“Hard to be sure. Sometimes I feel so insecure. And love so distant and obscure, Remains the cure. All by myself. Don’t want to be all by myself anymore…” (1975) “All By Myself” Recorded By: Eric Carmen Composers: Eric Carmen and Sergei Rachmaninoff
What a loss. With Eric Carmen passing away in his sleep recently, I felt the loss, even though I never met this incredible talent.
Phot: CNN Eric Carmen (1975)
His songs, “All By Myself” and “Never Gonna Fall In Love Again” were brilliant for the airwaves in the mid 1970’s. In fact, they were mesmerizing for me as a young performer and lover of music. There is so much to say about the songs. Using themes and variations from composer, Rachmaninoff was simply genius.
I loved performing torch songs, especially pulling at the heartstrings songs. The way the music and lyrics can mesh with lyrical tools to identify with pain, struggle, and heartbreak, is just a gift. The drama of a phrase can make you cry unanticipated tears. THAT is what a great composition can do.
Eric’s last verse of “All By Myself” was a kicker for my 15 year old emotions the first time I ever heard it. The lyrics are so honest. It speaks of hues of instability, mourning, and unrest. The first line, “Hard to be sure…” was often opted out by Eric in concert with the phrase, “I must be sure…” It clearly spotlights the transparency of the songwriter concerning the idea of life’s hesitancies. Have you been there? Procrastination is often born from the hesitant feet refusing to move forward because of fear, uncertainty, or lack of faith. That entire idea of the rickety wooden plank suspended bridge between you and the love and understanding searched for. The phrase warns the listener of the authentic pause before leaping into the unknown depth of waters below the suspension.
Eric’s next line shows not only the topic through the lens of honesty, but it reveals he is ready to admit the issue at hand. “…Sometimes I feel so insecure…” It’s the right thing to acknowledge the shortfall. Too many of us, including myself, are guilty of putting on a show in the attempt to hide the hinderance. We’ll use the crutch of nervous laughter, the ever wandering eye for distraction, not to mention the substitute of social media as a shield. Those doctors in the know tell us it’s healthy to admit, confess, or display the shortcomings.
Eric’s next line is a doozy. “…and love so distant and obscure…” When love remains at arms length, rather by choice, or by design, the ambiguity, the vagueness, and mystery becomes the nutrients of the day. Like a very well crafted diet, it becomes the norm. Like sugar, or carbs, one can crave the imagined satisfaction. When that settles into the brain, self-training maps the pathway chosen. In his words, “..remains the cure”, tells the tale. It slow dances us to the chorus, with the line,
“All by myself…”.
Eric is saying the solo life, without the responsibility of love, is what’s for dinner. Loneliness. It places you in a fog of complacency, a sense of security. Others might translate such an emotional hermit as being aloof. But then comes the rub of truth-telling in the second line of the hooky chorus…
“…don’t want to be all by myself anymore…”
Wow! This is what truth will do. That line is the punch for the entire meaning of all the candor written prior. That line means in the heart of hearts, the center core of who you are, that special room in the soul which you guard from others, is ready to respond when a knock at the door is heard. The lyric screams out, “I’m ready for change!” The knock is heard again. The lyric of a forthcoming heart shouts out, “I’m coming! I’ll be right there!”
The fact that the one knocking will not turn the knob, invites the one on the inside to unlock, turn the doorknob, and pull open the door, which is found to be far less weighty than imagined. When love, authentic, unearned love is the visitor, life’s outlook changes immediately. And so does the future. The tissue box can finally be stored away.
God does that, ya know. He waits with the endurance of eternity. He visits the heart’s door, not beating with a fist of fury, not plowing His shoulder to the hinges, or setting fire to the doorframe, but rather gently knocks. No scary tactics. No forced entry. No sledge hammering to the lock. Just a soft, gentle, loving knock. The only doorknob faces the interior.
Photo: Door to munitions storage, Ft Belknap, Tx.
True love, accepted, unconditional love, adds stout fuel for the race.
“Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me. To the one who is victorious, I will give the right to sit with me on my throne, just as I was victorious and sat down with my Father on his throne.” – Jesus – Revelation 3:20-21 (NIV)
“(What they do?), (They smilin’ in your face), Smiling faces, smiling faces sometimes tell lies (Back stabbers)” (1972) ”Back Stabbers” Recorded By: The O’Jays Composers: Leon Huff, Gene McFadden, John Whitehead
Over-the-top volume levels roused me from my sleep. I looked over at the clock on my bedside table to discover it was 2:20am, March 4, 2014. It was difficult to get out of bed due to my debilitating condition at the time.
The year prior, on February 13th of 2013, my wife at the time found me without a pulse in the bathtub. My eyes were fixed open, with skin white as a sheet. I had been extremely ill for a few days. If I had been aware, having her find me would not have been a comfort. Due to her covert talents to hide her alcohol and drug abuses, among other things, her entire alteration of persona had wrecked havoc in our relationship. Our marriage was barely alive, at best. She had been sleeping on the living room couch for several weeks. Although I have no memory of it, sometime before 3:00am, I had filled the bath with hot water to soak my painful body. She found me unresponsive, in ice cold water, sometime around 9:30am. I died twice, once before the paramedics arrived to jump start me, and again in the ER. To make a long story short, I was the victim of a full-organ shutdown during the overnight in the tub. The ICU was my home for three weeks while on life support before they moved me to a telemetry room for another three weeks. Tubes and machines kept me alive.
Over the course of the next two years, my body was recovering. On that sorrowful night of March 4th, 2014 I was still in therapy learning to walk on my own strength again. By that time, I was able to ditch the walker, but my ability to balance with each step was a carefully thought-out action of sheer will. Muscle erosion and weakness was like an overlord against me in the battle for health. I was half the physical man I had been. I would never be the same again. Disability was no longer a stranger to me.
As I made my way into the living room, where my wife had been sleeping, I found the TV volume blaring at 75%. As I lowered the audio levels with the remote, I instantly discovered the purpose. On the other side of the living room was the guest room, although mainly unfurnished. The door was shut with a light bleeding out from under the door. I heard my wife’s loud laughing, with mumbled sentences, along with pauses interrupting a one-sided conversation. A sickening feeling came over me from the top of my head to the bottom of my numb feet. Her words became clearer as I exercised a soft caution with my fragile steps toward the closed door. Placing my ear against the door, I listened to a horrifying reality.
She obviously was on the phone with a lover. It was very clear with only a grasp of two or three sentences. I knew well the flirtatious giggles, forced laughter, sensual inflections used like a gardener massaging the early bud of a flower. There was recognition as I took in her altered speech patterns. Trust me when I say, I knew a lover was on the other line. Not only did her seductive crafts gave her away, but her words of loving him were deafening to this struggling husband.
Yes, I tried the doorknob. It was locked. There was a second door to the guest room, inside a second bathroom, which had access to the guest room. It too was locked. I retrieved a small screwdriver which would spring the doorknob lock through a small hole. I was outraged and enraged. When entering the room, I bluntly confronted her. With the phone to her ear, she told me to get out.
I will spare you the rest of the horrid details of that early morning train wreck with my adulterous wife and her lover. However, I would like to tell you about my next discovery.
After she elected to leave the apartment for the rest of the overnight, I was able to prove more of her relationship with this other man. I was able to get into her email account around 5:00am, where I read several email conversations with this man which dated back many months. He was in upstate New York, where we lived prior to moving to the Dallas, Texas area. They had plans to rendezvous near our area on his way to Florida for a vacation. She was going to go with him for a romantic fling-week. She had plans to lie to me concerning going to North Carolina to see her ailing father. All of this while I, her husband, was struggling to recover from a major health crash. She used my disability, and the various drugs I had to be on, to cheat on me.
I divorced her before the end of that same year. Right, or wrong, it was a long time coming.
When I think back on our five year marriage, I could see where I was being betrayed at every turn. There’s too much to define it all for you, in fact, much of it is way too personal to share. She had been living a double life from the time we met. She hid all of her vices, a disturbing past, and dark spiritual life. She was into occultism, although pretending it was a thing of the past. She hid well her various substance addictions. My wife had a drug dealer in our apartment complex, a man she also traded with using sex. This woman had her sexual attractions, later admitting she was a bisexual. She was violent, abusive, and used psychological warfare on a daily basis.
Betrayal was familiar in my life. In fact, betrayal ended my first marriage of 26 years. I lost one of my very best jobs in radio due to a sickening betrayer, a so-called friend, with an agenda and a lying tongue. At the age of 13, I was devastated by a betrayal exercised by my youth pastor at the time. I guess it would be fair to say, it is far more bitter to be a victim of betrayal by way of a loved one, a relative, or a close friend. If a stranger betrays you, it hurts, but somehow the stab wound seems softer.
A relationship wrapped in love is like a strong post to lean on when the gravity is brutal. Think of it like a strong tree root offering its arm as it sticks out from the edge of a dangerous cliff.
You grab it with all you have as it holds you up from the sharp rocks one hundred feet below.
Friendship, like marriage, is built on trust. We rely on our relationships. Marriage is sealed between two people as they give vows to uphold one another. Anything less will chip away, or even melt that trust, leaving the residuals all over everything and everybody.
To betray is to utilize masks, or falsehoods. A store window betrays us. The dress looks terrific under the colored stage lights as it’s tailored to fit the pretty mannequin perfectly. Food photographers can tell you how they use tools to take yummy pictures of the latest hamburger from this advertiser, or that advertiser. It always looks better in the photo than it does on your plate. In a sense, it is betrayal.
“This above all; To thine own self be true, and it must follow as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.”Shakespeare’s, “Hamlet”. Because frankly, betrayal can come from someone you most least expect.
You can search the entire spectrum of life, from the cradle to the grave, and find a bit of betrayal in almost any person. We are faulty. No one is always honest all the time. Depending on someone for all things can be hard to do in our day, our times, our world.
Religious folk can betray you. Religious leaders have been known to betray others. It has happened.
Because spiritual matters are so close to the heart, we ache for a spiritual foundation, a post, a root of its tree to be everlastingly strong and reliable. Matters of the heart outlasts the body, even the mind.
The One, The True One, The God who describes Himself as, The Great I AM, promised never to forsake. His batting record is beyond perfection. He never fumbles. His three-pointers never hit the rim. He holds you most dear. When all fails around you, He is sturdy. Gravity is powerless against Him. After all, He created it.
When looking for someone to have your back, to believe in, to trust in, He can be found in fuel for the race.
“No one shall stand against you all the days of your life. As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you or forsake you.” – Joshua 1:5
“…Same cat with them evil eyes, And I knew it was a spell she’d cast.” (1976) “Devil Woman” Recorded By: Cliff Richard Composers: Christine Hodgson and Terry Britten
As I copied the lyrics of this old Cliff Richard song, I also had Harry Chapin’s, “Cat’s In The Cradle” from 1974 running through my head. I recently discovered why that lyric was written.
