In The Words Of David Cassidy…

“Sayin’ goodbye is not easy.  How will I ever explain?  Everyone looks just like cardboard pictures, falling apart in the rain…Running, yes I am, wave goodbye to all the trains.  If I’m looking for a river that goes on forever, then I guess I’ll have to go away.  Sayin’ goodbye is not easy.  How will I ever explain?…” – “I’ll Have To Go Away”, recorded by David Cassidy from, “Getting’ It In The Street” album, 2014.  Composers: Renee Armand & Kerry Chater

1970 was an impact year for the young David Cassidy.  The musical-sitcom, The Partridge Family, launched its first season on ABC.  The story is of a single mom with five kids heading up a pop-rock band made up of the entire family.  David Cassidy played the lead singer, Keith Partridge.  He was only 20 years old at the time.

Although Mr. Cassidy had millions of residual fans spinning off from the TV show, after the series’ end he struggled to be taken seriously as an authentic rock star.  Alcohol and substance abuse addictions plagued his journey throughout the next few decades.

Fast forward to the last couple of years, he began to experience dementia issues.  While on stage, he tussled with recalling the lyrics of his own songs, and the city and venue in which he was performing.  I personally was saddened when he passed away recently from organ failure.  The comet of this star burned out quickly.  David was only 67.

Family members of David Cassidy gathered around his bedside in ICU during his last days of life.  The reports from various family members said, when awake from a coma, he was in good spirits, considering the circumstances.   He lit up like a Christmas tree seeing many of his family walk through the door, albeit for a short time.  His daughter, actress, Katie Cassidy tweeted out a heart-wrenching statement after her father’s death.  She wrote that before his life ended, David’s final words were, “So much wasted time.”

Katie Cassidy states that she learned something from her father’s final words; may we, as well.

Singer/Songwriter, Jim Croce comes to mind from his “Time In A Bottle” classic.  “If I could save time in a bottle, the first thing that I’d like to do, is to save every day ‘til eternity passes away just to spend them with you.”

TIME!  It’s not just the title of a magazine.  It’s ruled by the orbits and rotations of the moon and planets, so precise that all humanity survives on it to the millisecond.  Time is overwhelming in its weightiness.  The poundage outweighs the earth’s oceans.  You can’t buy it, barrow it, cheat it, shape it or maneuver it.  You can’t retract it.  You can’t delete it, displace it, delay it or deny it.  Time is a raging creature, almost stealthy with a speed which cannot be reversed.  During the trek of time, it only shifts to one gear: forward drive.  If you believe you can do the above, in the end, time will rise up, chain you and place you in the town square while selling tickets to see the town fool.  Time.  It will overtake you like a steamroller.

If David Cassidy were able to communicate to us today, I believe he would speak through the filter of a time management consultant.   Maybe he would advise us with the following.  Find the time to fill in the blank.  We are at the midnight hour of 2017.  There is still time to hug more, kiss more, write more letters, Christmas cards and emails.  There is still time to get clean and sober.  Time says, “Make that apology while you can!”  There is still more time to pick up the phone and call just to say, “I love you.”  There is still time to give of your blessings to bless someone else.  There is still time to stand in the Santa line with your favorite munchkin.  There is still time to have lunch with that old friend who helped to change your direction in life.  David might shout, “TAKE THE TIME!”

Scripture calls out the urgency of wisely using the time allotted to us.  “But encourage one another daily, as long as it is called ‘Today’…”  “And it came to pass…”  “The time is at hand…”  In fact, if David Cassidy could be with us today, I firmly believe he would agree with St Paul.  “Therefore watch carefully how you walk, not as unwise, but as wise; redeeming the time, because the days are evil.” (Eph 5:15-16)

Take the time to add fuel for the race.

