Thoughts and Musings

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.

 

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.

"Hunger Games" and other rites of passage

So our son started reading The Hunger Games a few days ago.  After some pretty heavy lobbying on his part, his Mom and I gave our approval. He'd just finished his fifth or sixth Diary of a Wimpy Kid book.  No signs of injury from the whiplash effect.

There's no manual to let parents know when their kids are ready for stuff like this. For better or for worse, the primary barometer we used was simply what other kids his age were doing.  It's funny how quickly that barometer can change.  Last year I proctored a non-EOG test for a fourth-grade class at my son's school; and when the kids finished nearly all of them, in one fluid motion, put their pencils down and reached into their desk to pull out some permutation of the Suzanne Collins series. Standing at the front of the classroom, it was like looking at a huge mosaic of Hunger Games, Catching Fire, and Mockingjay book covers.  I watched in fascination and thought, wow, how cool they're reading some thought-provoking stuff there.  Some day my son will be ready for that. Some day.

That was April.  This is August.  Four short months.  And suddenly my son is in the fourth grade. 

Sure, it's pretty heavy material, beyond just the violence.  Trying to digest the rudiments of a dystopian society, an unjust world with little redemption, and a ruthless dictator takes a certain level of sophistication.  But I'd rather have my son deal with these issues in the context of a good fictional book; and with me and his mother ready to engage him in conversation and open discussion (which, if you know my son, is certainly forthcoming).

And yeah, I know, it's just the beginning.  The taboo book was merely a launching pad into a slew of pre-adolescent rites of passage. Already he's asked about Facebook and a cell phone.  My wife and I are discussing the parameters for an allowance.  Again, no manual.  Parents are left to their own devices to feel their way through all of this - a parental rite of passage of its own, I'm quickly learning.

It's just so surreal, how fast it's all happening. And the reminders extend beyond my own flesh and blood. Last night we were enjoying a lazy evening at the swimming pool and I went to get a snack.  I rounded the clubhouse and came upon one of my son's classmates; a cool kid with a bubbly personality who always makes me smile.  Except she wasn't standing there in flip-flops sucking on a freeze pop with a Mickey Mouse towel draped over her shoulders, like she was just yesterday.  Or maybe that was three years ago.  No, there she was, driving a golf cart, decked out in spiked shoes and collared shirt. Presumably taking a soda to her father on the back nine, but still.

Every now and then I have this recurring daydream.  It's one where my sons and I sit around the TV on a Sunday afternoon and digest the Panthers pass protection and talk about how many years Cam Newton has left.  Or we check out the latest super hero movie - Avengers 6, we'll call it - and laugh at how it was just like all the others.  Or the four of us feel the collective surge of adrenaline in the arena at a U2 or Green Day or Switchfoot concert.  Or my wife and I suffer through six agonizing summer days without as much as a text or phone call from the boys as they relish in their newfound independence with the youth group at a week-long Montreat Youth Conference.  Or brochures for institutions of higher education start showing up in our mailbox, and they're not addressed to me.

It all seems so incredibly far off, until I realize: it's so much closer than I could possibly imagine. 

Sweet Jesus, what I'd give for that manual.

Kickin' back at the Wild Goose

Here's the first thing you need to know about the Wild Goose Festival: it's hot. As in temperature-hot. This is to be expected when you host an event in the heart of North Carolina at the end of June. It's going to be steamy.

Here's the second thing you need to know about the Wild Goose festival: it's a Christian festival, but not that kind of Christian festival. Taking its name from a Celtic symbol for unpredictability, beauty and grace, the Wild Goose Festival describes itself on its website as "a community creating a festival at the intersection of justice, spirituality and art."   Think Woodstock for Christian hippies without the drug use and with clothing.

And here's the third thing you need to know about the Wild Goose Festival, as stated by one of the organizer in their welcome Thursday (and I'm paraphrasing here): "If you are here because you know the truth and you want to make sure everyone else knows the same truth you do, then we want to encourage you to use this festival as your own personal retreat of solitude and silence." This was met, incidentally, with wild applause.  At the Wild Goose Festval, you learn quickly that personal agendas and soapboxes are left at the Shakori Hills entrance, and open dialogue and mutual respect and love take their place.