Behold, meet our new family member, Brie Brown.
First of all, I am a dog guy. I always have been, and always will be. I had a dog in my cradle in 1960, and a dog in my lap growing up, and a dog sleeping in bed all my adult life, too. Helplessly, a dog enthusiast. Still, at the same time, I am an animal lover of all kinds. I had a couple of years of bonding with my wife’s cat, Bonnie, during our first years of marriage. However, Bonnie, and her pal, Clyde, were outdoor cats, not at all comfortable indoors for snuggling. So, needless to say, I am not schooled in the arts of felines. With that said, I am in love again…with an indoor kitten. Check out those eyes.
My step-daughter, living in Austin, Texas, was a foster mom to three cats from the same litter. Each were named after cheeses. Brie, the female, and her brothers (Yellow in color), were Cheddar and Colby. We were told Brie’s brothers were far more active than she, as well as being smaller in size. After losing our elderly dogs, within 14 months of their passing, my wife began to nudge me about Brie, showing me pictures of the new kitten, born around March 31st of this year. We didn’t know it at the time, but later we learned their mother had been taken away before they were fully weened. (A bigger story there which will always be a mystery to us.)
The time came, after wrestling with the pros and cons, where we made the decision to adopt Baby Brie.
Let me tell you, I am learning bigtime. That baby is all over the place. We should’ve named her Rocket-girl.
Brie plays non-stop, as in, rarely sitting still. She ZOOMS across the living room like a…well…like a rocket. She leaps tall buildings in a single bound. For a 4 month old, she certainly knows how to climb the walls, launch from one piece of furniture to the next, some 5-7 feet away. The girl climbs, or jumps, up on our bar area where my wife has several glass vases, clay pottery, and decorative dried plants. Nothing has broken yet, but I know it’s coming. She has several toys, and each one is apparently some critter just trying to scramble for their lives because Brie hides from each toy like a lion in tall grass, or a panther scoping out prey from a tree branch, and BOOM, like lightning, she pounces on the fake varmint. Once “captured”, Brie holds it in her paws, rolls around on the floor in some semblance of struggle, tossing it in the air and leaping after it before securing the wild beast in her mouth then shooting off under the bed with it. Truly amazing to watch. I guess she’s learning how to be a great huntress. DNA is a remarkable thing. I can see I will never have to teach her kickboxing. She’s already got a terrific right hook and white socks.
One item that came with Brie, is a laser pointer. Oh, my. If I embark on playtime with Brie and the pointer, she will chase that red dot to the moon and back until the cows come home. Poor baby, she never figures out just why she can’t hold the little red dot in a submissive position. One night, as I was playing with the laser, while Brie was in hot pursuit up and down everywhere, she stopped and looked at the pointer in my hand. Too smart. I felt like a dad telling his girl there is no Santa. Even though she knows who is working behind the curtain, she will follow that red prey wherever I place it. If she were 400 pounds, we would definitely have a problem.
Bedtime isn’t what it once was. In BC (Before Cat), our two dogs knew it was time for bed and would crash just like we did. NOT BRIE! For her, in her eyes, it’s nocturnal time! As the lights go out and we settle for a long summer’s nap, Brie ignites into lioness mode. Full throttle she goes, thrashing about from our bedroom to other parts of the house and back again. From 11pm-2am, that baby girl is all over the place, including our 1.5 inch wide bedstead as if it was a tightrope in a circus. We have a decorative netting, similar to a mosquito net, which drapes from the ceiling over the bed above our pillow area. Well, she thinks that is her monkey bar playground. In fact, she is much like having a Spider Monkey in our home. Recently, she wanted to play with the draw chain of a lamp. The lit bulb was too curious to her and Brie screamed out when she burned her paw. Thus far, she’s not bothered with it since. I wish I had learned that lesson in my personal life long ago. We are truly thankful she can’t jump up to the ceiling fans….yet.
If you’re wondering if I have looked, trust me, I have. There is no “Off Switch” on her body anywhere. And yes, I have searched for the opening to her batteries, but non found. She never came with a charger, and now I know why. She’s always on. They tell me when she gets a bit older she will calm down. By then I won’t have any skin left from all the scratches.
I’ve always believed that we learn a lot about the Creator through His creation, especially the animal kingdom, specifically our pets. My heart sinks when Brie cries for my wife if she is away, or in the shower. She’s a mama’s girl already. So often when I pick her up to hold her for some kitten love, she will vocally complain and push away with those incredibly sharp claws. Her vocals will sound more like whining, or moaning. No doubt, she is saying,
“No, I don’t wanna cuddle. I wanna play. No, no, no! Let me down so I can get my toy mouse.”
I try not to take it personally. After all, every dog I have ever had wanted to cuddle.
My mind immediately went to the idea of what it must sound like to God when we struggle in His hand, complain about our circumstances, or moan due to no getting our fluffy ways of the moment. Truly, I must remind Him of a crying baby kitten who can’t see the bigger picture, or the owner’s need for bonding, or training.
For now, Brie, and her big green eyes, have me in her spell somehow. And maybe that’s just where I need to be.
Understanding awaits, concerning animals teaching God’s love, inside fuel for the race.
“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.” – Jesus – Matthew 23:37 (NIV)
When I spent my days without a dog, it would only be a few weeks here and there through my 61 years. I’ve had a few dogs in my life, many sizes, shapes, and breeds. As an only child, living most of my childhood with a single mom, my dog was indeed my best friend.
Back in 2011, after a dogless year, or so, it was time to get serious about adopting a little pal. My best buddy for 16 years was a Corgi/Dachshund mix. I thought I would look up websites in my area for Corgi mixes, just to see if any up for adoption resembled my childhood pal. It didn’t take long to find such a website. They certainly had many to offer. The Corgi mixes available came in all sorts of varieties. They were all adorable, but none caught my eye as I scrolled through the long list of little orphans. After scrolling through fifty to sixty, I came to the very end of digital the show & tell (tail). There, on the very last listing, a 12 month old pup who surely could have been the brother of my dog from 1967. I am soooo glad I didn’t give up in my search and looked at the very last dog on their page. His name was Shorty, a brown, brindle Corgi/Dachshund mix.
Shorty had been adopted by a foster mom from a kill shelter two counties southwest of me. She had a mission to save as many dogs as she could. She had a dog ranch where she cared for them while listing them for adoption.
I drove some two hours to meet Shorty. He was with other dogs being shown at a pet store for a few hours. It was love at first sight.
Here, at this point in my post, I should say I could write of Shorty, his personality, and his well behaved manners making for a very long post, or maybe a three-part blog. I will not do that to you. Yet, I will spotlight the little buddy who renovated my life with a couple of stories.
I’ve had some dogs who needed some counselling. I’ve owned dogs who just couldn’t learn to behave themselves. At other times I’ve enjoyed highly intelligent dogs that often wowed me. Let me tell you, Shorty is one of those dogs. His intelligence level runs rings around all other four-leggers from my household past. He stares at me with wanting eyes, ears up, without vocals, and I usually will know what he is asking for. If it’s feeding time, I will say, “Tell me. What is it you need?” Only moving his head, he turns his face to the left, looking toward the kitchen, and then back at me. I will follow up with, “Is it time to feed Shorty?” He then gets off his rump, wags the tail, and tries to talk using a grunt, or a soft whine. So, off we go to the kitchen for dinner. Later, like clockwork, when he finishes his meal, he tosses his metal bowl with his nose, making a clanging sound as it lands up against the fridge. I then know when he is done. It’s a bit of a routine.
Shorty knows the difference between the sound of our engine, and any other vehicle driving by. He can even knows the sound of our car door shutting, unlike other cars.
Although, on the day I adopted Shorty, driving two hours back home without incident, he always got car sick when coming along for a ride in the following months. I tried everything to help him with motion sickness. I gave him Dramamine, sedatives, Pepto chewables, even the Thunder Shirt, advertised as “the answer”. Nothing worked. One day, out of the blue, he avoided his nausea. After a few more journeys in the car, with a puke-free trip each time, I noticed he would keep his head down while the car was rolling. When stopped, he would raise his head only to put it down again when driving. I soon realized, Shorty had troubleshooted his own nausea issue. He discovered on his own that he could not look out the window while the car was in motion. He figure that out before I did. What a keen sense he has.
Many of those rides were to one of his favorite places. The local dog park. What a happy place. He loved running around with the other dogs with full horseplay going on. Once a rude Boarder Collie, who was the alpha dog of a group of dogs running around with a soccer ball, chased Shorty away from the group, barked at him, then went back to his pack. I felt so sorry for him. Shorty, was obviously told he didn’t belong with this little pack and to stay out. He looked so rejected. So, off we went to get an ice cream cone at a Dairy Queen. Problem solved!
Shorty and his collection.
Shorty and I lived in an apartment complex. We would walk around the area, next to a greenbelt creek, three to five times a day. He loves people, and I mean any person out and about. One day, a very courageous squirrel came too close to our path and the length of leash. Before you can say, “Hello”, Shorty stopped, looked up at me with a the squirrel in his mouth. He wasn’t biting down on the little guy, he was just holding him in his jaws as if to say, “Look, dad!” I immediately and sharply told Shorty to put him down. He did. The squirrel was in shock and just froze. Later I found out an elderly lady in the complex had been feeding the squirrel by hand right off of her patio. I think the little thing thought I was going to feed him.
Shorty’s kindness to other animals was always on full display, with the exception of an afternoon at my dad’s house. My dad lives out in the country in west Texas. For many years he had goats in his small pasture. Each time I let Shorty off his leash there, he made a sprint to the goats grazing off in the brush. To our amazement, Shorty herded the goats, right and left, backward and forward. It was like watching something in a movie. We always had to go retrieve him from his herding duties because he wouldn’t come back to us when we yelled at him. It was as if he had been trained to herd. Somewhere in his DNA, something told him not only how to herd, but that he must do it! LOL
Shorty loves his backyard.
Throughout the last ten+ years together, he has been by my side as a constant loving companion. He was there with me through a very abusive 2nd marriage which ended in divorce. He was there when I had my near-death experience back in 2013, and sweetly waited for me each day to come home while hospitalized for six weeks. Shorty fell in love with an old high school friend I was dating. In fact, when sitting together for a romantic night, watching a movie, or listening to music, he would insert himself between us and nest himself for snuggling. A couple of years later, when we married, Shorty and I moved into my wife’s house. He was enamored with his new, very spacious, backyard. She had her own dog, who was queen of her castle, and she made sure Shorty understood the boundaries. She was fairly cold with him, even to the point of not wanting to be touched by him. Shorty from that point on, always gave her first place in everything, as if he had been trained as a gentleman. I know. It’s nuts. Before you know it, she began to see him as a protector, a snuggle buddy, and friend.