Oh, Thanks a Lot

“Yeah, but every little boy grows up, and he’s haunted by the heart that died.  Longing for the world that was before the fall.  Oh, but then forgiveness comes.  A grace that I cannot resist.  And I just want to thank someone.  I just want to thank someone for this.” – Andrew Peterson – 2012 from, “Light For The Lost Boy” CD

I slept in the guest bedroom of my grandparent’s house when visiting.  It’s in an old part of Greenville, Texas, built in 1852.  Creaky wooden slat floors, no insulation in the walls and high ceilings.  Unfortunately, the guest room was next to my grandmother’s kitchen.  It was a blessing and a curse.  My mom and I would arrive for Thanksgiving a day early, way before the uncles, aunts and cousins would pull up at the old house.  By that time, my grandmother had already been in prep for the family feast to come.  Needless to say, on Thanksgiving morning, around 4:00am, I would awake to the sound of egg beaters, along with a collage of holiday aromas, drifting and hovering over my bed like a web of tantalizing treats.  THAT was Thanksgiving morning for me.  Those particular family traditions are gone, fading into treasured memories.  I do thank God for the mental slideshows.

Look at the title of this article.  It’s a common phrase we say all the time.  We hear ourselves blurt it out when someone holds the elevator doors for us.  We speak it when shown to our theater seats.  It’s normal to say it at the drive-thru window, after paying for the sack of fast food.  Funny how you can make it sound sarcastic, or very warm.  Try it.  “Oh, thanks a LOT!” (Maybe ending it with the word, “Pal” or something I can’t type on this format.)  Even the word, “Oh…” can be hurtful to an ear.  “Oh” makes gratefulness appear to be an afterthought, as if the offering of it was almost forgotten.  I recommend dropping the “Oh” and go straight for the cherished words.  Why?  Read on, if you dare.

While listening online to CCM Classic.com, I heard, for the first time, an Andrew Peterson song from 2012, “Don’t You Want To Thank Someone” from his, “Light For The Lost Boy” CD.  Let me tell you, tears may come as you hear the song, or just read the lyric.  It will test you.  The melody is haunting.  His verses will pierce you, even reclaim some memories, but guaranteed to make you put down the phone, turn off the screen and ponder once again.  I highly recommend it for a rich Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving should be a way of heart, daily life, like prayer.  Secular society would discover it takes humility to do so.  When calling up a loved one to say, “Thanks a lot”, recall Who gave that person to you.  Recall Who paved the road that brought the intersections of your relationships.  Many will be grateful for the view on a midnight clear.  That’s terrific; however, many will not thank the Painter of the scene, the Engineer who spins the orbits in precised synchronization like the atomic clock of perfection.  Many will be thankful for their jobs.  That’s great.  But, many employees will neglect gratefulness to the One who inspired the business owner who founded the company who hired them.  Many will be appreciative for good health.  However, many will ignore the One who holds all things together.  Many will tell their child how thankful they are for their young lives mingled with theirs.  However, scads will forget to thank the Creator, the Life Giver and the Birth Giver.  Frankly, in the end, when we thank someone, or some object, we are thanking the “thing” or the “person” God created and graciously gave as a gift.

So, yes, do thanks a lot.

It takes a humble heart to give thanks, instead of using it as a throw-away line.  When we accept this truth, it always adds fuel for the race.

“’Cause I can hear the voice of one.  He’s crying in the wilderness, ‘Make ready for the Kingdom Come’.  Don’t you want to thank someone for this?” – Andrew Peterson, 2012- “Light For The Lost Boy” CD. (Youtube this one)

Let That Be Your Last Battlefield

“Ebony and ivory live together in perfect harmony.  Side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord, why don’t we?” – Paul McCartney from “Tug Of War” project in April, 1982. Guest artist, Stevie Wonder. (Parlophone and Columbia labels)

Did I catch you singing the line?  Come on, admit it.  Unless you were away from the radio in 1982, you know the giant hooks in this ear-candy song from Sir Paul, with a little help from his friend, Stevie Wonder.  Stevie isn’t his friend because Stevie is white or black.  Stevie is his friend because Stevie and Paul respect and love one another.  Where am I going with that bold statement?  Stay with me and allow me to surprise you.