I had heard about the Wild Goose Festival from some family friends who went last year and absolutely loved it.  A few months ago I was asked to play music for one of the noon "Sacred Space" worship services at the festival, and the family decided to tag along.  We camped out one night and enjoyed a solid 24+ hours of the Wild Goose experience - more than enough to whet our appetite for next year.

So, what goes on at the Wild Goose?  A number of things.  Great music, everywhere, all the time.  On stage (David Lamotte and Derek Webb were two that I saw) and all around Shakori Hills under the shade of trees, people jamming away.  Wonderful speakers; folks whose books I'd been reading for years.  Brian McLaren, Phyllis Tickle, Shane Claiborne, Jim Wallis - just to name a very few. Booths all over the grounds for everything from seminaries and colleges and book publishers to the group against torture, the organization promoting clean water (very appropriate given our state's current flirtation with fracking), racial equality, world missions - you pretty much name it, it was there.  All while camping with the family under the shade of a cluster of trees, and with some former Mount Airy friends we hadn't hung out with in years.

The cool thing about the Wild Goose Festival is that everyone just kind of hangs out with each other, including the speakers and musicians.  There are no walls separating the "names" from the masses, and that's exactly the point.  So it was nothing to see Brian McLaren "emerge" from his tent just a few campspots away from yours, or Phyllis Tickle chatting it up over a cup of cool lemonade with a young couple holding their two-year old daughter, or Derek Webb discussing favorite bands with the guy at the seminary booth.  It's what community should be about.

You never know what might happen when you throw a bunch of free-thinking spiritual types together in a confined space for five scorching days (did I mention it was hot?), but everyone behaved and was kind and courteous.  Just in the small taste my family and I got of it, there was an air of excitement and engagement over what God was doing there - a sense that Christianity does not have to be so narrowly defined by a certain segment of society that wants to describe it in negative terms and make it about a single set of issues.  I think that's what attracted me to it the most - a freedom to embrace a more comprehensive and complete view of the faith.  It's the kind of Christianity I wish others could see more often.

Here's a few pictures I took of the event, just to give you a taste of what my family's experience was like.  The video that follows will cast the net a little wider.  You should make plans to go next year.  I'm pretty sure we'll be there again.

Wildgoose West August 31-September 2, 2012 from Wild Goose on Vimeo.

I'm Thankful (the newly-lit back porch edition)

So I just finished installing some pretty sweet lights on our back porch. Listening to an old R.E.M. album and staring at an empty blog post screen.  I know I gave myself permission to not feel obligated to blog as frequently, but I have this feeling that something's percolating.  For some reason I feel compelled to blog about what I'm thankful for, which is strange because I already did the same sort of thing a few Thanksgivings back.  But this will be different. 

I'm thankful for porches.  Even it it's on the back of the house and not on the front, like they used to be.  You ever notice that?  Check out homes built before the 50's - porches on the front.  That's because porches were the primary place of social interaction, long before phones and television and a little thing called Facebook.  You sat out there and talked to people as they walked by - or talked to people beside you and across the street as they sat on their front porches.  Around the 60's, though, in the midst of suburbia flight, porches found their way to the back of the home, and yards became fenced in, as privacy and solitude took precedence over chatting it up with the neighbors.  I guess I'm a front-porch guy at heart.  But I'm still thankful for porches of all kinds. And it helps if they have cool new lights.

I'm thankful that my youngest son loves sports.  I guess he really got into it a few months ago, for some reason, right around the NBA playoffs. I've never been a huge fan myself, but I do love talking sports.  Now, finally, I have someone to talk to.  Every day he'll wake up and want to check last night's score, and who scored how many points.  Just now, in fact, he came out on the porch to give me an update on the Heat-Celtics score.  It's 24-16 Heat, but by the time you read this it'll be something different.  And if you ask my youngest, he'll be happy to tell you what it is.