When I was told I needed a quadruple bypass, he once again watched out the front window, patiently awaiting my arrival back from a three week stay in the hospital. As usual, our reunion was worthy of video. He always knows when I am sick, sad, or at a loss. His demeanor changes, coming quietly to my side as if to comfort me as only he could. We truly have been through so much together. There have been so many life events we have shared. Too much to list here.
A couple of years ago, Shorty developed some issues with his liver. Some medication seemed to ease his battle with it over a month or so. Frankly, it frightened me at the time. I’m not a med student, but I do know what it is to have organ failure and what it can do.
“I’m not feeling right, dad.”
Around the 1st of March this year, Shorty began to show familiar signs of a struggling liver. He began drinking water by the bowl until he was ready to pop. He began to show a bit of bladder mishaps, mainly due to all the water intake. Soon the panting started, ears stayed behind his head, along with an unwillingness to snuggle up on the couch, or on the bed. Shorty sought a cold wooden floor to go up against his belly area all the time. A couple of days later, he no longer wanted food, and was sleeping way more than usual. It wasn’t long after that, he began tossing up his cookies. Shorty never ignored commands, or my voice, but he began to about the same time. It was telling when Shorty would go hide in closets, facing the walls, or crouch down in rooms all by himself. It broke my heart when outside, he began to hide away under shrubs, or a back corner of the yard, lying flat with his face toward the outside fence. I’m not unaware of the instinct deep inside of him. It worried me deeply.
On March 8th, by the time we took him to the vet, he was hardly walking. I could see in his eyes he was in pain, even though, as in Shorty’s manner, he never complained. The x-ray showed Shorty had a massive enlarged liver, almost twice the size it should be. In fact, it even reached his sternum area. The doctor said it could be a birth defect, but more than likely, considering it’s relatively a new problem, it’s a cancerous liver. The only way to prove it cancer was involved was to do a sonogram, a biopsy, a stint in a hospital away from us, etc. He would be in pain, and would wonder why we weren’t with him. If it was cancer, depending upon the severity, chemo would be next. As the doctor spoke, Shorty began to quiver, and refused to face us, unless we positioned him ourselves. He was dying and he knew it better than we did. With much agony, tears, and with broken hearts, we made the hard decision to put him down. We comforted him to his last breath, holding him, petting him, scratching his ears, speaking softly words of comfort that he knew. I wanted to be sure he was cared for and loved to the very end.
My last photo of Shorty at the vet’s office.
On the cold drive home from the vet, I came to a stirring thought I will always keep with me. Back in August of 2011, out of love, I rescued Shorty. As God as my witness, I know Shorty rescued me each and every day since.
There is a love that is closer than a brother found inside fuel for the race.
“Every good thing given and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shifting shadow.”– James 1:17 (NAS)
Photo: My grandparents as newlyweds in 1938, nesting at the Brazos River, Texas. They were married 69 years until his death.
“Ohh, whatever happened to old fashioned love, the kind that would see you through? The kind of love my Momma and Daddy knew. Yeah, whatever happened to old fashioned love, the kind that would last through the years, through the trials, through the smiles, through the tears. (Bridge) For now the tenderness has been replaced with something less, and it’s hard to find what we left behind…..”
(1983) “Whatever Happened To Old-Fashioned Love?” Recorded By: B.J. Thomas Composer: Lewis J. Anderson
I love the truthful lyrics in the bridge section. “…the tenderness has been replaced with something less…”
There I go again, using the highly overused word, “L-O-V-E” when I didn’t mean it. Oh, sure, I like the lyric, but I can’t say I “love” the lyric…or can I? Come on, you know what I mean. My brain, my emotions, my gut, truly holds the lyric close to my heart. Is that love, or infatuation?
Valentine’s Day can be so cute in so many ways. The little Valentine cards we used to swap out in out elementary school days cause me to chuckle now. Just like the little heart candies, “Be Mine”, “I think you’re cool”, “Here’s a heart for you”, etc. It was all so very innocent, wasn’t it? Then, we grow into our hormone-owned teen years. Yikes! Us guys can truly be a grand example of what love is NOT. You girls seemed to have a better handle on it. Maybe I’m wrong about that. You tell me. It reminds me a bit when I think of the old TV show, “The Love Boat” from 1977-1986. You remember the first couple of lines to the theme song, “Love Boat”. Singer, Jack Jones piped it out:
“Love, exciting and new. Come aboard. We’re expecting you….” (1977) Composers: Charles Fox & Paul Williams.
I think that has been one of the distractions about the definition of love in our culture. Love can be ‘exciting and new’, but usually not. In fact, ask any couple who just celebrated their 68th wedding anniversary about “excitement” or “newness”. They will laugh at you. But wait a minute. Isn’t passion, sexual desire, and infatuation exciting and new? My twist would be, yes. Passion, sexual desire, and infatuation can be exciting, especially if it has just redirected your focus in life, a new focus, even if only for a brief amount of time. But….is passion, sexual desire, and infatuation, L-O-V-E? Let’s ask the British rock band, 10cc from 1975…
“I’m not in love, so don’t forget it. It’s just a silly phase I’m goin’ through. And just because I call you up, don’t get me wrong, don’t think you’ve go it made. I’m not in love, no-no…..”
Actually, some of the lyrics in this hit can be downright hurtful, like:
“I keep your picture upon the wall. It hides a nasty stain that’s lying there. So don’t you ask me to give it back. I know you know it doesn’t mean that much to me. I’m not in love, no-no. It’s because…” Composers: Eric Stewart & Graham Gouldman
OUCH! I wonder if he was that honest to her face, or if the song was just therapy written on the road in a cheap hotel?
Valentine’s Day can be a danger for some unsuspecting romantics out there. (I know of what I speak. I can write about this with real-world experience.) Let’s face it, we want to be loved…right? That desire is in the human heart even before birth. Like an empty blender just waiting for the colorful mix of goods to be poured into us. Am I right? Come on, be honest with me.
So, sure. We love dogs. We love cats. We love horses. We love romantic movies. I love that color on you. I love a brilliant, blazing sunset. I love Tex-Mex and Chinese food. Boy, do I love that ’68 Ford Mustang. What kind of L-O-V-E is that?
How ’bout this? You see him/her from the other side of the restaurant, munching on a burger. The view is of a nice looking specimen of humanity. You toss away your slightly tomato-stained napkin and walk briskly straight for him/her. You only have two words in your vocabulary at the moment as you lock eyes on this beautiful person. As you arrive at the table, your mouth opens and out comes the channeling of David Cassidy…“Hi, I think I love you.” He/she chokes on a slice of onion. After the Heimlich Maneuver, he/she is bold enough to ask…“How do you know?” Good question. I guess you could say, “It’s your crystal blue eyes, your matching blue suit, the tattoo of the hammer and sickle over the entire left side of your face. I love everything about you!” Okay, got it. A wise person, with a head on their shoulders, might say you idolize the look of this person. What you don’t know is, he/she is a closet Neo-Nazi, an axe murderer, and someone who leaves their filthy Mini Mouse socks on the floor. So, after he/she reveals these details of “WHO” he/she is, you lower your head with embarrassment, turn and walk slowly back toward your table to rejoin your spouse and five children.
It took me decades to reevaluate using the word, “love”. If you THINK you’re in love because of what the other person can do for you and your life, you should reevaluate. Toooften this is the case.Or, you love the “idea” of falling for someone with an Irish accent, or someone from your hometown, or someone with red hair. So, you go on a hunt to find an Irish redhead who just happens to live where you grew up. Careful. That smell is from a dead relationship. Take inventory of your motives and fantasy life.
I’m grateful for the letter “L”. It launches both “Love” and “Like”. If you start to say “love”, and don’t truly mean it, you can easily self-edit as you evolve your pronunciation into “like”. Try it. “I need you to know I really, really LLLLike you.”
Are you confused yet?
Scripture defines love as a verb, not a feeling. Some reveal they didn’t understand love until they had a child added to their lives. Getting into the weeds of original root word languages, you could discover there are different brands of “love”. Yes, we should love our neighbors as ourselves. We should love our families with all that we are. And yes, we should love our enemies. “That’s hard”, says Nancy Pelosi and Donald Trump. There’s a picture burned into my mind, from the Desert Storm War in Iraq. It captured the image of U.S. Marines feeding and hydrating Iraqi POW’s in the sands of southern Iraq. What high bar to hurdle.
Jesus labelled the highest, premium degree of authentic love.
““There is no greater love than this: that a person would lay down his life for the sake of his friends.”– Jesus – (John 15:13 (Amarmaic Translation)
Literally, if you cannot agree to die, or be tortured, or to take-on someone’s cancer (if possible) for another person’s well-being, their life, their health, than most likely the highest shelf of the zenith of love is not an active agent in the relationship. Would you give a kidney to an old friend with stage 5 kidney failure? Would you run into a burning complex to rescue a co-worker? I think all various levels of love can be measured starting with the definition given by Jesus, Who loved you enough to do just what He said.
No, I am not willing to be sacrificed for a plate of tacos & egg rolls.
Be careful little mouth what you say. Be careful little hand what you write. If Valentine’s Day causes someone to misread your true heart for them, it isn’t kind. In fact, it would be cruel. Honesty is always best. It might be best to find a stain on the wall as you decide which 8×10 should go there.
One thing is certain, love is the very theme of fuel for the race.
Love ya! Mean it!
“If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a ringing gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have absolute faith so as to move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and exult in the surrender of my body,but have not love, I gain nothing. Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no account of wrongs. Love takes no pleasure in evil, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails. – Apostle Paul – 1 Corinthians 13:1-8a (Berean Study Bible)
“Every time I see your face It reminds me of the places we used to go. But all I’ve got is a photograph And I realize you’re not coming back anymore…”(1973) Photograph. Recorded by: Ringo Starr Composers: Richard (Ringo) Starkey and George Harrison
I thought I arrived too early, but as I got out of the car, a voice shouted out, “Alan?” There, just two cars over, it was her, Joan and her nephew, Matthew….When I hugged him, I felt as if I had known him all of his life, as if he were my own son.
Forgive me if there’s nothing really valuable to use in what I’m about to write. I just know I have to. I MUST write about it.
Meet Terry Sindle. Terry was a dear friend of mine. We were the same age. He, his younger sister, Joan, and their newly divorced mom, had just moved into the apartment complex where my mom and I lived. It was 1973 and the Sindle family were fresh off the moving van from Staten Island, New York. They had such heavy NY accents that this Texas lad could hardly decipher. But nevertheless, Terry and I had so much in common.
(Terry Sindle in high school, 1977/1978.)