When I started this blog a few short days ago, I swore I would not write about politics, and I will not start today.  (There’s plenty out there for your selected pleasure.)  So, fear not!  No political pundit rhetoric here, but I reserve the right to speak eternal truths.  It takes a strong person to read on at this point.  Are you up for it?

There was a little boy about three or four years old who lived with his mom and her parents in Greenville, Texas, about an hour east of Dallas.  On Saturday mornings, during commercial breaks on Bugs Bunny, his blue eyes grew larger as he found himself peering out the living room French door.   For him it was more than a weekend ritual for one reason and one reason only.  Usually before lunchtime, an elderly weathered African-American with old hard leather lace-up shoes would walk up the street dragging an old lawnmower.  His name was Mr. Amos.  (No one really knew if it was his first name or his surname.)  He was easy to spot.  He had a red rag hanging out the back pocket of his worn-out pants.  When the song, “Mr. Bojangles” hit the airwaves in 1971, the lyrics would remind that young kid very much of Mr. Amos from years prior.  Unlike Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Amos wasn’t a homeless nomad roaming the country.  He lived in the neighborhood, although he was a man of poverty.  He took great pride in his work.  He would come to the door to let the grandmother of the boy know he was there and ready to get started.  He was always welcomed with a smile and a handshake.  He was hard-working, kind and honest. Generally, after he wrapped up the front yard, before he made his way to the backyard, the little lad would ask his grandmother for a cold bottle of Dr. Pepper right out of the fridge.  She expected the request because she once gave the little munchkin the idea.  She would pop the bottle-top open handing him the chilled bottleneck.  With an enormous grin on his face that would make a dentist proud, he would run out the door straight up to the sweaty old man and say, “Hi, Mr. Amos! Here’s your Dr. Pepper.”  Without hesitation, the elderly man put it to his mouth and pointed the bottom toward the hot sun for a marathon swig.  The young boy’s jaw would drop every time as he watched in amazement Mr. Amos chugging down the entire bottle of Dr. Pepper without taking a breath.  Afterwards he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, handed the empty bottle back to the tot and say, with a hardy rough voice like Louis Armstrong, “Ahhhhh, that’s my boy!”  The boy would giggle and run back inside to hand the empty bottle back to his grandmother.  Still in awe he would shout out, “Grandmother, he did it again!  He drank the whole thing!”  For a brief moment the little one thought it cool that the old wrinkled man felt akin to him.  After all, he did say, “MY boy”.  There is an uncertainty just how many years went on as Mr. Amos aged, sucking down Dr. Peppers as the growing boy looked on.  As always, Mr. Amos would receive a nice sum in cash for his work and off he went to his next yard.

One day, while Mr. Amos was mowing the lawn, his adult son and daughter-in-law suddenly drove up and parked in the driveway.  There would be shouting between the old man and his son as if it were an ongoing feud.  The boy hurried to the nearest window to hear what he could hear as his grandparents went to the door to see what the disturbance was all about.  The young lad heard the son raising his voice about how he shouldn’t be mowing lawns at his age.  Mr. Amos pushed back as he defended his valuable work ethic.  When the son seemed to come to the end of his case and point, he made a snide comment concerning working for these “white folk” and how he was being “used” by the “white folk”.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Mr. Amos was respected and appreciated by the family.  He did solid work and was paid well for it.  Yet, his son was reflecting a racial issue of that time, being in the mid 1960s.  I’m sorry to say, he was using the race card to pull him back home, against his will.  The grandfather of the house slipped Mr. Amos some cash and told him it would be best to go with his son and work out their differences at home.  He was never seen again.

I loved Mr. Amos.  Did I know he was black, a different color than me?  Sure, I did.  In fact, I would intentionally touch or shake his hand just to see if the color would rub off onto mine.  He brought me a bit of joy on Saturday mornings.  I loved serving him those Dr. Peppers, too.  Why?  It’s simple.  He loved Dr. Pepper and I knew it.  I wanted to share something I had that produced a big smile.  Although I could see he was a different color than me, it mattered not through my lens of innocence.  It was the man I cared for.

