Thoughts and Musings on Faith, Music, Family, Life

Twenty-five years later...

Just in case you're wondering, there were more in our graduating class.  Lots more; some 350 or so.  We also had more at the reunion itself - around 75, I think - but the crowd started thinning out about fifteen minutes before the cameraman did his thing. Timing is everything.

High school reunions may very well be the grandest of social experiments.  You take a group of people who used to spend six hours a day in the same building for four years, separate them for five, ten, twenty, 25 years, and then throw 'em back together with nametags, food and beverage, and a DJ and see what happens.  I'm surprised there isn't a category in the clinical psychology world for this quinquennial phenomenon.

Twenty-five years after flipping the tassle, and this was my first high school reunion.  I don't remember hearing about the 5th or 10th.  I missed the 20th because I had a gig - although, to be honest, it's very easy to make up excuses.  When you haven't seen folks for years and in the meantime have made a whole other life for yourself - with a wife and kids and a job and a new circle of people around you - part of you wonders what point high school reunions serve.  Other than giving you a chance to see who's changed the most, who's changed the least, and if that guy or gal you thought was so good-looking back in the day still is.

I decided to take the plunge just last week, when the planets aligned in a way they rarely do and the road to Raleigh was paved before me.  I walked into the room at the hotel to the thump-thump of the DJ spinning some 80's dance tune and a room full of grown adults.  And while there were a few name tags I had to look at, I was amazed at how many of them jumped back into my consciousness after a 25-year slumber: Becky. Brant. Chris. Ashley. Lee. Lisa. Stuart. Beth. Michael. Monica. Greg. Judson. Maybe my long-term memory isn't shot quite yet.

I was a show choir geek in high school, so I mostly ran with the music crowd.  To a degree the reunion reflected that; people sort of naturally falling back into their old patterns.  And yet it was kind of neat how we all were genuinely glad to see and catch up with everyone, 80's cliques notwithstanding.  In our conversations we covered the usual topics in recapping the last quarter of a century: spouses, kids, jobs, new hometowns.  Most of the stories shared were good ones, but a few reflected other fortunes: the classmate recently divorced from her husband; the guy who just lost his job and doesn't know what he'll do next.  As much as reunions are about our past, they're also about our present too.  People at all different locations on the journey, brought together in the same room for one night.

At one point I found myself in a spot where I could see everyone in front of me - everyone talking to someone, laughing and smiling, hugging and shaking hands.  I couldn't hear anything they were saying over the thump thump, but I didn't really need to.  This was a visual experience, not an audible one.  For nearly two minutes I just stood there and smiled to myself, soaking in the joy of that room.

And it reminded me of something one of my English teachers said 25 years before.  I don't have a lot of memories of her, other than her room was right above the auditorium and she constantly complained about the 6th period girls chorus below that drowned out her lectures.  But her bright and shining moment came one day in a discussion about the character interplay in Tennessee Williams’ The Glass Menagerie. Quite surprisingly she offered this tidbit of wisdom: "Every person you come into contact with in your life, no matter how short or how long you know them, every person becomes a part of who you are."

I've carried that thought with me every day in the 25 years since.  It even found its way into one of the songs on my last album.  And as I stood there this past Saturday night at my high school reunion, among some people I'd kept in touch with over the years (thank you, Facebook) and others I hadn't seen since we were handed diplomas, I realized that my complaining English teacher was exactly right.  Those people in that room were a part of me, all of them. Always. And I'm the person I am today, in part, because of them. 

And maybe that's ultimately why we go to reunions.  We go not only to reconnect with other people, but in a deeper sense we go to reconnect with ourselves.

If that's the case, then mission accomplished on both counts.

From "making it big" to even bigger

You may have read in a previous post where I announced I had dropped my Rolling Stone subscription.  It was kind of funny when I got an issue in the mail today, but they told me I may get one or two more before they stopped altogether (and because I know you're wondering, the cover was fine, as long as you're okay with the caption "A$$-kicking Babes" on display for your almost eight-year old to see.  Nice.)