He was a bit from the wild side, and I was far more conservative. He was a casual pot smoker and pill-popper, and I chewed gum. He was into Led Zeppelin, and I was into Manilow. I was a spiritually plugged-in church member, and Terry was agnostic at best. He wore long wavy hair, and my cut looked like a Wall Street lawyer. I was a martial arts student and tournament fighter, while he could care less about any sport. Yet, we both experienced our parents divorcing. We both had poor single moms. We both loved music, and music performance. And we both loved pizza…or so I thought. Being from Staten Island, NY, I figured he liked pizza. So, another friend and I introduced him to what was the best pizza in our neighborhood, Pizza Inn. When the cardboard-thin, scantly-topped crispy crusted pizza came out, Terry looked at it and said in astonishment, “WHAT IS THIS? THIS isn’t pizza!” Here in Texas we thought pizza was pizza. We thought Pizza Inn could do no wrong. Terry had to educate us in what real NY pizza consumers enjoy. It would be two years later before a NY style pizza joint opened up in our suburb, and we’ve never been the same since.
One thing Terry and I didn’t have in common was the guitar. He was an incredible guitarist. I was strictly a vocalist, although dabbled lightly in piano and guitar. His musicianship was keen, to the point where I could call him a “master technician”. Terry’s grade of musicianship was well beyond the average teenage garage band. In two days he learned all of the Beatles music catalog. TWO DAYS! He, at 14 years old had begun to compose original music, as well as arrangements of cover songs. He joined the school band and mastered the French Horn. He was playing for local parties, filling-in with other local bands, and eventually started his own rock band before he was 16.
You could say we looked like a duck and a hawk side-by-side, but we knew we were a team of the same feather. I was in the top choir in high school always urging him to audition. I told him it would help sharpen his vocals, along with sight reading. It didn’t take him long before he realized you can study classical while using what you learn for other genres of music. He sheepishly did audition, and made the choir in 1977. He naturally squirmed terribly so when having to wear a tux for serious choral performances.
Meanwhile, my band was more soft rock and ballads. Naturally when it came time to add a lead guitarist, Terry was my guy. Musically we knew what each other wanted without discussing it fully. We both had terrific ears, as well as, the same quality control standards. With that said, on stage he would hear an extra lick or riff in his mind, then would add it in real time on the fly, often distracting me from my lyrics. (That was a good and bad problem when singing something like, Manilow’s “I Write The Songs”.) Frankly, with Terry as my lead guitarist, I knew whatever came out of the amp speakers was going to be a top-shelf sound.
Not long after high school, I moved out to get my own place across town. Meanwhile, Terry was wanting to move back to NY to further his rock career. We performed a couple of times together during the summer after graduation, but I was pursuing music theater by that time and he was going deeper into metal rock. Before you could say, “Y’all”, he moved back to NY to execute just what he set his sights on. We lost track of each other by 1980.
Later in the 1980’s I heard from Terry a couple of times. It turned out he continued to grow as a spectacular studio artist, and stage act. He had even prepped for a move to England with the idea of joining a band there.
(Terry Sindle with his band in NY during the 1980’s.)
Then…all went silent.
About 10 years ago, I began a search to find my old friend. By that time I was on Facebook which is where I started scrubbing for a friend link. Nothing came up. Internet searches came up empty. It was as if Terry Sindle had vanished from the planet.
Then one day, and I hesitated to do it, I launched a national obituary search. With a deep saddening, while swallowing back the lump in my throat, I found my friend’s obit. Terry died back in 1997 at the age of 37. What’s worse, the obit was short and simple, without surviving family member names, or details about his passing. May God forgive me, I first thought his substance abuse finally caught up with him. My thirst for more info grew almost to the unbearable. All it gave me was the place of his death…Florida. All other searches came up zero. It was highly frustrating. I gave up and the years went by.
A couple of months ago for Throw-Back Thursday, I posted the picture below on Facebook and gave tribute to two members of my band who left us early in life.
(My Alan Brown & Co Band. Later affectionately referred to as my “Come & Go Band”)
In my defense, this shot goes back to Oct of 1977. That’s the excuse for my tablecloth sports jacket and sailor pants. Terry Sindle is seen on the far right in a black shirt with his Gibson guitar, standing in front of his stack of speakers.
Right after the post, a couple of old mutual high school friends contacted me asking if I knew whatever happened to Terry. I told them what I had discovered, but it didn’t seem enough. So, I lit a fire under my chair.
Somehow, someway, through a search, I found Joan Sindle, Terry’s younger sister. I messaged with her right away. Afterwards we spoke on the phone. Pushing back tears, she caught me up on Terry’s short adult life and sudden death. Terry was a victim of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. He beat it once in his life only to return years later like an overnight thief. After not feeling well, and unable to shake it, he had a check-up with an Oncologist. Shockingly, after running tests, the doctor gave him less than a week to live. In fact, he died 3 days later.
Terry did well with his music while here. In NY, he made radio airplay with one of his records. Terry’s last album was cut just 3 months before he passed. His bands always did very well in NY, and later in Florida after moving there. He met a Floridian girl while in AA, fell in love, and got married. They eventually were blessed with 3 boys.
While in the cancer ward, both times, he played songs for the other fellow-cancer patients. That didn’t surprise me a bit. He had a huge heart. As for his substance addictions, they did strengthen their grip on his life. He checked himself into rehab while in his 20’s. He was clean for many years, fell off the wagon, and became clean again. At some point, early in his marriage, both Terry and his wife, opened their hearts to God and His redemption offered through Jesus. AA was good for Terry, but Divinity resting within, gave him the power to control the monkey on his back. Remembering those days, Joan said he was excited about his new-found faith.
Recently Joan asked if I would hook-up with Terry’s youngest son, Matthew (now 25), who was only 3 years old when Terry passed. She said because of his young age, he is always wanting to know more about his dad and thought it would be great if an old high school friend could shed light on his dad’s teen years. I was thrilled! I did so. Matthew and I had a few terrific exchanges back and forth over cyberspace. You might find it isn’t surprising to know that Matthew, along with one of his brothers, are musically talented to the hilt. In fact, they can play any instrument they pick up. Matthew also has all of Terry’s guitars and amps, as well as his French Horn from high school.
(Sorry for the flash reflection on this shot. Terry and his boys less than a year before his death.)
A few days ago, Joan called to tell me Matthew was coming here to Dallas for a visit and wanted to know if we could meet. Once again, I was thrilled! I asked 3 other mutual high school friends, who knew Terry, to join us. They were itching to show up.
When Joan first asked me to connect with Matthew, I could hardly describe the feeling. It was so strange. All I can say to paint this canvas with a stroke or two, is I felt a compelling, a strong, very strong tug to reach out to Terry’s son with all that was within me. As each day rolled on I had this gnawing, this obsession propelling me with the thought that somehow I was doing this for Terry himself, as if he were here asking me to do this as a favor. Truly, that feeling launched me into an overdrive to find pictures, Terry’s handwriting, and refresh every stand-out memory I could muster. They were going to bring some pictures of Terry, (as you have seen) in his adult years. We agreed to meet at a local pub, The Fox & Hound in north Dallas.
I thought I arrived too early, but as I got out of the car, a voice shouted out, “Alan?” There, just two cars over, it was her, Joan and her nephew, Matthew. Joan and I hugged as if we were siblings removed at birth. When I hugged him, I felt as if I had known him all of his life, as if he were my own son. The others drove up shortly after.
(My phone died while we were together, so Joan took this shot. I’m the Celtic-looking guy sitting on the right with Mathew in the middle and some old high school friends.)
For several hours we spoke, laughed, cried, and ate and drank with Terry on our minds and hearts. The guys poured out all their memories of Terry. No one could recall anything sour to add concerning our younger times together. Matthew and Joan shared more about the life and heart Terry displayed to others in his adult years. He dearly loved his wife and sons. Terry even wrote letters to his boys to help them understand who there dad was, what he consisted of, and how he wished he could be there to see them grow up. After his prognosis, he told Joan how he couldn’t die because he had three sons to raise. That was his concern while preparing to leave this life. He also wrote to his sons of his spiritual awakening, sharing the love he found in God.
Afterward, Joan said she felt as if Terry had been with us around the table in the pub. I told her it’s because she was meeting with his close friends that reflect Terry’s touch on our lives, still expressing it after 4 decades. Of course, I know what she meant. Again, I felt a rushing swift current of an urge to visit with Matthew sharing personally about his dad. His eyes lit up as I described our days together. He laughed at all of our funny stories about Terry. He showed a great deal of pride displaying the family pictures, and describing the instruments he inherited. He spoke of what he knew of his dad’s faith, adding that he too was in a music ministry with a desire to pursue a pastoral outreach.
As I looked at the pictures of Terry as an adult, I was nothing short of mesmerized. It seemed like yesterday we were music-making teens, taking music theory class together, rehearsing quietly in his room, and doing laundry duty. And now, I see the man in the pictures bringing me smiles, seeing he was a success in fatherhood and being a loving, loyal husband. When the time was right, he was man enough to realize he had substance abuse issues and sought help. So many don’t. He showed love, grace and benevolence toward other hurting cancer patients, even while his own life was ebbing away. To me, a hit record seems tiny in comparison.
As we were saying goodbye in the parking lot, as the sun was setting, I looked into his son’s eyes and told him, “We knew your dad very well. I can certainly say, with all confidence, he would be very proud of you, and who you have become. You are an impressive young man, Matthew. And somehow, I just can’t help but believe your dad is being told about our gathering today.” Yes, we all teared-up, and rightly so.
Someone once wrote how we are not islands, living our lives separated, disconnected from others. If the life of Terry Sindle taught us a couple of things, it’s that we are all peninsulas, connected to one another, which aids us in knowing what is most important.
One day I will see Terry again. And when I do, I think he will say something like, “Thank you for helping me tell Matthew who I am.”
A life well lived is available from the vast cistern of fuel for the race.
“For none of us lives to himself alone, and none of us dies to himself alone.” – Apostle Paul, from Romans 14:7 (Berean Study Bible)
“Oh, crumpled bits of paper Filled with imperfect thought Stilted conversations I’m afraid that’s all we’ve got…So we open up a quarrel Between the present and the past We only sacrifice the future It’s the bitterness that lasts. So don’t yield to the fortunes You sometimes see as fate It may have a new perspective On a different date…Say it loud, say it clear You can listen as well as you hear It’s too late when we die To admit we don’t see eye to eye.” – (1988) The Living Years, Recorded by: Mike and the Mechanics. Written by Mike Rutherford and B. A. Robertson
The hallway was busy between classes that day. The platform shoes were loud on the polished hard floor like horses on a brick street. Everyone was running to their next classroom before the final bell rang. I, in my bell-bottoms and bell sleeves, was coming out of the choral department rehearsal hall after an a cappella session. My steps were already inside the broad hallway, but had yet to fully walk through the threshold as my hand remained on the thick heavy wooden door. That’s when I looked up and saw her. It was Lori Kennedy high stepping it toward the choir-room door from B-Hall. She was running a tad late to get to her place on the rehearsal risers just inside the entrance for Women’s Select Choir. It was a Friday, game-day at our north Dallas suburban high school of 3,500 students. I recall it was a Friday because Lori was decked-out in her Lionette drill team outfit from a pep-rally earlier the same morning. As she approached the doorway, I quickly made my way through the entrance while holding the door open for her. By the time she was within two, or three steps from me, her dark brown eyes pierced mine as she sternly stated, “I can open my own door!” as she swiftly rushed by me. OUCH! That was unexpected. It wasn’t like me to freeze, but I did due to shock. It was best because it also kept my mouth shut.