A few years later I watched a Star Trek episode in January of 1969 entitled, “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield”.  (Google this one)  If you’re a 1960s Star Trek fan, you’ll recall it. Without going into great plot detail, I will give you a snippet of story-line.  It had to do with the hatred of two mutually belligerent aliens on a distant planet. They shared the same planet, the same air, but despised one another because they were trained to have disgust for the other from generations gone by.  The prejudice manifested itself in mindless violence.  The two men were from one species, but from different ethnic bloodlines.  The difference?  Both were the same at first glance.  Half of the face was black, the other half was white.  However, one had white skin on the right side while the other man had white skin on the left side. DONE! That’s it!  One was subservient to the other because of that tiny, molecular contrast.  (You may have noticed, like Rod Serling, often Star Trek’s creator, Gene Roddenberry would carve-out social issues of the day in the scripts.)

Then came my 7th grade year.  I was often found in the middle of racially charged fights at my junior high school in Sherman, Texas.  Interestingly enough, I was friendly to everyone, but I was white and that made me a target. White attacking black and black attacking white. The national civil rights disputes and riots were still lingering, and busing students for desegregation purposes had begun.  That atmosphere was so far removed from my relationship with Mr. Amos.  It confused and saddened me.   Memories of the verbal battle I heard from my grandparent’s window flooded my mind. The bigotry was a vile hatred that blocked out honor, respect and love.

Fast forward to August 12th, this past Saturday morning in the streets of Charlottesville, VA, once again two factions from the same planet, who could take blood transfusions from one another, replayed the old Star Trek episode in a very real, organized, and damaging slant. You’ve seen the news, I won’t relive it here blow-by-blow.  What I will spew out is my “hatred” for the evil that fathers such darkness. Yes, I used the word, “evil”, as if it were a reality, because it is. To neglect its existence is to surely become its constant victim.

No matter if you are black or white, BLM member or card-carrying KKK associate, Jew or Gentile, Christian or Muslim, if you bring a weapon, shield and helmet to a protest rally, you are coming to shed blood.  Enough said!

White supremacy doctrine follows the director and producer, the event promoter of such rallies…the ancient Fallen One Himself, the original Divider, a master at the chessboard with humanity as the pawns. It’s not a political movement, or an organization to preserve the history of southern states.  It’s hatred 101.  It’s putrid sewage stains without true removal.  It goes way back to Cain and Abel in Genesis.  Neo-Nazis, KKK, Skinheads and the like, are all condemned with a platform of a cursed notion poisoning the very soil of the earth.  In fact, the same goes for civil lawlessness, destruction and violence from any race or school of thought.

Yesterday, my daughter decided to educate herself on the white supremacists.  She looked up a couple of websites and got an eyeful.  The lewdness from their creed describes the degradation of women.  She read if a woman can not reproduce, she should be removed and exterminated.  Woman was created to serve man and be pregnant, etc. Among other outrageous atrocities, it mentions, “the Jewish problem”.

I always wondered what happened to old Mr. Amos and how much longer he lived.  He was a kind soul.  I am sure he lived long enough to understand that racism is here to stay, in fact, within his own house.  I’m certain with aging eyes he saw racism will not ebb away like erosion because of the so called, “evolution” of humanity.  Nor will you.

The one thing the white supremacists were right about.  THEY HAVE A JEWISH PROBLEM! THE KING OF THE JEWS WILL BE THEIR ULTIMATE JUDGE!  That gives this adopted Jew, fuel for the race.

“Before Him will be gathered all the nations, and He will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats.  And He will place the sheep on His right, but the goats on His left…” -Jesus, from Matthew 25:32-33 (ESV)  

Unlike An Island

“Like an island in the sea, I’m drifting your way and you land next to me.  Will you stay the day?” – Phil Keaggy, “Like An Island” from “Getting Closer” album, 1985 on Nissi Records.

