Tuesday, July 11, 2006
I WAS DUE FOR SOME KID'S STORIES
I like to write down stories about the kids because over time they are forgotten, overshadowed by newer stories. And the kids never tire of hearing them.
This week, I picked up a journal I've written in over the past few years, and I discovered one of those stories that we had all forgotten. I was away at a conference and had called back to check in with the family. When I spoke to the oldest I asked him if he had gotten into to trouble. "Not yet," he replied. Evidently plans were being made. And when I spoke to his little brother, he told me about his latest wart. I asked if he had gotten the wart from a frog that had peed on him. He said, "naw, I just peed on myself."
How can gems like that be forgotten?
Then last week, we were at the Fort Mitchell parade. This is a family tradition for us - a day spent at a good parade with great friends. The people in Fort Mitchell know how a parade should be done: lots of candy. People threw candy from cars and floats and passed it out as they walked by.
After a lady had come by and personally placed candy into each of the kids bulging bags of candy, the Queen Mother pulled them together and said, "Use your manners. If you can't say 'thank you' then I might just have to take your candy."
The oldest then turned to me and quietly said, "why did you marry a woman with such harsh rules."
Evidently according to the Queen Mother I should have responded by saying something like "those are my rules too, Mister". There were probably many things I could have - should have - said. And as I think it over now, shrugging probably wasn't the best response I could given. There is some debate as to if I actually nodded. Admittly, the high-five was over the line.
Nothing like the 4th of July and candy to bring the family closer.
In that same journal I came across this poem written in 2003:
Papa I am
Three who run
Three who grow
Three who laugh
Three who know
That Papa I am
The One in Three
Runs in my three
In them
He grows
And laughs
And knows
That Papa I am
The Rider of the Skies
Rides on their bikes
The Creator of heaven and earth
Paints their refrigerator masterpieces
The Dancer of the Ages
Thrills on their nimble toes
The Three in One
The One in Three
Resides in my three
And they know
And He knows
And I know that
Papa I am
I like to write down stories about the kids because over time they are forgotten, overshadowed by newer stories. And the kids never tire of hearing them.
This week, I picked up a journal I've written in over the past few years, and I discovered one of those stories that we had all forgotten. I was away at a conference and had called back to check in with the family. When I spoke to the oldest I asked him if he had gotten into to trouble. "Not yet," he replied. Evidently plans were being made. And when I spoke to his little brother, he told me about his latest wart. I asked if he had gotten the wart from a frog that had peed on him. He said, "naw, I just peed on myself."
How can gems like that be forgotten?
Then last week, we were at the Fort Mitchell parade. This is a family tradition for us - a day spent at a good parade with great friends. The people in Fort Mitchell know how a parade should be done: lots of candy. People threw candy from cars and floats and passed it out as they walked by.
After a lady had come by and personally placed candy into each of the kids bulging bags of candy, the Queen Mother pulled them together and said, "Use your manners. If you can't say 'thank you' then I might just have to take your candy."
The oldest then turned to me and quietly said, "why did you marry a woman with such harsh rules."
Evidently according to the Queen Mother I should have responded by saying something like "those are my rules too, Mister". There were probably many things I could have - should have - said. And as I think it over now, shrugging probably wasn't the best response I could given. There is some debate as to if I actually nodded. Admittly, the high-five was over the line.
Nothing like the 4th of July and candy to bring the family closer.
In that same journal I came across this poem written in 2003:
Papa I am
Three who run
Three who grow
Three who laugh
Three who know
That Papa I am
The One in Three
Runs in my three
In them
He grows
And laughs
And knows
That Papa I am
The Rider of the Skies
Rides on their bikes
The Creator of heaven and earth
Paints their refrigerator masterpieces
The Dancer of the Ages
Thrills on their nimble toes
The Three in One
The One in Three
Resides in my three
And they know
And He knows
And I know that
Papa I am
Thursday, July 06, 2006
BECAUSE I THINK WE CAN DISCOVER WHERE WE ARE BY EXPLORING WHERE WE HAVE BEEN
I was born on Mother’s Day of 1966. As the story is told, my dad burst through the church doors exclaiming, “It’s a boy!”
