Thoughts and Musings

Pastors standing in the surf of change

It's around 11am, and our family is at the beach. It rained the first few days here, but now the sun is shining bright and the place is packed.  We've carved out a few square feet of sand for our two folding chairs.  We won't need much room, though, because the majority of the Lindsleys will be out in the water, out in the waves. I've always loved the body surfing/boogie-boarding thing, and I'm proud to have passed that same love on to my sons.

It's different being out there as a father, though.  It's a bit of a juggling act between satisfying your own desires to enjoy the waves while owning up to your parental obligations.   I have to shelve my desire to plunge headfirst into the oncoming wave to make sure my kids are safe.  And "safe" in the ocean is always a tricky thing - that huge wave that doesn't materialize until its right on you, undercurrents and rip currents, and all the unforeseen marine life that - as I've had personal experience with - can cause, ahem, severe complications.

What makes it even more of a challenge is the difference between my two boys.  My oldest shares my tendency to throw himself into something with reckless abandon.  I want to go out to the big waves, he tells me.   We can't, the lifeguard says there are rip currents out there, I answer.  What does he know, he's way back there in the lifeguard chair!  And so it goes.  My younger son, though, is much more tentative.  Or "smart," as his mother would say.  He may want to follow his Dad and older brother, but for him, the threat overrides the potential thrill.  But he's not going to sit up in the beach chair, either.  So in his mind he's determined the parameters of how far he'll go into the surf, and he's not about to exceed it. 

It's a lot to manage.  In fact, it actually feels a lot like being a pastor.

The waves of change are swirling around the church in a big way these days, and in many ways it's been going on for years.  Much of this change - all of it, perhaps - has come from the outside: civil rights movement, women's liberation, postmodernism, gay marriage and stances on homosexuality, the equalizing of the human experience via mass technology and social media.  I could go on and on.

The point is, the church is facing change whether we like it or not. And we differ greatly on how we respond to and cultivate that change, even within a single congregation.

Some folks are like my older son, feeling the urge to plunge head-first into the waves of change.  Why delay the inevitable?  Things like the emergent church, contemporary worship, congregations that look and feel more like coffee houses, and even NEXTChurch in my denomination are all signs that some recognize the wave is coming - so why not go and meet it?  We know we can't "change the change" any more than my son or I can alter the direction of the wave that's heading straight for us - as my friend and fellow songster David Lamotte sings, "The water's gonna win."  As does change.  Why fight something that is going to happen with you or without you?

Hold on, say people like my younger son.  For these, change - like the waves - are not just a sign of something different, but the essence of the difference itself.  And the very fact that "it" can't be stopped elicits fear - or, as writer Diana Butler Bass suggests in her recent book, grief over the loss of what was familiar and comfortable.  There are degrees to this category of folks.  Some remain stubbornly on the shore, plopped down in the beach chair and observing the change from a safe distance.  Others, like my younger son, may wade in the surf, but only up to a point.  They engage change in the church with conditions and qualifiers: contemporary music... but only at the early service.  Women in positions of leadership... but not the lead pastor.  Acceptance of gays and lesbians for church membership... but not for ordination.

And there's the pastor in the middle of it all.  They're standing in the surf, calling out to one group of folks to come back, not so fast, wait up for everyone else.  And they're calling out to others: come on in, it's not so bad, you'll be alright.  They're well aware of the threats that can be seen - all those undercurrents and rip currents swirling around them - as well as the threats no one can see yet.  They're trying to care for people and help them meet their needs, while also caring for the church and meeting God's needs.

Like I said, a lot to manage.

I got to thinking about this while scanning my Facebook feed this morning and coming upon this from The 70 Sent Project:

The church is a paradoxical mixture between the desire to transform a world that clings to old forms and prejudices, and the desire to find stability and peace in a world that is changing too rapidly. Often this paradox is found within the same person.  The role of the church leader is to stand in the middle of this paradox, facilitating the flow of the Holy Spirit between the transforming and stabilizing impulses. (emphasis mine)

That's the huge task facing pastors and all church leaders in today's church: not trying to be everything to everyone, a common misconception (and the cause of clergy burnout for anyone who tries it).  No, the task of those in ministry in the 21st century is trying to bring everyone together into some sense of cohesion and mission when people are different (thanks be to God for that, by the way) and when people respond to change differently.  That along with facing the fact that the change, like that big wave, is coming.  In fact, in a sense it's already here.

It's a challenge, to be sure. But it's also a wonderful opportunity and privilege, to stand there.  Change means that God is in the midst of doing some pretty amazing stuff. Here's hoping that, wherever we are standing in the surf - right at the breaking point or a little further up shore - that we all eventually get swept up in the wave of God's change together.

In other words, time to get our sea legs under us.

Just another youth group recording in the studio.

If you're looking for something crazy and insane to do this summer, how about this:

First, write a theme song for the summer youth conference you're leading music for.

Then, go into the studio to record that song, inviting some good musical friends/former bandmates to join in the fun.  Totally overestimate your own ability on instruments you really don't know how to play (read: mandolin and accordion). Learn the hard way that "faking live" and "faking in the studio" are two very different things.

Next, come up with an idea that, at first, sounds simple enough: since the song is written to be sung in a large group setting, why not ask your entire church youth group to travel down to Winston-Salem one weekday evening and record the choruses in the studio?  And while you're at it, coax your wife and boys to tag along.

After that, schedule a run-through the night before that doesn't even last an hour. Meet in the youth house, sit on couches, play the demo on your ipod. Do crazy stuff like asking them to split into guy parts and girl parts on the middle eight.