Lori Kennedy, 1978 R.L. Turner High School Yearbook.
Lori and I were 16 at the time, in 1976. She was about five weeks older than your’s truly. Our social circles overlapped, so we had mutual friends, but the two of us were mere acquaintances. In fact, I don’t think we ever had a conversation before that uncomfortable moment. It’s not that we avoided one another, or even ignored the other purposefully while within earshot. We both certainly knew about the other, but distantly. From time to time, over four years, we even dated our close shared friends, but never one another. There were multiple occasions where we hitched a ride with other friends while stuffed in a 1973 Chevy Camaro. We were on the same bus during our music concert tours with the choral department’s Spring trip each year. We also found ourselves sharing a bus for choral UIL contests performed in other cities. Then there were gatherings at picnics, parties, and popular hangouts, etc. I should stop here because as I write this I’m remembering many more circumstances where Lori and I shared space through high school. We, for what ever reason, never made the effort to get to know each other. One might say, we knew each other through our fellow classmates.
With all that said, it makes her stark, rude remark, (the first words she ever spoke to me), that much more odd. Maybe she was having a bad day. Maybe her boyfriend just broke up with her. Possibly life at home had hit a wall. Could she had slipped on a banana peel in the cafeteria line? Maybe there was a social undertow of knowing we didn’t see eye-to-eye on life itself.
One thing is for concrete sure, she didn’t know my mom and granddad taught me how to treat the opposite sex going back to my toddler years. Chivalry was the order of the day in my family. I must have been three years old, when walking down the sidewalk with my mom and grandparents, my granddad gently instructed me to always walk closest to the curb when walking next to a lady. When I asked why, in his rural Texas fashion and verbiage, he explained that if a tire splashes a muddy puddle onto the walkway, she will be spared from the splatter. He followed it up with, “That’s what men do.” He taught me to remove my hat if a lady enters the room. If a lady walks by, you tip the brim of the hat. If a lady is about to sit at a table, you pull the chair out for her, followed by the adjustment to table-side. If the lady is ready to remove her coat or sweater, you help remove it from her shoulders. When she is ready to wear the same, you hold it open for her as she slips her arms through. You always allow the lady to walk in front, choosing second place. You always open the car door for a lady before placing yourself in the car. And yes, you always open the door for a lady as she approaches it. In fact, I do that for men, as well as women. To be honest, I still practice all of the above to this day. It’s an act of courtesy, kindness, respect, and honor. I’m branded with it. So, what was up with Lori?
At the time, the women’s liberation movement was well above surging, at least in the U.S. It would be foolish to believe that 100% of women living-out the movement appreciated chivalry with its old Victorian manners. Because I neglected to get to know Lori, the real Lori, I may have missed my cue. It very well may have been Lori was exercising her newly discovered rules of engagement as dictated by the women’s liberation movement of the times. I would have been clueless. Nevertheless, she may have very well been offended by my gesture of holding the door open for her entrance into the choir room. Sure, I meant well, but she may have seen my action in another angle, unbeknownst to me. Just like one can peek through a glass of water while another may see a different distorted view. And here is where I went wrong.
My mind washed my hands of her as I walked away from the moment of friction. Lori Kennedy and I never had a potential conversation throughout the balance of our school years together. Never once. In fact, I totally avoided her. My misdirected thoughts went something like, “Well, if she’s going to treat me like a doormat, than I don’t have any use for her.” This is what unchecked anger can do. And so, in my bitterness over the incident, I made sure I ignored her each time our paths crossed, wherever it was. And what’s worse, I allowed our very quick moment in 1976 to stain my view of her from that time forth. Afterwards, the name Lori Kennedy was held in my grudge-peppered heart. My new title for her was, Little Miss Rudeness. Yes, it was wrong. Very wrong.
One would think in adulthood, with all its twists, turns, and teachings, I would’ve eventually understood better, loved more, and forgave even if I never saw her again in life. However, we did. God had other plans.
Lori Kennedy at a 2018 casual reunion with old friends.
A year ago, I attended two reunions with old friends and classmates. One was a casual gathering of about 200 as we paid tribute to a friend who had passed away the year prior. Two months later, it was our 40th high school reunion. Lori Kennedy and I bumped into each other at both events. During the first reunion, I saw her before see saw me. My first thought was to stay away from her, using my old searing angst as justification. With so many people attending, it would’ve been easy to just remain on the other side of the large club. Two months later, the 40th high school reunion gala would be upon us where most likely we would find ourselves in close proximity with mutual friends. Deep inside, I hated the tensity felt over seeing her again. Getting lost in the crowd was my first thought.
August 2018 at the casual reunion at the Fox & Hound Pub in Dallas.
Someone called out to her through the noisy event. With a turn, my eyes caught her. There she was, laughing, drinking, eating and enjoying a cluster of old friends. My reaction was to look away to protect the sore spot in my psyche. After looking down at my shoes for way too long, I filled my lungs with lots of air, slapped on my big boy pants, and made my way across the room of revelers.
She had changed so much since our teen years. Age hadn’t been particularly polite to her. Lori always lived fast and hard, so I just assumed it all caught up with her. She was a bit pale and thin, and the spark in her dark eyes had faded. Name tags are a gift from God in these cases, but not at this casual gathering. Often, at our age, it’s guesswork. I acted as if I wasn’t sure it was her. “Lori? Is that you?” She turned toward me, cocked her head and smiled. “Alan! Well, as I live and breathe! How are you?” I initiated a quick shoulder-hug. (Still showing signs of my grudge in a tiny gesture. I know, it’s all so stupid.) We spoke very kindly for another couple of minutes. After all, there’s not much to “catch-up on” when you didn’t really have a relationship to start with. I found out she lived alone with her two beloved Chihuahuas. Still, it was somewhat a relief to see her genuine greeting. Surprisingly cordial with a true smile, we shared good words between us. Simultaneously, there was this voice coming from deep inside me delivering a statement I never would’ve believed. It was so clear. Despite our differences, we could have been friends. Part of me began to feel ashamed what I had secretly held against her over the decades. Of course, I never brought up our one and only verbal encounter from the days of yore. Actually, she may not even recall the day she was snarky to me, the “doorman” from early in our junior year. Frankly, the thought had never occurred to me. Just because I always remembered it, shelving her as a tyrant and a princess prude forever, doesn’t necessarily mean she remembered our game-day intersect whatsoever.
Monday morning, October 7th, I got in my car, turned on the radio to my favorite classic rock station, and there it was, Rod Stewart’s “Forever Young”. It was the tripwire to heavy tears as I left my driveway for an hour’s drive to Lori Kennedy’s funeral.
After doing some digging, I discovered Lori was told by her doctor how early tests indicated she had Multiple Myeloma. This form of blood cancer wasn’t new to me. A church friend has been battling it for two years, as well as my brother-in-law, who is in the final stages of this life-sucking illness. An MRI had found a mysterious spot on her pelvic bone a couple of years prior. At that time tests were inconclusive. Apparently, Lori shrugged it off. She had been told most Multiple Myeloma patients have 3-5 years after diagnosis, maybe less. She was looking forward to her first oncologist appointment to confirm, plus discuss various treatments. That was during the last week of September. She passed away in her sleep at home less than a week later. After the very touching service I spoke with her parents. They told me she had been suffering from symptoms for at least 2-3 years, but had no idea she had been stricken with cancer until a few days ago.
Before the minister spoke, they played Eric Clapton’s Tears In Heaven. As it washed over the the ones gathered, I bowed my head and listened intently for the first time.
“…Would you know my name If I saw you in heaven? Would it be the same If I saw you in heaven?
Would you hold my hand If I saw you in heaven? Would you help me stand If I saw you in heaven?
Time can bring you down Time can bend your knees Time can break your heart Have you begging please, begging please…”
My hands trembled as I realized my judging heart. Deeply convicted, I acknowledged my stupidity in not letting go of one moment in time of offense. At my age, how could I have remained so immature? When we engaged last year, I was unaware she was in severe pain throughout her skeletal structure. As we stood there and chatted at the reunion, I was unaware Lori was constantly dehydrated, with bouts of deadly low blood pressure and visits to the ER. Little did I know she was choking down powerful pain killers just to stand, walk, and sit. As it turns out, she rarely left her house to socialize due to her struggle. The reunions were a goal she wouldn’t deny herself. And there I was, trying to be tempered, holding back my old resentment as she smiled at me, even though she should’ve been in the hospital. What a moron I was. So much time wasted. So much life experience gone. So many chances crumbled away in the living years.
After the service was complete, I approached the opened white coffin where an unrecognizable body was displayed. The remains of this person looked as if she was some 25 years my elder, resting among the satin lace. Even though it was way too late, I looked at the face, which once belonged to Lori, and whispered, “Forgive me, Lori. Forgive me.”
As I drove back home, I asked the Redeemer to forgive my unsettled anger.
True lessons in life come at the most heartbreaking times. Lessons of humility learned easier when filled with fuel for the race.
“And whenever you stand to pray, forgive whatever you have against anyone, so that your Father who is in Heaven may also forgive you your faults. But if you are not forgiving, neither will your Father in Heaven forgive you your faults.” – Jesus – Mark 11:25-26 (Aramaic Bible In Plain English)
“I Went to a garden party to reminisce with my old friends, a chance to share old memories and play our songs again. When I got to the garden party, they all knew my name. No one recognized me, I didn’t look the same.
But it’s all right now, I learned my lesson well. You see, ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself.” Garden Party (1972) Written and Recorded by: Ricky Nelson
Did I catch you singing? I know. It’s got a terrific hook on the chorus. Truly, it’s the iconic song Ricky Nelson was known for at that stage of his short life. The lyrics sound as if it was a pleasurable garden party with old famous pals, but it was birthed out of rejection and sourness.
It was October of 1971, the Richard Nader’s Rock ‘n Roll Revival Concert was a huge gathering at Madison Square Garden in New York. It was billed to showcase older American Rock ‘n Roll giants, prior to the British invasion, from the 1950’s and early 1960’s, with acts like Chuck Berry, Fats Domino, Bo Diddley, and Bobby Rydell. They were among many kickin’ it on stage that night. Back stage, and in the audience, the ultra-famous were in attendance from various corners of the entertainment and sports realm. The lyrics in the song, “Garden Party” point that out.