It’s fitting really. Every Sunday from that day to the day I went to college, I was carried through, walked through, and – when no one was looking – ran through those same doors. Sunday mornings. Sunday nights. Wednesday nights. We always showed up.
I grew to treat church as a mild inconvenience. I had friends there, but beyond my social life the whole thing was pretty much inconsequential. As a kid I had far more important things to be concerned about than the “Do This and Don’t Do That - Or Else” message I was given each week. How was a too short, too shy, too clumsy, stuttering kid like me supposed to find acceptance? Where was I going to find someone to remind me that I was worth something? How could I get everyone to like me?
I started stuttering in first grade. My confidence disappeared along with my ability to speak. Before my speech went south on me, I had a little spunk in me. One day, James Livesay dared me during milk break to go over and kiss Karen Bowman. Karen Bowman was a first grade goddess. The only girl shorter than me in my class, she was fresh back from spring break in Florida and as tan as bronze. I had called her a “french fry” in the hallway one day. She smiled.
I strutted over from the heater where James and I took our chocolate milks during our midday break. The crowd of girls parted as I stepped lightly next to Karen and brushed her cheek ever-so-lightly with my lips. She blushed, and I returned to the heater amid high fives and back slaps from the boys. I was a ballsy first grader before I picked up my stutter.
We lived in the country. There were no neighbor kids. My brother and sister were older than me. I lived in my imagination. The monkey bars were a space ship in the morning and a pirate ship in the afternoon. I put together costumes. I drew on facial hair with washable markers. (Once when I was in Junior High, I answered the door still wearing a brown marker mustache. It was an older kid looking for a lost dog, and I was oblivious to why he giggled through our encounter at the door.) I lived most days in whatever fantasies I could create. One day I took a football jersey that I wore and across the back of my shoulders where my last name should have been I wrote in a name for myself: the dreamer.
I grew up to be an outsider at school. Kids who believe in time travel don’t usually rise far in the Junior High social strata. In ninth grade, I sat in Social Studies class at the end of the day. Behind me two girls spoke loud, loud enough at least for me to hear them. One of them said something derogatory about me, intending to hurt me. What was said next hurt far worse and is the comment I remember still today nearly 30 years later. The second girl was Karen Bowman. She said, “Oh Rusty isn’t that bad. He’s just so boring.”
I was boring and the church didn’t help much. As far as school was concerned, my connection to church did more damage to my already weak social standing.
Don’t get me wrong here. I am deeply grateful for my interaction at church during those years. Our church prized Biblical knowledge, so I learned a lot about God, the Bible, and Jesus. I memorized verses at Bible camps for points to help my team beat the socks off the other teams – all in Christian love. By the time I was in High School, I had a wealth of knowledge about the Bible that later came in handy. At the time, it didn’t matter much to me.
The church also exposed me to some valiant and beautiful people. Dean and Frank were two simple working men who had no business teaching a bunch of rowdy 6th grade boys. To be honest, I don’t remember a thing they taught me, but to this day, I have a deep sense that those two old guys cared about me and were genuinely happy to see me each Sunday.
There were other teachers too. Bob taught us Junior High boys for a while. He didn’t have what it took to reign in the evil hellions that we were. One Sunday he cursed us and walked out in mid class. We sat in silence for the rest of the hour. When the buzzer went off, we walked out and up for the church hour. Bob never came back to our class, and nobody ever talked about the incident.
Another teacher barked at us for not being a spiritual as Greg. Greg was mildly mentally challenged. He sang songs in front of the church. His social standing at school was worse than mine.