And then, to top it all off, ask your DCE to pile them in the church van and a member's minivan and drive them all to the studio.  Which, in this case, is the bottom floor of a two-story garage behind your buddy's house.  He's fixed it up extremely nice as a band room, but never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine 20+ middle and high schoolers cramming in there around a condensor mic. Much less a 15-passenger church van parked out in front of his house.  Hand out three headsets and keep one for yourself, and ask these non-professionals to sing to a track the vast majority of them will never hear.  Wave your arms wildly in the air to bring them in and out and keep them in time.

Oh, and sweat profusely, since the A/C unit has to be turned off during the recording, lest the sensitive mic pic it up and transform it into the sound of a gushing wind.

Ask these kids to be totally silent until the moment they start singing, and then totally silent when they're done.  Ask them to cut their "s's" off at the same time so it doesn't sound like a snake pit.  Ask the young middle school boys to do their best impression of a grown man's deep voice, and ask two of the girls to sing the women's part an octave higher than the others - but not too loudly.

Did I mention the sweating profusely thing?

And then, when it's all said and done, tell them what an incredible job they did and how proud you are of them, because that's exactly what they did, and that's exactly how you feel.

If you can swing that, my friends, then it's already a pretty awesome summer.

 

My son and I are Ukuleleists. Or Ukeists. Or Uke players. Or Ukers.

It'd be nice if they had a standard name for it.  They do for all the others: Guitarist.  Pianist.  Drummer.  Cellist. Mandolin player. That last one is a little clumsy, if not consistent.

But for that four-stringed Hawaiian wonder that seems to be making a comeback of sorts these days, there's no one name.  So take your pick. Me?  I'm going with Uker.  Short and to the point, and it sounds cooler.

My boy got his uke a few weeks ago after pressing me to get him one. I found it for a steal.  He's going to take lessons this summer from George, a fellow Mayberry musician who teaches most anything with strings on it. I wound up getting one myself soon after, and may try to incorporate it into my acoustic gig at Round Peak Vineyards this weekend.  He's already written two tunes that use the same three chords he made up, just switching the order. Oh, and he's tackling Bohemian Rhapsody. Not kidding.

It's a fun little instrument - easy to hold and play, easy on the fingers. I dig the sound that comes from a well-crafted uke - bright when you pluck, percussive when you strum.  The biggest challenge are the chords - they bear a striking resemblance to guitar chords, but it's in a different tuning, so it plays with your mind a bit. A "D" is actually a "G" and an "A" is really a "D". We're working on it.

I don't know what qualifies one to be an expert Uker, but I'm nowhere near that. I'm just meandering around in a new musical arena, like taking a hike on a beautiful mountain trail I've never been on before. I've engaged in this exercise before, with varying results (note to self: there is no way to just "pick up" playing the fiddle).  This time around, I'm going to enjoy the journey and have some fun along the way.

And it's nice to have some company as well.

 

Thank God for Switchbacks

It's 9am on a crisp Memorial Day weekend, and my oldest son and I are sitting on the aluminum bleachers of our town's lone high school.  It's Graduation Saturday, and for all the years I've lived in Mayberry and have received graduation "announcements" from our church's youth, I'm embarassed to say that I never realized those things were actual invitations (note to self: make sure sons' graduation invitations have the phrase "You're Invited" in them).  It's one of those small-town idiosyncrasies that non-natives have to learn on the fly.  It took me ten years, but at least I'm finally here.

Sitting there as the last of the seniors assembled in the south end zone, I knew I'd get to see five of my church's youth flip their tassels.  I knew I'd hear hoots and hollers as folks strolled across the stage to receive diplomas.  I didn't know I'd see the entire senior class interrupt the middle of the ceremony with a nifty dance routine that was obviously the result of some serious rehearsing.  Nor did I anticipate the bellowing horn from the mac truck parked in the parking lot across the way when one student's name was called.

But the biggest surprise of the whole affair came from the words of the class Salutitorian, Elizabeth Dinkins.  Her speech begin innocently enough with the anticipated words about what has been achieved and what promise awaits.

And then, out of nowhere, she says this:

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

I grew up in a family of avid backpackers, and at an early age I learned about switchbacks. A mountain trail does not travel from base to summit in a straight line. Instead, the path up a mountain is marked by switchbacks, or one hundred and eighty degree turns in the path that make the slope more gradual and the climb more manageable. As a child, this rather roundabout path infuriated me. I asked my dad why the people who blazed the trail didn’t go in a straight line from bottom to top. Dad explained that such a path would be too steep to climb without injury.

In a long hike, gradual switchbacks characterize the first few miles, typically through wooded terrain with a less than spectacular view. When you break the tree line for the first time, you are struck with your first glimpse of the view that you have been climbing for hours to see. You think that you are almost to the summit. You are wrong. Above the tree line, the view is indeed beautiful, but it is there that the hard work truly begins. The wind whips faster. The air grows thinner. The boulder field lies between you and the summit, and the intensity of your climb only increases. The path is less distinctive and your footing is less sure. It is hard work. It is slow work. The summit is close, but the final steps are a rock scramble, and the most challenging part of your trek.

So it is with life. Each of us will experience personal setbacks and obstacles, some of which will appear insurmountable. These personal challenges are not failures; they are switchbacks. They make our journey towards our goal less direct, but, in the end, more manageable. These switchbacks work to develop our character. It is character rather than accomplishments or knowledge that will shape the way we live our lives.