It was his turn at the mic. Ricky Nelson came out on stage in the fashion of the times, bell bottoms, velvet shirt, complete with bell sleeves, and long hair down to his shoulders. Keep in mind, the order of the concert event was to reminisce with early American Rock ‘n Rollers, so the look was expected, too. Well, unfortunately for Nelson, he didn’t take it to heart who the nostalgic demographics were holding tickets. He performed some of his early songs from the late 50’s and early 60’s. But then he played a peculiar country rendition of The Rolling Stones’, “Honky Tonk Woman”. At that, the crowd began to boo, and boo, and booed some more. He wrapped up his set and left the venue, not even waiting to show up for the all-star finale at the end of the night. However, it worked out because he wrote a song about the experience in, “Garden Party”. And I must admit, “…ya can’t please everyone, so ya got to please yourself.”
In the late 1990’s I created an award-winning radio theater department for Criswell Communications Network. I absolutely adored those years writing, acting and building those audio movies. Later, I did the same in Buffalo, NY for the Crawford Broadcasting Network. From time to time I am asked to voice a character for special commercials, promos, or projects. But back then, life got in the way and now it’s been a few years since I was a regular working voice actor.
About a year ago, I was asked to voice a character for a dramatic read of a new novel and CD due to be released simultaneously. Although it was a small walk-on role, I was thrilled to do it. It was like going home again for me, even though I wasn’t the author or director. What was very different, and a bit nerve-racking, was the author himself was in studio with me. Being a hands-on kind of guy, he directed me while I fashioned the vocals needed for this particular character. Don’t get me wrong, the author was/is a terrific guy. I’m sure we will be working together in the future for more projects.
This morning, before I could pour my first cup of java, I got a voicemail. It was the author. He made me aware of the recently released book and audio version. He then invited me to a cast party he was hosting at his very lovely home. I responded before lunch, letting him know how much I enjoyed the recording session, developing the character, and his invitation. Then I politely declined to attend the party. Why, you might ask?
For as long as I can recall, I have never been good at cocktail parties, social dinners, or dances were strangers want me to do the Macarena. Sure, I can act my way through it, which is what I’ve always done, but that’s work, not pleasure, and certainly not comfortable. Being an old stage actor and radio personality, you would think I would be a hoot at a gathering of pre-friends. Trust me, I’ll be the quiet guy in the corner with a china saucer full of chilled shrimp in one hand and a cup of punch in the other. Yes, there’ll be clusters of revelers in a circle laughing, kissing cheeks, along with lines like, “What do you do when you’re not acting?”, or “What a lovely tie. Who are you wearing, sweetie?”, or “So what project are you working on now?” I just don’t mingle well. It’s as simple as that. There, I’ve said it. Arg! I would likely run off stage left like Ricky Nelson.
Cast parties are fine, in fact I have attended lots of them through my acting days, even hosted many myself. Most all cast parties I’ve been a part of were packed with fellow cast-members I had the pleasure of working with face-to-face. Those were actors and crew in which I developed relationships with, or at least decent acquaintances. Those were parties where we could let our hair down and enjoy reminiscing about lines being dropped, favorite scenes, and wardrobe malfunctions. (In 1978, while playing Johnny Brown in The “Unsinkable Molly Brown”, I walked out on stage singing with my fly opened. Thank the Lord it was only a dress rehearsal. Orchestra members noticed it first down in the pit.) Cast parties are always a grand time laced in lots of laughter. Here, the difference is, I never played against another actor in last year’s session. My recorded lines were like a looping studio session where the dialogue was digitally dropped into scenes in post production. There was no actor but me, myself, and I. I played to a mic and a music stand. I never met any of the actors on the bill. To be clear, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that kind of session, it happens more often than not. At the upcoming get-together I would know the author, his wife, and the recording engineer/producer. It’s not that I am really anti-social…or am I? Ouch! What am I admitting?
If you’re a psychologist, you probably know why I am bent this way. The ugly truth is, I am probably afraid of rejection, even eyes of rejection. I’ve been at award shows, green rooms, and backstage at concert venues where you’re chatting with someone who won’t look you in the eye because they’re way too busy scouting out the next celebrity to be cornered. You find yourself answering their question about family, career, or which hotel you’re staying at when suddenly they quickly interrupt with, “Oh, there’s Amy Grant with Vince Gill right behind you. Gotta go.” Is it just me, or is that not rude? I’m guilty of that behavior as well. So awkward. Again, I say, Arg! In the end, I dislike “…players who only love you when they’re playin'” (Fleetwood Mac)
Has it occurred to me that maybe I’m wrong about all this? Maybe by now you’re saying silently, “Hey, this is weird. He needs to loosen up.” Okay, I’ll accept that. But as I’m being super honest with you, hear me out.
To truly engage with another is to be associated with, connected with, to be in tune with the other, even if in a small way. This is me. If you and I are having coffee at a local spot, I will fully hear you, see you, and meld with you. In fact, I like to make people feel that they are the only person in the room, complete with eye-contact and real chuckles, not out of nervous laughter for the sake of sound to fill up dead air. This is how I was raised to believe.
Photo: Wikipedia
Poor Ricky Nelson. Every time I hear “Garden Party” I listen for the rub, the angst, the sore spots between the words. Bottom line, he didn’t “know” his audience. Moreover, he didn’t take in serious consideration of the theme of the event. Of course, the audience lacked true love for Mr. Nelson. They only loved him when he played what he was known for ten years prior. In those quick tunes he scratched their itch until he ventured onto something new from a British band. It was a mismatch moment, a sting he took with him to his grave. He died in a tragic plane crash on New Year’s Eve 14 years later.
In the end, I believe it’s all about “knowing” someone, or at least making faithful efforts in doing so. Because inside that other person is a story which comes from their hearts. A story worth the fidgeting, even if booed. If we “play” at socializing, we do not do justice in the connection. How else will we learn to love others, as God would have us to love?
Still, I remain shy with strangers in close settings. I shared an elevator today where my total sum of verbiage was, “Third floor. Thanks.”
Engaging another may start out with “How are you?”, but if they begin to tell you about their gout, making you’ll want to slip away with, “Ya know, I need a refill.” If so, then where is the honest interest?
More and more I understand why Jesus told us to love others as we love ourselves, and to treat others as we want to be treated.
You know, maybe I should go to the cast party after all. If I do, the boldness won’t come from my clipped persona, but from a deep well of fuel for the race.
“If you love only those people who love you, will God reward you for this? Even tax collectors love their friends.If you greet only your friends, what’s so great about this? Don’t even unbelievers do that?” – Jesus – Matthew 5:46-47 (Contemporary English Version)
First of all, a big Texas-Sized thank you to Alicia from For His Purpose for the nominee nod. You are truly gracious. Although I feel I don’t deserve the nomination for the Sunshine Blogger Award, I am humbled and grateful. I would nominate you if not for the fact you are already a nominee, and so well deserving.
If you’ve not read Alicia’s posts, expect blue-jean, everyday life experiences wrapped in a personal application for spiritual growth. So well worth it.
DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS? IT’S NEW TO ME.
About the Sunshine award:
This award is given to creative, positive and cheerful bloggers by other bloggers as a token of appreciation and admiration.
Here are the rules:
• Thank the person who nominated you and provide a link back to him/her.
• Answer the 11 questions provided by the blogger who nominated you.
• Nominate 11 other bloggers and ask them 11 new questions.
• Notify the nominees by commenting on one of their blog posts.
• List the rules and display the Sunshine Blogger Award logo on your post.
Okay, Alicia…you asked. Here are her questions for me:
1) Why do you write?
Really, I believe it’s a threefold reason. A: I love, absolutely love the outlet of sharing my thoughts. B: For whatever reason there might be, I adore the friends I have made in the blogging community. I have learned so much through their writings and photos. Getting to know them has simply been an uplifting pleasure in my life. C: Lastly, I love to teach. My heart wants to touch the soul of another for the better. There’s something special about teaching biblical concepts through personal and social proof experiences others can relate to. Life’s race to the finish is long and uphill at times. We need Divine fuel.
2) Who do you admire and why? (sorry I know I’m sneaking two questions)
Wow, Alicia. That’s an umbrella of folks. If you’ve read my blog you might already know I greatly admire my deceased grandparents. Salt of the earth people with extraordinary servanthood hearts of tremendous love. Also, Chuck Norris, who holds up his socks with thumbtacks. LOL For much of the 1970’s, during my karate/kickboxing life, he was always so kind to me whenever I was around him. Of course, he was/is a wiz at business, the Babe Ruth of Karate champions, and a successful instructor and actor. Beyond that, he has gone through much heartache in life and rediscovered God in his journey back to a peaceful place. He is also a champ in helping kids stay away from gangs and drugs. I want to add, CS Lewis for his writings concerning the introductions into a life with God, and the proof thereof. His book, Mere Christianity and The Screwtape Letters changed my life.
3) What has been your best vacation?
I have to choose just one? Arg! My #1 would have to be when I treated my family (wife at the time and three daughters) on a road trip from Dallas, Texas through Santa Fe, New Mexico and up through Colorado Springs to Denver, Colorado. The family and I had gone through some devastating personal trauma and in need of some immediate healing. It was the week after Christmas in 2001 through the first week of 2002. Plunging straight into the snow and ice we took in the splendor of that beautiful land. No regrets. I would do it again.
4) Where would you love to visit one day?
Scotland, Ireland, and Israel.
5) Why is your best friend, your best friend?
On earth, my wife. I remarried in 2017 to an old high school acquaintance. In 2013, way before we met-up again, I had a major health crash, a near death experience. I wasn’t supposed to survive. It left me in the hospital for six weeks. The hospital staff called me “Miracle Man”. Since then I have struggled physically. She has seen much of the underside of this. Nevertheless, she has been a warrior through it all. We have no secrets between us. We speak truth in love to one another, during the good, bad, and ugly. It makes for a lasting marriage. However, she’s not the one I pray to. She would agree with me that Jesus has been my lifelong best friend.
6) What is your biggest concern (about anything)?
Honestly, above all else, the world my three girls are experiencing as adults, as well as my 8 year old granddaughter. Moral decay, hatred, and violence are causing the earth to groan. Jesus said the times would grow to be like this. Still, it concerns me.
7) When did you last owe someone an apology?
Today! Got to do it before the sun goes down on me.
8) What’s the best movie you’ve ever watched?
Now this isn’t fair. Way too many. If I had to choose one…It’s A Wonderful Life.
9) What’s your most favorite childhood memory?
Mid 1960’s. Waiting until my grandparents, and my mom, went to bed so I could hustle to sit in front of their aluminum Christmas tree to watch the color wheel change the branches to different holiday hues. For me, it was mesmerizing.
10) What do you love most about yourself?
Eek! Is this a trick question, Alicia? Really? Oh, man. Okay, uh….well….uh….I can tell you there’s much I hate about myself. Frankly, I love the Spirit God placed in me to be kind and caring for others. If not for His influence and direction, I would be the opposite. I know this because I know myself without God.