Still, I'm glad I got this one.  Thumbing through I came across one of those Where Are They Now deals that gleefully highlight some of the odd twists and turns our stars' lives take after their fifteen minutes of fame.  One of the dudes from boy band 98 Degrees is a leftist blogger in Cincinnati.  The former guitarist for Korn is a born-again Christian writing Bible studies.  R&B artist Sisqo is now a TV reality star (okay, so that probably doesn't qualify as a shocker).

My favorite, though, was John Hampson.  You know that name, don't you?  Okay, I didn't either.  But I knew the name of the early 2000's pop band he played rhythm guitar and sang lead vocals for.  They were called Nine Days.  That ring a bell?  No?  Okay, how about their big radio hit "Absolutely (Story of a Girl)."  Surely you remember that - catchy chorus, great driving pop tune par excellence.  If you still need a refresher check it out here.  You'll remember it, I promise.

Now I don't consider myself a big pop music fan.  But I do appreciate a well-written song, even a pop one. And this Nine Days song, in my humble opinion, was exactly that.  In fact, the entire album, The Madding Crowd, was great, from beginning to end.  Nice songwriting, enough of a common thread to provide cohesiveness but mixing it up enough so it didn't all sound the same.  It was a solid piece of work that signaled a band on the rise.  Alas, what happened afterwards was a classic tale of "everything-that-could-go-wrong" - poor management, a follow-up album that the label spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on and never released.  Nine Days kind of faded into pop-star oblivion.

But not their lead singer.  He went on to bigger and better things, impacting lives at the most profound level.  As the lead singer of an even bigger band, you ask?  No.  As a high school English teacher.

That's right.  John Hampson is following up his big days in the music biz with the classroom.  How's that for a switch-up?  Back in the day he rode the tour bus; now he's got homeroom.  Back in the day he was wailing on the six-string and singing at the top of his lungs; now he's helping students parse sentences and pass vocabulary tests.  Back in the day he spent time in the studio bringing songs to life. Now he's delving into the nuances of Shakespeare.

The thing, though, is that for Hampson "the day" is not "back."  The day is now.  The man loves where he is - and although he admits to digging the monthly royalty checks, he is not at all looking back.  As quoted in RS: "My life is more fulfilling right now."

I must admit, I never really thought about the previous lives of any of my high school teachers.  As far as I was concerned they had always been there, roaming the halls and occupying their classrooms and trudging through their lesson plans year after year.  And yet here is this guy, who once was a bonafide pop star, now wearing a tie, khakis and loafers; spending his days with a couple dozen 16-18 year olds, assigning homework and monitoring the halls.  And he wouldn't want to be anywhere else.

And man, does this makes me smile.  Our society places its pop culture icons on the highest pedastal and relegates its educators to ground level.  We gladly shell out hundreds of dollars to see our favorite band or watch our beloved football team in action.  At the same time we merely shrug with indifference when our teachers go yet another year without a well-deserved pay raise.  For many people, the reverse - going from high school English teacher to lead singer in a solid pop band - would seem to be the proper dream-come-true scenario.

But not for John.  And while he could certainly show us how to craft a strong pop hook or highlight the literary nuances of a William Faulkner novel, perhaps the course John has chosen for his life would be the most important lesson to teach his students. And the rest of us.

First day, all over again

Things got going a little earlier at the Lindsley house this morning.  Our oldest son came bouncing into our bathroom as I was shaving. He was completely dressed – not uncommon for him, except for the collar shirt he was wearing.  See, it was his first day back at school and he wanted to make a good impression.

We slid into our school morning routines as if we had never left them back in early June.  Breakfast for the boys, feed the cats, give the cat his insulin shot (yes, we have a diabetic cat).  Lunches and book bags were packed.  Teeth were brushed.  Younger brother was heading to Kindergarten this year but wouldn't start for another day – they stagger the little ones. He would have one more day with Mom to himself.  I'm pretty sure this means as much to Mom as it does to him.

We parked the minvan along the road and walked around the corner to the school we've grown to love. You could feel the excitement and energy emanating from the place before you even got there.  Mrs. Johnson was greeting folks at the front door; she was our oldest son's teacher assistant last year.  They couldn't have picked a better, more welcoming person to be in that place on this day.  As with so much about our school, they got it right.  We waved and said hi to teachers, parents, kids all about the place.  Everyone wore smiles.