I'm thankful that my oldest son does what he loves doing.  This is his second year taking dance lessons, for example.  He had his dance recital last weekend.  They all did a great job, of course, but I couldn't help being biased about my son.  What can I say, I'm his father.  I think what impressed me most is that, out of a hundred kids or so, he was the only boy in the bunch.  The only one.  Friends, that takes guts that I sure didn't have when I was 9.

I'm thankful for my wife.  For one thing, she was the one who came up with the genius idea about the porch lights.  I still had to install them, but the idea had to come first.  She also made breakfast for dinner, which was pretty awesome.  She's also a phenomenal parent, especially with my crazy schedule and all.  Exceedingly patient.  I hope our boys realize one day what an exceptional mother they have in her.  I know I do.

I'm thankful for Words With Friends. Except when it's the end of the game and I get stuck with a "Q" or "Z" I can't use.  That stinks.

I'm thankful for good long runs.  Well, "long" is relative, I guess.  I'm not like those crazies that can knock out 15 miles on a lunch break.  I'm thankful that I can run what for me is a long way. 

I'm thankful for "Fall On Me" off R.E.M,'s "Life's Rich Pageant.  Phenomenal tune. 

I'm thankful for June evenings when it's past 9pm and there's still a faint light in the sky.  And then the sun rises before six in the morning. Long days are the best.

I'm thankful for people who, in their own special way, remind me of life's priorities, and what is most important, and how I tend to over-inflate the importance of things that are not.  And how they remind me of all of this without even trying.  You know people like that?  They're good to keep close at your side.

I'm thankful for cool summer evenings on my newly-lit back porch, eating a late dinner with my oldest son who just got home from "Seussical" practice, hearing yet another update on the Heat-Celtics game from my youngest son. Yep, life on the newly-lit porch is not bad.  Not bad at all.

Hope comes, as it always does, in new life.

The other night I engaged in my nightly pre-bed ritual of quietly tiptoeing into the boys' rooms.  I walk over to their beds where, God willing, they're fast asleep.  I lay my hand on their heads, just for a second or two.  I don't really say or do anything, but I guess it's kind of a prayer of sorts.  A parental blessing to end the day.

When I went into our oldest son's room, who turned 9 this week, I lingered a bit.  Something was keeping me there.  And then I heard it - well, in my head I heard it.  A question from my past, dragged out of my subconscious:

Do we really want to bring a child into this mess?

It was my wife who posed it, many years before.  She was the braver one, to be honest - brave enough to voice the question that'd been rattling around in both our brains in recent weeks but had, up until that moment, remained unspoken.

Even before we got married, we knew we wanted kids.  Eventually.  A few years to ourselves would be wise; get used to each other and this lifelong dance known as marriage.  But over that summer, things had taken a turn.  Conversations about having kids had gone from strictly hypothetical to more imminent.  As much as we ever could be, we were ready.

And then 9-11 happened.

When severly misguided and sick men fly loaded commercial jets straight into skyscrapers and government buildings and a Pennsylvania field, it can't help but cause you to second-guess your convictions.  And one of those convictions, for us at least, was being parents.  It's hard enough bringing a child into the world and dealing with paying for college and feeding and clothing them, and that strong desire to shield them from anything that would do them harm.  There's a certain accepted level of uncertainty to life.  But after the morning of September 11th, uncertainty kind of burst through the floodgates and saturated us.

The question came a week or so after it happened.  It was a legitimate question.  Why would we want to subject anyone, much less our own flesh and blood, to the sick world outside our doors?  It was hard enough making heads or tails of all things post-9-11 as a grown adult.  How could we ever expect a kid to deal with it?

In the end we realized that, on the contrary, this was the perfect time to have a child.  It was our dream, our calling to be parents.  And to give up on that dream would mean letting the terrorists win.  Because the truth of the matter is that they never really were after buildings and a body count.  They wanted to strike at the very heart of our soul.  And we weren't going to let them do that.