11) If you could ask Jesus a question what would it be?
Why and how did He create music to enrich the brain of humanity, to the point of it being medication? Also, the TRUE story of why and how He did not save the dinosaurs from extinction. To have a Brontosaurus on a leash in the park would be grand. The poop bag would be trouble.
Drum roll please! Now for my nominee choices in alphabetical order:
(If you choose not to participate, you will not hurt my heart. As an admirer, I just want to shine a light on you and your blog for others who may not know of you. No pressure. Nada, zilch, zero. And if you are already a nominee, I am unaware.)
Dominique at 3C Style combines her posts with highly creative photos of her personal showcasing of beautiful stylings from her own closet. She has a talent for matching subjects in nature with her outfits while highlighting eco-friendly ideas. This French scientific journalist from Quebec is a terrific writer who introduces you to possibilities in fashion you might have never imagined before, wrapped in her passion for life. Her zest for life, fashion, and imagination is simply radiant and thought provoking. Most of all, I like the fact that Dominique is a caring, loving person toward others. I’ve learned a lot from my friend from Quebec.
Anel at Barefoot Diary has a highly unique blog. I’ve known and loved her for 41 years and I can tell you of her multiple talents. After the devastating hurricane which leveled so much of Puerto Rico, where she and her husband had been living, they moved on to experience an adventure most would never do. Since they left the island, they have been travelling from one Central or south American country to another, reveling in each culture with gusto. Anel’s blog is all about their adventures. You never know where they will be blogging from next.
Mandy at Blue Collar Theologian is a seminarian and writer. I love to go deep in biblical studies and so does Mandy. She has my admiration for her exclusive casual way of serving up the depths of scripture without going over the head of the reader, especially the seeker. You’ll find she writes about various camera angles of life with a good dose of awareness of biblical thought, shaken together for a personal application anyone can chew on.
Anita at For The Love Of has a smooth way of sharing her love for dogs, which I share, along with God’s love for us. On any given post she will somehow bring to mind the truth of how we crave love, shelter, belonging, and care. Be ready for some brilliant photos that touch the eyes and heart.
Jon at His Grace Is Sufficient is an old childhood friend of mine. He pastors a small church near Green Bay, WI. Recently Jon was diagnosed with ALS. The disruption is already taking its toll on his breathing, his speech, and some mobility. Thus far, he is standing by his word that he plans on delivering sermons until he physically cannot. He asked me about starting a blog to record his journey with ALS. So, I encouraged him to go headlong into it. I love him dearly. Clicking on you will hear his heart of love and his faith through this hard, rocky road he is travelling.
Julien at Julien’s Thoughts can be defined as…his thoughts. He literally takes subjects that press on his mind and heart, considers them against the backdrop of a biblical world view, and woodsheds what he learns. Whenever he writes you can feel his intellect. I am grateful he shares the thoughts as most of us identify with the topics he showcases. A simple devotional thought process which is encouraging, yet challenging at times.
Lisa at Lismore Paper is a master at eyeing antique art forms. She then cleans them up for a visual experience to die for. One terrific graphic design artist, as well as a gardener extraordinaire. I’ve not seen artwork exactly like her talent. Lisa simply is a craft magician. She loves photography, as I do, and often highlights her shutter work in nature. You never know when she will be hiking through the woods taking beautiful shots of plants, birds and trees. One of the items of wizardry from her hands consists of antique prints lifted from pages of old shipping logs, documents, or ledgers and turn them into a background for layering other art subjects. Just amazing. Visit her blog and find options to download her items for your personal use. Sometimes you will find her art on t-shirts, along with other items, which are available. As you explore her visuals she writes of them with the love of an artist at work.
Ann at Muddling Through My Middle Age I believe is my first blogging friend after I launched my blog two years ago. She is so admired. I liken Ann to the wisdom and wit of the late syndicated columnist, Erma Bombeck. She is a volunteer for her local shelter who loves and cares for the four-legged friends behind bars. She adopts, and so do I. She is a loving grandmother who often shares with us of her times with her grandchild. But most of all, Ann writes about the everyday scenarios of life, as well as life’s phases, which can be cantankerous or just plain humorous. She muddles through what life tosses at her while always searching for the rainbow at the end of the day’s conveyor belt.
Ann (another Ann) at Seeking Divine Perspective is an author and truth-teller. I discovered her about the time I was going through some doubts in my spiritual journey. My reading of her posts came just at the right time. Ann is retired and loves CS Lewis, as I do. She is not afraid to share the hard knocks in life, or the current social issues of our times, and what she has learned from them. She is bold with direct conviction, willing to teach with the written word in posts. Don’t be surprised if she types in a prayer on her heart as it often reverberates what the human heart is thirsty for. We are all seekers, some just don’t realize it. Ann spotlights her perspectives.
Stefan at The Fourth Dimension of Life is a young studious thinker. His love for writing truly hits you in the face…softly. Stefan is a bright, multi-talented Indian lad attending one of the best universities in India. Don’t expect his posts to be the norm, or even similar in scope from one to another. Some days you will get a thought in a statement. At other times you will read one of his poems. Inside his random thoughts he often speaks of his life from God’s balcony view. He also can show you his devotional blog link.
Junaisha (June) at The Godly Chic Diaries will lead you to think twice, or three times about the topic she writes about. Unlike some, she is bold about the fact that the spiritual walk is not a perfect stride. She speaks of the fact that there will be failures in the God-driven journey. In her quick devotional posts the spotlight on grace, forgiveness, and mercy are illuminated. Through her telescopic lens concerning life, she will test the mind of the reader with questions not often dissected in one’s own thoughts.
I want to publicly thank all of the above for the influence you have on my life.
And here are my 11 questions for those I’ve nominated:
1 – Who encouraged you to launch a blog?
2 – Who was your first blogger-friend & what drew you to that writer?
3 – What country, or state are you writing from?
4 – Has your writing evolved over time & why?
5 – Be honest with me on this one. How often do you consider the unseen spiritual aspect beyond the tangible? If “never” is the answer, let me know. It’s okay. No tricks.
6 – Do you have a pet?
7 – When you wake up in the morning, what is your first thought?
8 – Do you eat breakfast? If so, what does it consist of?
9 – If you’re still friends with a childhood pal, tell me what has kept you together?
10 – What keeps you returning to the same blogger?
11 – Does your own family read your posts?
Again, if you are on my nomination list of favorites and would rather not participate, just know I understand totally. I appreciate what you do and how you make my life sweeter. Love and hugs from Dallas, Texas. – Alan
“A child is black. A child is white. Together they grow to see the light, to see the light…” (1972) Black & White – Recorded by: Three Dog Night. Composers: David I. Arkin, Earl Robinson.
Appreciation note: A quick thank you to the very kind, Alicia from the blog, For His Purpose for nominating my blog for the Sunshine Blogger Award. I am greatly shocked and humbled. I do enjoy your everyday camera angles of life with the filter of truths.
This will not be a political post. This will not be a ranting post concerning those who play at politics, or the swift blinding blame of another. This will lack the spewing of hatred and emotional blathering of negativity currently blowing across the media. If that’s what feeds you, look elsewhere. However, if you are open-minded, wanting to hop off the meat wagon, serving up all kinds of dangerous rhetoric currently being wielded like a Gladius sword, you are welcome to read below.
Billy Boyd was my best friend in 7th grade. In those times that was our first year at Dillingham Jr. High School, before “middle school” was introduced. We lived in Sherman, Tx where the west side of town was mainly made up of white population. There was also the east side where the African American community settled, or was made to settle in post-Civil War days. Dillingham Jr. High was situated close to the border of the east and west sides of the medium market town. We met on our first day of the new school year.
When we left our elementary schools to enter 7th grade, it was a cultural shock for all of the student body. Obviously my elementary school consisted of mostly white kids. At Dillingham the heavy black and white mix was a first for all of us. Billy was African American from the east side of the tracks. He was my first black school friend ever. At the time I really thought nothing about it. In fact, I thought it was cool to have a black friend who was my age.
What I didn’t expect, nor every experienced before, was racial name-calling, slurs, racial riots on campus, gang violence, and violent ambushes. (Forgive me for giving too much info here, but I must write it.) As a white kid relieving himself at the urinal, I was kicked in the back from time to time. Once, I was slammed in the back of my head with a football helmet while standing there facing the wall. This was the environment I was introduced to. Billy didn’t have anything to do with the vicious tagging of white kids. I was on the sharp end of the above racial abuses in a big way simply because I was a white kid from the west side. There were attacks I received in the hallways, between buildings, after football practice, and after school on my way across campus to the bike rack. Some of these were 15 and 16 years old students who were still repeating 7th or 8th grades. I received threats concerning my dog and my mom. In that school year, I learned how to box and street fight the hard way. My uncle taught me how to box, and another friend trained me in Aikido that same year. Through it all, Billy and I remained friends. You might say we were the odd couple. After the school year slowly dropped me into the summer break, my mom relocated out of town, and just in time. Only God knows what might have been if I had spent another year in racial turmoil. However, the hatred and bigotry had a profound influence on me. But, I would experience it again.
When I was a toddler, 98 years after slavery ended in the U.S., I met my first African American. (I have written about him before, but it’s been a couple of years.) While visiting my grandparents in Greenville, Tx, every-other Saturday they had their lawn work done by an elderly black man named Mr. Amos. To this day I don’t know if that was a surname or his first name. No doubt he was the son of slaves, living in the far east side of Greenville in a sector notable for the African American neighborhood. I recall there being a side street which served as the border between whites and blacks, as it was set-up by the local government leaders in the late 1800’s.
From my toddler days, all the way to 11 years old or so, I LOVED old Mr. Amos. I saw him as an uncle from another grandmother. The neighborhood in those days would remind you of the street scenes from the movie, To Kill A Mockingbird. He would drag his lawn mower down the street cutting grass and hedges for a few dollars. To see him was like imagining Mr. Bojangles in various ways. He was ragged, skinny, and toughened by the years. His very dark skin was weathered and rough from a lifetime of working in the Texas sun, like leather from an old baseball glove. He always had an old rag, or bandanna hanging out his back pants pocket, along with old worn-out hard-soled leather lace-up shoes. The elderly man always did a wonderful job on the lawn and hedges. He had the talent. Whenever I was there, I would watch him out my grandparent’s front window as he worked his fingers to the bone with pride. I never saw anyone sweat as much as he did. When he finished the front lawn he began to pull his mower up the driveway toward the backyard. From the time I was 3, my grandmother would take an ice cold, frosted bottle of Dr. Pepper out of the fridge, pop open the cap with the bottle opener, which hung on her kitchen wall, hand it to me and say, “Alan, you go give this to poor Mr. Amos.” Wrapped around it was the money he earned. (They were very liberal with the payment.) I would grin from ear to ear as I ran outside before he reached the back. There in my Buster Browns I proudly said in my Mickey Mouse voice, “Here ya go, Mr. Amos!” No matter how often our encounters, he always acted surprised as he shook my hand and replied with his gruff voice, “Well, what’s this here? (chuckle) Why…thank ya, son!” When in my earlier age, I would look at the palm of my hand to see if the black color rubbed off his sweating hand. I kid you not, he never took his mouth off the bottle until it was turned upside-down and empty, without taking a breath. There’s no way I could do that. I would watch him drink in shear amazement. Handing the empty bottle back to me, he would exhale with a huge drawn-out gasp, like a swimmer coming up for air and say, “That’s my boy!” I always waited to hear him say those words. It made my day. He didn’t know it but just saying that to this fatherless lad made me feel warm inside. With his statement of gratitude, I ran back in to tell my grandmother once again, how he called me “son” and what’s more, I was “his boy”. I honored and respected him. Through the years of youth, I wondered why he always looked so poor.