We got to his classroom – we'd already been there a few days earlier for Open House, so it was familiar.  And yet it was different, too.  Students were already at their desks quietly writing in their notebooks.  Without a hint of hesitation he walked right in, sat down.  We lingered, for just a minute, and then suddenly we knew we shouldn't be there anymore.  This was his time, not ours. We waved and said goodbye.

As we turned the hallway corner I was suddenly hit with a thought that surprised me by how much it surprised me: we were parents of a second grader at a K-2 school.  We were now parents of one of the “old kids;” a primary school “senior.”  Those second graders had always seemed so grown-up, so much older than mine. And yet here he was, one of them.  How did this happen so fast?

Walking back up the hallway – more teachers, more parents and kids.  More smiles.  It had been months, and yet it seemed so familiar.  Because it was.  The school that we love; the people there we love even more.  It was the first day of school, and everything felt right.  Everything was going to be fine.

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.

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

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.

The Real "Glee"

So I watched Glee for the first time the other night.  Afterwards I was informed by people who'd know that it wasn't the best episode and probably not a good one to start with. I imagine they're right.  But still - and with all apologies to my "Gleek" friends out there - I'm just not feeling it.  That's okay, though, because you thought I was nuts for getting into Battlestar Galactica, didn't you?  So we're even.

I imagine that a big part of my ambivalence has to do with the fact that I was actually in our school's Glee club.  And in the same way that football players couldn't get into Friday Night Lights or I never found much reason to read the At Home in Mitford series (about a small-town pastor), it's hard to get excited about a fictional situation that bears a striking resemblance to your real life.  You're already "living it," you see, so what's the point?

We actually called ours a "show choir," which I think sounds better than "glee club."  Think of it as a solid choral ensemble meeting Dancing With The Stars.  We worked equally hard to perfect our four-part vocal arrangements as we did the dancing/choreography.  Trust me, it's a lot harder than it sounds.  And it was a big deal in our school, with around 200 kids in three or four ensembles.  "Carolina Spirit" was the top group and involved a significant time commitment.  It was also a pretty well-traveled group.  I'm not talking about the annual appearance at the local mall, either.  Every year we participated in a regional event in Harrisonburg, VA.  There was also a trip to Pasadena, CA my junior year (including a performance at Disneyland), and another one to Chicago my senior year - both national competitions, both in which we placed in the top three.  

All of which looked nothing like what folks see Wednesday nights on Fox.  There was weight training involved - important when the guys were lifting girls in the air and swinging them around (they tend to prefer that you not drop them).  I already mentioned the hours and hours of rehearsals - not just with vocals but with choreography, down to standing in front of a huge mirror to make sure that thirty-some people have their movements perfectly synched.  And unlike the current TV show (at least the little I've seen of it), there was actually harmony with the jocks, and we had some members of the gridiron in our fold.  So there were no purple slushies.

Here, see for yourself - a video of Carolina Spirit doing their thing a few years after my time (okay, more than a few :)

(note: if you're subscribing to this blog via email the video may not show up - so check it out here).

I realize open talk about this sort of thing typically invites some level of ridicule, especially toward the guys.  Go ahead if you must - it's nothing I haven't heard before.  Chuckle at the sequins and stage makeup, at the dancing and the white shoes.  To which I say a heartfelt, "Whatever."  The fact is that I wouldn't trade this time in my life for anything.  I made some of the best friends in my life, many of whom I keep in touch with to this day.  Thanks to this experience the stage is a second home to me rather than a source of anxiety - something that comes in handy doing the music thing these days.  I'm quite at ease in front of groups, which means I'm pretty comfortable behind the pulpit on Sunday mornings (but sorry FPCMA folks - no jazz hands).  And the vocal techniques I acquired in all those years of training have proved invaluable in keeping my singing voice going strong.

So watch "Glee" if that's your thing - I may tune in from time to time.  But forgive me if I don't jump on the bandwagon.  The real thing is a whole lot better.