Go ahead, say it.  I’m okay with your first thought.  It’s blurry.  I’ll give you another observation.  It’s old too.  Therefore, it should be blurry.  I’m thinking it was my mom’s Instamatic camera.  (You may have to Google that one)

It was the spring, possibly April of 1978.  We were part of a rather large high school choir tour landing in Nashville, Tennessee.  It was our last choir tour for the four of us seniors. We would perform here and there, including our final UIL high school choral contest for the year.  On the way we toured Graceland, Elvis’ home, in Memphis.  He had passed away just a few short months before that.  We would take in the sights and sounds of Nashville, also taking in the Country Music Hall Of Fame where some of us bumped into the beautiful Crystal Gayle. (She did make some brown eyes blue.) It was mapped out that there would be four of us crammed into a hotel room.  I was grateful to be teamed up with some of my closest friends.

Allow me to introduce to you some iconic people in my life.  I have a reason for it, bear with me.

From left to right:  Mike, Mark, Myself & Tommy, from the class of ’78 at R.L. Turner High School in Carrollton/Farmers Branch, Texas (north Dallas area).  Before we settled and unpacked, I had the idea to take a picture to stamp our time together.  At the final couple of seconds before the shutter clicked, I said something like, “Hey, let’s look like we’re thugs looking for trouble.”  That statement became prophetic, I’m afraid.  We wasted zero time for the usual shenanigans and pranks, most of which I can’t tell you about. However, one in particular haunts me. We had trapped one of our pals outside his locked room next door in only his nice white underwear.  We had persuaded him to be brave enough to step outside in his jockeys for a five second count.  With some collusion with his roommates, the poor soul took the dare but then heard the door shut behind him. (What’s worse, we were on the outside second floor with the walkway and doors facing the busy parking lot below.)  Pretending to feel badly for him, we opened our door just enough for him to run to it for sanctuary, only to slam it in his face, while he was invited to the next room with an opened door, where his fate was the same.  We didn’t let it go on too long….really.  It was hilarious at the time, but now, in all of my maturity…..NO, IT WAS A HOOT!!!!  Poor guy.  I actually had remorse about it later.  Then there would be the famous pillow fight where one of us obtained an unintentional fabric burn on the cheek. (We got in huge trouble for that one.)  Today, we look at this picture that we’ve shared with one another and realize, by today’s standards, it looks more like an album cover for a young garage band.

I hear you loud and clear.  In your most bored tone you’re saying, “Fine, but why is all that important enough to write about?”  In response I would refer to a phrase above.  “…iconic people in my life.”

If I were to spell-out my fondest memories concerning these men, each person would have their own novel.  I won’t do that here, but I will point out some threads from the enormous fabric of recollections.

On the right, Tommy.  We became solid blood-brothers in our freshman year.  We were both rough around the edges in some areas and, to be frank, tough as nails.  We were in the same Tae-Kwon-Do school, together morphing into the world of kickboxing before kickboxing was cool in American sports.  We worked-out together and sparred privately, as well as in sessions at the dojo.  Notorious for after school raids of his mom’s stash of frozen tater-tots, we knew our way around her deep fryer, all before she got home from work of course.  We were runnin’ buddies in all seasons through high school.  Starksy & Hutch had nothing on us.  We always had each other’s backs and never stole each other’s girlfriends. (LOL)  Again, there’s so much I could tell you about our adventures, but I would have to have you silenced.  Not long ago, Tommy was at my side at my near-deathbed. Standing there looming over me in his now white hair, that day I was reminded of our in-tune hearts.  We’ve both seen our share of health issues and many, many sorrows in adulthood. We remain close friends to this day.