I’m not certain what year it was, but I will say I was 13 (1973) when hatred came calling.
Mr. Amos was in my grandparent’s yard, doing his job one Saturday, when he was suddenly interrupted by his son and daughter-in-law who had pulled up in the driveway. The man was angry with his father for mowing the lawns of “Honkies”. (It’s a name I was familiar with from school. I didn’t believe Mr. Amos thought I was one of those.) Mr. Amos protested saying he was doing his purpose in that stage of his life. The voices got louder as they argued in the side yard. I pressed my ear to the nearest window to hear more clearly what was being said. The son of Mr. Amos spewed about how shameful it was to be “workin’ for the white man” and how embarrassed he was to see him on our lawn in the “white part of town”. My granddad came out to see what the issue was. After he was told, my granddad gently explained to Mr. Amos that it was okay if he needed to go and do what he thought was right. Sheepishly looking down at his tired scuffed shoes, Mr. Amos agreed he should load-up and go with his son. Hearing it my heart broke. My granddad paid him in full, even though the job wasn’t completed, then they drove away. I was highly disturbed. Tears rolled down my freckled cheeks at what I had witnessed. That was the last time I saw Mr. Amos after knowing him through 9-10 years of my childhood.
I had a friend like Billy, as well as a man of grit and heart like Mr. Amos for one reason. Early on my mom had coded within me, from the days of Mr. Amos, to love all people, regardless of their skin hues. As a little one, she read the words of Jesus to me at bedtime where He taught what she preached to me. What she didn’t teach at the time was the perspectives and inward struggles some possess, like the son of Mr. Amos.
Still, I came away from my experiences at Dillingham with a chip on my shoulder, combined with an unjustified angst against black people. In fact, the realities left me unwilling to trust African Americans for many years throughout much of the 1970’s until I got the chance to work and worship alongside African Americans from 1979 and onward.
In these days where racial slurs, alongside accusations of racism, are being tossed around like confetti, there’s a warning for us all. When young men soak up vile, filthy hatred from certain websites, or chat rooms brainwashing them to the point of mass murdering another race due to their ethnicity alone, we should take note. Words are like bullets. Enough of them, combined with a deadly spin, will and do rip open the hearts of our youth. Good parenting is so vital. Compassionate parenting is so vital. Informative parenting is so vital. So often these word-projectiles reverberate through the rooms of the home for little ears to plant in the fertile soil of their souls. Each and every community and culture should surgically remove attitudes of hate-filled, damning speech about our neighbors. If not, the next generation will see domestic death, domestic destruction and possibly war. There is a desensitizing which is slow, like marinating a pork loin. Sleeping with the pigs will make you muddy. And oh, how dark that mud can be.
If you dare, journey with me for a moment on the following hypothetical.
If one leans toward Darwinism, and sees another race as beneath their own DNA, then one must ask how it got to such a point. If we, collectively, all derived from an ancient amoeba, which washed up on a beach in ions past, then how can one defend a racial ideology? Maybe the ancient amoeba community rioted against other amoeba of a different thickness of cell wall. Then again, can an amoeba possess hate? Unfortunately, hate is branded in humankind exclusively. There’s a reason for that. Follow me on this.
As we continue to search for the “Missing Link” (still missing), there’s a newer, more popular theory.
If one leans toward the newer idea that humanity was placed here by ancient aliens from another planet, there’s even a bigger leap to make. I suppose it’s plausible ancient aliens also suffered from racism, implanting that curse on the earth as we were left here to populate the world. It would also seem plausible that such an advance interstellar civilization would’ve been cautious to populate the earth with beings like themselves, assuring racism wouldn’t be introduced. If the theory is accurate, then wouldn’t it make sense they would sprout beings which reflected a visual likeness? If so, why do have racial issues at all?
If you come from a biblical world view, as I do, then how can I ever hold to a twisted view of racial hatred? Since I am a creationist, I read and study the account where we were all created in the image of God, a likeness of the Divine. Therefore, how could I ever look at a black, brown, yellow, or red man or woman crying, “Moron!”, “Mistake!”“Mutant” or “Monstrosity!” Racism dictates that you have cheap blood and I do not. But, I’ll take your kidney, or a transfusion if I need one. Cheap? Really? For me, scripture reveals we all came from a set of flesh and blood ancient parents who had a multitude of offspring, and so on. Genesis has the genealogy listed covering about a two thousand year span complete with names, nations and seasons of geology. Even DNA experts have found the evidence which mirrors this view. Within the last few years DNA studies have shown we come from the same part of the world with ancestry funneling into a clan going back to the beginnings of life itself, matching the Genesis timeline. So, why do we, or why should we have this scent of racism?
Let’s be super honest here. I like to call balls and strikes as I see them.
Racism, at its core, is the belief in a lie. Yep, we’ve been snookered.
“…Mmm, no no Lyin’ to the races Help me, come on, come on Somebody, help me now (I’ll take you there)…” (1972) “I’ll Take You There” by: The Staple Singers
Moreover, racism is an ideology which dictates thoughts of I, me and myself am to reign over another due to my skin pigmentation. The lie woos one to beliefs like; if one is darker, or lighter skinned than I, then that person is to be subordinate to me, simply due to color. It even can get down to the shape of a skull, or the nose. Racism methodically massages the mind and heart of the pre-white supremacist, for example, who will claim God made a mistake by creating black, brown, yellow, and red skin. Unfortunately, even shades of skin tones are targets of racial darts. In addition, let’s not forget the racism within the color spectrum itself. English vs Celts, Anglo Gentiles vs Jews, African tribes vs other African tribes, the list goes on. Furthermore, it revels in the false idea which says a particular race was created to be supreme over all peoples, nations, societies and cultures. If one hears it enough, studies it enough, sniffs the belly of the dragon enough, the ideology is perceived as authentic. Just as evil thoughts grow and widen, hatred begins to fester like Multiple Myeloma which eats away at the bones. Racism eats away at the very soul of a person.
Are you still with me? Can I go a step further?
Let’s say you are one who believes in the afterlife. Maybe it’s a belief that the spirit, once separated from its body, roams the earth as a ghostly individual, for whatever purpose. If you were a racist in the flesh, how do you exercise racism in the spirit world? When there’s a failure to control the body in life, how then do we expect to control and navigate our spirits? Interesting thought. Are we suddenly stronger and wiser in spirit than we were when we had flesh? After death the skin, once proudly admired as a trophy in life, grows pale and decays, falling away from the skeleton, which is the same color as all skeletons. So now, in spirit form, how do you rant and rave over other spirits who have no skin color? In spirit form, racism is also dead. Suddenly, racist views are no longer so important. In the end, the 79 year old racist can look back on his/her earthly life and will see the damning foolishness of a faulty ideology.
Let’s say you have a biblical perspective of the afterlife. In the place described so well in scripture as heaven, there are a number of problems if racism is to continue. First, God says haters (which includes racist users) will not see the kingdom of heaven. Secondly, in this present age, there is the spiritual form left after the body fails. How, as an eternal racist, do you push back on another spirit residing in God’s Kingdom? Thirdly, the ancient text is clear on the following. There will come a time in eternity when the old earthly body will be recreated to reunite with the spirit in which it once belonged, much like the resurrection of Jesus. God does the recreation at His sovereign will. Colors or not, He will do what He plans. Whatever skin color, if any at all, is resurrected in God’s timeline. At that point, how could hatred of it exist? Fourthly, in heaven there is no spirit who will submit to another based on color of robe, earthly ethnicity, or thought. Jesus Himself said there’s only One Who reigns in heaven. All is made new in the afterlife, if with God. In Paul’s writings, he mentions that “in Christ” there is no difference in “Jew or Gentile”, “slave or free”, “male or female”, etc. THAT is God’s view of the color spectrum of the souls He created and saw it to be good. Racism is NOT eternal. What does that tell us about the perceived value and validation of racial disharmony in life today?
Racism will always be with us. The seed is there in this imperfect world. It was introduced by God’s adversary early in human history to distort the mind’s view of every created race. It is the management of it which must be priority. If the lion is not tamed, it will eat the foolish ringmaster.
The shooter in El Paso, Texas believed a racial lie. In his manifesto he wrote of multiple issues which pushed him over the edge like, plastic in the oceans, immigration flow, economics, eco-system, etc. But, in the end, his frustrations were decidedly poured out over helpless Hispanics with intention. The shooter in Dayton, OH and the shooter at the Garlic Festival in Gilroy, California were driven by hate, even though it appears not to be racially motivated. As a result, many were brutally murdered and maimed. It’s a seeded lie laced by the enemy of the human brotherhood of soul and spirit. Police in Gilroy reported the shooter there wore a clown mask. Appropriate, don’t you think?
Please accept this warning. Those who ricochet darts coming from the mouths of haters, is a very dangerous thing. Wars have been launched for far less. Unfortunately many like the shooters of El Paso, Dayton, and Gilroy are weak-minded, easily influenced, or simply mentally ill. They are like a weed bending to a dark wind from whichever direction. The result is, “I AM DOMINATE!” For some, all it will take is a spewing of hate-filled venom to cause the voices to ring violence in their minds. Once it takes hold, it is like the gravity of opium to the offender. If it’s not an assault rifle, it will be a bomb, a poison, a chemical, a blade, a flip of a rail switch, a van, a bus, a truck, a water bottle full of gasoline, etc.
Love, compassion, and understanding will always been the answer. In fact, love is the basis found in fuel for the race.
“You’re familiar with the command to the ancients, ‘Do not murder.’ I’m telling you that anyone who is so much as angry with a brother or sister is guilty of murder. Carelessly call a brother ‘idiot!’ and you just might find yourself hauled into court. Thoughtlessly yell ‘stupid!’ at a sister and you are on the brink of hellfire. The simple moral fact is that words kill. – Jesus – Matthew 5:21-22 (MSG Version)
Fuel For The Race 