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

Fast forward a few months.  My wife talked me into going to see some new movie about a kid named Harry Potter.  Kind of strange, two grown adults at a kids movie; but it seemed important to her.  Afterwards we dined at the Schlotsky's Deli down the street - good stuff.  We got into the car in the deli parking lot and I asked if there was anywhere she wanted to go before we headed home.  How about Babies R Us?  she asked excitedly, with a noticeable sheepish grin on her face.  I was confused at first.  Why in the world would we ever need to go to..... 

Oh.....!

And that's how my wife told me she was pregnant with our first child.

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

It was the morning of September 11, 2002. I was parked in front of TV, and every channel that morning carried the one-year memorial observance at Ground Zero.  Amazing how beautiful the day was, just like before.  It had been a busy year, a jam-packed year. And yet watching the television, the horror of that morning came flooding back to me as if it had happened yesterday.

There was something different this time around, though. I was holding our two-day old son in my arms.

We were at the hospital, and we were getting ready to go home.  My wife was in the room packing her bag.  Any minute now the nurse would come with the wheelchair, and our family - now three strong - would head to our car parked right outside the hospital front door, courtesy of some strange kindness called "valet service."  We were prepping to leave the comfort and security of the hospital, the nurses and doctors who knew far more about taking care of a newborn than we did.  We were going out into the world that, just a year ago, seemed like it was falling apart.

I held our firstborn son and couldn't stop staring at him, then I glanced up at the TV and the memorial service, then back at our son.  And then I understood:

The terrorists lost.

Hope comes, as it always does, in new life.

I am the proud father of a dancer.

I always dreamed of being a Dad. I grew up with a great one, so I wanted to be one, too.  I imagined myself celebrating Father's Day, not just as a son but as a father myself.  That's exactly what I did yesterday, as I've done for the past eight years.

But I'll be honest - I never imagined myself enjoying it at a dance recital.

When our 8-year old son asked us a year ago if he could take dance, my wife and I were happy to oblige.  Putting aside all the stereotypical assumptions of what boys are supposed to do - usually involving a sport with some kind of ball - we signed him up for hip-hop class.  Every Thursday night this school year he's been there, learning his moves.  If he was bothered by the fact that he was one of two boys in a class of fifteen or so, and one of three boys in an entire dance program of close to 150 kids, he never showed it.

For the past few weeks he's been brushing up on the dance at home, getting prepped for Sunday's recital.  I had heard for years about this event.  In the past, when a swath of young girls in our church took dance, this Sunday - almost always Father's Day - was the lowest-attended Sunday of the year.  That's because kids and parents have to be at the Stevens Center in Winston-Salem at 9am.  For a 6pm recital.  My wife took our son down yesterday morning for their marathon day, while his younger brother and I did the church thing.  Grandparents and an uncle joined us for the show. 

The recital is a bit of a test in endurance; but then again, if you don't have a kid, grandkid, niece/nephew or good friend in the show, you're probably not there anyway.  It was over two hours in length with a short intermission.  His dance was in the middle of the first act.  But, of course, there was the big finale at the end of the whole thing.  He was so proud of himself, and he did awesome.  They all did, really.

After the show we scooted across the street to the strategically-placed Mellow Mushroom Pizzeria, along with a bunch of other folks.  A number of people stopped by our booth and told our son what a great job he did.  He was beaming.  And so were we, to be honest.

What a tremendous way to spend Father's Day.

Late night/early morning musings

I typically don't do much blogging at 1:30 in the morning, and there's good reason for that.  I'm not much of a night person. Other than the occasional late night band gig (which amounts to a personal test of endurance), I pretty much flake out after The Daily Show.  I'm much more of a morning person, to be honest.

Ah, but tonight I'm having to defy my instincts.  There's a batch of pretty bad storms making their way through our area, bringing some tornadoes southwest of us.  So the wife and I made the decision to go into full storm-prep mode.  The outside dogs are in the downstairs bathroom, the boys are sleeping on the living room couch.  Right now my wife is joining them there, and I've taken the first watch.

