true story about a KKK rally in May 2007 in Knoxville and a group of folks who came together to do something truly unique and beautiful in response, in a way Dr. King would've certainly been proud of.

So with David's permission I am posting his poem here for you.  Believe me when I say that you will want to take the time to read it. I also incorporated it into my sermon yesterday, a somewhat different take on the "turn the other cheek" passage in the gospel of Matthew.  As much as a pastor can and should "feel good" about a sermon, I do about this one.  You can check it out here.

On this day of remembrance and celebration - and on the eve of our country's inauguration of its first African-American president - let us strive for the equality of all people and do everything we can to further the way of nonviolence!

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

WHITE FLOUR
By David Lamotte

The day was bright and sunny as most May days tend to be
In the hills of Appalachia down in Knoxville, Tennessee
The men put on their uniforms and quickly took their places
In white robes and those tall and pointed hoods that hid their faces
Their feet all fell in rhythm as they started their parade
They raised their fists into the air, they bellowed and they brayed
They loved to stir the people up, they loved when they were taunted
They didn’t mind the anger, that’s precisely what they wanted

As they came around the corner, sure enough, the people roared
They couldn’t quite believe their ears, it seemed to be – support?
Had Knoxville finally seen the light, were people coming ‘round?
The men thought for a moment that they’d found their kind of town
But then they turned their eyes to where the cheering had its source
As one their faces soured as they saw the mighty force
The crowd had painted faces, and some had tacky clothes
Their hair and hats outrageous, each had a red foam nose

The clowns had come in numbers to enjoy the grand parade
They danced and laughed that other clowns had come to town that day
And then the marchers shouted, and the clowns all strained to hear
Each one tuned in intently with a gloved hand to an ear
“White power!” screamed the marchers, and they raised their fisted hands
The clowns leaned in and listened like they couldn’t understand
Then one held up his finger and helped all the others see
The point of all this yelling, and they joined right in with glee

“White flour!” they all shouted and they felt inside their clothes
They pulled out bags and tore them and huge clouds of powder rose
They poured it on each other and they threw it in the air
It got all over baggy clothes and multi-colored hair
All but just a few of them were joining in the jokes
You could almost see the marchers turning red beneath white cloaks
They wanted to look scary, they wanted to look tough
One rushed right at the clowns in rage, and was hauled away in cuffs

But the others chanted louder marching on around the bend
The clowns all marched along with them supporting their new friends
“White power!” came the marchers’ cry — they were not amused
The clowns grew still and thoughtful; perhaps they’d been confused?
They huddled and consulted, this bright and silly crowd
They listened quite intently, then one said “I’ve got it now!”
“White flowers!” screamed the happy clown and all the rest joined in
The air was filled with flowers, and they laughed and danced again

“Everyone loves flowers! And white’s a pretty sort!
I can’t think of a better cause for marchers to support!”
Green flower stems went flying like small arrows from bad archers
White petals covered everything, including the mad marchers
And then a very tall clown called the others to attention
He choked down all his chuckles, and said “Friends I have to mention
That what with all the mirth and fun it’s sort of hard to hear
But now I know the cause that these strange marchers hold so dear

“Tight showers!” the clown blurted out, and hit his head in wonder
He held up a camp shower and the others all got under
Or at least they tried to get beneath, they strained but couldn’t quite
There wasn’t room for all of them, they pushed, but it was tight
“White Power!” came their marchers’ cry, quite carefully pronounced
The clowns consulted once again, then a woman clown announced
“I’ve got it! I’m embarrassed that it took so long to see
But what these marchers march for is a cause quite dear to me!”

“Wife power!” she exclaimed and all the other clowns joined in
They shook their heads and laughed at how mistaken they had been
The women clowns were hoisted up on shoulders of the others
Some pulled on wedding dresses, “Here’s to wives and mothers!”
The men in robes were angry and they knew they’d been defeated
They yelled a few more times and then they finally retreated
And when they’d gone a black policeman turned to all the clowns
And offered them an escort to the center of the town

The day was bright and sunny as most May days tend to be
In the hills of Appalachia down in Knoxville, Tennessee
People joined the new parade, the crowd stretched out for miles
The clowns passed out more flowers and made everybody smile
And what would be the lesson of that shiny southern day?
Can we understand the message that the clowns sought to convey?
Seems that when you’re fighting hatred, hatred’s not the thing to use
So here’s to those who march on in their massive, silly shoes.

(based on true events of May 26, 2007 - ©2007 David LaMotte)
http://lowerdryad.wordpress.com/white-flour-poem/

"The Art of Assisting Discovery"

The title comes from a quote I recently came upon by poet Mark van Doren.  The full quote says: The art of teaching is the art of assisting discovery.  I dig this because it's wonderful to see someone's face light up when they finally "get it" - whatever "it" is. 

For the past three years, I've enjoyed experiencing this sort of thing on a weekly basis with some college classes I teach.  We started a new semester last week and I was trying to remember exactly how I got into it in the first place.  I think it was part financial - helping to pay the bills, you know.  But I also think it was satisfying something deeper in me; a desire to assist in the art of discovery, if you will.

Back in 2005 I taught my first religion course at Surry Community College.  Old Testament, to be exact.  The campus itself is in Dobson, NC, the Surry county seat.  My class, however, took place at a satellite building here in Mount Airy.  The neat thing about this program is that it's geared toward high school students in the area - drawing mainly from three surrounding city and county schools.  It's a way for juniors and seniors to use a free high school class period to get some college credit and experience (it doesn't hurt that it's tuition-free either).  I had eight students that first semester and they were my guinea pigs.  Never having taught anything more than a five-part Bible study at church, it was quite a task to take on.  We learned together.

I almost didn't have a class when fall came, as only five students signed up.  But the college graciously let me go ahead with it anyway.  By that time, word was starting to get out about the classes there, including Psychology, English, and World History.  Now my classes are routinely in the 20-25 range; sometimes as many as 36 students.

I've gotten into a nice rhythm in recent years - Old Testament in the fall; New Testament in the spring.  I really enjoy my time with the students.  Most of them are heading to four-year colleges, so they're very conscientious about their grades.  They're hard workers and I don't have to worry about motivating them.  There are a few challenging situations here and there, but for the most part they're a blast (and anyone who puts themselves through listening to me chat it up for two solid hours a week deserves some kind of props).

I've found that I really enjoy teaching the testaments in an academic environment.  It surprises some people who might expect me to be more preachy because of what I do for my "real job."  But I make it very clear from day one that my class is not a Bible study, devotional or Sunday school class.  It's an academic look at the scriptures of the Old or New Testament.  Most students are cool with this, but there are a few who really struggle seeing the scriptures in any way other than a faith perspective.  These are usually the folks who get hung up on things like the earliest gospel being written 30+ years after Jesus' death, or that Jesus probably wasn't born on the exact date of December 25th.  Makes for some spirited discussions!

I'm grateful to the church for supporting me in this.  I know some churches get kind of possessive about their pastor's time and discourage them from doing much of anything else.  But these folks are not that way in the least.  And I imagine it helps that the class is only two days a week from 8-9am - so I'm in the church office no later than 9:30.

There will probably come a time - much like with the swim coaching I used to do - that I'll be ready to hang up the hat and move on to something else.  Life often comes in waves like that, and I try to be cognizant of when the wave is rolling up on shore.  But for the time being, I'm having too much fun with "the art of assisting discovery."  My hope is that my students each semester can say the same.