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

It's now around 9:45am, and I am floored.  What an amazingly beautiful thing to say to a group of 138 high school graduates who, in a sense, have successfully climbed one mountain but now stand at the base of yet another.  They need to know that it won't be all smooth-sailing.  They need to know that there will be challenges along the way, setbacks; all the while looking at the peak and wondering why in the world they're walking to the side of it instead of straight up.  They need to know that this is the way life works, that you don't always achieve your goals and fulfill your calling the first time around. 

It's exactly what those eighteen-year olds need to her.  But you know what?  It's what we all need to hear, every last one of us.  I know it's what I need to hear.

Later that weekend I would seek out Elizabeth to congratulate her and thank her for her message, asking if I could get a copy of her speech and use it in this blog.  She seemed genuinely surprised and pleased that her words had touched the heart of someone besides those navy blue robed and capped classmates right in front of her; that it had reached all the way into the upper left corner of the aluminum bleachers.  That's the beautiful thing about words from the heart - they take on a life of their own, carrying far beyond the audience we intended them for.

So now I'm a fan of switchbacks.  See that picture above?  It's the new background on my cell phone, so I see it all the time. I'm even going to try and think in switchbacks now.  If I'm walking from the church to the coffee shop up the street for a quick cup of jo, I might just take a less-than-straight path through a side street or two.  If I've got a task before me, I may refrain from plunging head-first into it with wreckless abandon and instead take a more introspective, roundabout approach.  And when I hit a snag and things don't go like I hoped they would, I'm going to do my best amidst the disappointment to heed Elizabeth's wisdom: it's not failure.  It's just a switchback. Make the 180-degree turn after a brief stop to take in the scenery and keep going.

In case you're wondering, this is not my typical M.O.  I'm a perpetual list-crosser-offer.  I'm a straight line kinda guy.  I'm a classic child of the Western world: set a goal, take the steps necessary, and you'll achieve it. Face it: switchbacks are not in our DNA.

But the journey of life is not all about us.  It's about the journey itself; and the thing is, that journey is more winding and bending than we give it credit for.  And like Elizabeth said so eloquently, switchbacks develop our character; and in the end it's character that truly defines us and not the various mountain peaks we conquer.  If we're in the midst of a switchback, that's the time when we're showing people who we are and what we're made of.  Not when we get to the top.

It's 11am, and the graduation service is over.  I'm seeking out my church youth, dispensing congratulatory hugs and taking pictures. I'm so incredibly proud of them.  I'm thinking about the fact that the son of mine at my side will be doing this himself before his mother and I know it.

But I'm not going to lie: I'm also thinking about switchbacks. A lot.  Who knows, I may be in one right now. If so, it's good to know that's where I am.  At least I'm still on the journey, moving forward.  And even when it doesn't always feel like it, upward.

Why I subject myself to EOG proctoring

It's 8am on a picture-perfect May morning, and I'm standing outside my oldest son's elementary school. In just a minute I will throw myself into the deep dark abyss known as EOG proctoring - that's End of Grade Exams, if you didn't know.  It's a staple at every North Carolina school for third grade and up; the standardized test to end all standardized tests and supposedly determine a student's academic worth and whether they are suited to progress to the next grade.

EOG's are very much like a collective consumption of the worst kind of cough medicine, except instead of the few seconds of a quick gulp it's more like an intravenious administration; a slow drip-drip dragged out over 3-4 hours over multiple days.  No one likes these things - not the students, not their parents, not the teachers, not the administrators.  About the only fans of EOGs I can fathom are paper manufacturers and whatever company produces those number two pencils.  Maybe if they called them OWL's and had the principal dress up like Dumbledore it'd be a little more interesting.  A little.

This is my second year of proctoring.  I take some pride in knowing that I'm important enough to be required by the state. The list of what we can do is far eclipsed by the list of what we can't.  We can't eat or drink, read a book, chew gum, play on our cell phone, talk to the kids, touch the test materials, leave to go to the bathroom, leave before the last test is done.  On the "can" side, we're allowed to breath oxygen and stand or sit, so we've got that going for us.

It's a long three to four hours.

So why do I do it?  It's a question I thought about at length today during my final EOG shift (add "thinking to yourself" to the "can do" list).  Here's what I came up with:

Someone has to do it.  There aren't many folks eager to give up an entire morning to do this sort of thing for free.  So the school administrator commissioned with finding proctors are always very grateful when you say yes.  I admit, it gives you a good warming feeling to make someone so visibly happy that they smile ear-to-ear, yelp with glee and put aside common decorum to give you a full-body hug. I try to remember that smile, yelp and hug about two hours into the affair.

It's a show of solidarity.  They didn't have EOGs when I was in grade school, and it's a darn good thing or I may still be there.   The standardized tests we had (CAT tests, anyone?) were more about assessing smarts and less about determining grade placement.  So much emphasis is put on these tests - not just for the student's advancement, but for the teacher's professional success and the school's reputation.  I've always felt that these standardized tests measure how well one tests rather than how smart one is.  But it's what we've got; and if my kid and their school are having to go through this, the least I can do is go through it with them.

It's ministry, just different.  Don't worry, I'm not proseltyzing.  I can't talk, remember?  Besides, that's not my style anyway.  No, here's the thing: these kids are nervous.  The teachers are nervous.  They put on a brave face and they decorate the hallways and stuff, but you can feel it when you walk in the front door.  I'm not doing ministry in the traditional sense of the word.  But in my head I'm holding these kids and their teachers up in the light; and if my presence can be any kind of calming influence, then I feel like I've fulfilled my calling.