PS - I know there are a lot of show choir folks out there, including some "Carolina Spirit alum," and I'd love for you to share your stories in the blog comments below.  What are some of your memories?  How has your show choir experience translated to things you do in your adult life?  Let's hear 'em!

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.

Sliding down the slippery slope

Okay, some 30% of America, I get it: you don't approve of our president.  You don't like his policies, his stances, his philosophies, his politics.  Presumably you did not cast your vote for him last November, you weren't one of the tens of millions who watched his inauguration worldwide.  And since that cold January afternoon you probably have not been a fan of his administration's actions, from the future closing of Guantanamo to the most recent maelstrom over health care reform.  You've been upset and frustrated and it's only been nine short months.

I get it - really, I do.  For two reasons.  One, because I truly value your place in our country at this moment and time.  I'm serious.  While I'm personally more upbeat about the current administration, I know that one side of the story does not have all the answers.  Our country's government was built on the importance of balance and the presence of a "counter-voice" to even things out.  So I truly appreciate your presence and your voice.  Thank you.

I also know how you feel because I have walked in your shoes; a walk that took eight years out of my life.  See, I used to be part of that "counter-voice" myself.  I cringed when the ones who used to be in charge encouraged torture as an acceptable practice in dealing with prisoners of war; I lamented when they lowered the tax rate for the wealthy, in affect asking those with less to pay more.  I sat on edge when they tried to privatize social security, and I mourned when a pre-emptive war was launched against a nation that did not possess the threat we were told they had.  Believe me - I know what it feels like to be in the minority; to have little faith in the folks calling the shots, to wait with much longing for the next election cycle to come around.

But - and you knew there was a "but" coming, didn't you - there's a very fine line between respectful dissent in the voice of government and poisonous malice that sabotages the process.  And just nine months into this particular season I feel we have crossed it.  For it is one thing to vocally disagree with our administration; to call into question its practices and policies and work for a better way - which I believe to be not only a good thing but a necessary thing.  But it's another thing entirely to cast that aside for the perils of mudslinging and, at its worst, outright demonization.  I admit - at my weakest moments I was known to refer to our former president as an "idiot" when my righteous indignation got the best of me.  But it was outside my realm of thinking to do something as hateful as drawing a Hitler mustache on his face or referring to him as the "antichrist."  

Let me reiterate again - I know how you feel.  I really do!  But there are much more productive ways to express dissent.  The beauty of our democracy is the existence of a 2/3/4-party system where each brings their side's agenda to the table.  I am not one who believes that our current administration - or any administration - has all the right answers.  I am convinced that the best solution to our country's ills is to find the compromise that lies somewhere in between; something that incorporates the good all sides have to offer.  The problem we're experiencing at the moment, though, is that we're allowing fear-mongering and outright malice to get a grip on us, thereby killing the process before it even begins.  And once we start down that slippery slope it is incredibly hard to get back up.

I think we're seeing this with some of the hubbub surrounding our president's "school speech" airing tomorrow.  Forget for the moment that both previous presidents in our country's history who did this came from the other side of the aisle.  Forget that common sense would dictate that a commander-in-chief would never use such a platform to push any particular agenda (the political repercussions of which would be devastating).  What, pray tell, is wrong with any president - Republican or Democrat - speaking directly to our young people, encouraging them to be the best students they can be and make a contribution to this world?

The speech, of course, is now online; so anyone can see that it is nowhere near what some have made it out to be.  And absolutely, any parent should be allowed to make a request that their child not be allowed to view it.  But that hasn't stopped the silliness from going beyond silly.   All last week, the talk was that the speech was going to push a "socialist agenda" - a huge assumption; as the text for the speech had not yet been released.  That's the kind of stuff that happens when we're sliding down the slope.

Dissent is the foundation of our great country, it is the essence of who we are as Americans, it is the reason we enjoy the freedoms we have.  We need it to thrive; we need the checks and balances that our multi-faceted government provides to keep the ship on track.  We need people to disagree with our current president and call into question some of his actions, just as we needed it the eight years prior.