I preached my first stumbling sermons for that church. I learned to stand in front of people and to open my mouth. I spoke fast, and I repeated l-l-l letter after l-l-l letter. Yet, they listened, and they encouraged me. I repeated all the things that I had been taught, and often sounded convincing, but I didn’t really believe any of it. The stuff of my sermons paled in comparison to my great need for acceptance.
I would show up at church, and I wouldn’t complain about it, and I would even involve myself with it, but outside of Sundays and Wednesday evenings, it had no real connection to the rest of my life.
All that changed for me the night Paul Phillipy wrote “JESUS” in the carpet.
I was born on Mother’s Day of 1966. As the story is told, my dad burst through the church doors exclaiming, “It’s a boy!”
It’s fitting really. Every Sunday from that day to the day I went to college, I was carried through, walked through, and – when no one was looking – ran through those same doors. Sunday mornings. Sunday nights. Wednesday nights. We always showed up.
I grew to treat church as a mild inconvenience. I had friends there, but beyond my social life the whole thing was pretty much inconsequential. As a kid I had far more important things to be concerned about than the “Do This and Don’t Do That - Or Else” message I was given each week. How was a too short, too shy, too clumsy, stuttering kid like me supposed to find acceptance? Where was I going to find someone to remind me that I was worth something? How could I get everyone to like me?
I started stuttering in first grade. My confidence disappeared along with my ability to speak. Before my speech went south on me, I had a little spunk in me. One day, James Livesay dared me during milk break to go over and kiss Karen Bowman. Karen Bowman was a first grade goddess. The only girl shorter than me in my class, she was fresh back from spring break in Florida and as tan as bronze. I had called her a “french fry” in the hallway one day. She smiled.
I strutted over from the heater where James and I took our chocolate milks during our midday break. The crowd of girls parted as I stepped lightly next to Karen and brushed her cheek ever-so-lightly with my lips. She blushed, and I returned to the heater amid high fives and back slaps from the boys. I was a ballsy first grader before I picked up my stutter.
We lived in the country. There were no neighbor kids. My brother and sister were older than me. I lived in my imagination. The monkey bars were a space ship in the morning and a pirate ship in the afternoon. I put together costumes. I drew on facial hair with washable markers. (Once when I was in Junior High, I answered the door still wearing a brown marker mustache. It was an older kid looking for a lost dog, and I was oblivious to why he giggled through our encounter at the door.) I lived most days in whatever fantasies I could create. One day I took a football jersey that I wore and across the back of my shoulders where my last name should have been I wrote in a name for myself: the dreamer.
I grew up to be an outsider at school. Kids who believe in time travel don’t usually rise far in the Junior High social strata. In ninth grade, I sat in Social Studies class at the end of the day. Behind me two girls spoke loud, loud enough at least for me to hear them. One of them said something derogatory about me, intending to hurt me. What was said next hurt far worse and is the comment I remember still today nearly 30 years later. The second girl was Karen Bowman. She said, “Oh Rusty isn’t that bad. He’s just so boring.”
I was boring and the church didn’t help much. As far as school was concerned, my connection to church did more damage to my already weak social standing.
Don’t get me wrong here. I am deeply grateful for my interaction at church during those years. Our church prized Biblical knowledge, so I learned a lot about God, the Bible, and Jesus. I memorized verses at Bible camps for points to help my team beat the socks off the other teams – all in Christian love. By the time I was in High School, I had a wealth of knowledge about the Bible that later came in handy. At the time, it didn’t matter much to me.
The church also exposed me to some valiant and beautiful people. Dean and Frank were two simple working men who had no business teaching a bunch of rowdy 6th grade boys. To be honest, I don’t remember a thing they taught me, but to this day, I have a deep sense that those two old guys cared about me and were genuinely happy to see me each Sunday.
There were other teachers too. Bob taught us Junior High boys for a while. He didn’t have what it took to reign in the evil hellions that we were. One Sunday he cursed us and walked out in mid class. We sat in silence for the rest of the hour. When the buzzer went off, we walked out and up for the church hour. Bob never came back to our class, and nobody ever talked about the incident.