If nothing else this little bit of self-imposed sleep-deprivation gives me the chance to reflect on a number of things this week - something that, frankly, I don't get to do all that much.  If I'm not running from point A to point B and trying to cram C, D, E and F in there somewhere, I'm probably sleeping.  But I can't do that right now.  So I'm reflecting.  And here's what I'm thinking:

• I'm enjoying my week off this week.  I always try to do the typical seven-day respite following the pastoral rat race known as Holy Week and Easter.  It's a nice change of pace.  Even if I keep myself busy doing stuff, at least it's stuff I want to do.  In fact, there's something actually restful in that, isn't there?


• I'm hopeful about the latest installment of our garden.  Cautiouslly hopeful.  This will be the third year that our family has attempted to grow some of our own produce.  And I use the word "attempt" very intentionally.  Our first year wasn't too bad; we had a couple of items that came from it.  We figured that would lay the foundation for better things to come.  No produce at all.  Nada.   This year I'm a little more hopeful because of two things: first, we added mulch to help keep moisture in the dirt.  We should've done that the other two years.  And second, I installed a small chicken wire fence to keep out any little creatures who might want to help themselves to any of the bounty in there.  If all goes well, at various points in the spring and summer we'll get to enjoy some home-grown tomatoes, green/yellow/red peppers, green beans, cilantro, basil, okra, canteloupe, lettuce and onions.  I'll keep you posted.


• Man, the wind is really picking up now.  Perhaps my idea of sitting out on the screened-in porch is not a wise one.


• Something's wrong with my iPhone, and this really bugs me.  Last night it wouldn't charge no matter what I plugged it into.  My good friend and Apple know-it-all here in town tells me this is a classic sign of water damage.  So the phone spent the entire day today fully submerged in a bowl of rice (a common method used to dry out electronic gadgets). I don't think it worked, although the phone seems to charge in my Bose sound dock (ironic, since it's not an Apple product, and you know how Mr. Jobs is about his stuff....)  The plan is to get it up and running for tomorrow (well, today now) and then take it to the Apple store in town, where hopefully any bad news will be diverted.


• There's nothing like having your car deep-cleaned and waxed.  Even if you're the one who had to do it.  It's the biggest pain the world (just ask the Karate Kid - the original one, not Will Smith's son), but the darn thing is paid for in full so we've got to keep it in the best condition we can.  I also vaccummed the interior and wiped the 1/2 inch dust layer that had accumulated on the dash.  Looks pretty darn cool now.


• I don't care what political persuasion you are - contrary to what Mr. Trump may feel, it's a sad day in our country when our president is forced to share his long-form birth certificate to satisfy a few nutjobs who refused to believe the truth that was shared a long time ago.  I have a lot more I could say but I'll just leave it at that.


• Tomorrow will be a music day.  I have a radio interview with our local NPR station in the morning (seven hours, in fact).  After that I'll head to Doug's studio to lay down some Hammond & piano for the Mediocre Bad Guys tunes we're working on.  Then I go pick up the promo CDs for the new album that should be arriving via UPS.  They were supposed to arrive earlier, but the company botched the order and it took a few days to set it straight.


• It's starting to rain/thunder/lightning now, so I think it's time to head inside.

Oh, how our kids surprise us...

If you happened to be at First Presbyterian's worship service this past Sunday, or if you got to listen to the service online, you will recall how my eight-year old inadvertently participated in the Sunday sermon.  In my sermon I was recounting a story about our family trip to Disney World last May and how the boys got to duel Darth Maul at the Jedi Training Academy in Hollywood Studios (not Universal Studios, as I erroneously said). I mentioned that we visited this particular attraction on Wednesday.  And during the ever-so-slight pause I took before my next sentence, my son instinctively blurted out, It was Tuesday.  It wasn't loud, but loud enough for the whole congregation to hear.  Everyone had a good laugh about it, preacher's kid interrupting his minister Dad and all.  Classic.  After worship, church members were eager to comment, with most falling in one of two camps: "Hey, at least he was listening," and "He is so your son."

(And for the record, it was later confirmed by the wife that the day we went to Jedi Training was in fact Wednesday ;-)

How appropriate that earlier today a friend sent me the following 30-second video clip that you'll definitely want to see.  This is the same Disney attraction our kids took part in (although the stage is a little different). You must check this out. Enjoy!