But the main reason I proctor EOGs is a pretty selfish one: I can't do a freakin' thing. The rules are clear from the minute the teacher begins her scripted speech until the last test is taken up.  During that time, the outside world does not exist.  I have no choice but to focus on those eighteen kids and one teacher, in that time, in that space.  I can't email folks, plan a sermon, read my latest study book.  catch up on the news.  My entire world is in that classroom.

And I need this, I really do.  Time and space are fluid entities for folks like me who tend to multitask not in two dimensions but three. My goal in any moment of a day is to determine how I can wring the most out of it; how much I can accomplish and cross off the perpetual "TO DO" list.  Proctoring EOGs, though, prohibits me from doing that, forcing me to live in the moment and only in the moment.  To "be present" in a very basic and essential way. 

I'm not going to lie to you - there are only so many ways one can stroll around a room, maneuvering between desks and making sure the students are staying on track.  There are only so many times you can read the feel-good positive posters and slogans plastered on the classroom walls (my favorite: the one designed like a road sign that said, U-Turn in your Homework, U get better grades).  There comes a point where you're almost uncomfortable in your own skin, and you'd give anything to see that warm sun and blue sky or check the email inbox you know is filling up by the second.

But if you relent and allow yourself, you just might wind up in this Zen-like state where time slows down.  Or maybe it doesn't slow down, you're just not as aware of it anymore.  You're not thinking about your coffee meeting later that afternoon or the bottomless email inbox or the unwritten sermon.  You're just there, in that room, with those kids and their teacher. And it's sacred ground, because it's where all of you are, right then and right there.  You're living in the moment, and turns out it's a beautiful place to be.

That's why I proctor EOGs.  Well, that and the snacks in the teacher's lounge before and after.  Someone made a killer cheese dip this year. Delish.

Bears Bulldozing Bullies

We all know that bullying is a big problem in our schools, and that it starts young.  I have a fourth-grader who tells me stories of stuff he's seen in the hallways over the years that makes my heart sink.  There are a lot of adults out there carrying the torch of putting an end to bullying - and that's great, because we need as big a chorus as we can get.

But let's face it: kids aren't necessarily going to listen to some grown-up they may or may not know.  They're much more likely to pay attention to a teenager they see around town, who by virtue of their age and status in a small community with only one high school is the coolest thing since the latest Harlem Shake video (presumably a lot cooler). 

That's why I was elated when I saw that a handful of students from our local high school had put together a short YouTube video to be shared with the students at my son's elementary school.  Pastor pride also beamed forth, since nearly half of these kids are church members of mine (Emily, remind me never to get a drink from the water fountain when you're in the room ;-).  So much about this video is awesome, including the production quality (done by the same church youth who created our church's capital campaign video earlier this year).  More importantly is the way it highlights different kinds of bullying beyond the physical - verbal, cyber, etc.  And the critical message at the end: that whether you're the bullier, the bullied or a bystander, it's up to you to bring it to a stop.

A word of explanation about the video's name - the mascot of our local high school is the Bears. The cool thing is that all four of our city schools have a variation of the same mascot. So it really is all Bears at all schools "bulldozing bullies."

I can't wait for my son and all his elementary school friends to see this video and know it was made by some high school buddies they'll likely bump into in the grocery store or at church on Sunday morning. I hope they'll tell them "thanks."  I know I'll be.

(Click HERE if you can't see the video above)

 

Thor has a new home

An update on my blog from a few weeks ago about our foster dog Thor: he got himself a new home yesterday.  Which was our intention all along, you'll recall, when we decided to welcome the little furball into our lives back in late January.  You may not have believed me when I told you we were serious about him being just a foster dog. Glad I was able to make a believer out of you.

Well, not 100% glad.  Even with chaotic new doggie routines and the occasional puppy bites (I'm looking at a nice little mark on my hand at the moment), it's inevitable that you're going to get attached.  I think the neatest part was watching his progress.  When he came to us, he was a pretty unruly little fella.  Hopelessly cute, but unruly. Now he was snapping less and cuddling more.  And he was growing like crazy. You don't get into the foster dog business without a little eventual heartache.

We met the new family at a neutral site in Mount Airy; the home of Regina, a Surry Animal Rescue volunteer who was instrumental in the whole adoption process. The family was from nearby Winston-Salem - three kids ages 4-12, and a Golden Retriever named Jake.  Great people. They had lost one of their dogs just two months ago and were eager to be a two-dog family again. Thor was his energetic and adorable self, and they were hooked from the start. Regina pulled my wife and I aside at one point: I think this is a good match, she whispered. It's up to you.

There's a certain level of awkwardness in this type of situation, in case you're wondering.  There's no manual for determining when it's time to go.  It's more a sense of the inevitable being not some distant and dreaded point in the future, but now.  We shook hands, said our goodbyes.  My last memory of Thor was watching him run around the fenced-in backyard with the little four-year old girl, both of them cute as could be, both ready to grow up together and run around many more times together.  And I realized that this scene and the future the two will share would've never been possible had it not been for someone posting a puppy picture on Facebook and my wife sending them a message. And that made me smile.

Suffice to say we're gonna miss the little fella.  But he's going to be in good hands, and that's all we really ever wanted. If not us, we're very glad it's them.

Seriously, he's just a foster dog. Seriously.

Seriously.