But we must use every fiber of our being to resist going down that slippery slope of malice, hate, anger, and ill will; which does absolutely no good.  Fear has no place in our politics or (as I've said in a previous blog) in our religion.  Honest, respectful, sincere dialogue must prevail.

Because if it doesn't, we do crazy things like bashing the leader of the free world for urging our young people to be the best they can be.  And that is something I don't get.

When memories no longer have structures to house them

Last week I got an email from my Dad with some downright depressing pictures.  Turns out they are tearing down my old elementary school and building a new one.  There was this huge open space behind the original building, and apparently that's where the new one is going.  All signs are pointing to it being open in time for the new school year this fall.

I attended Frances Lacy Elementary in Raleigh, NC from first through third grade, before they did some redistricting and sent the kids on my block to another school in town. Lacy was about a mile and a half up the street from our house; a true neighborhood school in inner-beltline Raleigh.  It sat at a main intersection in the area, which meant in addition to spending my weekdays there as a young'un, we'd pass it by frequently as we made our way around town - to the grocery store, the bank, the gas station.  It was a fixture in our neighborhood and a fixture in my life.  Back in my day it looked something like this (with a little more landscaping):

I have mixed feelings about them tearing down my school.  I know it's probably for the best - no telling how out-of-date the original facility was.  And given the way Raleigh continues to grow I'm sure enrollment had outgrown the building long ago.  But still - there's something about tearing down your school that just doesn't seem right, you know?  So what if it's a better use of space?  So what if the new playground will be state-of-the-art?  I rather liked the creaky old tire contraption that notoriously trapped kids and required a teacher's assistance to be extracted from its clutches.  I dug the metal monkey bars that wouldn't have a chance of meeting building code today.  I was all over the sandy, dusty kickball diamond (and really, is there any sport that screams "elementary school" more than kickball??) where we'd use leftover paper lunch bags for bases.  The incoming class will have brand-new stuff, but it won't have near the character of the old. 

The sad thing is that there will be no more trips down memory lane for me at the intersection of Ridge Road and Lake Boone Trail.  There's no outside structure to house the memories embedded deep within.  Instead I'll have to resurrect them on my own:

• First grade class in the north wing (far left in the picture above) and looking forward every day to story time because my teacher really knew how to read 'em.

• The lunchroom and the standard lunchroom aroma that, for some reason, always smelled like sloppy joes no matter what they were serving.

• One time in the lunchroom line, one of the cafeteria ladies motioning me over to very discreetly inform me that I needed to zip up my pants.  Oops.

• Having the lead in the first grade production of "The Little Gingerbread Boy."  I had lines memorized and everything.  My costume was made out of some brown fabric that kind of itched.  The media center was packed the night we put the show on.

• Cheating on a math quiz in third grade using a slide calculator I got out of a Trix cereal box.  True story.  You can read the whole thing here, if you want.  After that I learned my lesson and stopped eating sugary cereals.

• Walking down the long sidewalk from the car drop-off line to the main entrance every morning.  It looked just like the picture to the left - without the "Vote" signs, of course.

• Going to school for a few days with a patch over one of my eyes because I'd gotten some tiny piece of metal in it and had to keep it away from light.  Some kids took to calling me a pirate, which I understood to be a compliment.

• The stairs that ran down from the main lobby and classrooms to the lunchroom and out to the playground and open areas.  Nothing special about them, I just remember they were there.  Emphasis on "were."

• Years later in high school, our show choir's whirlwind day tour every December to a few area elementary schools to perform our standard set of Christmas songs. It was always like coming home when we'd go to Lacy.

I'm sure there are other things I'd remember if I thought hard about it.  The main thing is that I have memories of a place that doesn't exist anymore, and that's just weird.  There's something melancholy about that, even though I haven't been in the building in over 30 years, even though I don't live in the area or send my kids there.  There's something very strange knowing that a piece of my past has been bulldozed to the ground and hauled off to the landfill in large trucks.

I'm sure the new school (pictured below, with the old structure not yet torn down at the top left) will be absolutely gorgeous and wonderful, effectively educating a new generation of kids for life in the 21st century.  But it won't be the old school, and that's a shame.  I'm telling you, those kids are missing out.