Speaking out for curbside recycling

This evening my family and I attended a public hearing held by our city commissioners.  The topic: curbside recycling.  Our wonderful little town of "Mayberry" doesn't have it, and after years of egging our community leaders on, they finally scheduled this forum.  Strange as it is to say, this has been a contentious issue in our community, as there are some who are vehemently opposed to the idea for a number of reasons.  Cost is one of them (and a reasonable one, I confess); but a significant group who view such an initiative as "government intrusion" and even those who see curbside recycling as a not-so-veiled form of socialism (as I highlighted in this previous blog post).

The forum lasted just under two hours.  Those who spoke were overwhelmingly in favor of curbside recycling.  I didn't keep track, but I would guess that for every one person opposed, four or five were in favor.  A lot of the vitriol that had surfaced over the past few weeks in the social media world over this topic was nonexistent.

Both my wife and 8-year old son spoke, as did I.  In my comments I approached things from both a pastoral/spiritual angle, as well as a city resident and taxpayer.  Below is what I said. 

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

My friends – tonight I come in two capacities to express my support for curbside recycling – as a pastor and a resident of this wonderful town.  As pastor, I come not representing the church I serve, but representing many people of many faiths who understand that the call to take care of God’s earth comes first and foremost from this – the scriptures.  In the book of Genesis, which serves as the foundation for some 2.2 billion Christians and Jews worldwide, the scripture says this:

Then God said, ‘Let us make humankind in our image, according to our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the wild animals of the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth, and over the earth itself.

Sadly, over the years that word “dominion” has been misconstrued to mean “do with the world as you wish.”  When in fact, the Hebrew here actually describes a scenario where a servant is entrusted with the care of their master’s possessions.  So the world does not belong to us – it belongs to God.  Like the Psalmist says in Psalm 24:1: The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it.

People of faith all over the world understand God’s mandate to care for creation – including many here in our community, represented in these signed petitions, stating that curbside recycling is not only a civic calling but a spiritual one as well.  I submit these to you for public record on their behalf.

The second capacity in which I come tonight is as a citizen of this town – a citizen who recognizes that waste disposal comes at a cost to the taxpayer, no matter how we go about doing it.  We can either continue purchasing additional land for the landfill – land which will eventually fill up and cause us to purchase more land – or we can enact a curbside recycling program that, in the long run, will cost the taxpayer less.  If we are going to talk about cost in this discussion, as some people are so eager to do, then let us be open and honest about all costs involved.

It’s become apparent that, if curbside recycling is going to happen in Mount Airy, it’s going to require some "forward-thinking" on behalf of you, our city commissioners.  Which is why I’m grateful that this is something you all have demonstrated in the past.  Five or six years ago, you will recall, Reeves Community Center was in danger of shutting its doors.  It would've been easy for you, our elected officials, to have said, "We can't afford to get involved." Instead, you wisely recognized that you couldn't afford NOT to.  So you chose to take over Reeves and keep that vital community resource intact.

And, you know, it strikes me that the city didn’t have to hold a public forum back then to discuss this, even though it came at an additional cost to the taxpayer.  So why is this issue so much more contentious?  The real reason, I would submit, is not about money.  The real reason is about doing something new and different; something we’ve never had before.  It’s about change.  And as creatures of habit, we humans are not very fond of change.  But sometimes doing the right thing, doing the smart and sensible thing, doing the economically viable thing, requires that we do something we’ve never done before.

On a personal note: I’ve had the honor of getting to know each of you on a number of levels.  I’ve served with you in Rotary and in ministry.  I’ve shared the stage with you for shows you were running sound for.  I’ve coached your children in swimming, taught them at the college, officiated your daughter’s weddings.  I know you love this town and want very much to do the right thing.  My friends, this is the right thing!  And, contrary to our local newspaper’s editorial yesterday, this is also very much the right time.  I implore you, as a fellow citizen and colleague and friend, to once again engage in “forward-thinking” and bring curbside recycling to Mount Airy.   Thank you!

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