Don't think I'm not aware of what's taking place on the other side of this computer screen. I sense your doubting thoughts; I see your mocking smile.  But trust me: he's just a foster dog.  And for the record, it's not like we go out looking for these animals. It's been like this for as long as I can remember.  Call it a Lindsley thing: we don't find stray animals.  They find us.  

Like Lady, who ran out in front of the family car on Halloween night 2008.  Or Rocky the boxer, who wandered into our front yard as my younger son and I were walking home from preschool.  Or Bandit the dog who we inherited from an animal rescue - in 1999.  Or Sydney our cat, who camped out one spring morning in a box in my front yard many years ago.  I thought I was breaking the cycle when I talked my then-girlfriend into taking the cat. Which she did.  And then I married that girlfriend. So I got the cat back. Darn thing found me twice.

And yes, I'm aware that still having these animals in our possession does not exactly support my "foster pet" claim. I'll grant you that.  But I'm telling you, it's different this time.  Thor - as the animal shelter in Virginia took to calling him - will seriously be a foster dog, no question about it. He will have a permanent happy home, but it won't be with us.

Seriously.

I will say, though, that Thor took this "finding a sucker" thing to a whole new level.  Apparently "running in front of the car" or "wandering into the front yard" is so five years ago. Who would've thought that a pup, mere weeks old, would be that social-media savvy.  That's where Thor found us - on Facebook.  Apparently he used his indelible puppy cuteness to wield control over a Facebook acquaintance of my wife's, compelling her to post his picture in her timeline with the explanation: At the Patrick County Animal Shelter. Needs a good home.

The pup's face bore a striking resemblance to a Golden Retriever my wife lost a few years ago; a beloved companion she acquired fresh out of law school.  My wife may not be practicing law anymore, but she still knows how to win an argument. Actually, she knows how to win an argument without actually having the argument, which is a brilliant skill.  The way she started talking with me about the whole thing, it was as if the decision had been agreed to in a previous conversation, and I'd just completely forgotten about it.  Maybe that was it.  Or maybe I just didn't care to put up a fight.

He bites like crazy, the animal shelter told her. That's why no one wants to adopt him.  Apparently both the shelter and potential owners had missed the memo about young pups biting things. But that's okay.  My wife hails from a long line of dog whisperers and would break Thor from his gnawing ways.  You know, so his next and permanent owner wouldn't have to deal with the bloody aftermath. Because Thor would be just a foster dog, mind you.

Seriously.

And so there I was, driving up to Stuart, VA to pick Thor up on Monday afternoon, so he'd be there when the rest of the family got home from school.  Was I excited?  Sure I was.  This would be the luckiest dog in the world, along with those other lucky foster pets of ours, Rocky and Bandit and Lady and Sydney.  The vet handed him to me with a bag full of medicine and a paper about his neutering surgery the week prior; I handed them the homemade chocolate chip cookies my wife made them.  On the car trip home I was pleased to learn first-hand that Thor's bodily functions worked properly, even if it meant driving the majority of the trip with the windows rolled down on a January day and a bottle of hand sanitizer within reach. 

Thor hit the North Carolina ground running, quite literally, thanks to two energetic boys who were totally excited to play with their new puppy they wouldn't be keeping permanently.  He did his biting thing, but he wasn't nearly the beast he'd been made out to be.  His presence was met with tremendous intrigue and more than a hint of jealousy from the other foster dogs permanently residing at the Lindsley Inn.  Especially Rocky, the "top dog" who is used to having the house interior all to himself.  We'll have to work on that.  Anyway, when Thor finally crawled into his crate for the night, he barely made it all the way inside before collapsing from exhaustion.  It was a good day for the little fella.  These pets know what they're doing when they pick us Lindsleys.

If you're interested in adopting Thor, get in line.  My wife already has a list of folks who've expressed interest, and she's going to be picky.  Which she should be, because Thor is an awesome dog.  If we didn't have three already, we'd probably keep him for ourselves.  But we won't be doing that, you understand.  He's a great dog, but he's just a foster dog. Seriously, that's all he is.

 Seriously.

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UPDATE 2.13.2013 - As of this afternoon, Thor is with his new adopted family.  They're from Winston-Salem - three kids ages 4-12, and a Golden Retriever named Jake.  You can read all about it HERE. Thanks to Regina Edwards and the fine folks at Surry Animal Rescue for connecting us with some great people. 

 

Life after being Mediocrely Bad

Here's a lesson I've learned in my 40+ years on this planet: it's easy saying "Yes" to something you love.  It's harder saying "goodbye" to the same.

About six years ago I got a call from my good friend and fellow Mayberry musician Jerry Chapman, asking me if I wanted to play keys in one of his bands, Mediocre Bad Guys.  The "yes" came quick and easy - it was a no-brainer.  While music is just an avocation for me, and I had done the solo acoustic thing for decades, the thing I'd always wanted to do is be in a band with guys who shared a similar taste in music.  Excluding the pseudo prog-rock trio that Michael Propst, Greg Faucette and I had for a single weekend my senior year in high school, it never happened.

The six years since that phone call have been quite a ride. Les, Jerry, Gary, David, and Doug have pushed me musically in ways I never could have myself.  We've played at numerous festivals, wineries, clubs, bars, weddings, street parties, July 4 parades, fundraisers, birthday parties, and neighborhood backyards.  We've shared the stage with the Rolling Stones sax player on either three or four occasions (it's kind of cool when you lose count of something like that) which you can reminisce HERE, HERE and HERE). Recently we've flexed our collective songwriting muscles and recorded what I believe to be some pretty nifty original tunes.  I've hauled Les's awesome Yamaha stage piano and Hammond XK3 (and yes, they're Les'; pretty much everything the band has is Les') across parking lots and up countless stairs, and I've given my brain an incredible spatial configuration workout every time I've tried to cram that godawful keyboard stand into any vehicle, no matter how big or small (you keyboard players out there feel my pain). I even picked up a new instrument on account of the band, adding an accordion to my arsenal.