Another teacher barked at us for not being a spiritual as Greg. Greg was mildly mentally challenged. He sang songs in front of the church. His social standing at school was worse than mine.
I preached my first stumbling sermons for that church. I learned to stand in front of people and to open my mouth. I spoke fast, and I repeated l-l-l letter after l-l-l letter. Yet, they listened, and they encouraged me. I repeated all the things that I had been taught, and often sounded convincing, but I didn’t really believe any of it. The stuff of my sermons paled in comparison to my great need for acceptance.
I would show up at church, and I wouldn’t complain about it, and I would even involve myself with it, but outside of Sundays and Wednesday evenings, it had no real connection to the rest of my life.
All that changed for me the night Paul Phillipy wrote “JESUS” in the carpet.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
MY FAVORITE SONGWRITER
Our good friends, Dan and Serenity, were over for dinner the other day, and we engaged in this wonderful conversation about Paste magazines list of the top 100 living songwriters. Lists like that are really only good for creating some fun discussion and that's exactly what it did for us.
It got me thinking about my favorite songwriter. Mark Heard didn't make the list - he's been dead since 1992 - but he conitnues to astound me often with the depth to his lyrics. Something new jumps out at me out of his lyrics every I spin a track no matter how many times I've heard it before.
Here are the lyrics to one of my favorites...
I JUST WANNA GET WARM
The mouths of the best poets
Speak but a few words
And then lay down
Stone cold in forgotten fields
Life goes on in this ant farm town
Cold to the lifeblood underfoot
All talk and no touch
And I just wanna be real
I just wanna be real
The colors here are monochrome
Studies in one shade of grey
The good times and the hard times
Cut from the same grey cloth
And all the fires that crackle here
Consume but do not burn
All light and no heat
And I just wanna get warm
I just wanna get warm
The days they rattle past me
Like a tunnel round a train
Landscapes and heartaches
I don't know what I feel
All I know is my condition
Is worse than I can tell
The small talk and the slow burn
And I just wanna be healed
I just wanna get well
There are things I should remember
But I have forgotten how
I'm all tied up with no time
Trying do too much
And the thoughts that I've avoided
Are the ones I need right now
Like a warm wind and love's hand
And I just wanna be touched
And I just wanna be real
And I just wanna get well
And I just wanna be healed
And I just wanna be warm
Our good friends, Dan and Serenity, were over for dinner the other day, and we engaged in this wonderful conversation about Paste magazines list of the top 100 living songwriters. Lists like that are really only good for creating some fun discussion and that's exactly what it did for us.
It got me thinking about my favorite songwriter. Mark Heard didn't make the list - he's been dead since 1992 - but he conitnues to astound me often with the depth to his lyrics. Something new jumps out at me out of his lyrics every I spin a track no matter how many times I've heard it before.
Here are the lyrics to one of my favorites...
I JUST WANNA GET WARM
The mouths of the best poets
Speak but a few words
And then lay down
Stone cold in forgotten fields
Life goes on in this ant farm town
Cold to the lifeblood underfoot
All talk and no touch
And I just wanna be real
I just wanna be real
The colors here are monochrome
Studies in one shade of grey
The good times and the hard times
Cut from the same grey cloth
And all the fires that crackle here
Consume but do not burn
All light and no heat
And I just wanna get warm
I just wanna get warm
The days they rattle past me
Like a tunnel round a train
Landscapes and heartaches
I don't know what I feel
All I know is my condition
Is worse than I can tell
The small talk and the slow burn
And I just wanna be healed
I just wanna get well
There are things I should remember
But I have forgotten how
I'm all tied up with no time
Trying do too much
And the thoughts that I've avoided
Are the ones I need right now
Like a warm wind and love's hand
And I just wanna be touched
And I just wanna be real
And I just wanna get well
And I just wanna be healed
And I just wanna be warm