To your left in the shot, Mark.  Like Tommy, Mark and I became good friends during our freshman year.  We were all talented musicians/singers and had lots in common when it came to making music.  Unlike me, Mark was given the gift of songwriting.  He has penned many through the years and I always enjoyed listening.  He was my #1 choice for a duo partner on vocals.  He played back-up guitar for me when I needed a good guy on the ax. I could always count on him.  When I couldn’t sleep and had the urge to hit Denny’s for an overnight patty melt, I would call him up, “Hey man.  You wanna go for a late night salad or patty melt?”  No matter the time, I would drive over and off we went. One night, God would arrange us to be at Denny’s during the wee hours when we saw another high school friend there highly intoxicated.  He wanted to drive home.  We left there, escorted him home and put him to bed.  We left a note for him to know just how he got home and that his car was safely parked in its place.  (That would be the last time we would ever see him alive again.  He passed away not too long afterwards.)  However, we both knew we saved his life for that night.  Fast forward, we were the best man in each other’s weddings, (his lasted, mine didn’t).  He became a champion of adoption and foster parenting through the decades. He has been a pastor in Iowa now for many years where he should remain mum before his congregation lest he shares too much about our times together in the 70s.

To the far left, Mike.  I’ve never personally known a more talented musical individual in my life.  Mike was blessed with an amazing gift of musical abilities that placed him in the Paris Conservatory of Music.  We all had a terrific sense of humor, but he had a very dry wit that could make White Sands, New Mexico jealous.  With a stone face like a poker pro, he could blurt out an unexpected one-liner that had everyone in stitches within earshot.  Overlooking his musical genius, he knew how to blow you away with one wisecrack. Involved in band, jazz band, orchestra, music theory and choir, there wasn’t an instrument he couldn’t play, a song he couldn’t transpose or arrange, or a pitch he couldn’t decipher.  When I needed a horn section for a song for my band, I always counted on him and his abilities.  We lost track, but I heard back in the 80s he was in France working his music wizardry for the Russian Orthodox Church.  Unfortunately, I wish I could tell you about his latest composition. Many years ago, still in his 20s, Mike fell victim to a horrific car crash just outside Paris.  To this day, I mourn the light that was snuffed out and taken from us.  It forever broke our hearts.

Too many of us don’t realize that we are made up of our moments.  We are formed by our times.  We are shaped by our days of experience.  How we need to remind ourselves of this fact.  It has been said, no man/woman is an island.  Have you ever endeavored to examine the idea, the picturesque power of that phrase?  An island has its own limited mineral sources, its own limited trees and animals.  It has its own fruits and flowers, as few as there may be.  The beaches are exclusive, no matter how beautiful and rich with sunshine, but lonely in the broader view all the same.  It is geographically pruned of allies without connectivity.  Its one tsunami away from being erased off the map.  Yet, across the causeway, some distance away, there is the mainland, a continent endowed with a wealth of vibrant fanfare, music and love.  Its commerce, its glorious community, its outreach is known firsthand and admired by those linked with it.  It is separate from the island’s attributes, while the island itself is void of the influence of the mainland’s depths, width, length and heights with its vast array of endless potpourri of lifestyles, genetics of creation and schools of thought.  Lewis and Clark would understand the greater adventures of the mainland.

I have found there is something to be said for “old love”.  I was at a loved one’s funeral in July of 1981 who was taken in a plane crash.  He was a world renowned kickboxing contender and my martial arts trainer.  Taking inventory of those who packed the funeral home’s chapel, I saw I was seated not far from Chuck Norris, an acquaintance in our circle of fighters.  We listened closely to the reverend officiating when he said, “If you didn’t know the man, just look around the room and see his imprint on all of us here.”  He was right.  We affect one another.  We may not realize it, but we invest in one another. Sure, sometimes in a way we ought not to go.  But I can say now, I have been “added to” by my friends of the soul.  As we continue to learn about how life works, it always seems to surround those we love who go through it with us.  When we intersect, our roads veer and detour. Our journeys, in retrospect, were fashioned and wondrously altered because we met and meshed with a stranger.  Your influence on me matters.  My influence on you matters.  It may surprise you that it is an ancient notion.

Yes, the photo may be blurry, but not in my mind, nor ever will it be.  In fact, each time I recall the truths learned from those friends it adds fuel for the race.

“For none of us lives for himself, and no one dies for himself…” – St. Paul  (Romans 14:7 ISV)