In short, I've had an absolute blast.

But earlier this year, I felt something change.  Not my feelings about the band, mind you.  I still loved making music with Doug, Jerry and Les.  No, it wasn't about subtraction as much as addition.  Something else was entering the picture.  It was fuzzy at first, but over time the clarity came.  And it revolved around my family - specifically, my two boys.  When I first signed on, our boys were four and two; young enough where neither really noticed when I was away at an evening practice or gig.

But now they were 9 and 7, and it was clear that they missed me when I wasn't around.  My absences were noticed - and felt - more acutely.  And this realization was the tipping point: in just a few years they would be teenagers, and they wouldn't give a rat's behind where I might be.  I had this window, and I needed to jump on it.

Telling the guys my decision was a hard conversation, for sure.  These are not just bandmates; they're good friends.  But they understood, because they're fathers too. And because they're good friends.

That was back in September.  I told them I'd be happy to honor the gigs we'd already committed to through the end of the year.  Which means my last stand as a Mediocre Bad Guy will be on the very last day of the year - a New Year's Eve extravaganza at Old North State Winery in downtown Mayberry (here's the Facebook event if you wanna come).  Going out with a bang for sure.

I know that Les, Jerry and Doug are making plans to keep Mediocre Bad Guys chugging along in some configuration. Which is exactly what they should do.  Those dudes are way too talented not to make music together.  And I'm excited about the transition I'll be making to being a fan of theirs.  I'll be the first to download the original tunes they'll keep releasing; I'll enjoy being part of the crowd at some 2013 gig.

For the record, I won't be hanging up the music thing completely.  Back a few months ago, we auditioned for a band reality TV show on AMC; and if MBG gets the nod I'll be part of that.  I'll keep doing the solo acoustic thing, hanging on to a few regular gigs.  And who knows - maybe an occasional guest appearance with the band if they should ever ask.  After all, it's a small musical community we're part of here in the Greater Mayberry metropolis. Like Bono once said, being in a band is a lot like being in the mafia.  You really can't say "never."

I'm like a lot of people, I think, in that I struggle to let go of things when it's time to.  After all, being human is about being a creature of habit.  And most of us spend our waking hours all wrapped up in "doing" rather than "being;" crossing things off the list rather than taking a step back to check out what's actually on that list.  I'm glad I stepped back earlier this year; and while it means saying goodbye to something I've really enjoyed, it's going to help me focus myself where I need to be focused going forward.  Who knows - maybe my boys and I are meant to start up a band.  

Letting go of being mediocrely bad is going to be weird, for sure.  But I'll figure it out. With a lot of great memories and music to stay with me.

Our Disney Trip in tweets, 2.0.

When our family took our first trip to Disney World back in May 2010, I honored my wife's request to not post our adventures in the social media world while away from home.  But I took good notes - well, tweets - and shared them en masse upon our return. 

It seemed to work well, so why not try it again?  Here's our most recent family foray into the world of Mickey.  Enjoy.

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DAY 1 - TRAVEL DAY #1, PALM COAST

Just realized I won't open my laptop for a whole week. I'm so okay with that.

Disney, here we come! Driving this time, though. Pricey plane tickets. First stop: Palm Coast, FL. Nine-hour drive. Nearly double our longest family car ride. Prayers appreciated.

"Dad, he tried to bite me!" #eldersonspeaks #arewethereyet

Holy crap, this is a long drive.

Finally arrivee in Palm Coast, FL after ten hours in the car. Dinner at a place on the beach. Two old guys who look like Jethro Tull rejects playing acoustic & flute.

OMG. They actually play Jethro Tull.  Who would've thought...

My ten-year old is asking the Jethro Tull duo to play something from Aqualung. What the heck...?

Tom Petty's "Last Dance With Mary Jane" with a flute. Alrighty then...

Flute guy is now playing sax on The Stones' "Brown Sugar." Should I tell him at break that I've played with the actual Stones sax player? #bragging

Bed. Aaaaaahhhh......

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DAY 2 - TRAVEL DAY #2, ANIMAL KINGDOM

Dear hotel management: your AC works. Very well. Too well. #FrozenChosen

Two-hour drive left to Disney. Hope this isnt a cold I feel coming on. Coffee, stat.

Drove by the Trinity Broadcasting Network campus in Orlando right next to I-4. Fake gold is as plentiful on the outside of building as it is on inside.

On the last leg of the trip: "Hey Dad, can you put in some Peal Jam?" #youngersonspeaks #proudpapa

All checked in at the Disney All Star Music resort. Rock section. Don't tell me you're surprised.

Animal Kingdom - it begins!  Fast Pass for Expedition Everest acquired. Now on to Kali River rapids.

For the record, the Disney mobile app is awesome for checking wait times.

Slightly damp, thanks to River Rapids ride. Heading to Kilomanjaro Safari.  Hungry, but our sit-down lunch isn't until 2:30.

Good lord. 1:49 and SO hungry. I could seriously eat whatever it was they were feeding that gazelle back at the safari.

Lunch, finally! Shrimp pasta. Some huge ice cream thing with brownies called the Volcano.