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 Other Miracle on the Hudson

Right now I'm giving an exam in my college New Testament class.  Lots of scribbling sounds.  So it's just me and my laptop, and an opportunity to tell you what I've been thinking about a lot this week.

I've been thinking about the "Miracle on the Hudson."  You know the story.  Back in mid-January, a US Airways flight was struck by birds soon after taking off from LaGuardia Airport and lost its engines.  Attempts to return to LaGuardia or land in a nearby airport in New Jersey proved futile.  So the pilot managed to "land" the plane in the Hudson River, and all 155 passengers and crew were safely evacuated.  Not one life was lost.

It's an amazing story.  And the fact is that the American public simply cannot get enough of it.  I googled the words "miracle" and "hudson" and it brought up over 5,300,000 entries.  Didn't get a chance to check all of them, but I think it'd be same to assume that the majority of them are about the above.

At the center of this whole phenomenon is a guy named Chesley Sullenberger, the pilot of Flight 1549 who performed the landing.  I'm no pilot (although I'd like to take flying lessons one day), so I don't know the intricacies of what this guy does for a living.  Still, I know enough to know that what he did was amazing.  Last week they released the audio of his conversation with LaGuardia Airport as the plane was going down.  The guy was incredibly cool - you would've thought he was just asking for directions to the nearest McDonalds or something. 

So it probably comes as no surprise that Sullenberger has since been hailed as a hero - he and his crew.  In the span of a few weeks he has embarked on a whirlwind tour of sorts - every media outlet, all the morning news shows, and even a special recognition at the Super Bowl.  And throughout it all his "cool" has prevailed.  He seems to take it in stride, not really seeking it but content to go along for the ride.  And amazingly, he actually continues to second-guess himself, assuming there was something else he could've done to make it back to land.  Again, I'm no pilot, but I think the guy did pretty darn good with the little he had.

What has struck me about all of this - other than the fact that it happened - is how our country has become absorbed by this "miracle."  Weeks later, it is still getting press time - now some of the passengers are making the rounds.  It just seems kind of odd because normally a story like this would have a week's life span in our fast-paced, "what-have-you-done-for-me-lately" news cycle.  So why is it still the talk of the nation?

Certainly a lot of it rests on the shoulders of Sullenberger and how essentially 154 people owe their lives to him.  But I think there's more to it.  I think the reason we can't let this story go is because it's a good story.  Plain and simple.  It's an uplifting story about something that could've turned out a lot worse.  In short, it's good news.

And Lord knows we sure can use some good news these days, can't we?  We've got an economy that's hanging on by a thread.  We've got hundreds of thousands of people losing their jobs each month.  We live in a world that seems almost addicted to fear and war.  And each of us has our litany of personal struggles, whether it's trying to make ends meet or caring for ailing parents or raising our kids to be decent members of society in the midst of all of this.

It doesn't matter what end of the tax bracket you're on, or your nationality, or your lot in life.  You hear the tale of Flight 1549 and find yourself breathing a huge sigh of relief.  And not just for the lives that were miraculously saved - but for you too.  Because it's refreshing to hear good news when all we get most of the time is bad.  It's good to be reminded that, even in the midst of all the stuff life can throw at us, amazing things still can happen. And that's why I think there is another miracle that took place besides the lives that were saved.  It's the miracle that happens when we are inspired to recognize the good in this world, even when so much in that same world suggests otherwise.

Eventually, of course, this story will die down and drift off the news cycle.  Sullenberger will go back to flying his planes, and I'm betting he'll spend next year's Super Bowl watching it in the comforts of his living room.  Birds will go back to flying over the Hudson (although we hope not as much in huge flocks near airports).  And you and me?  We'll turn on our TV sets or log onto the news websites or open the newspaper and have more bad news crammed down our throats.

But there will be more stories like this that will pop up from time to time and remind us that all is not lost.  And it doesn't matter how big a deal they'll make of it and how many times a hero is interviewed - I for one won't get tired of it.  Good news is important to cling to in times like ours.