So I think I have either a cold or a sinus infection. Which, if true, kinda sucks.

Disney has people walking around with iPad devices whose sole job is to gather demographic info from you. Always planning their next move.

Mickey family pic: score!

William H. Macy's doppelgänger just walked by. Now that was weird!

Back at the hotel and out at the pool. Boys are swimming in this awesome Florida September weather. Still don't feel good. Grrrr...

Pool was close suddenly due to "unscheduled maintenance." Which apparently is the Disney way of saying "poo in the pool."

The best part? My eldest was the very last one out. In there for minutes with the lifeguard trying to get his attention. Just laying there. And no, he wasn't "that one"

Okay, enough of this. Heading to the nearest doc-in-a-box. Cue the "Steve gets sick on family trips" jokes...

Great. Apparently the best Mickey has to offer is an urgent care that closes at 8pm or a doc who will visit your room for $350. Will try to sleep it off. #DisneyFail

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DAY 3 - MAGIC KINGDOM

Early start to the day. We've got an 8:30am breakfast at the Crystal Palace in the Magic Kingdom. Upward & onward!

Piglet just took my coffee order and I got my picture taken with Tigger. Now I can die happy.

Health update: feeling okay. Sore throat. Stocked with Halls cough drops for the long haul. I know you were just dying to know.

Buzz Lightyear Space Ranger Spin score: 39,600. Feeling pretty good about myself.

Space Mountain. The high-techie-ness of this ride was a pretty big deal when it was built in the 70's. Now it's a retro high-techie-ness.

Every ride exit leads straight to a gift shop with a theme consistent with said ride. I think I'm seeing a pattern here...

Random observation: there are a lot of Italians here. Or at least people speaking fluent Italian.

Holy cow. Ran into one of Eldest's best friends in his class at school & his family. It really is a small world after all.

How is it possible that I'm hungry again? Oh, that's right - it's Disney & you're walking non-stop. Plus the smell of food is everywhere.

Walking around the park, speakers are hidden everywhere playing theme music appropriate for that part of the park. It's the little things that count.

Dear dude walking around with your t-shirt hiked up above your pecs: please, for the love of all that is good and Disney, stop.

There's a guy riding the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad roller coaster with his camera out taking pics. He will officially lose that camera in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.....

In the middle of Its A Small World: "Daddy, they play this song too much." #youngersonspeaks

Is it bad that, on the slow rides that run through indoor air-conditioned spaces, my attention is drawn to crevices off to the side that I could curl up in & take a nap? #tired

Buzz Lightyear Space Ranger Spin again Younger's score: 300,100. Not feeling so good about my score earlier in the day.

The Peoplemover. Alladin's carpets. The riverboat. Ten straight hours & counting.  All the rides are starting to blend together now.

Twelve hours after arriving, Younger & I are heading back. He doesn't like fireworks. I wanna hit the bed. Tonight, at least, we make a good team. Wife & Elder will be troopers & see it through to the end.

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DAY 4 - LAZY DAY, CHEF MICKEY'S, SCI-FI DINE IN THEATER

Temp back home in Mount Airy as kids go to school & parents to work: 45 degrees. Temp in Disney World as Lindsleys ease in to another Disney day: 73 degrees. Yesssssss.

"Man, that was the largest washcloth I'd ever seen!" #eldersonspeaks as he holds up a very damp hotel bathmat. Oh boy....

Family of 4-year old quintuplet girls & one younger brother waiting for brunch at Chef Mickey's. Girls are all made up in Mickey ears & bows. Mom looks pregnant. Dad looks tired.

Well, whadya know - more Mount Airy people! Good to catch up with Joey, Sally, Paxton & Kinley on their way out of Chef Mickey's!

Brunch consumed. Characters now visiting. Cool to see how my boys still get in to this.

The Dad at the table next to us is SO creeping on Minnie. Dude, control yourself.

Goofy just gave me a fist-bump. Dawg.

Realizing something today that I had picked up on when we were here last: there is absolutely no gum for sale anywhere in Disney, at any theme park. None. At all.

We are at Disney World, and what do the boys want to do on our free afternoon? Go to the cheesy hotel arcade. Sheesh.

Picked up some "Happy Anniversary" buttons for the wife & I at the front desk. It's a week away. The guy at the desk said the window was "anytime this year." I'll take that.

Oh my gosh. SO funny. Every Disney employee everywhere is wishing us a Happy Anniversary. Even some regular folks are joining in.

Sci Fi Dine-In Dinner theater at Hollywood Studios, where you sit in 50's cars and eat dinner while watching black & white Sci-Fi movies on the big screen. Awesome.

My favorite Sci-Fi movie title thus far: "Attack Of The 50-Foot Woman." This was an actual Hollywood movie, people. I need to find it.

On the bus ride back to the hotel, Younger falls asleep. At the moment, living vicariously through my boy.

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DAY 5 - EPCOT

I like Epcot, if for no other reason than the foods from all the countries.

Words of wisdom from my wife, who has done her share of Disney research: walk to the left when you enter the park. Most people walk to the right.

Standing in line for the Nemo ride, the boys are harmonizing on Green Day's "American idiot." Censored version, of course. #proudpapa

Love it in the "Turtle Talk With Crush" show that the sign language person signs "dude" and "righteous."

Had something called a "Spanish coffee" with dessert at lunch. Thought it was just straight-up coffee. Believe me, there was a lot more in it other than jo. Not sure if this will help the rest of my day or hurt it.

Soarin' is so cool, we're gonna do it again. Rockin' the Fast Pass!

Mission: Space. Flight to Mars. The more-intense version. So, lots of spins & G-force. Wife is sitting this one out in the gift shop.

Agent P's World Showcase Adventure, where kids get a phone-like device & have to find clues all over the place. Last time we did this it was Kim Possible. Not a fan. This time it's better, as are most things with a platypus.

Malestrom Norway ride = 30 minutes of my life that ill never get back. Lame.

All the Disney employees in China are Asian, except one - the Mulan Disney character everyone's getting pictures with. #DisneyFail

Overheard in Japan: "Wait, this isn't Germany?" What, was it the chopsticks that gave it away?

Walking through these Epcot countries, one might be led to think that all countries are nothing more than an endless series of thematic gift shops.

Ran into church members in France. Again, a small world!

And now the long line to get pics with the characters. But hey, they're showing cartoons!

Bus ride home was so packed I was standing & nearly fell back into some old lady's lap. That would've been a wild ending to the day!

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DAY 6 - HOLLYWOOD STUDIOS

It is quite obvious from watching TV while getting ready for the day that Florida is a swing state in the upcoming presidential election. #politicalads

"Come on in, Prince Charming!" says the Disney employee lady at the gate when Younger walks through. Big smile follows.

I gotta admit, I'm a little bummed neither of my boys want to do Jedi Training this time. #livingvicarioulsythroughymykids

Boys now playing in "Honey I Shrunk The Kids" playground. Which is cool, except last time we were here it was "Honey, I LOST the kids!"

Great. Honey I lost the kids. Again.

Honestly, I think they made HISTK to make parents look like complete idiots, running around trying to find their children.

Out with a head count of four. Thank God.

Dear dude standing in line: I'm pretty sure repeatedly dropping the "F" bomb is not part of the Disney experience.

Vomit alert in the Star Tours ride. Not from one of my boys, but on one of them. Eeew. Need a bathroom, stat.

Elder says he's not absolutely sure girl threw up on his leg & that it may have just been his sunscreen. Either way, we wash vigorously.

There are a lot of people in Disney sporting very bad tattoos. My fav was dude with a pic of some woman who looked nothing like the girl whose hand he was holding.

Eating lunch at a retro-50's place designed to look like grandma's kitchen. If the green beans taste like hers, we'll be in business.

Aerosmith's Rockin' Roller Coaster. A family affair. Zero to 60 in 2.6 seconds. That was some serious fun, and my favorite Disney picture by far!

My suggestion for Disney's next money-sucking venture: iPhone charging stations. Rates could increase in the afternoon. Would be more lucrative than overpriced food & gift shops.

About fell asleep in the Muppets show. This Dad is zonked. Miles to go before I sleep.

Toy Story Midway Mania. Where I give thanks to the good lord for Fast Passes that prevent a 75-minute wait.

And now, ladies & gents, the hour-long wait in line to get our family picture with Woody & Buzz, whoo-hoo!

This Woody/Buzz line is seriously starting to remind me of the line to see Santa in "A Christmas Story."

Kids in this line are dropping like flies. One little boy right in front of us is sobbing over & over again to his parents, "Take me out, PLEASE!" They're apparently not.

Honestly, Disney could have a beer stand in this line & make a killing. I'd personally shell out $10 for a Mich Ultra right now.

Kid in front of us is getting physical now. Dad is either giving him a drink of water or injecting him with a sedative. Can't quite tell.

Half an hour into things. More kids screaming. I fear a mutiny is upon us.

Okay, I'd pay $20 for that beer.

Getting close. Very close. Kid in front is showing hints of a smile. Maybe we'll get out of this alive!

Woody/Buzz family pic acquired! Now on to Pizza Planet for food and - you guessed it - an ice cold Yuelgling!

"This is freakin expensive," #eldersonspeaks, as he quickly burns through $5 in quarters in the Pizza Planet arcade.

Home. Bed. Another magical day in the books.

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DAY 7 - ONE LAST HURRAH AT MAGIC KINGDOM

Up early & packing. Boooooo

Disney thinks of everything. They even slightly deflate the toy balls in their gift shops so kids can't bounce them around. This truly fascinates me.

Incidentally, I am not fond of gift shops on the last day of Disney. They sap away your remaining time. Just call me Grumpy.

Hunter scored over 900,000 this time on Buzz Lightyear Space Ranger. Sweet Lord, shouldn't that win us an extra night's stay or something?

After much field study, it's a close call, but Aerosmith's Rockin' Roller Coaster > Space Mountain.

There's a big ugly black crane sticking up behind the castle where they're building the next phase of the theme park. Kind of a bummer for classic photo ops.

Let it be known: I will never get tired of the Haunted Mansion. Never. Ever.

Flashback from riding Splash Mountain circa 1976: I couldn't make up my mind if the inside part was supposed to be funny or scary. Loved it anyway. Still do.

Whoa! An egret just snatched Elder's burger right off his plate & flew away. Now that's one very hungry & very brave bird! And one bummed-out boy.

Dang. Time is slipping away. The bewitching hour is fast approaching. Gotta make the most of what's left here.

Not sure I understand my younger son's fascination with the PeopleMover. Maybe it's because there are no loud booming sounds. Whatever the case, here we go again....

Pirates of the Caribbean. Big Thunder Mountain Railroad. Something with Mickey. Making every minute count!

The big gift shop on Main Street. This one I like. Searching for the perfect t-shirt before we hit the road.

So long, Disney. You've been great to the Lindsleys once again!